#and now for the save rise tags haha | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dollgxtz · 7 days ago

Text

At Your Service

⟡ Word Count: 12k

⟡ Tags: boss!Sylus x housekeeper!reader, fem reader, corruption kink, dubcon, oral sex (cunnilingus), stalking, tw for attempted rape and murder, death, blood warning, sylus is lowkey a perv :3, coercion, possessiveness, manipulation, unbalanced power dynamics

⟡ Summary: You beg Sylus for a job as his housekeeper after he saves you from a violent run-in on the streets of the N109 Zone. What other choice did you have? It was supposed to be simple...clean up, stay quiet, don’t make a fuss. But nothing about Sylus is simple. And his reasons for hiring you go far beyond dust and dishes...

"I knew it was a mistake coming in here," he mutters, his voice taut, eyes unblinking. "Now I have to ask. How much?" Your brows furrow, confusion flickering in your expression. "F-for...?" "A taste," he says flatly. The word lands like a spark in dry brush—no hesitation, no shame, only a simmering edge of something dark and consuming. You freeze in place. The air feels electric, like it's grown too thick to breathe. "Do...you mean—" "Yes." His voice was low, but certain, as if the question itself had been gnawing at him long before you asked it aloud. "To taste you."

Before you can even find your voice, Sylus reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an envelope—thick, clean, heavy—and tosses it onto your nightstand with a quiet but deafening thud. Cash. Stacked high, crisp, bound with a strip of paper.

⟡ AN: Hiii guys. This fic idea came to me in a dream haha. So happy to finally get to share with you guys! Lowkey I had an entire plot planned for this but then realized I was writing too much again oops. SO if this is liked enough I'll write a part 2!! I just love building tension its so fun (づ> v <)づ♡

Enjoy!!

@dummiebunny @hyphensei @your-macabre-bestie @seppys-return-to-madness @crazyrichdaughter @deepspace-fishie @altarofsalem @spencermasson @strawberrysweeti

"Hey pretty gal, where ya goin'?" the snarly voice says, peering down at you with an eerie grin. You blink up, dazed, still catching your breath, but you can make out a fatter man looming over you. His smile is crooked, teeth yellowed, and his eyes flick with amusement at your fear. He takes a step closer, his heavy boots thudding against the pavement, and you can smell the stale liquor on his breath even from where you’re sitting. Your pulse quickens.

"Yeah, you stopped before, what's the rush now?" another voice chimes in from behind, smoother but no less unsettling.

You whip your head around, stomach turning, and see a skinnier man approaching. This one looks slightly more put together, like he just got back from the office—suit and tie still clinging to him despite the grime on his cuffs and collar. His slicked-back hair is damp with sweat, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets like this is routine. But the look in his eyes tells a different story. There’s that same predatory glint, the kind of look that makes your skin crawl.

The fat one chuckles low, a sound that vibrates in his chest and makes your stomach knot. "Didn't mean to scare ya, sweetheart. We just wanna talk, yeah?"

You scramble to push yourself backward, heels scraping against the concrete, but there’s nowhere to go. You're boxed in. Your breath is shallow, chest rising and falling too fast as your thoughts race, searching for an escape, a weapon, anything.

The skinny one crouches slightly, trying to meet your eyes. "You don’t have to run. We noticed you earlier...figured you might like some company. You looked lonely."

Your mouth is dry, panic sticking your tongue to the roof. You shake your head slightly, hoping they’ll take the hint and back off. They don’t.

Not even close.

Wasn't your first run-in with creeps from the N109 Zone. Hopefully this would be your last...and not in the demise kind of way. You’d seen enough horror stories unfold around here to know how fast things could go south. But tonight, it felt like your number had finally come up.

"I have an incurable disease. I wouldn't touch me," you say, voice strained and wavering despite your best effort to sound confident. It was a long shot, a gamble born from panic, but maybe, just maybe, it would give them pause.

The two men chuckle in unison. The fat one sneers wider, eyes flashing, and lunges toward you without warning. His arms wrap around you with crushing force, lifting you off the ground like a ragdoll. You scream, loud and raw, your bag tumbling from your shoulder and hitting the pavement with a thud.

He spins you around effortlessly and traps you in a brutal bear hug, pinning your arms to your sides, holding you fast in front of the skinny one, who now steps in with the air of someone approaching a prize.

"Wouldn't doubt it," the fat one murmurs into your ear, breath hot and reeking of beer and decay. "A girl as cute as you is no doubt a whore. Good thing I brought condoms."

Your stomach lurches. The word "whore" hits like a slap, but the real fear twists in your gut when you realize how calm and practiced they both are. This wasn't a spontaneous act. These two had been prowling for someone exactly like you.

You jerk your head back, teeth bared, aiming to sink them into any piece of flesh you can reach. But the fat one squeezes tighter, cutting off your air, forcing a sharp, agonized wheeze from your throat. Your ribs scream, your lungs burn, and your vision starts to spark at the edges.

"Hold fucking still," the skinny one says, voice low and trembling with excitement. He slips a knife from his coat—small, sharp, and chillingly clean. The blade glints under what little light leaks from the busted streetlamps. You writhe, but your body isn’t responding fast enough. He kneels, eyes locked on you, and presses the blade to your shirt.

He starts slicing.

The cold metal kisses your soaked uniform, dragging down the fabric slowly, deliberately. You can hear every fiber snap under the blade, feel the chill rush of night air against newly exposed skin. He’s savoring it, the sick bastard. Every second stretches long and heavy with dread.

The fat one chuckles again, a low rumble that vibrates through his chest and into your spine. "Look, she's already shaking" he snickers. "Can't wait to see that pretty red blood drip down your tits when we're done with you."

Panic claws at your throat. Your mind races.

You're not getting out of this alive.

Had your life truly been destined to be so terrible that it had to end the same way too? Shitty parents, born in a shitty city, working shitty jobs to make ends meet all your shitty life. No breaks, no safety nets...just a constant grind with nothing to show for it but bruises and exhaustion. Every step forward had been a crawl. Every chance you'd hoped for had slipped through your fingers like water.

You tried so damn hard. You kept your head down, followed the rules, did everything the world told you to do. And still, here you were—in some dark alley in the N109 Zone, freezing, humiliated, and helpless. Your chest ached, not just from fear, but from the deep, gnawing sense of betrayal. Like the universe had always had it out for you.

You shut your eyes as you feel the cold air hit your chest. Your bra is exposed now, fabric damp and clinging, offering no warmth or comfort. You bite your lip to keep it from trembling. Well. This was it then? The end? Not even a warning, no last moment of dignity. Just this.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You don't know what you're reaching for—hope, courage, a miracle—but anything would do. Anything to stop this. Anything to change the ending.

You suck in a shaky breath and prepare for whatever comes next. The pain, the cold, the end.

"Gentlemen, fancy seeing you two here. I was actually just looking for you both. Seems you didn't get the memo on our meeting earlier today," a voice says from behind you.

All three of you freeze.

The air shifts. Like a thunderstorm about to break loose right above your heads. You feel it roll over your skin, the tension clamping around your lungs.

The two men whip their heads around, eyes wide, searching for the source. Their confidence drains from their faces like blood down a sink.

"Shit, don't tell me that's—" the skinny man starts, voice cracking like glass.

But he doesn’t finish.

In a blink, his body is ripped backward like a ragdoll, hurled through the air by a force you can’t see. He slams into the side of a building with a loud, sickening crunch that echoes down the alleyway. Brick cracks from the impact, and he crumples to the ground in a heap, groaning once before going eerily still. The knife he was holding clatters to the ground next to him.

The fat man’s grip loosens instantly. Shock paralyzes him for a heartbeat. Then two. He releases you without a word, hands trembling as they fall to his sides. You drop to the ground like dead weight, landing hard on your ribs. Pain jolts through your body, but it's nothing compared to the relief crashing over you.

You groan and look up, blinking through tears and grime, just in time to see it—

Red mist.

Thick, pulsing, and alive. It weaves through the air like smoke with purpose, coiling around the fat man’s legs first, snaking its way up his body in slow, suffocating loops. He stares down in horror, hands clawing at the red haze like he could somehow peel it off.

You watch, frozen, as his feet lift from the ground. He rises—arms flailing, mouth wide open in a silent scream—as the mist tightens, dragging him up like a puppet.

Then he’s thrown.

He rockets backward with impossible force, crashing into the wall opposite his partner. The impact is brutal—louder, deeper, cracking the stone like thunder. Dust explodes around him, raining down in gritty sheets as the building seems to shudder in protest.

Silence follows. Long and oppressive.

The street goes still. Not even the buzz of broken streetlights.

You sit there, gasping, heart racing, and stare through the lingering red mist.

And then—

Shoes. Slow, deliberate footsteps echo against the concrete. Heavy. Calm. Unbothered.

You stop breathing as a man appears out of the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a slow, confident gait. His hair is white-greyish, short, and groomed neatly as if untouched by the chaos around him. He wears a dark collared shirt, sharp and clean despite the filth of the N109 Zone, and a heavy jacket draped casually across his shoulders like a cape. But the most piercing feature about him? His eyes.

Crimson red.

They glow faintly under the broken streetlights, inhuman and unreadable, like fire simmering behind glass. He glances at you—just for a moment. You can’t read the expression. Indifference? Curiosity? Whatever it is, it sends a chill through your bones.

Without a word to you, he turns and stalks toward the two men groaning on the ground.

"Seems you were too busy harassing women to remember to bring me what I’m rightfully owed," the man snarled, voice low and sharp like broken glass. "No matter. I warned you I'd get it back in blood."

The fat one scrambles, shielding his face with his arms, whimpering. "Sylus! Please! We can sti—"

His begging is cut off by a choked, wet gurgle. His throat clenches under invisible pressure, red mist coiling tighter and tighter around his neck. His eyes bulge. Feet kick. Hands claw at nothing.

The skinny one tries to run. He scrambles up, limping, almost making it two steps before something grabs his ankle. The mist again—faster this time. It twists, tightens, and then—

SNAP.

A sickening crack splits the air, sharp and final. His ankle bends the wrong way, bone giving way with a sound that makes bile rise in your throat. He collapses, screaming in agony.

You can’t take it anymore.

You shut your eyes and cover your ears, curling into yourself as tightly as you can. The screams, the choking, the crunch of bone—it all keeps going, echoing in your skull even through your hands.

You just want it to stop.

A few moments of muffled chokes and screams...and then silence.

Not the kind of silence that feels peaceful, but the thick, eerie kind that makes your skin crawl. Your ears ring faintly, and your breath stutters in your chest as if your body refuses to believe it’s over.

You breathe heavily, chest heaving as you try to calm the shaking in your limbs. The cold from the ground seeps through your soaked clothes, but you barely register it. Your hands are still pressed over your ears, your fingers curled so tightly they’re starting to ache. It takes every ounce of courage to peel them away and crack your eyes open.

You're surprised—no, stunned—not to see the gruesome aftermath you expected. No blood. No bodies. No twisted limbs or broken faces. In fact, there's zero trace of the men who had once stood there, like the earth had swallowed them whole and wiped away the evidence.

You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the empty space in front of you. Adrenaline is still racing through your veins, making your vision blur slightly around the edges. The only sound now is the soft crunch of gravel beneath a shoe—measured, unhurried.

Your eyes dart toward the movement. You watch as Sylus bends down slowly, like he has all the time in the world, and picks up something small and shiny. At first, it looks like a shard of glass, almost invisible in the dim light. But it catches a flicker from the nearest working lamp—almost clear, glinting faintly with an internal glow that pulses like a heartbeat.

"That's..." you whisper, barely able to hear your own voice. Your eyes widen as the pieces click into place.

A protocore?? You had never seen one so close up before.

They were supposed to be rare. Expensive. Illegal to possess without license, let alone harvest. The kind of stuff people killed over.

You barely get the thought out before he pockets it in one smooth motion. Then he turns toward you.

Those red eyes lock onto yours like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. They burn with a strange intensity, unreadable and terrifying and impossible to look away from. He takes a step closer, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.

But he doesn't speak. He just studies you. Eyes roaming all over you.

And in that instant, you realize something unsettling: he’s not trying to intimidate you. He’s evaluating you. Like he’s sizing you up for something you don’t yet understand.

Your breath hitches, throat dry, mind racing. Who was this man? What had you just witnessed?

You squeeze your eyes shut as he suddenly walks toward you. Shit. You were probably next.

You just watched a man commit murder, two murders no less. Of course you were next as the witness. Your pulse hammers against your ribcage as panic floods you. Why didn’t you run when you had the chance? Why the hell did you freeze?

You brace yourself for the worst, chest tightening as your breath stalls in your throat. Every step he takes echoes louder than the last, like the final countdown to something irreversible. The air around you feels charged, heavy with power and blood.

But instead of pain or a final breath, you feel something else.

A soft, warm weight settles across your shoulders.

Fabric. A jacket.

You flinch at first, confused, until the warmth begins to seep into your frozen skin. The cold on your back evaporates slightly, replaced by the comforting weight of thick, dry fabric. Your eyes flutter open, hesitation making your lashes tremble as you lift your gaze.

He's standing just inches away, crouched down, eyes unreadable in the dim light. No expression.

"For your...situation," the man says evenly, voice low but firm, eyes briefly flicking to your torn shirt and the state of your exposed chest.

Your bra is wet, see-through, and clinging to your skin. You gasp in embarrassment, face flushing hot, and immediately rush to close the jacket over yourself, clutching the lapels with both hands. Your fingers shake, knuckles paling from gripping so tight.

"S-sorry..." you whisper, voice small and shaken. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for...your appearance, your weakness, your existence? But the word slips out anyway.

He simply sighs, standing up and running his fingers through his hair. The motion is slow, tired—like he’s dragging the weight of something heavier than tonight’s encounter. His fingers rake back through the white-grey strands, revealing the sharp edges of his face, shadowed under the streetlights. His posture eases, but not from comfort—more like indifference. The threat is gone, and so is his interest. But his eyes...they remain hard. Crimson still burns faintly beneath his lashes, like coals left smoldering.

"Do you always apologize for things that aren't your fault?"

The question lands like a blade, too casual to be comforting. Cold. Rhetorical. He doesn’t give you a chance to answer. Doesn’t seem like he wants one.

Without waiting for a response, he turns his back to you.

"I assume you know how to keep your mouth shut. Have a good night."

Your pulse spikes.

His name...his name was Sylus. That was what that man had called him.

It hits you like a gunshot.

That name. You’ve heard it before—in whispers, in rumors passed through alleyway trades and late-night conversations that always ended in warning. There was talk of a syndicate that lived in the bones of the city. Powerful. Untraceable. It didn’t operate within the law. It was the law, in places like this. Onychinus. And at the top of it all, one name. Ruthless. A demon with red eyes they say.

Sylus.

But it was rumored no one had actually seen him. Or not lived long enough to give details.

Could this really be him?

Your breath quickens as your heartbeat stutters in your chest. Slowly, shakily, you get to your feet. The alley feels impossibly long, the lights dimmer than they were before. Your legs tremble beneath you, unstable, the weight of everything finally catching up to your body. The jacket around your shoulders slips slightly, reminding you it's still there. Heavy. Warm. His.

You reach out.

Not because you’ve planned it. But because some part of you needs to.

Instinct. Desperation. A pull you can’t name.

Your fingers brush against his arm and clutch tightly.

"Please wait! Sylus!" you cry, louder than you expect, voice cracking under the strain of exhaustion, fear, and something raw you hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.

He stops mid-step.

The world halts with him.

The buzz of lights, the distant city hum—it all dies. The only thing you hear now is the frantic pounding of your heart.

This is crazy. Absolutely insane. You must have a death wish. What the hell were you thinking, grabbing him like that? Demanding the attention of someone who could crush people without a thought? Your stomach churns with fear, twisting itself into knots, but something inside you refuses to shrink away.

You’re still standing. That has to mean something, right?

If he wanted to kill you—he would’ve already.

And besides, even if he wasn’t Sylus—even if this was all some massive coincidence—he was clearly someone powerful enough to make people vanish into mist. Someone important enough to be feared in this city. And feared men didn’t worry about rent. Feared men had power. And power meant money. And money...

Money meant stability.

A steady job. A real paycheck. Enough to cover groceries without counting every coin. It meant the possibility of fixing your old laptop, maybe even affording a new pair of shoes without soles worn thin. A chance at reclaiming some control, some pride without begging or risking your life.

Sylus doesn’t turn fully. Just tilts his head slightly—enough to glance at you from over his shoulder. It’s a subtle motion, but the weight behind it still makes your breath catch.

The look in his eyes pins you in place. It’s not anger. It’s colder. Calculating. Like he’s measuring you for something. Or deciding if you’re worth the air you’re still breathing.

"Not many are so bold to call me by my name so fiercely on the first meeting," he says. His tone is unreadable, smooth and dry, like stone scraped across silk.

You can’t tell if he's amused. Annoyed. Or seconds away from deciding you’re a loose end that needs cutting.

Then, without a hint of emotion, he adds, "Speak. I have things to attend to."

Your heart skips. Panic swells again in your chest, but it’s different now—warmer, messier. Your fingers tremble as you release his arm. The courage you had seconds ago is unraveling fast under the weight of his presence.

"Sy—I mean, sir..." you stammer, bowing your head quickly, instinctively, as if submission might protect you. "Thank you. For saving me...I just wanted to ask—"

You pause, breath shaky, gathering whatever's left of your pride and resolve. This is insane. This could end so, so badly. But your options ran out a long time ago.

You suck in a breath, chest tightening.

"Please give me a job..."

The words hang there, small but thunderous in the stillness. You know how it sounds. Pathetic. Desperate.

He turns now, slowly, and for the first time you see his full expression. His face twists in slight confusion, one brow raised. "You want...a job? You want me to give you a job?" he repeats, frowning as if the concept itself is absurd. Like you're speaking a language he's never bothered to learn.

Shit. Say something. Make it convincing. Say anything.

You bow your head in shame, your voice wobbling. "I'm sorry, I know it’s sudden! I just...I just got fired and I don’t have many options. I’ll lose my apartment soon if I can’t pay..." Your voice cracks, and you start to sniffle, humiliation burning hot in your chest. You wrap his jacket tighter around yourself like it’s armor, like it can hide how much you're unraveling.

Sylus hums in acknowledgment. It’s not agreement, not exactly—just a sound to let you know he’s still listening. Still watching. Then his voice comes again, even colder this time.

"I'm not a charity. I don't take on the weak."

The words hit like a slap—sharp, final. Your stomach drops, but your mind races.

You scramble for something—anything that’ll keep him from walking away.

"I’m very useful, actually!" you blurt, lifting your head so fast it makes your vision swim. The words come out fast, breathless, desperate. "I can clean, cook, fix things, run errands, I learn fast—I don’t complain, and I don’t need much! Please, I’ll do whatever you need. Just give me a chance. I don’t have anyone else."

Your voice is trembling now, but you keep talking, like if you stop, you’ll shatter. "I’ve worked double shifts on no sleep, I’ve handled angry customers, cleaned up all kinds of fluids from bathroom stalls, learned how to stretch a bag of rice for a week—I’m not weak, I’ve just never been given a shot by someone who matters."

The alley is silent again, dense and waiting. A breeze slips past, carrying the scent of rust and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails and fades.

You’re still staring at him, heart pounding so loud it drowns out your thoughts. Hands clenched into tight fists at your sides. You can feel your knees threatening to buckle, but you stay upright. You won’t beg. If he says no again you'll accept your fate.

At least you'll have tried.

Sylus doesn't seem moved by your emotional outburst, but something shifts behind his eyes. He’s not dismissive—he’s pondering. Cold logic at work, turning your words over in his mind with clinical precision.

"Cleaning, huh..." he scoffs softly, the sound low and rough, like gravel underfoot. There's a flicker of something—amusement? Skepticism?—as a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He slips his hands into his coat pockets, the gesture fluid and deliberate. Nothing about him is rushed. He’s the kind of man who never speaks or moves without intent.

"If I had a nickel for every time someone I saved begged to work for me right after...well, I’d have 3 nickels technically." He let out a low chuckle. "This was surely unexpected."

You blink, trying to read his expression. Your heart is hammering in your chest, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. What does that even mean? Three nickels?? What was he talking about?

"So...does that mean—?" you start to ask, your voice cracking under the weight of hesitant hope.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns his head, gaze drifting toward the skyline like he’s already moved on. His silhouette is framed by the hazy orange glow of a streetlamp, the red mist still curling faintly at his feet. When he speaks again, the words cut through the silence like a blade.

"I'll entertain this 'job' for you. But you have to live up to the standard you've set for yourself. Otherwise, you'll be gone faster than you can even breathe."

His tone is flat. Not cruel, but not kind either. It’s a warning—sharp, unflinching, final.

You don’t move. For a moment, you forget how. The alley seems to pause with you, the air thick with something unspoken. And then it hits—

Your heart swells. Joy floods your chest in a violent, overwhelming surge. It feels like your ribs might split from the pressure of it. You almost can’t believe you heard him right.

"Yes! Of course! I won’t let you down!" you blurt out, too fast, too eager, but there’s no stopping the emotion rushing out of you. You bow your head deeply, again, again—grateful, desperate, stunned.

Sylus sighs, long and drawn-out, the sound edged with the kind of exasperation that says you’re already a handful. He rolls his eyes with a quiet mutter—something you can’t make out—and turns on his heel.

He begins walking away without another word.

Panic flares in your chest.

"W-wait... where do I go? When do I start?" you call after him, stumbling a few steps forward. The weight of his jacket is still warm on your shoulders, grounding you in the surreal moment.

He doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t turn. But his voice drifts back to you, clear and crisp as ever.

"I’ll be back in three days. Tallest building in the city. You’ve seen it. Eleven PM. Don’t be late."

And just like that—he’s gone.

His body dissolves into a swirl of red mist that coils around him and bursts outward, vanishing into the night like smoke drawn into a vacuum. It’s silent again. No footsteps. No echoes. As if he’d never been there at all.

You stand frozen, jacket clutched tightly in your fists, staring at the empty space he left behind. The chill of the night wraps around you, but your skin burns from adrenaline.

Three days.

Tallest building in the city.

You whisper the words like a vow, repeating them to yourself again and again, willing them to anchor you to this reality. Your breath is shaky, your pulse pounding, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel alive.

You weren’t dreaming.

You actually got a job.

Why so late at night, though? Maybe he didn’t want you seen. Maybe it was a test—or maybe the day just wasn’t a place people like you belonged in his world. Then again, in the N109 Zone, there wasn’t much of a day to begin with. The sky was always dark, the sun just a rumor behind a layer of industrial haze. But still...even under dim lights and darker skies, this felt like something new.

A clean slate.

Sylus wasn’t sure what he was doing.

Hiring a random woman he saved to be his housekeeper? It was reckless. It was unnecessary. And it was completely unlike him. Even now, as he sat alone in his office, the question churned at the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn’t remove.

Unbeknownst to you, Onychinus had already had housecleaning staff. A full team, trained and vetted, all handpicked to maintain control and order of the base. But the moment he returned—barely hours after dragging two bodies into the shadows and watching you fall apart in front of him—he’d given a simple, final order: dismiss the entire cleaning unit. No explanation.

He hadn’t cared about anything but the image still seared into his mind: a dirt-covered girl shivering in his coat. His coat.

It had been easier to lie to himself at first. You needed help. That’s all it was. A brief act of pity. A one-time gesture. Something to balance the scales after taking two lives without hesitation. Maybe even a little entertainment to break the monotony.

But something about you unsettled him.

The way you’d looked up at him from the ground—mud streaked across your cheek, clothes soaked and cut, lips trembling, chest exposed but your eyes…There was fear, yes, but beneath it, a defiant glimmer. Something that sparked against the cold stone he called his conscience.

He’d felt it. A pang in his chest. It had no business being there. Unfamiliar and unwanted.

So he did what he always did when something unimportant peeked his interest. Ignore it. He even tried to end the conversation before it even started.

But then you’d grabbed him.

That tiny, trembling hand curling around his arm like he was a lifeline. Not to manipulate. Not to seduce. Just to hold on. And asked him for a job of all things. You had no other options. You were recently fired. About to lose your apartment. The perfect excuse to have his new interest near him.

That had done something to him.

Something violent and strange. Something possessive. A pulse beneath the surface that refused to quiet.

And in that instant, Sylus had stopped making excuses.

Now, he stood in his office, watching you on the security feed. You moved through the suite like a ghost trying to prove you still belonged among the living—scrubbing at already clean surfaces, adjusting already perfect details. Your back was straight, shoulders tense, every movement painfully precise.

You were trying so hard. It had been weeks since then and you were still trying to fit in.

Trying not to be a burden. Trying not to mess up. Trying to earn a place no one had offered you.

It was adorable.

It was raw, honest—and it stirred something far more possessive than he liked to admit. You didn’t know how to rest. You only knew how to survive. Every over-polished surface, every obsessively straightened object reeked of someone begging—not for praise, but for permission to exist. It wasn't just endearing. It was maddeningly cute. You were trying so hard, and you didn't even realize who you were trying to impress. Him. All of it was for him.

And he couldn’t look away.

There was something feral in the way you moved, a quiet desperation dressed up in duty. Like a cat that hadn’t been given safety in so long, it wouldn’t know what to do with peace if it had it. That kind of survival wasn’t just familiar, it was intimate.

And you didn’t yet understand that the moment you reached for him in that alley, you stopped being a stray kitten.

You became his.

And you didn’t yet realize that he hadn’t brought you here to mop floors.

He told himself he was still in control. That this was still about curiosity, about amusement. That he was just studying you. Surely, he'd get bored. Fire you, and move on.

But even he didn’t believe that anymore. Not after seeing you a second time when you arrived on your first day. That same feeling had returned—sharper now, more insistent, like something gnawing at the base of his spine. You were under his roof, moving quietly through his space, wearing the weight of his attention like it might crush you. And still you kept going. Still you tried. Even brought him back his jacket. It was infuriating. It was addictive.

What was it about you that made him feel like he couldn’t stop watching? What exactly had ignited this itch under his skin, this tightening in his chest? You weren’t extraordinary—at least not by normal standards. But maybe that was the point. You were quiet. Unassuming. But beneath all of that, he could sense something uncut and wild. Something no one else had tried to reach.

And now it was his.

He needed to know more. He needed to peel back every layer until he understood what, exactly, had hooked him so deep he’d broken his own rules.

Because Sylus never did anything without purpose.

And he hadn’t fired an entire staff, hired only you, and rewired a dozen camera angles…just to be charitable.

He had done it to keep you where he could see you.

Your reaction when he walked out half naked, dripping from the shower a few days ago had been amusing, though he didn’t show it. He'd done it on purpose to see your reaction. The way your face flushed, the way your gaze darted anywhere but at him—it had been a moment he savored quietly, filed away for later. You really thought you could hide it. How flustered you were. How small you felt in his presence.

That habit of apologizing for everything, though—now that grated. Like nails on glass. He’d have to break that out of you eventually. No one in his world got away with empty words, and he didn’t tolerate the kind of weakness that came from guilt without conviction. He often wondered what kind of pain and trauma turned someone into that—into a person who apologized just for breathing.

However…he didn’t completely mind if you were a bit weak.

Weak people were easy to keep an eye on. Easy to understand. Easy to protect.

He watched the screen again, eyes narrowing slightly as you pulled a stool across the polished floor to reach a high shelf. He saw it immediately. You hadn’t pulled one of the legs out all the way.

It would collapse under you.

He exhaled, annoyed but composed, and in a blink—his form dissolved in a swirl of red mist—he was gone from the office. A breath later, he was standing in the kitchen.

You didn’t even notice him behind you, too busy reaching to rearrange items on the top shelf, lips pursed in focus. You were murmuring something under your breath—maybe a list, maybe just the words you used to fill silence, but it didn’t matter. Your voice was soft, distracted, and it did nothing to prepare you for the presence behind you.

Sylus stood silently in the doorway, arms folded, posture impossibly still. His eyes tracked every movement you made with the precision of a predator, narrowed with cold intensity as he studied your choice of outfit.

A skirt again. Of all things. To clean in.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. It clashed so violently with the rest of you—your quiet demeanor, your constant apologies, your hesitant glances like you were afraid of taking up space. He’d pegged you as cautious. Careful. Maybe even prudish. But a skirt like that? That was either reckless...or intentional.

There was no middle ground.

His gaze moved downward, slow and deliberate, and he didn’t even try to stop it. Your legs were bare, shifting with each tentative movement, the muscles in your calves flexing delicately as you struggled for balance. They looked too smooth, too soft for someone who lived in the N109 Zone. You weren’t made for this place. Not really. And yet, here you were, stretching and tiptoeing as if you had something to prove.

The hem of your skirt lifted slightly as you reached higher, just enough to tease. Just enough to show the dip where your thigh met your hip, the subtle curve of your ass beneath the thin, clinging fabric. He stared, jaw flexing, something animal and possessive threading through his blood like poison.

Quite the choice indeed.

You didn’t know what you were inviting.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, his irritation mounting—not at you, not exactly. At the way he responded. At the way his body reacted, heat flooding low in his gut just from watching you stretch in that stupid skirt. You had no idea what you were doing to him, what kind of restraint it took not to close the distance, not to press his hand flat against the small of your back and bend you over the marble counter just to make a point.

Then his attention flicked to the stool.

He noticed it instantly: the leg, barely extended, shaky. A disaster waiting to happen. And you, too distracted to realize it. Too busy trying to impress. Too busy trying to earn your place.

He could’ve called out.

He didn’t.

He watched.

Three seconds passed.

Two.

One.

The stool gave out beneath you, the sharp crack of metal folding breaking the moment like glass.

You yelped, arms flailing, and your body dropped fast, too fast.

But the floor never came.

In one fluid movement, before your breath could even finish escaping your throat, he was there.

His arms snapped around you, catching you mid-fall with unflinching strength—one arm anchoring your waist, the other locked across your back like steel. The force of the motion sent your body into his, chest against chest, your breath stolen not by impact, but by proximity.

You collided not with cold tile—but with him.

With warmth.

You gasped, hands curling instinctively into the front of his shirt. His muscles shifted under your fingers—hard, tense, unwavering.

His face hovered inches from yours. Red eyes locked onto your expression, studying every flicker of panic, every rapid breath you took.

You started flailing in his arms, clearly panicking, eyes wide with embarrassment and confusion. The contact—too sudden, too close—had scrambled your senses. You didn’t know what to do with yourself, writhing slightly in his grip as if you could squirm away from the electricity between you. Your breath hitched, hands pressing feebly against his chest, but he held you like he had no intention of letting go until he was ready.

Inwardly, Sylus chuckled, dark amusement curling behind his otherwise unreadable eyes. You were flustered beyond reason, struggling in his hold like a bird that had flown into the jaws of a predator. It was almost sweet. Ridiculous, really, how easy it would be to keep you. A word, a gesture, a little pressure—and you'd fold like paper.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you were there!" you panted, cheeks burning as you tried harder to escape his grasp. Your voice cracked slightly, high and breathless, and your fingers gripped at his shirt like you weren’t sure whether to push him away or hold on.

Reluctantly, he let you go. His arms unwrapped from around you with a slowness that betrayed how much he didn’t want to. Every inch of lost contact felt like something stolen. He could still feel the impression of your body against his—your warmth, your weight, the exact curve of your waist where his fingers had fit so perfectly.

He’d much rather have you pinned underneath him on the cold marble floor, your wrists above your head, that flushed face staring up at him in breathless silence. The image wasn’t just tempting, it was consuming.

Instead, he straightened calmly. He smoothed his shirt with a deliberate hand, as if nothing had happened, as if his blood wasn’t simmering just beneath the surface. His expression slipped back into its usual cold neutrality, though his eyes lingered.

"What did I say about apologizing for nothing?" he said sternly, his voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.

You froze. The sound of his voice triggered a visible change. Your expression fell into sorrow, your shoulders curling inward like a scolded child, your hands falling limp at your sides. You avoided his gaze, eyes cast downward as if you expected punishment.

"I—yeah. Right. I'll work on it," you murmured, voice small and brittle.

He watched the way your lips trembled. The way your posture folded in on itself. You thought apologizing would save you. That submission would earn mercy.

You were far too weak and innocent for your own good.

And he wanted to be the one to destroy it.

Touch by touch, until your shame melted into heat, until your gasps became moans, and the floor beneath you was scattered with torn, forgotten clothing. He’d peel away your innocence like silk, savoring each layer, each tremble, each moment of surrender.

Ignoring the growing hardness in his pants, Sylus turned his attention to his watch, feigning indifference as the tension coiled like a vice in his abdomen. Every nerve in his body felt wound tight, a hum beneath his skin he was trying very hard not to show.

"Aren’t you supposed to be heading home anyway?" he asked, voice cool and measured, each syllable sharp with veiled command. His gaze flicked to you and then lingered, unwilling to fully detach. You never noticed how much he watched you.

You bit your lip before dragging your tongue across it nervously, a subconscious gesture, but one he immediately clocked. That innocent, uncertain movement stirred something primal in him. It was the kind of unintentional tease that made his jaw tighten. That made him want to reach out and tilt your chin up just to see if you'd tremble under the weight of his full attention.

"Yeah...I was just doing some extra work," you replied, voice quiet, almost hesitant. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt as if trying to distract yourself from his stare. "Hoping it would warm up a little if I waited. It’s freezing today. I'm not looking forward to walking honestly."

He followed your gaze to the wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows. Frost clung to the edges of the glass like white scars. The world outside looked like it had been locked in ice. It was the kind of cold that stole the breath from your lungs, bit into skin, made the city feel even more hollow and harsh.

And yet, you'd chosen that outfit.

His eyes dropped again, deliberately this time. The skirt. Thin, flimsy. Just enough fabric to cover you, but not enough to shield you. No tights. No layers. No intention of warmth. Your legs were bare. The skin flushed from chill and movement.

Why?

You weren’t actually this stupid were you? You were cautious. Quiet. Observant. Which meant this wasn’t accidental. Not a miscalculation.

No, this had to be deliberate. Maybe you weren't as innocent as he had previously assumed?

"Ah...I knocked some stuff down when I fell," you muttered, crouching low to gather the scattered cans, trying to appear unfazed, as if your body hadn’t just been caught by his in a moment of pure vulnerability. Your voice was soft, flustered but casual, an obvious cover. You didn’t want him to see the way your hands trembled slightly, or how your breath still hadn’t quite steadied. But to Sylus, nothing about the moment was casual. He remained frozen where he stood, posture straight and calculated, his eyes locked onto you with a focus that felt less like curiosity and more like predation. He was studying. Dissecting. Memorizing.

He waited for the phrase he’d heard so many times from your lips. That anxious, habitual little “I’m sorry” that you wore like a second skin. Your default reaction. But it never came. Instead, you stayed silent, concentrating on your task. Your lips pressed into a thin line.

That flicker of growth—it struck him harder than it should have.

You were learning. Adapting. Sharpening under pressure like a blade honing itself on stone. And it didn’t ignite pride in him. No, pride was far too tame. What he felt clawing its way through his chest was something darker. Possession. The need to mark what was his before anyone else could lay claim. He was already changing you in subtle ways.

His eyes traveled down, following the subtle tension in your limbs as you reached forward. The way the fabric of your skirt tightened over the swell of your hips made his jaw clench. The hem hit just right. Creased around your thighs. Teasing. Just enough to suggest, not enough to reveal. Until you shifted just a bit further, and the lace revealed itself.

Not much. Just a whisper. A delicate edge of pale fabric tracing along your skin.

Lace underwear. Definitely not silk—he knew better. The thread count and finish marked it as something affordable, not luxury. But that didn’t matter. That wasn’t what caught his attention.

It was the fact that you had worn it at all.

Worn something pretty. Something intimate. Something entirely hidden from the world.

Why?

You didn’t strike him as someone who put thought into seduction. You didn’t wear your body with confidence—you shrank into it, hid behind it. And yet…that lace told a different story. Whether it was for comfort, confidence, or something more unspoken, it was a secret softness tucked under the armor of your survival.

Something no one else was meant to see.

And yet here he was, seeing it. Claiming it in his mind. Making it his.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until his chest ached. The image of you crouched low, vulnerable and unaware, your body wrapped in fabric he now felt a savage urge to tear off seared itself into the hollow of his mind.

The urge to touch you rose inside him like a tidal wave. He imagined gripping you by the waist, hauling you up effortlessly into him. Pin you against the counter just to hear the sound you’d make. The feel of your weight against him. He could already envision the way you’d look pinned against him, breath stuttering, lips parted, eyes wide and unsure—begging without knowing what for.

He ground his teeth. The thoughts were consuming. And entirely uninvited.

No. Not uninvited. Just…unacted upon.

He drew in a breath, a quiet exhale through his nose as he forced the heat back down into the pit of his spine, burying it beneath layers of discipline and ice.

Then, he spoke—voice low, the edges smoothed by control but still thick with gravity.

"How about I take you home today?"

The shift in your expression was immediate. You snapped upright, startled, your eyes wide and flickering with something he didn’t expect.

Hope.

It landed like a blow. Your face opened up, lips parting slightly, shoulders lifting in surprise. For a moment, it looked like you might even smile. But you caught yourself. Reeled it back in like a secret.

Still, the damage was done. He’d seen it.

You looked at him like he was safe. Like his offer meant salvation instead of danger. And the strangest part of it all? That look made something in his chest ache.

You were so damn cute. So reactive.

So completely unguarded.

It made him want to cradle you in his hands. And then use those same hands to crush you with desire.

He envisioned you again...only this time, you were in his bed. That same skirt hiked up around your waist, the lace shredded by his fingers, your thighs parted, eyes glazed and trembling as you whispered his name like a confession.

"I'd really appreciate that...I live a little far. Um... you might not like my neighborhood. It's...old," you said hesitantly, brushing your skirt down as you rose to your feet. Your voice wavered just slightly, betraying the anxiety buried beneath your words. There was something in the way you said it—apologetic, like you were ashamed of this part of your life but knew better than to hide it. You tried to make yourself look more put-together, smoothing the fabric over your thighs as if that alone could shift the image in his mind.

Sylus’s eyes followed your every movement, taking in more than just your body language. He was reading you—dissecting the tone of your voice, the pace of your words, the tight way you held your breath between sentences. The word "old" wasn’t about age. It was a coded confession. He knew exactly what it meant. He’d heard it before from people who came from nothing, who had learned how to make do with what little the world threw them.

It meant you had lived with less for too long.

His jaw ticked slightly as the image built in his mind. He imagined your space, trying to piece it together from the clues you hadn’t meant to give him. He could see the threadbare couch you probably slept on when your bed got too cold. The one lamp with the flickering bulb. The box fan in the window struggling against the summer heat. He imagined you curled up in the corner with a secondhand blanket, your knees drawn up, trying to stay warm while the outside world threatened to bleed in.

He pictured your kitchen. Cramped. One chair missing a leg. A fridge that rattled when it kicked on. Dishes stacked on the counter because the sink wouldn’t drain properly. He imagined you cooking something cheap but warm, something you stretched over a few days, all while wearing that same skirt that had ridden up earlier. That lace underwear hidden underneath. That softness, that sweetness, surrounded by decay.

And it did something to him.

You didn’t belong in a place like that. That life—the struggle, the worry, the scarcity...it didn’t fit someone like you. Not with the way your lips parted when you were flustered, not with the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were nervous. You weren’t hardened. Not yet. And the idea that the city would only further sink its teeth into you made something sharp twist in his chest.

It didn’t suit you. None of it did.

No, you were meant for softness. For warmth. For luxury. He could see it—clear as day—you draped across one of his penthouse chaise lounges, wearing something silk he bought you. Maybe you’d still be shy at first, still fidget with the hem of your skirt, but it would be different. You’d glow. Comfortable. Fed. Protected. His.

His mind fed on the thought, deeper and darker. He imagined you standing barefoot in his kitchen, reaching for a glass in one of his cabinets, his oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders, lace peeking through. You’d look over your shoulder when he walked in, eyes soft, lips parted just for him.

And he’d take care of you.

You’d never have to beg a landlord for hot water again. You’d never worry about bills or broken locks or freezing nights. You’d live where you belonged, someplace warm. Safe and lavish.

He watched you brush imaginary dust from your skirt, still trying to preserve a scrap of dignity, and the thought struck him again with more weight than before.

You didn’t even know what you deserved.

But he was trying not to get ahead of himself. Not when his thoughts had already begun to spiral too far into territory he’d sworn to avoid. He knew better. He always had. He was a man carved from violence and control, a life defined by taking, by silence, by blood. Someone like him wasn’t good for you.

Someone like him would ruin you. Corrupt you. Strip away that softness he’d started to crave.

And no matter how badly he wanted it—how deeply the image of you in his bed, in his life, had begun to root itself—he wasn’t sure how you’d handle him.

So he kept his expression unreadable, the desire clawing beneath his skin tucked away with practiced precision. Without another word, he simply turned and gestured for you to follow him. His movements were precise, clipped, careful not to betray the storm in his chest.

You hesitated for only a second, then fell into step behind him. Your footsteps were light but uncertain, the rhythm of your shoes against the polished floor betraying your nervousness. You trailed behind like a shadow—obedient, unsure—but still close enough that he could feel your presence pressing faintly at his back.

As you made your way toward the private elevator that led to his parking garage, Sylus kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, every muscle in his body straining not to look at you. Not to reach. Not to touch.

Because if he did...

He might not stop.

The car ride was quiet and long, the kind of stretch that gave Sylus too much time to think. Not that he let it show. His hands remained steady on the wheel, gaze fixed on the road as the city slipped by in shadows and glimmers of neon. You sat beside him in silence, arms tucked tightly against yourself, trying not to fidget, though your body language betrayed you. Five minutes in, he noticed the way you subtly curled inward, trying to conserve warmth. Your shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

Without a word, he reached down and adjusted the temperature. The heater clicked on with a low hum, warmth slowly spilling into the cabin. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at you. He simply did it. He’d never used it before—not once. He never needed to. He hadn’t even realized it worked. But for you? He made it work.

A few minutes later, you gave him your address, voice low and mumbled, already thick with exhaustion. He barely acknowledged it, just nodded slightly and continued driving. Not because he needed the directions.

He already knew exactly where you lived.

Of course he did.

He’d had Mephisto tail you every night since that first encounter. Every step you took home, every street you crossed, every time you looked over your shoulder or hugged your arms tighter when the wind picked up—he knew it all. He’d seen the route. Studied the pattern. Memorized the way your silhouette moved beneath the flickering street lamps.

He hadn’t told you.

You’d never asked.

While he hadn’t yet stepped foot inside your apartment, he’d seen enough to picture it. The building—old, cracked, unwelcoming—told him more than words ever could. The peeling paint around the doorframe. The stairwell that looked like it might collapse with one wrong step. The busted callbox out front.

And it made something settle heavy in his gut.

But beside him, you had fallen asleep. Head tilted toward the window, lashes soft against your cheek, lips parted just slightly. Completely unaware.

When he finally pulled into the shadowed lot outside your apartment building, Sylus didn’t move to wake you right away. He simply shifted the car into park and turned slightly in his seat, his eyes tracing the soft lines of your sleeping face in the dim glow of the dashboard. There was a rare stillness to you now—your body slack, your breathing deep and steady, lips parted slightly with each quiet exhale. It was a version of you he rarely got to see: unguarded, untouched by the weight of the day, vulnerable in a way that pulled something tight and possessive in his chest.

He studied your expression, searching it like a map for answers he didn’t know he wanted. You looked so docile like this. So soft. Your hair slightly mussed from the ride, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, arms curled loosely around your midsection. How could someone who had been through so much still sleep like this—still carry a hint of innocence when everything else around you had tried to beat it out?

His thoughts drifted to the checks. The ones he started giving you after your first week. They weren’t modest by any stretch. The amount was enough to make you freeze when he handed you the envelope the first time, your fingers trembling, eyes welling with tears you had tried to blink away. You had thanked him far too many times, voice barely steady.

But since then, he’d noticed something.

No new clothes. No styled hair. No flashy purchases or even a change in your worn-out shoes. You were still the same girl—practical, quiet, unassuming. And that only deepened the mystery. What were you spending it on? Rent, obviously. Maybe food. But beyond that…? Debt perhaps?

You hadn’t changed a thing about your appearance. Not even for vanity’s sake.

His fingers tapped slowly on the steering wheel, restless with curiosity.

You looked so peaceful. Like nothing in the world could touch you in that moment. The sight of it made his throat tighten.

He wondered when he would get to see you like this again.

You're awoken by a gentle shaking at your shoulder. Disoriented, your eyes blink open slowly, only to meet the cool interior of Sylus’s car and the low hum of the engine winding down. The warmth of the heater still lingers on your cheeks, and you sit up, blinking the sleep from your eyes.

Sylus is watching you, his face unreadable, but there’s something oddly soft in the way he looks at you—like he’s memorizing the exact shape of your sleepy expression.

"Ah, thank you. Goodnight," you murmur, still dazed, rubbing your eyes and reaching for the door handle.

"Goodnight," he responds evenly, reaching forward to unlock the passenger side with a click. The sound startles you a little, only now realizing the lock had been engaged from his side the entire time. Your hand lingers on the handle for a second longer, your thoughts slow, muddled. You almost ask about the child safety lock—why it was on in the first place—but you’re too tired to form the question.

Instead, you step out into the cold. The temperature hits you instantly, sharp and biting, and you hug your coat tighter around your shoulders. The street is dark, quiet, the usual chill of the N109 Zone sinking into your bones. You fumble with your pocket, fingers searching for the familiar jingle of your keys.

Keys...keys...

Your heart skips.

Where are your keys?

You pat your coat, your skirt, even dig into your bag, your movements growing frantic.

Nothing.

Panic starts to bloom in your chest as you realize—they’re not on you.

Shit.

Your stomach sinks. There's no avoiding it…you’ll have to ask Sylus. You must have left your keys back at Onychinus’s base during your frantic cleaning and recovery from that near fall. You’d been too flustered. Too distracted.

Defeated, your shoulders slumping, you turn around and hurry back to the car, your footsteps crunching against the gravel with each rushed step. The wind bites at your face as you approach. Sylus, thankfully, hasn’t driven off. He’s still parked in the same spot, one hand on the wheel, the other idly scrolling through something on his phone, bathed in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

You tap nervously on the passenger window, hugging your arms to your chest. Almost immediately, his gaze flicks up and he rolls it down with a smooth whirr, red eyes pinning you in place.

"My keys...I think I left them back at Onychinus," you say quickly, cheeks already burning with embarrassment. "This might be a stupid question, but...do you know how to pick a lock?"

So...that’s how Sylus, without a single word of instruction, plucked a bobby pin from your hair with deft fingers and picked your lock like it was second nature. It took him less than a minute. You stood by stunned, arms crossed against the cold, watching the door click open like it was nothing.

You were amazed, partly by his skill, but mostly by the way he never hesitated. Like helping you break into your own home was just another item on his to-do list. You felt a strange, pressing urge to thank him. He didn’t have to do any of this. You were just an employee. A cleaner. One he had only met just a few weeks ago.

So it felt right to do something.

You nervously glanced at him, then gestured toward the open door. "Would you like to come in? Just for a minute. I—I'd like to give you something. A treat. For helping."

He nodded kindly, and followed you in.

The inside of your apartment was exactly what you'd feared he might judge: dingy, too small, and colder than it should’ve been. There were cracks in the paint and the floor creaked when you stepped inside. But Sylus didn’t comment. The only thing that gave away his discomfort was the way he had to crouch slightly to pass through the doorway, tall enough that the frame brushed his shoulders.

You hurried to the small kitchen, pulling out a container from the fridge and placing it carefully in the microwave.

"This is my mom’s recipe," you said over your shoulder, fumbling with the buttons. "She gave it to me before she...left."

The quiet stretch between you filled with something unspoken as the microwave hummed.

He didn’t press for details. But you could feel his attention lingering. Not just on your words, but on you—your hands, your nervous movements, the way your voice faltered at the mention of your mother.

Then, softly, he spoke. "You talk about her like she’s still alive. Like maybe there’s still a part of you waiting for her to come back."

You froze, startled—not by the words themselves, but by how gently he said them. Like he saw past what you said and into the truth underneath.

"She left without a word," you murmured. "But I guess...yeah. I still cook this like she's coming home."

You really did not want to talk about this anymore, and Sylus seemed to pick up on that instantly. His eyes flicked to the microwave, then back to you, his expression unreadable as always. Without missing a beat, he changed the subject, his voice shifting into something lighter.

"How does it feel to have your boss step foot inside your own home?"

The question caught you off guard, and you let out a nervous little laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. "I don’t normally have guests... much less my employer, but it’s been a lot less nerve-wracking than I thought it’d be."

You avoided his gaze, pretending to busy yourself with the food as the microwave dinged softly behind you. Your hands moved on autopilot, but your mind stayed tangled in the oddness of the moment. Sylus—here, in your crumbling kitchen, ducking under your doorframe, accepting a homemade dish with quiet interest. There was something surreal about it. Like the roles between you had been suspended, just for a night.

And stranger still, you didn’t hate it.

“Good. I’d hate to find out I’m the most intimidating thing in a room with a flickering lightbulb and a sink from the last century.”

This made you laugh. A real, unfiltered laugh—the kind that caught in your chest and spilled out before you could stop it. It was sharp and sudden, and a little louder than you meant it to be, but you didn’t care. It felt good. You hadn’t done that in a while.

You wiped your eyes, cheeks warm, the sound still lingering in the air as your gaze drifted to Sylus. He was staring. Not blankly. Not like he was studying you. But almost...softly. Like your laugh had surprised him.

Suddenly self-conscious, you tucked your hair behind your ear and looked away. "Ah...it wasn’t that funny, I guess. I’m—"

"Sorry?" he finished for you, his tone edged with irony but his eyes still locked on your face.

You sucked in a breath, caught red-handed, but it melted quickly into another quiet laugh. "Yeah, yeah…I know."

A beat of silence passes, and then he speaks again, but his voice is lower.

"Don't apologize for that. I like when I hear those kinds of sounds from you. They're pretty."

You aren't sure if you heard him right. Your face heats up instantly, the words echoing in your ears like they’ve carved their way in. "Huh?" you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be, gaze darting anywhere but his.

The air in the room feels heavier now—charged. The warmth from the microwave, the hum of the light overhead, even the distant sound of the city outside—all of it fades into background noise.

He chuckles under his breath, low and unhurried. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me, sweetie."

You stiffen slightly as he moves, rising from the chair he’d been leaning on with effortless grace. He crosses the small space between you, the closeness making your breath catch. You tilt your head up just enough to see his face in the dim, amber lighting—his eyes sharp, but glittering with something unreadable.

"In fact," he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to graze against your spine, "I'm wondering what other sounds come out of that pretty mouth of yours."

The distance between you vanishes with every word, and you feel it—not just in your chest, but everywhere.

A slow burn, threatening to catch fire.

"Sylus..." you breathe, your voice barely audible. His expression has shifted—serious, intense, like he’s bracing himself against something dangerous that’s already clawing its way to the surface. It makes your stomach twist with nerves, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin like a trapped bird.

He lowers himself suddenly, dropping to one knee in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. The motion is fluid, almost graceful, but the way his gaze locks with yours—sharp, possessive, hungry—makes your breath stutter. It’s like he’s trying to memorize you. Or maybe unravel you.

"I knew it was a mistake coming in here," he mutters, his voice taut, eyes unblinking. "Now I have to ask. How much?"

Your brows furrow, confusion flickering in your expression. "F-for...?"

"A taste," he says flatly. The word lands like a spark in dry brush—no hesitation, no shame, only a simmering edge of something dark and consuming.

You freeze in place. The air feels electric, like it's grown too thick to breathe.

"Do...you mean—"

"Yes." His voice was low, but certain, as if the question itself had been gnawing at him long before you asked it aloud. "To taste you."

Your lips part, but no words come out. Your breath catches in your throat, heart lurching. Was he serious? The look in his eyes was anything but playful. This wasn’t a joke, it couldn’t be. His expression was molten intensity, carved from restraint, as if he’d spent weeks biting it back until now.

You blink, stunned. You’ve never been looked at like this. Not with hunger, not with reverence, not with the trembling edge of control threatening to unravel.

Everything in your body screams to move, to react, but you're locked in place, caught in the gravity of something you can't name but feel all the way to your bones.

"Do you want your paycheck early?" he asks, voice softer now, almost coaxing, though there’s a rawness behind it. It sounds like he’s bargaining more with himself than with you.

You shake your head, words tumbling out. "N-no, it’s fine, I—"

"Fuck it," he cuts in sharply, the words punched out of him like he can’t hold them back anymore. He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling with restraint that looks like it’s about to shatter. "Do you want three times your paycheck? Just a taste. I promise."

The room feels like it’s spinning. Tension coils so tightly in your chest you feel like it might snap your ribs apart. The look in his eyes is unrelenting—dark, desperate, determined. And still, somehow, controlled. Just barely.

Before you can even find your voice, he reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an envelope, thick and heavy, and tosses it onto your nightstand with a quiet but deafening thud.

You stare at it.

Cash. Stacked high, crisp, bound with a strip of paper.

Three thousand dollars.

Enough to pay off everything.

Your rent, your utilities, the credit card bills you’ve been dodging, the mounting stack of final notices tucked inside your kitchen drawer. The broken heater you’ve been hoping would last just a little longer. Even groceries for the rest of the month—maybe two. Gone. All of it, gone. Just like that.

Three thousand dollars was more than relief—it was oxygen. It was the first exhale after being held underwater too long. It was a full night of sleep. It was a moment of silence after endless noise.

And yet, it sat there on the nightstand like a loaded weapon, wrapped in clean paper and cold temptation. A gleaming symbol of power—and surrender.

And all for a taste.

Your heart is racing now, thudding so loud in your chest you can barely think over it. Your mouth feels dry. Your limbs are frozen. You’re not sure what terrifies you more—the offer, or how much you want to take it.

He hasn’t moved.

He’s just watching you, waiting, like a wolf crouched at the edge of a line you didn't know you were drawing.

"It'll feel good. I won't hurt you," he says, his voice dropping to something low and coaxing—soothing like warm velvet, but beneath it, a thrumming urgency that vibrates in the stillness between you. There’s a tremor in his restraint, a sharp tension in the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, like he’s physically holding himself back from reaching for you.

You swallow hard, your breath stuttering in your throat as the atmosphere in the room thickens. The heat in his gaze scorches, pressing against your skin like a physical touch. Your pulse skitters against your ribs, every nerve raw and acutely aware of how close he is.

"I don't know..."

"I know I’m coming off strong," he says again, a note of frustration edging his voice—but it’s not aimed at you. It’s aimed at himself. His eyes don’t waver, locked on you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the ground. "Every second. I see you and I can’t breathe. If I do it now, if I can just touch you, just once, maybe I can finally get it out of my head."

You don't say anything for a bit. Your lips part, but the words are stuck—thick and tangled in your throat. Your heart is hammering, each beat echoing against your ribs like it’s trying to shake loose the answer you can’t seem to give. It’s not that you don’t want to speak—it’s that you’re overwhelmed. The offer. The money. The tension so tight between your bodies it feels like it could snap. The way he looks at you, like he’s barely holding himself back. Like he’s one breath away from devouring you.

Finally, you manage to whisper, "I don’t believe you…three thousand for a...taste? Why not ask to go all the way...?"

Sylus exhales through his nose, slow and measured, but there’s a weight in that breath. "Because I know you can’t handle that," he says, his voice low but firm. There’s no smugness in it. And yet, beneath the calm surface, there’s a tremble—barely perceptible but unmistakable. He’s not unaffected by this. Not even close.

"It would hurt you," he continues, eyes narrowing slightly, his jaw tight. "I don’t want that. You think I haven’t thought about it? That I haven’t imagined it in every possible way? I have. Every day. But I’m trying to be better than that."

He pauses, and the room stretches out around his silence, dense and vibrating. His eyes stay locked on yours, unblinking. "This...this is my compromise with myself. To not be greedy and just take you."

You’re frozen, your skin hot, your pulse crashing through your veins. The intensity of his words, the weight of his restraint—it’s almost more intimate than if he’d touched you. There’s something terrifying in how controlled he’s being. How much he's holding back.

You swallow, throat tight, and glance back at the envelope on the nightstand.

The money is still there. Staring back at you like a second pair of eyes in the room. It’s more than just a bundle of cash, it’s a symbol. Of his temptation. Of your need. Of the space where control and desire blur.

It’s real. Heavy. Life-altering.

Your head is spinning. You know in your heart this is a terrible idea—you should say no, shouldn't be entertaining any of this. Every moral fiber in your body is screaming to get up, walk away, salvage whatever shred of dignity you have left. But your brain, more practical, more battered by life, is screaming even louder: you'd be stupid to say no.

You stare down at the floor, the stained edges of your cheap rug blurring in your vision. You can’t make sense of it. Why would someone like him want to do this? To you? Of all people? You weren’t glamorous, weren't the kind of girl who got attention from men like him. So why was he here, offering money, lowering himself to his knees, saying he wanted to...bury his head between your legs?

Your heart hammers as the silence thickens, every second a pressure cooker of conflicting thoughts and desperate what-ifs.

"Is the amount the issue? I can give more. It’s no issue," he suddenly interrupts, his voice firm but almost...breathless. The words slice through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, yanking you back to reality. Back to the weight of the moment—and the intensity in his gaze that hasn't faltered once.

"No...I just don't do things like this," you whine, covering your face in shame. Your voice trembles, not just from embarrassment, but from the sheer weight of the moment pressing down on you. Is this really what it had come to? Trading your body for cash? For survival? The idea claws at your insides, a slow burn of humiliation rising in your chest. And worse still, the fear gnaws louder—if you said no, would he fire you? Would he rescind the only lifeline you’ve been given in weeks? This strange, fragile opportunity he’d extended might vanish, and with it, the fragile thread holding your life together.

You weren't sure what to think, and that scared you most of all. Because a part of you, a small, shaky part you didn’t want to acknowledge, wasn’t completely horrified. Not at him.

"I can tell," he says quietly, his voice low and steady. He reaches out and gently moves your fingers away from your face, his touch feather-light, surprisingly careful. It’s not the grasp of someone impatient or predatory—it’s...something else. Something worse, maybe. His eyes meet yours, searching with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. You can’t read him.

"You don’t have to do anything. Just lay there," he murmurs.

His words are soft, almost comforting, but the promise woven into them is anything but. You feel that pressure behind every syllable he speaks, like the tension that’s been building between you has finally reached its breaking point.

He suddenly moves much closer to you, and instinctively, your body reacts—you back away, your breath hitching in your throat. The room feels smaller now, his presence taking up all the space like a storm cloud pressing in. You manage to slip past him, heart racing, but your escape is short-lived. The backs of your legs bump against the edge of your bed, halting your retreat with a jolt.

"Are you scared, kitten?" Sylus asks, his voice velvet-soft but unmistakably firm. He steps forward with unsettling calm, each stride deliberate, controlled, like a predator circling prey that it already knows won’t run far. You stumble backward and fall onto the mattress, your palms bracing behind you, eyes wide.

He's over you in an instant—towering, his body blocking out the low light in the room. His hands brace on either side of your waist, caging you in without touching you. You can feel his warmth, the restrained energy radiating from his skin. Your breath quickens as you look up at him, throat tight, heart hammering a wild rhythm against your ribs.

"Do you think I'm going to hurt you?" he asks, his gaze locked onto yours with unnerving intensity. His voice holds no menace, only quiet certainty, like he’s stating a fact he already knows the answer to.

You shake your head, voice barely a whisper. "N-no, but...are you going to...force me?"

A low chuckle escapes his lips, dark, amused, and disturbingly composed. "If I wanted to force you," he murmurs, his tone like a blade wrapped in silk, "you wouldn't be asking that question. It would be obvious."

One of his hands slides down your side slowly, deliberately, before gliding up your leg. His fingers graze bare skin, teasingly light as they slip beneath your skirt. The contact sends a jolt through you, your muscles tensing—not entirely from fear, but from something hotter, more primal, curling in your stomach.

His touch lingers just long enough to test your reaction, to feel the tremble in your thighs. He’s watching you like he’s memorizing every micro-expression, every hitched breath, every second of hesitation.

"But you would be a fool to turn down my offer," he says, voice lower now, more dangerous. The calmness in him is unsettling, like he’s already decided how this ends and is simply waiting for you to catch up. "And we both know this."

The way he says it—so certain, so assured—doesn’t feel like a question. It feels like inevitability. Like a fuse already lit, burning closer and closer to whatever explosion he’s been holding back.

You can barely think past the rush of blood in your ears, past the heat that’s rising to your cheeks, to your chest. Your thoughts spiral, second-guessing every feeling that bubbles up inside you. It’s too much. Too fast. Too intense.

He's right...right? This is your best chance to pay off your debt. And he's not even asking for more than a taste. Just a taste. You should just...say yes...right? You try to convince yourself it’s nothing—but deep down, you know that’s a lie. Nothing about this is simple. Nothing about Sylus has ever been.

Your mind is a whirlwind of panic and pressure, too tangled to form a coherent answer. Thoughts crash into each other—fear, doubt, curiosity, need. Before you can gather your thoughts, your breath catches—"I-I...ah!"

Sylus lowers his head and begins kissing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The contact sends a jolt through your body like white-hot electricity, sparking every nerve as it travels down your spine. Your entire body tenses at the sensation, and then melts a second later. Your stomach tightens, breath stuttering as a sharp, unfamiliar heat coils low in your belly, twisting into a knot of want and confusion.

He doesn’t rush. No, he’s slow, achingly slow. He savors every inch of skin, every flinch and tremble, as though he’s memorizing the map of your reactions. Each kiss is soft, but deliberate, searing a path into you that lingers long after his lips have moved on. It’s excruciating in the most maddening way, the kind of teasing that blurs the line between pleasure and torture.

You let out a breathy, broken whine, your fingers clenching in the bedsheets like they’re the only thing grounding you. He continues, lips trailing with devotion, worship, obsession. His control is terrifying—and thrilling. It’s as if he owns you already, and he’s just now getting to unwrap his prize.

"You sound beautiful, sweetie" Sylus murmurs, voice low, rough, vibrating with restrained hunger. It sends another shock of heat through you. He sounds almost pained, like holding himself back is costing him something.

He pauses just long enough to lift his gaze to yours, locking eyes with you in the low light. His mouth still hovers against your skin, warm breath tickling. "Just let me make you feel good."

The words hit like a drug, warm and dizzying, wrapping around your spine and sinking into your thoughts, your bones. His voice pulls you deeper, makes it harder to hold onto doubt. Harder to breathe. You still don't know if you should say yes. You don’t even know what you want anymore.

Sylus's fingers slide up under your skirt further, his touch firm and insistent as they wrap over the hem of your panties. "Ah! Wait—" you start to protest, but his grip tightens, cutting you off. His eyes are filled with a primal hunger, a look that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I'll make it six times your paycheck," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "Lay back and keep still." You can feel the urgency in his tone, the barely restrained desire that threatens to consume him. The cold air hits your now exposed cunt as he roughly pulls off your panties, leaving you vulnerable and at his mercy.

He can't wait for a clear answer anymore. His darkened gaze drinks in the sight of your glistening arousal.

You gasped, a soft "A-ah! Sylus...okay..." escaping your lips as your body reacted instinctively—your thighs tensing, a flush spreading across your cheeks, and a warm ache building deep inside.

You cover your face in heated shame as Sylus pries your thighs apart, his strength leaving no room for resistance. You gasp as he leaves a sudden, hot wet streak of saliva trailing up your inner folds with his tongue, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure mixed with embarrassment through your body. Your lower half feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending alight with anticipation.

"S-stop...!"

You struggle in his grip, trying to back away from the wet sensation, but his hold on you is unyielding. He drags you back into position, lowering his head between your pussy once more. His warm breath teases your sensitive flesh as he begins intricate circles around your swollen bud, his tongue a masterful instrument of pleasure. "Mghn..." you moan, your hands gripping his hair subconsciously, torn between the urge to push him away and the desire to pull him closer, to deepen the exquisite torture of his touch.

"You taste even better than I imagined," Sylus coos, his voice a low, throaty murmur that vibrates against your most sensitive spots. He gives your throbbing clit a break, instead pushing his tongue deeper inside your cunt, exploring your depths with a skill that leaves you breathless. "Ahh!" You nearly arch off the bed, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming.

Only Sylus's steady and strong hands keep you in place, grounding you as waves of pleasure crash over you. You've never felt anything like this before, the vibrations of his voice adding to the aching pleasure that builds with each tortuous stroke of his tongue pushing in and out of your walls. "Don't...talk like that. Just hurry...mghn!" you manage to gasp out, your voice a mix of desperation and shame, urging him to bring you to the edge and over. Sylus truly had no shame with how blunt he often came across. You had often admired that about him.

In this situation though? It was mortifying.

A deep chuckle rumbles in Sylus's chest, a sound that vibrates through you, sending shivers down your spine. He pauses, looking up briefly to gaze into your eyes, studying your distraught and shameful expression with a mix of amusement and hunger. "As you wish, kitten," he murmurs, his voice laced with a promise of pleasure. He moves his tongue back to circle your clit, his touch both teasing and demanding.

As he begins to suck lightly, you let out a sound so primal and filthy that it surprises even you. Your whole body tenses, your core building with a tense pressure that threatens to explode. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and vulnerability that leaves you gasping and clutching the sheets, desperate for release.

"Hah...hah...hah..."

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat as Sylus licks and devours your pussy with an insatiable hunger. He switches between sucking your clit and licking in between your folds, his tongue relentless in its movements. Each stroke, each suck, builds the tension inside you, pushing you closer to the edge. You can feel the pressure coiling tighter, your body trembling with anticipation. The room fills with the sounds of your desperate pants and his wet, hungry licks, a symphony of raw, unfiltered desire.

You manage to crack open your eyes, catching a glimpse of Sylus's flushed and heated face, his expression one of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He's clearly enjoying himself, his eyes dark with desire and his breath coming in ragged gasps. When you try to quiet your moans by biting down on your lip, he only sucks on your clit harder, drawing out the pleasure until you're practically screaming.

Your legs lock around his head, but he doesn't seem to mind, his focus entirely on the task at hand. Suddenly, he looks up, his eyes narrowed and intense as he locks his gaze with yours. You're a moaning, writhing mess, your body trembling on the edge of release. The last thing you need is to cum with him looking at you like that, his gaze searing into your soul. But it's clear he has no intention of looking away, his stare unyielding and demanding, as if he's determined to watch you unravel completely.

"Fuck! Sylus!" The words tear from your throat, a desperate cry that echoes through the room. But it's too late, the pressure has built to a crescendo, and with one final, powerful suck, it explodes. Your whole body tenses and shivers as a crash of aching pleasure overfills your lower half, waves of ecstasy washing over you, leaving you breathless and trembling.

Your face tears up and you gasp for breath as you ride out the intense orgasm. Sylus watches, his eyes locked on yours, as you unravel on his tongue. He laps up your juices, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring every drop. You twitch and jerk on his mouth, your body convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure, each one sending new waves of sensation coursing through you. He doesn't let up, his tongue continuing to tease and explore, drawing out the feeling until you're a quivering, spent mess, completely at his mercy.

Eventually, the sensations of Sylus's tongue continuing to lick your oversensitive bud become too much, the pleasure bordering on pain. You plead with him to stop, your voice breaking as you burst into tears, overwhelmed by the intensity of the experience. Sylus pauses, his tongue stilling as he licks his mouth, his face softening with a mix of satisfaction and tenderness. He's breathless, his chest heaving as he leans closer to your face. Through your tears and sobs, you can barely see him, but you feel him lean in, his lips capturing yours in a firm, passionate kiss. It's strong and demanding, leaving you helpless to do anything except lean into it. He pries open your mouth with his tongue, exploring and claiming. He pauses between each breath to speak.

"Everything you do...is so damn cute. Even when you're crying... God...what am I supposed to do with you?"

He doesn’t ask; he takes, yet not without a strange reverence, like he’s claiming something that was always his to begin with. Your body responds before your mind can catch up. Instinct, surrender, exhaustion, maybe all three. You lean into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, powerless against the storm he’s become.

Everything becomes a blur after that. Your senses dull, body limp from exhaustion, nerves frayed to the point of collapse. Your eyes begin to feel unbearably heavy, each blink slower than the last. You vaguely register movement—his hands, still careful despite the storm that had just passed, adjusting your position on the bed, guiding your head to the pillow.

You think you hear him murmur something near your ear. It’s low, almost regretful. “I think I’ve just made things worse for myself.” Or maybe you imagined it. You can’t be sure.

There’s the faint rustle of fabric, the cool sensation of a cloth against your skin. You open your eyes just enough to catch the shape of him cleaning you with surprising gentleness. Another flutter of vision: a fresh pair of underwear, slipped back into place with care. Then, a sudden weight is placed on the bed beside you. A second envelope of cash.

And then…nothing. He’s gone. The room is quiet again.

Your eyes finally close, this time for good.

When you wake up the next morning, for a split second, you almost believe you dreamed the whole thing. A strange haze clings to your thoughts, like your mind is desperately trying to rewrite reality into something softer. But the two thick envelopes of cash sitting ominously on your nightstand and bed say otherwise.

You sit up slowly, the ache in your body making it clear last night wasn’t just a vivid fantasy. Shame floods your chest as the memories return in jagged pieces. You grip your hair, curling forward on the bed.

"Shit, shit, shit…" you whisper harshly to yourself, your stomach twisting into knots. How were you supposed to go back to work and face him after that? Could you even look him in the eye? Should you even bother showing up again? Or was it better to disappear, let this whole thing vanish behind you like a nightmare?

You try to steady your breathing, to ground yourself, but your thoughts are a chaotic mess. As you sit there, overwhelmed, something shifts in your periphery. You glance toward your front door.

Boxes.

Taped, sealed boxes. You blink, confused. You hadn’t ordered anything. You hadn’t expected anything. Yet there they were—stacked neatly by the door like they belonged.

A strange chill rolls down your spine.

What the hell is this?

The first was a box of winter clothes. Not just any clothes—thick, soft-lined wool leggings, a heavy coat with a fur-lined hood, warm gloves that fit your fingers perfectly, thermal socks, and a sturdy pair of boots that looked brand new. The fabric was clearly expensive, designed for someone who actually had to walk in freezing weather. All of it in muted, neutral tones—deep gray, soft beige, dark burgundy, as if selected not just for practicality, but to suit you.

The second box held a phone.

Your breath hitched. A brand new, high-end smartphone. Sleek, lightweight, and already powered on. The screen displayed nothing but a single message: a contact preloaded into the device. Just one name.

Sylus.

You swallowed hard. You had only mentioned in passing that you didn’t own a phone, something about saving up for one eventually, tossed out in conversation and barely remembered. But he had remembered. Not only that, he had acted on it. Gone out of his way to give you something you hadn’t even asked for. He'd even noticed you didn't have proper winter clothes.

Your heart pounded, warmth blooming in your chest so abruptly it startled you. Was this guilt? Remorse for how things had gone last night? Did he feel bad for pushing you past your limits? Or…was this something else?

You didn’t know. But whatever the reason, gratitude surged through your veins like a wave.

You had to thank him. But you were too nervous to text him.

The idea of crafting a message was too much. So instead, you threw yourself into getting ready, tugging on the new winter clothes he’d sent. The coat fit like it was tailored for you, hugging your body in a way that made you feel both secure and...oddly seen. The boots were warm and sturdy. Even the gloves made your hands feel less forgotten by the cold.

You rushed to work without checking the time. Your heart beat like a drum in your chest the entire way, thoughts looping back to last night. That moment—those moments—had unraveled something deep in you. Something that had never been touched before. Even now, thinking about it made your cheeks burn. The heat crawled up your neck as flashes of memory danced behind your eyes.

It had felt good. Too good. Even if it had been unexpected and confusing, the way he’d touched you, spoken to you, looked at you—it all stayed with you. And now...your debts were gone. Cleared. Just like that.

Because of him.

You owed him more than money could ever measure. Even if the circumstances had been a little strange. You had to say something. Anything. You felt awful for blacking out on him so suddenly, for never even thanking him properly.

As you stepped into the elevator, thoughts still tangled and storming inside you, the soft chime of the top floor arriving pulled you from your haze. The doors slid open.

You entered the suite, heart pounding, nerves buzzing, a mixture of anticipation and unease swirling in your chest like a storm barely held at bay. Your palms were clammy inside your gloves, your breath caught somewhere between hope and dread. But the moment you stepped inside and spotted Sylus, your face instinctively lit up, a flicker of relief sparking in your chest.

He had his back to you, seated with an almost lazy confidence on one of the sleek leather couches that made the massive living room feel even more expansive. You took a breath, readying yourself, rehearsing the words you'd been building up the courage to say.

"Sylus...I just wanted to say I—"

And then you stopped cold.

A voice—low, smooth, unmistakably feminine—slipped through the air like smoke.

Your eyes shifted. Next to him on the couch sat a woman. A vision. Slender and poised, legs elegantly crossed, a cigarette balanced with casual grace between long, painted fingers. Her dark hair fell in effortless waves, and her eyes, smoky, lined to perfection, scanned the room like she owned it. She looked like she stepped out of a magazine spread or a high-society gala. Everything about her screamed power, ease, control.

And Sylus…

He wasn’t the man you usually saw—sharp, unreadable, and cold. No, this version of him was relaxed. Too relaxed. His posture loose, one arm slung along the back of the couch, the other resting on her thigh like it belonged there. They laughed together, the sound low and intimate. It was a touch that spoke of familiarity, not formality. Not business. Personal.

The air thickened around you.

They both turned as the door clicked shut behind you.

And you froze in place.

All the breath you’d been holding escaped you in a shallow, silent gasp.

Your fingers gripped the sleeves of your coat tightly, a useless attempt to hold onto something solid as the ground beneath your feet shifted. For a single, endless heartbeat, all you could hear was the blood rushing past your ears.

"Oh? Who's this, Sylus?" the woman asked, her tone light and teasing, yet unmistakably edged with curiosity. She tilted her head, dark lashes framing her amused eyes as she took another slow drag of her cigarette. Smoke curled around her like perfume, adding a haze to the air as she studied you from across the room, her gaze settling on you like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Sylus didn’t even spare you a glance. His voice, when he spoke, was flat, indifferent, practically clinical. "Just the housekeeper. We got a new supply of rags for you, since the others were torn or bleached. The kitchen floor needs scrubbing today."

Just the housekeeper.

The phrase echoed in your head, each syllable heavier than the last. You stood there, frozen, trying to pretend those words hadn’t hit you like a slap to the face. Trying to pretend the tight knot in your chest was anything but what it was.

He turned back to the woman without pause, without a flicker of acknowledgment that you might have had something to say. His fingers remained lazily draped on her thigh, his posture relaxed, comfortable in a way you’d never seen before. He chuckled at something she whispered in his ear, his lips curling in a way that made your stomach twist with something sharp and bitter.

Your heart dropped, heavy and cold, like it had been cut loose and left to sink. Your arms felt numb. Your breath felt caught in your throat.

You didn’t even fully understand why it stung this much. Maybe it was the sudden switch from last night’s intensity to this cold dismissal. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when he’d touched you, compared to the easy comfort he now gave so freely to someone else.

You had just gotten the stark reminder that you were nothing but the help. A background character in his real life.

You managed to speak without choking. "Oh...yeah. I’ll get right on that," you mumbled, your voice tight and fragile, like it might crack if pushed any further. You turned away before either of them could see your expression.

The hallway felt darker as you walked away, the soft echo of their laughter following you like a ghost. It clung to you, taunting, curling around your shoulders like smoke.

Just the housekeeper, huh?

All of that—every touch, every look, every whispered word—had just been for his own amusement. For him to get off. A way to toy with you, distract himself, maybe pass some time. Nothing more. The money, the clothes, the phone—it had all been out of pity. A rich man’s guilt dressed up as generosity.

Of course. He was the leader of Onychinus. A man of unshakable power and influence. What had you honestly expected? That someone like him would look at someone like you and see something worth wanting? That he had good intentions with you? Of course it had meant nothing. He got what he wanted and you got the money.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You were stupid to overthink it otherwise.

You were nothing but a desperate girl from the N109 Zone—barely scraping by, barely surviving. You weren’t beautiful like that woman on the couch. You weren’t polished, or confident, or powerful. You were a speck in his world. A faceless, voiceless shadow.

Stupid. So, so stupid. You felt utter shame now. Felt used.

The self-loathing came in waves, sharp and consuming as you scrubbed at the kitchen floor, harder than you needed to. Each movement was angry, bitter, punishing. Scrub, rinse, repeat. The pain in your knees didn’t matter. The sting in your fingers didn’t matter. The tears threatening to fall, those didn’t matter either.

Because this was your place.

Not in his lap. Not in his bed. Not in his thoughts.

Here. On your hands and knees. Scrubbing. Silent. Invisible.

You were a nobody. Lowlife scum. Best to remember that.

Best to know your place.

And keep being the quiet, disposable housekeeper he’d hired you to be.

3K notes · View notes

philosians · 5 months ago

Text

ɪɴᴅᴜʟɢᴇɴᴄᴇ

a three week paid-vacation provided by your captain gave rise to the opportunity to finally show you the gift sylus had gotten you. and no, it isn’t the yacht you’re on—but he wouldn’t be opposed to giving you that either.

[ !! ] — mdni | established relationship, smut, breeding kink, pregnancy mention, fingering, oral (female receiving), praise kink, mating press, unprotected sex, sylus is soft in the bedroom okay now hush ;; alcohol mention (sylus drinks whiskey), fluff. oh did I mention soft! sylus?? uhhh maybe more tags than this idk there’s a lot going on lmao. unedited af I know that’s a warning. if y’all see cut sentences just know it’s a brain glitch >.< lol

a/n: Happy Valentine’s Day! phew i got this out before it ended hehe just in the nick of time. I do wanna forewarn everyone I don’t actively write smut so I deeply apologize for any sort of repetitiveness or just it being inaccurate and rushed overall, my apologies. but please enjoy reading! bc i wanna curl up and die and delete this after writing it actually lmao I’ll probably never write anything like this again haha

word count: roughly 4.8k

The starry expanse of sky moves quickly outside of the window of the car, nothing but a blur of cosmic colors. Where you’re going you’re not quite sure, with all the secrecy from Sylus and the twins. It’s something Sylus has clearly planned for awhile, from the way he wanted you to dress tonight, but you’re still unable to put your finger on it.

At the very least, you’re glad that Kieran is the one that’s driving instead of Luke.

“Are you two going to tell me where we’re going yet?”

“Afraid not, Miss,” Kieran replies. “That’d be against orders from Boss.”

“Are we at least almost there yet?” you ask.

“We have about ten more minutes,” Luke chirps. “Then you’ll finally get to see Boss, don’t worry.”

You’re stunned into a mild fluster and look at your hands in your lap. You heard the twins snicker and you can’t help but shake your head incredulously. Oh well. You’re almost to your destination anyway.

After the last two months of an increase in Wanderer appearances, you could most certainly use a break. It’s been nothing short of hectic, battles here and evacuations there and the occasional dumbass that doesn’t want to listen to the warnings given out that an area is too dangerous to go into.

You softly sigh. You really shouldn’t be thinking about work.

You tug the large coat on your shoulders over you further, closing your eyes and sinking into the warmth and the smell of the man it belonged to.

Whatever in the world Sylus had planned must be big, even so that he couldn’t be bothered to tell even the twins exactly what he had in store. All the three of you knew was that he had a surprise, and the two brothers were more than happy to have the opportunity to have the base to themselves.

You just wish you knew where you were going.

“Is this it?”

“I think so. Ah, there’s Boss.”

Oh, already?

True to word, you open your eyes and see a familiar patch of silver against the darkness of the world. And you also happen to see a very, very large yacht not far from him.

A marina? You blink incredulously. A private fucking marina. Good lord, how much money does this man really have?

Upon stopping, you watch as Sylus turns his head slightly to the car. Luke quickly jumps from the passenger side and opens the door for you, ushering his hand outward dramatically and says, “After you, Miss.”

The heel of your shoe clicks against pavement as you step out, holding Luke’s hand for stability until you find your balance.

“Thanks, Luke.”

“Not a problem! Enjoy the honey— Uh, vacation!”

Luke jumps back into the car, more than likely to save himself from your questioning eyes. You can’t help but shake your head and make your way toward Sylus and the man in uniform, more than likely the captain of the yacht.

“Ah, Mrs. Sylus,” greets the captain with a tilt of his hat. His eyes blink as he does a once-over on you and then laughs. “I was wondering what kind of woman would tie such a man down, and now I understand. Please, come aboard.”

Your brows raise at Sylus as the captain pivots and boards the yacht. “Care to explain that?”

Sylus, in all his audacity, simply shrugs and smiles. “Nothing to explain, sweetie. He came up with that himself after I told him my lady would be joining me.”

You scoff in disbelief, but can’t help the small smile that falls to your lips. You take Sylus’s arm, wrapped your hand in the crook of his elbow as he leads you onto the ship.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, gazing around as he takes you to the deck. And you could only imagine what it would be like when you went out to sea.

“I figured you would like it,” he murmurs. “Glad to see my instincts weren’t wrong.”

You don’t miss the way his red eyes look to you, knowing he’s waiting for your words of affirmation. You laugh behind your hand, because yeah, he’s right.

You hum, taking his hand in your own. “Thank you for considering me.”

You also don’t miss the way his large fingers eagerly twine with your own, nor the way his eyes soften and blend with devotion and affection.

“Always.”

Thirty minutes pass before the ship takes off into the open sea. You barely feel it until Sylus has you stand to take you back outside from the dining area.

“So, where are we going?” you ask, gazing up at him.

Sylus’s mouth twitches into a smirk. “It’s a surprise.”

You grumble, humoring the man. “Of course it is.”

Sylus’s coat never leaves your shoulders the couple hours you’re both out on the deck. He seems to enjoy that, too; you wearing his clothes sparks something behind his eyes that you’re all too familiar with. The thought itself has your cheeks warming and thighs pressing together.

He flicks his wrist to check his watch when a timer beeps twice. You can’t help it when your eyes linger on his hand. You’ve always had a fixation on his them—on how big and warm they are in comparison to yours, on how his long fingers stretch across your body, and how they gently wrap around you and pull you close like he’d die without touching you. Those hands that had once forced you to attempt to resonate with him for three days had become soft, remorseful and loving. And he’d more than earned your forgiveness.

“Dinner should be ready.”

You grin. “You brought your chef?”

“Just for this trip,” he retorts, standing to full height. “Come.” His hand outstretches to you and you take it without hesitation.

You don’t miss the way his eyes briefly light up at the way your fingers immediately interlace with his. It’s a small joy to you, but to him it means everything—a testament to how far the two of you have come.

Dinner, as always, is perfect. Dessert even more so. You’re not too full, but more than satisfied. You give your compliments to the chef, who in turn happily skips back to the kitchen like he’s on cloud nine. And you can’t help but look at Sylus and smile as he downs his whiskey like it’s water.

“You don’t compliment your chef enough,” you comment. “One sentence from me and he acts like he’s never heard praise.”

Sylus hums as his brows raise, humored. He chuckles with the whiskey in his mouth before swallowing it to retort, “He knows his cooking is excellent. I suppose I just have a limit to how many compliments I can give out in a day.”

You place your chin in your hand. “Oh, really? Then how many do I get to have in a day?”

Adoration fills his ruby orbs. “As many as you want, my beloved.”

His hand reaches for your left over the table. Sylus’s thumb rubs over your fingers, resting atop your ring finger.

“Have I told you that you look exquisite tonight?” he whispers.

“You haven’t,” you reply cheekily. “I think you owe me a few more, don’t you think?”

The soft music in the background dies as you begin to hear your heart thunder in your ears. You do hope that Sylus can’t hear it pounding away like you can.

“Seems like I do,” he says in an exhale, leaning back in his seat but not letting go of your hand. His eyes have changed—once filled with adoration, now filled with a fire that makes heat rise to your cheeks and desire burn between your legs. “I don’t think I’ve shown you the bedroom yet, have I?”

You grin. “You haven’t. I’d like to see it.”

But what you don’t anticipate is your man standing and abruptly lifting you into a one arm carry. Your sharply inhale in surprise, arms immediately weave around his neck for support, but you know he’d never drop you anyway.

You trail your nose under his jaw, pressing a long kiss to his skin by his ear. Your fingers dig into his shoulder, the subtle presser making him hasten his long strides.

“Sweetheart—” Sylus gulps as you press two fingers to his mouth to silence him.

You pepper slow kisses down his neck, nipping at the skin every other kiss. It’s when you reach his collarbone you hear the click of a door. And seconds later you find the plush fabric of blankets underneath you and Sylus’s firm hand cradling the back of your head as he tilts your head back to capture your lips with his.

Between each heated kiss you attempt to catch your breath, only for your lover to devour your mouth with his own again and again.

“Mmmh— Sylus, let me—” another kiss “—catch my breath.”

He has a hard time pulling away. Sylus rests on one knee at the edge of the bed, hands grasping at the back of your bare calves as he catches his own breath and tries to pull himself back to his senses before he finishes himself off early.

While you toss your head back and close your eyes, trying to let oxygen catch up to your brain, Sylus lifts his head to look at you. He drinks in your appearance—the starry night sky sewn into the strapless obsidian dress (one that he had specially made for you) accentuated your body exactly the way he envisioned.

As he watches your breasts rise and fall with every breath, he feels his pants tighten even more. He’s so painfully hard just from simply kissing you—a testament to what you do to him, how deeply you affect him.

He rests his head against the plush of your thigh. As he trails his hand down your leg, he realizes you still have your heels on.

Your head snaps up at the feeling of one heel coming off, then the other.

“Sylus, what— Oh, shit.”

The momentum of him lifting your body further up the bed and hiking your dress up catches you off guard. His mouth latches to your thighs, kissing and biting all the way up until he reaches the fabric of your panties—the only thing between him and what he wants.

“Such a dark red, darling,” he hums. “Was this for me?”

“It might’ve been,” you tease.

As his finger loops around the red fabric covering you, Evol ready to help rip it off, your hand makes its way into his hair and tugs, forcing his eyes to attention.

“Rip these, I’m okay with that. Rip the dress, and I’ll kill you,” you say, half-joking. But damn did you really like this dress.

He chuckles, eyes glazed with lust. “Understood.”

As soon as he tears them away and hikes your dress even further around your hips, Sylus’s mouth does nothing short of devour your pussy. You let out the loudest, wanton moan you’ve ever heard from yourself as his tongue buries itself in and against your folds. Your head falls back against the pillows, hands moving to grip the sheets beneath you to maintain some semblance of being grounded as Sylus eats you out like a starved man. Your legs are over his shoulders, allowing him the best access to your womanhood.

“Oh— Fuuuck, Sylus. Ohmygod, please don’t stop,” you beg, threading one hand through his hair again, grip tighter than earlier.

His reply comes in the form of him pushing his thick middle finger inside of you and mouth sucking on your clit. You wail, bucking your hips into his mouth. His ring finger promptly follows, stretching your cunt and sinking deep inside of your walls. Tears of overstimulation line your eyes as you grasp at then pillow behind your head.

Both hands twine into his silver locks of hair, pressing him deeper into you. What you miss amidst your own haze of ecstasy is Sylus grinding himself against the mattress to find some sense of relief. His mind is at war, wanting nothing more than to cum right then and there versus wanting to watch his seed spill from your hole. It takes every ounce of self-control of his own body to not climax while he simultaneously loses his mind while his mouth is attached to your cunt.

“Don’t— Please— Sylus! Sylus, I’m gonna—”

Your back arches off of the bed, and you can’t help but press him further into you and grind against his face. Sylus’s arms wrap around your thighs, holding you steady. The deep groan of his satisfaction that leaves him only spurs you on further and further and further until your thighs clench around his head and you cum. Hard.

And Sylus more than enjoys sucking and licking away at your release as you climax, prolonging it as much as he can. He lifts your lower body into the air as he continues his onslaught of your pussy with his mouth and tongue, the pressure of your thighs on either side of his head making him dizzy. Your essence coats his chin and nose, your scent driving all his senses wild and pulls the remainder of his blood down to his cock.

He gains a free hand as you tighten your legs around his shoulders. He unbuckles his belt and slips it off with practiced ease before moving to unzip and unbutton his pants, tugging away at them.

When your hips stop shaking is when Sylus grabs your thighs with both hands and sets your body back down on the mattress. He hovers over you once again, taking in your disheveled appearance and partially-lidded eyes. His long fingers brush your skin and cradle your jaw.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he asks.

You pant and gaze up at him. “Barely.” You swallow. “That tongue of yours is brutal.”

Sylus laughs. It’s almost enough to make him forget about the painful fact that his cock is straining against his pants. Until your knee brushes against it when you lift yourself from the bed and he groans.

You giggle as his head presses against your shoulder.

“You really shouldn’t neglect yourself like that,” you hum, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

Sylus’s lips meet your neck opposite of your arm wrapped around him and presses a long kiss to your sweaty skin, murmuring hotly into your ear, “There’s no one to blame but you, beloved. And I highly suggest you take responsibility.”

You moan and arch into him as his hands work on your dress, unzipping the back entirely and lowering it just below your breasts. You arch your back so he can undo the bra, and as soon as it’s on the floor, his mouth is on your chest. Sylus sucks and bites at your nipples, worshipping them and your breasts as he grinds his clothed erection into your bare pussy, soaking his dress pants in your juices.

You begin unbutton his shirt through the haze of your desire… before you slip your hands through the remaining buttons and fully rip his dress shirt apart, exposing his thick torso. You both chuckle at the sound of the buttons hitting the floor.

“Impatient?”

“Like you aren’t,” you remark.

Sylus shrugs off his shirt in a fluid motion and tosses it to the side from one arm. You manage to slide off your dress within a few moments, just as Sylus manages to get off his pants and briefs and… Oh…

You’d almost forgotten how big he is. Sure, the two of you have spent a couple more… sensual evenings together since you had him use your place as a safe house (and then him bringing you to his), but it always makes you shudder when your eyes land between the apex of his muscular thighs.

His tip weeps with precum, heavy cock red and flushed and—

Sylus’s breath is hot against your ear as he asks, “Like what you see, darling?”

—goddamn it you need it inside of you.

Your nails dig into his bicep, your other hand wrapping around his neck to pull him into a heated kiss, and Sylus is more than happy to oblige. His kiss is deep and reverent. A small moan escapes him as you two briefly pull apart for air before diving back into one another.

Everything is hot; your cheeks are flushed with the heat of desire and your pussy aches to have Sylus buried inside of you.

You pull him down on top of you with the arm around his neck, your other hand grasping his cock and positioning it at your entrance. Sylus hisses, hips bucking slightly as his fingers clench at his attempts at restraint.

“Fuck,” he pants. His red eyes clear for a moment, turning into a gentleness reserved for you as he asks, “You think you can take it?”

“I think you ate me out enough earlier I’ll manage,” you joke. Then your nails dig into the meat of his back, the sensation making him softly hiss again. “But if you don’t I’ll be doing it for you then.”

Sylus chuckles, nose dipping to your collarbone.

“My beloved is always so greedy, isn’t she?”

There is no retort from you—only a loud moan as Sylus’s tip enters you fills the room. He stops after that though, and as you look up to him to ask him why he stopped, you’re stunned at the sight before you.

Sylus is flushed red, panting and sweating as his muscles flex.

“Sylus?”

“Don’t,” he warns, shaking his head. “Give me… a moment. You feel… too good.”

The implication is clear. Sylus’s head falls as he inches himself a little further, delighting in hearing you gasp as he sinks more and more inches of himself inside of you. It takes all he has not to just cum at the feel of you; every ounce of self-control he has is being tested. He’s never been harder in his life, and being inside of the woman he loves—who feels like heaven wrapped around his cock—only proceeds to spiral him into a deeper pit of pleasure.

“Sylus… Sylus, more, please,” you hears you beg.

He’s halfway in, trying to take his time and let the romance of the evening last. But at that, and the sensation of your nails digging into his back, he finds himself a goner and lets his hips fall into yours, sinking the remainder of his fat cock into the depths of your wet pussy. A deep shudder passes through him, bliss running through his body.

“Fuck. Fuck, you feel divine,” Sylus says in a deep exhale.

“You’re so big,” you gasp, eyes clouded with the haze of lust. “Oh, Sy, you feel so good.”

The praise goes to his head immediately. He drags his cock back out slowly and a whine escapes you, hating the emptiness. But when Sylus places your legs over his shoulders and leans over you, it’s over for you both.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as Sylus rolls his hips, sliding his full length back into the warm expanse of your pussy. His head falls back, and the pace he sets proceeds to bury you both alive underneath overwhelming ecstasy.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he pants, clenching his fist into the sheet. “How I feel every time I look at you? Utter perfection is all I see. Do you feel what you do to me, darling?”

All you can feel is Sylus’s weight on top of you and the feel of his heavy cock inside of you as he stretches you open on him, carving your pussy into the shape of his cock. His pelvis rubs against your clit deliciously, spurring you on further. As much as you want to drive your hips up to meet his thrusts, Sylus has you pinned down into a mating press and all you can do is take what he’s giving you.

The papping noises of your bodies meeting filled the room, sending your thoughts into an even dirtier place. He feels so good reaching so deep inside of you, tip rubbing against that special spot perfectly, like you’re made to be perfect for each other. You clench around Sylus at another thought and he inhales sharply.

“What’re you thinking about?” he questions.

You shake your head. “N-Nothing.”

His long fingers grab your jaw gently. “Tell me.”

And then he slows his pace. “No, Sylus—”

“Then tell me what my beloved is thinking in that pretty head of hers,” he murmurs into your ear. “Or else.”

“I was thinking… about… Uhm…” Sylus rolls his hips back into you, his heavy balls pressing against your ass as he awaits your answer.

“Well?”

“I, uh— A baby.”

At the word, you shy away into your arm. But Sylus doesn’t say anything, which makes you confused. After a couple seconds, you gaze back up at him. His eyes show how stunned he is, pupils blown as no doubt the word also revolves around his own mind.

“Sylus, I— Oh, fuucckk.”

His body weight presses your body into the mattress further, leaving you at his mercy as Sylus’s pace becomes brutal, like he’s let his base instincts take over. His big hand finds yours and twines your fingers together as he drives his cock into your pussy over and over and over again, the squelching noises only growing louder and louder in your ears.

“My kitten… wants a baby then?” He hums into your ear. “She wants me to cum inside of her and carry my baby, is that right?”

“It was… just a thought.”

He laughs as your pussy clenches around him more at his words.

“Seems like it’s more than just a thought.”

Sylus’s mouth meets yours in another kiss, powered by something more than just lust. Your brain turns fuzzy and hot, reality beginning to finally blur as another climax ascends from the depths of your core.

Your eyes shut as his mouth finds the sweet spot on your neck. He sucks and nips at the skin with his teeth and you’ve no doubt that there’ll be plenty of love bites scattered across your skin for days after tonight.

When he nips at your ear, you squeak and clench around him again. Sylus groans into your ear, “Do that again.”

You oblige, clenching down on him and making him piston himself in and out of you faster. Every thrust turns into one that pushes the air from your lungs. All you can see, all you can feel is Sylus—feel his body heat as he presses your body down with his; feel the thickness of his cock stretch you open and the weight of his balls as they slap against your ass.

And it feels so good. The shlick and pap noises are getting to you. The coil that’s been winding up all night finally feels like it’s about to burst. Your back arches off the bed, breasts pressing into Sylus’s firm chest.

“Ohmygod, Sy, gonna cum, gonna cum fuckfuckfuuucckkk!”

He nips at your earlobe, biting down on it gently before whispering into your ear, “Indulge, my love. Indulge and I’ll fulfill every single one of your desires tonight.”

At long last, the coil snaps. Euphoria pilots itself to your brain and all across your body. You shake from the intensity, having to wrap your arms around Sylus to ground yourself as you reach your high.

Your orgasm sends him over the edge. He thrusts a few more times before he finds himself pressing himself as deep as he can possibly go and releasing his seed inside of your pussy. It’s almost too much, even for him. He doesn’t think he’s ever cum harder than tonight.

Your bodies rock together as you both fall from the heights of cloud nine. Sylus peppers your sweaty skin with kisses, across the bruised love bites he’d left earlier.

It’s only when he feels himself soft enough to slip out of you does he ask, “A family?”

Sylus’s voice is soft. So soft in fact that you barely hear him. You take a moment to reply, only to find yourself being easily lifted from the bed and onto Sylus’s chest.

“It’s… Something that’s crossed my mind a few times,” you admit bashfully.

Silence fills the air for a moment before he asks again, in the same, quiet tone he’d just used.

“With me?”

Your smile stretches across your face instantly. Your lips meet his chest, right over his heart. Your eyes meet his—uncertainty meeting unconditional love.

“And no one else.”

The next three days after are filled with you and Sylus partaking in all the activities that his yacht has to offer (plus more intimate times across the boat and it’s other rooms). He’d told you at one point that he would’ve just used the one he sails on regularly. But due to him wanting to spend more time with you than anything, and for you to have fun during the trip, he’d bought another and hired the captain to ensure safe passage.

Tonight however, was the night that you both were supposed to be arriving at your destination. You tried to help the anxiety and giddiness inside of you, trying to flatten it under a cool demeanor but Sylus just saw right through you.

Of course he would.

“There’s no reason to be nervous. It’s not like I’m taking you into enemy territory,” he jokes, gaze flicking to you from the stars in the open sky.

“I know that. I just can’t help it,” you mutter.

You shiver from the cold breeze, and Sylus shrugs off his leather jacket and places it over your shoulders. He leans down and zips it partway, resting his chin atop your head.

“Those hunter instincts of yours need to settle down,” he hums.

“I wish they would— Sylus!”

A hearty chuckle leaves him as you bounce away from his hold. Your eyes narrow at his treachery.

“What? Did I do something wrong?”

“Don’t you try and tickle me,” you warn playfully. You slip your arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket, trying to pull the sleeves back from over your palms to point at him. “Or I’m gonna tickle you back.”

Sylus smirks and rubs his fingers together. “Is that a challenge?”

“Mr. Sylus, Mrs. Sylus,” greets a familiar voice.

Embarrassment makes you duck your head away from the captain for a brief moment before you look at him.

“Just thought I’d come and let you know we’ll be docking soon.” The captain takes his hat off and bows before you both. “Thank you for allowing me the chance to sail you both for the last three days.”

Sylus nods his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you for giving us safe passage, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, reapplies his cap and heads back to steer the ship into the upcoming port.

You don’t get to watch as he disappears since Sylus wraps his arms around you, pulling your chin to his chest. He presses a sweet kiss to your temple and murmurs, “I do believe we’re here.”

The distraction of the captain was long enough that the scenery before you had changed into the moonlit sea into a large landmass illuminated by the full moon above.

Your jaw drops open at the sight, eyes lighting up as you get closer and closer to the port where the ship would dock.

“Sylus, where are we?” you ask quietly.

“It’s an island,” he states. “One that I bought awhile back and was making… renovations for.”

“Renovations? For what?”

He laughs softly and looks at you like you’re a goddess. “For whom, you mean.”

Your eyes widen into saucers. Is he…? Could he seriously mean…?

“Sylus, you bought me an island?” you inquire, utterly flabbergasted.

“I can’t exactly un-buy it, so I do hope you’ll like it,” he replies. To your ears and yours alone you can hear his wavering tone, like he’s awaiting your disappointment. You can’t have that.

You cup his cheeks and force him to look at you again.

“Sylus, I love it; even if it’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever been gifted, I love it. It’s just going to take me time to get used to it,” you tell him. Then you step on your tippy-toes and give him an eskimo kiss. “Thank you. I love you.”

You kiss him there at the front of the ship, wrapped in his warm, protective embrace, momentarily oblivious to the world and your surroundings.

What you’re also oblivious to, and have been since the start of the trip, is the fat diamond ring that’s been tucked away, hidden in Sylus’s bottom drawer to his dresser. And also to the fact of his other reason of being nervous.

To him hoping that you’ll say “yes” when he gets down on one knee to ask you to marry him.

But he’ll save that for later. Right now he intends to indulge and savor your lips on his and you being tucked into him, safe from the world to be loved and worshipped by him.

And hopefully, for the rest of this lifetime.

#༄ kasswrites.#sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus smut #sylus x y/n #sylus x mc #l&ds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds smut #l&ds x reader

4K notes · View notes

theoneandonlysemla · 3 months ago

Text

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by: @chiqita @skyrim-forever @heavy-metal-dick @dirty-bosmer @elavoria

Tagging: @friend-of-giants @firefly-factory @guardianlizard @hircines-hunter @labskeever @ladytanithia @moriche @pocket-vvardvark @rakaiawriter @sheirukitriesfandom @sulphuricgrin @tiredela @vanilleeistee

I had such a productive week somehow? Started two paintings and did some writing and I will show all of it to you!

First, Ondolemar. I sat down to play with Procreate again because I don't fucking understand it (I'm used to the ass-ness of Sketchbook now) and so I watched a tutorial that was really helpful! He needs some clothes still, haha

And then I decided, that it is a shame that I never painted Nevri and Morotar together until now (besides memes). So, I decided that they are going to a fictional ball in Alinor after Nevri shot his father on the shitter or something. Happy ending for them, I guess? Btw if you guys have references that would fit the two, give those to me 👀

And last but not least, I'm still gnawing at the last chapter for A Taste of Death. Reached 6k yesterday evening and everything is as normal: Ria is delulu, Manni is bonkers. Have this snipped of them staring at the footprints of the men the morning after they fled:

“What will happen now?” she dared to ask, nothing but fear forcing the question out of her. Almost more than the shame, she was tormented by the uncertainty of what was to come. It eluded her what it meant that the rest of the men had left the fort in a rush. Rith had spoken of getting her out of here and curing her of her supposed illness - didn't he know that there was nothing to cure? Unconsciously, Ria reached for her Master and grasped his wrist. “They will return. With strengthened forces by their sides. The people of Falkreath will urge their Jarl to send someone out here to clear what they deem as evil forces. Perhaps even burn the fort to the ground, if there is no other way to purge,” he spoke without averting his gaze from the treeline. “They can’t do that,” Ria said and nearly choked on her own words. Her Master let out a drawn-out sigh, his wrist winding out of her grip and instead stroking over the back of her head. Ria shuddered under his touch, every small hair on her body rising from neck to toe. “I’m afraid they can. And what is of far graver concern than those crumbling walls, is that they are coming for you. From what your brother said, I'm sure he's convinced he has to save you.” The faint touch of discontent that had been found on his visage before turned more sour with his words and with it stomach acid scraped at Ria’s throat. Her pulse throbbed in her veins, the mere idea of being separated from him made her light-headed. “There’s no need to save me,” she whispered and tried to fix on a point in the distance to not drift into horrific visions of a life without him. “I do know that as well as you do, my heart. And yet they are coming to get you.” He paused, his hand wandered from her hair to her shoulder and rested there and at last, his gaze turned to look at her. “But they won’t get you, for you are with me.”

I snuck in a line from a song in here again, it's from Jeanny Pt. 2 by Falco. Originally in German, he drops this powerful line:

"Jetzt hör' ich sie, sie kommen

Sie kommen dich zu holen

Sie werden dich nicht finden

Niemand wird dich finden, du bist bei mir"

That's the song:

#wip wednesday's #tesblr #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls #ao3 writer #fanfiction #ao3 #skyrim fanfiction #dealings with daedra #my art #digital art #tes #Spotify

45 notes · View notes

tragedy-of-commons · 5 months ago

Note

HI GERN !! could i request yellow rose, amaranthine + druxy + petrichor with aventurine? hunters evil deeds emoji

YELLOW ROSE: though valentine’s day is usually centered around romance, there are many types of relationships that deserve to be highlighted and celebrated.

amaranthine — undying.

druxy — (of wood) having decayed spots or streaks of a whitish color; rotten, decayed.

petrichor — the smell of earth after rain.

aventurine backstory spoilers, depictions of fear and injury, angst and retrospection, possible lore inaccuracies, intended as platonic

Aventurine can’t quite remember when he started running.

It could’ve been when he was only knee high to his older sister, her warm hand combing through his hair, praise and reassurance leaving her mouth in droves. He’d run, and she’d chase him, a cacophony of their shared laughter amidst a simple game of tag.

Maybe it was when the shouting and panic started to penetrate the walls of childhood ignorance; he’d sneak off as far as he could without worrying anyone, desperate to escape the rising tensions of his homeland, all the while humming a long-forgotten lullaby to pass the time.

On the other hand, it might’ve been when everyone fell lifeless around him - his sister bid him to run, Kakavasha, he believes, and his mother and father’s pleas fell on deaf ears. Aventurine ran then, too. He narrowly avoided the wrath of pointy spears and the fate of his loved ones, weaving deftly between each obstacle before being forced to play dead when the time called for it.

He finds he remembers those details better - the bad ones - rather than the good memories that continue to elude him, slipping through his fingers like sand.

But he knows for a fact that he can sprint, and that was almost enough to save him.

And he sprints now, as rain falls from the sky in a torrential downpour. There is only one unshakable instinct carrying him forward: one foot in front of the other, run, Kakavasha. The trees around him are thin and generous enough to provide glimpses of where he’s actually going, flashes of forest floor and springy roots abound.

He cannot feel if his feet hurt, but one of them feels confined; a dress shoe he was well-fitted for months back remains tightly enclosed about his ankle, stomping through puddles without regard. His other foot is free save for a tattered sock, its matching shoe likely abandoned amongst the elements somewhere behind him.

Flaxen hair sticks to his forehead, too heavy to flutter in the harsh wind. A nauseous, saccharine taste floods his mouth. He wants to vomit, but just as he did back then, he presses on, leaning into his instincts. There is no burn of exertion because this is the high of adrenaline.

This is the same sensation he gets before taking a big risk, teetering on the precipice of whatever bad outcome is to befall him should he somehow lose. But he never does, and so he bids himself to keep going.

Rain is lucky. It’s something the gambler intrinsically cherishes wherever his job may lead him, no matter the climate of the planet he’s skulking about. Maybe he’d jokingly call it a vice or a weakness, but that’s something he’d say at a party if he was caught gazing at the light drizzle just outside. The occurrence is lucky, to him, the person sick of fortune and what it leads to.

That’s what triggered this flight response. The storm on this planet (one he cannot recall the name of now, and cares not to) was brewing long before his arrival.

Trip advisory remains a small part of briefings, but he was told of the drought.

“It’s really nothing to worry about, Mr. Aventurine. It hasn’t rained there in almost five weeks now, but it shouldn’t impede your directives; you have my assurance. The locals may be a bit… standoffish, but it’s not like you’re part of the Special Debts Picket Team, haha! Just be aware of the wilting vegetation and depleted resources. It must be quite a depressing sight. Your accommodations are still top notch, however!”

His lackeys certainly agreed, voicing their concerns about the darkening sky and the streets devoid of people. That didn’t matter to him. Why would it, when there is no risk he hasn’t taken?

But when it all came pouring down, it was different. Different how? Aventurine’s heart thundered in his chest - fear so raw that it was isolating and all-encompassing. It dredged up things deep within him, things that were buried so far down he’d be reluctant to call them human. Things so animalistic, so prey-driven, that he up and vanished from the task at hand like a wounded deer.

The man (if he can even be called that), notices the landscape narrowing further. He’s getting close to something greater, someplace that will be safe from the maw of the past ready to swallow him whole. His shades, along with every other part of his signature wardrobe, have long since been stripped away along with his wayward shoe.

His fur boa that normally lounges across his shoulders is dirtied, yes, but also fraying after it snagged on a protruding branch. Cursing and gulping heaving breaths, Aventurine discards the accessory with haste. It will only slow him down.

He feels like Kakavasha, for the first time in a decade or so.

When he reaches the illustrious clearing, he slips.

His body connects with a slope after his foray with the air ends. It’s a steep drop; there is still no pain, but a gasp of finality escapes his throat as he tumbles, mud and leaves embracing his form due to the harsh impact. Either way, it cannot and will not be heard. Cold, cold, cold. He lands knee-deep in frigid water, the surface of which being battered with the force of the rain. If his adrenaline is gone, it’s then replaced with shock.

Clumsily dispensed into the prone position, his chin digs into the rocky sediment lining the bottom of the creek while his arms flail outward. He swallows enough of the murky water to cough and hack a few times before his vision goes dark.

He can still hear the rhythmic sound of dripping.

Splat! Splat! Splat!

But this time, the repetitive symphony is deep and clanging, almost metallic. It’s loud, rousing him. When Aventurine opens his eyes, expecting to see that he’s still in the forest somewhere - that assumption is proved wrong. He’s now warm, surrounded by downy blankets boasting knitted patterns. If he stares at the swirls of indigo and black long enough, they dance. Just where is he, and why does it feel like he’s in more danger here than indisposed at the creek?

…is this a dream? It certainly feels like one.

The springy surface beneath him is no doubt a mattress, and when he blinks the remaining bleariness from his vision, his surroundings become even clearer.

A voice startles him.

“Oh. You’re awake, then.”

Aventurine wrenches his head to the side - the bedside - where someone he doesn’t know is perched on an old rocking chair. There’s an expectant but curious look on your face, and the gambler is disconcerted by the fact that he can’t get ahold of himself immediately. He doesn’t speak, mouth drawn open in terrible vulnerability.

“I’d be speechless too. How are you feeling?” you probe, tossing the book you were thumbing through aside. It lands with a thud near a pail that’s attempting to contain a leak plaguing the high, logged ceiling. Aventurine watches the source of the earlier clanging, enraptured. “Do you remember anything?”

Assess the situation and make a move.

“I feel—” he winces at the hoarse quality of his voice, “—fine. Would you mind filling me in? I can’t say I have the best grasp on things at the moment, friend.”

He tries valiantly to save face, clearing his throat before pulling himself up to sit against the headboard. Mercilessly, he’s bombarded with pain. Hot, white needles stab at his lower extremities - the ones still obscured by the blankets. Agony circles and constricts his torso like a vice, the telltale aching of a few broken ribs.

The way you react to his answer is unfavorable. Your lips purse - Aventurine can easily place the look on your face as suspicion. He’s been regarded that way more often than not, and he can’t say it bothers him. He’s practically a living, breathing warning sign for any enemies of the IPC. But it’s not good, not good at all, to be on your bad side after you’ve presumably saved him; not while he’s in your care.

“We’re not friends,” you correct. “And I found you on my property, floating in the bank behind my cabin.” Hopping off your rocking chair and standing, you sweep your arms out as if to show him around.

Once you notice him adjusting again, you snap, “Hey! You’re lucky to be so unscathed, boy. Quit moving or else you’ll make it worse.”

“Sorry, sorry,” the blond chuckles, trying to disarm. There are bandages winding around the full length of his arms, the (most likely) mangled remnants of his clothes replaced with a plain undershirt. Aventurine suddenly mourns the loss of his gloves. His hands are on full display, having been bared to himself and to you.

Faded scars mar the skin around his knuckles, similar abrasions littering his palms. Calluses that will never smooth pool around his fingertips.

Look how much you know about him already.

Aventurine will not run again, even if Kakavasha is screaming at him to do so. He already has to deal with the fallout of his… uncharacteristic outburst. “I’m here on business, to put it plainly. Seems I got caught up in the downpour and got lost.”

It’s the best thing he can come up with to tell you, one of the “standoffish” locals. He stuffs his hands under the covers and quilts to hide them from view; when he does so, he also feels the scratchiness of gauze around his legs. Being indebted is never a good feeling, even though it’s something he experiences every waking moment. Aventurine knows you’ve saved him… and he knows you’ll, humanly, want something in return.

“Let’s just say I believe that,” you mutter. “I treated you the best I could, but it’s not much. Medical supplies have been scarce around here lately. Your torso’s pretty busted up, and you have a swollen ankle. I dunno how you were so fortunate, but you’ll need to see a doctor as soon as possible.”

“Thank you. To whom do I owe the pleasure…?”

Silence. The tattoo on his neck burns.

You, with crossed arms, observe him again - this time from head to toe. Your scrutiny takes in his dull, multicolored eyes and his guarded posture. You’re a sharp one, for ostensibly nobody.

“It’s probably better if you don’t know my name. You’re not from around here, and you must’ve been running fast to end up face down in the rough like a corpse. I saw the tracks leading up to where you fell.” A strike of lightning and subsequent thunder punctuates your sentence, exacerbating the roof leak. The pail takes a beating trying to collect the new runoff, quickly filling.

“But if I had to guess who you are,” you turn your back to him, making sure the thing doesn’t overflow. “You’re the rain-bringer. Hah!”

Aventurine understands you’re just joking, that you’re playfully chalking the termination of the drought up to the appearance of a bizarre stranger. The timing would get a laugh out of anyone.

Well, anyone but him, that is.

The man scorched by possibility finds it in himself to say nothing. He watches as you flit around the enclosed space - the cabin being about the size of a public restroom. You’re stoking the fireplace, then you’re up again to bring the wood-burning stove to life.

“You’ve been out for a day at most, goldilocks. Once the storm lets up and the phones start to work, I’ll call the town doctor, and you can call your people. They must be worried, yeah? I made you something to eat earlier, but I…”

Aventurine tunes out after that. Despite the pressing concern that Diamond and his subordinates will be vexed by him going AWOL out of nowhere, he’s an asset for a reason. Even without taking his infernal blessing into account, he trusts his intuition. He’ll be okay in your hands - at least for the time being.

He doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

event post here. network members only!

#hvntersloveletters #—stellaronhvnters.#g.writes #aventurine x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #aventurine hsr x reader #hsr aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #platonic hsr x reader #platonic aventurine x reader #rainswept

70 notes · View notes

dags-over-caravans · 17 days ago

Note

Thank you for the tag! I don't know the tumblr law on this matter either, but I tripped and fell on the follow button so we ARE mutuals now, look at that.

I have come humbly to ask for a snippet on: "Lucanis wakes" Insert many staring-eye-emojis here.

Heck yes, so pleased to moot you. (And will completely understand if you immediately unfollow for that sentence alone 😅)

I’m not sure if this WIP will end up anywhere, and it’s only 500 words, so I’ll post it in full. When I first started writing again a few months ago, I was mostly envisioning a couple of related scenes, like a “5 times Lucanis got some sleep” kind of thing. This lil dribbling was inspired by this wonderful artwork, which if you scroll all the way to the bottom of my blog (it doesn’t take long haha), you’ll see was literally my 3rd reblog, so this has been hanging out in the WIPs for a long time. Thank you so much for asking for it!

Nothing explicit, but NSFW sentiment below.

Lucanis wakes

There is a calmness deep within him, surrounding him. He’s encased in warmth, enwebbed in comfort. There is nothing amiss. Nothing stirs. The world is dark. Beyond, he does not feel the weighty press of any expectation. He does not exist beyond this breathless, timeless moment.

He resists waking, so deep is his comfort. The bed beneath him is warm and yielding. His cheek rests on a warm, soft pillow, which gently rises and falls with his breaths.

He inhales, to match the breath of his pillow.

He exhales.

Wait — his pillow is breathing?

His eyes snap open (but he doesn’t move; he’s too comfortable, not ready to give up even a fraction of the contentedness he feels).

He finds that he’s entwined with Rook. She’s fallen asleep against the low armrest of her chaise and somehow (“Somehow,” thinks Lucanis, spitefully), he has wrapped himself around her in the night.

He’s face down, cheek pressed against the softness of her belly, which rises and falls with her breath. His arms wrap around her hips, his chest nestled between the soft spread of her thighs.

Mierda, if he was only six inches lower…

He blushes at his own rudeness. It’s not the kind of thought that often rises unbidden to Lucanis’ mind, but pressed against Rook, her legs around his waist, he’d challenge any man to keep his thoughts family-friendly.

(He’s just glad that they are positioned in such a way that makes his morning erection easy to hide.)

But Maker, he’s surrounded by the scent of her and now even Spite is wondering — how would she smell? How would she taste?

At least Lucanis can comfort himself with the fact that he knows how she feels, asleep within his embrace (which is: wonderful).

(“Rook is ours,” Spite reminds him, one of the demon’s increasingly frequent refrains.)

He’s not sure how to unwind them (he doesn’t want to). Not without disturbing her (he doesn’t want that, either).

But Rook saves him the trouble (she always does) by whispering: “Lucanis? Il dio mio — I have to pee.”

(And yeah, he supposes he is sleeping directly on top of her bladder.)

She’s up, and it’s over.

His rationed time with her is done and now he’ll go back to ignoring the growing, gnawing want in his belly. Go back to living on caffeine and pure spite (pun intended; Rook would be proud), until his exhaustion and mental fatigue drive him to another night indulging himself in Rook’s restful presence.

#wip ask game #Lucanis gets some sleep #Lucanis gets snuggles #forgive the puns I’m trying to write a punny Rook #and she’s infected me #purple haze (rookanis; dags over caravans)#lucanis dellamorte #ao3 fanfic #rook x lucanis #dags post #dragon age veilguard

21 notes · View notes

judesmoonbeauty · 11 months ago

Text

Ghost House Report: A Requiem For You -Harrison Gray Epilogue

Fan translation only. Not 100% accurate. Please expect grammatical errors. Cybird owns everything. Feel free to re-blog, but please do not post my translations elsewhere. If you'd like to be added to my translations tag list, please comment below. Thank you, for you support! ☾.

Harrison: Prove it to me. Don’t leave me Kate.

Harrison: Right here, right now. Until I’m satisfied.

Harrison: ….Be prepared for tonight.

Kate: Mm…

True to his words, the taste of Harry’s scent immediately hits inside my mouth.

His tongue entangles with mine, sucking it, licking every inch inside of my mouth.

Wherever Harry touched, his fingertips, the inside of my mouth, they were all hot.

(…..My body’s sensations have returned.)

In response a hot tingle sparked from deep within me.

(I’m here. I want to…feel Harry more.)

Removing his tongue, he tightens our intertwined fingers.

Wanting to give Harry my aching heat, I wrapped my legs around him -

Harrison: …You trying to stir me up?

Harry released one of his hands and slid it up my leg.

Harrison: But now….I don’t think I can be kind to you.

Lifting up my legs, his fingertips mercilessly penetrate me, and tease my honey-soaked spot.

Kate: Ahhh…..

Harrison: …Yeah, that’s your reaction.

I want Harry to use his hand to unleash even more passion.

As I cling to Harry, both our body heat and breathing rise.

Kate: Ah…..Harry……

As I try to undo Harry’s pants with shaky fingers, his hand is placed on top of mine.

Harrison: What do you think you’re doing?*

My face flared with shame at his pointed remark.

Kate: ….That was mean….

I looked up an glared at him -

Harrison: Heh, that’s the face I wanted to see.

Kate: Mmm

With our lips completely consumed, and his hand still on top of mine, I slowly removed his pants.

I shivered as I felt Harry’s supple body sway.

As our breathes mix, my mind becomes hazy, but one sense remains sharp -

(Ah….Harry’s…..)

I felt Harry’s heat press against and penetrate me deeply.

Kate: —Nggh!

Harrison: …..You’re so warm inside.

Harrison: Feels good.**

His movements become increasingly stronger, melting me completely.

Kate: …..Nn, H-arry…….Aah, Haa.....

Harrison: …..Ngh, say my name more

Harrison: ….It’s not bad….hearing you call my name

Harrison: …Hey, Kate?

My moans became louder as I obeyed his sweet coercion.

Kate: Harry….HAAA….H-arry……

My core was so stirred by the excitement that I responded to Harry unconsciously.

Harrison: Haha…. you’re too honest with your feelings.

Harrison: That honesty….always saves me.

I keep calling Harry’s name provocatively, wondering how I look in his mint-colored eyes.

There was no time to think about my appearance with our bodies stacked on each other, we conveyed our thoughts with our gazes -

We were filled with passion together until we reached exhaustion.

Kate: …..Mmh.

Feeling something warm touch my forehead, I lift my heavy eyelids.

Harrison: Good, it’s you.

As the morning sun shines brightly on him, looks at me with relief.

Kate: ….Good morning.

The happiness of waking up to the smile of my beloved one warms my heart.

Harrison: Even so, you were being possessed by a ghost.

Harrison: You’re always getting into trouble.

Kate: I……I’m sorry.

(It’s true….Harry was there this time, so I was safe.)

There is no room for objecting, so I kept quiet.

Harrison: ……I don’t want to want to take care of a troublesome person like you.

Kate: Huh.

-My mind went blank.

His mint-colored eyes were as cool as ever.

(….I knew it.)

Kate: That’s a lie, isn’t it.

Kate: Harry….despite all of your complaints, you helped me in the end.

Kate: I know best that you’re a kind person

Kate: …I’ll try my best not to be too dependent on that kindness.

His eyes staring at me soften.

Harrison: ….Yeah, it was a lie.

Harrison: You always get into trouble, so I’m used to it.

Harrison: Helping you is something that I want to do.

Harrison: Just….promise me one thing

Harrison: ….Don’t leave me so easily.

His genuine voice engraves itself on my heart.

Holding my head tightly, he kisses my forehead again.

Kate: …Of course, that’s what I intend to do. I’m stubborn.

Kate: Even if you don’t like it Harry, we’re sticking together.

I hug Harry tightly, and bury myself in him, inhaling his minty scent.

Harrison: Yeah. Try your best not to be disliked by me.

Kate: …..You don’t have to tell me that.

Kate: Anyway, I know that your meanness is how you express your love, Harry.

Harrison: Huh, so does it make you happy when people are mean to you?

Kate: I didn’t say that.

Harrison: But you simply didn’t say it.

He grabbed my chin and locked his gaze with mine.

Kate: …..So crafty.

(Oh, even though you can see it clearly.)

Harrison: You’re the one who wants to stick to a crafty guy.

Kate: …..That’s right, Harry….I’m happy even if you’re mean to me.

Kate: Even when you act like that I feel as if you’re thinking about me, Harry.

(I said it.)

Rather than be embarrassed, I decided to express my feelings to Harry -

Harry’s face suddenly looks down.

Harrison: ….Yeah, it’s definitely you.

Harrison: That’s why I’m always thinking about you, Kate.

Harrison: Stick to me and let me be mean to you forever.

Kate: Ugh, of course you’ll keep being mean to me.

Harrison: Fuwaha…..in any case, there’s not point in leaving.

Kate: Mm……

Our lips come together as if sealing a promise -

My heart and body are filled with joy of being by Harry’s side.

*This line translates to, “What are you doing,” but the following line’s translation explains that Harrison is trying to make Kate to feel shame by his remark, so I chose to change this to “What do you think you’re doing?” to try and bring that out more.

**Technically, he just says good here, but his face screams “Feels good”, so I changed it to that.

[Master List]

Tag List: @theimaginativelyreticent @sapphire-323 @sh0jun @letter-from-afar

Dividers: @/brokenbard

*Ahem* this was the first time I've ever translated Harrison smut....it was definitely interesting...ummm maybe...awkward(?) Other than translating is lines in other stories as a supporting role, this was my first Harry translation....I hope in time I can get a better grasp of his writer's style as I do more in the future. Anyway, it was a fun translation.

#harrison gray #ikevil harrison #ikevil translations #cybird translations #harrison gray translations #ikevil harrison gray #ikevil #mdni

49 notes · View notes

iprefertheterminsane · 1 year ago

Text

Take me Home (Where I Belong)

I'm almost finished with my domestic perryshmirtz 5+1, which I'm gonna upload to ao3 soon so here's a tease in the form of the first chapter!

Rating: G

Relationship: Perry the Platypus/Heinz Doofenshmirtz

Tags: Human Perry the Platypus, pre-slash, domesticity, Perry's moved in before they even stopped calling themselves enemies, it's normal to want to kiss the homies sometimes, right?, long suffering Charlene, Perry's got 4 kids actually and that fourth one is Vanessa, haha Perry the Platypus you are dating my father.

Even after having his plans foiled for the day, Heinz doesn’t let him drive home.

“Look at yourself, Perry the Platypus, you’re barely standing on your own two feet.” The scientist points out. He’s right, of course, not that Perry will let him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. It seems to mean less than little; Heinz had already buckled him back into the passenger seat of his truck with the tenacity of a father, and Perry is just barely conscious enough to comply- a bit dumbly, but the taller man does not seem to mind-without much of a fuss. He’s still talking, naturally. Perry has gotten so used to the chatter the droning had begun to take on an ambient sort of feeling, like brown noise. “-practically an accident waiting to happen. Honestly, you’d think Francis would want to try keeping his best agent alive-that agency is gonna do you in better than I would, one day.”

Perry considers giving up a token protest-he had gotten here with the hoverjet on auto-pilot; the routes between the lair and Doofenshmirtz Evil Inc. has long been keyed in as his defaults-but decides otherwise. He really was quite exhausted, surely it would be no bother to let Heinz drive him back to Evil Inc. where he’s parked. Why waste fuel when a cheaper of transport was on offer? The Major has particularly been going on and on lately about turning the office more green and saving energy, no doubt one of their latest efforts to cut costs-so he was doing the agency a favor, really. He trusted that Heinz was a reliable enough driver when they’re neither forced to undergo the serial killing obstacle course that was the Drusselsteinian Driving Test Route.

He would sleep in just until Heinz gets them back home. Decision made, he lets himself rest his eyes.

00..00

“Up, up, up, Perry the Platypus you don’t really expect me to carry you up the stairs do you-,”

“-Ok, here we go, sit here-no, no, don’t lay down just yet you need to take your shoes off Perry the Heathenpuss-,”

“-I am not letting you sleep in the corset of a waistcoat Perry the Platypus, wow is this Kevlar? No wonder you can stand my Titanium punches-Ok uppies, I should probably help you take this tie off too, huh? They could strangle you in your sleep, y’know, nuff said, if nuff was-y’know, me-it’s so weird to see you so biddable, Perry the Platypus-,”

“-ok, last thing Perry the Platypus, yes I promise, just need to help you get under the covers, alright? Now, isn’t that better? Aw, look at how cute you look, Perry the Platypus, like a little angel-,”

“Good night, Perry the Platypus.”

00..00

Perry snorts awake in the penthouse guest room with the covers pulled up to his chin, blinking against the light of the setting sun from behind the half-shaded curtains facing east of Danville.

He isn’t sure what’s woken him, but finds himself unable to go back to sleep. This was probably a good thing-he’s never stayed behind in Doofenshmirtz Evil Inc. for so long without making his excuses before, and the clock shows that he’s nearly late for dinner back at the Flynn-Fletcher’s household. He’ll have no trouble flying home now, he feels perfectly well-rested.

Rising to his feet, he finds himself underdressed. His hat rests on the right-hand nightstand, right next to his sleeping head, and the rest of his clothes-vest, tie and shoes-draped carefully over the chair that looks like it’s been dragged over from the kitchen, positioned right next to the room’s entryway, deliberately left ajar. He shoves the hat back over his head and toes his shoes back on, but blinks deliberately at the rest of his attire. They are, of course, crucial parts of his armour, but what was to fear for stepping out without them? Heinz’s scheme was thwarted for the day, and lest the man was suddenly overcome with another plan while Perry was out, which he sincerely doubts, Heinz would not have reason to attack him out of the blue, and certainly not out of armour. He was obsessed with playing fair, and acting by the book. As far as they are both concerned, they were now both off the clock.

Perry decides to take the clothes and fold them over his arm, but he steps out without putting them on- the vest tends to cinch, which he tolerates, but not without reason-and goes to search for his host to make his goodbyes.

It’s easy enough to find him; Heinz is in the kitchen, naturally, making dinner for himself, with Norm at the dining table carefully slicing vegetables and making prep; something doughy, it seems. Perry wonders if it’s pie-Heinz makes wonderful doonkleberry pie. He rests his hips against the doorjamb, and chatters his teeth to make his presence known, a noise Heinz is well familiar with. It cuts off the man’s mindless chatter, and he beams. Perry can’t help his own answering smile.

"Ah, Perry the Platypus!” He crows. “Just in time for dinner! I don’t suppose you mind setting the table, just need to give me another couple of minutes-,” he cuts himself off as he sees Perry shaking his head, and Perry signs, regretfully, that he has to make himself scarce.

“YOU AREN’T STAYING FOR DINNER?” Norm asks, as despairingly as his cheerful-sounding robotic voice could make it sound. His mouth is down turned.

“Yes, it’s already so late, Perry the Platypus, surely your report could wait a couple of more hours.” Heinz adds, cajoling. “I worry you know, a man has to eat homemade meals every couple of days, else you tend to get sick to the stomach. I don’t know if you cook. I’ve made lemon pie for dessert.” Heinz sing-songs enticingly at the end, and Perry has to admit it’s persuasive. The man really does have a knack for baking.

But he’s already missed out on family dinner yesterday, due to making up for Agent G’s maternity leave, and the Flynn-Fletchers would worry if he missed out on another. He knows for a fact Linda’s made her award-winning meatloaf tonight, and hedgehog cake for supper. He’d hate on missing out on the treat for the world.

He’s halfway through realizing he’s said it out loud, ‘I have homemade meals at home,’ before he freezes, taking in Norm’s and Heinz’s curious blinks, and his hands pause abruptly, letting the sentence trail off awkwardly. He could see from the look on Heinz’s face that he was curious, mouth opening as if to pose a question, but seems to ultimately decide against it. They’ve both scrambled enough of the expected norms of their Villain-to-Spy nemesis-ship today, and crossing the line to figuring out Perry’s home life seems a midge too far, even for them.

Heinz hums, and changes the subject. “Are you really driving home fully dressed like that?”

Perry looks down at himself. ‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’

“Nothing, which is my point. You could just leave them here, you know, they’re all dirty, Norm can run them through with the rest of the day’s laundry, and you can pick them up tomorrow. It’s weird to see you all dressed down, you know, but not bad weird, a good weird, makes me feel like a good host. That’s how you know you’re an adult sometimes, ugh, just listen to me talk about good hosting etiquette, Vanessa never has to worry about that sort of thing you know, even though she should. I hope Charlene’s teaching her.”

Perry’s wandered over to the coffee machine at this point, using context clues to figure out how it works and avoiding the large red button in a transparent case on the right-hand side of it’s case. He taps it, and churrs again.

“Oh, coffee! That’s a good idea, Perry the Platypus, some strong caffeine to help drive you through that traffic, I bought this travel mug for you!” Heinz hands him a short and stout chrome and teal travel mug with a silicone top and an anti-slip base. “I saw that color while scrolling through Etsy while I was looking at bento-boxes for this scheme I’m cooking up next week-oop, forget I said that Perry the Platypus, no spoilers! It reminded me of you! But the travel mugs aren’t related, it was just in the same shop, I love travel mugs, especially these newer novelty ones, you know there were never any novelty items back in Drusselstein, on account of the state largely frowning on any sort of color or patterns-,”

Perry churrs again, twisting the top of his cup back on and pointing out the door. Heinz visibly deflates.

“Oh, right, yes, leaving, of course, Perry the Platypus, let me just let this simmer and walk you to the door-and leave the clothes with Norm, Perry the Platypus, I’ve told you, you can come to fetch them tomorrow.”

Heinz helps hold the mug for him while he gets himself settled back in the hoverjet, and the clock on his dash informs him he should reach the house just in time to reach the Flynn Fletchers begin dinner if he rushed. Heinz leans forward to hand him the travel mug, leaving them close, just close enough that Perry feels the ridiculous urge to-maybe-leave a soft kiss on the other man’s cheek, the way Lawrence does when Linda was about to leave the house for the errand of the day.

Heinz doesn’t seem to notice, mumbling about setting the mug just right into the cupholder behind the handlebar, because it was hot, Perry the Platypus, we wouldn’t want a repeat of the driving test incident, do we? When Perry switches the jet on, Heinz waves. Perry, inexplicably, tips his hat back in return.

It isn’t until he’s 15 minutes away from the house that he realizes he really had left his vest and tie behind at Doofenshmirtz Evil Inc. He hopes Heinz doesn’t plan to do anything inadvisable with them.

For some reason, Perry doesn’t believe that he will.

#perryshmirtz #human perry #fic tease #perry the platypus #heinz doofenshmirtz #phineas and ferb #domesticity #5+1 type fic

49 notes · View notes

geodetojoy · 1 year ago

Text

ALRIGHTY i am no longer busy so heres my full thoughts on Newsies :DDD

tagging @royallygray and @mysteriouswolf if yall wanna read :D

ok this shit got LONG so the rest is under the cut

GOD where do I even start its beautiful its wonderful its emotional i love it so much

Ill try not to copy my intermission thoughts too much (if you havent seen those here they are)

Ok lets talk about the history of it. A quick google search says its based on a strike in 1899, and Roosevelt ran for presidency in 1901, so we'll just say the musical takes place in 1899 too (correct me if theres a different confirmed time).

During this time, work conditions are absolute shit, monopolies and trusts are on the rise, and the concept of a union has recently emerged. I really didnt need to say much of this bc its apparent in the musical, but i love historically accurate stuff so deal with it /lh

And in the musical we see the beginnings of Roosevelt's trust-busting and ideas of social equality that he acts on during his presidency (it also kinda ties into his environmentalism stuff a bit too!)

And after reading up a bit on the strike the musical was based on, a lot of the effects of the strike in the musical were historically accurate too! the newsboys could sell back papers they werent able to sell on the streets, but the price was unfortunately not yet lowered. (also, the names of the publishers in the show are historically accurate as well!!! makes my little history brain happy :DDD )

SO whats the point of all of my rambling here?

people make historical art all of the time. we see it in musicals like Annie, Hamilton, and so so many more. obviously this goes beyond musicals here, but since newsies is a musical ill try to stay with that topic.

anyway, we learn about history to learn from it. we see these past issues that our previous generations struggled with, in these art forms as to be easily digestible, and we discover their solutions. we get to see the humanity behind the issues and the conflicts they faced to overcome them. and ofc its not the only reason, but one reason these stories are told with art is to bring attention to them. people are way more likely to listen to music than study a historical textbook. so, they make it entertaining. they make relatable and lovable characters. they make people care about the show and subsequently the issue itself. all of this is to explain how and why things that happened in history are bad as to never repeat them again.

We see these topics of worker mistreatment, corrupt businesses, child labor, gender/sex inequality, and the class separation all brought to the spotlight in this show, and it does a damn good job of showing the pain and suffering they cause. the story of this show is incredible and so very important to learn about.

OK now onto the actual musical itself im done nerding out

ive done a lot of charater analysis already in that intermission post bUT WHO SAYS I CANT DO MORE HAHA

im saving jack for last bc theres so much to unpack there

KATHERINE MY LOVE <3333

Everything about her being a girlboss absolutely remains the same shes INCREDIBLE

and holy shit PULITZER'S HER DAD???? i love her even more. she directly ran away from an easy life to follow her own dreams and pursue her own passion from scratch. incredible. inspiring. mwah

i also just love her personality. shes so bubbly and happy and passionate and bright and optomistic shes the best <3

oh god crutchie. hes absolutely my favorite btw im sorry everyone else i adore him <33333

GOD his prison song actually killed me. im fully dead. deceased.

THE NEWSIES ARE SUCH A FAMILY GAHHH THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH RAHHHH

the sheer ecstasy i felt when he came back and hit Snyder with his cane i could not stop stimming MY BOYYYY

the absolute definition of sunshine character. he sees everything as glass half full and wants just the brightest future he deserves the absolute world

and ik i talked about it earlier but i adore how they take such a neutral opinion about his leg. people give him shit for it, and his brother beat them to a pulp. its just a part of him and they love his whole being, so why would they not love that about him too?

Les only got better as the show went on. i thought he was a smartass before LMAOO

AND THE DATE BIT??? WHERE THE HELL DID THAT COME FROM???? AND IT JUST NEVER GETS BROUGHT UP AGAIN LMAO WHAT

i think the biggest change i felt towards a character was Davey

he grew on me soooooo much his character growth is everything to me

he went from trying to stay out of their business to teaching them what a union was to helping them start it to running it himself when jack ran off to convincing jack to come back when times got tough he is sooo important to the story

and to me. hes important to me <3

OH AND RACE

i saw people mention the name before but i didnt know which he was until they addressed him directly I LOVE THAT GUYYY

especially in king of new york hes got such a big personality what a silly guy

OK now for the guy the silly the mc jack

At the beginning he is entirely driven by both his love for his family and ofc his dream of living in Santa Fe, but atm hes just trying to get by so hes more focused on the newsies. but a boy can dream

then he gets all caught up in the strike business and only focuses on that for a while bc he wants to protect his boys

then shit goes south. they get essentially jumped, and crutchie gets hurt and arrested.

and he thinks, what was it all for? if he couldnt protect his brother (never living that down btw), whats the point of even trying to strike anymore

so he changes his focus back to santa fe. the one thing hes still got going for him.

and he gets confronted by katherine, les, and davey, and they knock some sense into him. stopping the strike isnt going to take away any of the harm done. the danger is expected, theres no way any of this could go down without some form of a casualty. so why not try to do something about it. the only way to make this situation better is to get back in the game and keep pushing for change.

and ofc the thing with katherine which ill talk abt a bit more later

in all of this, something in him changes. he dreamed of santa fe, a simpler life, one where he didnt have to worry about having to afford food and clothing for the next day.

but what he never considered was the loneliness. sure, he offered to bring crutchie and katherine with him, but hed be leaving behind so many more. and thats when he realized he never needed to get out, he just needed things to change a bit. and they did! because of the strike, living became so much more affordable. no it wasnt perfect, but it was enough to be safe and secure, just like he wanted. and he had his family beside him the whole time.

ill admit that before i sat and thought about it for a while, this ending was really unsatisfactory to me. i mean we got how many santa fe reprises? all for naught?

but in reality, santa fe would never be enough for him. hes just so used to this life surrounded by the people he cares most about and doing everything in his power to protect him, hed just be so bored, so understimulated, and hed just continue to yearn for more. that path of wanting would never come to a conclusion and hed live his life never truly being happy. so i really do thing he made the right choice in staying, because new york became his santa fe. he didnt need to seek it out, it came to him.

Ok now with him and katherine

ill start by saying i do really adore them. i feel like a lot of what im about to say might seem like i think otherwise, but i truly do think theyre very sweet

ok so every interaction of theirs in act one was. very uncomfortable to say the least. he honestly seemed really predatory at times and it just really felt like an old-timey romance where the girl doesnt know her worth so she flocks to any guy that shows interest in hr bc she thinks its her only purpose

now obviously that is NOT the truth, those were just my first impressions. Katherine is extremely capable of taking care of herself and deciding what is and isnt right for her, she likes jack purely because she can and does. she knows her worth and just likes him bc she likes him, no strings attached

i will say the first kiss kinda caught me off guard lmao. like i knew they were gonna be a thing but that is NOT how i expected that to go down. its likely just bc of my aroace-ness but i saw no sign of them actually getting together prior to that, aside from them being the main man and leading lady in the show so ofc they have to be together. i mean ig her reaction to him drawing her was a bit of a hint but still. ok maybe its just bc im demi. hadnt thought abt that until now. damn. is this a normal thing? maybe it is. maybe im being too harsh. idk lmao

anyway ill admit the kiss was successful in getting his attention and getting him to listen to her so ill give it that lmaoo but tbh i did tune a bit of their song out bc it started to make me a bit uncomfy but i did liste back to it later on. they really seem to have a healthy relationship where they both care about the other and know the other is strong enough on their own, they just both want to be a part of the other's life. its really sweet! theyre so supportive of each other!!! green flags all around!!!

the bit with him learning shes pulitzers daughter was really interesting to me. at first she tries to talk to him but he kinda brushes her off, but from then on he just kinda has full faith in her? i mean yeah he gets upset about it bc he thinks she lied to him, but i dont think he thought she had any ill intentions. that was a complicated sentence lmaoo damn. i think he really understood that she wanted to help, he was just caught up in a lot of Feelings and was afraid that she wasnt trustworthy despite him still trusting her. and then he let her explain and from then on they fully support the other and trust each other immensely

so yeah first impressions were a bit iffy but i think theyre very sweet <333

OK GOD CAN I GUSH ABOUT THE STAGE DESIGN FOR A BIT???? GAHHH

i mean the moving stairs and scaffolding arent new. i know this. but just the way they frame scenes with the scaffolding is stunning. the chase scenes??? dude. enthralling. the bits where theyre in the city and they have people just up their acting like civilians? SO cool. makes it incredibly more realistic and believable. and the way they projected images onto the curtain-like things they pulled down was extremely creative!!! like in theory its such a simple design. it was literally nothing more than the scaffolding and stairs, and a few tables and wagons and such in certain areas. but they did SO much with it it was hard to believe it took place on a stage. ofc the filming helps with that but still. the start felt like it was on the roof of the building bc of a combination of the lighting and the use of just one of the scaffolding pieces. and when theyre in buildings, the wall of scaffolding works really well as a backdrop!!! and i already talked about the city street scenes, it fits perfectly. god its so inspiring id love to be behind something like that one day

OK AND THE CHOREO??? the sheer ENDURANCE of these people HOLY I COULD NEVER. THE FLEXIBILITY? THEYRE ALL LITERAL GYMNASTS WTF ARE THESE FLIPS AND HANDSTANDS IM SORRY???? holy shit its all SOSOSO impressive

oh my god i havent even talked about the MUSIC yet

if i had to choose a favorite song, a, i would punch whoever told me that in the face, and b, i would simply combust bc i cant choose just one

my top three tho would have to be between king of new york, carrying the banner, and crutchies prison song (idk the name its not on spotify :'((((( ) in no particular order

i havent had them on repeat enough to have any memorized, but i did remember santa fe, carrying the banner, and the world will know from the last time i watched it and i belted along to all the parts i knew this music is so good at hyping me up I WANNA START A UNION

and oh my god katherines voice???? stunning. her song is sooooo good. her part in king of new york is incredible. i love her <3

jesus christ this post got out of control. im still not done lmaooo

ok one thing that really has nothing to do with the musical itself is just the fact that it reminded me of so many other musicals ive seen at specific parts, even some of the songs sound like others i know.

Santa Fe really reminds me of Maybe from Annie, both music-wise and lyric wise. i mean theyre both "i want" songs so it makes sense but i feel like they sound kinda similar too. honestly a lot of the music sounds like Annie, but maybe its just the types of instruments used and thats just how musicals sounded when they were made. i think they were made about the same time. *checks spotify* ok well the newsies i listen to was produced like 40 years after Annie so maybe that just a stylistic choice-

idk why but the beginning of watch what happens sounds like the intro to reginas speaking part in meet the plastics lmao-

oh and brooklyn's here has the same beat as the military from Seussical but thats just bc its a marching song lmao. its also the same beat as the spanish alphabet song my spanish teacher used to use!

ok and this one really doesnt make sense but something to believe in reminds me of the power in me from Twisted lmao- kinda similar message ig? and sound vaguely similar? but idk it really doesnt make too much sense

i should. i should sum it up. this is getting out of hand.

okay i love this musical sm. clearly. do you see how long this post is. i was missing out when i refused to listen to it previously. oh my god.

and for some reason it really makes me wanna go watch my favorite musical so im ending this here TO YOUTUBE I GOOOOO TY FOR READING IF YOU DID AND TY TO ROYAL FOR UNINTENTIONALLY PUSHING ME TO WATCH THIS HAVE A GREAT DAYYYY

#newsies #yeah i think i enjoyed it a little bit #idk tho maybe i should write some more about it /silly

4 notes · View notes

sungtaro · 2 years ago

Text

2023 kpop recap ♡ tagged by @ambivartence !

Groups You Started Stanning?: well the big ones of course are wayv and nct (mostly 127 but i tune in for nct u of course of course ... loved golden age) ... i would say i also got really into triples this year musicwise, but i don't actually know the girls

New Ult Biases?: dejun ... my cringe bestie it was inevitable from the moment i saw him cleaning up poop on the puppy interview ...

Idol(s) Who Got The Most Of Your Simping?: idk you all tell me . i think i'm pretty normal KJSGJHBS but i'm sure we can make some arguments for mr. jaehyun and also my husband sehyoon who returned from war god bless

Most Streamed Group(s): cravity, treasure, enhypen, and purple kiss according to my spotify wrapped; nct and wayv definitely are my most streamed in the last couple of months though!

Most Streamed Soloist(s)?: woodz is the only one who made it into my wrapped report, but i'd guess probably also yena, yuri, and maybe eric nam

Top K-Pop Song(s) Of This Year (Opinion Or Streaming, You Choose): nct djj perfume is definitely my song of the year. others i think deserve soty shoutouts: save me kill me - cix, busted - woodz, rising - triples, fate - enhypen, agit - purple kiss, kick it 4 now - tnx, regret it - exo

Top Debut This Year: for the girls kiss of life with shhh ! for the boys ... dojaejung counts right ??

Choreographies You Learned: i don't learn choreo like on purpose HAHA but i can kind of dance along to groovy by cravity

Albums/Merchandise You Bought: too many albums per usual since cravity and treasure both had comebacks, and i just started buying for my new obsessions 🧍🏼‍♀️ i also got a tshirt at the omega x concert, and mary and i got the new truz crossbody bags which are actually so cute ... and we also got wayv seasons greetings to share which i think was a great decision

New Kpop Mutuals You Made?: my new nctuals i love u guys thanks for letting me in and treating me like a bestie even though i just got here 7 years late with my giant iced coffee in hand and sporadic posting around my insane work schedule. and for anyone else who started holding my hand this year, just know ... i don't let go easily or ever ! 😈

Tagging: gonna go through my follow list and tag my most recently made mutuals as inspired by that last question hehe no pressure though! also sorry if we haven't actually interacted before, in my mind we are best friends as soon as u follow me back . just fyi . <3 @minhyukie @bouncingback @neonsbian @irlvernon @lenteur @yutaslaugh @yunogf @baekhyunnybyun and bc i mentioned her in here @dongkwan teehee

#this was a fun one thank u siyuan !!

9 notes · View notes

xerophylloom · 2 years ago

Text

The Times They Are a Changin' by Bandtrees and Hatsunoid is absolutely amazing

...And if you can handle the contents of it. No seriously. The fic is definitely dark and if you're sensitive to MEDICAL ABUSE, GORE, AND ABLEISM—Don't read it. It's especially centered around those and unless you close your eyes for all of it, you're not going to be able to handle it.

BUT!! It's so good, I would love to erase my memory just to experience reading it for the first time all over again. The disturbing parts aren't OOC (in my opinion at least) and it's very well-written, some optional out-of-site parts too.

A Laconic Summary: Mob loses control over his powers and causes permanent brain damage to Reigen and Ritsu. This fic explores the possible effects of that

Things of Note (as tags): Ambiguous Ending, Parasites (Specifically maggots and they're not TOO important, but they're there during a somewhat important moment)

Extremely long rambling (with spoilers) below the cut

This fic is so good, I created a sideblog for my AO3 to post about it. This fic is so good, that I had to stop what I was doing even though it is probably going to be detrimental to my grades. This fic is so good, that I was nearly about to rip my hair out from its roots

It's about 100k chapters long, separated into two parts. I'm easily bored and there's been plenty of times I've read a fic with maybe half the length, gotten bored, and thought of some parts as a slogfest even when it really wasn't—I just suck at getting through longfics. But reading through this, there was never a point where I thought that. Tensions were always high, rising even when I thought it wouldn't be able to, and I would end up near-screaming

And the way it shows how different characters feel? Gorgeous. Amazing. Love it.

Obviously, we have the normal book style descriptions from one character's POV, but then we have Teru's diary and Shou's little monologues(?), and it's all really cool??!?! Maybe that's what helped keep my attention. That and the little off-site links.

Speaking of those, I think I found all of them, but I'm not that observant so I could have easily missed some. And wow. Jesus christ. The last couple ones, the ones of Shou's gallery as his phone was getting wrecked, I was. just. In shock. I'm a very sentimental person who cares about photos and things, and I don't know how Shou didn't begin loudly crying right then and there because I would have

And god, so many times did I think 'Is this fic going to have untagged MCD?'. I was constantly at the edge of my seat expecting that someone would die. Reigen, Ritsu, Mob, Shou, Teru, Dimple (especially when he confronted Mob right as he was about to lobotomize Ritsu)... Basically all the main characters in the fic had moments where I was preparing to mourn

Mob really left for the deep end in this fic. I won't say that I fully get why he was so convinced that what he was doing was right, but it makes sense for him. He's not the type to let go easily, he's someone who draws strength from his bonds, and his aspect could be blood. And almost all his life, the message to never give up was basically struck into his head over and over. The one time I can recall where it wasn't? Claw, Seventh Division, where Reigen told him it's okay to run away. But I doubt that tilted the scale into being balanced in the slightest. There's so much more I could say about him in this fic. But I'll save it for now

Teru was... Teru. I understand him more than I did Mob, I think if I were in his situation, I would have maybe stopped at a certain point but we would be very similar in most of the actions we take. In the first chapter, I went 'haha silly!' at his entries. Seeing them as a little treat between the downers surrounding it. But then after he helped 'operate' (It doesn't feel right calling it that), I guess it really hit me. Then I started questioning if I would have done what he did. Then I realised I would have. Then I spiralled until I told myself this kind of situation will likely never happen to me and if it does, I'll get to it when I get to it

Serizawa is easily one of the ones you can feel for the most. Unlike Mob and Teru, he hadn't done anything to Reigen and Ritsu personally. And unlike Shou and Dimple, he didn't say harsh words. Perhaps you could blame him for not taking action sooner, but they all can be blamed for that.

Shou... Oh my god. Shou. At first, I was ready to fight Shou tooth and nail because really? That one comment on FriendBook wasn't necessary. I don't know how or why Mob didn't block him. But then as Mob spiralled further and further, I was hoping for him to make his way back into the narrative to save Reigen and Ritsu. Then he did. And he failed and he was injured and I thought he was going to die. Then he didn't. And it's implied he could have helped them. But could he have also made it worse? Who knows, that's why I put Ambiguous Ending as a thing of note.

DON'T FORGET THE OUT-OF-LINK STUFF!!! Mixed media fics that have off-site links are truly beautiful. My friend and I love that shit. Should she ever get into MP100, I'll recommend this fic to him with a shit-eating grin on my face. I hope the word count doesn't intimidate him erogdfkg... Every single bit of the off-site links I saw was just so cool. The art of Reigen made me feel strong unease, the real videos too, and that one animated video with Ritsu and Mob and Teru. Okay basically everything gave me a strong unease. But that's the point!!! And it was done well!!!!

This fic is pure talent, skill, and effort put into something that shouldn't just be preserved via a PDF file, but should be carved into stone for future archaeologists to discover. I wish I could hold even a fraction of power needed to create something this masterful

On a more less-serious note to finish this off: Mobway. Red Mobster. I was about to lose my shit. Every single time one of the companies showed up I was about to tear my hair out (in a funny way) because it felt like falling for a prank. I ESPECIALLY LOST MY SHIT AT PSYCHOLOGIST PEPPER BECAUSE IT TOOK ME SCROLLING DOWN BEFORE REALISING. Truly, the minds behind this were geniuses

Also, this might sound weird, but I got reminded of KomaedaLoveMail while reading this. The off-site links to websites for sure helped, but I guess I just associate talk of gore in written form in this way with KLM? Or maybe I haven't quite recovered from consuming that piece of media (Can you even call KLM that?) yet. This isn't bad by the way, I loved deepdiving into KLM even though my feeble brain couldn't comprehend shit.

And and one last note- Opening the song link in the end notes was like emotional whiplash. I had to sit there for a bit to process. Good music

This is a whole mess. Even for a ramble, it's a whole mess. I don't have words or sentences or even phrases for how I feel right now. I'm a mess

#The Times They Are a Changin'#Fic rec #Fanfic rec #Mob Psycho 100 #MP100

15 notes · View notes

elemmacil · 2 years ago

Text

UM EXCUSE ME I'M SO HERE FOR THE 1920s PZA au?????? That's such a good concept?? If you get around to posting it pls pls tag me I'd love to read it 😍 and the rest of your WIPs sound super cool! — @johaerys-writes

!!!! Aahhhhh!!! I will do so!! ❤️ So while I posed the initial idea in a Hades discord a while ago (though I think a more general jazz age au had come up once before that) the au as a whole really quickly took on a life of its own. A number of people have contributed to it and have written/are writing their own iterations, and drawing(!), it’s basically a collective effort that’s been super fun to watch unfold. Key items are Achilles being gender fluid him/her and Patroclus with a war injury that requires him to have a sexy knife cane haha. There were dayssss where nothing except jazz au was being discussed, it was glorious.

You should definitely check out this fic by infinitesle! But also since you tagged me for the wip Wednesday, I’ll take the opportunity to share a lil sumthin-sumthin from my own wip. 👀🤲🏼 (Tentative title????? “if that isn’t love it’ll have to do / until the real thing comes along”.)

Flushed and laughing softly, Zagreus lets Achilles reel him in by her grip on his shirt collar. His knees sink into the sofa’s plush, patterned velvet cushions, and one of his hands lands on the jut of her hip. He can feel the band of Achilles’ lingerie, the floral lace, beneath his palm through the thin green silk of the dressing gown. He had something prepared on the tip of his tongue, something cool and clever. Whatever it was flees him beyond recall. From her heavy, hooded stare Zagreus’ eyes drop, helplessly, to where Achilles’ dressing gown gapes open. Her chest rises and falls, a little unsteady. Between the swell of his breasts, small whorls of hair glint like spun gold in the lamplight. A perfect match for the long curls hanging past his shoulders. Achilles shifts, slightly, and her gown gapes wider. The breath punches from Zagreus’ lungs. Someone’s already left a bruise, there. Patroclus. “The night isn’t getting any younger,” Achilles tells him, low and amused. “Just kiss me.” There’s nothing Zagreus would love better, just now. Or perhaps ever again. The flush must reach up to his ears, he can feel how hot they are; as their laughter subsided Zagreus’ nerves have risen again. But Achilles’ wine-red lips part slightly as Zagreus leans forward, and Zagreus’ heart damn near beats itself out of his own chest because of that alone. Oh, she does want him. She wants him. Isn’t that something else? Something that could drive a man mad. Make him leap as high as the stars. Fly him to the damn moon. Beneath his, Achilles’ lips are warm. Soft. Zagreus can’t help the sound he makes. So much and so little about Achilles is soft, Zagreus thinks; his grief cuts, her anger bruises. Even her joy is bright enough to hurt, if you stare overlong. Zagreus has never heard Achilles sing and not wanted to cry, a little. When they first met he thought there wasn’t a damn thing in the world that could touch Achilles. Not truly. But then Achilles began opening up to him, in fits and starts, little by little. Until Zagreus finally understood what Patroclus meant about diamond scratching diamond. ‘Cause Achilles is tender as anything, when his hand brushes Zagreus’ cheek in the hall. When olive eyes land on Patroclus’, across a piano. When Achilles used to let tears streak his face in the middle of the night, or when her breath hitched on the last refrain of Sweet as the Mourning Dew. When he laughs, rumpled from sleep and slumped over an armchair. Or when, as he is now, as Zagreus lifts a hand to brush her hair over her shoulder and gently cup the back of his neck, he feels the way Achilles begins to melt like butter left in the sun with a shivering sigh— Ain’t nothing in the world that could hurt Achilles, he knows, save for Patroclus. Save for Zagreus, now.

#elemmacil writes #that’s a long snippet but I didn’t want to break it up skdkfkfk

5 notes · View notes

vicstmichael · 2 years ago

Text

Author Ask Tag

I was tagged by my amazing writeblr pal @scribe-of-stories! Read their post here, because Fleshtown sounds as fascinating as it does horrifying and I can't wait to read it someday! Also, I LOVED their writing advice for the last question. Definitely check it out!

I think I'm going to focus on 2 WIPs for this tag. My (STILL untitled) 90s rock band novel--click the tag to see more of what I've posted about that--and a dark marauders era fanfiction I recently started working on.

What is the main Lesson of your story? And why did you choose it? For my novel, I'd say the main lesson is that blood isn't a prerequisite for family. And that when you've found them you know... because together you can overcome any obstacle and rise to the top against all odds, and because when you truly see someone as family you love them despite their flaws and the mistakes they make. For the fic, I'll be honest, I haven't thought much about it yet. It's VERY new. All I was thinking was "DARK JEGULUS DARK JEGULUS" and... vibes? So, yeah. I'm a mess. But if I had to think about it I'd probably say it's that most bad choices are redeemable if you're willing to put in the work to change.

What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding? NOVEL: Oooh, this is a good one. I took inspiration from other works like Almost Famous and Daisy Jones and the Six for the rockstar vibes, and High School (the Tegan and Sara memoir) for the 90s vibes. I also wanted the general atmosphere to be very moody, so I took advantage of the setting (Seattle) and used the weather to manipulate that, which feels very Twilight if I'm being 100% honest. FIC: Well, I mean, that's fairly obvious. I took inspiration from the original HP source material. I also wanted to give it a very dystopian worst-case-scenario feel, so for that I took inspiration from another great fic I've been reading called As the Worm Moon Dies. Highly recommend it!

What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, help readers grow as a person? NOVEL: This project has multiple MCs, so I'll focus on my boy Jamie. Jamie's goals are interesting because while most of the others in the band are looking to make it big and be super famous, all Jamie wants is to play music with his friends for the rest of his life. Also, he DESPERATELY wants to sort out his feelings for River and live an authentic life by his side. As for me, I'd say my goal is to show people that growth isn't necessarily lateral, and either is forgiveness. But no matter how bad things can get, as long as you're willing to put in the work and lean on your people for support, almost anything can be overcome. FIC: Regulus is just trying to survive, man. He's going through it. He's also trying to live with the choices he's made and (though he doesn't consciously know it yet) find ways to make up for them. Meanwhile, James is quite literally trying to save the world. Which is very him. He's also trying to overcome the cognitive dissonance he's experiencing when it comes to aligning his feelings for Regulus with his own personal goals and values. I don't know what I want as the writer yet, my dudes. Like I said, right now I'm just here for the vibes and the angst.

How many chapters is your story going to have? Unknown for both WIPs. Although my novel is currently up over 40 which I worry is too many. Mind you, it's still in the first draft stage so that will likely change as I cut and edit.

Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it? I'm HOPING my novel will be picked up by my pals at NineStar, and the fic will be up on Ao3 when it's ready!

When and why did you start writing? I started writing when I was 9 or 10, when I would make kids books (illustrations and all, haha) for my baby brother. All I had was printer paper, crayola markers and a dream baybeeee. Then I started writing short stories for youth magazines and contests, then in high school I moved onto fanfiction, and so on. As for why... I don't really know. It has always just felt natural to me. I've always known I was going to be a writer. It's what I feel best doing. I could never give it up.

Do you have any words of engagement for fellow writers of writeblr? What other writers of tumblr do you follow? I don't know how to follow Scribe's advice because it was just so damn good. So everything they said! I'd also like to add that there's nothing wrong with working at your own pace. As a neurodivergent author who goes months at a time without writing a single word only to suddenly and without warning embark on a three-week writing hyperfixation where I block out absolutely everything and everyone around me, I'm here to tell you that it's FINE. It's fine to take breaks, it's fine to take ten years or ten weeks to write a novel, the important thing is that you're writing it. Like Scribe said, don't let other people tell you how YOUR process should go. Deadlines are one thing, but all you can do is your best. What that looks like to one person may look completely different to you, and that's FINE. <3 Oooh shoutouts! I love shoutouts! Some must-follow writeblrs: @scribe-of-stories, @idgie-stark, @dewiwrites, @artcoffeecats, @rachaellawrites and @brieflyinfatuated!

Open tag! Any and all writeblrs are encouraged to play along!

#untitled rock band wip #fanfiction #marauders fanfiction #writeblr #tag games #author ask tag #my wip #vicstmichael #writers on tumblr #writing community #tag game #writers corner #am writing #writblr tag game

2 notes · View notes

hgejfmw-hgejhsf · 1 year ago

Text

Apple Music Predictions for 2024

Open Spotify (or Apple Music, or Google Music if you're a true heathen I guess) and set your On Repeat Playlist to shuffle. The first twelve songs will predict how 2024 goes for you.

A belated thank you to @sparklepocalypse, @thinkof-england, and @firenati0n for tagging me in this one! I'm super excited to see what my Apple Music predictions are, starting with February, since January is gone haha.

And also just for fun, Imma include my favorite lyric from each of these songs!

February - Perfect from The Cinderella Soundtrack

I don't deserve this Darlin' you look perfect

March - If You Only Knew by Shinedown

'Cause it's 4:03 and I can't sleep without you next to me I Toss and turn like the sea If I drown tonight, bring me back to life Breathe your breath in me The only thing that I still believe in is you If you only knew

April - Rapid Eye Movement by David Cook

But the oxygen is proving more than words could ever say

May - Crossing the Line from Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure

There's a line between the winners and the losers There's a line between the chosen and the rest And I've done the best I could But I've always known just where we stood Me here with the luckless You there with the blessed

June - Don't Rain On My Parade (Glee Edition)

But whether I'm the rose of sheer perfection A freckle on the nose of life's complexion The cinder or the shiny apple of its eye I've gotta fly once I've gotta try once Only can die once, right sir Oooh, life is juicy, juicy and you see I've gotta have my bite, sir

July - Gimme Heartbreak by David Cook

You're death in a black dress I'm the puppet that's hanging from your thread You're the name of my madness I don't wanna get you out of my head

August - Circadian by David Cook

Mayday Somebody save me now I'm closing my eyes 'Cause once the sun rises It's out of my hands

September - Requiem from Dear Evan Hansen

'Cause when the villains fall, the kingdoms never weep No one lights a candle to remember No, no one mourns at all When they lay them down to sleep

October - Never Stop by SafetySuit

You still get my heart racing

November - I Can See You (Taylor's Version) by Taylor Swift

You won't believe half the things I see inside my head Wait 'til you see half the things that haven't happened yet

December - That Part by Lauren Spencer Smith

The only way this is gonna hurt Is if we got old, and you were the one to go first So I'm wishing on elevens that we both meet up in Heaven And fall in love again, just like the first time

I'm sure most of my friends have done this already, but I'm gonna tag @ships-to-sail, @whimsymanaged, and @lfg1986-2

#apple music predictions for 2024 #tag games #my posts #my music #spotify predictions #apple music predictions #2024 seems interesting from this perspective lmao

0 notes

childoflegend · 2 years ago

Text

cursed-ichinose:

-Takeshi knew what she was hinting at. She seemed to be testing him for some reason. He chuckled, finding it cute. In moments like these he was cold and calculating, almost scarily the same as Kureto. "Do you wish to stay and find out? I am sure Lord Kureto would love to meet someone that is so close to Ichinose." -There he went again calling Kureto Lord instead of father. It was only a small change that most did not even notice. However, It was something Kureto knew right away. It told him which personality was in charge.

-"As for permission, you don't need permission. However, I would warn you about where you are. This is not a place where Ichinose can just come and save you." He wasn't threatening her of course. He was just stating a fact. "If you like trouble, keep acting up, you and your demon. It would be interesting to see what happens." -Takeshi of could sense there was there was another demon around, but he was not going to push it. The fact that it was out was enough. Someone else like Hiro, that was interesting indeed. Once again something he would not tell Hiro when he woke up. The boy didn't need more trauma. -"If you wish to speak more, you can always tag along, or are you afraid of Lord Kureto, and General Tenri Hiragi?"

"Lord Kureto..." She repeated under her breath as she took a slight step back. Up until that point he had referred to Kureto as 'Father', so the sudden honorific change up threw her off slightly. "If you think I'm afraid of you then you are sorely mistaken."

"Joke's on you, Guren wouldn't come to my rescue anyways." She was bluffing, the man always had a strange knack for just appearing when she needed him most, so much so she'd often wondered if he had a tracker on her. "Not that I would need him to anyways, I can handle myself thank you very much." Partially true. If it came down to it she could simply give her demon control and let her rampage. Though, of course, her demon weapon would stunt that strength due to not trusting Esdeath nor serving her, so Rise wondered if that was the best course of action after all.

"You think I'm afraid of Kureto and Lord Tenri? Haha, don't make me laugh. What is there to be afraid of? I follow the orders I'm given and I stay in line as I'm told, so no. I'm not afraid of them, in fact I would love to accompany you to your little meeting."

"Rise, you do realize what you're saying right? Ooooh, keep going! This is great news for me!!"

She wasn't really thinking before speaking in that moment, not realizing she'd agreed to venture right into the Hiiragi family's den. Esdeath's voice in her ear drew her attention to the words that came from her mouth. Shit. If Guren found out about this, he was going to kill her. But, there was no going back now.

"Go on, lead the way, Colonel."

#☆ﾟ*・ﾟ{ In Character } — ↳ Cᴀɴ I ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ? ・ﾟ*ﾟ☆#☆ﾟ*・ﾟ{ Hiro } — ↳ ɪ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴜʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴍᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ! ・ﾟ*ﾟ☆#{ I feel bad for Takeshi because Rise is drawn to danger and making bad decisions }#{ That's why Guren is normally somewhat nearby -- he keeps her in line }

82 notes · View notes

abibliophobiaa · 2 years ago

Text

Beyond — s.h. x f!reader

Chapter Three: Marry Me, Today and Every Day

a/n: here’s chapter three of my purely self-indulgent fun, which shouldn’t be taken very seriously, if at all fic. haha. wanted to play around with one of my favorite tropes, so here we are with modern day!rich!fake husband!steve harrington x afab!reader. next chapter we get down to business, and maybe things will start to take a turn for these two. who is to say? also--the book r is reading is an actual fanfic by @blueywrites that you most definitely should check out. haha. just a fun little easter egg.

warnings/tags: hugely unedited (10k words); mentions of alcohol; parent loss, both parties; r has a sister and father; smut in later chapters, so 18+, minors dni; additional tags to be added.

masterlist

Sweat slicks your palms. Brings an awareness to every inch of your body as you pace around your bridal suite. Fear permeates every nerve ending. Sets them alight with a new sort of panic. This daunting, unrelenting, overwhelming knowledge that in less than an hour you’ll be a wife.

In less than an hour, you’ll be the new Mrs. Steve Harrington.

A Harrington.

Married to a man who you barely know, and yet his is the name you splutter out when your father asks what you need, noticing the staggering rise and fall of your chest, palm over your sternum where your heart races beneath.

The room clears out then. Faces pass in your peripheral vision, all varying degrees of worry lining them. Whispers, you’re certain, from your soon to be mother-in-law and Steve’s grandmother, over if you’re getting cold feet.

And it’s not that.

Not really.

You’ve resigned yourself to the understanding that this is what’s best for right now. Marrying Steve pays for your student debt, which gives you the liberty to find work in the interim while finishing up veterinarian school, and thus aids in assisting your father in taking care of what he needs to.

With money not being a worry in your mind, all your efforts can be in assisting the man who gave you life and lost his own love too soon. All your efforts can be put into that little girl with fire in her eyes and love in every inch of her bones—even when she’s trying to hide it in her cell phone, on social media, or scrolling through TikTok. It’s a sacrifice you don’t have any lingering regrets over.

He stands there in his tuxedo and wire frame glasses, hair styled back to perfection in a way that’s still so strikingly him, and yet elevated in a way you’ve not seen him before. Your head photographer, Jonathan, waves the rest of his crew out of the room when he realizes you’ll be needing a moment, the rest of the bodies filling the space finally slipping out of the room one by one until it’s just the two of you remaining.

“Wow,” he breathes out, swiping his palms against the front of the black tux, eyes roving your form. “You look—wow.”

“I, ah, thank you.” You allow your eyes to trail his form. The head to toe dress attire, the effortlessness in which he holds himself. Handsome, disturbingly so, and he never acts like he’s fully aware of the effect he has. “You clean up well, Mr. Harrington.”

He chuckles and suddenly you’re just a girl, and he’s just a boy, standing in a room together, taking in one another. It’s a slow perusal. Him, handsome as ever, in all black, save for the little floral arrangement on his chest that mirrors the one you’ll be carrying when you walk down the aisle, the glasses he’s wearing for the evening, and the gold watch around his wrist.

“Are you okay?”

He steps closer, hand extending slightly before it drops back to his side. Like he thinks better of it, like he doesn’t feel right about being near to you. It’s been that way since your bachelorette party. Since the moment he kissed you and forgot that next morning. The look in his eye when he stated plainly he didn’t remember much at all about the moment where you wondered, if only briefly, that there might be something more to this arrangement than two people entering a business deal.

From that moment on, he’d made himself very busy, and you spoke little. Figured it was likely better that way. No way to muddle the lines established in your fake marriage. Better now than when you’re deeper into the arrangement, and delusion might have arisen.

But now, in this moment, you need that nearness. Crave the touch of the only other person who understands what you’re going through. The only other person who appreciates the depth of the nervousness pooling in your belly. Circling around your heart like a vice. Clawing at your lungs to leave you breathless.

“I’m just nervous,” you admit, trying to keep the frustrated tears at bay by inhaling deeply. He moves closer, thumb brushing along your right hand to where you’ve moved your engagement ring until after the ceremony when it’s joined by your wedding ring. “We’re doing something absolutely insane.”

“Completely,” he agrees, and those fingers drag along the inside of your palm. Your fingers reflexively tighten around his, comforting warmth seeping into flesh. “But you can say the word and I’ll call it off now.”

“You’ll let me be a runaway bride?”

It’s a watery laugh that prompts Steve to grip your other palm in hand as well, giving both a gentle squeeze. Your eyes wander downward to the two tethers anchoring you to earth in this moment, then to the kind face of the man who is to be your husband in minutes.

“Just say the word and I’ll come up with an excuse why it couldn’t happen.”

“No. No. I’m marrying you today, Steve.”

He blows out an exhale. A stray hair falls down into his eyes at the motion, and your fingers hesitantly reach up to push at it. His stare pierces you, hazel eyes warm as you card your fingers through dark locks, feeling them shift and move beneath your fingertips, impossibly soft and lush.

Gently, ever so gently the hand curling in your right one loosens and circles your wrist like a bracelet. Rests briefly over your frantic pulse point, before trailing along the back of your arm. Faint brushes of skin back and forth, back and forth, loosening that breath presently hitched tight in your chest.

“How about this,” he begins, eyes darting to where gooseflesh starts to prickle along your skin. You chalk it up to the AC unit in the bridal suite, meant to block out the heat of the city in summer. “When you walk down the aisle, you only look at me. Don’t look at anyone else, okay? It’s just you and me out there, no one else matters. Eyes on me.”

“Okay.”

A long exhale leaves your mouth. Lungs deflate with the deepest breath in what feels like hours now. Steve’s fingers extricate themselves from yours in those moments of quiet, footfalls of his leather shoes clacking along the floor as he makes his way over to the door. His hand curls around metal when your voice breaks into the resounding silence, quiet and minuscule for you, and you loathe to admit there are nerves that still cling to every fiber of your being over what you’re about to do in front of hundreds of literal strangers.

“Steve.”

It’s simple. But he turns quickly, barely opens his mouth to speak when you rush forward and wind your arms around his waist. And there’s no protest. No argument as broad arms twine around your waist. As they rest low against your back, radiating warmth and comfort.

He remains like that, quiet and steadfast, until you’re both ready. Until you lace your fingers with him and he leads you to where your father stands ready to walk you down the aisle. He hands you off to the older man, rests a comforting palm on his father-in-law’s shoulder and dips his head once. Tips his head in your direction and offers you a kind smile.

“Eyes on me,” he reminds you.

“Eyes on you.”

So it begins.

There’s a ring on Steve’s finger. You notice it as you sit beside him at your sweetheart table, as strangers and friends alike offer you congratulations and greetings in support of your nuptials.

Because you’re married now. Freshly Mrs. Harrington.

In a whirlwind of emotion, you’d walked down the aisle onto that beautifully lit private rooftop. Admired only briefly the weeks of wedding planning spent with your new mother-in-law and followed Steve’s directions.

Eyes on him to block out your surroundings, eyes on him to ignore the shutter of Jonathan’s camera, of the other photographers milling about. Eyes on him as you heard the audible sniffles of Steve’s family and your own. Eyes on him as the officiant had you recite words that would bind you to Steve as you slid rings on each other's fingers. Empty words that felt like ash on your tongue. Nearly choked you as you spoke them out loud in front of hundreds of people. Declarations of a devoted love shared between kindred spirits wanting to spend the rest of their lives together.

And you’d kept your eyes on him as you were declared husband and wife, as your new name was announced to that rooftop gathering, as they’d announced Steve could now ‘kiss the bride.’

He’d been warm and welcome. Lips brushed against yours with a gentleness that had your head spinning, stomach swooping low in your belly. When he leaned back to take you in, his palm, the one where his new wedding band sat, cupped your face. To others, a sign of affection. To you, a reminder that it was only you two up there. Even as he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, as the room erupted into applause, and he whispered to you.

“Keep looking at me until we get back inside, okay?”

A simple sentence. A comforting command meant to quiet your fears with the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand against yours.

Now you sit in a romantically lit room, all atmospheric blues dancing along the walls draped in white with your new first initial of your last name highlighted on the dance floor. Beside you, Steve chats enthusiastically with a man and woman, who offer you remarks on your appearance. It’s all you’ve heard all evening. Comments on your new marriage, how beautiful you look, how happy everyone is for you two.

You find it eases that tension, helps you settle in against your chair, still holding your husband’s hand as you sip daintily at a glass of champagne. That and Steve’s constantly checking in on you, making sure you’re okay, offering to grab you another drink despite the fact wait staff quite literally answers your every beck and call. There’s a gratitude toward him that rests behind your ribs, an appreciation regardless of the confusing few days you’ve had as of late with him.

Your husband who is not. A man you share a name with and only that. Who you signed paperwork with and will be heading off on a honeymoon with come morning. A man whom you’ll be sleeping in a separate bed from tonight, when most would assume you will be consummating your marriage. There’s none of that, only a pre-planned understanding.

Agreements, plans, business deals.

Before your mind can venture any further, the Emcee announces your first dance as husband and wife. You’ve almost forgotten about this part in all your planning. Never really thought beyond the kiss at the altar. Even so, Steve’s cupping your hand and leading you into the center of the dance floor where a giant ‘H’ is emblazoned below, drawing you near to him in an embrace as the song begins and you’re swaying back and forth in the arms of your husband.

“I’m scared to death that she might be it, that the love is real, that the shoe might fit.”

“People are staring,” you point out, curling your hands around the back of his neck, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Today is our day,” he laughs against the top of your head. Warm breath puffs along your skin, shiver tingling your spine. “I think you've forgotten. Everyone is here to celebrate us.”

“She might just be my everything and beyond. Beyond.”

“You’re my husband.”

He chuckles again, chest rumbling near your ear as you sway, his broad hands against your hips, tugging you closer.

“Guess that makes you my wife, huh?”

“Space and time in the afterlife. Will she have my kids? Will she be my wife?”

Your nose wrinkles at the newness of your title. Wife. Wife. You’re someone’s wife now. And he’s your husband. Husband. You mouth the word once more silently to yourself, finding it unusual, tongue stumbling over it, and snort into his suit.

That hand around your right hip tightens. “Something funny?” he asks, but there’s a levity in his tone that has your mouth jolting upward at the corners.

“Just…this day.”

“I know,” he agrees, voice growing softer as he adds, “people are also staring because you are beautiful, you know?

“Steve.”

“It’s true.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, pressing closer to him.

“I know this day has been…stressful for you, but you’re not alone. There’s two of us now.”

“She might just be my everything and beyond.”

Your head tips back at his words, feeble mind stumbling momentarily over his compliment, heart thumping as you say, “Like a team.”

He grins. “Exactly like that. We’re the Harringtons now.”

“The Harringtons.”

The name falls easily from your lips, but your quiet conversation is disrupted by the clanging of glasses about the room. Silverware all around the room taps against the delicate surfaces, a continuous tinkering around you both that has Steve’s mouth parting slightly. The pink of his tongue swipes briefly across his bottom lip before he closes it once more, lines of his throat bobbing on a swallow.

“They want us to kiss,” you tell him, sliding one palm down from where it rests around his neck until it curves around the edge of his jaw. You tip his head your way slightly, eyes scouring face. “And will probably be wanting us to do so all night. So…guess we might as well put on our best show, huh?”

It continues for the duration of the evening. Kiss after kiss bestowed by your husband. Constant expected affection. His fingers laced between your own, your hand on his thigh, his head on your shoulder, lips at your temple, lips on yours. Over and over again for hours. This time in a way that the slight buzz you have from your champagne could never erase—from either of your minds.

The evening itself becomes fun. Music changes and you’re brought onto the dance floor with your new husband and the friends from your hometown, as well as the ones he’s made along the way. Strangers who become dance partners. Bodies twirling and swirling along the floor, hands tangling with hands, laughter pulling from your lips. Like this, with Robin and Eddie’s forms near to your own, you feel lighter. Like this, when the song changes and you sing the words out loud in a silly rush with Steve in the center as those around you egg you on, you allow yourself to let go. To be free. To enjoy the evening that is about you and Steve.

Before long your feet are aching. Heels are discarded beneath you at your table, hand in Steve’s once more, as your closest friends give speeches. For Steve, it’s a rushed flurry of words from Robin. She speaks mostly to the closeness they’ve developed in the short time they’ve been friends, but a bond that has easily etched deep between the two of them. Speaks of your time as her roommate, about how she’d only been kidding when she said maybe you should get out there and start dating and quickly fall in love with her friend. Laughs easily when she says maybe she should have introduced them sooner.

It almost feels real, the words she speaks—the words Eddie speaks as he grabs the microphone and draws it close to his lips. He ties his hair back quickly, sweat from dancing clinging to the bangs dancing along his brow, and he clears his throat. Unrolls a piece of paper that’s on the tiniest scroll you’ve ever seen, but rolls all the way down to the floor when he unfurls it. The room bursts into enthusiastic laughter, your chest aching in adoration at the first words he speaks.

“You see…before I knew Steve, I knew his new wife. We grew up together in some shit hole town—I can curse, right? Sorry for all the kids here. Anyway, we grew up together…as I was saying. So when she asked me if I’d still love her if she did something stupid, I was thinking she meant a prank. Steve, just a heads up, your wife is a menace. A total damn menace. But I'm sure you knew that already.” He pauses for a moment as Steve chuckles, nodding his head in agreement, then continues, “And then she goes and falls in love with this guy. Big boy Harrington.”

Another round of laughter echoes in the room, and Steve grips your hand tighter in his where it rests against his lap.

“Pretty stupid, huh?” He chuckles to himself, folding the microphone against his waist for a moment as he bows, thanking the crowd for their involvement. “But it’s not that stupid when I really think about it. Because these two are some of the best people I know. Really and truly, and it makes sense that we’re all here right now. Right here in this room. Two people like this are meant to find each other. Drawn together by some…cosmic force. I mean, look at them! Have you ever seen two people so in love?”

The room leans in. Swells with emotion as Eddie sniffles audibly. This part, you know, is part of his speech. He’d read it to the two of you the night before, just as Robin had. Those around you don’t know, but you do. And still, your guests are nodding in agreement. Some are dabbing napkins into the corners of their eyes, swallowing down knots of emotion welling in their throats. Your own father glances your way with a fondness that cleaves you down the center, ears ringing as Eddie continues the rest of his speech, filling the cavity with guilt.

Clapping hands draw you from your silent reverie, followed only by the sound of metal meeting glass once more. The sound of your heart pounding in your ears as Steve slides a hand along the side of your face and leans down for the umpteenth time that evening, stilling your mind with the glide of his mouth against your own.

Soon enough, the bouquet has been tossed, the garter awkwardly collected from your thigh, and cake has been shared between the two of you, sugary remnants that linger in Steve’s hair (a mental note made to never mess with his hair ever again upon fear of death in your marriage) still visible as guest stand on either side of an aisle outside where a car is waiting for the two of you, lit sparklers dancing to life in their hands.

Your eyes meet his. “Ready to go?”

He grips your hand. “We’re in the home stretch now.”

Seventeen hours.

Seventeen hours is what it takes for you to arrive in the Maldives. Plus the time spent traversing you two across the main private island to your smaller bungalow only accessible by boat. You’ve barely had time to take in the beautiful sights, tiredness clinging to every limb, by the time the two of you are deposited on a dock leading to the place you’ll be staying for the next five days.

Steve clambers down onto the wood beside you, his own form looking a little worse for wear. He’s not spoken in quite some time. Neither of you have, really. Not since you returned to your penthouse after the wedding and slipped out of your wedding clothes. Nor when you parted down opposite ends of the hall. Even at the airport your conversation had been simple, pleasant, easy chatter about the weather and what you might do when you get to the island.

“Look how beautiful!” You enthuse, taking in the beautiful thatched roof of your private honeymoon suite on the water.

Pretty purple light douses the building, casts that same hue across the surface of the lagoon that laps against the edges of the boardwalk. From where you're standing, you can see another pathway leading to an outdoor gazebo and dining area draped in flowing cream curtains that billow in the gentle caress of the breeze around you.

You turn to look at your husband. “Wanna go explore?”

He yawns, head dipping as your guide lingers behind on the boat, wishing you two a lovely first evening on your honeymoon. Inside you’re met with a beautiful living room with sliding glass doors that lead to a deck, fully stocked with a jacuzzi, pool, and a sunken outdoor bath. Tired bones scream at the prospect of using them, though you proceed further into the suite. There’s a beautiful kitchen with the option of a private chef, a gym, an indoor spa you know you’ll be utilizing, the master bathroom with a tub that looks like it could fit ten people, and finally…the master bedroom.

The suddenness of your realization dawns, because your eyes immediately hone in on the one bed. A king bed, but only one all the same. You’re tired, you’re so tired that all you want is to peel back the covers and clamber in, but this throws a wrench into those plans. That clarity must also hit Steve, because he’s dropping his things to the ground and walking around the side of the bed to grip a pillow in hand, and begins making his way toward the entrance of the bedroom when you splutter audibly.

“Where are you going?”

He cards his fingers through his hair, exasperation lining those withdrawn features. “There’s a couch I saw in the living room.”

You shake your head, reaching out to cup his bicep. It instantly tenses under your fingertips. You don’t dwell on it, and instead argue, “You’re going to kill your back. We’re here for five days. We’re adults…we can share a bed.”

It’ll be like a sleepover. An adult sleepover where no sex is involved. Definitely not on your honeymoon—and definitely not with the man you married nearly twenty-four hours ago who you know very little about. You don’t know his birthday, his likes, dislikes…you don’t even know his favorite color, his favorite show, or if he’s a dog or cat person. Sleeping in the same bed as him will be a cake walk. Nothing to even worry about. A mere blip on the radar.

“I just…I don’t want…” He exhales deeply, and you finally notice the dark circles under his eyes. “You’ve already done enough by uprooting your life and marrying me—”

“It’s a bed, Steve.”

That seems to quiet the tension in his shoulders. They drop into a slouch, his form trailing back over to the side of the bed facing the wall when you clear your throat, awkward laugh breaking into the otherwise silent room.

“I like to sleep facing the wall,” you say gently, noticing the slight downturn of his lips. “But I’m assuming you do as well, so for the sake of both of our sanities I can sleep facing the door.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “No. No, I’ll take the door side. I can handle a few nights.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Happy wife, happy life, right?”

Your lip twitches upward. “You don’t snore, do you?” You ask teasingly.

“I…don't think so. But I’m sure you’ll tell me if I do,” he says, moving himself around the bed once more. He settles down against the mattress, testing the surface beneath his palm. “Bed is soft.”

“I would hope it would be for a private honeymoon villa. Your mother really went all out, huh?”

Your head tilts upward, taking in the vaulted ceilings. Where you��re standing you can even hear the sound of water lapping on the deck outside your windows.

“Pretty sure she’s secretly hoping I extend the Harrington line this week.”

Your nose wrinkles at that. “We’re absolutely making a pillow wall after that comment.”

“I’m joking,” he grumbles, body falling backward onto the bed.

One thing you’ve learned about Steve Harrington? He’s dramatic—impossibly so. Sort of like Robin, though he’s more frustrated outbursts versus her nervous or frantic ones.

“Pillow. Wall.”

“Fine.”

You walk over to the bed where your husband lays with his eyes closed and forearm strewn over his face. Bare knees brushing his, you reach out and tug on his free hand splayed near his hip, trying to drag him upward to no avail.

“Stop being a big baby.”

“We just flew for seventeen hours,” he argues, sitting upright.

“Steve. Lift your hulking ass off the bed. The sooner you get up, the sooner we go to bed.”

Your new husband grumbles to himself as he stands to his feet, helping you pull down the comforter on the top of the bed. Satisfied, you pluck a few of the extra pillows and make a line down the center of the mattress, pointing out your side and his, before slipping into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

You follow your normal routine. Wash your face, brush your teeth, slip on a moisturizer. You change out of your clothes next, opting for a matching set of shorts and a tank top, before tossing your street clothes into a laundry bin and sliding into your “Bride” slippers given as a gift by one of your friends at your bachelorette.

There’s a brief moment your eyes trail to the shower, where there’s glass paneling and a bench in the corner and then further to your right toward the gigantic bath tub you could practically swim in…and huff. Such a strange thing to be in this beautiful honeymoon hideaway with a man down the hall who regards you as a friend.

The same friend you now share a last name with.

Pushing the thoughts aside, you meander back down the hall to your bedroom for the next five days and come to find Steve laying on his stomach with his broad back on display, sheets hung low around his waist. You can map the various freckles and marks along his skin from where he rests, head resting on his forearm.

Smiling to yourself, you settle down into the bed and roll over to shut the lamp nearest your side of the bed. The room descends into darkness, and you whisper, “Goodnight,” before following him into sleep.

Pristine blue water surrounds you as far as the eye can see. The world is quiet from your home away from home for the week, save for the rustle of your book pages turning as you progress through the story and the sound of Steve’s fingers clacking across a keyboard. You exhale with a long huff, pushing your sunglasses higher up on the bridge of your nose.

Steve’s been working for hours now.

Since you both woke up, really.

Initially you had been a little miffed as you cooked up something for the two of you in your large kitchen, opting out of calling for a private chef to do so, and he pulled out his phone and laptop. You figured that was fine, up until the headphones went in while you sat down across from him and ended up sharing your breakfast in complete and utter silence.

On its own, that wasn’t so much an issue. What bothered you was your request to go outside and enjoy the sun together, and he’d agreed. In your mind, his intentions were genuinely to spend time with you. He’d slipped into a bathing suit and everything, only to join you on the sun deck with his leather work bag, laptop pulled out before you could even get in a word of protest.

“You know, most people enjoy their honeymoon,” you tease, turning the page in your book.

You find yourself needing to take a break anyway. The two couples in your book are on vacation themselves, and the main character kissed the dark haired hero on the makeshift dance floor after one of the hottest dancing scenes you’ve ever read occurred. And seeing as your own honeymoon is not heating up, you’re frustrated.

Increasingly so when he says, “This isn’t a typical honeymoon.”

“Weren’t you trying to wrap up the business before we came here?”

You recall a conversation you had wherein he said as much about wanting to make sure he’d be able to partake in the Maldives, but it seems those words were rang untrue.

“Yes, but…things happen.”

Your book thumps onto the lounger beside you. “You do realize everyone thinks we’re on a real honeymoon, right?”

He dips his head, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he glances over the top of his laptop to glance your way.

“Your coworkers are going to be confused why you’re logged in for work while you’re here. I mean—look how romantic this place is!”

“I’m not following…”

Huffing, you curl your legs beneath you, shifting your body toward him. “You’re supposed to be…you know, giving me attention every hour of the day while we’re here. Ravishing me. Going at it like—non-stop. It’s supposed to be overly romantic. Flowers on the bed, sexy showers, no sleep, naked trysts in the kitchen—”

“Fine.” He shuts the laptop. Tucks it away in his leather bag. “I’m logging off. Happy?”

You grin enthusiastically. “Very, husband.”

Steve disappears inside for a moment, then appears once more with his phone in hand. You’re about to argue with him when he shows you he’s playing a game of solitaire—which you snort at, shoving him when his eyes roll—and slip your sunglasses back on over your eyes. Opening your book, Steve pushes at the back cover, leaning in close to try and read the short description on the back of what lingers inside the dog-eared pages.

“What are you reading, wife?” You catch the slight uptick of his lip; the smirk he tries to hide.

Conversation. Small talk. You can work with that. “To Know You’re Mine.”

He tucks his phone near his thigh. “What’s it about?”

“Swingers.”

“That’s very vague,” he points out. “Can you give me a little more than just ‘swingers?’”

Your brow arches. “Do you really care?”

“No, I’m asking because I’m bored.”

Shifting your chairs closer to one another, you flip the book over so he can see the front cover and start pointing out the little cartoon characters on the nondescript covers on shelves everywhere nowadays.

“So there’s these two who are dating, right? Have been for a long time. But it’s her first boyfriend and they live together. Then one day, he takes her to his friend’s show. And that’s where you then meet these two characters. Just so happens, they start swinging and…well, it gets really crazy. Do you want me to tell you the rest? I’m about…halfway.”

He nods his head and you explain the entirety of the plot so far. And maybe your honeymoon isn’t perfect, maybe jet lag kicks in and Steve starts to nod off right around the time you start explaining the chapter you’re up to, and maybe you have to nudge him to come inside so he doesn’t get sunburned.

Maybe you watch him as he lays down on the living room couch and you drape a blanket over his slumbering form. Maybe you settle down on another couch and roll over onto your side to look at him, your book long discarded on the coffee table. Maybe you allow yourself to roam his features, so much younger than his twenty-seven years when he’s resting like this—when he doesn’t have a whole company on his shoulders.

Maybe you close your eyes too and join him.

Suffering from jet lag, your first day is spent mostly lounging around. Sleeping off the long trip you’ve taken to get to where you are. Steve sits on his couch near you, and you sit bundled in blankets on the couch opposite. You watch reality TV, a show where couples pair up in a villa and try to make romantic connections, and scroll through social media. Allow yourself to click through different stories from your friends accounts, glance at the few articles printed, and scour the comments beneath regarding your recent wedding.

TikTok is blowing up with videos of you and Steve photographed with Eddie. You are in your wedding gown and Steve is beside you, hand in yours. He looks happy. Genuinely happy in a way that has you smiling over to where he sits, hazel eyes drifting your way curiously. You don’t even know how they got access to them in the first place, and likely don’t even want to know.

Overall, it seems like most are impressed and craving more photos. Wanting the inside scoop on the famous Corroded Coffin member’s best friends. No one seems to question the validity of the marriage, though there are questions as to why so quickly, but are snuffed out by those who make note that it isn’t like the two of you haven’t been in the same social circles for some time now. That it was a matter of time before the two of you realized love was always there, right in front of the both of you, and all you needed to do was reach out and grasp it.

By the next morning, you’re both awake and ready to take on the day, ordering a boat to the main island for your spa day. The prospect of a massage after the weeks spent planning your wedding sounds lovely, and you tell Steve as much, leaning into his frame as your guide asks how the first day of your honeymoon was.

“Amazing,” you gush, though you spent another night with a mountain of pillows between you and the man beside you. The only reason you’re close now is because they’re watching your interactions, gauging the newlyweds. “It’s so beautiful here.”

And that’s that, until you arrive at the spa booked for a private afternoon with your new husband, compliments of your new mother-in-law and the travel agent she’d worked alongside to make sure your accommodations were all you could ever dream of.

The only detail left out on your itinerary was the fact it was a nude spa. Fully. Part of some “bonding exercise” as the attendant explained before the two of you entered the hot spring, freshly massaged and draped in the coziest of robes to ever grace your skin.

You’re left alone with Steve in a darkened room warmed by the steam rising from the water’s surface, eyes dragging along his presently clothed form.

“I’ve seen your chest? You sleep shirtless, which…I mean, is fine. And uh…you’ve seen me in a bikini. It’s kind of like that, no?”

“Except now we’ll be naked.”

“Well, there’s that.”

“Yeah, that.”

“I mean, it’s not that serious. No cause for alarm bells,” you say, trying to ease the tension rolling off of Steve’s shoulders in waves. “I mean, you could always turn around and I can get in first. Just…eyes above the water level only.”

Steve rubs a hand along the back of his neck, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Sure. Okay, you go first.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, and you rush over the small deck to turn him around so he’s facing the wall. With his back turned, you untie the robe and drape it across a rack, then move over to the water’s edge to dip your toes into the water with a sigh. Warm water laps at your skin, coaxes you further into the hot spring until you’re settled down on a bench, water up to your shoulders, hopefully obscuring the rest of you from view.

“Okay, I’m in,” you announce. “You can get in. I’ll close my eyes.”

You pinch them shut in emphasis, clapping your hands over your face just in case. The sound of his bare feed padding across the deck reaches your ears, followed by the splash of what you assume to be a foot stepping into the water. It’s followed by a low exhale.

You pop your eyes open momentarily and Steve’s voice has you clapping them shut frantically. A shout of, “I’m not in all the way!”

“What are you waiting for?! Jesus to come back?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, to adjust to the warm water. It’s cold out here.”

You scoff. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t see your dick.”

“Can you not?”

“What? I didn’t!”

“I’m glad you didn’t!”

You scoff. “I mean, ow. That’s kind of rude. I’m your wife.”

“Did you bump your head and forget the part where we’re on a fake honeymoon, following our fake wedding?” He whisper-yells, still not moving down the stairs leading into the sauna.

“I didn’t say I want to see it! Don’t get too big of a head now,” you amend, eyes narrowing. “Steve, just get in, please.”

Your sigh of exasperation has him moving swiftly. Water ripples around your shoulders, gentle caresses against skin as he settles down beside you and announces you can open your eyes.

“There’s this dinner spot I think we should try out tonight. It’s on the main island, but it’s supposed to be really good,” he says after a while, drawing your attention to him. “I figure it could be nice to spend an afternoon out. Together.”

“Is my husband asking me on a date?” You tease, watching as his head submerges itself under the water, leaving you in solitude. “I’m kidding. Kidding, Steve. This seems on brand; my husband trying to escape me on our honeymoon.”

He emerges with a laugh, hair slick against his head, broad chest heaving up and down as he catches his breath. It’s then your eyes wander southward. Hitch on the hair lining his chest, the way it trails below the surface of the water, hinting at a downward path your heart clenches at the mere prospect of following.

Steve’s…well, your husband is handsome. You’ve known since you met him that first time nearly a year ago. But now, sitting there, with the ring you got him your ring on his finger as he cards his fingers through his hair. It…shouldn’t do anything, but it does. Bubbles to life feelings you would rather push away, sweep under a rug, ignore.

Deflect, deflect, deflect.

It’s easier this way.

Because he’s not your real husband in the ways that matter.

Capturing your current distraction as you continue to mindlessly stare, Steve taps your shoulder, drawing your gaze back to his face, your mouth twisting into a frown.

“Sorry, sorry. I wasn’t looking I—”

Scrambling to escape the moment, you start to rise a bit from the water, only for Steve’s gaze to stray. “Eyes up here, Harrington,” you tease, shoving at him and forcing him deeper into the water, hazel eyes bright and wide, holding you in place there in that sauna.

He laughs, spluttering as his head dips beneath the surface.

A deep, hearty, lyrical sound.

That laughter continues until dinner, where Steve brings you to a lovely outdoor restaurant on the beach. All around tables lit by candlelight outline the sandy floor. Little twinkling lights illuminate the space, hidden in the trees, curling around their slender trunks. It’s gorgeous, and you say so as your waitress congratulates you on your marriage while she seats the two of you, offering a bottle of champagne gifted by your mother-in-law.

Until it stops because of a simple sentence that makes Steve stiffen on the spot: “Are those the new Harringtons?”

It’s supposed to be easy. A business deal with a contract like the ones he’d grown up reading. An exercise his father had him do often: would hand him a detailed contract, pages thick, and see if Steve could find the faults within. It’s why he knows the one he drafted up for his own marriage was—or rather, should have been—perfect. But marriage contracts don’t account for persistent wives. For the types of women who seep into the crevices of your life and make themselves known.

And that, he finds quickly, is you. You’re vibrant and joyful and downright fun to be around, and try as he might to deny it, finds himself enjoying your company. But he’d told himself, from the moment on that rooftop when he’d asked you to marry him, that these things could only grow complicated if he allowed them to. If he allowed himself to open up, to feel, to wonder.

Such as this moment, presently staring him in the face. You are in that pretty, off the shoulder cream dress he’d seen you unpack back in the bedroom that clings to your every curve, as Carol and her husband, Tommy H, settle down at the table beside the two of you. And, naturally, you slip into easy conversation with them. Chipper chatter as you catch up on the happenings of your honeymoon so far.

“Isn’t it just so beautiful here? It’s actually our first time here too, but it has been so lovely. Have you two been able to get out and see anything? I’m sure you’re still in that first few days of your trip bliss,” Carol asks, waggling her brows teasingly.

“I…uh, what?” You pause for a moment, reaching across the table to grab Steve’s hand in yours. As if you’ve just remembered you’re married and are meant to play the part of a newlywed. “Oh, yeah…so we have a private bungalow on the water. So you can imagine…”

“That sounds so romantic. Ugh, honey—” She reaches over to clasp her hand around her own husband’s forearm fondly, as if she’s reliving memories of their own newly wedded bliss. “If you haven’t seen any beaches yet, you definitely need to. The water was so perfect. We also tried out this really lovely breakfast place. Great for a morning meal and it’s connected to the sweetest trail. Such pretty scenery here, isn’t there, Tommy?”

Tommy nods, turning to Steve when the girls slip into easy conversation, grinning widely. “She seems great, buddy. So happy for you.”

“She really is,” Steve admits, catching the profile of your pretty face. The upturn of your lips that has his heart careening into the pit of his stomach.

He hates when it does that, and it seems to do so all the time now.

He knows it’s not coincidental.

And that’s the problem, now isn’t it?

The charm you possess. The way Carol and Tommy talk to you like they’ve known you for years as opposed to the few minutes it takes to learn their background history. To find out that they know Steve from the private school they went to in the city. You quickly learn Steve and Tommy played baseball together, before Steve went to business school and Jason pursued the major leagues. They’ve not seen each other in years, so there are no hard feelings about not being invited to the wedding, but they’re happy for the two of you.

Steve told himself marrying you would be easy because he knew little of you. You’re his best friend Eddie’s best friend. You were previously Robin’s roommate. But up until your vows at the altar you were a name his friends would bring up in conversation, and now you’re central to a majority of his conversations, share a last name with him, have now shared a bed with him.

Luckily, there are only a few more days left of your honeymoon. A few until he’s back in the city, back to work, and back to normalcy. You’ll be heading back to school, he’ll have a semblance of reality he feels he’s been lacking, so wrapped up in wedding planning and get togethers, and he’ll have no questions as to why he’s finding it so hard to keep your marriage strictly as what it was always intended to be: a business deal.

For now he’ll have to deal with you grabbing his hand flirtatiously when an Emcee announces a competition for that evening that manages to put a new glint in yours and Carol’s eyes. An expectant glee for him to participate with you, keen on competition, despite his grunts of protest.

For now he’ll have to deal with the way your eyes meet him as a coconut is pressed between the two of you and the game of the evening is announced. Coconut smoochie, wherein two couples compete to bring the coconut between their bodies up to their mouths for a kiss, without using their hands.

For now, he’ll have to deal with the smirk that lines your lips as he starts shifting this way and that, coconut rolling between the two of you, sliding against his abdomen, his chest, your chest, your breasts.

For now, he’ll have to ignore the way you grin to yourself when Carol and Tommy drop their coconut behind the two of you, how satisfied you are when Steve manages to get the coconut under his chin and pinches it there.

“Harrington, you’re not so bad at this,” you tease, chest against his, hips against his.

One wrong move and—

“Can’t believe you got me to do this.”

“You’re on your honeymoon. Live a little. Life doesn’t have to be numbers and contracts all the time.”

And you’re right. He knows this. But he hates the way his stomach twists violently, how his heart clenches as your lips press against the coconut and the other side is pressed to his mouth. Hates how when you’re announced the winners and the coconut drops to the floor between you, his palms sweat as your arms come to curl around his waist.

Because you’re his wife, yes.

Technically.

On paper, at least.

But that’s all it can be.

This affair, this agreement—it has an expiration date.

Three years.

Three years and then you’ll be gone.

Lost to him, like so many others.

For the sake of your agreement, it has to remain that way.

Light seeps in through your bedroom window. A heaviness around your waist, like a weighted blanket, keeps you still. Comforted. Warm. A sigh spills from your lips, pleasant and happy. Contented. Burrowing deeper into that warm, you hum, relishing in the feeling of it. Of being cocooned, safe, held close.

Held close.

Held—

Head shifting, you come to notice Steve flush against your back. His hips against your backside, thighs tangling with yours, and that weight around you? Yeah, it’s connected to a wrist, a bicep—because it’s an arm. Steve’s broad arm cages you in against his bare chest. His warm, freshly tanned, bare chest. Those fingers around your hip curl tighter. The arm around you tugs you closer, though you’re not sure how much closer two people can be without climbing into the other person, and you realize the very…interesting situation you two have found yourselves in.

His body against yours. Your body flush against him. His breath in your hair, along your ear, his mouth near the hinge of your jaw. If he moves even the slightest bit, they’ll make contact with your skin. And you’ve kissed Steve enough times now to know said kisses are dangerous. They’ll only lead to dreaming, to questioning, to wondering.

You don’t have time for any of those things.

Your honeymoon is coming to a close soon enough. Only a few days left now, and then you’ll be back to your own lives. To normalcy. Or as normal as two people freshly married can be.

“Steve?” Your voice is quiet in an attempt to not startle the man holding you.

His mouth shifts near your ear. A low yawn spills against your jaw, heat fanning across your skin. “Yeah?”

“You’re squeezing me,” you point out, wiggling your body for emphasis. “Our pillow wall fell down in our sleep.”

But it’s in the wiggling against his solid form that you realize there are actually three people in the room. Your husband, yourself, and the warm, thick, long, and presently hard erection pressed against your bottom.

It’s also when you hear the slow exhale of your husband’s breath along the hollow of your ear. A telltale sound, even in the short time you’ve been married, that signals he’s hardly awake. Still in that wispy world between waking and sleep. Deciding to not rouse him further, you settle back down into his embrace.

Or rather, try to. When you do so, your body freezes on the spot. Cold water seemingly drops from a bucket onto your shared bed. Because Steve whimpers against your shoulder.

Whimpers.

A breathy, needy sound that has your stomach fluttering. And further still, as your heart rate picks up, realization dawns. Your knee involuntarily searches for its twin beneath the covers, thighs clenching around Steve’s thigh. This time, he moans. A deep rumble in his chest that vibrates along your spine, has your fingers clutching at his arm slung low around your hips.

“Steve,” you try again, pleading with whoever listens from above as Steve’s hips roll forward, cock pressing against your backside again, making your pussy flutter around nothing. Betrays you and your damn emotions. Your pillow swallows your moan, desire racketting in your veins. “Fu—Steve.”

Awareness grows. Waking follows. Steve starts to shift behind you, arm loosening from around your waist, chest slipping from your back. His form moves toward the headboard and you try to not miss the loss of his warmth so deeply, try to not linger on the instantaneous loneliness that creeps when the king sized bed grows even larger before you, the gaping maw between you created by lies and acts, touted before your closest family and friends never so insurmountable.

As you rise from your own pillow and look at him, he tugs the blankets higher up on his hips, hands moving to the bedside table to grab his glasses and phone. Your mouth opens to speak, to reassure him it’s fine, that it happens, that it’s just a silly pillow wall, but he mutters shower and slips out of the room and down the hall.

Huffing, you roll onto your back, listening to the sound of your racing heartbeat coming back to a normal rhythm. It’s joined a moment later by the water running, the gentle rainfall of the shower head in the master bathroom sparking to life, likely steaming that room.

You don’t want to think about it.

Try hard to not think about the figure of your husband slipping into the stream. Try not to imagine the sight of his bare chest on display, rivulets of water dripping down his sculpted abdominals, fingers running through the hair growing longer since you’ve met him on his head, along the stubble that’s lining his jaw and upper lip now. Try to not imagine him still pressed against you, rolling his hips against yours, drawing a quiet moan from you. Definitely don’t imagine what he’s likely doing in the shower to alleviate his…situation. Your fingers edge along the hem of your sleep shorts as you try to block out the image of his corded arms straining in the shower as those long fingers curl tight around his c—

No!

Absolutely not! Not going there.

NOPE.

The day before your flight home arrives sooner than you expect it to. Five days of…well, maybe not marital bliss, but something, passing before your eyes. After the night you woke to Steve’s arms around your waist, the pillow wall became a pillow mountain.

And, though you loathe to admit it, you hate the mornings that follow. They remind you of what you can expect once you’re back in the city with him. Nights where you slip to one end of the hall and him the other, where you pass each other on the way to grab coffee in the morning, where you wave goodbye before one of you leaves and silence follows.

Steve wakes early the morning of your last day, mutters that he’s going to spend some time in the private gym, leaving you to make breakfast for when he gets out. With both a plate of eggs and coffee brewing for your husband, you open your laptop with the intention of making sure all your classes have been set up.

What greets you there isn’t…well, it’s not unexpected. It was part of your deal, but you hadn’t anticipated him paying the bill already.

Thousands of dollars were paid, bringing your total due for the semester down to nothing.

Zero.

Zilch.

Eyes burning, you close the lid of your laptop, sniffling as Steve enters the room and thanks you, taking a bite of his breakfast.

“You didn’t have to cook again,” he says. “We haven’t called the private chef at all this week.”

You shrug, wiping at your under eyes quickly. “I don’t mind. I like cooking. I’ll have to go shopping when we get home.”

Home.

That’s right.

The walls of your penthouse that feel so far from it are, in fact, your home.

“Don’t drive yourself crazy cooking all the time. I order out or go out most nights anyway.”

“Right,” you say, dipping your head and pouring him a cup of coffee. “I’ll be busy with school soon anyway.”

“Exactly.” He sips his drink. “That should be your main focus.”

“Right.”

Awkward.

Stilted.

Uncomfortable.

Those feelings linger as you step out onto the hammock outside, dangling over the water below. Your book is back on your lap, Steve’s on your right, freshly brought up to speed on where you’re at. The main character broke up with her boyfriend and told the main male lead that they need to stop seeing each other.

Needing to take a break from it, tears gathering in your eyes, you tip your gaze up to the sky. The sun beats heavily on your head, warms your skin, and makes you sleepy.

Steve turns his head your way, fingers trailing along your forearm, breaking you out of your silent reverie. “Hey. Are you okay? You’ve been a little quiet this morning.”

“Yeah.” You nod, rolling over onto your side. Reaching up to place your book on a safer spot of the deck, you shift closer to him, lips turning downward. “I saw you paid my semester—”

“I told you I would. It was part of the deal.”

The deal.

The arrangement.

“I know, I just…seeing it was kind of overwhelming. In a good way. In an…I’m really grateful kind of way.” A slow exhale spills from your lips, chest falling with the effort of it. “I know we didn’t get married in the most, uh, conventional way, but—there are things that this will allow me to do that I wouldn’t be able to otherwise. It’s a big weight lifted off my shoulder. So. I guess thank you for marrying me.”

The corner of his lip twitches upward as your husband rolls over onto his side, sunglasses blocking half his face from view. “This is also a weight off my shoulders, too. I think you forget that. I needed to get married for the company—”

“A company you don’t want,” you tease, wrinkling your nose.

“A company I don’t want,” he agrees, chuckling lightly. “But I’d rather it stay out of my cousin’s hands. So thank you for marrying me.”

“Ready to go home, Mr. Harrington?”

He snorts. “Sure, Mrs. Harrington.”

#steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #modern!steve harrington #fake husband!steve harrington #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x f!reader #modern day!au

457 notes · View notes