#as one might put it. i only know that i know nothing...

[dollgxtz]

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.

[f1freaks]

THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL (THE LOSER HAS TO FALL)

PAIRING: oscar piastri x f!reader DESCRIPTION: angry sex with oscar because silverstone 25 was the biggest display of emotion from him that we've ever seen. that's it:) WARNINGS: smut mdni, unprotected!p in v, mentions of his penalty, oscar might usually seem sweet but he's actually a little slut for you A/N: ok but if you weren't at least a little bit turned on by how annoyed this man was post race then watch it again because what?!?

You had never seen him like this, not even close.

The sky over Silverstone was still heavy with the scent of rubber and rain as the final chequered flag dropped. The grandstands shook with thunderous applause, British fans rising to their feet for Lando’s win.

But you only had eyes for one man.

And he wasn't even celebrating.

You stood behind the barriers with his sister, your hands clasped together so tight that your knuckles were turning white. You watched as he took off his helmet, carelessly placing it on the side before offering his teammate his congratulations with the most half-hearted smile you had ever seen him wear. You could see it in the way he moved, tight, almost mechanical. Every motion screamed rage wrapped thinly in discipline.

He wore the same expression on the podium, barely glancing at the trophy presented to him. Anyone that knew him could see that he was seething underneath it all, his face painting a thousand pictures. The set of his jaw, the way he barely glanced at Lando, the stiffness in his shoulders even while holding the bottle of champagne. He clapped when he was supposed to, gave into the photo opportunities that they wanted. But the moment the celebrations ended, you saw it:

The thousand-yard stare.

Ten seconds.

That’s all it took to rip the win out of his hands and shove it into his teammates. A ten-second penalty under the safety car, albeit one he didn’t really deserve, and it was all gone. He had driven perfectly. And now he was standing in second place for the world to see, trying not to lose his mind in front of a hundred cameras and half a million fans.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until the celebrations ended and the began drivers to walk off the stage.

You knew his schedule. Podium, then a short refresh before heading straight to the media pen.

Unless you caught up to him first.

—

You spotted him just as he rounded a corner in the motorhome, stepping out in front of him before he could disappear any further into the hallway.

“Osc,” you called out, gently.

He didn’t stop walking.

“Oscar.”

Still nothing.

You reached out and caught his wrist, not roughly but just enough to stop him. His eyes flicked to you instantly, and for the briefest second you swore you saw it — all of it. The barely-contained rage, the hurt he hadn’t said out loud, the heat bubbling just under the surface waiting for somewhere to go.

“What?” he said flatly.

You stared at him. He looked wired. He looked like he hadn’t come down from the adrenaline, like his body was still going at two hundred miles an hour and he didn't know how to stop. His hair were damp and curling around his ears, his fireproofs half-zipped, the podium cap lopsided from where he’d pushed it back.

“I just wanted to check in on you before you went into the media circus,” you said, dropping his hand now that his attention was on you.

“I’m fine.”

You blinked.

Bullshit.

“No, you’re not.”

His jaw twitched. “What do you want me to say? That I’m fucking furious? That I want to put my fist through a wall? That I’ve never wanted to walk off a podium in my life until today?”

He stepped closer. The crowd noise behind you felt a million miles away. The anger in his eyes didn’t scare you, because you knew that it wasn’t aimed at you, like blunt force with nowhere to land. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with it, with himself, with this.

“I don’t need you to say anything,” you said, quietly. “I just need you to stop before you go out there and say something you regret.”

His breath hitched. He blinked once, hard. Then looked away. His fingers flexed at his sides like he wanted something to grab. Or hit. Or hold onto before he lost control.

“Just—fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “I need to get out of here. I can’t fucking breathe.”

You nodded. “Go, I'm right behind you.”

—

He didn’t say a word to you as he walked. Didn’t look back at you. Didn’t slow down.

He just moved, long, purposeful strides through the motorhome, shoulders squared like he was still fighting off the weight of the last fifty-two laps.

People tried to stop him, their hands outstretched, a few pats on the back.

Great drive, mate!

Podium again, what a race!

You and Lando, that was—

He didn’t respond, offering a nod as he ushered past.

You followed in his wake, trying to smile at the people that he dismissed so passively. You knew that none of them would take it personally, but the look of surprise on their faces told you enough.

The moment the door to his driver room shut behind you both, the sound of celebration disappeared so suddenly it made the atmosphere between you tense.

Oscar stood in the middle of the room like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He ripped the podium cap off his head and threw it hard, like it disgusted him to still be wearing it. It hit the sofa and bounced to the floor.

You watched him from the doorway.

“I know what you're going to say,” he said, voice low and restrained, like he was swallowing every word he wanted to yell. “I don't want to hear it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” you replied softly.

Finally, he turned. His eyes met yours for the first time since entering the room and they stayed. No emotion but the unfiltered frustration, bleeding out from behind the restraint.

And then, with barely any warning, he walked toward you. Every step heavy, deliberate. You didn’t dare move.

When he reached you, he didn’t kiss you. He just pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. His hands came to your hips, fingers curling in the fabric of your clothes like he needed something to hold on to.

“I should’ve fucking won.”

You nodded, taking his face into your hands. “I know.”

You felt his jaw clench, his grip on you tightening. He wasn’t really looking at you anymore but just past you, over your shoulder, into the space behind your head like he didn’t trust himself to meet your eyes.

“You need to take a second,” you whispered.

“I’ve had enough seconds,” he said, almost growling through gritted teeth. “Ten too many, apparently.”

His breath caught, just barely. Then his mouth crashed down onto yours, taking your breath instead.

There was no patience in it. Just teeth, heat, and pressure. His mouth slanted against yours, needing to feel something other than failure. His hands were already tugging at your clothes, needing to feel your bare skin, quickly.

When your shirt came off, he didn’t look down. He just pushed you back until you hit the wall, his hips pressing into yours. You felt the tension radiating off him, untamed compared to his usual calm, his wet mouth trailing down your jaw.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” he muttered, voice rough against your neck.

“I know.”

“I’m still so fucking furious.”

“You really think standing here, talking, is gonna fix it?”

His throat made a low, rumbling sound and he kissed you again, messier this time, one hand braced above your head and the other sliding down the curve of your back.

“I need you quiet,” he panted. “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded frantically, already fighting the urge to whimper.

“Good.”

His hand slipped between you, his fingers dragging across your waistband finding the button and undoing it fast. He didn’t bother undressing you completely, he didn’t need to; he just pushed your trousers and underwear down to your knees, then backed off just long enough to tug his own fireproofs down and free his aching cock.

As he closed in on you, his palm came to your face, tilting your head just slightly so your mouth was close to his again. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, and he just looked at you for a second— really looked.

And then he pushed into you all at once, keeping his eyes trained on yours the entire time. You choked on a breath, hands clawing at his shoulders.

He held still, forehead pressed to yours, letting you adjust. Barely.

And then he began to move, every thrust purposeful, like he was trying to bury the race in you — the mistake, the penalty, the interviews, the humiliation.

Your back hit the door with a thud in rhythm with his hips. You could barely control yourself, nails dragging down his back as he hissed at the contact.

“You’re mine,” he muttered, twisting your nipple in between his fingers. Not possessive, but needy. “Say it.”

“I’m yours, Oscar, please—”

He cursed under his breath and snapped his hips harder, hitting a new angle that was making you see stars. You swore your knees would buckle any second.

His hand slid to your throat, just holding it as he kissed you again, swallowing the broken sound that escaped your mouth.

“This—” he slammed into you sharply, “—this is mine. They can take whatever they want, but they're not taking this from me.”

You whimpered again, well aware that you were getting loud but you couldn't stop.

Your body was on fire, every nerve tingling. It was deliciously rough, never cruel. His hips meeting yours at a brutal pace, teetering on the edge of pain and pleasure.

When your hand slid down between you, he caught your wrist just before your fingers reached the place you needed him the most.

“Don't,” he muttered, voice harsh, almost ragged.

You blinked at him, breathless, frustration coursing through your veins, but he didn’t let go. He brought your wrist up, pinned it against the wall beside your head, and moved his hips with more force. The angle shifted again, deeper this time, and your mouth dropped open with a quiet gasp.

“Is my cock not good enough for you?” he said, quieter now, his mouth right next to your ear. “It fucking will be.”

You weren’t sure if you were being promised or threatened, but you liked it.

He kept up the pace, grunting as he fucked you in earnest, dragging you closer and closer to the precipice until your whole body was shaking against him.

Your free hand struggled for grip on his shoulder, his breath hot on your neck, intensifying everything ten fold. His grip on your wrist was unrelenting no matter how much you pushed against it.

“You’re gonna cum like this,” he said confidently, biting and pulling at your earlobe.

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. You just nodded, helpless, head falling back against the wall as your body started to spiral.

“I can feel it,” he growled, hips slamming upward, his pace sloppy and all over the place now, chasing his own high at the same time as yours. “Need to feel you cum on my cock.”

He was right. Every part of you was strung so tight it felt like your bones were vibrating.

Then he reached between you anyway, the heel of his hand pressing hard against your clit, not gentle at all.

You shattered.

You were blinded by euphoria, a hard, earth -quaking orgasm that stole the air from your lungs, made your whole body clench around his thick cock still thrusting inside you, made your legs shake where they were wrapped tightly around his waist.

You cried out, his name falling from your lips over and over as he swore under his breath, covering your mouth with his hand.

“Shit. Fuck—fuck—”

He drove into you once, twice, then exploded deep inside your cunt, feeling his cock pulse as he painted your insides with his cum. His hand hit the wall beside your head, holding himself upright, the other still bracing your wrist as he panted against your throat.

You stayed like that for a second— the only sound in the room your breath and his, still ragged, still uneven. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you felt the tremor still running through his body. Though you didn't know if that was actually your own trembling.

He didn’t say anything.

He winced as he pulled out, glancing at you as he dragged a towel from the side unit and wiped quickly at his face and neck, then passed it to you without a word. He stepped back and tugged his fireproofs back up with unsteady fingers.

You stayed put leaning against the wall, not having the courage to see if your legs worked just yet.

He grabbed the cap he’d thrown earlier and stood there, hands on his hips as he turned to look at you.

“I have to go,” he muttered, adjusting the cap like it would hide his disheveledness. It didn't.

You nodded.

At the door, he paused for a second. His hand hovered at the handle. Then he glanced back at you, eyes darker now. There was something different about him. Still taut, but less... volatile, like he’d finally burned through whatever was sitting under his skin.

His mouth opened, his breathing still faster than usual. You thought he might say something.

But he just offered you a nod and a tight-lipped something, before turning and leaving you half undressed, the evidence of his actions still dripping down your thighs.

click here for my other works !¡

tags <3 @piastrislocss @dolcecherub

[holyblonded]

feel no pain | alexia putellas

pairings: alexia putellas x sister!reader

summary: after being publicly called out, alexia finally tries to redeem herself and mend your relationship

universe: bear’s/cloud nine universe

warnings: this whole series is just angsty tbh

notes: usually i really look over for grammar mistakes but i have no more adhd meds so its going to have to wait. on the bright side, the lack of adhd meds helped me finish this!

It had been a week since the barbecue. A week since you said the words that, no matter how many times Alexia replayed them, still made her chest crack open like a fault line.

“I’m actually done this time.”

That sentence hadn’t left her head. Neither had the rest of that night.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She’d only stepped outside to get some air after Olga stormed off. After Olga’s words landed like gut punches she couldn’t defend herself from. But then she heard you. Through the open window, in the dim orange glow of the patio light. She heard everything.

"No more crying boohoo for her, no more saving seats, no more texts, nothing. I'm not going to waste any more time or tears on a person who has made it obvious she doesn't care for me." Your voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. Brutal in its finality. Alexia had always known how to read a tone, and this wasn’t anger. It was grief with the funeral already held. You had buried her.

Alba had been crying. Softly, but uncontrollably. Eli looked like someone had kicked her in the gut.

And then the voice from the phone. Calm, grounding, and most of all gentle. “I understand you, Bear. But I need you to take a deep breath for me.”

Alexia flinched. Bear. She hadn’t heard anyone say that out loud in god knows how long. She was the one who gave you that name. When you were little and grumpy and always stomping around the house in your puffy winter jacket. Mi Osita. Her little polar bear. She’d thought it was hers… and now someone else said it. Someone who knew how to make you breathe again.

You quieted at the voice. You relaxed. Not for her. Not for your sister. But for JuJu, who didn’t even have to be in the same room to get you to slow your heart rate.

“You’re doing great, Bear. Can you give the phone to Alba or Eli so they can tell me the full story?”

You passed the phone like you’d done it a thousand times before. Your hands still trembling. And when Alba reached for your face to ground you, Alexia saw it—the way you melted into her hands like a child desperate to feel safe. “Calm down, Osita,” Alba whispered, her voice catching. “Sigan mis respiraciones.” (Follow my breaths)

You followed. Inhale. Exhale.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,” Alba whispered again.

That was the part that gutted Alexia. Worse than anything she’d heard you say. Protect you. From her… from your own sister.

Now, back on the training pitch at Ciutat Esportiva, Alexia felt like she was moving underwater. Everything was too loud and too quiet all at once. Her touches were off. Her passes too soft. Every time she ran, her legs betrayed her.

“Ale,” Irene said gently, jogging beside her as they finished a rondo. “You good?”

Alexia nodded without meeting her eyes. “Fine.”

“You sure?” Irene asked again, tone more direct this time. “You’ve been off all week. Want to talk?”

“I said I’m fine,” Alexia snapped, sharper than intended. She didn’t look back as she jogged toward her water bottle, wiping sweat off her brow like it might erase the tension building under her skin.

Irene stayed put for a beat, then sighed and let her go.

The break came, and just as Alexia finally started to breathe, Vicky bounded over, Salma and Sydney right behind her, grinning like they’d just walked out of a movie premiere.

“Oh my God,” Vicky said, beaming. “Did you see the new Gatorade promo? Your sister’s flavor? It’s actually so good.”

“She gave me a case!” Salma chimed in. “Persimmon Rush. Who even thinks of that? It’s fire.”

Sydney laughed, nudging Alexia lightly. “She said it was inspired by JuJu’s favorite fruit in an interview. They’re so corny. I love them.”

Vicky nodded, face lit up with that kind of bright, infectious admiration. “She’s seriously killing it. Like, I knew she was good, but she’s becoming an icon. That new Nike line? Crazy.”

“Did you see the TikTok with the mini Bear doing the Putellas 1080 on a trampoline?” Sydney added. “Half the Olympic team stitched it. Bear reposted it with the caption ‘She stuck the landing better than me.’ She’s hilarious.”

They laughed and glowed, while all Alexia could do was smile. Tight, tired, and hollow.

Because she knew how cool you were. How brilliant. How rare. She’d known it since the first time she saw you land a spin in the backyard with no pads on, just grit and a scraped chin.

But she hadn’t been there for any of it. She hadn’t reposted the Nike line. Hadn’t congratulated you on the Gatorade deal. Hadn’t even watched the full run that won you Olympic gold.

And now? Now, she had to hear about your victories from her teammates. Her teammates who had somehow become your fans.

“I think she’s gonna win another one,” Salma said, thoughtful. “Like another gold. She’s built different.”

“She’s been through hell. That injury was tough,” Vicky murmured. “And she’s still the best.”

Alexia nodded again, but it was just muscle memory now. Her throat had closed. Her stomach churned.

She didn’t say anything. Because what could she say? I missed it. I chose silence. I let someone else become her safe place.

They kept chatting, buzzing, praising you, and all Alexia could think about was how you used to save her a seat at your high school showcases. How you used to wait by the tunnel after her matches, holding signs in the stands. How you used to run into her arms yelling, “Did you see me? Did you see me?”

You didn’t ask that anymore. Now, you had someone else waiting at the finish line. Now, someone else called you Bear. And Alexia, she had only herself to blame.

It’s been a week since the barbecue. A week since you said I’m done. A week since you told her, told the entire family, that you were finished chasing shadows. Since Eli cried. Since Alba whispered ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.’ Since you saw the look on Alexia’s face crack for the first time in years—confusion, then denial, then something that almost looked like guilt.

But you didn’t wait around for it to turn into anything real. Because you’re done.

Now, it’s the beginning of a new semester. You’re back at USC, off campus now. Finally moved into the apartment you and JuJu signed the lease for in last semester. It’s cozy, tucked just behind the campus hub, with one master bedroom, a guest bedroom, and two and a half bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, and exactly one miniature couch that you had custom made for Deuce the Frenchie.

Deuce, for all his snorting, grumbling, muscled-up glory, is 100% your dog now. He sleeps in your bed, waits in your side of the bathroom, and barks at JuJu when she tries to steal your hoodie (her hoodie back) or play fights with you. She pretends to be annoyed, but secretly, she loves it. Loves that the three of you feel like a little world. A little family. One that shows up for each other.

Your apartment has become the official hangout spot for half of USC Athletics. Someone from the basketball team is always on the balcony, someone from the snow team always raiding the fridge. The whiteboard in the kitchen is always full of tournament dates and new potential smoothie combinations. The music is always loud. The air smells like fresh laundry, eucalyptus, and a hint of saffron. And your bedroom—you and JuJu’s bedroom—is a safe place now. No ice packs. No meds. Just you, JuJu, and Deuce, grunting in his sleep between you.

Life is good. No—life is great.

And then comes the preseason media panel. You’re not cleared to compete yet, but the university still asks you to speak—Olympic gold medalist, comeback kid, viral trick inventor, snowboarding’s darling. You don’t mind. You’ve done panels before. You know how to smile on cue. You put on your team jacket, Persimmon Rush patch stitched into the arm, adjust your gold ‘J12’ necklace to fall perfectly, and take your seat under the lights.

The first few questions are easy.

How’s the knee?

“Strong. We’re ahead of schedule.”

How’s it feel to be back on campus?

“Warmer than Switzerland. Colder than Spain.”

What’s your goal for the season?

“Land clean. And have fun.”

Then comes the question about Alexia.

The reporter phrases it casually, like it’s a throwaway. “Your sister Alexia is having a great start to her season with Barcelona. Do you two still keep in touch?”

You smile, thin and practiced. “We’re both busy, but I always hope she’s doing well.”

The next reporter presses it, just slightly,

“Any chance we’ll see her cheering you on this year?”

You nod vaguely. “She’s got a packed schedule. We’ll see.”

And then comes the third one. The one that makes your throat dry. That makes your hands curl slightly in your lap.

“Would you say you come from a competitive family? You are the sister of an incredible soccer player.”

You laugh. Just once. Sharp and low. Then you smile again, but it’s not sweet. It’s bitter. Bone-dry. “Some compete,” you say, voice like glass, “and some disappear. Flip a coin.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. A quiet, surprised chuckle from your coach, who steps in quickly, “Let’s move to the next question—maybe about NIL deals or community outreach…”

But it’s too late. The quote is already out there. By the time you get home that night, the clip has gone everywhere.

JuJu’s curled up on the couch in one of your hoodies, legs under a blanket, Deuce snoring at her feet, SportsCenter on mute and an NBA game running on her iPad. She looks up the second she hears the door unlock.

“Hey, Bear,” she says, her voice warm, familiar, soft.

You don’t even answer. Just drop your bag to the floor, shuffle toward the couch, and throw yourself directly into her arms.

She catches you instantly, wrapping her arms around your back, and lets you bury your face in her neck.

“You saw it,” you mumble, already groaning.

“I did,” she says. “TikTok says three million views. Instagram… I stopped counting. ESPN is having a field day.”

You groan louder. “I knew it. I knew I shouldn’t’ve said anything. I was tired. I was sore. And I hate those chairs—they’re always built for people with normal knees. No athlete has normal knees.”

JuJu hums and chuckles at your last statement, but doest’t argue. Just runs her fingers through your hair.

For a while, it’s quiet. The only sounds are the low buzz of the TV, the soft flick of her nails against your scalp, the way your breathing starts to slow in the circle of her arms.

Then she says, quietly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

You don’t answer right away. Because you do. But it’s hard. It always is. Talking about her.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” you whisper eventually. “I was just tired. I’m always tired when it comes to her. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

JuJu brushes her thumb across your jaw.

“You didn’t make a scene,” she says. “You told the truth.”

You lift your head. Meet her eyes.

And then it spills. Quietly. Like a cut reopening.

“I used to lie for her,” you whisper. “All the time. In interviews. To my teammates. Even to my coaches. I used to say, ‘We’re just busy,’ or, ‘We’re super close, just private.’ I thought if I kept saying it out loud, it’d eventually be true.”

JuJu doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“And then I stopped lying,” you go on. “And it got worse. The silence. The distance. The way she only remembered me when there were cameras. Or when someone asked. Or when it benefited her.”

Your voice shakes. “And I hate that I still care. I hate that I still check her stories. That I still wonder if she saw mine. I hate that part of me still hopes she’ll text.”

JuJu pulls you in tighter.

You bury your face in her hoodie again. “I don’t want to want her. I just want to be over it. Over her.”

A beat. And then JuJu whispers, “You will be.”

“How?”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, sure.

“Because you’re already doing it. Every day. With every medal, every rep, every laugh, every new beginning. You’re healing. And she can’t take that from you.”

You nod. Tears sliding down now.

“And if you ever get tired again,” JuJu says, kissing your forehead, “you can borrow some of my strength. I’ve got plenty.”

You laugh through your tears. “That’s so corny.”

She grins. “Shut up, you love it.”

“I really do.”

And just like that, you exhale. For the first time since the barbecue, your chest feels light again.

You don’t exactly know what started it. Maybe it was the long day. Maybe it was your sore knee. Maybe it was the emotional whiplash of the preseason panel and a flood of DMs afterward, all asking some variation of “But how are things with Alexia now?” Or maybe it was just the damn box sitting on your kitchen counter.

You’re standing there, soaked from the rain, half out of your hoodie. Deuce, equally soaked, at your side staring at the package like it barked at him first.

JuJu walks in, towel slung around her neck, fresh from lifting. She pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene. Her drenched girlfriend, her drenched, judgmental dog, and the (surprisingly dry) unopened package.

“Okay, what’s going on?” she says, amused. “You and Deuce look like you’re about to interrogate that box.”

You exhale slowly. “It was waiting for me at the training center.”

JuJu frowns and walks over. “USC Athletics delivered it to you?”

You nod. “They said it was dropped off earlier this week. No note. Just my name. But… it’s from her.”

JuJu tilts her head. “From your sister?”

You nod again, tighter this time. “She sent it there because Alba wouldn’t give her my address.”

JuJu’s face hardens just a little. “Okay. That’s… weird.”

“It’s so weird,” you mutter. “It’s awkward. It’s pathetic. I don’t even know what she wants me to do with it.”

JuJu puts a hand on the counter beside yours. “Want me to open it?”

“No.”

There’s a long pause. The box sits there between you and her like it knows what it’s about to do. Eventually, JuJu gives you a pep talk. Gentle, loving, steady. And somehow, you find yourself opening the flap. Inside is a jersey… her jersey. The new Barça kit. Signed. Folded perfectly. No note. No message. Just a signature across the number.

You stare at it. Your breath catches in your throat. “She signed it,” you whisper, stunned. “Like… like I’m a fan.”

JuJu steps closer. “That’s not—”

“This is something you give a Make-A-Wish kid,” you snap, voice cracking, “not your sister.”

You stumble back from the counter, chest heaving, and collapse onto the floor. The tile is cold. Your whole body shakes. It’s too much.

JuJu drops down next to you in a heartbeat, arms circling your shoulders. “Breathe, Bear. Breathe.”

But you’re already breaking. Sobbing into her chest, your hands balled into fists.

“She doesn’t get it,” you cry. “She never gets it. This isn’t an apology. It’s an autograph.”

JuJu holds you tighter, and you feel her press a kiss to your forehead.

“She’s trying in the only way she knows how,” she murmurs, “but it’s not the way you need.”

You don’t respond. You just cry harder.

Three days later, Alba sends you a screenshot. Alexia’s story.

A throwback photo of the two of you as kids. You’re maybe seven so she’s eighteen.

She’s holding your hand. You’re both in matching Barça shirts. It was the day she signed her senior contract with Barcelona.

No tag. No caption. Just the image.

“She posted this today,” Alba texts. “I think it’s her way of reaching out.”

You stare at it. You don’t respond. You don’t repost it. You don’t like it. You don’t message her. You check your Instagram and see she’s followed you again. You don’t follow back.

You’re done mistaking crumbs for love. You’re done hoping passive efforts mean anything.

She can follow you all she wants. It doesn’t mean she’s behind you. Not anymore.

Your comeback becomes official on a cloudy Thursday afternoon in early March. You’ve known for weeks, it’s been a slow buildup of PT milestones, check-ups, internal sign-offs, but now it’s public. The Royal Spanish Winter Sports Federation posts a sleek announcement:

“She’s back. Olympic gold medalist and reigning X Games champion “La Ossa” returns to snow competition. Cleared. Competing. Chasing another title at X Games.”

You don’t even plan on posting anything. But your Nike rep texts you and your agent says, “It’s good for the brand.” So you do.

It’s not dramatic, just a photo. You in your new snow gear, goggles pulled up to your forehead, board propped under your arm, a tiny scar from childhood visible under your reflective goggles.

The caption reads: “Let’s ride.”

It takes only six minutes to go viral. Your phone explodes. DMs, tags, texts from journalists, retweets from sports outlets. RFEA puts you on their story, and ESPN picks up the post before lunch.

But it’s not just them. Your teammates from USC and Spain post it. So do JuJu’s teammates—her basketball girls, her trainers, even her media intern. They tag it with bear emojis and write things like “Let’s go legend” and “She’s really HIM.”

JuJu reposts it with a caption that just says: “She never left.” And then adds an Instagram Story of you holding Deuce like a baby with: “She’s still taking this deadbeat dog with her tho.”

And then there’s Alba, who posts a three-photo carousel. One of you snowboarding as a kid, one of you holding your gold medal in Beijing, and the final one, taken just months ago, of you walking unassisted out of the rehab clinic. Her caption says, “My baby girl. You were always coming back.”

You almost cry at that one… almost.

But what catches you off guard are the reposts that start rolling in from players you didn’t expect. Irene Paredes. Marta Torrejón. Aitana. Then the newer ones. Vicky López tags you and writes, “My role model.” Salma reposts with a flex emoji and says, “The real GOAT.” Sydney reposts a story from your X Games run last year, the one you landed that impossible frontside 1080, and just types, “Insane.” Even Jana reposts with a simple “Welcome back, Bear 🐻” Even though you’ve only met her once or twice at a Barça women’s dinner. And then the headlines start rolling in. ESPN España. MARCA. Mundo Deportivo.

“The Return of a Champion: La Ossa’s Road to Redemption.”

“Two Sisters, One Legacy: The Putellas Bloodline Reigns Supreme. La Ossa and La Reina.”

“Snow and Grass: The Putellas Dynasty Across Sports.”

You stare at that last one and feel something curl bitter and sharp in your stomach. Dynasty. Legacy. Bloodline.

You read the headline again. Your name next to hers. The sister who ignored your injury. Who gave you a signed jersey like a fan. The one who said in Vogue that she didn’t really follow snowboarding.

And before you can think twice, you go on your story. Black background. White text.

“I’m not sharing a headline with someone who won’t even say my name.”

You hit post. Your phone lights up again. People screenshot it. Fans repost it. One TikTok about it hits a million views by the next day.

You don’t care. You’re not here to make peace. Not anymore.

You don’t hear from her directly, not at first. Until the voicemails start.

She doesn’t text. She doesn’t DM. She doesn’t email. Just these shaky, stumbling voicemails. Sent in the middle of the night. Always under a minute.

You don’t listen to the first one. Or the second. Or the third.

But then there’s a day. A day where practice sucks. Where you push yourself too hard. Where your coach says, “Do it again,” and it slices through your chest. Where JuJu’s gone for an away game in Arizona and Deuce keeps bringing you his toy like you’re supposed to fix everything.

You make it home. You shower, only manage to eat three spoonfuls of plain, cold rice before get in bed with Deuce tucked against your ribs and finally, you press play.

Alexia’s voice crackles into your ears. She sounds… tired. Smaller than you’ve ever heard her. “I know you don’t want to hear from me. I wouldn’t either. But I—I’m proud of you, Mi osita. I always was. I just didn’t know how to love you right. I thought keeping my distance was… safe. For you. For me. But it was cowardly. I know that now. I missed everything and that’s on me. Not you. It was never you. I love you, Osita.”

You lie there, still as stone. The voicemail ends. The silence afterward is suffocating. You don’t move.

Then, slowly, your face crumples. Your hands come up to your mouth and you sob. Silent, wracking, body-breaking sobs. The kind that make your chest ache and your spine tremble. You curl in on yourself like it’ll help. Like it’ll make the past easier to hold.

Deuce shifts, curling tighter into you, licking the tears that slide down your chin, not having the strength to push him away. But you don’t call back—you can’t call back.

Because apologies don’t erase absences. And love doesn’t fix the damage when it’s said too late.

She left you in the dark for too long. And you’re only now learning how to find the light without her.

Alexia opens the door expecting warmth. She’s always expected that from her mother, even when she didn’t deserve it. Even now, with the gaping silence between her and her sister, she thinks that maybe Eli has come to soothe it over. To tell her it’ll be fine, that time will patch it all up. That Bear is dramatic. That she’ll come around.

But one look at Eli’s face tells her otherwise.

She doesn’t step forward. She doesn’t kiss her cheek. She doesn’t carry a tray of leftover tarta de Santiago or hum in that way that used to mean comfort. No. Today, she looks like a woman on a mission. Sharp, stern, and most of all tired.

And Alexia suddenly feels ten years old again, like she’s about to get scolded for breaking something fragile.

“¿Quieres pasar?” Alexia asks hesitantly, moving aside. (Do you want to pass?)

Eli nods once, then walks in. They sit on opposite sides of the room. The silence is heavy. It buzzes in Alexia’s ears. She fidgets, unsure whether to offer tea or brace for a storm.

Eli doesn’t make her wait long. “You know,” she begins, her voice quiet but laced with steel, “she used to sleep on the floor with your jersey.”

Alexia’s stomach drops.

“She was younger. Maybe nine? Ten? She’d fold it like it was sacred. Wouldn’t even let me wash it. Just hugged it like it was a lifeline.”

Alexia closes her eyes, pain blooming in her chest.

Eli leans forward, eyes fixed. “Now she sleeps beside a girl who loves her better than you ever did.”

It lands like a punch to the gut. Alexia’s breath catches. Her mouth opens but she has no defense, no shield, no way to soften the truth. She stares at the floor, shame settling on her shoulders like a second skin.

“I’m trying,” she says finally. “I’m trying to fix it. I’ve been sending things. I followed her again. I left her voicemails. I posted that photo…”

“Do you think that’s enough?” Eli cuts in, her voice rising—not loud, but sharp like glass. “Do you think that erases everything? The birthdays you forgot? The interviews where you pretended she didn’t exist? The months you let go by without so much as a text?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Alexia whispers, her voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t,” Eli says. “That’s the point.”

Alexia looks up, eyes shining. “I want her back. I want to be her sister again. I know I messed up. I know I hurt her. But I miss her. I miss—” her voice breaks. “I miss the way she used to look at me. Like I was someone worth being proud of.”

Eli’s face softens just slightly, but she doesn’t let up.

“You need to understand something, hija. You don’t get to decide when you want to be a sister. She’s not a porch light waiting to be turned on whenever you finally feel like coming home.”

Alexia blinks fast, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“She is fire,” Eli continues, firm now, eyes burning. “And you left her in the cold.”

Alexia looks away. Her hands tremble in her lap. She presses her palms together like maybe she can keep herself from falling apart.

“She has overcome more than you know,” Eli says, softer now, but no less fierce. “That injury nearly broke her. The press wanted her to be you. Everyone wanted her to fail so they could say she was a mistake. But she didn’t break. She rose. She is rising. She has a girlfriend who adores her, teammates who protect her, and friends who know her heart better than you ever bothered to learn. I am part of the blame. Staying silent for so long, letting her hurt that long.”

Alexia says nothing. She can’t. Her throat is tight. Her vision blurs. All she can think of is the sound of your voice in the conversation she wasn’t meant to hear. “No more saving seats. No more texts. I’m not wasting another tear on her.”

Eli stands. “You want to fix this?” she says. “Give her space. Don’t corner her. Don’t use the press. Don’t make passive attempts and call them effort.”

Alexia wipes her eyes quickly, silently.

Eli steps toward the door, then pauses. “She doesn’t hate you, Alexia. That’s what makes it worse. She still loves you. Deep down. But she doesn’t trust you with that love anymore. And you’re going to have to earn it back inch by inch.” She opens the door, then turns over her shoulder. “And if you can’t do that with patience and humility, don’t do it at all.”

Alexia stands in the quiet of her apartment, her jersey still folded on the couch, a photo of you both as children face-down on her desk. She walks over, picks it up, stares at the grainy image. Your little body wrapped in her arms, eyes wide, grin lopsided. She clutches the frame to her chest and finally cries. Not for what she’s lost. But for what she gave away.

Alexia sits in the dark of her apartment, shoulders curled in like she’s trying to protect herself from the weight of her own guilt. She has a Champions League game is in two days, but she can’t focus. Every time she closes her eyes, she doesn’t see the pitch. She sees you. She sees the version of you that no longer looks at her like she hung the stars. Reminding her of the fact that it wasn’t always like this. It used to be you and her against the world.

Fourteen-year-old Alexia chased a giggling toddler across the backyard.

You were three, cheeks flushed with excitement, oversized Barça kit practically swallowing your tiny frame. You’d just managed to tap the ball past her and into the miniature goal she set up earlier that day, a feat you celebrated like you’d just won the World Cup.

“I scored! I scored, Lexi!” you shouted, arms raised like a superhero.

She laughed, pure, delighted laughter that echoed through the warm Mollet air. “You did, Osita! Golazo!”

You ran in circles, mimicking her own goal celebrations. She caught you mid-lap, scooping you into the air, spinning you around while you shrieked with joy.

“Lexi, I’m flying!”

“Of course you are, Bear. You’re unstoppable.”

She held you close after that spin, your forehead pressed against hers. Your curls were wild. Your grin was missing two baby teeth. She kissed your nose.

Back then, you were her shadow. Her little bear. She used to call you that every day—Osita when you were sweet, Bear when you had your little temper tantrums. She taught you to dribble before you could spell your name. You wore her old cleats like they were glass slippers. You loved her like she was the sun.

Two years later. You were five. A small pink bike with tassels sat on the front driveway, glinting in the afternoon light.

Alexia knelt beside it, one hand steadying the handlebars, the other resting on your helmeted head.

“I don’t want to fall,” you said softly, eyes wide and uncertain.

“You won’t,” she promised. “Because I’ll be right here.”

“You’re sure?”

She held out her pinky. “I promise. Pinky promise.”

You wrapped yours around hers. “With the kiss,” you whispered.

She smiled and leaned in, kissed your knuckle. “Con el beso.” (With the kiss)

Then you climbed on, wobbled, and cried out as the bike tilted. But she was there. Always there.

Her hands gripped the back of your seat as you steadied. She ran beside you the entire way down the street, breathless and beaming when you made it to the end without falling.

“I did it, Lexi! I did it!”

“You did,” she laughed, pulling you into her arms, heart thudding with pride. “I told you I’d be there.”

And you whispered into her ear, small and soft and certain, “Never leave me, okay?”

She squeezed you tighter. “Never.”

Then came the night everything changed.

You were seven. The house was quiet, painfully so. The kind of quiet that follows death like a shadow. Your father had passed two weeks ago, and though people still dropped off flowers and food, the visits had slowed. The once warm dishes were cold now. The grief was heavier.

Alexia was in her room when she heard the knock.

“Lexi?” your voice was barely audible.

She opened the door to find you in your pajamas, clutching a stuffed polar bear, tears lining your lower lashes.

“Osita,” she whispered, heart crumbling. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t sleep,” you said. “I miss Papi.”

Alexia dropped to her knees and pulled you in. You didn’t sob. You were past sobbing. This grief was quieter, deeper. The kind that lived in your bones.

She carried you to her bed, tucked you beneath her blanket, pressed her forehead to yours.

“He’s watching over us,” she whispered. “Always. You know that, right?”

“Like a guardian angel?” you asked.

“Exactly,” she said, brushing your hair from your eyes.

You sniffled. “Do you think he’d be proud of me?”

Alexia’s voice cracked. “He’s already proud, Bear. So proud.”

Then came your whisper. “Will you always be here for me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Always.”

“Promise?”

She held out her pinky, lips trembling. “Pinky promise.”

You linked yours with hers. “With a kiss.”

She kissed it, sealing it. And in the darkness, you finally slept.

Now. Alexia stares at her own reflection in the dark window of her apartment. Her eyes are bloodshot. Her heart is shattered. She broke every promise. She wasn’t there. Not when you moved into college. Not when you stood on that podium, medal around your neck, tears in your eyes as the national anthem played. Not when you tore your ACL. Not when you called her name through silence and she didn’t answer.

She let the press get between you. Let pride stand where love used to be. She let the idea of who she thought you should be ruin the chance to celebrate who you became.

And now, she has voicemails you won’t answer, throwback photos you don’t repost, a sister who used to sleep beside her—who now barely breathes in the same world.

“She’s not a porch light waiting to be turned on,” Eli had said. “She is fire. And you left her in the cold.”

Alexia curls her knees to her chest. She thinks of the jersey she sent—the stupid, signed jersey that felt more like a pity gift than anything meaningful. She didn’t mean it that way. She just…she didn’t know what to send. So she defaulted to distance, to impersonality, because getting too close meant reckoning with the years she spent failing you.

She remembers that voicemail she left. “I know you don’t want to hear from me. But I’m proud of you. I always was. I just didn’t know how to love you right.”

But the silence that followed said everything. Because love too late isn’t love at all. It’s regret. And Alexia Putellas has never known failure quite like this. Not on the pitch. Not in the spotlight. Only here, in the wreckage of a promise sealed with a kiss and a pinky. Only here, in the silence you left behind.

The event is loud, polished, over-produced in the way all Nike events are. Flashing lights, pristine backdrops, branded hydration stations and photo ops and camera crews lingering near every smiling athlete like moths to flame. You’re used to it now. Used to the attention, the posture, the grace required of you. You’re here for a good cause. You’re also here because your contract says you have to be.

JuJu’s off giving an interview on the far side of the room, charming the press in her calm, confident way. You can hear her laugh from where you stand, and it grounds you like it always does. She’s why you came. She’s why you stayed. She’s why you haven’t collapsed under the weight of everything else.

You’re idly sipping from a sparkling water bottle, scrolling through your phone to avoid small talk, when something shifts. You feel it before you see it—a sharp, gut-deep twinge like a storm moving in. You look up.

Alexia is across the room. She looks different. Not in the way time changes a person, but in the way regret lives on the face. There’s no smugness in her. No arrogance. Her shoulders are tight. Her expression is subdued, worn down by the ache she’s been carrying. Her usual command of a room is gone. She doesn’t glow here.

She looks… human. Small, almost. And heartbreakingly quiet.

She’s standing beside a Nike rep, but she’s not talking. She’s just watching you. Carefully. Softly. Not like she’s owed anything. Not like she expects a reunion or a smile. Just like someone who’s been hungry for your face and has finally found it in the wild.

You lock eyes. Time stops yet the room spins. The crowd fades and the music dulls.

Your chest tightens instantly. There’s a second—a flicker—where something in you wants to go to her. Wants to walk over, like you used to when you were little and got scared in a crowd. Like the part of you that will always remember her piggyback rides and pinky promises and the way her arms felt like home.

But then, you remember everything else. Every silence. Every unanswered text. Every birthday missed. Every time she talked about you like you were a stranger. Every passive attempt to fix something she shattered.

You remember her interview. “We don’t talk much.”

You remember the jersey. No note. Just a signature. Like she was sending memorabilia, not reaching for a sister.

You remember the voicemail. The one you listened to when you were raw and hurting and alone. The one that said ‘I didn’t know how to love you right.’

She nods. It’s small. Barely there. Not a plea. Not an apology. Just… an offering. A gesture that says I see you.

Your throat closes. You almost nod back…almost.

But then you take a breath and step away. One foot in front of the other. Back straight. Chin up.

You don’t look back. Because love, once, might have pulled you toward her. But you’ve learned that survival sometimes means walking away from the people who made the fire feel like home just so they could burn you in it.

It takes everything in you not to cry.

Alexia watches you go. Her hands tighten into fists at her sides, then slowly unclench. She doesn’t chase after you. She doesn’t make a scene. Maybe once, she would’ve tried to save face, spin it, make you the one who couldn’t forgive. But not now.

Now, she just stands there, watching the space you leave behind. Like she’s realizing all over again that the worst part of losing you wasn’t the fall out—it was knowing she was the one who let you fall.

And that this time? You didn’t even ask her to catch you.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Seeded - A Vessel/Reader Smut Short.

Breeding kink with Vessel, besties? Alright, you got it! Tagging a few of you who I think might be interested, too :)

Words - 500

Warnings - Breeding kink smut below the cut! Minors DNI!

“I can’t, please,” you beg, your entire being humming, your core aching. “I can’t take another.” 

He smirks, hands pressing to widen your thighs again, stroking his cock over the puffy petals of your sex. “Yes, you can, my sweetheart. You’ve got another for me.”  

Watching the way your glistening little hole drips with the milk of his release, he feels the dark lust in him swell and swirl, needing to fill you again, breed you, stay snugly inside of you this time to push his seed right up deep, deep, deep.  

He arrows into you once more, and you hiss a breath, his hand moving to stroke your cheek with affection. “Shhh, my baby. I’ll be gentle with you for a while. I know, my cock bruises your pretty little flower. But you always do plead with me to fuck you harder, don’t you?” 

“I do,” you gasp, the burn giving way once more to the divine tingles his thickness evokes. 

“And I love to watch you take it,” he rasps, voice deep and thick with lust, “love to watch this pretty little hole stretch around my cock.” 

The pleasure of it is biting, burning hot beneath your skin, rocking your hips against each of his thrusts, the pain of him being inside you so relentlessly eclipsed by the ecstasy of it. It pools golden, blooming through your belly, Vessel moving quicker and quicker until once again, he’s plunging back and forth with rapid snaps of his hips, his groans all grit and sin. 

In the garden of your bed, you blossom for him, his fingertips chasing the peachy flush dappling your chest, trickles of sweat beginning to slide down his. Taking him is like negotiating the vast expanse of a storm, but you’ll chase his lightning to fork through you without hesitation every time. 

Those flickers begin at the base of your spine, jumping from strikepoint to strikepoint, wincing a little as he hits your summit.  

“You can take it,” he assures you, hand gently clasping your jaw, leaning to grant your mouth the tenderness of his kiss as his body becomes wilder. “Gonna put a baby in you this time.”  

He’s stoking a fire inside you, burning white, hips pounding against your sore, spent body, sending the little darts of bliss skittering up your spine as your cunt clasps around him, milking his release deep into you. You feel adrift in the comedown, aware only of him panting against your neck. 

He lies inside you for what feels like forever, making sure none of his cum seeps out. Held in the warm cocoon of his arms, you share kisses, hands lovingly stroking one another, all that was frantic now replaced by a much softer edge.  

Looking down at you, you see the love welling deep in his eyes, but it’s nothing compared to the way he looks at you months on from that moment, finally witnessing the elating sight of your belly all swollen with his child.  

Did you enjoy what you just read? If so, please help your author out by commenting/reblogging. If you want to be added to the taglist, please do let me know, too!

[iyunia]

A sketch of Kuras from Touchstarved. I’m not really happy with it but in my defence, I had to finish it with the “eraser” end of the stylus because the nib suddenly stopped reacting to anything other than maximum pressure. In better news, I managed to run the game on my phone.

On Android devices with Adreno GPUs, Winlator does the job. It took me a little over a week to figure this out because I may have damaged the game’s files somehow (redownloading it fixed everything), so I was on a goose chase looking for solutions to a problem that wasn’t real. I’m so done...

There are a few things you need to know before you download Winlator.

Is Winlator safe?

In version 10.0 (Hotfix), some internal programs were recompiled to address reports of a TestD3D.exe being infected with a floxif virus. There is no floxif in the VirusTotal results for the new TestD3D. While they show trojans now, threat labels look like false positives which seem common for Wine binaries. It could partially be because of vendors’ use of AI: when I transferred Winlator’s internal files to a PC and scanned them in Malwarebytes with AI detection off, TestD3D wasn’t flagged. The AV still suspected just about every .exe there (all generic Malware.Sandbox.1; it reacted the same to MiceWine’s). On the other hand, nothing at all was flagged by ESET. In the end, download at your own discretion.

Is my device supported?

Depends on the GPU. If yours is an Adreno, then most likely yes. There is a list for supported and unsupported Mali ones. Also, Touchstarved requires DirectX 10 while Mali GPUs generally cooperate only with DirectX 9 or below. The developer added some workarounds in version 10.1 that might work for you.

Why not use another emulator?

Here’s a fun thing about trying to run Touchstarved on Android: I’m 99% sure that the transition to the splash screen (the one with ‘press any button’) is a video file because of GStreamer-related errors I got in Winlator. Compatibility tools that are not able to play it don’t let you access the rest of the game: in MiceWine, Mobox, DarkOS, and GameSir GameHub, the music was there but the screen remained black after the Unity logo. It didn’t matter what components’ versions or presets were used. Termux-based tools didn’t care what packages I installed. I don’t know what it is that makes Touchstarved work in Winlator.

How to use Winlator?

Download the Windows release of Touchstarved.

Download and install Winlator (I used 10.0). Grant it storage permissions when prompted.

Create a new container (‘⋮≡’ → Containers → ‘+’). If you have an Adreno GPU, change the graphic driver it uses to Turnip, otherwise you’ll get a ‘Failed to initialize player’ error when trying to run Touchstarved.

When the container is created, start it and wait for a bit for the file explorer to open. From there, navigate to the archive. It should be in drive D.

Extract the archive by “right clicking” it (keep one finger on screen while short tapping with another) and selecting 7-zip → Extract to Folder in the menu.

Navigate to TOUCHSTARVED.exe. I recommend you create a shortcut before running it (Right click → Create Shortcut).

I followed ZeroKimchi’s advice and used a Box64 preset with BOX64_DYNAREC_CALLRET off (I’m pretty sure you can just set it to 0 in Shortcuts → ‘⋮’ → Settings → Environment Variables). I also put ‘-force-gfx-direct -force-d3d11-singlethread’ in Exec Arguments (Shortcuts → ‘⋮’ → Settings → Advanced) just in case.

How to open a keyboard inside the container?

Swipe from the left side of the screen to right. A menu with an option to bring up a keyboard will open.

How to prevent the game from crashing?

Where are the save files stored? 

From the built-in explorer, the same as in Windows: ‘C:/users/xuser/AppData/LocalLow/Red Spring Studio/TOUCHSTARVED/NaninovelData/TouchstarvedSaves/’. Drive C is in ‘data/data/com.winlator/files/rootfs/home/xuser-1/.wine/drive_c/’. You can change the saves’ location to a different drive with Ajay-prefix. Winlator recognizes save files made on PC and vice versa.

How to access Winlator’s internal files?

Unless you have root access, only through Winlator’s file explorer or Android Studio’s Device Explorer (PC needed). ADB commands (PC needed) should work but I kept getting a ‘No such file or directory’ error.

I think that should be it.

[beewildered]

I will also comment, as someone who actually knows what the fuck I'm on about because I've researched this specific overlap:

Gender is a performance; even if you think that gender is just whatever genitals you have, you would still agree that things like presentation, gendered social rules, and the expectations put on us as men or women are completely and arbitrarily made up. It's a whole rotten pile of social norms that we are expected to follow because we happened to be born with a penis or a vagina. Autistic people are notoriously bad at social norms, it's literally one of the things that gets you the diagnosis in the first place, so obviously autistic people are bad at performing gender. But autistic people being trans is only half the story: autistic people are also seven times more likely to be gender non-conforming than their allistic peers. It's not just identity, it's the entire concept of gender as a societal role.

Now, the actual reasons for this are unknown, because you can't really go around asking a bunch of autistic people why they're trans, and there aren't really many theories on it because for some it's not seen as important research and for others they simply don't know how to approach getting this information or how to talk about it in a respectful way. But, as someone who is autistic and gender non-conforming, I have a couple of theories.

Rigid thinking in gender roles. I'd imagine a good chunk of autistic people who are binary trans people went "oh, I like makeup and skirts and feminine stuff. Must be a girl, then" or vice versa. And yes, this means that there are probably autistic people who aren't trans, and just took the concept of these roles a bit too literally. But there are probably also a ton of them who tried to be gender non-conforming and realised that it wasn't just the performance of it that felt wrong.

Complete detachment. We hate social norms, they suck, we wish we never had to get involved. But there is a way out! It's called agender, and it's literally just feeling like you have no connection to gender. And a lot of autistic people feel that way, there is a huge agender-autism overlap. Could also potentially fall under the first one slightly, I can definitely see the internal monologue of "I don't know what gender is supposed to feel like, so I'm assuming I just don't have that feeling at all". But regardless, there are a lot of agender or otherwise gender neutral autistic people who just felt like stepping out of the ring altogether. No need to perform a gender that you don't have.

Unique experience. Again, gender is a social expectation, and most autistic people view it with disgust. But we still view it, and very differently to most people if we're going by the rest of the social expectations that we think suck but everyone else thinks is a core pillar of socialising. There is even the specific (and controversial) label of "autigender" to describe this exact experience: not necessarily that autism made you trans, but that autism gave you a unique experience of gender identity and that in turn might have led you to trans identities. Cis people could also be autigender — they can still be a cis woman/man but believe that their autism has made them think about their femininity or masculinity in a way that's different to allistic people. Maybe they see it as a social expectation that they're okay with; some autistic people go all into gender conforming rather than gender non-conforming.

Anyway, it's just a theory, I've nothing to back it up but vibes and personal experience. But I can assure you, no one is exploiting autistic into ignoring social expectations, because we do that anyway.

[diabolicalevil]

I have been thinking about the two break up his you have done, and i know you might be sick of them, but I had an idea floating in my head I thought you might enjoy I'm case you aren't. Of course do whatever you want with this! Hope you have a good time of day!

What if the primarch's beloved was trying to get them to break up with them by making the primarch fall in love with someone else? Not because said beloved doesn't love them anymore, quite the opposite, but because they are just convinced, from the bottom of their heart, that they aren't good enough. Not good enough for the primarch or his legion. They aren't smart enough, strong enough, tactical enough, whatever it may be that the primarch values, they just aren't as good at it as the other person. And they know the primarchs would never accept breaking up just because the beloved thinks like this. So, if they make their primarch fall in love with someone else, someone better, without telling anyone, the problem will go away, and they definitely won't cry their eyes out because they were proven right, such is life after all.

But it's better this way. Right? Right.

How would the Primarchs react to you setting them up with someone else?

gn!reader

AHHH this is such an interesting idea. it's very different to the other break up reqs I've gotten don't worry!!! very arranged marriage manhwa,,, outing myself as a manhwa reader sorry

Warnings: None

Lion El'johnson: He is utterly livid. Yeah, sure, he's rude as hell and tells you to take a long walk off a short bridge but how could you not see he only has eyes for you?? Usually he's ambivalent to the people who throw themselves at his feet but he detests the little minx you keep trying to force on him. It's particularly insulting because he assumed things were going alright between you. He does, however, have rocks for brains so rather than confront you he grows increasingly hostile to the people you introduce him to and increasingly aggressive in his affections towards you.

Fulgrim: He's no stranger to polygamy, he loves it infact! But he was under the impression you wanted to be monogamous? Sure he'd love a third but every time someone makes an advance on him he reports it to you. It doesn't take him long to catch on and he's deeply hurt that you don't trust his word. If you'd be okay with it he'd take more lover's but on his own terms. He very desperately pleads for you to stop convincing yourself he'd be better off with others and that he is more than happy with you.

Perturabo: Who the hell would want to hit on this man LMAO. Something is up and he knows it, you don't just talk up other people to him for no reason or he gets jealous. He is livid, all that effort he's put into trying with you and you're throwing it back in his face. Worst case scenario it would end the relationship but he could probably be placated. maybe

Jaghatai Khan: Any attempts made to talk someone up to him would be met with a "Yes! They're very great aren't they!" and nothing else they don't register as a romantic option. If he finds out he's very quiet, especially for him. He only wants to know why, what made you think this was the correct avenue and how does he obliterate it.

Leman Russ: Wolves mate for life so I can't imagine he'd be happy. Perhaps the Space Wolves have a more sharing is caring outlook but that's just for silly times. You have One romantic partner and that's it. He's not oblivious to the fact there's something going on with this person who keeps appearing near him but he couldn't imagine you would think he could be tempted so easily. That being said, once he knows he's not angry, at least not at you. There's a lot of outside factors that make dating a Primarch hard as u can imagine. He just has to reaffirm your confidence in him and your relationship in that case.

Rogal Dorn: After his first confusing song and dance getting courted by a baseline he's memorised common baseline flirting methods. He recognises what they're doing immediately and shuts it down but it doesn't even cross his mind that you might be behind it. He's hurt but most importantly frantic, he thinks he's done something wrong and you're trying to let him go in an "easy way."

Konrad Curze: do you really have the mental fortitude to pass this man off to an unsuspecting bystander? moving on

Sanguinius: You're the apple of his eye, the only object of his affection and that is how it shall stay forever. He's not exactly subtle about viewing anyone who tries to interfere with you two romantically as a direct threat but he treats this a bit differently. He's repulsed by it of course but infront of you he let's it happen, wanting to see you be as protective of him as he is of you. When you aren't he's crushed, apologising for anything and begging to know what's he's done to incur such a cruel punishment as indifference. hH tells you that he'll take care of anything that could be causing you doubt and that being forced to forget you is a fate worse than death.

Ferrus Manus: I think he'd scare off anyone who tried flirt with him. and he's happier that way! He's chosen you not just as his newest fascination and project but as his partner, why would you want to change that? Upon learning of your intentions he's offended, to him it's a lot of accusations all rolled up. He's not an adequate lover, he's unfaithful and fickle, he's not take care of you and he's not being attentive enough to how people treat you, etc. You have to individually retract each of these and he's not gonna be open about what he's think good luck.

Angron: Again, you wouldn't pass him off to anyone and that's sad really. You can't really fix him, but could anyone else? Rather than toy with his already volatile emotions isn't it better to choose between loving or leaving him?

Roboute Guilliman: People already throw themselves at this boring white man so you barely have to do anything in regards to setting him up with people. However. ☝️ Slight oversight. He is too tired and overworked to fall in love a second time. Infact he confides that all the romantic attention stresses him out, that he wishes he could publicly announce you as his consort so he'd have reason to punish people who approached him. If he ever found out about your intentions he would primarily be confused, weren't you happy with him? Did he not do enough?

Mortarion: Annoying stink,,, he's baffled that there's another baseline who keeps appearing around him, most just run off. Mortarion is now doing his best to make them run off. He would probably find out I was your doing and he would be enraged and ignore you but never leave you. Once he's calmed down he assures you that you're better than him and his legion, that it's an honour to have you with them. And to please stop sending people to try something with him.

Magnus: His attention towards them depends on how interesting they are but that's all it is, interest. He can study them like a bug all he wants but he's doing it aromantically. You however do not know this because that's exactly how he acted at the start of your relationship. At some point he has to confront and accept that you aren't just a pet project or a fascination or something to be moulded you're his partner and should be treated as such to avoid things like this happening again. Cause he was hurt by the prospect of you trying to leave him, even in a "soft" way.

Horus Lupercal: Another man slut he's used to getting crazy pussy, psychotic ass, demented secret third thing, he is not polygamous however. Compared to him and his legion you're quite shy so he takes all your attempts to talk up this new person as self doubt. Always manages to spin around to actually youre awesome as well. Upon finding out he just looks sad, he blames himself and his legion and quietly asks you what he can do to make you have faith in him.

Lorgar Aurelian: hhhh he has barely reconciled being in a relationship with one person a second is out of the question.

Vulkan: He's the most loving to baselines but that's in an almost exclusively familial or platonic sense. If you talk them up he'll agree and if you try to set him up he'll turn them down. But when he finds out he is self loathing and distraught. He has to know what he's done to make you think you need to leave him and won't forgive himself for a long time, even if theres no concrete reason.

Corvus Corax: Unfortunately he's glued to your side so any one on one time you attempt to set up between them will not happen, and he's not gonna entertaining flirting infront of his lover obviously.

Alpharius & Omegon: They like having a new thing to play with but you are their favourite. For a while it seems like the plan is unfolding well but they know what your intentions are and they're libel to completely blow it up at any given moment. They won't even ask or confront you, you can keep playing games as much as you like but you're never leaving them.

sorrryy that this took so long I've been getting a wee bit of request burn out but I'm doing it!!! I had fun w this hope u like it anon

[mythicalmyles]

Joyride

Billy Loomis x Male!Reader(background Stu Macher x Male!Reader)

Noncon / kidnapping / Car Sex / Voyeurism / Exhibistionism

It was late, you could hear insects chirping away. The only interruption was the occasional call of a bird along with your footsteps. You turned around, closing your eyes as floodlights blared into your vision.

You had not long ago left Sydneys house, just checking up on her. She had confided in you about thinking that Billy really was responsible, apparently he had changed after the affair between their parents. Not that you could blame him, but killing people was too far. If it was all true.

You didn’t want to believe it, Billy seemed so nice. Stu would be crushed, you couldn’t imagine finding out your best friend had murdered your classmates and others in cold blood. You shook those thoughts from your head, looking at the car as it passed. You almost went white when you noticed Billy looking back at you, his face deadly serious.

Suddenly the car stopped and reversed, stopping next to you. You stood frozen as the door opened. “Heard a little birdie was in Sydney’s ear.” You backed up, his eyes looked black. He stalked towards you and suddenly grabbed you, you tried your best to fight him but failed.

You kicked and screamed but he dragged you into the car, his arm wrapping around your waist while his other clamped around your mouth. His fingers held your nose closed, you tried to hit and scratch at him. “Drive.” You shot your head to the side, Stu had a dirty smirk as he looked at you. You let out a muffled whimper.

You should have known they’d have done it together. It made so much more sense that there were two killers you should have been looking out for. “So Sydney knows.” Stu’s fingers turned white on the steering wheel as he gripped it, you could see his jaw clenching up.

You began fighting Billy with renewed vigour, you took a moment to notice your squirming had him hardening up. You let out a panicked sound as you froze. “Suppose we could have fun, before we gut him like a pig.” Billy sounded nothing like before, his voice dripped with psychotic glee. You felt yourself begin to shake in his hold, fear beginning to cloud your mind. “I’m going to take my hand off, scream and I’ll cut out your tongue.” You whimpered but nodded, intent on complying.

“Heres whats gonna happen.” You could hear his smirk as he spoke. “You’re gonna be a good little doggy for us.” His voice was raspy as he spoke lowly, lips pressing against your neck and sucking surprisingly gently on your neck. “And you might just live another day.” You held back a sob, shaking your head. “You can fight if you want, wont stop me. You're locked in a car with two men baby, ain’t a thing you can do.” Billy was smug, he had you completely trapped. You felt tears finally break over your waterline, wondering how the hell it had come to this.

Every bump had you jumping on his lap, his cock rubbing against you. You tried to pull his arm away from your waist, Billy chuckled. He sounded like he was at his limit, that terrified you now you knew what he was capable of. Instead of hurting you he yanked down your sweat pants, you flushed in embarrassment, wishing you had put on boxers earlier. Even if it would only buy you a minute.

You couldn’t believe it, one moment you were walking the next you were about to be raped going about 60 miles an hour. Billy wrapped himself around you, pulling one of your thighs away. He slide his middle finger into you causing you to hiss, it was too dry. “Spit.” You almost choked. “Wh-what?” Billy exhaled into your ear. “I said spit or I’ll fuck you dry. I don’t care.” You hated yourself, starting to build up spit. Billy watched as your saliva fell to your balls, missing your ass. Billy let out a laugh, eyes widening with glee. At least you tried. He thought before he spat onto your hole, relishing in the way you jumped and yelped.

Billy hadn’t thought this was how tonight would go, it was total chance he had planned on killing Sydney tonight and instead listened to your conversation. It was a happy accident in his eyes. He hadn’t fucked another guy before but the thought of your ass wrapping sweetly around his cock was enough to leave him throbbing. He could see Stu watching out the corner of his eye as he drove. “You can play with him when we get to the cabin.” Billy muttered, leaning back with you.

Never could you have thought Billy or Stu would do this to you, to anyone. You could feel his muscles pressing against your back, a reminder that he was stronger than you were. He was rough as he fingered you, only caring about stretching you enough to not rip you apart.

When you jolted and let out a moan he began fingering you quicker. He didn’t think he would get this turned on, but he could feel your nice fat ass pressing against his cock and it drove him insane. He wanted to bury deep into your ass. He wanted you to taste his cock as he impaled you.

He was just as rough as he bit into your neck, his teeth leaving behind indents in your skin. He licked up your blood, red staining his lips. Billy couldn’t help but groan, the taste of iron filling his mouth. You found yourself trembling in his hold, partially terrified with a small part of you starting to get hot. You tried to fight back against that feeling and focus on how much you hated them.

You barely had the room to draw a breath, Billy was wrapped around you and showed no signs of letting you go anytime soon.

You regretted ever leaving your house. Wishing desperately you could go back and tell yourself to stay. Instead here you were crammed onto Billy’s lap inside of Stu’s car. “Stu, please. You can’t go along with this.” You pleaded, desperately hoping he'd flip a switch and let you go. His laugh put a quick end to your delusion. “Not a fucking chance.” You tried desperately to hold back your tears and moans, Billy slipped another finger in and spread them apart. He was quick with his preparation, wanting to hurry and get his dick buried inside of you.

“I always thought you had a thing for Sydney. Should’ve known you two would plot against me.” He growled against your neck. You quickly shook your head. “Billy I-I swear we weren’t. We-we’re just worried about you.” Billy let out a dry laugh and yanked his fingers out of you, your cry out causing his cock to throb. He yanked your sweats further down your legs, hands grabbing your wrists and tugging them behind your back.

He easily kept your arms behind your back with one hand, using his free one to dip between your legs so he could unzip his pants. “Bet he moans like a whore for you, Billy.” Stu giggled out, swerving when he watched you for too long. “Oops.” He chuckled.

Billy finally freed his cock, it sprang between your thighs. He was much larger than you would have anticipated. He rubbed his cock against you, loving the way he forced you to fall apart under him. “B-Billy please, you ca-can stop now. I wont tell anyone i pro-promise.” You hiccuped out when he hooked his arm under your legs, lifted them up and pressing your thighs to your chest. “Ple-please!” You choked out, face scrunched up as you bared yourself for pain.

“I wanna see what other noises you make, what d’you think Stu? Think he’ll cry for me?” Worried eyes looked over to Stu, he had a large grin on his face and you could feel the car speeding up. “Bet he cries like a bitch.” You tried to hold back your groan of pain, you didn’t want to get him off anymore than he already was, when he began pushing his cock into you.

He let go of your arms in favour of spreading your legs open wide, you couldn’t even begin to feel shame at the fact you had your dick out in front of two of your friends. The car jolted and you screamed as Billy’s cock was forced deeper, finally breaking down into gasping sobs.

Billy held still once he finally had you seated back on his lap, cock nice and deep. He was practically gasping against your neck. He had always known an ass would be tighter but it almost had him blacking out. The car must’ve hit a stone as it jostled, causing Billy’s cock to ram into your prostate. You let out an inhuman sound, mouth ajar as you fell back against Billy’s shoulder while gasping. “Oh-fuck!” You moaned out, you had never had anything touch there before and it left your stomach summersaulting.

Billy dropped your legs, you let them fall wherever, far too overwhelmed to even think about fighting. “Fuck is he tight?” Stu sounded breathless, of course he had no issues watching his best friend commit rape. “Shit, yeah. God Stu, he’s squeezing me so tight.” The way they spoke about you left you shuddering. You wondered if driving was the only thing stopping Stu from pushing in beside Billy.

Billy’s hands dug into your hip, making you bounce on his cock. He let out a groan as he fell back against the seat. “Shit.. This was a good idea.” Any restraint he had had was suddenly gone, almost like something had taken over him.

You weren’t given much room to think. His cock rammed into your prostate, grinding against it with a precision that left you practically paralysed. All of it was so new to you, the feeling of being so stuffed you could hardly move, having something hit that one place that brought you to your knees. All of it was overwhelming and left you sobbing in Billy’s arms.

“Be a good boy and we’ll take real good care of you.” Billy whispered into your ear, suddenly burying deep and holding still. His hands snaked their way up under your shirt, his fingers circling your nipples. “A-ah, no.” You weakly spoke, hands trying to pull his away.

You felt him flex against your back. You could feel him sucking bruises into your neck. He paused for a second, the feeling of his breath burning the teeth marks that were scattered over the area. You tried really hard to ignore your weeping cock, it was almost impossible as it throbbed. “Say you’ll be a good boy for us.” Billy’s voice was low in your ear, causing you to shudder against him. “B-Billy please..” Was all you could choke out. “Not what i said darling.” You felt his fingers grab your nipples, rolling the bud between them. “I-I’ll be good!” You finally choked out. “Aw good boy.” Stu mocked, using a hand to rustle your hair.

You tried your best to glare at him, failing when Billy gave a particularly harsh thrust into you. You hated how good it felt, a burning heat scorching your stomach. “You fuh-fucking psychopaths.” You sobbed out, falling back onto Billy’s chest. Both Stu and Billy laughed at you. “This was a better idea. This is more fun.” Stu giggled into his wrist, adjusting himself in his seat. “Can’t wait for my turn.” You just shook your head, sobbing into Billy's neck.

“You’re pretty useless any way." Billy groaned into your ear. "We got a better use for you.” “N-no.” Was all you could say, brain sparking out when Billy began roughly fucking into you again. You latched onto the grab handle, half convinced you would rip it off. Stu sped up again, each bump sending you and Billy bouncing. You couldn’t deny the fact you were being fucked like this was a turn on, you could feel an orgasm building despite your neglected cock.

It didn’t take Billy long to send you over the edge, the feeling of him abusing your prostate left you openly sobbing and twitching. You came all over your own jumper, your body was loose against Billy. He had no issues hoisting up your legs, his muscles flexing against your thighs. He shoved your legs to your chest, his arms keeping you still as he fucked into you. The overstimulation left you vibrating and twisting in his grasp, completely overwhelmed with everything that had happened.

Billy couldn’t believe how good it felt to fuck you, the feeling of your tight ass gripping his cock was almost enough to leave him coming undone. Tonight had been a happy accident, you seemed like a nice enough guy. You were a bit of a pushover, Billy hadn’t really thought much about you until he had seen you in a tight pair of shorts during gym. The sight of your ass was almost enough to make him want to take you then and there.

You could feel Billy getting sloppier as he got closer to cuming, you couldn’t wait for it to be over. Finally he slammed you down onto his lap, burying his cock deep into you. You hated how weak you felt, adrenaline long since having ran out. You moaned out as his cum dripped out of you, you could feel it sliding down your ass and thighs.

You hoped he would finally pull out, instead he pulled you into his chest and kept you close. “U-uhm.” You choked out. Billy suddenly grabbed your jaw and forced you to turn your head towards him, he stared into your eyes. He took a moment before smashing his lips to yours, he tried licking his tongue against your lips to get you to open up. You refused to give him entry, the next thing you knew his hand had slid down from your jaw and wrapped around your throat.

Your mouth dropped open as your brain scrambled for air, Billy taking the advantage to slide his tongue into your mouth. Your body squirmed as you tried to pull away, tears welling in your eyes as your brain began to loose out on oxygen. Billy finally threw you back, smirking as you choked and gasped for air. He pulled you back into his chest, hugging you close as he whispered into your ear. “I think you’re better here.”

[miinxiee]

❝𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 ❞ ✧ ೃ༄

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you decide to have a day full of doing absolutely nothing, until your boyfriend decides to interrupt.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: afab reader, established relationship, use of the c word, vague sexual joke towards the end. idk this is my first work so enjoy!!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.6k

your eyes flickered open to your dimly lit room, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to get up just yet. you didn’t exactly need to sleep in the circus, but it wasn’t impossible to feel tired.

caine’s latest adventures really took it out of you, it seemed. you felt like you were melting into your bed, blankets and sheets tangled around your limbs acting as anchors that kept you rooted into cottony bliss.

‘this is nice. i bet caine wouldn’t mind if i stayed here just for one day…’ you tried to reason as you slowly shut your eyes again.

you couldn’t help it if you were comfortable.

jax could though.

as you sank further into your mattress, he sat with everybody on the couches, a rapidly souring expression plastered onto his face as he tapped his foot against the ground like he was in a rush to be somewhere. he didn’t know what time it was, but it was odd you hadn’t come out of your room yet. every second that he didn’t hear your voice or quiet snicker to one of his jokes made his scowl deepen.

“anyone seen [name]?” he finally spoke, to which only pomni answered.

“um i think she’s still in her room, you want me to go check on her.. or something?” she started to push her body off the couch until jax stopped her.

“no, no. i’ll go get her if she’s too lazy to get up, it’s no big deal” it was a big deal, he was starting to worry.

not that anybody noticed. jax made sure of that.

the hallway seemed to stretch further than it should’ve as he trudged down to your door. he admired your portrait staring at him on the door before digging around in his pocket for your key, which he always kept close to him. his hands were shaky. why were his hands shaky?

you were just about to drift back off to sleep when you heard your doorknob jiggle loudly. jax. you knew because he never knocked, he just jiggled your doorknob obnoxiously as he unlocked it with the key.

you groaned as the light seeped into the dark corners of your room, burying your head under your pillow even after he shut the door and plunged your room into softly lit solace once again.

“oh thank god, thought you died in here or something,” seemingly a dry remark, but deep down he was relieved, and you knew it.

he hated that. that you could read him so well, like a book front to back. you would never tell anyone though. you both just.. knew.

”’m fine, just tired,” you mumbled. a yawn at the end of your sentence emphasized your point.

jax simply stared at your shape under the blankets, wordlessly turning the gears in his mind. part of him really wanted to just say okay and go back outside to terrorize someone, but another part urged him to stay with you. a part of himself that he’d become familiar with since he had met you.

“jax?” you said after a few more moments of silence, and you flung your head up from under the pillow

“jax are still th- oomph!” he flopped down on top of you without warning, sending the air out of your lungs like a deflated balloon.

you wiggled around desperately from under him, every ounce of fatigue and drowsiness forcefully aired out of you.

“oh my g- jax get off-“ you groaned out, but after some time your squirms started to slow down and weaken.

“stop moving, you’re not very comfortable when you flip around like a fish,” he sighed.

you simply scoffed. his lanky frame made it hard to move your own limbs.

“well you’re less comfortable when you put all of your weight on me,” you said, finally stilling with a pout on your face. “just let me relax.”

“oh spare me, spare me. if you really hated it you would be trying harder to get out from under me,” he says it like it’s a fact, and to you it might as well be. 

“why can’t i just lay on you, i always do that!” you try to reason but he simply ‘tsk’s at you and shakes his head.

“you just hate me,” he says finally.

you both lay there in silence for a while. it was a comfort to the both of you, hearing each others soft breathing. it made you feel little more human. more real. as much as jax had hated to admit it, you sort of grounded him. you tolerated him and you were patient, even if you really didn’t want to be. you didn’t treat him like he was the black plague reincarnated into a purple rabbit like some others did.

was he a little unhinged? sure. was he unapologetically a cunt?absolutely.

you didn’t treat jax as some kind of project though. he wasn’t just some fixer upper that you would abandon once he was ‘better’. you were the first person that tried to make him laugh instead of him finding laughs through the other circus members, and after a while he sort of just... latched. you still fell victim to his pranks, a lot actually, but it was slightly more tame than he was with you at first. they were all kinda sweet actually, like his own love language.

you were pulled out of your thoughts as jax shifted above you, making you groan. you weren’t thinking rudely, but he was quite heavy even though he didn’t look it. honestly now that you’d really considered it, he’d probably find a way to feed his ego with that info.

“jeez are you filled with bricks or something? is that why you’re like this, because you have a brick head?” you grumble.

jax rolled his eyes, but he was never hurt by your banter.

“nah, i only got one brick on me,” he wiggles his eyebrows down at you and you roll your eyes to look off to the side.

“that one wasn’t even that good,” you say with an unamused look, raising your eyebrows.

a chuckle escapes his lips once more, making his body shake against you slightly.

“c’mon you walked right into that one.” he finally speaks, and he’s right.

you can’t help but grin. you’re not sure how much time passes before you break the silence again.

“you gonna get off me anytime soon?” your voice deadpans, but you don’t look bothered in the slightest.

he tilts his head up from your chest and over exaggeratedly taps on his chin as if he’s thinking, before his face morphs into his signature lopsided grin.

“no.”

[starset21]

Part 3: Daytona

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summery: What begins as a hopeful, high-stakes race day at the Daytona 500 unravels in a split second when a late-race crash takes her out of contention and leaves her bruised, both physically and emotionally. The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by a message from Max—simple, direct, and exactly what she needed without knowing it.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

Looking for more? Speed Limits and Heartbeats Masterlist 

The morning of the 500 felt strange.

Not bad — just off. The kind of off you didn’t talk about. Because saying it out loud made it real, and real things had consequences.

You were P6 on the grid. Best starting position you'd had at Daytona. Everything was dialed in — clean pit box, aero adjusted, tires scrubbed and numbered just right. You’d slept, hydrated, checked in with your crew, your engineer, your spotter.

Still, something in your chest hummed like a loose bolt.

You chalked it up to nerves. First points race of the season. Packed field. Tight draft. The usual chaos looming behind every corner.

He hadn’t messaged this morning.

You told yourself that didn’t matter.

But you still checked your phone before putting it away in your locker. Still scrolled your inbox like something might be there — a dumb meme, a line about qualifying, a joke only the two of you would understand.

Nothing.

And fine. That was fine. Because this wasn’t about him. Not today.

You snapped your helmet straps and walked out to pit road like it was just another Sunday. Because it was. Until it wasn’t.

You never saw it coming.

The second overtime restart had gone cleaner than expected — at first. Stenhouse took the push from Larson. Logano got swallowed up on the inside. You were hanging on to P6 with clean air on the nose, feet light on the throttle, trying not to think ahead to the white flag.

Then the call came through your radio:

“Wreck behind—yellow’s out—wreck behind you—stand by—stand by—”

But it wasn’t behind. Not by the time Dillon spun up the banking.

You didn’t see who touched him — just a blur of blue and chrome and momentum gone wrong. Byron, maybe. Larson’s nose clipped in somewhere, too. You lifted instinctively, but the pack didn’t — and the moment you flinched, the car behind you tagged your quarter panel. Hard.

From there it was a blur: sideways, up the track, smoke, contact.

Your right rear hit something solid. The front bounced off a fender or a wall — maybe both. You couldn’t tell. You were just a pinball in someone else’s crash.

Burton. Hamlin. Gragson. Zane. All of you caught in the same aftermath.

The tow truck dropped what was left of your car just outside the garage entrance, fiberglass panels barely hanging on, the whole frame listing like a shipwreck. You didn’t even look at it.

Crew was already gathering — gloved hands, clipped voices, heads shaking without meaning to. Someone kicked a tire carcass like it owed them money. Another checked telemetry out of habit, like it might rewrite the ending.

You pulled off your gloves slowly, fingers stiff, the crash still buzzing through your knuckles. Someone offered a water bottle. You nodded, but didn’t drink. Your helmet stayed on longer than it needed to. Like maybe if you didn’t take it off, the day wouldn’t count yet. Like maybe you could keep it all in that sealed-up headspace — the track, the draft, the moment where it all went sideways.

Someone from the team asked if you wanted to debrief. You didn’t answer. Not with words.

You walked past the workbench, the spare tires, the laptops with lap data still open like a crime scene under glass. Sat down hard on the folding chair nearest the wall. One of the junior engineers mumbled something about debris on the track. You didn’t join the conversation. You just sat there, elbows on knees, staring at your hands. 

They were still trembling a little. Not from fear. From fury. From the kind of adrenaline that doesn’t know where to go when it can’t punch through a finish line. The medical staff came next — clipboard, protocol, polite concern. You nodded through the check. Reflexes, vision, vitals. All green. All good.

“Bit of a knock,” the medic said gently, tapping her pen against the form. “But you walked away. That’s what matters.”

You gave her a smile that didn’t make it all the way to your eyes. “Sure.”

She handed you an ice pack and pointed toward the med center. “You know the drill.”

So you ducked into the med unit like it was a confession booth.

The room was freezing. Not in temperature — in mood. Fluorescents above, antiseptic in the air, a printout of the starting grid still taped to the wall like a sick joke.

You sat on the cot in the corner, back hunched, ice pack pressed to your ribs where the belts had bit too hard. The curtain stayed half-drawn. You liked it that way.

Your phone vibrated once in your suit pocket where you’d placed it when Charlie had given it back. You ignored it.

Then again.

You pulled it out.

From: max.v33 “Saw it. You okay?”

Three words. No punctuation. No preamble.

You stared at the screen. For a second, you didn’t want to give him that power — the “I’m fine” lie, the opening. But the sarcasm came easier than the truth. You snapped the photo — middle finger, ice pack, fluorescent-lit purgatory — and hit send.

You didn’t wait for a reply. Just dropped the phone face-down again and stared at the curtain seam like it might split open and let you walk through to a version of the day where you finished. Where you won. Where you didn’t end up here.

The ice pack had long since gone warm when you finally left.

The garage was mostly empty by then — crews sweeping up carbon scraps, voices low, the clatter of wheel guns packed away for next weekend. Your motorhome door creaked when you opened it, the silence inside somehow louder than anything outside. You peeled off your suit with stiff, mechanical movements, each layer a reminder of what had happened, what you couldn’t undo.

Your ribs ached like a bruise still deciding how deep to go. You sat on the floor in front of the tiny kitchenette, back against the cabinets, knees pulled in, towel around your neck more out of habit than need. The overhead lights were too bright, so you clicked them off and let the room fall into the soft blue wash of a trackside flood light leaking through the blinds.

Your phone buzzed again, somewhere on the table.

You didn’t move. Just let it ring out once, then again. Quiet. Persistent.

Eventually, you got up and checked it.

Incoming Call — Max V.

You stared at the screen like it might blink out on its own. But it didn’t.

You answered without a word.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Just static, breath, distance.

You could hear faint city sounds behind him — traffic, maybe, or a distant TV. Wherever he was, it was late. Or early. Or didn’t matter.

Then his voice came, quiet and close, like he was afraid too much volume might crack something. “Hey.”

You didn’t answer right away. The knot in your throat had settled in like a passenger.

“You okay?” he asked again, softer this time. Not like the text. Not short. Not clinical. Just real. Just him.

You sank back into the bench seat, the one near the window where you could still see the faint glow of pit lane lights outside.

“I’m here,” you said finally.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“I know.”

You let the silence stretch again. You heard him shift — maybe onto a couch, maybe just closer to the phone.

“I saw the replay,” he said, low. “You couldn’t have missed it. Not the way it happened.”

You closed your eyes. “Doesn’t make it feel any better.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

Your fingers toyed with the corner of a water bottle label until it peeled up in your hand.

“I had a good track position,” you said, because it felt safer than everything else. “We had pace. The car felt right. We did everything right.”

“I know.”

“And then one touch—one driver makes one bad call—” You caught yourself. Pressed your knuckles to your lips.

“I know,” he said again. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”

You didn’t realize you were shaking until you shifted the phone and your fingers wouldn’t stay still.

“I thought I could hold the line,” you murmured. “Thought I had it.”

“You did. You weren’t the one who lost it.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see.

He let the quiet settle again. Not rushing you. Not filling it.

Then, gently: “You want company?”

You breathed out through your nose, tired in a way that lived in your bones. “You offering to teleport?”

There was a soft huff — not quite a laugh. “No. But I’ve got a second bedroom and a very convincing argument for airline miles.”

You blinked. Let the idea land.

“I have to be in Atlanta in two days.”

“You think I care?”

“I don’t even know if I’d want to talk when I got there.”

“You don’t have to.”

You turned your head toward the dark window. Your reflection stared back at you — helmet hair, bruised cheekbone, something soft behind your eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.

You held the phone tighter. “I don’t know what I need.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

That sat between you like a safety net.

Your voice was rough when it came again. “Will you stay on the line? Just for a bit.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m here.”

And he was.

No teasing. No bravado. No fix-it speech.

Just breathing, and quiet, and a kind of closeness that didn’t need geography to feel real.

[lunarfuneral]

Langdon only realizes what he's said when Abby goes still under his hands, cool and rigid. He can hear her measured breathing, the birds singing outside, the rustle of their curtains from the breeze coming in. He'd left the window open, like he usually did when it was nice out, because Abby always liked falling asleep and waking up to fresh air.

Over her shoulder, their old school alarm clock reads 6:35 AM. Langdon knows that time is going to be burned into his mind for the rest of his life. It might as well be his time of death.

They don't move. Both of them stay as they are, suspended in motion, her back pressed to his chest, his left hand in her shorts. The analog clock hits 6:36, then 6:37. Langdon can feel Abby's heart under his palm, where he'd spread his hand over her breast, pounding heavily.

"Ab," he tries, lips brushing against her dark curls. She smells the same as always. She's used the same shampoo since before they met. There was a time when Langdon used to breathe it in on her pillow, on nights she was away. Now, he doesn't know what else to say. Everything feels like it was already said, all wrapped up in Mel's name, breathed out so sweetly in his sleepy voice.

"Say it again."

Outside, Langdon hears his neighbor's car start up, the way it does every Saturday morning, headed off to work. Further down the road, he can hear Winnie barking—his kids loved that dog so much he bought them one of their own. Next, he knows, is the old man behind them, coughing over his morning cigarette, like always. The world is still spinning outside. Their neighbor's lives are continuing on, all while the one Langdon and Abby shared came to a sudden stop.

Langdon moves first, slipping his arm from underneath her, putting some space between them. The moment he does, she turns around, facing him head on.

Her face is hard set, angry and hurt. He knows how she looks when she's about to cry, downturned lips and reddening cheeks. He would have cared a year ago. He would have cared if he hadn't met Mel.

"I said, say it again, Frank." Every word is cutting, all glass.

He should argue, try to downplay it, he was just tired, he was just dreaming, it didn't mean anything, it was a mistake, he'd worked such a long shift yesterday, Abby, please, honey, I'm sorry—

"I said, 'Mel, come here baby'," he admits at once, looking her directly in her eyes, because he isn't sorry. It didn't matter. She already knew. She had to hear the way he handled Mel's name, so unlike how he's ever said hers, gentle in his mouth, spilling out of his lips and telling every secret at once.

"You motherfucker." Her voice is dripping with scorn. Over the years, he's seen every part of her, knows how she sounds when she's happy, or sad, or moaning his name, but she's never sounded like this. "I knew you were fucking her, you god damn son of a motherfucking bitch." With every word, she sits up taller, voice rising and nearing a scream. He glances at the open window out of habit, afraid of his neighbors hearing her yelling, something she always scolded him about when they fought, and Abby doesn't miss the quick look.

"Fuck the neighbors, Frank, I don't give a shit if they hear. Let them! Let them know what a piece of shit husband you are. Fuck!" She stands up from the bed, pacing. He knows his neighbors probably figured it out already. He was moaning Mel's name in their bed only days ago, fucking her right where Abby had just been laying.

"I—" he starts, but she cuts him off, flying around the room, grabbing at their things randomly, seemingly unsure what to do now that Langdon's blown their lives up for the second time that year.

"First, the blonde hairs on your scrubs. Weird, but fine, you work in a hospital, you come home with shit all over you all the time, probably nothing to worry about, right? Then, they're in my bed. Hm. Then, your passcode's changed. You put your phone face down. You come home late. You leave for work earlier and earlier. You've barely touched me. You even skip our children's games and recitals for 'work'. You're out with your friends on the weekends, your friends who tell me they don't know what I'm talking about when I see them at the fucking grocery store."

She's past screaming now. Every word is coming out ragged.

The dog starts whining in her crate in the kitchen. Soon, the kids are going to be up, if they weren't already.

"I'm not just fucking her," he says, and his response stops her in her tracks.

"What?"

"I'm not just fucking her, Abby." He won't say anything more. He doesn't want to explain anything to her, not really. That's between him and Mel, just them.

"That's what you have to say?" she asks, incredulous. Out of everything, that seems to hurt her the most. The anger washes out of her face, tears welling up in her eyes again.

He thinks of Mel, of a slow Saturday morning with her, kissing her neck and watching the sharp early sun break over her bare shoulder, the dark little mole by her collarbone. That's where he should be now. There shouldn't be another Saturday that goes by without her. He wants to hear her laugh as he brushes his hands up her sides, slipping her shirt off and pressing his chest to her back, wants to hear her ask him if they could just drive around that day, maybe go out to Somerset, down 136. He needs to see her right now, and every moment after.

"Get the fuck out. Go to your little blonde whore's house, don't fucking come back."

"Hey," he snaps, "don't call her that. Ever. You hear me?"

"You never loved me," Abby says, the sun coming up behind her, highlighting her in their dark room. He's never going to see this again, and he realizes he isn't going to miss it.

He doesn't tell her that it isn't true. He did, once—he just loves Mel more. From the day they met, it was always going to be Mel.

Silently, he picks up a few clothes, doesn't even grab a bag. Slips his shoes on, still in his pajamas. Abby follows him through the house, their little farewell tour.

"I hate you," she says, her parting words, as he grabs his keys and walks to his car.

The slam of their door is like music to his ears. When he gets in his car, he texts Mel.

I'm on my way, baby.

frank waking up in the morning from a dream of mel and reaching across the bed pulling her close pawing at her breasts and stomach reaching a hand down her pajama pants kissing the back of her neck breathing her in moaning her name all sweet “mel, come here baby” only to find out it’s his wife in his bed and he’d forgotten where he was and everything has gone very still. you can hear a pin drop in that room

[littlemissforgetfulwrites]

supermodel

summary; as a supermodel, reader has always felt like she has to be perfect and high maintenance but on a random sunday morning she realizes how comfortable she is with the person she thinks might the one she wants to spend her life with

pairing; bf!max verstappen x model!reader

˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚˚·⋆✿˚˚

As the sunlight crept into the room through the sliver between the curtains, the happy couple in their bedroom laid unbothered and sound asleep. Well, one of them was.

Y/n stayed still right where she was; on her side of the bed with Max's arm across her hip wearing one of his shirts. She couldn't help but notice her things around the room.

The makeup she no longer relied on to feel confident around her boyfriend.

The fancy clothes that she once always had to wear to feel beautiful when she was near Max.

The stacks of magazines that featured her on the cover that used to make her feel like the days of her being gorgeous were over.

But over the years that they had been together and all of the memories that they had created, it made her realized that she was no longer the same person that she was when she had first met Max.

They met in Monaco at a bar the night after the Monaco Grand Prix four years ago when Y/n was still a supermodel who had been booking jobs left and right. Max was with some of the other drivers while Y/n stayed with her other model friends. The two started talking after they realized that they the other person had the exact same drink order and the rest is history.

However, it definitely took some time for Y/n to feel comfortable without all of the model makeup, flashy clothes, and perfect persona.

-two years ago-

It was too earlier for neither one of them had to be awake but she didn't care. Y/n only cared about looking like herself in all of the photos in her portfolio and billboards before Max woke up. After all, who wouldn't be disappointed if they woke up and looked at their model girlfriend only to see that she looked nothing like the magazines.

"What are you doing?"

Y/n jumped, grabbing at her chest with her hand before she saw Max in the mirror.

"Just touching up a little," she lied.

Max raised an eyebrow and walked closer towards his girlfriend. He eyed all of the products before wrapping both of his arms around her waist.

"Well, it looks you're putting on a full face of makeup before it's even 7am." Max said with hint of amusement in his voice.

"I'm just trying to look a little nicer, okay." Y/n couldn't bring herself to look up at her boyfriend and tried to distract her with her eyeshadow palette.

"Hey," Max spun her around to face him, his hands now resting on her waist. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Y/n gulped, her eyes still avoiding Max's.

Without another word, he took her hand and led her to sit on top of the toilet seat lid. Max kneeled in front of her, taking both of her hands into his.

"You don't have to lie to me. Just tell me what's wrong,"

Y/n looked up, her eyes glassy as she began to talk.

"I just don't feel pretty without all the makeup and the clothes, you know. I hate knowing that every morning you don't wake up to that model that you met and fell in love with. It makes me feel guilty that now you're just stuck with the plain Y/n who wears sweats around the house and occasionally drinks juice out of the carton with she thinks no one is around." Y/n ends the last part with a sad laugh as she watches Max's expression.

"Honey, don't say that. I didn't fall in love with the model with the fancy clothes and makeup. I fell in love with you. I fell in love for the girl who wears sweats and drinks juice out of the carton when I definitely notice and who cries during children's movies. I don't love you because you're some gorgeous model, I love you because you are gorgeous without makeup and designer clothes and because you have this wonderful personality that lights up the room whenever you walk in. So, I don't want you to feel like you have always have makeup on or wear some dress when we're together because I love you for you."

"I love you too," Y/n can't stop smiling and crying at the same time, it's feels like some huge weight has been lifted off her shoulders.

"Now let me help you get all this makeup off," Max says as he reaches over for the package of makeup wipes on the counter.

The two spend the next ten minutes in the bathroom laughing and taking off all of Y/n's makeup before deciding to go back to bed.

-now-

Y/n turned her head over to look at the face of her boyfriend who was still asleep. She loved him more than words could ever describe and she was so grateful for the relationship that the two of them had created over their four years together. She wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

"Good morning,"

"Good morning baby," Y/n turned her head over again to greet her boyfriend who was now awake.

Max had this stupid kind of look on his face that was similar to that 'fuck you' expression that he usually wore except he also had love in his eyes. Like he didn't give a care about anything but her.

"I love you so much, I hope you know that." Y/n smiled, taking his hand into hers.

"I love you too, more than you'll ever know."

[suku-enthusiasts]

Were Just Friends || s. ryomen - (one shots)

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (one shot series) - Blessings

❝you asked your best friend to take your v-card. As friends. No feelings, no strings- Spoiler: it completely ruined your friendship. Now you're dodging each other, pretending nothing happened, while secretly nursing a years-long crush. From meme-filled silence to tearful confessions, jealous fights, and awkward flirting — somehow, you stumble your way into love, marriage, and a house full of sarcastic chaos. Turns out, “just friends” was never really the plan.❞

word count ; 1.1k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety. major fluff

main masterlist | series masterlist

You didn’t suspect a thing when Sukuna left that morning. You were still half-asleep, tangled in your blanket like a sea creature caught in netting, when he leaned down and kissed your forehead. It was gentle — one of those rare moments when his walls dropped completely and he let himself press his lips to your skin like he was memorizing you in pieces. “I’ll see you after work,” he murmured. You grumbled something unintelligible in response, maybe kissed his chest as he stood up. You didn’t notice how carefully he picked up his jacket from the closet. You didn’t notice the velvet box nestled inside the inner pocket.

Because Sukuna Itadori was not going to work, no, today, Sukuna was going to see your father.

It had been 1 year and 6 months. Of quiet mornings and tangled legs and sarcastic bickering over which cereal was more superior. Of you stealing his hoodies. Of him leaving you little notes folded like secrets in the laundry. Of inside jokes and bad memes and touching you like you were a prayer his hands had been born knowing how to say. Six months ago, he knew. It had been the moment you cried watching a commercial about a dog finding its way home. You were curled up on the couch, mascara smudged, laughing at yourself through your tears, and something just… clicked, that was the moment he knew.

So, after months of searching and obsessing over the right cut, he bought the ring — a two carat marquise diamond, sharp and elegant, set in a sleek band with curling vines of white gold. A mirror of your taste. Understated, but commanding. Like you. Now, standing in front of your childhood home, Sukuna stared at the front door like it might suddenly bite him. “Alright,” he muttered. “You fought a guy in a bar bathroom for calling her a bitch. You can handle this.” He took a breath and rang the doorbell. Your mom opened the door in an apron dusted with flour, her smile instant and genuine. “Sukuna! Oh, you look so handsome. Come in, come in — I just put the cinnamon bread in the oven.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said with a slight smile, stepping inside. Your dad was already at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper like it was 1953, wearing socks and Crocs with absolutely zero shame. He peered over the rim of his glasses, expression flat. “You lost?” he asked. Sukuna smirked. “Nope. I’m exactly where I meant to be.” Your mom looked between them, already sighing. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she said to no one in particular, disappearing with a tray of mixing bowls. Your dad folded the paper slowly, then gestured to the porch. “Let’s talk.”

The air outside was crisp, a breeze running through the old wind chimes like nervous laughter. The two men sat in weathered wooden chairs on the back porch, the kind that creaked under weight and memory. There was a long silence, then Sukuna leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and said, voice even and low, “I want to ask your daughter to marry me.” Your dad didn’t react. Not at first. He just sipped from his mug — navy blue, chipped on the handle, likely older than you — and gave him a look so dry it could’ve turned wine into sand. “You know she’s terrible at folding laundry, right?” Sukuna blinked. “You think I’m here because I like neatly folded shirts?”

“She sings to plants.”

“She made me sing to a cactus once. I nearly cried.” Your dad raised an eyebrow. “You planning on having kids?” Sukuna shrugged slightly. “If she wants them. I just want her.” That made your dad pause. “I know she bites her straw when she’s anxious,” Sukuna went on. “And she panics when she loses her keys even if they’re in her hand. I know she talks in her sleep. I know she organizes her books by emotional damage instead of genre.” Your dad stared. “I know that she’s funny, and warm, and she forgives too easily. I know that I’ve never once wanted something permanent until she came along and made it feel like breathing. So yeah. I’m sure.” Your dad exhaled, slow. “Most guys try to impress me,” he said after a moment. “You just sat there and insulted my daughter while praising her in the same breath.” Sukuna smirked. “It’s a talent.” Your dad chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re still rough around the edges.”

“I was sandpaper before her. Now I’m like… artisan sandpaper.” Your dad laughed louder this time, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well shit,” he muttered. “I guess I can’t say no now.” Sukuna leaned back slightly, lips twitching. “So I have your blessing?” Your dad looked at him for a long beat, then held out his hand. “Take care of her. Or I will personally run you over with my riding mower.” Sukuna grinned. “Fair enough.” They shook, and just as Sukuna reached into his jacket for his keys, your mom walked out with a tray of cinnamon bread — only to freeze when she spotted the velvet box on the table. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Is that…?” Sukuna opened it slowly, just enough for her to see the ring. She gasped — then immediately started crying. “Oh, sweetheart—” She sniffled, setting the tray down with trembling hands. “She’s going to love it. Oh my God, she’s going to cry, and she’s going to say yes, and then I’m going to cry again—” Your dad handed her a napkin wordlessly.

“She’s at home right now thinking you’re at work,” your mom whispered between tears. “She has no idea, does she?” Sukuna’s smile turned softer. “Nope. She’s probably threatening to burn the rice as revenge for me leaving the heater on again.”

“Well,” your dad said, grinning now, “go on, then. Go plan something ridiculous. She’ll hate it and love it all at once.” Sukuna nodded, stood up, tucked the box back into his coat pocket. “Thank you,” he said, voice quieter than before. “Really.” Your mom threw her arms around him, cinnamon-scented and still crying.

At home, you sat on the couch with a heating pad on your stomach, flipping through takeout menus and wondering why Sukuna wasn’t responding to your texts.

You [4:41 PM]: babe why are u ignoring me i’m bored and i want pizza

You [4:42 PM]: you’re lucky ur hot or i’d be reconsidering this whole relationship

You didn’t know he was already driving back to you. That in his pocket sat a ring chosen with trembling hands and steady love. That in just a few days, your world was going to tilt on its axis — and land right where it was always meant to.

[yuikomorii]

AYAYUI IDOL AU: Chapter 7

// I can’t believe I forgot to post it, lol. I was genuinely shocked when I found it in my drafts, so… sorry, guys!!! June was super hectic for me, and I only just started my summer break, so my mind was totally in relaxation mode. Anyway, I hope you still remember what happened in the previous chapters. 🥲💕

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

Yui: It’s raining…

— looks up —

( The subway entrance is still a bit of a walk away… and I don’t have an umbrella.)

( Uuh… I wonder when will it stop? It’s already late and I really don’t want to catch a cold. )

( Maybe I should just call a cab again… Yeah, I remember saving the number in my phone! )

— starts dialing —

Automated Voice: Due to widespread system failure, the number you are calling cannot be reached. Please wait for a while. Thank you.

Yui: Oh no…! Now what am I supposed to—KYA!!!

( W-What was that!? A thunder strike!? )

( I really need to get back to the hotel before it gets worse—)

— starts running —

( Why does everything have to go wrong today…!? )

Place: Hotel Room

Ayato: Haa... Of course they’re not picking up. This damn storm just had to happen tonight of all times.

Everyone else is probably back at the dorms, laughing it up and chatting like nothing’s wrong...

Meanwhile, I’m stuck here, in the dark, and without even any pajamas.

Fuck this shit for real.

— goes to window —

Ugh… even the view’s depressing in this weather.

— squints —

Wait… is that——

Place: Hotel Entrance

Yui: Haa… Haa…

( I finally made it… even if I’m wet. )

Receptionist: Good evening, miss. How can I help you tonight?

Yui: Ah, I’d like to rent a room for the night, please.

Receptionist: For one person?

— Yui nods —

Receptionist: Very well. Do you have any room or view preferences?

Yui: N-No, anything is fine… as long as I can rest.

Receptionist: Understood. That will be 83,000 yen. Will you be paying with cash or card, miss?

Yui: W-What—!?

( 83,000 yen for a single night!? That’s outrageous…! )

Uhm… actually, I’m part of a work exchange program here! I’ve been working at this hotel recently, so I was wondering… is there any way I could get a staff discount or something like that?

( This must be the evening receptionist… If it were the one I spoke to earlier today, I’m sure they would’ve recognized me and helped out… )

Receptionist: I see. In that case, I’ll need to see your employee ID or proof of employment.

Yui: Sure! I keep it in my wallet—

— pauses —

…!

( Wait a minute… My wallet…! )

( I don’t have it! )

( Don’t tell me… I must have left it behind in the onsen—— )

( And now that I think about it… wasn’t the lost onsen key probably inside too…? )

( Uhh… what do I do now…? )

Ayato: She’s with me.

Yui: Eh!?

— turns around —

( Ayato-san…!? )

Ayato: My company already paid for a room for two.

Receptionist: A-Ah, my apologies! Please enjoy your stay, sir… miss…

Ayato: Mhm.

— grabs Yui by the wrist and starts walking away —

Yui: ( What just happened…? )

( Am I imagining things or did he actually really help me? )

( I mean, he surely did, but… why would he even do that? )

Ayato: I bet you're wondering why I stepped in just now, huh?

Yui: W-Wha—!?

( H-He read my mind! )

Ayato: Heh. You're way too easy to read, you know that?

But for your information, I didn’t do it out of kindness.

I simply figured I might as well take responsibility… since I’m the one who kicked you out of the onsen earlier.

Because of that, you probably didn’t get the chance to look for your wallet properly, right?

Yui: When you put it like that... I suppose you're right.

However, even if you did it because you felt responsible, the fact that you helped me still remains. So, whether you want credit for it or not, I am grateful.

Ayato: Heh. Obviously.

You should feel honored. I mean, you get to spend the night in the same room as me.

That’s basically the dream of millions of fans.

Yui: ( Well… now that he mentions it, it does feel kinda embarrassing… )

Ayato: What, you got a problem with that?

— grins and leans closer —

Don’t tell me you’re not excited about sharing a room with a top idol.

Yui: T-That’s not it! I mean, it’s not like that—!

Ayato: Haa… Relax.

You’re just gonna sleep in the bed next to mine, not in it.

— opens the door and nudges her in —

Yui: ( Thank goodness… for a second, I thought he was going to... no, no, stop thinking weird things!)

Ayato: …Unless, of course, you want to do something more.

— suddenly pushes her down onto the bed —

Yui: E-Eh!?

— eyes widen —

W-What are you doing!?

Ayato: Heh… You sure get flustered easily. You were the one crawling on all fours earlier, remember?

It looked very suggestive from where I was standing.

Yui: W-What!? T-That wasn't…!

You told me to act like a dog and obey my "master’s" orders, and I didn’t know what else to do!

I wasn’t trying to be suggestive! I-I just took it literally!

Ayato: Yeah, yeah. I figured that much. You’re too clueless to be that bold on purpose.

— chuckles, then pulls her up —

Yui: ( I don’t know if I should feel relieved or insulted by that… )

Ayato: But just so we’re clear, you’re still gonna sign an NDA.

Yui: A… NDA?

What’s that?

Ayato: I— You seriously don’t know!?

It’s a nondisclosure agreement.

Yui: Uhm… I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that before…

Ayato: Haa… Unbelievable.

You said you’re in some kind of work exchange program, right?

They didn’t teach you anything about contracts or confidentiality?

Yui: W-Well, not about this kind of thing…

Ayato: Hmph, of course not.

Anyway, an NDA is basically a legal promise that you’ll keep your mouth shut.

No telling anyone you were in my hotel room, no running off to gossip about the onsen incident, and definitely no posting dumb headlines like “Ayato spotted shirtless at Yume no Mori!”

Got it?

Yui: I’d never do that! I-I wouldn’t even think of it!

Don’t you remember? I already promised you back in the onsen that I wouldn’t say a word!

Ayato: Words are cheap.

People say one thing and do the complete opposite when it benefits them. Especially when they’ve got a juicy story involving a famous idol.

That’s why I don’t rely on promises. I rely on signatures~

— tosses NDA in front of her —

Yui: I...

( Wait a second… why would he already have an NDA ready if this wasn’t planned? )

( He didn’t bring me here out of responsibility… He had this in mind all along…! )

— frowns —

So that’s it, huh?

This wasn’t about guilt.

This wasn’t about making up for what happened in the onsen or trying to help me when I had nowhere else to go.

You brought me here just to trap me into signing this agreement. That was your plan all along… wasn't it?

Ayato: Plan?

You think I have time to sit around crafting some big master plan for a random girl who wandered into my bath by accident?

Pfft, please, you’re not that important.

Yui: Then… then why did you prepare an NDA for it?

Ayato: ‘Cause idols always carry those around? Do you think you’re the first person I gave one to? Don’t get ahead of yourself, you’re not even the first one this month.

Yui: ( So that’s how it is... )

( Just one person out of many... just another problem to be silenced. )

Then I won’t sign it.

Ayato: Hah!?

What the hell did you just say?

Yui: You heard me.

I said I won’t sign it.

Ayato: Are you seriously picking now to grow a spine?

— laughs mockingly—

You think you're in a position to refuse? After following me around, barging into the onsen while I was still there, sleeping in my room, and then throwing accusations like you're some righteous saint?

Yui: I never asked to be in your room! I never wanted any of this!

And you’re right, despite the coincidences, I did mess up too.

But that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like some disposable liability you can trick and shut up with paperwork!

Ayato: Ugh... Don’t get it twisted. This isn’t about "tricking" anyone. It’s about protecting my life and my career.

Yui: Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before mocking me, humiliating me, and dragging me around like I’m some kind of pest!

I tried to understand you, I really did. But now you’re showing me exactly what kind of person you are!

Ayato: What kind of person I am, huh?

Heh… you know nothing about me, so you better shut up before it’s too late.

Yui: I do know enough based on this situation to form an opinion about you.

— sets unsigned NDA on table —

If you don’t trust me, that’s your choice. But I won’t sign something that treats me like I’m a threat just for existing.

— heads towards door —

Ayato: Oi! You… you can’t just leave now! It’s still raining, isn’t it?

Yui: I’d rather get drenched from head to toe than spend the night stuck with a selfish and arrogant guy like you!

— opens the door and bolts out —

Ayato: …!

( This bi— )

*Rign Ring*

( Huh, it’s working again? )

Yo, what’s up?

Manager: Ayato-san! Thanks goodness you’re alright! You’re still at the hotel?

Ayato: Well yeah, where else could I be?

Manager: Ah, that’s good. We’re heading your way now to pick you up. Please get yourself ready so we can leave as soon as possible.

Ayato: Got it. I’ll be waiting here.

*Mini timeskip*

— gets inside limo —

Laito: Hello~! Missed me, Ayato-kun?

Ayato: Hah? Laito, why the heck are you here?

Laito: Well, I thought you'd like your most charming and beloved group mate to personally escort you home. Am I wrong~?

Ayato: I would’ve managed just fine on my own. It’s not like I’d drop dead riding solo in a limo, you know?

Laito: Oh? But it’s much more fun this way, isn’t it? You looked like you had quite the eventful day, judging by your gloomy face.

Ayato: G-Gloomy!? Hmph, you wish! I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s not like anything happened that could actually bother me.

Laito: Mmm~? That defensive tone says otherwise. Come on, Ayato-kun, you know you can tell your bestie anything~

Ayato: Shut up already. The last thing I need is you running your mouth and making a big deal out of nothing!

Laito: Fufu~ I see, I see... So it is something after all.

Ayato: I swear, Laito, one more word and I’ll kick you out of the car myself!

Laito: Uwah! So scary~~! I’m shaking!

— Ayato rolls his eyes —

Laito: But for real now, why are you such a moody kitten today?

Ayato: ‘Cause a certain someone pisses me off.

Laito: And that certain someone is…

Ayato: You!

Laito: Fufu… liar, liar, pants on fire!

Ayato: ( The tension between my fist and his face is seriously high right now… )

Laito: You’re really selfish, Ayato-kun.

Ayato: …!

Wha— What do you mean by that?

Laito: You have juicy gossip but refuse to share it with me.

— pouts —

Ayato: ( Ah, for a moment I thought— )

Geez, you’re such a weirdo sometimes!

But if it’ll finally get you to stop pestering me, fine…there’s really nothing big. I just had a… rough encounter with a fan, that’s all.

Laito: ( Such a baby~ )

You’re acting like it’s the end of the world because of that.

You can’t let something like that get to you. As long as it doesn’t mess with your career or your image, who really cares what one person out of millions thinks?

People are always going to have opinions, some good, some bad. You just have to learn to ignore the noise.

Ayato: Heh… yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s not worth getting all worked up over.

( But still… she didn’t sign the NDA, and she seemed pretty upset when she left. I don’t know what she might do next. )

( Not like I can tell anyone, though. I’d just worry them… and I’d get scolded too. )

( Ugh…! Fuck this! How did the situation go from bad to worse!? )

— limo arrives —

Manager: Laito-san, why didn’t you tell me you went to pick up Ayato-san!?

Laito: Guess I forgot to text you~ Teehee.

Manager: Haa… you’re impossible sometimes. Just get inside, both of you. We’ve got rehearsals to prep for tomorrow, and I don’t want any more surprises tonight.

— they step into the building —

Ayato: Where’s Subaru?

Manager: He’s in his room, as usual. Don’t worry, he’s completely back to normal. He even asked about you earlier, so you might want to check in with him tomorrow.

Laito: Phaa~ Today was exhausting for me too.

— stretches —

I just want to soak in a nice hot bath and relax every inch of me.

But now that you’re back, Ayato-kun, let’s go to the on——

Huh? Where did he go!?

Place: Dorms

Ayato: ( There’s no way I’m stepping foot in an onsen again! )

( Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl… What a mess. )

— enters room —

Ayato: ( As expected… Shu is sleeping like a corpse.)

( Well, fine. Not like I was hoping to talk or anything.)

— tosses jacket on chair —

( That damn NDA...)

( Seriously, I hand her a paper asking her to keep her mouth shut, and suddenly I’m the villain of the story!? )

"I tried to understand you, I really did."

( Woman, what is this… some sort of k-drama? You met me less than 24 hours ago. Let’s not pretend we had some epic romance that ended in betrayal and rain. )

— throws arm over his eyes —

( And then she had the audacity to call me selfish. ME. As if I'm the only one who wanted to keep things private. )

( This bitch… )

( She smelled like church incense and then acted like I was the one who needed salvation?? Where’s the logic? )

— groans into pillow —

( She didn’t sign. Great. So now she can legally say whatever crazy crap she wants. )

( And you know people online would believe anything, since a lot of them are stupid as fuck. “I always knew he had dark energy.” “Omg he gives red flag vibes.” “Cancel him!” )

— sits up in bed —

“SAKAMAKI’s Ayato: Vampire Concept or Genuinely Evil? My Night in Hell" by Random Friendless Church Girl

( Then… career over. I’ll be doing rice in the countryside by next week, ‘cause my parents will definitely disown me. )

— falls back again with a sigh —

( Anyway, maybe she’ll forget. Yeah… maybe she hit her head on the way out and thinks I’m a barista now. Who knows? )

( Haa... just sleep. If I’m lucky, the world will explode overnight and I won’t have to deal with this. )

— closes eyes —

*Timeskip*

Ayato: Zzz...

*Ring Ring*

Zzz... nn...

*Ring Ring*

Ngh... what now, the apocalypse?

— answers —

Manager: Ayato-san, we need to talk!

Ayato: ...!

( Fuck! This is the "get ready to cry in a press conference" call! )

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

I'm sitting here looking at my glasses and thinking... what if our beloved cursed boy becomes glasses? that greatly impair vision?

who did he piss off? I have no idea. Maybe some wizard optician. Makes magic glasses.

hmm... someone in the background mentioned an AI vacuum cleaner... and we have some leftover Stan-Vac products. It's not like a dissatisfied customer could be a wizard, right? :)

this guy is forever cursed to be a cursed animal/object due to the fandom's peculiar imagination.

I hope you had a nice day!)

Stan refuses a pair of glasses, because he is NOT! a nerd, and the price this whacko is asking is way to high, then gets cursed to be his own pair when he mockingly says he's got a perfectly good pair of peepers.

Stanglasses make anyone who wear them see with his shitty prescription. Ford picks him up because they're the only pair the shop has in a style he likes after he busts his last pair, figures he'll just get the glass switched out, problem solved.

Humor says he can't, and gets way too invested in trying to get this one pair of glasses to unscrew so he can put in new lenses. He refuses to change his style because Gravity Falls lack of options. Shenanigans happen, Stan freaking out at how deranged Ford is getting with his 'solutions' until Ford realizes the glasses are cursed, happily uncurses them, then gets hit with Stan scrambling away from him because 'wtf Ford who uses a drill on glasses. do you know how terrifying that was?'

Angst says he can, and Stan gets horrible glasses eye surgery, then lives on Fords face while internally hyperventilating at his new 'eyes'. Maybe whoever wears Stan he can subtly manipulate the longer the person wears them. Ford wakes up in places he wasn't before, in the middle of writing about anomalies suddenly starts help over and over, or just aaaaaaaahhh. Very strange. Worse when he starts writing Stan's name.

Comes to the point where Ford realizes he can't control his body anymore, and it just stops and starts hyperventilating, touching things and trying to talk, before grumbling, slamming open his journal, and writing 'help I'm stuck in the glassess its-"

And then Fords back in control, slamming the journal closed and snatching his glasses of his face. Does a bunch of tests (squinting), figures out they're cursed, cautiously uncures them, and then bam! There's Stan.

His eyes are a different color. They're a different color because Ford switched his eyes out.

Onto the vacuum :)

Stan sells a shoddy vacuum to a wizard, gets cursed for his troubles and shoved back into his car, and can only be uncursed if someone gets it to work as intended. Ford gets Stan's car, cleans it out, looks at all his junk, and shoves it in a closet.

Stan is not staying in a closet.

Its sucks and feels awful, but he can move without being plugged in. Rams the door until Ford lets him out, just to watch this terrible vacuum flop over. Nothing else is in there, maybe really fast gnome?

Vacuum is still on the floor, and Ford shrugs. Might as well, he hasn't cleaned in a while, and then when Stan finally shows up Ford can berate him about his terrible products with accuracy.

Stan is a terrible vacuum, makes weird noises, only picks up half the dirt, got a rug stuck in him, scratched up Fords floor. Back to the closet he goes, angrily.

Then back out. Ford has to know how Stan made a vacuum so awful and fix it so he can shove it in Stan's face. Stan gets the horrifying feeling of being repaired as a vacuum, and at least? He can't feel it? Fords grumbling and smack talking him, but whatever, he's gonna get out of his hair the moment he has legs.

Ford somehow makes this vacuum worse.

He doesn't know how he did it, Stan has even less of an idea, but Ford plugged him in and Stan went out of control, ramming into things with a suction power of a tornado.

Does this several times, before finally caving and calling Fiddleford about it, getting instructions over the phone and finally making a normal, working vacuum.

Plugs it in, very nicely vacuums the floor and then is vacuuming Stan's back as he finally pops back into existence. Ford stares, Stan groans, the vacuum kinda feels good on his back?

Then they yell about it, as they do.

[steddieas-shegoes]

good or bad

for @corrodedcoffinfest prompt 'the good, the bad, and the ugly'

and a very special thank you to @thisapplepielife for letting me play in her sandbox again with gareth and di. this is your quarterly reminder to go read Tuesday's Gone With the Wind. you can enjoy this fic without it, but you'll appreciate it A LOT more if you have the backstory.

this is also my 500th work on ao3! of the 15+ years i've been in fandoms, it is kinda crazy to think this is the one that made me go so feral i have over a 1.25 million words written about these characters (mostly steddie).

rated m | 903 words | cw: referenced past drug use/abuse | tags: established relationships, therapy, marriage

👎🏻👍🏻👎🏻👍🏻👎🏻👍🏻👎🏻👍🏻👎🏻👍🏻👎🏻👍🏻👎🏻👍🏻

Gareth knows he doesn’t deserve her, but Di is sitting next to him at this therapy appointment, holding his hand, acting like he does.

She just does these things, he doesn’t even have to ask. In fact, she’s the one who scheduled this. He’s doing good. He thought he was doing good.

“Gareth?” His therapist smiles at her office door, beckoning him inside. “Di! Nice to see you, honey. You doin’ good?”

“Doin’ just fine, Lynn. Take care of my guy, okay?”

Lynn nods and Gareth isn’t sure what to say. He walks into the office and gets comfy in his usual chair.

“Soooo,” she starts. “What’s got Di so concerned that she called me herself?”

Gareth shrugs. He genuinely doesn’t know. He’s been going to his meetings, his doctor appointments, his physical therapy. He’s been in Eddie’s studio having fun, no pressure.

“She mentioned something about some missing cash,” Lynn suggests, trying to get him to talk about stuff.

Oh.

Well, Di is right to be worried about that, for sure. But not because of the reasons she or Lynn may suspect.

“Ah.”

Lynn smiles. “I’d love to hear more about where the missing cash went missing to.”

“Well, it’s simple. I owed a guy a lot of money. You can imagine how a guy who you used to buy the best shit from might get a little upset when he finds out how much money you have and he’s still in the red,” Gareth explains. “All settled up now. Won’t hear from him again. I did call my sponsor about it as promised.”

“But you didn’t tell Di.”

Gareth shakes his head. “No, we agreed I could call the sponsor for anything that wasn’t a relapse.”

“But you see why she might be concerned you’re keeping something from her, why she may be worried about a relapse.”

Gareth sighs, nodding. “Yeah, I guess I should’ve thought of that.”

“I’m sure if you just explain it to her, she’ll understand. Was this guy threatening you in some way? What made you feel pressured to settle your debts now?”

Well, realistically, he could’ve ignored the guy. Probably turned him in to the cops or something, put him away for a long time, if not forever. Wouldn't be $4600 poorer, even though that $4600 is nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Wouldn’t be sitting in Lynn’s office on a random Tuesday because he made his wife think he relapsed.

“He’s the only one who has dirt on Eddie that I’d rather not see the light of day,” Gareth admits. “God only knows what he has on me.”

“I see,” Lynn nods in understanding. “Well, do you wanna tell Di or leave it?”

“I’d rather tell her. If she’s so worried.”

“Do you wanna do it here or at home?”

“Home. I think it’ll be better in private.”

Lynn nods and offers to let him talk for the rest of his scheduled session, but he doesn’t really need to. He is doing good right now.

****

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says as Di chops some onions for dinner. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Sorry I jumped the gun,” she replies, turning to smile at him. “I trust you. I just…I didn’t want this to turn into something more.”

“I’m glad you called her,” Gareth walks up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, buries his nose in her neck. She laughs, stops chopping so she can settle her hands on his arms. “He’s a shitty guy. I know he would’ve leaked some stuff on Eddie and he doesn’t deserve that. He’s doing good, but he’s still…you know.”

They all worried more about Eddie. He was doing okay most of the time, but he still gets in these moods where no one, not even Steve or Gareth, can get to him. He just lays in bed for a couple days, sulks around the house, and then he’s okay again. It’s hard to watch. It’s a bit of a red flag, honestly.

But as far as they all know, he’s never turned to using during those periods.

“Do you wanna talk about what he’s got?” Di offers, but in the way she always does, where he knows she won’t push.

“He saw Eddie at his worst. You know he never cheated on Steve,” Gareth takes a deep breath. “But there was one time when he did a line off a woman’s stomach. He threw up after. This guy had pictures of it all. Plus stuff I don’t even know about and don’t wanna know about.”

“So you were protecting him.”

“Yeah. I’d do the same for any of them.”

“I know,” she sighs, kisses his cheek, turns back to start chopping again. He doesn’t move, just rests his forehead against her shoulder. “And you know even if it was something worse, I’d be here for you.”

“Yeah,” his voice comes out shaky. He’s doing good, but he knows if he weren’t, she’d still be with him. She’s waited for him through everything, she’s supported him in the times when he least deserved it. She always will. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she says. “Can you stir the pasta?”

“Yep.”

He kisses her shoulder and does as she asked. He’d do anything for her, just as he does anything for him. Good or bad, she’s got his back.