#finally done with this holy shit

[swiftmitsu]

Part 6.5

a little check in back at the castle~

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[hauntedestheart]

A Business Investment (FxM Body Swap)

Another story from the world of business.

Mason McKinley was sure he was going to be a famous actor someday- he just needed the world to realize it.

Growing up in his small midwestern hometown where he was the hottest guy around, it had felt like being the star was his birthright. He'd netted the lead in every school play since elementary school, modelled for local catalogues, even won homecoming AND prom king. 6'4'', a killer jawline, luscious blonde hair and bright blue eyes, literally the poster boy for the local gym… how could Kentucky not be in the palm of his hand? All he had to do was wear a nice tight shirt that showed off his muscles and flash that pretty smile of his and anything he wanted fell into his lap.

It didn't take long for Hollywood to give him a reality check- turned out that Mason was not actually a very good actor, and once he was up against talented dreamboats rather than the wimps in drama club, his star came crashing down to earth.

After six years in the business and his claims to fame were a handful of minor background roles in some long running procedurals, some poorly reviewed theatre, and an embarrassing ad spot for STD testing that everyone back home was still making fun of him for.

In the small pond he'd been biggest fish around, but out in the ocean? He floundered.

While he was waiting for his big break, Mason needed a survival job, and thanks to some other actor friends he'd gotten employed as an attendant at an expensive country club. The young actor hoped that one day a big shot producer would come in, see him, and cast him on the spot, but since that hadn't happened yet he spent his days fetching water bottles and chasing after lost tennis balls. Not exactly his Hollywood dream.

Still, the tight white shorts of the uniform made his ass look amazing and if he flirted with the wealthy old clientele of the club, he took home a killing in tips. Being a corn fed midwestern hunk made him "exotic" to rich out-of-touch Californians, and Mason had no qualms about debasing himself a bit for some cash. A little wink here, a flex there, a look the other way when someone got a little handsy… it paid the bills.

He had his limits though.

"Yoo-hoo!" A shrill voice rang out across the tennis court and Mason winced- luckily his acting skills allowed him to smooth the disgust from his face before he turned around to greet the plump middle aged woman who had materialized beside him.

"It's good to see you again Ms. Grant," he lied through his pretty white teeth, and he was feeling generous so he threw in an extra lie for free. "You look lovely today. Is your hair different?"

It was a stupid question- as the head of some kind of beauty company the woman was always changing her look, in this case from a dark black perm to a platinum blonde bob -but Ms. Grant still let out a surprised gasp and tilted her head side to side as if she were modelling the latest fashion. It was not a good look, but Mason dug deep into his Stanislavski training and managed to keep a smile on his face.

"You like? I just had it done. I think it makes me look younger, don't you? If you're not careful, one of these days I'm going to snap you up!" Ms. Grant threw her head back and let out a stage giggle, and Mason bit his tongue so he wouldn't burst out laughing himself. An attempt at a seductive expression appeared on her face and she 'casually' reached over and gave Mason's bicep a less-than-innocent pat. "And please, I've told you a million times, call me Seraphina."

Your name is Susan, Mason thought. "Of course Seraphina," Mason said.

Her hand was still on his arm, one thumb trailing idly over the curve of his muscles, and Mason gave a polite nod before escaping to ready some equipment, peeking over his shoulder to confirm that Ms. Grant was staring at his tight butt when he bent over to pick up some tennis rackets. He smirked and made sure to arch his back to give her a little show before he straightened up- it never hurt to keep the clients happy.

Ms. Grant honestly wasn't that bad, but she was a herald of destruction, because if she was here, then The California Business Women's Association weren't far behind.

The California Business Women's Association was supposed to be an organization for high powered business women looking to network, but the meetings were really just an excuse for rich bitches to brag about their success and tear each other down… with a smile, of course. Mason thought of them as the Real Housewives of the Wall Street (never mind that Wall Street was on the far coast) and while he got a sick pleasure out of observing their gossip and backstabbing, they were one of his least favorite groups to work with.

Normally a hot piece of meat like Mason could make a killing off of a bunch of mostly single women over thirty, but Dominique Banks (pharmaceuticals CEO and undisputed alpha bitch of the group) made it damn near impossible for him to schmooze. A very public divorce several years ago had made Dominique into something of a misandrist and now she did her best to chastise and shame the other women whenever they tried to engage in any talk of men, let alone flirt with the cute hunk bringing them their towels.

(Mason assumed that was why Ms. Grant showed up early to objectify him as much as possible before Dominique was there to judge her for it.)

Dominique herself descended on the court a minute later with the rest of the ladies in tow, and soon the court was filled with women in expensive active gear (some with the tags still on) milling about and pretending to warm up for a few rounds of low intensity tennis. Mason busied himself offering to take care of coats and bags while also doing his best to eavesdrop on the latest gossip.

Currently, Dominique was complaining to a trio of women about a member of the group who seemed to be running late.

"I think it's irresponsible of her to be so tardy," Dominique said, pushing deeper into an impressive lunge- she was one of the few in the group who actually kept up with her personal trainer despite a busy schedule, something she loved to lord over the other women. "I'm starting to question if she should even be a member of the CBWA."

"Maybe she had a work emergency?" one of her companions offered, watching with mild interest as Dominique stretched her calves. "She did just get that big promotion."

"'Big promotion?'" Dominique scoffed and turned her nose up. "Be serious Lucille, she's a middle manager whose office happens to be on the top floor… or a few floors down from it I suppose." The shade drew a small titter out of the other women, and Dominique smirked. "We all have demanding jobs, but we still make time every month to come to these meetings because it's important for us to connect as women in the male-dominated professional world. We're a sisterhood! If we don't look out for each other, who will? Which is exactly why we need to make an example of her."

Mason had a pretty good idea who they were talking about. There was only one woman in the group who Dominique couldn't stand- coincidentally the only woman in the group who ever stood up to her. But before the young man could search the group for a head of red hair to see if he was correct, a voice boomed out, and everyone's eyes were drawn to a newcomer who was making their way onto the court.

"Sorry I'm late ladies!"

Like a scene from a movie, sauntering across the green pavement was one of the hottest guys Mason had ever seen. He was brown skinned with carefully coiffed black hair and the kind of face that Mason usually only saw in the castings for his modelling gigs- a striking appearance enhanced by the way his eyes burned an unnaturally bright, electric blue. Tall and broad, the tight grey jacket he wore did little to disguise the bulk of his build… and if the fit of his compression shorts was to be believed, he'd brought his own tennis balls to the court.

Mason's jaw dropped, and he nearly dropped a basket of tennis balls with it before he gathered his senses and caught himself at the last second. The sexy stranger wasn't on staff (Mason would have heard if such an Adonis had been hired) but most of the members of the country club were old and gross, so who was this guy? A private trainer hired by a client? A socialite's new trophy husband? Some Middle Eastern prince?

"Thanks for waiting," the man said, making his way towards the benches with a fancy (seemingly brand new) equipment bag bouncing on his hip. "It's been so busy at work with the new startup we're launching, but I managed to move some things around to make room at the last minute."

Mystery stud unzipped his jacket as he walked and stowed it in the bag, revealing a tight grey top that bared huge, muscular arms, and was cut just low enough to allow a tasteful peek of his furry pecs. He looked down at himself and then tugged on his shirt, adjusting it so that it showed even more of his ample chest, which he made bounce a few times. A satisfied little smile came to his full lips at the sight, and when he looked back up at the CBWA, it seemed like half of the organization swooned.

Mason was feeling a little weak in the knees himself, but as much as he'd rather drool over the guy, he did technically have a job to do. He in front of the man and held a hand out, stopping the newcomer before he could join the cluster of speechless businesswomen. "Uh, excuse me sir, this court has been booked for private use by a group already."

"I'm aware," the man gave a chuckle (he was looking at Mason like he thought Mason was an idiot, but somehow, condescension was a good look on him) and tossed his curly black hair. "And I'm a member of the group- Terry Walker. Some of my eggheads at the lab cooked up a new kind of body transferal device and I've been experimenting with it in the workplace. Didn't have time to switch back before the meeting, so I figured, why the hell not?" He winked and thumped a fist into his meaty pecs a few times. "Take the thing out for a spin."

"Oh, body swapping! I think I read something about that!" Ms. Grant exclaimed, and several of the other woman in the group murmured their agreement. Mason had a hazy recollection of getting a note from his boss about something that morning, probably this, but he was saved from having to apologize when Dominique shoved him out of the way.

"You are not Terry Walker," the woman snapped, squaring her legs and and raising her chin like a lioness preparing to protect her territory. "What the hell kind of stunt is this? Did Terry hire a stripper as some kind of joke?"

The man laughed a warm, rich laugh. "You're not the first person to say that but no, believe it or not I borrowed this body from one of the guys who works in my lab. Tariq or something like that? I can never keep track of these things." He kept an easy smile on his face and shrugged his broad shoulders, intentionally stretching his shoulders back to bare his impressive wingspan. "And I'm the real deal- they wouldn't have let me in if I couldn't prove it. I look good, right ladies?"

The man's arms came up into a double bicep flex and Mason didn't know if he should be jealous of the man's muscles (those peaks) or massively turned on by them. The women were having less trouble deciding what to do and many of them were beginning to to swoon, only to straighten their spines when Dominique shot them a withering look out of the corner of her eye.

She turned back around and drew herself up to her full height (she was the tallest woman of the group, but this man had several inches on her and it was clearly grinding her gears) and jabbed a finger at the alleged impostor.

"You can't seriously expect us to believe this nonsense," she scoffed, drawing a chorus of murmurs from the flock of ladies behind her.

A sly smile came to the man's lips. "What do you mean? This is that exciting new project that I've been working on that I posted about it in the organization's official Slack, remember?" One of his bushy eyebrows shot up and he eyed Dominique pointedly. "You've been reading the Slack, haven't you Dominique? I seem to recall you saying it's so important to stay updated- but I guess you've probably been too busy lately to keep up with what's going on with your CBWA sisters. All those patent lawsuits and meetings about alimony must take up so much of your time!"

The vicious barb made several of the women gasp, and even Mason felt a chill run down his spine. In the corner of Dominique's forehead, a vein was throbbing like it was about to burst, but the rest of her expression was frighteningly neutral. Then, her lips pressed into a snarl that tried to pass as a smile.

"Yes, it can be so time consuming being being the head of a company," Dominique said, voice dripping with venom. "You're so lucky you don't have to deal with all that stress Terry. And don't worry yourself about my alimony, I'm just glad I was at least married once unlike-"

The woman realized her mistake too late, and Terry Walker smirked triumphantly.

"No comment on the patent lawsuits?" Walker added, just to salt the wound, and then she brushed past Mason (who shivered at the momentary contact with her large, solid body) and flung her bag down on the benches.

She bent down to rifle through it, giving everyone an eyeful of the tight, muscular male ass that was just barely concealed by her tight grey tennis shorts, and Mason clocked a subtle arch in her back. It was the same trick Mason used to make his butt look juicier when he was hustling for tips, and now that he was on the receiving end of it, he understood why it worked. Mason wasn't ashamed of his own ass (quite the opposite actually), but thought if he had that thing, he'd be unstoppable.

The other women converged on Terry like flies on honey, buzzing about as they all tried to get her attention.

"How did you-" "Look at that-" "So do you really have a-" "I NEED to-" "When is it-" "You have to got to let-" "Where the hell did you find-" "Please can I feel-"

The gaggle of women were all talking at once, making it difficult to make out any one question, but Mason didn't need a transcript to understand what the main topic of discussion was. Everyone was fascinated by the body Walker had borrowed, and who could blame them? A tall, handsome, muscular man with bronze skin and piercing unnaturally electric blue eyes… Mason was half tempted to dive into the crowd himself to get a closer look.

Terry, for her part, was taking the onslaught in stride, basking in the attention and tossing out answers where she could. But her new body did most of the talking as she flexed one of her huge arms in response to someone's question, bouncing the bicep up and down like a softball. She generously leaned down and extended the arm, giving the other women a chance to feel, which they all instantly took advantage of, practically hanging off of the muscled limb like it was a jungle gym.

"Okay, that's ENOUGH ladies!" Dominique snapped- or rather clapped, several times, loudly. All eyes turned to her and the women cowed, drifting away from the hunky man in their midst and falling back into line. After a tense moment of silence, Dominique raised her voice again. "Now, since we're finally all here, are we just going to stand around talking, or are we going to play?" She hefted her tennis racket over her shoulder like it was a weapon and waved her hand at the group. "We'll start off with pairs, everyone partner up."

Pandemonium ensued as all of the women scrambled to grab Terry by the arm, and Dominique was practically steaming.

"Never mind, we're doing singles."

---

Terry trounced the others, of course.

Using the body of a ripped athletic young man in the prime of his life gave her a significant advantage, but perhaps her opponents would have stood a better chance if they hadn't been so distracted staring at the ostentatious mass of flesh that was bouncing around in her loose tennis shorts as she bounded around the court. More than one match had been lost before it began when Terry's opponent's eyes were so trained on the way that hefty bulge jumped when she did that they completely missed her serving them the ball.

The sight of Terry's borrowed body on the court was a sight to behold, all muscle and bronzed skin. The shorts she had selected were shamelessly short, baring as much of the young man's strong, thick thighs as could be considered decent, and those powerful legs pumped like pistons as she used them to dart around the court- the constant action caused the shorts to ride up further as the games went along until they were being devoured by his massive ass cheeks.

Mason found himself mesmerized by the way her body's hairy pecs, which heaved up and down beneath her shirt as she ran, and it was almost funny how on a court full of women, it was the man's chest that was bouncing the most. This only became more noticeable as the matches wore on and her masculine body became sweatier and sweatier, soaking the thin gray fabric of her shirt until it began to cling to her flesh and highlight just how muscular the body she'd brought for the day was.

After an intense final showdown between Terry and Dominique (during which Dominique had been unable to score a single point, resulting her throwing down her racket and screaming at Mason for something or other), the women retreated to the outdoor lounge area where couches and tables were shaded by umbrellas, and Mason did his best to eavesdrop as he served them drinks.

"It's just been incredible ladies," Terry was telling them. The couches were arranged in a "U" shape and she sat at the direct center, leaned back with her muscular arms folded behind her head to give everyone a view of her hairy armpits. Legs sprawled wide of course, just to draw eyes to the heavy bulge that sat between her legs. "I mean we all know how hard it is for women in the workplace, but I still wasn't ready for how much easier it would be as a man! I've started swapping into a male body for all of my meetings and they've never gone smoother."

"You see, men are animals," she continued, snapping her fingers at Mason to bring her a drink. "And animals respect an alpha. That's why they have all of these stupid male rituals- handshakes and bourbon and cigars and all that. When I walk into a boardroom and I'm the tallest, the strongest…" Terry's eyes glanced down suggestively towards her bulging crotch. "the biggest, then men have to listen to me. It's almost disgusting how simple it is."

"Don't you think that kind of thinking undermines the work that we do here at this organization?" Dominique chimed in. Not to be outdone, she'd pulled up a chair so she could sit at the opening of the "U" opposite Terry, and she glared across the space at the smiling male bodied woman. "How are men supposed to learn to respect us when we act like the only way to get ahead is to become one of them? We're supposed to be empowering women, and you're jumping ship like a rat."

"I'm feeling pretty empowered right now actually." Terry slipped one of the arms out from behind her head and flexed it, bouncing the thick bicep up and down a few times, drawing a chorus of giggles from the assembled women, and Dominique frowned. A cocky smile crossed Terry's borrowed face and her sparkling blue eyes glittered in the light, and she casually rubbed at the thin layer of stubble that was starting to sprout on her chiseled jawline. Slowly, as she spoke, her hands began drifting down the masculine body she had rented.

"You do bring up a good point Dominique- I have no intention of becoming a man full-time, this body is just temporary. I'm a woman through and through, but if I can take advantage of the privileges of being a man to get ahead, why wouldn't I? Men only understand power and they won't respect us until we have it. They say, talk softly and carry a big stick, and this…" Terry's hands had reached her crotch and she grabbed at it, hefting the bulge up and down a few times. Everyone was mesmerized. "This is my stick. Today, I'm blending in with the boys' club. Tomorrow? I own it."

Mason was starting to get hard in his own shorts at this point, and he cursed, sticking his fingers into his pockets and trying to adjust himself so it was less obvious.

(A bit of bulge was good for business but standing in front of all those women with a full blown erection was just embarrassing.)

A bit flustered, he dutifully marched over to Terry and handed her the drink she had requested earlier- she didn't thank him, but she did throw him a wink, and it was so sexy on that guy's face that Mason felt his cock twitch. From the way the other women were staring, he was sure they had all noticed, and he jogged off with a red face.

"And there are recreational uses for a male body," Terry commented, stroking herself as she watched Mason's ass bouncing away. "Obviously."

"Walker, that is highly inappropriate!" Dominique slammed her glass down on the table in front of her, splashing orange liquid everywhere. "Sexual harassment is a serious issue, and furthermore, this is a professional organization. Nobody wants to hear about that!"

"Shut up, yes we do!" Ms. Grant shouted, and Dominique was so caught by surprise that her mouth snapped shut. All of the women turned away from her and leaned in towards Terry, ready to hang on her every word. "Give us all the details Terry."

Terry took a sip of her drink, milking the anticipation. As Mason busied himself wiping up Dominique's mess, he kept his eyes trained on Terry- the straw Mason had given her was a larger one usually reserved for boba, but he'd felt a burning need to see what those plush lips looked like curled up and sucking on something thick. The sight did not disappoint, nor did it help calm his pesky erection.

Finally, Walker spoke. "Well… you all remember Marcos, right?"

"Your pool boy?" Ms. Grant gasped, and all of the women burst out into a titter of excitement. The handsome young man had been something of a celebrity for the group ever since they'd had a mixer at Walker's house, and they were always asking her for updates. "You didn't!"

"Oh I did," Terry smirked and popped her pecs cockily. "Quite a few times actually. I never thought I'd get the chance- I just kept him on the payroll because he was pretty to look at -but it turns out he was very attracted to this body. He was begging for my cock and I…" Her hips shifted, a long, lazy thrust into the air, and the outline of the long and thick cock in question made itself known- she was getting hard. "I was happy to give him what he wanted."

"Haven't studies shown that the male orgasm is less intense than the female orgasm?" Dominique cut in, trying to land another barb, but Terry just shrugged her off.

"It felt pretty good to me when I was fucking a sexy twenty-six year old," Terry's hands were on her crotch, and everyone's eyes were glued to it as well as she began to stroke herself up and down through the thin fabric. Her borrowed voice, warm and rich, dropped to a husky growl. "But the appeal is in more than just the orgasm, it's the experience. It's about getting to be the one on top and in charge. I've been fucked by so many men in my life that getting to be the one doing the fucking was goddamn cathartic- and it isn't like some plastic strap-on, I got to use eight inches of top of the line cock to do the job."

"And these muscles!" Wrenching one hand away from her nethers, she shoved it roughly beneath her shirt, the fabric riding up and offering a peak of her host's sculpted brown torso as she groped one of his pecs. From the way her fingers were moving beneath the fabric, she seemed to be tweaking one of his nipples. "FUCK this guy is so goddamned strong! I'M so strong! I threw him around like a ragdoll and he thanked me for it, he sucked on my tits and begged me to manhandle him. I was the man. I was in control."

"Fuck!" A masculine grunt escaped her lips, and she began to stroke herself harder. Now fully hard, the tip of her cock was peeking out of the waistband of her shorts (allowing everyone to see that her host was in fact, circumcised) and it bobbed up and down as she thrust into her own hand. "There's something incredibly… visceral about being able to shove yourself inside of a man, I wouldn't even begin to know how to describe it. But it feels incredible. It feels… it feels…"

And then the rest of the sentence was a wordless roar of pleasure as she ejaculated, grinding her hand up and down the length of her shaft like a man possessed… which in a sense is exactly what she was. The mushroom head of her borrowed penis throbbed as it spewed out an impressive load of semen, staining her shirt, her face, even splattering onto the cushions next to her and the table before her, and she slumped back onto the cushions in a heap. Panting, her huge chest heaved up and down, and she waved at Mason.

Like everyone else in attendance, he stared dumbly at the debauched man in front of him for a moment until he remembered his job and realized what she wanted- usually the towels were only for sweat, but he supposed they'd work just as well for cum. But when he offered her one, she just rolled her electric blue eyes and stripped her shirt off, leading to a chorus of gasps as her borrowed body's furry muscles were fully unveiled. Wordlessly, she gestured to the mess that dotted her torso.

Mason's mouth was suddenly dry but he didn't dare swallow- swallowing was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about in this particular moment. He felt the heavy eyes of the entire CBWA on him as he dropped to his knees in front of the strapping male figure, and the young actor had been in Hollywood long enough to recognize when he was being asked to play a role.

And he had auditioned for enough productions that were basically soft-core porn to know how to play this one.

He casually ran his fingers through his hair, fluffing his golden locks, and plastered a smile on his face as he peeked up at Terry, looking for all the world like an innocent wide eyed farm boy eager to serve like no one was watching. White spunk was already starting to dry in the forest of chest hair so Mason doused his towel with water from a glass on the table to better scrub it out, meaning there was just a thin sheet of wet fabric between his hands and the perfectly sculpted body that Terry Walker had claimed for the day, so it didn't take much acting for Mason behave like he was turned on.

The young actor cheated out and angled his torso slightly so the horde of horny businesswomen watching could get a good view of his own muscular torso as he worked, perversely eager to remind his clients that there was more than one stud on the court that day. He took his time working Terry's pecs, squeezing them slightly under the guise of scraping out some particularly hard to remove spunk, and then worked his way down to her abs, digging his fingers into the crags of her six pack to make sure he got out every little speck.

And when he reached the waistband of her shorts, he let his fingers drift along the deep v of muscle that vanished beneath, teasing everyone that he might go deeper, before he reluctantly pulled himself back.

Drawing up to his feet, he dusted his knees off, and then he noticed Walker's drink- semen dotted the rim of the glass and a thin layer of white was laying atop the liquid inside. He reached for it to take it away, but Walker stopped him. She grabbed the drink herself and slowly, deliberately, licked the rim, then downed the remainder of the glass in one swallow. Only then did she let him walk away.

Terry, shirtless and smug, smiled at the other women of the CBWA, who sat there speechless. Mouths were hanging open, some of them were fanning themselves, Ms. Grant's right hand was tucked beneath her skirt, and an unexpected voice broke the silence.

"How can I try that out?" Dominique asked, her voice strained and almost desperate, and then the floodgates opened and all of the other woman began chattering. Terry lifted up a hand and everyone went silent.

"Well as luck would have it, I'm actually starting my own company to distribute this particular service, and we're working on acquiring some seed funding." A bushy eyebrow raised. "I don't suppose any of you ladies would be interested?"

"You want our money?" One of the women asked, and Terry shrugged.

"I'm offering you all an investment opportunity. Isn't that the point of this group? To uplift each other?" She smiled across the table at Dominique, who for once kept her mouth shut and bowed her head. Terry sniffed triumphantly. "But I promise that this is a surefire win. Anyone interested can message me and I can set up an appointment so you can test the technology yourself- I'm sure the experience will uplift you like nothing else."

At that, she rose to her feet, allowing everyone to see that her tenacious rental dick was already half-hard again.

"Feel free to bring your own boys too, we've got lawyers and payment plans already drafted up. Pick someone you wanna be, and we can make it happen."

Then she walked away, her exit an unofficial signal to the other women that the meeting was now over, and everyone began to disperse. The women were abuzz with excitement, but Mason kept his eyes trained on Terry Walker as she sauntered off, eager to get one last look at her borrowed body's incredible ass.

What, he wondered to himself, would these meetings look like if the entire CBWA hopped on the same train as her? Mason imagined the tennis court full of ripped, shirtless men, frolicking about playing tennis in little shorts. It was such a pleasant image that it almost made up for the fact that he'd received no tips that day.

Shit, he thought to himself, crashing back to Earth as he remembered the rent payment he had due in a few days.

"Yoo-hoo!" A shrill voice rang out, and Mason saw Ms. Grant walking over towards him. She was wiping one of her hands on her skirt, and there was hunger in her eyes. "Dear, could we talk for a moment?"

Mason's stomach sank- he had an idea what she was going to ask him about. And unfortunately, he knew what his answer would be too.

[heartandeye]

《 a dream of better times 》 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘺𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘴

← ch 4 | series masterlist

➵ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: sylus x male!mc ➵ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Plagued by nightmares of memories you don't remember, you think Sylus is in love with a you that no longer exists. You push him away, but you are always drawn back to him in the end. ➵ ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of brother!Caleb ➵ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: attempted kidnapping, grief/mourning ➵ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ? nope ➵ ᴡᴄ: ~6.3k ➵ read on ao3

A/N: the final narrative installment of this series! this chapter took me so fucking long to write. i got lost in the sauce, and tbh i don't even know if i accomplished what goal i set out to end with in the first place. i may or may not have a bonus chapter in the works. my next fic series idea will be based on caleb, so it'll comprise of one shots of memories and scenarios he's lived up until he explodes in main story hehe. if you have any ideas or requests of some sweet summer memories, please let me know in my ask! thank you again for reading, reblogging, and liking! it means so much to me c:

When you come out of the shower almost an hour later, you already expect the change of clothes on a stand next to the bathroom door: a black shirt and charcoal sweats. He’s stopped buying you new clothes every time. Instead, he’s been lending you his clothes from his personal wardrobe. They hang a little loose on you since his frame is a little bigger than yours, but otherwise they fit well enough. This time, you forgo the shirt, your skin still warm from the hot shower.

You tighten the strings around the waistband of your pants and step out of the bathroom, a towel draped around your bare shoulders so you can ruffle your hair dry later.

The master bedroom you chose is the one that is the farthest from Sylus’ bedroom. You chose it the first time he presented you the options, and although at first you reluctantly resigned yourself to the base, now this room feels like home too. Another place where you can let the exhaustion take over you — where you’re the clothes and it is you. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh at the thought of going to bed, where the nightmares will hook their claws into your brain like vultures scavenging a long awaited meal.

You feel the heavy weight of his gaze before you register that he’s even there. When you look over, he’s leaning against the doorway, a first aid kit in his hands. You’re not sure how long he’s been silently standing there.

He’s changed into a gray sweater and black pants, hair still damp from his own shower. You try not to think about if he stocked all the bathrooms with the same shampoo he uses, or how you and him now have the same shower gel scent clinging to your bodies.

And while you restrain yourself, he continues to watch you — a lion in wait surveying their battered prey. Your grip on the towel around your shoulders tighten when you see his eyes settle especially where the band of your underwear peak over his sweatpants before flicking back up to your eyes.

Suddenly warmer and a bit more vulnerable than when you came out of the shower, you wish you had put on that shirt.

“May I come in?” he asks, calm despite you storming off earlier. You can’t get a good read on his expression. Whether it’s because you’re so tired or because he’s put on a mask of his own, you’re not entirely sure.

For a moment, you wonder what would happen if you said no. Would he go obediently into the night? Would that unreadable expression contort into something full of resentment? Or, would those solemn red eyes melt into a quiet agony again, like the night you couldn’t resonate with him?

The moment passes. You give one singular, apprehensive nod. The tentative air in the room is tangible, almost ticklish. The kind of sensation that triggers a fight-or-flight response — and lately, you’ve been a flight risk more often than not when it comes to him.

Sylus crosses the threshold into the small domain you’ve claimed as yours in the vast territory of his. He’s always been polite about entering your room, always a quiet and yielding question before he carves himself into your space. Yet you could count on one hand how many times he would come to this side of the floor and intrude on your peace.

You think he should come see you more often, catch you off guard like right now. Have those hungry eyes linger on your skin — as if there’s no other way he could look at you. This place is his, after all. (And you…)

You think you’d like him to make the first move once in a while. Fill up your hands with proof that he wants to see you. Fill your hands with him — his skin, his face, his hair.

God, even now, you think it’d be nice to melt yourself into his arms and just forget everything. He could take you back to that valley again, and maybe stand between you and your demons. You could live in a dream, losing yourself where reality can’t find you.

If only it weren’t for the sight of those flowers, swaying gently in the wind. They’re waiting for someone else, aren’t they? And you’re pathetic enough to soak up their patience. It sure as hell beats everything else you’ve been seeing in your sleep. How much could a pinch of selfishness hurt?

“Come here,” he says, his voice slicing through the veil of your thoughts. He’s sitting on the sofa, the first aid kit he brought with him opened on the coffee table.

Again, you think to decline for a split second. You want to resist that pull he has on you, to defy him out of whatever small pride you have left in you. Really, you just want to run away back home to familiarity, good or bad.

Instead, your feet carry you to the seat next to him, but you don’t sit down. Strands of your wet hair drip water droplets as your tired eyes look down at him.

“You said you’d give me answers,” you say to him.

He doesn’t blink at your guarded words. “I need to treat your wounds first.”

You make no move. “First I have to come to your base. Now I have to get treated. You’re not trying to weasel your way out of the deal  you  proposed, are you?” Your behavior isn’t fair. Anyone would be worried to see you in the state you’re in. You know that. Yet bitterness still tinges your words because you like that he’s fussing over you more than you should.

“You saved me back there. How can I let my hero walk around my base in such bad shape?” Sylus is born with a silver tongue. It’s all a part of his career, his carefully crafted persona.

But the furrowed brow, the sigh he gives? That’s not a part of his act. He continues, “Rest assured, I always keep my end of the bargain. So sit — we can talk after I look at your wounds.”

He gently tugs on your hand, and your body follows suit like a doll, nice and easy. You could never resist him for long.

“Let me see,” he orders, motioning with his head for you to turn around. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, medicinal cream in hand with the cap already off.

You hesitate. It didn’t look pretty in the mirror, and you don’t want him to think you’re this careless all the time. One glower, though, and you concede reluctantly.

He doesn’t have to say anything for you to tell he is unimpressed with the state of your shoulder.

“These last few weeks have been rough,” you admit. “But this is nothing new. My teammates and I get banged up pretty regularly. I’m used to it.”

“Regularly? The training regimen at the Hunters Association must be sub par. Train with me for a few weeks and you won’t get hurt like this again.”

His offer sounds more like a threat. When he rips the bandage, the sharp sound of the adhesive tearing from the rest of the roll grates on your ears. But when he takes your arm to wrap it, he’s gentle.

“Or would you rather I tag along on your missions?” The questions slips from him innocently enough.

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately. The scene of having to explain his presence to your colleagues without surrendering his identity already gives you another headache. When you toss a pleading look over your shoulder, you’re surprised to find that he looks quite serious.

“Then take better care of yourself.” When he touches the darkening galaxy bruise on your shoulder, you flinch. “Hold still. It’ll be over soon.”

The cream is cold on your skin before it warms up between his finger and your body. You suck your breath in through your teeth, but Sylus ignores it, taking his sweet time to finish treating every small scratch he can find. Every gentle press elicits a twitch or a wince.

“Can’t you be a bit more gentle?” you ask, half joking to dispel the small amount of tension in the air. “I’m the victim here.” Truthfully, it’s the nerves from being around him in such close quarters than it is about the pain. His touch, his gaze — they all sizzle on your skin.

“My poor kitten is injured. He must be treated even if it hurts.” He sticks a patch over the medicine and finally lets you go.

You try not to act like you’re hurrying to put on the shirt he lent you, glad that even if it’s another layer of him, you now have something between your skin and his. Some form of armor from his eyes and his hands.

“And what about you? You must have gotten a few injuries yourself since…” the last time we spoke. The words fizzle out on your tongue when you remember the last time you were both in the same place. “Well, there must be something I can look at,” you say, your tentative wellness check disguised as shoddy payback.

A hint of a smile curls the corner of his lip. “Unlike a certain someone, I can take care of myself.”

Truly, he looks completely fine — as usual. Not a hair out of place. You let your eyes roam his exposed forearms, where what few old scars are raised against his otherwise flawless skin.

You haven’t given any thought as to what your first question would be, yet it comes off the tip of your tongue effortlessly. “Did I — she — take care of you? When you were hurt before.”

He stiffens ever so slightly, caught off guard by your question. Business has now begun.

He dutifully responds, “Yes. I… was taken care of.”

It’s strange to see Sylus uncomfortable. There were times you thought nothing could phase him. It must be true that the past can never be outrun. It lingers like rotten fruit on the ground and hangs the heart like a gallows.

The urge to brush your fingertips over the skin that those other hands have touched washes over you.

Only a moment later, Sylus takes your hand and presses it to his arm. You’ve missed how hot his body runs and how it warms you slowly, then all at once.

“If you want something, just reach out and grab it,” he says with some amusement.

That damn eye of his that sees your heart so clearly is cheating. All the questions you ever had, and he had always kept what you wanted from you — just out of reach — when he could have taken your hand just like that. And whatever may happen, he remains infuriatingly unbothered, while you grasp at the crumbs he throws at your feet to salvage something of yourself.

You withdraw your hand. “This must be so easy for you.” The accusation comes smoothly, surprising even yourself.

Sylus huffs with laughter. “Nothing is ever easy when it comes to you.” He speaks to the you now and the you unknown. Or he’s speaking to himself — another bitter inside joke.

Your voice is sharp with ice as you say, “Can you blame me? You said I owed you a life, made me shoot you, then dodged every question I have. How am I supposed to play my part in this little play you’ve created?”

His eyes narrow at you, and whatever gentleness you saw has an edge to it now. His voice lowers into a dangerous growl. “I want to make it clear that I have always done what I wanted. You’re also free to do as you please. Don’t get any ideas in your head that there’s some crafted role you and I are meant to play.”

In an instant, the embers of your anger that has festered in you for so long catches flame all at once. You don’t care if you've pissed him off.

“What do you even want with me? Is it the aether core? Resonance? You’re already so powerful. Why are you trying so hard to fit me into your schedule like…” Like you want to see  me.

You stop yourself, unsure if it’s wise to say the unspoken. Instead, you ask, “Are you hoping that I might just one day remember everything?”

You’re not sure what you want his answer to be, whether to prove you right or wrong.

Do you really want  me?

You want him to say it. You want him to be honest.

(You don’t want him to say anything. You want him to lie to you.

You want him to throw you any sort of lifeline between the you and the him that is here now.)

He is unabashed as as he considers your expression — as unreadable as his. Eventually, he says it quietly. “I do.”

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath. His answer is neither barbed nor soothing. It fills the gap between your bodies on the sofa, heavy with something akin to grief — some mutation of it that has evolved past its life cycle.

Yet, despite the hard set in his jaw and the silence that comes after, you still want to ask.

You want to press your thumbs between the chinks of his defenses into his flesh, a visceral wont that urges you to dig deeper and deeper until his beating heart is exposed for you to rend apart until you’re satisfied.

You need to see him break apart in your hands, to know that he understands the pain of loss like you understand it now.

( Like you understood it back then, long after the sword pommel has left your hand, replaced by red petals slipping through your fingers into the wind.)

You blink, bewildered at yourself. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Sylus has always been honest with you — and the truth doesn’t discriminate no matter who it is that speaks it.

But you — you simply want to find relief in wounds that can’t be bandaged or dressed with topical cream. This is the kind of demand that breeds pain. Your grief has folded into itself, curdled into something rank. In dreams, in reality, maybe you are always destined to drive a blade into his heart.

And you don’t want to do that to him anymore.

“Sometimes the absence of an answer is better if words will only hurt. A convenient, if frustrating, form of protection.”

…Or is it that you didn’t want to hurt yourself?

You are nothing like Sylus. He enjoys the quiet of solitude.

And you, after an entire year of it, you are sick of its silence. It cuts into you with every Metaflux-related news, with every time you accidentally scroll too far in your messages and see that apple profile picture — and the deepest cut is when after picking up those death certificates, there was no longer any way to quiet that terrible, terrible pang for braised chicken wings.

This whole year you’ve been losing this fight against phantoms and they keep appearing to beat you into submission. There’s not much left of you to submit at this point.

Frustration wells up within you — it’s always lived in you from sun up to sun down lately. You don’t know when this sludge has lodged into your heart and seeped into your soul. Some days you can’t even remember what you used to enjoy doing, or taste the food in your mouth. In between the sleepless nights of murder and the quiet mornings that remind you of what is gone, you’ve started to lose yourself.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

Your fingers itch for the knife that you left on the streets of the N109 Zone. The image reflected in its blade was just that — an image. It’s serrated blade is no camera. And besides, you’re tired of pictures. They’re just relics of memories held captive by someone who longs to turn back time. And what use is longing?

A weapon, on the other hand, is much more practical. Better to cut ties with than to remind yourself of what’s left behind.

That you  are left behind.

“That’s enough,” you say to yourself and get up from the sofa. You’re not sure if you can handle any other answers tonight. Maybe you’ll try again another day. Or maybe you’ll leave the what-ifs and doubts at your doorstep, where they’ll greet you on every rising sun to remind you of the courage you lack.

You take long strides to the door, too eager to escape. You don’t even know where you’re trying to go — another of the millions of rooms in the Onychinus base, or home where you can curl up in the darkness with that taunting necklace — but your fingers wrap around the doorknob, poised to swing it inward —

— and the crack you manage to pry open immediately slams shut.

Sylus’ fist is planted by your head on the heavy wood, gluing it to the door frame with his strength. He’s so close you could feel the heat of his body through the knit of his sweater and the fabric of your shirt, feel the slight brush of his breath on the back of your neck, feel his hair grazing your skin as he lowers his head to yours.

He speaks softly, his voice filling the shell of your ear and sending tremors from the base of your skull down the length of your spine. “Keep asking me. You have questions, and I have answers. So, keep asking me.”

He could have used his Evol to lock the door or to restrain you, to force you to turn around and face him. Yet here he is, personally negotiating with you like there is something on the line if this deal falls through.

But it works, this businessman’s way of persuasion. So you turn around, and it takes you a moment before you can meet his eyes, trapped between him and the door. What is it that he sees for there to be such a storm in those beautiful red eyes of his?

“Missed one,” Sylus says with a click of his tongue, and you realize he’s talking about the cut on your jaw. It doesn’t even hurt, but the way his brows are knitting together, you’d think you would need stitches. It makes your heart beat a little faster, a little harder, and you think that even with the shirt on your skin and the space between the two of you, he can sense it innately like an animal.

“Don’t do this,” you say, turning away.

“What am I doing?”

“Don’t act like you actually care about me .” You hate the way your voice cracks on that last word. It sounds exactly like how you feel.

The edge around his voice is rough as he says, “I do care about you.” Then, like before with waning confidence and what sounds like wary hope, he says, “I missed you these last few weeks. I could only hear about you through Mephisto. You have no idea how much I wanted to see you. I was worried.”

He speaks to you like a long-lost lover. Like it wasn’t three weeks that passed but three centuries. Those three words I missed you have a force of their own, and you’re afraid of them because you know precisely what sort of weight they carry. You’ve said them yourself once, twice — and the love nestled in them now has nowhere to go.

But Sylus’ words are different — dangerous, even. They are released into the air like locked-on missiles.

“No. I’m — ” you say, throwing your hands up in surrender.

I’m afraid.

Sylus cuts in before you can out yourself. “You said earlier that it must be easy for me.”

His eyes are glowing brighter than usual, so intent on enveloping your entire being that you can’t suppress the small electric tingles running beneath your skin. His eyes have never lied to you, and even now they are full of sincerity, pain, longing — and cautious hope.

And in those bright eyes of his, you see yourself reflected. You try not to wither under his thoughtful gaze as you stay upright against the door he’s caged you with. “I don’t care about easy. What matters more to me… is that you’re here.”

You blurt out, “I can’t remember anything. I’m useless to you.”

He tilts his head. “You have never been useless to me. Those memories seem to matter less and less the more time I spend with you. There are other things that are more important now.”

Though you say nothing, your questioning look gives you away.

Sylus’s smirk is brief before he continues, “When you’re with me you like to put up quite a fight. I don’t mind that at all. But when you’re with others, you look like you’re enjoying yourself. And…”

He draws away from you. The absence of his body warmth leaves you wanting to chase a step towards him, but you don’t.

“And what?” you prompt.

The steady gaze never leaves your face as he says, “You don’t smile like that when I’m around. And I mind that very much.”

You’re taken aback for a second. Was he… pouting? Something as simple as a smile — well, then again, aren’t you the same, crying at a side of him you’ve never seen as he lay in a bed of flowers? What was it he said when you first met — you and I are the same. True kindred spirits.

“You don’t smile around me like that either.” Your eyes fall to the curve of his lips. “You really looked happy there in that dream.” You have to swallow a bolt of nervousness before you can ask, “What was that place?”

“It was... a haven we never had.” He meets your eyes again, and there is an unexpected and immeasurable softness you find there, along with a damning hint of pain. This is the first time you’ve seen Sylus sound so vulnerable. “It’s a moment of peace when I need it.”

“Why… did you show me something so personal?” you ask, curling at the edges of your doubt despite yourself.

“I thought it would help. You deserve a dream of better times, like this one, not visions of us at our worst. That’s not who you are. You deserve to be free of bygone sins — to live freely.”

Your breath hitches at his words. That’s not who you are. All this time you’ve been waiting for him to define you, wanting him to tell you who exactly you must be. But he’s never said any of that, did he? Wrapped up in everything else, you simply added those expectations to yourself all on your own.

“You should have come to see me and say that earlier,” you say, hands curling into fists. “You stayed away.”

“There was a chance you’d get better if I wasn’t around. I didn’t want you to bear a past that no longer has a place here. But… even my best efforts are still tied to those memories.”

The regret is etched in the line between his brows, that all he can do is give you more of the past to soothe the sting of those nightmares.

You wonder if that dream of the flower field is also his personal hell. When he enters to find peace and stands alone among those waiting flowers, what expression does he wear when he sways in the wind along with those red petals?

Maybe it’s the same one you wear when you look up at the sky and see jet streams cutting by.

You take a step forward. Under his watchful eye, you carefully place your hand on the center of his chest. Under the fabric — under skin and muscle and bone — you can feel that quickened heartbeat of his. It thumps solidly against you, like it longs to burst forth and touch you back.

The heart is the body’s most precious gem, guarded by layers of muscle and fat and conscious decision-making. Any harm to it and the body dies. Yet he lets you touch it again, despite all you have done to him. You think he is a reflection of his heart, and you — yours is still sore with longing and grief. You wonder what it’d be like if he could touch yours too.

When you open your mouth to speak, the words start pouring out. “You die every night in my dreams. Sword, gun — it doesn’t matter which. It doesn’t matter who.” Even now, you shake recalling those nightmares, like you’re kneeling there again amidst the fire and brimstone; the finality of his death a torturous proof that hell does exist. “My hands are always wet with your blood, and there’s always a hole in your heart.”

Sylus doesn’t move away from your hand, nor does he press closer to you. He lets you speak, lets you open up some of that pain to give away to him. You’re like a bird, always hiding your hurt until the very end. So when the words come, he accepts all of it.

You take another step towards him, then another and another, until you’re pushing him onto the sofa. Your shadow falls across his face as you lean over him, one knee crooked next to his thigh. He looks up at you with such tenderness that your chest tightens.

“The night we met, you tried to…” To make me remember what I did to you.  You struggle with the words, not for his crime of wanting to resonate with you, but because you felt guilty for not being able to be what he needed — what he wanted.

The first time those memories took form in your brain, you had asked, That… was real?

He answered you with the barest hint of bitterness, If I say yes, will you give me a sincere apology?

Now he stays silent with expectation, waiting for you to finish that sentence. To condemn him like he once did to you and even the score. It makes you sick how he thinks he deserves your vengeance, incapable of being forgiven as he looks up at you like a sinner before his god.

Don’t you deserve to be free of bygone sins, too?

You remember how he squeezed your trigger finger and the way his blood splattered from his chest, how his face was illuminated in pain for just a moment.

In the end, it’s always the pain in his determined face that lingers in your mind. Not the blood, not the wound, but how he thinks it’s right that he’s the one who must hurt.

“Sylus.” The way you say his name now is different from when you were helpless on the ground and sighing it into the shattered visor of your helmet like it’s your last prayer. Now it’s decisive, full of clarity even if you’re not sure what it is you want to say just yet.

He gazes at you, tense with the longing to take your bruised and cracked soul and sew it stitch by careful stitch with threads of gold. His attention, just like in those three days he wanted so badly for you to simply remember , is completely and unwaveringly on you.

This time, though, you meet him head on instead of shrinking back.

“These hands of mine are rough and calloused,” you say.

His eyes fall to where you have your hand splayed in the center of his chest, and he gently takes it in his. He pulls you fully towards him onto his lap, your legs straddling either side of him.

You can’t help how your heart kicks in your chest when he slowly slips his fingers between yours, like he’s always wanted to do this. It’s how he’s studying the way they’re joined, turning your hand this way and that before pressing his lips softly to the back of your hand. The contact of his lips with your skin zings through your arm.

“And they fit perfectly in mine,” he says gently.

The lightness of his words races along the surface of your bones, and when it reaches your chest, something clicks into place. That shade of doubt you had before, when you thought you didn’t quite fit right into him, now burns away in his warmth. When he holds your gaze with his eyes again, you know he can see how much you wanted to hear those words.

You think his face, looking up at you in some degree of reverence, was not something born, but carved.

The slope of his eyebrows, the sharp angle of his jaw, the shape of his shoulders… He is a beast in human form, only wanting for your touch. The most desperate of desire that can only be captured in the coldest of marble.

This man, as deadly as he is beautiful, reserved only for you to see up close and personal. A small seed of greed sprouts in you — you try to suppress how much you like being the only one who knows him like this.

But still, you go on, remembering how much smaller she was, nestled against his chest. “I’m just about as tall as you, you know.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow at you, a confident smirk playing around his lips — smug, even. Some of that terribly charming humor lights his face up. His other hand slips under your shirt, and you shiver at the delicate touch around your lower back, holding you securely in place against him.

His eyes flick over your head, as if measuring your height in earnest. Your heart hammers against your ribcage at the proximity.

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says after his assessment, amused. “You have a ways to go in that regard.”

You fight the urge to glare at him, but he huffs a laugh at your expression anyway.

Still, you press on, “Whatever I was before, I’m not anymore. This body is completely different.”

“Hm…” Sylus’ gaze heads south, taking in the sight of you and again lingering where the band of your underwear peeks over his sweatpants and where your shirt is raised with his hand on your skin. And though your ears are turning red, you grab his chin and force him to look at you.

He meets you with a devilish smile. “So it is. I quite like it anyway.”

You push through your bashfulness, ignoring the slight warmth in your cheeks. “I’m not who you expected to find.” You don’t ask if he’d be fine with that.

“My dear hunter,” he says, eyes softening. “You asked me who I see when I look at you.”

That question you hurled him at the peak of your weakness — a question from your heart. The kind that when the answer is about to present itself, you find yourself holding your breath.

The hand on your lower back slowly slides up your side, sprouting butterflies in your stomach from the trail of heat he leaves on your bare skin. His fingernails delicately trace upwards, careful not to press on your bruises, until his hand is touching the center of your chest, mirroring yours a few moments prior. You’re struggling to hold his gaze — struggling to stop yourself from pulling him in even closer.

You remember the first time you and Caleb found an injured bird on the ground. He taught you how to hold it between your fingers like a makeshift harness so it couldn’t fly away. Through its thin ribcage, you were fascinated by how fast its tiny heart could thump — and that wild, desperate look in its eye. You never shook off the way it looked at you, wondering if your fingers will unwrap and leave it to its fate.

Its whole life defined in one moment, held in the palm of your hand. You think you understand that little bird now. The warmth in your tiny fingers was as much a sentence as it was a comfort. Fear and relief — the knowing that you are at the mercy of someone else’s love.

Sylus’ answer weighs like a cinder block against you when he says, “I have always ever seen you as you are.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. He tilts his head at you, allowing you to take your time.

With trepidation, so much so that you can’t hide the small tremor in your voice, you say quietly, “The thought of you terrifies me.”

You feel his fingers tense against your sternum. That was certainly not the answer he was expecting. You bear down on him, so he can feel the thudding of your heart rattling your very bones. So he can know just how much power he has over your heart, in its fragile entirety, and that you are entrusting it to him.

You say, “If I don’t live up to whatever vision you have of me, you’ll leave me behind.” Then, in an even smaller voice that barely comes out in a whisper, “I’m getting really tired of being left behind.”

Oh, there it is. Those words you haven’t been able to tell anyone all these months. Because if you did, people would just pity the wound you’ve bared to the world — one among many that Caleb’s absence has left on you. You don’t want to be a charity case, a burden on those who will never understand what loss is to you.

Those words, spoken aloud, tear the last remaining traces of armor from your face, and the exhaustion that wears you like a coat surfaces. Yet you keep his gaze that can see straight to your heart. You know he can feel the overwhelming ache of loneliness, and you wonder if he is no stranger to it either.

The breath that comes out of Sylus has the slightest tremble to it. His hands untangle themselves from your body to cradle your face ever so gently.

His touch sends dazzling shivers from your cheeks to the base of your skull and all the way down your spine. Without meaning to, you give a slight nuzzle into his palms, drunk on his touch. The exhaustion seeps into your brain, a fuzziness beginning to take over. The long days of work and grief pools over you, sinking your lids halfway.

It’s a relief to put into existence what you have hidden from for so long, and relief can be oh, so tiring.

A hint of mirth appears in his eyes at the sight of you like putty in his hands, slicing through that split-second look of heartache that crosses his face at your confession of vulnerability.

“I have an awful habit of giving in to you,” he says. “If you so desire it, I have no choice but to stay by your side.” He brings your face closer to his, your noses touching. “Be warned. It’s not so easy to get rid of me once you say it. I’ll be by your side until the end of time.”

Your heart flutters at his threat. “That’s not possible,” you say, and though you started out confident that these were just sweet nothings, there’s just something in the way he says them that has you doubting yourself.

“I’m not the type to half-ass my deals. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.” He chuckles. “Why don’t we find out starting tomorrow?”

He easily picks you up, one arm under your ass and the other, reassuringly, on the back of your neck. You don’t resist, only humming your agreement. He murmurs something about how you’ve lost a bit of weight, and though his voice is right next to your ear, he’s starting to sound far away.

Your face nestled in the crook between his neck and his shoulder, you breathe in his scent while you still have the chance, fingers digging into his sweater as if you never want to let him go. Apart from the surface-level tinge of shower product, there is something headier — something decidedly him , sweet and natural and addictive.

“I want to make you smile like in that dream,” you say as if in answer, sighing at the memory of that valley. “You have such a handsome smile.”

“It’s not as hard as you think.” He sets you down on the king-sized bed and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. “We can talk more about how handsome I am later. For now, sleep to your heart’s content.”

When Sylus draws away to leave, your fingers catch him by the sleeve. “You said you’ll be by my side until the end of time.”

You like the way the corner of his lip quirks up. You’re already halfway to your goal. Just need the other side.

“So I did,” he acknowledges.

“Do you have to go tonight?”

He climbs into bed, pulling the covers over the both of you. “No. Tonight I’m all yours.”

Your eyes are already closed when his arms draw you into him and tangle your legs with his. But before you are completely submerged into sleep, you can’t help but ask one last question. “Are those flowers your favorite?”

It takes a beat before Sylus can answer. “Yes, they are.”

“Then I guess I like them after all.”

Sylus’ laugh is the last thing you hear, rumbling throughout his chest. It follows you into the dark, along with his unnaturally fast heartbeat.

That night, for the first time in months, your sleep is undisturbed. Dreamless and content, without wondering if you’ll wake up to a quiet kitchen or a quiet phone.

You don’t look forward to the morning light, but you think with Sylus, you could believe in his words.

After all, he is a businessman, and he has quite the reputation to uphold.

[silly-lil-scribbles]

Blood brothers in desperation, An oath of silence for the voice of our generation // happy 18 years Infinity on High

[jazzyblusnowflake]

They are trying to flirt :)

N secretly likes watching when they do that.... i mean... just in case he has to stop them if they get too violent ofc 6v6;;; 👉👈

also meet lil "Sugar Cube" :D ill explain more about it... soon 9v9;;;

[jovialoddity]

You think it makes you special, but it makes you strange!

[demonzoro]

a masquerade chase between a cat and a bird

get this as a print ✦ tip jar

i almost gave up on this piece several times, but i'm very proud to say i've finally completed it! thank you for tolerating the WIPs, the re-lining, and all my art wailing. for anyone who also wants to see the unmasked version:

[hanab-y]

"Only then, shining with hope..."

"Three HEROES appear at WORLDS' edge."

A HUMAN

[timoogi]

MADNESS IN MANSION AU MAIN CHARACTERS !

DISCLAIMER: this is just my au to have fun with, so not everything is gonna be completely accurate or “canon!” A lot of these characters have different stories from their source materials! And also this au is mostly about friendship, love, and family! It’s just something I think is cute and fun to work on! :3 Also also! Since some of them don’t have catchphrases, I made up little quotes!

The main cast! The main line up! The main players!

More info is down below!! :D

Judge Angels — “I will sentence you!” — Dina Clark was brought in by Slenderman while on the run for killing their CEO father and most of their family’s staff. Traveling with them, their mother’s corpse neatly packed in a suitcase. They just wanted to find a safe place for their beloved mother to finally rest.

Bloody Painter — “Don’t be excited for tomorrow.” — Helen Otis sought out Slenderman after realizing the police were hot on his trail. The pressures of life had built up, and all he wanted to do was create a new world from scratch. One filled to the brim with beauty and art. The world will bend to his will.

Ticci Toby — “Follows…” — After moving from Wisconsin to Alabama, Toby Roger’s life spiraled out of control. He had endured countless hardships, and the death of his sister was more than he could take. After burning it all to the ground, Slenderman gave him a place to seek refuge.

Jeff the Killer — “Go to sleep.” — Some people are dealt a shitty hand. Jeffery Woods’ life was standard, but that didn’t make it easy. In high school, things only got worse. At the hands of his peers he was burned alive. He survived, but his mind had completely shattered. He wants to pick up the pieces.

Homicidal Liu — “Today’s a better day.” — Liu Woods had always done his best to be a proper older sibling. He wanted nothing more to protect his younger brother. Maybe that’s why he barely fought back when his brother attempted to kill him. There was a moment of hesitation, and in that moment he ran. Slenderman had found him bleeding out, he promised he could keep him alive.

Eyeless Jack — “Do no harm.” — Jack Nyras had his whole life ahead of him. He was at university studying to be a doctor. However, unexpected things can happen at any moment. What was supposed to be a college party had turned into nothing short of cult activity, Jack being their ultimate sacrifice. He doesn’t remember much after their torture, only that Slenderman had found him bloodied and fundamentally changed in the forest.

Kate the Chaser — “Don’t look…or it takes you.” — Sometimes Slenderman sees potential. Slenderman saw great potential in Kate Milens. But not just anyone can become a proxy. Kate had gone through multiple trials without even knowing, always coming out favorably in the Slenderman’s opinion. Being so close to Slenderman, however, comes with symptoms… consequences.

Nina the Killer — “Go to sleep, my prince!” — Childhood friends with Liu, Jeff, and their friend Jane, Nina Hopkins was always a bright and cheery force of nature. Despite her efforts to get along with her peers, rumors had a way of creeping up. It was a good thing she had her friends to lean on. She always had her friends. She’d always have her friends. Friends don’t give up on each other.

Eyeless Lulu — “Gimme your eyes.” — Lucille-Tiffany Greatfeild never had luck making friends. It seemed no matter what she did, her peers found her weird. Growing up, she was a lonely child, however, going to college filled her with determination to break out of her shell and at least make a few acquaintances. She was befriended by a group of peers who were seemingly kind and caring, but sometimes things are too good to be true. Having heard of an new internet legend, they pressured Lulu into playing a stupid game, performing a silly ritual. They all paid the price.

Clockwork — “Time’s up.” — Natalie Ouellette came from a broken home. Ever since she was young, she was starkly aware of how unfair life can be. She had poor health as a child, often in and out of doctor offices due to various reasons, a bad flu or broken bones. Every time she exited the hospital, she heard the tick in her head, like her time was running out, being wasted, rotting away. As she grew up, this tick only got louder. Time was against her, and the abuse was getting worse. She had to do something. And she did do something. And then she ran.

BEN Drowned — “You’ve met with a terrible fate!” — Benjamin Lawman was a very lively boy. He loved making friends, drinking soda, and of course, frequenting arcades and internet cafes! Life for him was simple, it was perfect! But there are things that are out of your control, circumstances one is born into. Divorce is hard for the whole family to go through, but Ben had hope, an optimistic outlook. The look in his father’s eyes was scary as they drove to the lake alone, but his father was a rational man. Surely there was a rational explanation for all of this.

Sally — “Wanna play?” — Sally Williams had just turned 12! Her birthday party was held in Loblolly’s very own, new and shiny park! The year was 1973 and the summer air was warm and inviting. Sally had just finished opening her gifts, her favorite being a new teddy bear from her mom and dad. A true friend, soft and kind. While many kids showed up to her party, they didn’t have good intentions. One girl suggested they play a game before Sally got to the piñata. They blindfolded her, giggling and exclaiming, “We’ll guide you!” Really, they just wanted to see if they could get her lost. What they didn’t account for was the truck barreling down the road as they told her to cross it.

Lazari Swann — “I can do this!” — Lazari Swann never knew her mother and father. Her mother had died during childbirth, leaving her to the care of foster homes. She did her best. She made the best of any situation, always selfless, always helpful. But as she grew up, it gnawed at the back of her mind. Her father… where had he gone? Who was he? What did he look like? She only had one clue, a picture from her mother’s photo album with a location marked: Loblolly, Alabama. She’d get her answers one way or another.

Masky — “Always watches, no eyes.” — Tim Wright is a man of few words now. Not many know of how he came to be so reliable in the Slenderman’s eye, why he’s so guarded and keeps to himself, why he’s so close with Brian. They just know that his word is to be trusted, he knows what he’s doing. He is regarded as the most capable human in the mansion, and despite his attempts to keep everyone at a distance, many of the mansion’s inhabitants look to him for guidance.

Hoodie — “Can’t run.” — Brian Thomas is just as reliable, but because of his elusive nature, many don’t know how to read him quite right. He is more personable than Tim, handling most of the talking when the two of them are together. Brian is easy going, despite his circumstances, and can even crack a few light hearted jokes. But no one really knows much about him. Still, people in the mansion recognize his survivability and will take his guidance if Tim isn’t around.

Nurse Ann — “It won’t hurt… much.” — In the 1800s, there was a hospital in the woods of Loblolly, and Ann Lusen Mia worked there. She was a dutiful nurse, very caring and dedicated to her job. She believed in the good of humanity, and cherished being able to care for the sick and injured. A doctor within the hospital, a colleague of hers, informed her that he was working on a new method of care and asked her to be a part of it. She agreed, enthusiastic for the progress of medicine. Little did she know she would be the experiment. As she felt herself dying, she pleaded with any entity she could to help her, save her, and that was enough for Zalgo to offer her a deal.

Laughing Jack — “Round and round the mulberry bush…!” — The Laughing Jack is a mystery to many. He is a demon, taking the form of a monochrome clown with many nonsensical traits. He speaks in riddles and rhymes for the most part, always eccentric and mind-bending. He thoroughly enjoys being a nuisance to humans, a pest, a bother, but when it comes to more sensitive people or children, he can actually be quite a sweetheart. His morals are unknown to anyone as he is not tied to Slenderman or Zalgo and acts on his own accord. He seems to favor Slenderman though, for whatever reason, and so he has become a trusted ally!

Slenderman — “…” — The Slenderman’s origins are unknown. He has existed for thousands of years. After a gruesome battle with the underworld’s ruler, Zalgo, Slenderman was severely weakened. The battle ended in a stalemate, though it was surely in Zalgo’s favor. Too close to a victory for Slenderman’s liking. At the end of their battle, Slenderman had used most of his energy to lock Zalgo in the underworld dimension for good, but his seal wasn’t perfect. Many zalgoid creatures can still access earth, but as long as it’s not Zalgo himself, he has time. He started taking in lost and weary souls in hopes of building an army. He feeds off negative energy, his mansion feeds off negative energy, the forest feeds off negative energy. But what he didn’t expect was that these beings, human and possessed and undead alike, have started making him feel. He cares for them. And this care might be just what he needs to get rid of Zalgo for good.

[npdkondraki]

hi. kondraki scpverse is a trans woman. cope and seethe and read my essay about her below the cut. (it's really fucking long) (please god i put so much fucking work into this read it im begging you)

ok for starters for people who dont know what or who the hell im talking about right now (doubtful) (only adding this for the unitiated & newbies): this essay is about my awesome wife DR [REDACTED] HENRICH KONDRAKI(1) from pseudo-niche internet horror-fiction site THE SCP FOUNDATION(2/3). if you can't tell by our url i am Bonkers Crazy Insane about her and have been sporadically obsessed with her for several years. she sucks bad. anyways this post is about why i think she's a trans woman instead of being a "cishetallo man" like canon claims she is. you may be wondering; "but sawyer how is canon wrong about this if its canon" and to that i say. I know better than canon does dont worry about it. ok with that out of the way lets get into the schmeat of this thang

FIRST OFF. kondraki's entire view on masculinity is inherently tied to violence. she believes that if she isnt violent, cruel, and hiding her emotions constantly, then she isn't a 'real man'. her entire worldview, including her view of her own gender, is perceived through the lens of men, including herself, needing to be 'masculine', but she defines this masculinity through her own warped idea of what masculinity 'really is'. because she perceives men, and by extension masculinity itself, as violence, then she herself is violent. everything down to the way she speaks is designed to make her appear cruel, vindictive, and, most importantly, violent. she goes as far as claiming her favourite memory of working for the foundation is when she chased a man down and, quote, "[shot] his fucking face off"(4). however, despite all her tough-talk about being "badass"(5/6), she actually appears to be incredibly regretful about her actions(7), unlike her words imply.

she creates a cycle of retraumatizing herself over and over by hating everything being a man stands for, but refusing to acknowledge it. she leans into the idea that she is violent and cruel, creating a self-made cycle of self-hatred. this retraumatization makes her more violent; it causes her to lash out more, to be more vindictive, to be more outwardly cruel to people, to be more "man-like" in her eyes. she places herself into a self-made twister of hating herself enough that it rubs off on everyone else, and then positively claims its "[her] design"(8) rather than accepting how depressing it makes her life. she uses her own cruel perception of masculinity as a way to shield herself from the idea that she could ever, willingly, be a woman, because she's too violent and cruel and she'll never be a real woman, not in the same way people like rights & iris are. she fully, completely, and genuinely, believes that if she is able to "out-man" every man surrounding her then nobody is able to question what she thinks of herself.

theres an additional layer to how she views masculinity, in the sense that it makes her also view femininity as inherently docile, something that she lives by even when she is acting as a woman. in doing so she continues to perpetuate her idea that she must be violent to be masculine, because she views women (or, more specifically, the concept of being a woman) as fragile, weak, perceptible to being hurt, and she refuses to be any of these things. in refusing to view herself as a woman she, in her mind, refuses to view herself as emotional, hysterical, and, perhaps worst of all in her mind, just a woman. it's an incredibly unfortunate mix of how she was raised and the culture at her work; she is punished for being feminine (emotional, caring, nurturing, etc) and rewarded for being masculine (violent, cruel, selfish, etc) because that's just how people are in her line of work(9).

she views the entire experience and idea of being a woman as a joke. she's allowed to think about it, as a joke. she's allowed to be feminine, as a joke. she's allowed to be a girl, as a joke. she's allowed to be a pretty princess(10), as a joke. the very few brief moments where she allows herself to act on her impulses and suggest, even a bit, that she would like to be a woman is played for a joke(11/12/13/14/15). she speaks of being a woman as though it is a mystical thing, something she can only hope to achieve, less of a real option and more of a fantasy. she is acceptive of trans people(16), going so far as to say it seems that "it’s quite remarkable how productivity and morale improves once they come out and settle into living as their correct gender. [she imagines] it’s a huge relief, and it shows in everything they do." it's just that she truly doesn't view herself as being worthy of that. her entire life has been spent convincing herself that she isn't worth anything, let alone joy or comfort. she doesn't think she deserves to be allowed to transition. she believes that dr. kondraki needs to die, needs to be shot, needs to get it over with and kill herself already, and doesn't realize that the distance she puts between "[redacted] henrich kondraki" and "dr. kondraki" is a mask, a shell she can hide behind; it's a way for her to excuse any mention of her being a woman. if dr. kondraki can't be a woman, then [redacted] henrich kondraki can't be a woman either. it's nothing but a fantasy to her, something she can joke about and then discard along with the rest of her fantasies of being a good person, of being someone who deserves to be happy.

you can even bring her entire theming of butterflies into her own repression; the butterflies act as a camoflauge in the same way her mask of masculinity does. the only time she ever is truly gentle or nurturing or caring, all tasks she has deemed feminine, is with her butterflies. butterflies are specifically used in metaphors for transition, quite often appearing in trans artwork as a way to represent the death of who you once were and who you are now. the fact the butterflies also possess camoflauging abilities, which they tend to specifically use to make themselves (and kondraki) invisible, is in and of itself a metaphor for being in the closet, or, in kondraki's case, being repressed and refusing to acknowledge her transness. her transness is treated as though it's invisible, something she only looks at when it's disturbed, not unlike the way you can only see the butterflies by disturbing them. she refuses to acknowledge it, hides behind her camoflauge as a defense mechanism. coming to terms with her transness would make her have to disolve and be reborn, and she doesn't believe she deserves that. she doesn't believe she deserves to live free of the guilt, of everything she's done, so instead she stays camoflauged, stays in her bubble of masculinity where she feels her self-imposed shame and guilt.

all in all; kondraki is extremely repressed and refuses to accept that she's a woman, despite her progressive views, because she believes it would mean she is weak and fragile. she's terrified of her femininity, and uses violence and humor to deny every feminine part of herself.

DISCLAIMER. my choice to use specifically she/her for kondraki in this essay was a purposeful and deliberate choice and if you choose to use he/him after i have literally solely referred to her with she/her in this entire post i hate you personally. in other words

[soggydoggydisco]

obligatory hanged man Brian art

[cherrysfmpblog]

Just occurred to me that I never actually shared the final Presentation whoops

Here he is! not super proud of it but hay I got it done at least.

this was actually finished about 2 weeks ago-

This marks the end of my FMP blog. may re-theme it into something more than just a model blog or keep it dormant till another fmp comes round.

if you wanna see more of me[maybe] check out my main blog @yeetedcherry

[thescrolls-haveforetold]

REX

[starkittnd93]

HERE HAVE SOME EXTREMELY LATE OCTOPATH 2 ANNIVERSARY ART!!!!

IT’S DONE!!! IT’S DONE!!! HOLY CRAP I FINALLY FINISHED IT THIS TOOK FOREVER (dies-)

[becausebuckley]

my wishes come true (whenever i'm with you) | buddie | only one bed | 3.6k

buck and eddie have to share a bed in a hotel. for @flufftober day 31, make a wish!

“You okay?” Buck whispers into the darkness. There's a pause before Eddie responds, his voice low and a bit hesitant. “Yeah, I’m fine. I guess I’m not really used to sharing a bed with someone anymore, you know? It’s been a while.” Buck’s heart skips a beat at the admission. He knew this, of course, but hearing Eddie say it out loud makes it more real somehow. He swallows hard, gathering his courage before speaking. “Yeah, I get that,” he says softly. “It’s been a while for me too. But it’s kind of nice, isn’t it? Having someone there?” “It is,” Eddie says. “I- I always liked that. With Shannon, sure, but also with you, during quarantine. It feels safer.” “I feel safer, too.” Buck’s voice drops down to a whisper. There's a moment of stillness, and then Eddie moves closer, his knee accidentally bumping against Buck’s thigh. “Sorry,” Eddie murmurs, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he stays there, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin barrier of their pants.

read the full fic on ao3 here!

[ace4thespades]

Shoot it Chance. Let me watch you blow up. Let me watch the blood pour out of whatever will be left of you and allow me to watch the rotten flesh on your bones get cut open. (Everything is red because I keep forgetting things and im sick of making rot and only rot red over and over again)

-rotting anon

— HIT/STAND — EVENT STARTS NOW!

INTERVIEWEES: [CHANCE], QUINCY, GUNTHER, ‘MAFIOSO’

INTERVIEWERS: YOU!

THIS EVENT WILL LAST FOR ████████████████████. USE YOUR ASKS WISELY.

HAVE FUN!

Oh yeah, and thanks for 200! This is your special. ;)

\\\ oh ya. heres. the og ask. for the comic . . u GUYS NEED TO CHILL THE FUCK OUT/SILLY WHYRE YOU ALL COOKING