#that's all I just wanted to express this stuff somewhere

[munson-blurbs]

Hello! I stumbled upon your “meet-cute post” and thought it was really cool, so here’s my request :)

I’m Lauren, my pronouns are she/her, and I’d like to be paired with Eddie Munson. I’m an INFP enneagram 4w5, I’m awkward, anxious, creative, quirky, caring and shy. I love listening to music of all sorts of genres, reading and thrifting.

I hope you have fun writing these requests and thank you for doing this 🩷

You meet Eddie while thrifting with your roommate, Robin!

CW: Eddie is initially a bit of a grump WC: 625 Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

“I’m telling you,” you said to your new roommate, Robin, as you opened the door to the thrift store. “They have the best stuff. I’ve already been here, like, five times.”

Robin laughed incredulously. “You’ve only lived in Hawkins for two weeks, and you’ve been here five times?”

“I didn’t ask to be judged,” you huffed, but a smile betrayed your feigned annoyance. Moving to a new town and starting a new job was definitely overwhelming, but it helped that you’d quickly befriended your roommate. “But yes. And now you get to see it for yourself.”

It was no surprise that you’d found a thrift store almost immediately after moving. Whether you were in your hometown or exploring somewhere new, you always managed to find a secondhand store to find one-of-kind trinkets. It felt like fitting the final piece of a puzzle. 

So when Robin had made a comment that morning about wanting a bookshelf but not paying an arm and a leg for it, you knew exactly where to go. 

You made a beeline for the furniture section without allowing yourself to browse the clothing aisles; you were here for Robin and her bookshelf, and you couldn’t be distracted. 

Until you saw it: a record player, the wood a shiny cherry red, in near-pristine condition. 

“I’ll be right back,” you mumbled, not waiting for Robin to acknowledge your absence. 

You had a record collection back at the apartment of different albums you’d acquired over the years. Everything from Elvis to Johnny Cash to Madonna sat in a box that had yet to be unpacked. You ran your fingers over the corner where there was the tiniest chip, and imagined the sounds of music filling your room, melodic and harmonious—

“Son of a bitch!” A frustrated voice yanked you from your daydream. 

You whipped around to see a guy, right around your age, standing behind you. He was scowling at you, his denim jacket-clad arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“Um, sorry, is this—were you going to buy it?” Heat rushed through your body. Had you been too hasty in your excitement?

The man’s expression softened when he saw your nervousness. It was then that you realized how good-looking he was. His frizzy curls formed a halo around his face, juxtaposed by the faded devil emblem on his shirt. 

“No. I mean, yeah, I was, but you—it’s yours,” he stammered. Cocking his head to the side, he studied you for a moment before asking, “do we know each other?”

You shook your head. “I just moved here. That’s why my roommate and I are shopping; we’re supposed to be getting new furniture. Well, she is,” you sheepishly amended. “I’m supposed to be helping her, not finding more stuff for myself.”

He laughed. “Listen, you take the record player. I’ll find one another time.”

“I really don’t need it.” 

“Well, neither do I.” The corners of his mouth quirked up into a smile. “But it would be a shame if it went to the home of someone who was just going to let it sit in the corner. Or worse…” He raised his brows. “Someone who’ll use it to listen to disco.”

Your mouth dropped open in protest. “Don’t knock ABBA till you’ve tried them!”

“Oh, my God.” He scoffed and chewed on his lower lip in consideration. “All right, how about this: we split custody. That way she’s exposed to good music and,” he grimaced, “ABBA.”

You stuck out your hand. “Deal.”

He accepted your offer, shaking your hand. His grip was firm but gentle, and he let his fingers linger against yours for an extra beat.

“I’m Eddie, by the way.” He tucked his hands in his pockets. “You got a name, co-parent?”

--

[dickmedowndc]

Protective - Jaime Reyes/Khaji Da x Reader

Word Count: 3,196

Summary: Some things were easier than others to say – Jaime could tell you any day of the week that he thought your smile was one of his favorite things, or that he looked forward to your good morning texts. Others were not as easy; like telling you that Khaji Da was sentient, that the scarab – though too worried over your reaction to introduce himself – was incredibly fond of you and had a major protective streak. It comes to a head though when you see firsthand just how willing Khaji is to protect both you and Jaime. 

Notes: “100 kisses” Prompt #49: tending to your lover's wound, placing a kiss on top of their head, grateful they're still alive 

Tagging @heckzprince as was asked.

…★…

You had been so lost in your thoughts as you seemed to flit from space to space in the living room of your shared apartment. Jaime had surprised you with some decorations that you had been eyeing but had not been able to justify buying and you seemed more than ecstatic to set them up. 

But it was that same thought that suddenly had his expression darkening. Because Jaime had bought them, sure, but he had not been the one to form the idea – that was credited to Khaji Da, his scarab, who had wanted to surprise you after noticing your dower mood the last few days. There was an electric chirp somewhere in the back of his mind as he thought about it, a soothing gesture from his alien partner. 

“I do not mind, Jaime. They are happy to think the gift is from you.” 

Jaime narrowed his eyes at that, looking away from you and off into space as he began to converse with the scarab under his breath. “You say that, but I can feel that it bothers you.” He glanced at you, thankfully too occupied with trying to move some of the items just right that you had not noticed his behavior. 

“I am willing to accept this feeling, so long as we both get to keep them in our life.” 

“We need to tell them eventually.” 

The scarab was silent for no more than a heartbeat before answering. “One day.” That was all he said before he slipped back from Jaime’s consciousness and walled himself off. The act had become a habit when Khaji Da did not want to confront telling you he was sentient, or when it bothered him that your sweet words and acts excluded him by virtue of not knowing of his existence. It was logical, he knew, but it was a hurt he was unfamiliar with. Just as telling you about his presence was a fear he had never been confronted with until he began to grow into his own will and personality. 

Jaime sighed, noting that it caught your attention, though he tried to wave it off. 

You narrowed your eyes, staring him down with one hand on your hip before setting aside the item in your other and moving to stand in front of him. “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s nothing,” he assured, taking one of your hands in his own and running his thumb over the back. 

“Jaime,” you begin, moving to sit beside him so your legs are flush against one another, “you know you can tell me anything.” 

It was a half-hearted smile on his face before he spoke, but no less sincere. “I can tell you that I love the way you smile.” In truth, Jaime knew that you would be okay with Khaji – that you would adore him just as much as you did Jaime himself – but without the scarab's approval, he would not reveal the truth to you yet. He knew it would take some time for you to adjust, maybe, but you wouldn’t leave over it. 

You only sigh in response to his comment, leaning forward to place a kiss on his cheek. “I won't pry it out of you.” You stand, arms above your head as you stretch and feel your joints relax. “But thank you for the compliment anyways, amore.” 

“We’ll be running late if we do not leave for patrol soon.” Khaji Da warned with a chirp in Jaime’s mind. 

“I’ll be back later tonight; I just have some stuff to take care of. Don’t worry about leaving the light on, it’ll be late.” He chimes, moving to stand beside you, pulling your hand once more to his lips to place another kiss. 

You hum, waving him off and already knowing what work will be keeping him from your shared bed once again – he had told you he was Blue Beetle long before the pair of you had moved in together. “You can make it up to me by buying breakfast next time.” you promise for him. “Come back safe, please.” 

“I’ll do my best.” Jaime swears, stepping past you after squeezing your hand once more and heading for the door. 

For now, you could only wait and watch as he left, finishing what decorating you could and heading off to sleep. Unfortunately unaware of the danger Jaime would be in, and later yourself. 

The danger did not come on the patrol itself, that had gone by with little more than petty robbery to stop. No major activity, no movement. It had been an easy night. And while Jaime had been more than happy to call it at that, Khaji Da had stayed silent for far longer than normal. 

“Are you okay, hermano?” Jaime asked, finally breaking the blistering silence. 

A minute ticked on before khaji Da responded, Jaime had almost thought he had not heard him. “Scans of the area near our apartment are... perplexing.”  

Jaime was still at that, slowing on his walk. His scarab was never confused about scans, not enough to be so deep in thought. “Meaning?” 

“The majority of the scans show the area is clear. However, my sensors must be damaged, as scans keep flickering and briefly picking up additional signatures, unknown to us.” 

“There are people around?” 

“Hard to tell – the extra signatures are surrounding our apartment, but they only appear briefly before I lose them once again.” 

“Do you think it’s because of how far away we are?” Jaime was growing tense – despite the calm tone, he could feel the concern beginning to radiate from the scarab. 

“Negative, I have never had an issue similar to this before. I may need to do internal checks once we are secured at home.” 

“Better safe than sorry.” Jaime comments, letting the armor burn hot over his body and re-suit him as he slips into one of the alleys, deciding to take the long way back. He can feel the way Khaji Da prods at the sensors, trying to make those blips reappear once again or find their origin. 

“Jaime, if there are people there, then our partner is likely in trouble.” 

Jaime makes no comment on Khaji Da’s use of “our”, or the tense edge in his voice as he warns him. The scarab is unable to get a reading on the signatures once again, but it provides no peace to either half of the hero. Jaime quickens his pace before even realizing, hurrying forward but careful to keep out of sight. 

It's too late, they find, after they arrive. He has no need to enter, because coming around the back way means that Blue Beetle has a clear line of sight on the open window of their apartment. Something you have not done since you moved in with him. 

Khaji Da is silent, and Jaime almost has to call for him before he can feel a surge in the back of his mind when the scarab kicks on power. “I cannot get a signal off the others, but I have picked up on our partner’s. They have just reached the city limits.” 

That isn’t too far away, Jaime realizes. Living on the outer limits had been a perk that he had sought out to help with leaving in his suit if ever the need arose. 

“We can still reach them if we hurry.” Khaji Da stresses, beginning to push to free the wings of the suit. 

“Don’t need to tell me twice, Khaji.” Jaime wastes no time in taking off into the sky, determined to reach you before anything bad could happen. Or worse than already had – being kidnapped while you slept certainly wasn’t high on the list of good things to go down while dating a hero. 

Jaime was tired, but the moment he was in the skies and scanning ahead of him he could feel the adrenaline rushing through him. And the anger. He knew that he as well was not the only one - he could feel, at the very edges of his consciousness, khaji Da was trying to keep himself under control, that he was itching to get his hands on whoever had taken you. And if he did, it was not going to be a pretty fight. 

Their search did not last long, with how fast they were flying it was in no time that they were right above the two suspicious dark SUVs driving west out of town – the only vehicles on the road, right on top of one another. 

“They are in the second vehicle.” 

Jaime gave no response, descending in front of the first car as fast as he could, bracing for impact when they only barely hit their brakes to try and avoid him. It mattered little to either of the Beetle pair, their sights were set on the tinted windows of the second vehicle that was quicker to react. 

Jaime straightened, feeling Khaji pulling for control, anger still hot in his mind as he scanned for their partner. “Let them go,” he narrowed his eyes, already in position to rush them if he needed, “before this gets ugly for you.” The hiss on the edge of his words, the venom that dripped from them was Khaji, though Jaime understood the anger. But in moments like this the two would bleed together until you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began. 

The back door opened and Khaji Da crooned in the recesses of Jaime’s mind, just for a moment, knowing you could at least walk. But that lasted no more than seconds when they saw the blood from your cut lip and the limp in your step. The wide-eyed look you gave, staring right at him and pointedly trying to ignore the gun just centimeters from your temple. You looked terrified, and rightfully so. All Jaime and Khaji Da want is to grab you, but for the time being nobody moves. 

At least until a moment later when Jaime doubles over, an ear-splitting sound ringing in his head like chalk on a board. Distantly he can make out your own body hitting the ground before the assailants leave your side and move towards him. He’s barely on the verge of consciousness, already losing to the black when he feels Khaji Da surging forward in his mind to take control. It’s a burning hot rage that feels like fire in Jaime’s numb limbs, but he trusts his partner to protect them both. 

Khaji Da is exactly that, full of rage and a deep-seated drive to guard Jaime and yourself. The small black device that likely served as the source of the attack is much closer to the pair, but the man holding it can’t react fast enough before he’s pinned to the car with a staple. It’s automatic for him, even with how few times he had needed to take control of Jaime’s unconscious body. 

The pair spend so long intermingled that it’s just an extension of the physical scarab body. Not that Khaji Da is stopping to appreciate how fluid the fight is. He can see you on the ground, barely moving but still trying – you were further away when the pulse went out, which thankfully seemed to lack a powerful enough range to do permanent damage to you. All he knows is he needs to get rid of these attackers and grab you so you’re both safe. 

It leaves him distracted however, something he’ll later grow agitated with, and one of the men are behind him, sharp metal dug into the joint of his armor and peeling it up. It isn’t much, but it sends alarm bells ringing because these people were too well versed in his defenses for this to be some thrown together kidnapping. An issue for later, when you’re all safe. 

The fastest way to end this, just long enough to escape, is a major sonic pulse, but it risks injuring you further. It’s a decision he tries to weigh when he grabs one of the men who has jumped at his back, swinging him full force through the windshield of the further car, and then making eye contact with you. 

You’ve turned over, watching him with a look that Khaji Da does not recognize. But he does see the cuts, the new gash on your forehead from the ground, and bruises that are still darkening from when you had been taken. Khaji Da didn’t have to wonder if you had put up a fight, he knew that you had, and you had likely paid the price for it more than he could see. 

It’s a thought – one of them hurting you, dragging you out the window, and the chance that they could have been too late to find you in time – that has him reacting without hesitation. 

Anyone smart would turn away and run if they saw the suit charging up – especially if there was nothing to block the blast. But for all their planning, their assailants seem stupidly determined to take in the Blue Beetle. Stupid enough that they rush at him. 

In the corner, on the outskirts of the fight, you put your face to the dirt and cover your head with your hands, bracing for whatever is to come. It pays off moments later when the charge is done and an energy pulse lashes out wildly. 

You don’t even look up until the oddly warm metal is wrapping around your torso and hoisting you up as gently as he can. Blue beetle is acting fast, wasting little time before taking you in his arms and taking flight. 

All you do for the time being is wrap your arms around his neck, staring at him from the corner of your eye as you watch the men below get smaller and smaller. 

The flight back is silent, and you don’t ask questions when you pass by your apartment. Jaime had told you once that there was a safe house if things ever got too bad, and you assumed now that it was your destination until something could be worked out. 

Khaji Da, for his part, did not want to slip up. He did not want to give himself away, and he did not want you to worry too much about Jaime. He was good, a little banged up, but his host would be okay. But this was never how he wanted you to learn. 

It took longer than expected to arrive and land at the safe house – Khaji Da did more than one fly around to ensure there was no living soul on the premises before he even dared to bring you down near it. He ushers you inside as fast as he can, mindful of the limp you still sported. 

“Let me help,” he asked, his voice soft but cracking as he sat you down, already making a b-line for the first aid kit. As he moved the armor fell away to reveal Jaime’s body underneath, with the hope it would put you more at ease. “It’s been a long night.” 

You were still silent when he turned around, fixing him with a sharp look. Khaji Da felt like you could see right through him, and he tensed with the little med kit in his hands, almost scared to walk near you. 

“Come here, you’re hurt.” You motion him over next to you, making a grab for the box when he steps close enough. 

Khaji Da keeps it just out of your reach. “So are you.” 

“Let me do this.” 

He opens his mouth to stop you before you huff. 

“Please, if they come back at least you’ll be ready. Just,” you stop, lowering your hand and fixing him with a pleading look, “just let me do this.” 

He just nods silently, handing over the aid kit before turning his side to face you. There is a wound in the crease of his arm where the joint of the suit had been pierced, but it was nothing compared to the cuts and bruises you wore. He had the armor, but it was of little use to you. It left a sour taste in Khaji Da’s mouth, but he would be able to tend your own soon enough. 

“You’re not him, are you?” You ask, finally willing to break the question as you dab at the cut. You can feel the way that he tenses under your touch, see the flicker of his eyes as he looks for a way out. 

But Khaji Da cannot lie to you – not like this. “No.” 

“The scarab then?” 

He only nods his head yes, diverting his eyes from your own and fixing them on the floor. If it was not for your touch on his arm then he would pull away from you completely, but he doesn’t want to upset you when you are already shaken. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Khaji Da.” 

You smooth the bandage out over his cut. He doesn’t need it, but it's an excuse for a little more contact. The action seems to sooth him, and with a small confidence you reach for his hands. “I like that name.” 

He looks at you, like he’s searching for something specific, but he can’t find it. “You knew?” 

“I had my suspicions for a long time. But in that fight? That isn’t how he moves. But you do. I've seen it sometimes, when it’s late or you two think I won’t notice. I just thought it was a trick of the mind for a while.” You clasp his hand tighter, pulling it into your lap. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” An echo of earlier that has Khaji Da almost melting. 

“I didn’t want to scare you. Or for you to leave because of me – I did not want us to lose you.” 

“I’m just grateful you’re here. I won't go anywhere, as long as you stop hiding from me.” You assure, leaning forward to place a kiss on his forehead. The act makes him shy away, but he tightens his grasp on your hand.  

“Never again,” he promises. 

“Good. Is Jaime okay too?” 

“Unconscious, but I can heal the physical damage while we wait for the others to arrive.” 

You cock your head to the side at that. “The others? Are those guys coming back?” 

Khaji calms you before you can spiral, bringing your hand towards him and placing his lips against it as he had wanted to do so many times before. “No, no, not them. I put in a call for backup to this place as soon as we landed. They’ll search for the cars and then come here.” 

You can relax at that, nodding along before you shift so you can sit curled against his side. 

You’re tired, Khaji Da can see that – the bags under your eyes and the tremor that wracks your body from fatigue. “Sleep, I’ll still be here when you wake.” 

You give a hum that you hear him, thankful for his guard before you finally close your eyes to rest. You’ll have time tomorrow to speak more and let him tend to your injuries.

[oftenwantedafton]

and then there was us | william afton x female reader

rating | explicit

part 2/?

words | 9.2k

cw | alternate universe - high school, stepbrother william, william is 17, reader is 16, underage sexual content

ao3 link

William is kissing you.

Your stepbrother is kissing you.

You don’t know which of you is more surprised when your lips part, when you gasp for air, eyes widening in disbelief, his gray ones wounded and lustful. There’s still rain in his hair, one stray droplet sliding down to track alongside his cheek like a tear.

You clutch the lapels of his school blazer, still uncertain if it’s to thrust him away or tug him closer. You can’t rein in your thoughts. They’re galloping faster than your pulse. Your dress is threatening to fall off your shoulders, looser now that the back is unzipped. You’re poised to fall like that. Dizzy, lightheaded. His head dips forward and you gasp again. He hesitates. You can hear the rain drumming on the roof, the storm intensifying. Another souvenir from that inclement weather slides down, this one spilling over his nose and splashing onto his bottom lip.

One moment you’re staring at it; the next, you’re tasting it. Somehow your lips meet again in a frenzied crash. Your fingers curl so tightly into his clothing that the joints ache. His hands settle on either side of your waist. You lick his mouth open and he moans into yours. You swallow that sound. He’s leaning. Now there is something firm at your back, your naked shoulder blades colliding with the central raised wooden panels of the Christian door, your head thudding somewhere near the center of the cross. You’re all too aware of that blasphemy, that sin, the lore of the six paneled door at your back with its simplified religious imagery, a crucifix and spread open bible just below it to ward off evil, a superstitious hallmark from another time, but all you want is more of the forbidden feel of this teenager’s mouth on yours.

It’s then that you become dimly aware of a ringing sound in the background, a repetitive noise that worms its way between all these sinful thoughts of wanting and you manage to jerk your head away roughly from him. A flash of anger and hurt darkens his features, the blown pupils staring accusingly, asking the silent question: Why did you stop?

“William, the phone. It’s probably Mom and Dan.”

Immediately his expression changes and he curses. “Shit.”

Together you manage to fumble the door open, your hurried steps making you nearly trip on the costume gown that’s still threatening to drop off your torso, clutching at the bodice desperately as you run towards your room. You lunge towards the charging station on your nightstand, grabbing and answering the cordless phone breathlessly, aware that your stepsibling is hovering just beside you.

“Hello? Yeah, yeah sorry, I was rushing to get the phone. We just got home. Yeah, everything’s fine. We just went out to do some errands. Getting stuff for Halloween. I know, I thought I had outgrown it too. I don’t know, I guess I was feeling kind of nostalgic. So tell me about your trip so far. How was the flight?” You know you’re babbling and you struggle to regain your composure and speak calmly. “Awesome. That sounds fun. Yes, we’ll be eating dinner after this. He wants to talk to William? Sure, hang on.” You hand the phone over, worrying your bottom lip. You don’t think your mom suspects anything is amiss. She just sounds excited about her honeymoon. You’re happy for her, honestly. She deserves it.

William is better at masking his emotions; at least verbally. His voice is very nearly its customary cool, dispassionate tone. He says very little, and the conversation ends soon after. He hands the phone back to you and you return it to the base.

Your eyes meet his and you’re surprised to see that he looks as if he’s fighting a smirk. You can’t imagine what he possibly finds funny about any of this.

“You’ve got…the makeup…”

You swipe at your mouth, your fingers coming away stained. His own features are similarly smudged. Soot and crimson. The drawn-on scars and fake blood have smeared onto your skin.

“It���s not funny, William,” you snap. It’s easier to be angry. Then you don’t have to think about that other feeling. That one you shouldn’t be having. “I’m going to wash this off.” You rummage in your dresser for the first pair of pajamas you can find that are both oversized and concealing, brushing past the taller boy to exit the room and enter the bathroom.

You dump the clothing on the counter and grab a washcloth from the linen closet, wetting it and scrubbing at your face while your glare at his reflection in the mirror. “You don’t even care, do you? You made me spend money on some costume I wore for five minutes to go to some party I didn’t even want to. And then you just up and leave for no reason—”

“—I was jealous,” he interrupts quietly. All earlier traces of amusement have vanished.

“For absolutely no reason,” you mutter, scrubbing with more force than necessary. Your skin is red now. Raw looking. You rinse the washcloth out and hold it out to him, but he doesn’t take it. “Can you just clean up so I can get changed?”

“He’s not right for you.”

“I didn’t say he was. I was just making coversation. And anyway, how would you know?” You shake your head helplessly.

“I know.”

He’s got that wounded expression again. You squirm, giving your dress another sharp tug upward to keep it in place. “Whatever. That doesn’t give you the right to kiss me.”

“You kissed me back.”

“You caught me by surprise.”

“At first, maybe. But not afterwards. You wanted more. You kissed me back,” he says again, a mixture of bewilderment and bitter longing in his tone.

“Look, if you’re not going to wash your face, can you just leave so I can get changed out of this stupid dress?” You’re very deliberately ignoring what your stepbrother is saying, because you are all too aware that what he’s saying is, in fact, the truth. You did kiss him back. And you did want more. You still do.

Guilt twists your gut, making you question if you’re even going to be able to consume whatever casserole your mother has left in the oven for your dinner; how you're supposed to sit at the table and pretend that everything is normal, when it very clearly isn’t.

“We need to talk about this.”

“No, we really don’t.”

“Yes, we do,” he insists, tossing the cloth on the counter and stepping closer to you. The walk in shower is right behind you. There’s nowhere left to go in this confined space.

“William,” you protest. There’s a panicked edge to your voice, a sound that he seems to recognize, halting abruptly. “We can’t do this.”

“It wasn’t a mistake. Don’t say that it was.”

“Please go.”

One last look that’s painful, wrenching something in your chest, then he turns and shuts the door behind him. You stand there staring for several moments, trying to calm your racing pulse. You’re trembling, you realize, reaching out for the edge of the counter, the gown finally dipping below the tops of your breasts, though it no longer matters. You’re alone. And William is…

It takes longer than it should to finally step out of the costume; to draw your own familiar clothing into place. The scent of the laundry detergent your mom always uses suddenly makes you long for her presence, even as you fear her return. She’ll know. She’ll look into your eyes and she’ll know the truth.

It was only a kiss. Was that really so terrible?

William’s bedroom door is shut as you pass by it. You can only assume he’s retreated there once again. You have no appetite but you force yourself to heat up a portion of the meal your mother had thoughtfully prepared ahead of time, chewing and swallowing with mechanical precision: chicken, broccoli, penne pasta, and Alfredo sauce, all topped with bread crumbs. Normally it’s one of your favorites. Right now it tastes like ash.

You think about bringing a bowl up to your stepbrother. A peace offering. But you know he won’t open the door. You envision him at his desk, hunched over whatever it is he’s been working on. Brooding and scowling. Going through the motions to keep himself occupied, just like you had.

You try to watch some television. You can’t find humor in any of the sitcoms or talk shows. Your eyes keep drifting to the seat he had occupied the other night. Lightning flashes outside of the living room windows. You shiver and decide to go to bed.

***

You awaken to darkness.

The world around you is pitch black. No digital alarm clock display. No light from the phone charging on your nightstand.

It’s also very cold.

The tip of your nose is freezing. You pull the top of the duvet over it, trying to warm it up by keeping it trapped beneath the covers with your breath circulating over it. Your feet are like ice, too. You usually can’t stand wearing socks to bed, but right now you’re wishing you had. Why is the room so cold and dark?

Maybe the power has gone out.

That makes sense, you decide. Well, now that you’re awake, you might as well get up. Maybe grab a pair of socks. There’s at least one other quilt you can grab from the closet. But first, you’re going to use the bathroom.

You move slowly, wishing you didn’t have blackout curtains over the windows. You really need the illumination right now. It seems to take forever to find the door, your fingers trailing along the wall to guide your steps forward once you emerge into the hallway.

You stumble into something solid.

Someone. William. He makes a sound of surprise.

“The power’s out,” he says. He’s almost whispering.

“Yeah, I noticed. Why are you up?”

“Hungry,” he admits. “But now I’m thinking I won’t make it down the stairs without taking a header.”

“I was going to bring you up some dinner earlier, but…” Your voice trails off.

“Why are you up?”

“Bathroom.”

“Ah.” A pause. “I am sorry about earlier. About making you go to the party. Spending money. I’ll pay you back.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” His fingers find yours on the wall. You’re grateful that it’s too dark for him to see you flinch. “I’m not sorry about what happened after, though. I’m not going to lie and pretend I am. You can hate me, you can avoid me, but it’s not going to change how I feel.” The words come out in a rush, as if he’s been rehearsing them repeatedly and is eager to be rid of them.

“I don’t hate you,” you mumble. “I don’t want to avoid you, either.”

“Your hands are cold,” he says, his fingers stroking yours gently.

“It’s pretty chilly in my room.”

“Maybe we should sleep together. I mean next to each other. I don’t mean—” He quickly corrects himself.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“You don’t trust me.” He can’t keep the hurt from his voice.

“I don’t trust myself,” you admit softly. “Goodnight, William.” You ease your way around him, drawing your hand free of his. When you return down the hall moments later, you find it empty once more.

***

The next time you awaken it’s still dark.

You know immediately that you’re not alone. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle as you turn over.

“William?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” You hesitate, then flip back the blankets. “Hurry up and get in.”

The mattress creaks as he joins you, quickly dragging the covers back into place.

“Fuck, it’s cold.”

“Language,” he reprimands, and it sounds more like your stepbrother’s customary tone. Snooty and arrogant and clipped. Not like earlier, when it had been so soft, so afraid, so filled with remorse and this terrible, aching want that your own self echoes.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you retort, trying to keep the mood light, teasing. Maybe this was a better tactic towards returning to some feeling of normalcy.

“I’m older. That means I’m in charge.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“What?”

“The profanity. You know I don’t like it.”

You think he might not find it so offensive if you were to use it under different circumstances, then quickly shed that thought. Don’t go there.

“Maybe. What are you going to do about it?” You challenge.

His hand reaches blindly, finding your cheek. You suck in your breath sharply.

“Nothing, if you don’t want me to.”

“William…”

“Can I hold you, at least? This seems pointless if you’re going to be so far away.”

His hand leaves your face and you shift yourself closer, resting your head on his shoulder, his arm curling around you.

“It took me my entire life to find someone I actually enjoy spending time with. It will kill me if I lost you now. I want us to still be friends. It’s important to me.”

“We are friends,” you reply, your words slightly muffled against his body. You’re much warmer now. You like this feeling of being tucked beside him. Cradled.

“Alright.” His breath shudders into your hair. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

***

You’re drooling.

The unpleasant, damp sensation makes you lift your head, your sleep addled mind finally putting together the pieces of the puzzle. It’s not your pillow beneath your head. It’s William’s pectoral muscle.

Your arm is wrapped around his waist and his hand rests on your forearm. One of your legs is hooked around the pair of his. It’s warm; too warm. You peer blearily at the nightstand. The digital display is flashing. The power is back on.

William is still asleep. He murmurs a drowsy protest when you shift, trying to find a drier spot, finally settling mostly back on your own pillow. His lips are slightly parted. The white lock of hair is draped over one brow. You want to sweep it back; trace the contours of those features that are so serene right now while he’s in repose.

The long lashes flutter and he stirs, blinking and letting his head tip to the side, the initial disorientation melting, replaced with a drowsy sort of contentment.

“‘Morning,” you mumble shyly.

“Good morning.”

“I um…I drooled on your shirt. Sorry. I know that’s gross.”

He pats at his chest, finding the wet spot, and his lips twitch in a smile. “Somehow I think I’ll survive. Was I snoring?”

“No.”

“I’ve been reprimanded about that before. Camping trip.”

“I can’t picture you camping.”

“I hate it,” he admits. “Sleeping on the ground. The mosquitoes. It’s just miserable.” He begins to grind the heel of his palm against one eye, then freezes. “Hey. The electricity is back.”

“Yes. What time is it?” He allows you to manipulate his wrist so you can read the dial. “Okay. Only eight. I’m working noon to four today.”

“Want a ride?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’d like to. We can dip into the emergency fund and get something for dinner on the way back home.”

“Okay, sounds good. Pancakes for breakfast?”

“Yes. I’m starving,” he groans. You begin to push yourself upright but he halts you, his hand closing over your arm. “I didn’t mean that you had to get up right now.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Are we…are we going to be okay?” He asks hesitantly.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re fine.” You think you’ve both been very careful to avoid the topic of last evening, keeping the conversation light. Innocent.

But you’re not, are you? Neither of you are. You’ve managed a night in his arms without crossing any boundaries, but who was to say that trend would continue for the rest of the week?

That urge to smooth back his hair, to kiss his pouting lips is driving you mad. You murmur something about needing to use the restroom, abandoning the warm cocoon of heat you’d been snuggled against your stepbrother in.

By the time you’re both showered and dressed, William graciously letting you go first, you find yourself feeling a little more normal. You’re making breakfast. For a family member. Nothing wrong with that.

And he does nothing to encourage any other activity. You eat together and then he loads the dishwasher, then returns to his room to work on his project until it’s time to leave. You decide to get some homework done, spreading your Calculus textbook open. See? Everything was fine. You’re cohabiting and it’s okay. It was only one incident. Just a kiss that lasted a long time. The first one barely counted. Just that second one. When he’d pressed you against the door. When you’d tasted his tongue.

You feel your cheeks flushing and the results on your graphics calculator swim before your eyes. You wonder if William is having an easier time concentrating; if he’s struggling as much as you are. You refuse to admit that you’re almost disappointed nothing else has happened. It can’t. You know that. You’ve told him no. He’s respecting that. It’s not fair to either of you to entertain any ideas of continuing this indiscretion any further.

What would he taste like now? Sweet like the maple syrup he’d drowned his pancakes in? Fingers heavy with the metal he’s configuring into strange shapes for unfathomable purposes? Soap and aftershave on the soft skin of his throat…

Stop. Right now.

You drop your pencil and it rolls off the edge of the kitchen table, landing on the linoleum with a sharp thwack. Your cheeks are on fire. More than your cheeks. You squirm in the wooden chair. Your palm rests against the side of your neck. Your pulse throbs against your fingertips.

The textbook is left abandoned. You need fresh air.

Outdoors, the sun glares brightly. The lawn is soaked. You feel it sinking into your sneakers. You won’t be able to sit on the lawn furniture. The rainwater has pooled everywhere.

You pace the yard. There’s no way you can wear these shoes to work now. They’re far too saturated.

“Hey.”

You don’t respond at first, thinking you’re imagining William’s voice. But he is, in fact, there beside you. “Hey,” you return the greeting.

“I dried off the patio set in case you wanted to sit out here.”

“Oh. Thank you. How did you know where I was?”

“Saw you from the window.”

You nod, returning to the patio. There are a couple of books on the recently dried surface: a volume of The Prydain Chronicles and another oversized paperback novel you don’t recognize. The cover of Amy’s Eyes by Richard Kennedy depicts a cast of human and animal characters aboard a ship, with a notable sea captain and a man dressed in golden armor at the front of the unusual cluster.

“I know you’re in the middle of rereading your favorite series, but I was thinking about this book earlier. You might enjoy it.”

He settles into one of the chairs and you sit across from him, flipping the book over to view the synopsis.

“People turned into stuffed animals. Stuffed animals turned into people,” you muse aloud. “Interesting.” You turn it back over and fan the sides of the pages. They’re slightly yellowed. Old. He’s had this book in his possession for a number of years. More than one page is dog eared. There’s a tear in the front cover. “A well loved book,” you murmur.

“A gift from my mother. I don’t recall her being in possession of it; have no memory of her ever reading from it. But I was told it was dear to her.”

“Maybe…” You lick your lips to moisten them, darting a quick glance over at your stepbrother, “maybe we could read it together this time. I’ll read it to you, if you’d like.”

A smile blossoms on William’s mouth. “Yes, I’d like that. Maybe someplace a little drier though, hmm?” He stretches out one long leg and you can see the hem of his jeans is damp.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize how wet it was out here. I just wanted some fresh air.”

“I should mow the lawn one last time for the season.” He scowls, clearly not finding the notion of the task appealing. “I noticed the Calculus book on the kitchen table. Need help with that?”

“I just couldn’t concentrate. I’ll give it another go later. If I’m still stuck I’ll ask.”

William nods, worrying at a chip in the metal edge of the glass top table. “Am I interrupting you? Would you rather be alone?”

“No,” you say quickly, and his eyes snap back to your face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that. I’m glad you’re here.”

He heaves a sigh, shifting in the wrought iron seat. They’re really not comfortable. More for appearances than anything else, you think. Probably rarely used, if father and son’s pale features are anything to go by. “It’s going to be awkward for awhile, isn’t it? This…” He waves a hand in the air between you. “Adjusting. I feel like I’m walking on egg shells.”

You don’t know how to respond. You thought you’d been doing a decent job of concealing your inner conflict. Apparently that’s not the case.

“We could…” You begin and abandon the idea immediately. There is no forgetting. You don’t think either of you truly wants to undo what’s happened. If you were presented with the same opportunity once more, you know you’d still make the same decisions. “It’s just going to take time, I think,” you declare instead.

It is William’s turn to remain silent.

***

The library is fairly busy that afternoon.

Full of students doing research, individuals seeking books to keep them entertained for the weekend. Children. The building is still relatively quiet, with that solemn, chapel-like interior, voices hushed and movements muffled, save for the click of the drawers of the card catalogue sliding shut or the hum of the photo copier. You have piles of returns to keep you busy. New checkouts to complete. It’s a briskly paced four hours, and yet the time seems to drag by. You want to see William again.

You’re afraid to.

Still you manage to plaster a smile on your features when you enter his car after your shift is complete, good naturedly arguing first about where to go for takeout and then what items to order off the menu. It would appear to anyone casually observing like you’re just two ordinary siblings.

But you both know you’re not.

In the end a compromise is reached, each of you choosing two things from the local Chinese restaurant. The smell of food frying makes your stomach growl. You haven’t eaten since those pancakes at breakfast. You’re ravenous.

As if by some unspoken agreement you mutually decide to forgo the formality of the dining room table and instead bring your meal into the living room. Piles of magazines become makeshift coasters. Paper plates are balanced on laps. Even with the aid of the dishwasher, you know it’s going to get old going through plates and utensils for every meal. Your mom usually manages that duty. The laundry, too. That chore you don’t mind as much. Not that it matters. You’ve been left with plenty of clean clothes. You won’t need to worry about that until the end of the week. And by then your mother and stepfather will have returned.

The television program that had been playing in the background ends. Your plates are noticeably emptier. Idle hands, you think, suddenly aware of William’s proximity. Necessary when sharing food. Not so much now.

A meteorologist appears to announce a preview of the evening forecast. It appears that tomorrow will be another sunny, mild day.

“We should go to the farmstand tomorrow. Get apple cider donuts.”

“Mmm, yes,” you agree.

“All done? I’ll clean this up,” he offers, rising to his feet.

“Thanks. Yes, I’m finished.”

He gathers everything, leaving a pair of fortune cookies behind on the table. You wonder what’s written inside. You’re waiting for his cue to unwrap them. You’re not superstitious; you know it’s just nonsense. Particularly if you don’t like what the message says.

William returns and sits back down. Close again. A deliberate choice. Testing his resolve? Challenging your own?

Maybe that’s just where he feels like sitting and you’re making a big deal out of nothing.

He channel surfs for a bit, then passes you the remote. You can’t find anything interesting either. The phone rings. Your parents’ check-in. You think you do a much better job today, sounding casual and confident. Internally, you’re even more conflicted.

William doesn’t speak to his father this time. The call ends and he exchanges a look with you.

It seems like it’s time to retire for the evening.

***

You’re not really ready for bed yet.

Not ready to be apart from William, either. You linger at the threshold of his open door. “Want to start that new book? For a little while. Couple of chapters.”

He agrees and you go to retrieve it, now finding him stretched out on top of the duvet, propped up on one elbow while you sit in the chair behind his desk. You stroke the creased spine as you open the novel, turning the pages until you reach the first chapter.

You realize you haven’t read aloud in a long time.

You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be doing different voices for each character as they’re introduced; you’re a little embarrassed. But William doesn’t seem to mind your decision to keep your voice neutral. He studies you raptly. You feel the warm weight of his eyes, and you stumble over your words more than once.

And he’s right. You do like the story. You end up reading double what you’d initially intended.

You shut the book reluctantly then, stifling the yawn that threatens you suddenly, a jaw cracking one that makes your eyes water. You’re still tired from the previous evening. You really hadn’t slept all that much.

William’s stood up, dragging back the covers. You’re staring at those powder blue sheets. “Stay, if you want.” He slides to the far end of the mattress tucked against the wall. You hesitate, then sit down on the edge. “Grab the light.” It’s one of those three way ones. It takes several clicks to switch it off.

You lie down, turning onto your side, and William mirrors your movements, pulling you against him so that you’re spooning. “Okay?” He rasps in your ear.

“Okay,” you agree.

***

William’s hand is on your breast.

Just casually resting there, a slice of morning sun peeking between the blinds bathing his hand in a strip of golden yellow light. You casually push it down so it’s draped over your stomach instead.

Then the hand tightens, his fingers pressing, shifting the much thinner top you’d chosen to wear last night. You feel something hard pressing against the curves of your buttocks and your heart races.

William makes a humming sound, still drowsy, still holding onto slumber while you grow more alert. His lips nuzzle the nape of your neck and you shiver, the movement of your body making his hips cant, grinding against you more firmly.

“William. William, wake up.”

“Hmmm?” Still half asleep, breath ghosting warmly over the sensitive skin of your neck. His hand now occupies your hip and he gives another lazy thrust, eliciting a squeak of protest that finally seems to shatter his repose. “Oh…sorry. Shit. Sorry.” He immediately pushes away, sitting upright, the bed linens bunched around his waist. “I was asleep, I didn’t know…”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him. It’s not like you’re unaware of morning wood. Of course you should have been expecting it, given the position you’d been sleeping in. All of that pent up sexual frustration.

“I’m going to um…I’m going to take a shower,” he stammers, clearly flustered.

“Yeah, go ahead. It’s your turn to go first.”

“You’ll need to move.”

“Oh yeah. Right. Sorry.” You slide out of his bed, retreating to your own room while he makes a beeline for the restroom. You wonder if he’s going to take a cold shower to suppress what he’s feeling or if he’s just going to rub one out to get rid of it.

Don’t you dare start thinking about that.

You’d be lying if you said that brief touch of your bodies didn’t bring about some arousal of your own. You feel a warm ache between your thighs, asking to be satisfied. You imagine William standing in the shower, dark hair plastered to his head, that slim build of his drenched. So pale, except for the flush of his sex, pressing against you, thrust into the circle of a hand, yours or his, until the hot spill of his seed erupts over you both.

Christ, I’m going straight to hell.

You resist your own urge to placate that throbbing, tingling need at the apex of your thighs when your turn for the shower comes, resolving that you are not quite that far gone into depravity yet. By the time you’re dressed and back in his car, you feel a little calmer. He makes a comment about the song playing on the radio and a debate begins about which music artists are worthy of praise. Simple banter that keeps you both distracted until you reach the local farmstand.

It seems many others have had the same idea to visit today.

The dirt parking lot is crowded with cars. It takes serious effort just to push your way through into the crowded interior. Without William there, it would’ve taken you even longer to pass. But the tall youth is good at parting the throng, cleaving through bodies until he’s found what he’s searching for. The entire room smells heavenly, like cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee, newly baked bread and crisp, ripe apples. The white paper bag pressed into your hands is warm, the mini donuts inside prepared just before your arrival. William samples one before he reaches the car, finishing it in two bites.

Your eyes roll back rapturously after that first taste. This is nothing like what you’ve sampled from any coffee shop or supermarket bakery. The texture, the flavor is completely different. You lick the cinnamon sugar dusting your fingers before reaching for another one. Now you comprehend why he’d grabbed two bags. These weren’t going to last long.

“Good, right?”

“Ridiculously. They should make these year round. I could eat them everyday.” You’re not even that much of a dessert person, but you’d make an exception for these heavenly morsels.

“I agree.” You’ve seen at least two more disappear from his bag.

“Maybe we could try to make them at home sometime. I know they wouldn’t be the same, but…”

“Do you bake?” He glances over at you with interest.

“I can. I don’t think it’s anything special, but I enjoy it. The chemistry of it. The math. Measuring precisely. It’s not even like I have that much of a sweet tooth.”

“You’re lucky.”

“About which part? The baking ability or not having an affinity for sugar?”

“Both,” he declares. “Ready to head back home?”

You nod and he turns the key in the ignition, pausing to rifle another donut from the bag sitting on his lap. “One more for the road,” he says, winking at you.

***

You haven’t really noticed the older computer tucked into the corner of the family room downstairs before now.

In truth, the finished basement looks like a place Dan was more likely to enjoy. Dartboard. Pool table. You can’t picture William having much interest in either of those.

But this vintage Commodore Amiga 500, your stepbrother informs you, is an interest of his. Especially because of one video game in particular, a first person dungeon crawler that is aptly named Dungeon Master.

You aren’t expecting much when he slides the 3.5” floppy disk into the drive, the blue screen with white text on the desktop making you wonder what word processing on such an archaic device might be like, the grinding noise of the media being read foreign and distinctly unhealthy sounding. Then the developer’s logo flashes briefly onscreen before an image of a demonic face carved into a pair of doors that lead into an obvious dungeon greets you.

“We’ll start a new game,” he says, leaning forward slightly in anticipation as he clicks the button. “There’s a little blurb to give you the background of the story in the instruction manual, but basically you choose up to four adventurers to enter this dungeon and confront the evil part of the wizard that’s taken over. That was his face on the door at the start. Chaos.”

You’d been imagining fairly primitive pixelated graphics, impressed when you see the level of detail that the developers had achieved with the limited technology of the time.

It’s obvious he’s spent quite a lot of time with this role playing game, his fingers deftly punching the arrow keys to wind his way through the Hall of Champions. He gives you time to view each character’s portrait, explaining the importance of choosing a balanced team with combat and magical abilities. “Spells are crucial, especially later on. You can’t be wasting inventory space carrying around a bunch of torches. You have to take into account the weight of items, too. Upgraded armor gets heavy. And you have to keep track of everyone’s food and water gauges.”

“This is pretty complicated for something this old.”

“It’s challenging. But well worth it.”

You halt when you reach the pages depicting magical runes. “You know what all these symbols mean by heart?”

“I do. I’ve been playing this for years,” he concedes. “You want to pick our party?”

“What if I choose the wrong ones?”

“There’s no right or wrong. Only better or worse. Less or more challenging. I don’t mind either way. Have at it.” He shifts his chair aside so you’re more centrally positioned in front of the computer. You don’t want to dally too long on this section, certain there’s plenty of other things in the game he’d like to show you.

“What’s the diffence between resurrection and reincarnation?”

“Ah. I should have mentioned that. If you resurrect them, they retain all the skill levels they had when they perished. Reincarnation gives you a blank slate to work with.”

“So which do you recommend?”

“Uh-uh. You decide.” He folds his arms across his chest.

“Alright. Let’s go with the blank slate.”

Nothing on William’s features indicates what he thinks about that decision, nor when you finally decide on four characters. There is a busty red headed female with good combat stats who unfortunately lacks in the magic department; a male with a moustache who’s well balanced overall, his portrait reminding you of a stereotypical medieval knight; a hooded figure with red slits for eyes that intrigues you based solely on appearance, although his stats don’t look half bad either; and a short creature that might be a dog or a wolf with a notable deficit in categories like health and strength but a huge spike in magical ability.

“It’s so hard to choose,” you murmur, wondering if the lizard-like creature you’ve just passed by might have been a better adventurer.

“That why I have multiple save files.”

“So now what? Where do I go?”

“There’s a pressure plate that will cause the iron grated door to rise. Yes, that one.”

“How do I pick stuff up? Oh, got it.” You’re unused to having two mouse buttons. You’ve forgotten what all this dated technology was like.

“Altar of Vi?” You frown at the recess carved into the stone wall.

“To resurrect your characters if they die. There’s a penalty for that, of course. Their stats will decrease. Make sure you save often.”

“This is a dead end. Should I be going down those stairs we passed earlier?”

“Yes. That’s what your goal is for the entire game: progressing steadily downward. It’s fairly linear, up until a certain point, but that’s a ways off yet.”

You press the arrow key and you find yourself standing in darkness. “Oh, crap. How do I turn the lights on?”

“That torch you picked up. You can place it in any character’s hand. It won’t last long, though, and the dungeon gets darker the deeper you go.”

“That scroll I found upstairs talked about a magic torch. You know which symbols I need to click to create one?”

“I do.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what that they are?”

“That would be cheating, wouldn’t it?”

“At least give me a hint.”

“The entire first row of runes are the spell levels from lowest to highest, left to right. The manual shows you the name of all the symbols.”

“So this first one, and then…” You study the manual still open on your lap. “Maybe this one over here? Oh. That character isn’t strong enough to use it.”

“It will take practice to perform incantations. But you chose the right runes.”

“What’s that sound? Footsteps? Oh, it’s a mummy!” You round the corner to find the creature behind another iron grated door.

“Pay attention to those icons in the top right corner of the screen. Only the two characters in front can use weapons on it. You can also throw ranged weapons like arrows and daggers, though they do less damage.”

“What about closing the door when it moves forward? Will it bash it?”

“Welcome to one of the most useful features in the game. Yes, it will.” There’s a note of pride in his voice. He’s impressed with your performance already.

You press the switch to open the door and the mummy steps forward, arms raised and a menancing hiss escaping its bandage lined maw. You put your plan into action, coaxing your foe forward and then quickly pressing the button for the door. It collides with a satisfying thunk while you simultaneously have your female warrior swipe with her sword and the enemy vanishes into a puff of charcoal dust.

You’re completely hooked on this game already.

“It’s kind of like Might and Magic, but different, too,” you murmur, hitting a concealed switch on the wall to reveal a bonus weapon.

“Another RPG classic.”

“The second and third ones are so good.” You insert a key you’d found lying on the floor into a lock beside another door and it retracts, allowing you passage.

“I didn’t know you liked these kinds of games. I thought you were just humoring me.”

“Well, I kind of was, but I like this a lot.” You take a moment to rearrange your inventory and you’re reminded to save, clicking on the image of a floppy disk to bring up the menu.

“You’re welcome to play it whenever you like. I try to stay away from it on school nights because I know how much of a time sink it can be. Case in point,” he mutters, watching you proceed deeper into the dungeon. An hour passes like nothing. By the second your body is starting to remind you that the seat you’re in isn’t the most comfortable. You wiggle around a bit, trying to adjust.

“I think I’m gonna call it quits for today. Getting a little sore,” you admit, rolling your neck. You can hear the fluid pushing around.

“Yeah, we really need to invest in some better furniture down here. I’ll mention it to my dad.”

“This was really fun, though. Thanks.”

“Want some lunch? My treat.”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Reheated leftovers from last night.”

“Perfect. Oh! And we never had the fortune cookies.”

“I forgot about those.”

You follow your stepbrother up the carpeted stairs.

“Eating in the kitchen or living room?”

“Living room. I want to sit on something comfortable.”

“Living room it is. Go sit down, I’ll bring it to you.”

You flop down on the couch and reach for the remote. There aren’t a lot of options on a Sunday afternoon. Sunday. Shit. You’ve still got homework to do.

William senses the change in your mood when he returns a few minutes later, setting down a pair of plates and a couple of cans of soda he’d tucked under his elbow. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “I just realized what day it is. I still have homework to do.”

“I do, too. I guess that’s what we’re doing after lunch.” He sinks down beside you—close once again, this is apparently his new spot—and pulls the remote from your hand, switching the television’s power off shortly after. “An absolute wasteland.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t find anything either.” You take a bite of fried rice and a sip of soda, letting your gaze wander around the room. “There’s no pictures of you or your dad anywhere, I’ve noticed. Mom always kept out all my school ones when I was in elementary. Some of them were so cringe.”

“I’m not overly fond of having my picture taken. I don’t know, it’s just never really been a thing for us.” He shrugs, tearing off a piece of teriyaki marinated beef from its wooden skewer.

“We definitely slowed down once I hit highschool. It’s kind of strange, right? Like all of a sudden memories aren’t as important to capture images of.”

“Maybe the thought process there being that you’re better able to remember things once you reach a certain age. Everything’s moving towards digital nowadays anyway.”

“You think that’s for better or for worse?”

He takes a large swallow of his drink, then tips his head to one side thoughtfully. “Could go either way on that one. I appreciate the advances in technology. But I also appreciate what people had to make do with in the past. It required more imagination. Better insight. I see these newer videogames coming out, and yes, the graphics are superior. The sound design is incredible. But there’s still something missing that was present in older titles like that one we were just playing. Something like that makes you think more. You couldn’t just look up a walkthrough on the internet years ago. You had to really struggle with it. Trial and error. Frustrating? Sure. But the satisfaction when you finally figured it out. There’s no comparison to that. These newer games are just…soulless.” William pauses, glancing at you. “What?”

“That’s the most I’ve ever heard you talk about anything, ever.”

“I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“No, I like it. I like hearing your thoughts. I’d like to know what you’re working on upstairs, too.”

“That’s a little more complicated. A lot more complicated,” he corrects. “Are you familiar with animatronics at all?”

“No, I don’t think…wait. You mean like…”

“Yes, like that mouse,” he says. There’s a definite note of distaste in his tone. “That’s what everyone immediately associates them with. But they were invented long before that. Back in the 1930s, Westinghouse Electric Corporation created a character with a pet dog. By the 1960s, Disney got in on the tech. And it just went on from there.”

“So that’s what you’re doing? Building new robots?”

“They’re not robots, exactly, no. It’s more like…robots are programmed to carry out a specific function. It doesn’t matter what their appearance is. Whereas with animatronics, it’s a balance between a lot of different elements: puppetry and motion actuators and hydraulics and pneumatics, everything working cohesively all while resembling an actual living being. It’s not about copying what’s already been done, although that’s how a lot of it started for me. Disassembling. Figuring out how things work. What I really want to do, though, is improve upon those earlier models. Combine the older tech with modern capabilities. Find harmony between them.”

“And what living creature would you ultimately simulate? An animal? Or a human?”

“An android would be an amazing accomplishment. But I’m nowhere near ready for that yet.” He absently stuffs a forkful of lo mein into his mouth. You’ve completely forgotten about the food on the plate balancing on your thighs.

“You’ve got so many ideas. So much knowledge. You should talk to people more. Let them experience it.”

Another shrug of shoulders. “I’m not keen on sharing, lest someone steals something. I’m content to keep it to myself.”

“But you told me.”

“You’re different.”

“Why? I might decide to start my own rival animatronic business,” you tease. “Build a theme park or…”

“I trust you,” he says, and you instantly grow silent.

Just like that, the mood has shifted again. You pick at the leftovers, your appetite suddenly gone. You can’t help but blame yourself. You’d finally gotten him to come out of his shell, talking about things he was clearly passionate about, and now you’ve undone it all just as quickly.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I keep screwing things up. We were having such a good day, and now…” You lean forward and set the plate down on the coffee table.

“It has been a good day. You didn’t screw anything up.”

You recline back into the cushions defeatedly. “I wasn’t making fun of you. I shouldn’t have been teasing. I think you’re so brilliant and…”

“Devastatingly attractive?” He supplies with a gentle smirk.

“Yes. No. I mean, yes, but…I sound like a lunatic, don’t I?”

“No.”

“I’m all over the place. I can’t concentrate. I feel overwhelmed. Ever since…”

“Since I kissed you. You see? You’re not at fault.”

“I kissed you back.”

“I asked to sleep in your bed.”

“The power was out. It was a good excuse. I had none for sleeping in yours.”

“None?”

“None that I’m willing to admit,” you clarify. “What am I doing, William?”

“Working through your feelings.”

“How can you be so calm about it?”

“It’s an illusion. I’m not calm at all.”

“You’re not?”

“No. But we agreed not to take this any further. That’s what you wanted.”

“Is it?” The impulse to reach out and touch him nearly suffocates you. You want to kiss him again. More than anything else, that’s what you truly desire.

But you don’t. You look at him and he looks at you and neither of you reaches across that short distance. Eventually he gathers the remains of your lunch and disappears without asking if you’ve finished. The fortune cookies are still waiting to be read.

“I’m going to get started on homework,” you say, heading for the kitchen.

“Me too.” William ascends the stairs.

The afternoon ends.

***

You stand in front of the bathroom mirror, scrubbing your teeth vehemently.

You’re lost in your thoughts again. Wishing you could turn back the clock, get all those lost hours back.

To do what, though? What would you do differently?

William’s already said goodnight, murmured from the depths of his room. Sounding distracted. Maybe working on something for school, or his hobby that might one day become a career.

You climb into bed, automatically sliding to one side to make room for a person that isn’t there.

***

You’re still awake when there is gentle knocking at your door, asking permission to enter.

You pull back the covers before he even has a chance to inquire, somehow finding his way in the dark more stealthily than you can manage. You’ve already set the alarm to that earlier time that he’d dictated you’d have to adopt if you wanted him to give you a ride to school. The phone call with your mother had been brief tonight. She’s becoming more and more involved in her tropical getaway, less and less worried about how you’re faring. She doesn’t know. Maybe it won’t be so obvious to her after all.

“Did you set the alarm?” William’s voice rasps after he’s settled into your bed.

“Yes. Extra early,” you add.

“Okay.”

Your head lifts to see the current display. Late. You’d been awake awhile. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“You were already on one side of the bed.”

“How can you even tell that in the dark?”

“I didn’t hear you move. You expected me to come.”

“What took you so long?”

“I was busy.”

“Busy,” you repeat.

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“Us.”

“Oh.” Such a short, simple syllable, so full of meaning.

“There is an us, isn’t there?” So carefully neutral. You can hear nothing of his emotions.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“I’ve waited my entire life for someone like you,” he says. “You’ve no idea what you mean to—”

You can’t wait any longer. You lean and you press and you find his mouth. Heavy with mint. He’s just brushed his teeth. You press harder and harder, prodding that moist interior while your hands frantically sink into his hair.

“God,” he chokes out, a plea for forgiveness or a prayer of thanks, before his lips find your throat. You arch against him as he climbs over you, somehow simultaneously dragging your body towards the center of the bed and shoving the covers away.

The sounds he’s gifting you, those deep moans and sighs, go straight to your pussy. He’s too far away. His mouth is no longer enough. You want his hands on you. You want his body pressed against yours. Your nails rake down his chest, tugging at fabric. His breath hitches when your hand reaches his abdomen.

You pause there, waiting. Warm air huffs over your lips. “Please,” the word comes out raggedly, like it’s been torn from his chest. There’s a roaring sound in your ears. You can hear your own thudding pulse as your hand descends further, fingers flattening, palm pressing firmly. Boxers. Just thin material. And…there. His erection. A place you were never meant to touch.

His lips drop back to yours. You feel his weight shifting onto the arm braced near your face, the other hand trying to shove your pajama pants down. You assist him with your free hand, the other still occupied with stroking over his concealed cock.

One of your legs is free and that’s all that’s needed. He nudges your legs apart with one knee, shoving yours upward, both of your wrists now pinned down as his hips thrust against your sex, still protected by those flimsy pairs of underwear you’re both wearing. His hips rise and thrust forward again, grinding his cock against your pussy and this time he hits your clit just right. You whimper, struggling against his grip on your wrists, your body lifting and writhing, eager and impatient to meet his. Your knees clutch his ribs, spurring him on, earning you several more teasing pistons of his hips.

“Fuck me,” you grate against his cheek. “Fuck me, William.”

No reprimand this time. Instead he complies with your request, mashing against your heat. You can feel how wet your panties have gotten; how damp his briefs are, now saturated with precum. Your lust has completely overtaken you. You don’t think you’d stop him if he stripped you bare right now and fully entered you, stealing your viginity in one fell swoop. The idea of it is both terrifying and thrilling.

“Sis,” he gasps, and something sparks along your spine, traveling straight to your core. That one little term of endearment that he’s never once uttered, that sobering reminder of how taboo what you’re doing is, should repulse you, but it doesn’t; instead it lights the fuse leading towards ultimate bliss, sending you hurtling down that path in a dizzying shower of heat and pleasure, the hands trapping your upper extremities shaking violently, his mouth sloppy somewhere near yours, imperfect and yet perfect, hot and wet and there, right there, you feel his hips stutter seconds later, that sudden flood of wetness that presses against your pulsing clit, sticky and warm, signaling his own release.

He drops beside you, your hiked up knees finally allowed to relax. Panted breaths. You’re sweating. Damp everywhere. Perspiration and vestiges of arousal and cum. His and yours, mingling together.

“Are you alright?” You finally break the silence.

“Yeah, just let me…I wasn’t expecting that to happen,” he manages.

“Neither was I.” You can still feel the aftershocks of your orgasm, the little snappy tingles pulsing in your thighs. “You don’t regret it though, right?”

“No. Can I…I’m going to put the light on.”

“Okay.”

The switch on the lamp clicks and you blink against the sudden brightness. Once your eyes have adjusted you can see William’s in a similar state. Damp stains on his shirt where sweat has soaked through. The front of his boxer briefs very obviously dark and wet. He rakes a hand through his saturated hair. “Christ, you look…properly ravaged,” he decides, tugging at the hem of your shirt that has ridden up.

“I think I gave as good as I got.”

“You did.”

His eyes still aren’t quite meeting yours.

“You don’t regret it, right?” You ask again.

“What? No. No,” he repeats more firmly, now cradling your cheek. “I’m just trying to process things.”

“First time?”

“I’ve done some stuff,” he replies, sounding defensive. “Not much. Not…that. You?”

“Same.”

“Are you on birth control?”

“No.”

He makes a nervous little huff of sound.

“You called me Sis.”

“Yeah, I uh…it kind of slipped out.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“I didn’t mind it. Won’t mind you saying it again,” you add. “It was…kind of hot.” You nudge his arm playfully.

“Christ,” he curses. “I’ve unleashed a monster.”

You grin. You can’t help it. You should be feeling guilty, and you are, somewhere deep inside, but it’s buried under a pile of other feelings right now. “Come on. Where’s that William smirk I love?” You press at the corner of his mouth with your index finger until he eventually surrenders, chuckling and capturing your hand.

“You like it that much, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve grown pretty fond of it.” You push yourself upright, combing back his mussed hair. “It’s kind of a relief, isn’t it? To just have it happen. Instead of pretending. I can’t…I can’t do that with you. I don’t want to. I know this isn’t…we’re not supposed to…I can’t help how I feel,” you struggle to conclude.

“We have to be careful.”

“About getting caught?”

“About everything,” he says. “Yes, about getting caught. About you getting pregnant. In the heat of the moment, things happen. It’s going to be really, really hard when our parents get back. Being at home. At school. Everywhere. I’m going to want you too much.”

“I already want you too much.”

“See what I mean?” He smiles bitterly, then leans and brushes a kiss against your forehead. “You should know by now I don’t do anything lightly. It’s all or nothing. Fully committed or not. One extreme or the other. Be gentle with me. You’ve already got me wrapped around your finger.”

“Which one?” You hold up a fist and raise each digit in succession. “This one? Or this one? How about…”

“All of them. Tied right here.” Your hand is brought to his chest.

You swallow thickly. “I’ll be careful.”

He exhales. “Good. Now let’s go take a shower. And then we need to sleep. We have to be up in a few hours.”

“We could sleep a little later. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you didn’t that premiere parking spot and weren’t first to arrive in the classroom.”

“No sleeping later. Let’s go. Shower. Now.”

You pout but surrender. You’ll let him think he’s won for now.

By morning, you might convince him to change his mind.

[threshie]

Bye-Bye Bras

It took decades, but I have finally officially decided to ditch bras for good. It sounds like a little thing, but it's SO freeing to be this comfortable while out and about, instead of shoving myself into the sensory discomfort that is a bra every time I step out of the house. I think it took discovering the autism to give myself permission to just not care if somebody may see the outline of nipples.

I don't really have anywhere else to ramble about this to the world, so my Tumblr gets to hear about it instead, LOL. I would literally make myself put a bra on if I set foot out of the house, even just to check the mail, and realized it had become part of masking. So far the only people who have seemed to care are a bunch of little old ladies giving me side-eye while grocery shopping, and I'm gonna prioritize my day to day comfort, not their two minutes of perceiving me ever.

Anyway, wheee, I've given myself permission to go braless and kicked the idea that that is inappropriate to the curb. I'm so comfy in my clothes while outside now that it feels like I'm still in my pajamas. Cripes.

I tried wearing double layers at first with a tank top as an undershirt. Overheated really bad, though. Then I got the guts to go out in only the tank top, and you know, the world did not end. Just this morning I realized, hey, my entire wardrobe is allowed to be worn braless, actually! I suppose the next big step will be shopping for clothes sans bra and buying things that look nice on me without a bra there at all, then not caring if I show up in photos with no bra, etc, etc.

I think I've got more sensory issues than I previously thought. When I tried to force myself to get back to wearing a bra daily, I just couldn't stand it. So this sounds silly, and like a small thing, but it's a big deal for me to allow myself to be this comfortable and be seen without the stupid bra, which I literally only wore as part of masking.

I'm lucky to have a small chest and find bra-free so comfy. I don't need support, and I don't need nipple covering, so I don't need the bra at all. Whoohoo!

I've been struggling with this for years, by the way. I tried wearing only yoga bras (made me sweat.) I tried sports bras (gave me killer neck and shoulder pain.) I tried stick-on nipple covers (looked worse under the shirt than the shape of my actual nipples.) Finally, I realized that I didn't want or need any of that stuff, I was just trying to accommodate my desire to not wear a bra at all in a way that was acceptable to others. And wearing no bra IS acceptable, actually. ♥

[gunthermunch]

let me be honest with you guys i would have gone into hiatus 3400 times and or deleted stuff if it wasnt because we (yes me and you included) love munch so much. its crazy

[indigodawns]

.

[mrburnsnuclearpussy]

I wish so badly that I never started watching Downton abbey because here I am now having near anxiety attacks over a fictional character and it’s just miserable and I want out!!!! This obsession hurts more than it feels good but I can’t get rid of it and idk how 😭

[onskepa]

Hi how are you? If you want, could you tell us what your headcanons would be for what the Sully children's relationship would be like with a human/avatar mother who was mated with Jake and Neytiri? Thank you very much, have a great day!

I can see a lot of possible outcomes for this one! So here ya go! Enjoy!

P.S: Reader will not be given a name in this one, instead she will be called "small mama"

Pinnacle protection

-------------------------------

Pinnacle motherhood

Right off the bat, the whole family loves their third mother, second mate. Jake sully couldn't ask for a better family, and better mates. Especially his little human mate. Neytiri will agree with him, while yes she has her children to hug, her little mate is just what she needs. Something small yet full of love just for her. 

Now like any trio, there is a balance between the parents. Jake is the head of the family, the brains with his clever ideas. Neytiri at times can be the brains but most muscle due to her skills in fighting and hunting. And their beloved human is the heart of the family. Keeping everyone together. 

And like any child, the sully kids will have favorites. And their favorite is their amazing human mother. She is the most fun, loving parent any child could ever ask for. Are they not getting their way with Jake or neytiri? To mama it is! And mama will always fold by the simple look of her kids. 

Another thing about their favorite mama, they all believe she has the power to read their minds. How else would it explain she knows their next move? 

Lo’ak and tuk can recall so many instances where they were barely forming an idea only for their mama to say “dont even think about it” or “it is not worth the trouble”. 

For neteyam, as he is the oldest he does try to be a good example for his mischievous siblings, along with holding so many responsibilities, but he can always count on his small mama for anything. Small mama consoles him, talking about anything neteyam has his mind about. 

Unlike Jake or neytiri who neteyam has to put up a strong warrior face, with a small mama he can revert back to being a baby with her. He feels safe and be a kid again with her. And small mama always called him her “little baby boy”. Neteyam won't admit it but he likes it when she calls him that. 

For kiri, she definitely adores her small mama. She is closer to her third parent than she is with neytiri. Not to be mean or anything. But with Jake, Kiri can talk about what odd things happen around her, ask her about her mother and stuff but with her small mama. Well, she can express far more with her, be free to say anything not be judged upon. Kiri can dare say small mama understands her more than anyone in the world.

With tuk, the baby of the family. Why, she loves to be the taller one, it makes her happy. Of course she would never tease her small mama that she is taller, but small mama would call her “tiny tuk”. A name tuk loves and will glady flex it for some reason. 

If tuk can't go somewhere with her older siblings, small mama would personally take her anywhere she wants to go. As long as it is safe. With small mama, everything is fun and never boring. Tuk loves the times where her hair is braided or she braids small mama’s hair. 

Now, if small mama would use her avatar, nothing much would change. Except that now the kids will demand piggy back rides. Tuk or lo’ak would be front of the line for that.  

Hunting would be easier and much more fun with jake and neytiri, running, riding their ikrans, less risk overall. 

Even with her avatar, she is still short compared to her two mates. She is smaller than Neytiri by 9 ½ inches. Not something she is super thrilled about. No matter what body, she is still small mama through and through. 

Small mama is forever grateful to live her best life with her family, loving them and saying her thanks to Eywa for blessing her to be the best of her two worlds. Through hardships, through trials, small mama has a mighty heart and a roar of an ikran. Yes sometimes she might be stressed or frustrated but life is not perfect. Small mama knows that all too well. But there is nothing better than what she has. 

[eyivibyemi]

✧ I won’t really write descriptions for these, but see original post tags for explanation/commentary on the song snippet ✧

[veritasangel]

Give me stalker!Simon please! Where he never goes far but treats you like a sugar baby and you're left clueless! He knows everything about you! From the way you like your toast to your favourite bra or even your period time. Please please please! Sabrina Carpenter please!!

a/n: whenever people request stuff, i always overthink what they want so i hope this is okay !

warnings! fem pov, contains nsfw content {mdni}, stalker simon, spying/cameras, obsessive, mentions of vibrator/masturbation ↣ wc: 1k

Your neighbour, Simon Riley, quiet, keeps to himself, and always has a dark brooding expression on his face. You never pay him much mind except for the occasional polite wave whenever you pass by. Little do you know, Simon is more than just your neighbour; he is your shadow, a silent protector, and he knows more about you than you could ever imagine.

It started with small, subtle things you wouldn't even notice: how every time you were out of bread, he had claimed he ordered too much and dropped a loaf by for you. Or how when your period was due, you opened the door to him holding a care package of sorts with everything in it that you could want. He said something about winning a lucky raffle and not needing it, so he gave it to you.

It was as if Simon just appeared whenever you needed him, but never intrusively so. He was just always in the right place at the right time, and you'd brush off the odd coincidence with a grateful smile.

“Oh ah, yes, I was just on my way home, grabbed these biscuits from that local bakery, still hot out of the oven. Thought you might enjoy them” Simon said politely, and handed the box to you.

You smiled a little taken aback by the gesture. "Oh, thank you, Simon. You really didn't have to do that."

He shrugged, his eyes on you for a fraction longer than was necessary. "It's nothing, really. I know you've been busy with work, thought you could use a treat.”

But you couldn't explain the expensive gifts that began showing up. A bag here, a delicate piece of jewellery there. No notes, no explanations-just beautifully wrapped boxes left at your door. You assumed it was a mistake at first, maybe some mix-up with a neighbour's delivery, but when the gifts continued, you couldn't help but be puzzled.

They were all things you had admired in passing, or things you needed and just hadn't gotten around to buying. In fact, most of what showed up was already on your wish list that you had definitely written down on a piece of paper lying around somewhere in your house.

Simon was always there, but you never realised just how often your paths crossed. He popped up everywhere you were, the shop, at the park, even at the gym. In your mind, he was just that quiet neighbour who happened to have a similar routine as you.

"Fancy seeing you here," said Simon as he approached the treadmill.

You looked up startled to see him in the same gym at the same time. "Oh, hey, Simon! Didn't expect to run into you here."

He gave you a casual nod, his face as unreadable as always. "Yeah, trying to keep up the regular workouts since I've been off work. Anytime you wanna’ train, just let me know, I’ll help out." he offered, his voice casual though his eyes watched you closely.

“I might just take you up on that," you said, smiling, pleased with the offer. It was nice, you thought, having a neighbour who was kind, yet also seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you.

What you didn't realise was just how involved Simon was in your life. You'd brush off the strange feeling of being watched as paranoia. You didn't know that Simon had eyes everywhere, cameras hidden in places you'd never think to look. 

He wasn't just your neighbour; he was your stalker, though he preferred to think of himself as your guardian. Simon would never say he was obsessed, he merely wanted to care for you in ways you didn’t know you needed.

He noticed the little things, like how you furrowed your brow when you were stressed or when you curled up to a specific pillow after waking from a bad dream. Though it was so much more than that. 

He knew everything from your favourite brand of tea to the exact shade of lipstick you wore, your favourite vibrator, and the cute little sounds you made every time you used it. He loved watching you grow frustrated whenever your fingers failed to get you over that point of release you so desperately craved. Oh, how he could fix that, and one day, he will.

"How was your date last night?" Simon asked nonchalantly, but there was an undercurrent of something darker beneath the words.

"It was…okay," you said with a shrug, minimising the disappointment that was still in your mind. You had expected more, but actually, the evening just let you down.

Simon nodded, his face unreadable as he listened. "Just alright? Well that's a shame. You deserve better than just 'alright.'”

Of course, Simon had already known just how your date had gone; he'd listened to the lousy conversation from a man who was so in love with himself that he couldn't see how great you were. He let it slide and he even ignored the stupid flirting as the evening progressed. 

But what he couldn't handle was the fake moans you were letting out by the end of the night. There he was, ready to imagine it was him making you feel good, and then he heard the first noise you let out, fake and pathetic, almost. After that, he already knew the night was going to end with you so unbelievably unsatisfied that he almost stormed right over to help you out.

Simon made sure your life was comfortable, but he did it so smoothly that you never even questioned it. You were clueless, you knew nothing, and you lived blissfully unaware that it was Simon who was behind all of it. He treated you like a treasure, showered you with luxury and attention, yet kept his true intentions hidden behind a mask of neighbourly politeness.

He was always there, a constant presence, growing more obsessed with each passing day. He loved the sense of power he had, knowing all the intimate details in your life, feeling as though you were already his. Because to Simon, you were. You’re his to take care of, his to protect and his to watch over, whether you wanted him to or not. 

And so you continued with your life, oblivious that Simon was never too far away, watching and making sure you were always comfortable and happy, just the way he liked it.

༄ cod m.list

© veritasangel ↣ 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴

[gremlingottoosilly]

Beekeeping age [Dilf!Konig x fem!Reader]

You're ex-boyfriend is an asshole, so you decided to fuck his hot military dad instead. You're going to find out why his first wife ran as fast as she did, very soon - but Konig is still the best dick that ever happened to you.

CW: Daddy kink(obvi), power imbalance, possessive Konig, perverted Konig, age gap(Reader in her early twenties, Konig in his early forties), mentions of cheating(your ex is a douchebag anyway), slightly obsessive Konig, size kink, unprotected sex.

FIRST PART (can be read separately) AO3

— Why your wife left you, again? 

You stuff your face full of…something. He cooked it – gods did he cook it well. It’s meat and vegetables and spices, and it feels like your dad cooking but twice as good. It feels like pure sin because he says you shouldn’t worry about calorie counts or how fat the meat is, or how good everything tastes fried because he needs his special girl to feel good and healthy and fatten up a little bit, and you…gods, you’re down. Bad. 

You wonder if König’s wife left because she couldn’t compete with his cooking. You wonder if his wife left because he was feeding her too good. 

— Why don’t we leave uneasy questions for later, Schatzi? 

He brushes his hand over your hair, taking in the way you look – dressed up in his shirt, skin covered in bites and bruises from his hold. He can’t see it right now but can almost testify to the way your lipstick was all over his collar – good thing he wasn't wearing his uniform shirt, wouldn’t want to make dorks from Kobra jealous. 

He brings you another plate, he fills your glass – you never knew beer could taste this good, but he whispered something about having his own little homemade brewery for wine and beer somewhere in the mountains, in his Summer house. This man has a hug apartment in Vienna and a Summer house – you think you heard him having enough land to go hunting and to keep bees, and you might have cum a little bit just here and there. 

— I would like to know the story, actually. To not repeat her mistakes, you know. 

— You won’t, Liebling. I can already picture you with a ring on your pretty finger. 

— Not so fast. Maybe I don’t believe in marriage. 

— You’re too young to stop believing in it. 

— Way to talk when you’re the divorced one, sir. 

— Shut it, Schatzen. I can still take care of a good girl like you, ja? König leans in to kiss you, his lips brushing over your mouth – it’s wet and swollen, he bite you quite a few times already, and you feel dizzy just from the way his tongue lingers just a second before going in, taking your arousal even more. His hand gently brushes some hair from your face and you giggle from the sensation of his rough fingers on the softness of your skin. It never failed to mesmerize you, just how seasoned and old the colonel might be – and his hands would still tremble as if he is handling the finest porcelain doll in his hands. He has the expression of an anxious, devoted follower – you are not sure how his wife could left him. If he was looking at you like this every day, even as you go through with pregnancy and a piece of shit kid like Paul, you would die before leaving him. 

— Could you two please stop fucking each other? 

— I thought you wanted to move to dorms.

— This is my house too!

— Not on the documents, it’s not. — You can’t just throw me away, dad! — Your new stepmom needs her space. 

König grasps your shoulder as you try to stop them from arguing again – it’s embarrassing enough that you’re fucking your ex’s dad. Colonel makes it a whole fucking show, parading you around as his controversially young girlfriend, making sure that his son will hear your moans and whimpers as you get fucked at every surface of this apartment. You were wondering if you could ask him to move to the Summer house – even with your college and all. You can take a gap year and write a journalist investigation about lonely veterans and their mastery at brewing alcohol. You can take a gap year and try your best in the new trophy wife gig. König’s hand is firm on your shoulder – you know better than to try and argue with him, the silent recognition of authority loud in your head. You sigh, trying your best to just stop yourself from acting too damn weird. It’s their male thing, and you’re just an intruder in a big T-shirt and old leggings. König said it wasn’t his wifey’s – that he burned all of her stuff when she left. Somehow, you find peace in that statement. 

— How could you even…Jesus fucking Christ, this is disgusting. She is my age! — And the most beautiful girl in the world. I can see why you liked her. — She is my girlfriend! — Schatzi came to me in distress and begged me to take her. I think we both knew you weren’t…the best option. You feel more embarrassed with each second of their conversation. You don’t want to listen, you don’t want to take in their words, you feel like a trophy being discarded between two different winners. You feel like a prized mare on a farm – and they won’t even look at you. Too distracted by the sound of their voices, you eat your dinner in somewhat somber peace because you need to eat, after all, and you really like what König cooks. You like what König does most of the time. All of the time. 

Paul storms off the room after a few minutes of bickering. You feel guilty for not stopping him because he was still kinda your boyfriend. You ex-boyfriend. Your asshole incel-ish ex-boyfriend whose assholless literally made you go and sleep with his dilfy dad, and…god, you feel like a whore. Good. Paul was calling you a whore a lot of the time, you may as well take the new name and plaster it in your new badge. 

König’s hand lingers on your back, caressing it gently. You whimper because you feel bad and you’re still in college, and Paul’s disgusted reaction reminds you that fucking a guy in his forties isn’t the best business decision. Even if the said guy is a retired colonel with shitload of money, even if he still goes to work sometimes, just because he wants to feel cool and shoot guns at bad guys, even if this guy buys you cool gifts and he promised to renovate your car or buy you a new one, and he makes plans and takes you to places that don’t make you feel like begging for attention. 

If anything, you feel like he is drowning you with attention. 

His hand lets go of your shoulder – he was holding you so tight the whole conversation, you can sense the bruises forming on your skin. You lick your lips, and he moves to kiss you again. You feel like drowning, you feel like this is all just a dream – and you’re also drunk because gods, König knows how to make a good glass of…something. 

— You shouldn’t act like this. He is your son. 

He laughs dismissingly. He dismisses a lot of things you said – you think it’s the age difference. You think he is just being traditional, and you don’t want to be too nagging. You don’t want to end up like his wife and wake up from the dear you’ve been seeing. 

König’s lips are soft, and you can look past his hands, taking you too possessively – you can close your eyes, and you can just listen to his accent, smiling as his tongue worms its way into your mouth. He is good, you think – at this whole kissing thing. At this whole “Hi there, I’m a retired old dog and I am fucking the girlfriend of my only son. I’m divorced btw” .

He has experience – you know it when he tucks your lip between his teeth, when he massages your shoulders as you spread your legs already, so wet for him, it’s almost embarrassing. You never slept much with Paul – his poor excuse of a son – it was always never enough lube, it was always never enough attention, he always needed you to shave or to leave your hair to grow a little bit, it was either your perfume being too sweet or you no wearing anything at all. You thought he would have much more fun masturbating to his anime chicks and poor gaming sessions with his friends. 

But König isn’t like this – every time he drops on his knees to eat you out like a man starving, you feel utter and complete devotion. In his tongue, in his mouth, in his teeth as he sucks little marks into your thighs, making sure you will remember it tomorrow when he will ask you to stay for breakfast and then ride you to whatever you need to come next. Last time he promised to drive you to the library, he took a few turns and took you to some restaurant instead. You gushed about not having proper attire, he was still in his half-uniform and rocking dark cargo pants, and he was apologizing every time his fingers hit that special spot in your cunt as he fingered you during the second course of meals. He said that he was so, sorry about not fucking you properly, about having to resort to public displays like this – and you were too high on loving him to care. You still are. — I don’t think we should be…

— He left. Won’t bother us anymore. 

— I’m not in the mood right now. 

— You’re always in the mood, Schatzen. Enough to drive me crazy. — You’re a pervert. Like Paul. 

— He takes on after his father, ja?

It would alarm you how much contempt he had for his own child right now. Then, again, you were the one who dumped his son for the powerhouse of a dad. Maybe it was your daddy issues, maybe it was your dumb reasoning and the summer break that you didn’t want to spend with your family. Good thing you’re spending it with the other. 

König’s face is buried between your legs, his teeth tugging on the soft fabric, forcing your leggings down. God, it feels good – he is so high on wanting you, can’t even wait to take off your clothes properly. You never had a man wanting you so badly before – it’s addicting, it’s crushing, it makes you feel like a goddess among men. Makes you feel wanted, a thing that your ex never did. 

You forget about guilt when he kisses your lower tummy, when his lips trace down to your cunt, taking sharp licks through your panties. You wore them this morning, something from a new lacy set he bought – one of the only ones that weren’t torn off from your body the moment you took them on. He always wanted you to make these little fashion shows for him, making good use of his money – you weren’t a sugar baby, not on paper, you still clutched to the last traces of your dignity, but he did buy you a lot of gifts. 

— S’ pretty for me, Liebling. The prettiest girl in the world.

— I assume after…af..ter your wife. 

You giggle when he frowns, his rugged face filled with concern. He doesn’t like jokes about his marriage – you don’t want to ask him about it because it would mean waking up from a dream you want to experience over and over again, but you heard what Paul was talking about. What his mom told him about. you heard enough to know that kissing a man like König is a safety hazard and a liability that you can’t afford, but it’s warm, and he is rich, and you don’t want to go back to your part-time job this season. You want to be dumb and you want to be young – right now, you’re doing both. — Don’t be so dumb, Schatzi. Although it suits you. 

— I’m not dumb! 

— Nein, you’re not. Just silly. 

— You just call me a different type of dumb. 

— I like it when you’re dumb. Makes you cuter. 

König is awkward and funny, and he buys you things that you could never afford. He is mysterious and kind – to you, not his enemies – and he uses German words randomly in his phrases because he knows the accent, and the pronunciation drives you crazy. You never thought of thinking of yourself as a dilf hunter but, hell, here you are. With his dark ginger stubble – and grey streaks that make you go wild every time you look at him – between your thighs. It’s tickling, and it’s a bit irritating, and he will rub some calming lotion in your skin after this, making sure to cover every inch of your skin with some expensive cream that he knows jackshit about, but you wanted it, and so he went out and bought it. Gosh, you felt dumb even asking him for this. 

He traces his kisses along your thighs, tongue lingers to press against your wet, swollen folds. Flirting in front of Paul made you embarrassingly hot, solidifying you as a shitty, bad, horny person who needs fat cock stuffed in your leaking pussy. You lick your lips, and you tremble when he pushes his tongue inside. He is starving, pushy with all of his needs – makes you almost beg for it, like a pet he took from the street. 

— I want to take you to the Summer house next week. 

You open your eyes, shocked. It’s nothing, really, you shouldn’t be this surprised about him wanting to show off his other properties. You want to check out his wine cellar and how sturdy the furniture is. You want to see if he had deers running around the house. If he had any pictures of his family – and if you could ever hope to compete with his ex-wife. It’s a petty competition, but you don’t have much to do and to think about. It’s obvious the love here won’t last until the end of the break, and you want to get as much from it as possible. Maybe even some hot bikini picks at his pool. He has to have one. — What if I have plans, sir? 

It’s innocent and you play the role well. You think some of your friends wanted to hang out or make a study group for the upcoming semester. You are a good girl at heart, with nice grades and a perfectly played-out future, and not as many working opportunities as you may like, but you could manage with something. Writing a killer essay about your life with a smoke show during Summer would be easy with someone like him. 

He laughs, his hand lightly smacks your butt. You bite your lip and whimper, not accustomed to pain feeling this good. 

— You will change them, little one. For the whole Summer. 

— I wanted to study. 

You moan when he lightly presses his tongue on your swollen clit, kissing and licking it. Slick runs down your legs, and he collects it with his mouth. You whimper again, tears prickling at the edge of your eyes – the sensation is sudden and overwhelming, makes you get your hands in his hair and slightly tug. He groans, pleasure from having you so active, so participating is overwhelming. He loves you, loves you, loves you, adores you. God, you’re beautiful. And so, so restrained – just his special good girl. Only for him. — You can study at our house. 

— You mean you and your ex’s house. 

He smacks you again for the foul language – although you know you didn’t even curse, he is still punishing you. In the lightest way possible, of course, you know you won’t handle anything too harsh – still, you feel nice and warm when he isn’t just eating you out, but also smacks you for speaking in such unpretty words again. 

You don’t even register the way he called the house yours too. All too dumb for this, again. 

— I mean our house, Schatzen. Just you and your daddy, ja? You worry too much about studying. 

— I want a nice job. Without…distractions. 

He slips one finger in your warm, tight hole – even just one digit is enough to make you shiver, clenching it like a sloppy whore. He is big in every way – just two of his fingers are bigger than a normal cock, and no, you didn’t want to compare a son with his father, but even Paul’s cock, as big as it was, was still way thinner than his father’s. 

— Why you need a job? 

— Not everyone are retired military. I need money. 

— You have me. 

— I d…don’t want to be a sugar baby. Sir. 

— I have no problems with being your daddy, Schatzen.

König is build like a powerhouse – when he slips just the tip into you, ignoring all previous preparation because, by god, you both need to feel connected, he is dragging you on top of the table, tossing aside the dirty dishes with remains of his perfectly cooked dinner…and you feel like home. Almost. 

You imagine waking up with his cock every morning, and with the nice cup of coffee only he can make. You imagine him gushing about rebuilding the house and working on his tight and neat desk job at the mercenary company – something about instructing, dumb recruits, only the most elite missions as an operator in retirement, creating strategies and tactics for the warfare – and thinking that, wow, your husband is really cool. You shouldn’t be thinking this because this is just a summer fling. Your relationships with Paul weren’t too serious either, you just didn’t want to be alone. 

König gently caresses your fingers, whispering something about numbers – you think you could recognize the word for a ring a bit later when he was making a call to some friend. In German, of course, you don’t quite understand it, but you worm your warm on his lap like a spoiled cat, purring on his crotch like a good fucking girl. But it was a while later. 

Now, you’re gasping and panting, his cock spreading you open and stuffing you like the poor bird he was cooking for dinner. You know you won’t be able to walk after a short while – would probably have to spend the day at his house, with him cooing and gushing about your sore body while he is quietly proud of himself. If you’re lucky, you could convince him to let you go in the evening. If you’re not, he will ask you to stay the night, and maybe even a bit more, and then he will just get the bag with your stuff from your room in the dorm by himself, and then… — What do you think about getting married in August?

Maybe, you do know why his wife left him. 

[moonstruckme]

poly!marauders x reader helping her move into their shared flat! maybe a little angst cuz she doesn’t wanna impose but also fluffy

Thanks for requesting!

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

“Angel, we’ve got it,” James says again, warding you off with a playfully stern look when you get too close to your own dresser. Sirius, clutching the other end for dear life, looks less confident. “Go start putting things the way you like them, we’ll handle the rest of the big stuff.” 

You give Sirius a guilty look as you do what you’re told, going into the kitchen where Remus is opening your taped-up boxes with a butter knife. 

“Best to stay out of their way,” he advises you. “Jamie will fully let go of that dresser before he lets you near it, and we’ve got a busy enough day ahead of us without taking Sirius to A&E.” 

You grin. “Too true.”

Remus makes a funny cooing sound as he pulls your heart-shaped measuring cups out of a box. “Oh, these are precious.” His bottom lip curls softly. “Is it odd that this feels sort of like opening gifts? Do you have a zester? I’ve been pining after a zester for months.” 

“I do,” you say, somewhat giddy at the prospect of having your things amongst theirs. “It’s in the other box, though.” 

“Fuck, it’s like Christmas.” Remus tears into that box, leaving you to the first. 

It helps that you already have a sense of where things go in the boys’ flat, having stayed here many nights over several months before they’d asked you to move in. You grab the next thing out of your box and reach for the cabinet behind Remus, minding his head as you open it, and look for an empty space on the top shelf. 

“Oh.” The word drops limply from your lips.

“Hm?” 

“You already have a blender.” 

“Yeah, Jamie’d never get by without one,” says Remus with a fond eye roll. “He all but lives on those protein smoothies.” 

“Right. Yeah, I forgot.” 

“You can put yours in there next to it, love.” He looks at you over his shoulder, a slight bemusement in his expression at your dispirited tone. “He leaves that thing dirty in the sink all the time, it’ll be nice to have a backup.” 

“Okay.” You slot yours in beside it, but your eyes fall to the neat stacks of plates and bowls on the shelf below them. Somewhere in the bottom of one of these boxes, you have your own plates and bowls, mismatched and collected from different stores over time. These ones are uniform, a matched set. “Do you think my dishes will go okay in here?” 

“What do you mean?” Remus turns around, following your gaze to the cabinet. “We’ve got plenty of room.” 

“I know, but…” But with your dishes added onto theirs, they’ll be stacked nearly to the top of the shelf. More than anyone needs. “You all picked yours out together, and mine don’t match. I don’t want to add things you don’t like.” 

“You won’t be.” Seeming to sense you need it, he wraps his arms around your shoulders, standing with your back to his front. “Darling, we picked out these dishes because when we moved in here, all three of us had only been using paper plates. It wasn’t a big decision, we just needed to feel like adults.” You can hear his smile close to your ear. “Don’t worry about matching, alright?” 

“Alright,” you say, sinking into his hold, but your mind is already cataloging every way you could be intruding. 

Your glasses won’t go with theirs either, and neither will your pots and pans. The cabinets will be full to bursting. By the window, their little kitchen table has three chairs. The couch in the living room is only big enough to fit three, the armchair they’d bought to accommodate you when you started coming over regularly sitting off to the side. Separate. 

“Hey,” says James, popping into the kitchen. You’re partway through unloading your kitchen things, your guilt mounting with every overstocked shelf. “Do you want to come tell us where you’d like your dresser? We’re having some trouble, it’s a bit of a tight fit.” 

“Yeah,” you say weakly, following him down the hall. Remus, the unofficial master of logistics, comes behind you. 

In the bedroom, Sirius is trying to jam your dresser in between a nightstand and the wall, shoving it with his shoulder and threatening to take off the paint in the process. 

“Stop!” you and Remus say in unison, him rushing forward to grab Sirius while you hang back, open-mouthed. 

“You’re scuffing the wall,” Remus tells Sirius, not unkindly. “Don’t try to make it fit if it doesn’t, love.” 

The words ring around in your head, an omen. 

“I don’t need it,” you say. All three boys turn to look at you, various degrees of befuddled. “It doesn’t fit, it’s fine. I can get rid of it.” 

“It’ll fit,” says Sirius. “We’ve hardly tried yet.” 

“Angel, you love that dresser.” James looks like a confused puppy, clearly having caught onto the fact that something’s wrong but unsure what it is.

You shrug, trying to look nonchalant. You do love it, truthfully. It’s been with you since you moved into your first place, collecting tiny scratches and absorbing the coalescent scent of the candles you keep in the top drawer. It’s been the hallmark of every home that’s ever been your own, but this place isn’t just yours. Your boyfriends are already doing a lot by sharing their space with you, and you don’t want to be more trouble than you’re worth. 

“It doesn’t fit,” you say simply. “It’s okay.” 

“We can put it right there,” Remus says. The three of you turn, and there is a wall by the door, entirely blank. You’d completely forgotten about it. 

“Perfect. Genius, Rem.” James beams at Remus, his expression gentling when he looks back at you. “Okay, lovely?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” You smile weakly. Sirius makes a tsking sound, regarding you through narrowed eyes. 

“You’re being weird. Spill.” 

You shrug again, arms wrapping around your middle of their own volition. “I just didn’t think about how much stuff I have until now,” you admit. “You guys already have everything perfect in here, I don’t just want to…cram my stuff in when it’s already the way you like it. I don’t know, it…” You study the floorboards, unable to look at any of them. “It feels like I’m butting in a bit.” 

For a thick, dreadful moment, the boys are silent. 

“We want you to have your things here,” Remus says softly,  “because we want you here, dove.” 

“Alright, let’s not act as though that was ever in question.” Sirius shoots you a smile, dimming a bit when you look at him sheepishly. “Sweetheart, obviously we want you here. Why would we have asked you to move in if we didn’t?”

You nibble the inside of your cheek. “It’s okay if you’ve changed your minds. You guys work together so well already.” 

“We work together with you even better.” James comes up behind you, wrapping you up in a hug like he’s unable to help himself. He sets his lips on your shoulder, words buzzing against your skin. “It wouldn’t feel right if you were here and none of your stuff was. There’s plenty of room, but if in some places there’s not then we’ll make room. We want you here, okay?” 

You nod, trying to make yourself believe it. 

“Let’s have a break,” Remus suggests. “There’s lemonade in the fridge.” 

“Yes please.” Sirius is quickly onboard. “I can feel the soreness coming on already; my muscles have never been so terribly abused. I’m going to need a massage tonight, definitely.” 

“I’ll do it,” you offer. James keeps you tucked under his arm as you all start back down the hall. “Seems like the least I can do.” 

“In that case, I think my thighs are taking the brunt of it. Better pay the most attention to those, sweetness.” 

“These are privileges which you shall have from this night onward,” says James, mashing a kiss into your hair. “Welcome home, angel.” 

[catgirlwizard]

.

[zephyrchama]

(A bit of OM! Mammon comforting MC. TW: Lots of crying? Depressive episode? No specific cause is mentioned, the reader is free to use their own scenario, but anyone who is uncomfortable with scenes of crying and being really upset might not like this one.)

The loud rustling of a plastic bag falling to the floor, its contents shifting noisily as they dropped, drew your attention. Mammon stood there dumbfounded.

He knew you were probably upset that he ate your ramen. He expected some harsh words, maybe a light berating and a slap on the wrist. That’s why he preemptively went and bought replacements. The spicy kind that he liked, some fancy new steak flavor that seemed cool, and a bunch of the tried and true classics. That way you’d have nothing to complain about.

He expected a cold shoulder. Playful teasing. A punishment, like having to eat one bowl with ten ultra spicy flavor packets. He never expected to find you curled up in tears. Eyes red and swollen. Your face looked pale with visible streaks trailing from your eyes and nose. Your expression remained a quivering frown when you weakly looked up, and it didn’t change as you buried it back into your knees.

How long had you been at this? he wondered. Was all this over a cheap pack of noodles?

Deep down somewhere, Mammon knew this wasn’t about the ramen. But he didn’t know what this was about, and it scared him.

You needed a tissue, or a glass of water, or a big hug. Mammon had no idea which to get first. He hadn’t even shrugged off his outdoor jacket yet. It slid down his shoulder as he scampered towards the kitchen for a glass, then stopped. He couldn’t leave you alone like this. His hands rooted around in his pockets which held only receipts and some loose change. No tissues or anything suitable for nose-blowing.

Up close, your shoulders shook. Your back heaved with every fresh sob. It tore his heart to little pieces. Your sleeves and the front of your top were soaking wet, no doubt from attempts to curb the crying. Mammon had a difficult time approaching you, unsure what to do or if he could even take being rejected when you obviously needed him.

Overthinking things was not his strong suit. Mammon didn't like the feeling of being stuck, of not having a plan. He was the kind of man with a goal in mind who always gets results. The goal right now was to see you smile, to eat some ramen and joke around. Most importantly, it was to get your mind off of whatever was currently happening. He wasn't going to change that by standing around like a fool.

"Hey." This wasn't his usual boisterous voice. It was a hushed tone filled with concern. You hardly acknowledged him, you had enough going on inside your head already and anything outside just felt like an afterthought. Mammon lowered himself next to you and fidgeted awkwardly with his jacket zipper. "What can I do?"

You weren't in a state to respond, that much was clear. Your answer was to shudder and hug your legs tight against your face.

Your knees were as soaked as your top. Seeing that was Mammon's last straw. He didn't want to be rough, but he was a man of action. He tried to coil an arm around your shaking shoulders, resolution only growing stronger when it caused you to cry harder.

"Knock that off, c'mere." Tough words never sounded gentler. You had no energy to move, but luckily, Mammon had plenty to spare as he brought you in to lean against his side and draped the edge of his jacket over you. You blindly cried against the first surface you could press your face against - his shirt. It smelled of deodorant.

"Don't forget, you're my responsibility, aight? When stuff like this happens, ya gotta come straight to me."

The silence wasn't as awful with Mammon around. It didn't feel suffocating. It took time, but the heartache began to fade. Your sobs became more infrequent. Mammon patiently waited the entire time, occasionally tugging you closer. Occasionally murmuring things like, "you're gonna have to use me as a tissue. I don't have any." Or, "just say the word, I'm gonna beat that sadness into a pulp. Gonna show it I'm the boss around here."

He may not be most eloquent of speakers, but he's got the right spirit.

Even after calming down, Mammon didn't budge and you remained locked against his side. Perhaps you still didn't have the strength to move yet, but you could manage to whisper out a grateful "thanks." A word that finally eased the pain tugging at Mammon's conscience.

He ruffled your hair and leaned down, placing his head against the top of yours. "I always tell ya, I'm the best. Call for me if this happens, ok?"

[portgasdwrld]

📂 Op men + them being jealous

part 1

Featuring: Monster trio (Luffy, Sanji, Zoro)

Warning: fluffy fluff, ended up being the monster trio being subtly jealous lol Ik I was going to make it suggestive but I like it better that way, might change it for the others

Note : After 200 weeks, 1500 minutes and 25 years, I’m finally posting this serie after thousands of drafts 👩🏻‍💻 y’all don’t know how many times I wrote and erased stuff 😭

Luffy

The crew just landed on a new island, it was a huge forest, not a person in sight. You weren’t particularly a big fan of walking around in an unknown deserted place, especially in the New World where you never knew on what or who you could fall.

On the other side, Luffy was absolutely fearless and enjoyed the thrill of exploring the unknown and seeing unusual creatures; Sailing was all about that for him. An adventure wasn’t an adventure if he didn’t feel that rush of adrenaline faced to a strange situation. He had insisted you come with the exploring team while you pleaded to stay behind with Robin and Usopp.

But here you were walking glued to Sanji as your boyfriend lead the way somewhere in this lost territory filled with trees and the noises of wild animals. He was screaming in excitement when he came across weird insects or odd looking vegetables. You sighed heavily as the anxiety was still heavily present in your system.

The cook adjusted his pace to match yours sensing your uneasiness about the situation. He knew you only came for Luffy, so he made sure to help you feel more comfortable in his own way.

Luffy ran forward as he noticed a beautiful blue flower tinted with yellow strokes that looked like gentle waves. He took it and searched for you with his eyes.

-This would look so pretty on your hair!

He exclaimed as he walked over to you and Sanji while waving the flower in his tan hand. You smiled as you thought it was adorable, but Luffy’s eyes quickly glared at your arms wrapped around Sanjis. He didn’t say anything and simply fixed the flower behind your ear, complimenting you with loving eyes and his cute grin.

-You look perfect!

He announced as he put his arm around your neck, naturally removing you from Sanji. A giggle left your lips as you melt into his familiar warmth. His eyes looked down at you with so much love and care, he wouldn’t want nothing to happen to you. Sanji laughed as he noticed Luffy successful attempt to get you away from him.

Your boyfriend closed the distance between his face and yours. With slightly furrowed eyebrows and serious eyes, he wondered if you were fine.

-Yeah, I just feel uneasy about walking here if I’m being truly honest. I’m not a fearless warrior like you, let’s say~

You explained calmly as you stared back into his big brown eyes. His expression softened up and he moved his arm to be able to grab your hand instead.

-Alright, then stay close to me only. I’m the strongest, so I will protect you no matter what! I promise!

-You’re sweet, thank you Luffy.

He gave a squeeze to your hand as you two followed the group through the millions of trees. Luffy smiled to himself, knowing you were relying on him to protect you now~

Zoro

It was all going well, a great night where Zoro was simply enjoying his time drinking with the others. It was all going great until he noticed a man that kept staring at you. You didn’t notice as you were busy goofing around with Usopp, enjoying a fun conversation.

Zoro felt this feeling of frustration grow in him the more he glared at the person shamelessly eyeing you like he clearly couldn’t see you were taken. That’s when it snapped for him: maybe they couldn’t tell? And that angered him even more. How can this person stare at you like a candy while he was sitting just next to you.

The swordsman pulled you closer to him, making sure his arm around your waist is noticeable. He smirked relieved when he saw the man look away with an annoyed huff. He took a sip from his beer as his smile got bigger. Zoro took that opportunity to slip a quick peck on your jawline.

You stared at him weirdly, wondering what have gotten into him.

-Wassup with you?

-I cant kiss you or what?

-Yeah, but you don’t usually do that.

-You always complain

He whined as he rolled his eye, but still he was glad that no one was hungrily looking your way anymore. You were his and he would make the possible to make it known. Even if it needed him to be outside of his comfort zone, he was going to make sure you were safe from lingering unwanted eyes (maybe to also make himself feel better)

You gave him a funny look, confused about his unusual bright expression. You pecked his lips not giving too much thoughts about it, before going back to your conversation with Usopp. You leant your body on your boyfriends that surprisingly responded to it by holding your waist tighter and rubbing his thumb against your tummy.

-You’re really acting strange, but I ain’t complaining

You said under your breath so only he could hear. He chuckled as he drank some more. You looked over your shoulder with a smile.

-Great, because you’re not leaving my side tonight.

Sanji

Hand in hand, you two walked through the village in the middle of all the varieties of shops surrounding y’all. You wanted to buy a necklace so you were hopeful to find something of your taste and Sanji was more than willing to help you.

He had already made his grocery shopping with you yesterday and organized everything late in the evening, so it was his rest day. He wanted to enjoy the sunny weather with his awesome lover on this pretty day.

It all started when the seller was proposing you multiple options at the table and he invited you to come in the store for something more refined for a beautiful person like you. Sanji didn't care, because of course you are beautiful, so it was only natural that other people would notice. He nodded excited to see what other options the man had that could fit you even better.

Sanji cocked an eyebrow when the seller pushed your hair behind your shoulders and got close to your face as he commented about you smelling good. You laughed as you thanked him, mentioning how your boyfriend bought the scent for you as you pointed at the cook. He put a gorgeous silver piece around your neck and handed you a mirror.

-What do we think?

He asked with a content expression, you stared at the mirror with a floating smile as you nodded, approving the jewelry.

-It's so gorgeous! Oh! What about this one?

You asked as your eyes flew to a more elegant necklace. You walked away from Sanji quickly as you engaged in a great conversation with the seller about the jewelries and some specific information, that your lover was honestly unfamiliar with. Sanji felt like you kind of forgot about him and started to wander around the store on his own as he kept an eye on you, still.

"...should I get into jewelries.."

It was those type of thoughts that occupied his mind as he sulked in his corner. Though, Sanji is a gentleman and he loved more than anything to see you happy and passionate, so he put his jealousy aside to let you enjoy your moment. So, he put his ego aside and started to think about which one would look hotter on you-

-Chérie, have you find something you liked?

He asked you as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into him. You hummed as you looked at the other man and you both nodded, agreeing on something the cook had no clue about.

-I'm going to take this one, what do you think babe?

Sanji kissed your cheeks and whispered in your ears with a smirk.

-They all look beautiful to me, because you are stunning. I don't think I will be of a great help, my love.

You smiled to yourself, because Sanji likes whatever you wear or not. On his end, he just wanted to leave already and pamper you with kisses & hickeys all over your neck to celebrate your new necklace and maybe to let people know you were his..

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt. 6

Word Count: 15.k...(oops)

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, dubcon, vaginal sex, creampie, breeding, comfort sex, cunnilingus, overstimulation if you squint, mentions of murder, nightmares, manipulation, pet names like, kitten, sweetie, honey, tw for panic attacks, rape flashbacks, xavier appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh, @eliasxchocolate, @nozomiaj, @xmiisuki, @sylus-kitten, @its-regretti , @m0onlustre , @ve1vet-cake, @letgobro, @starkeysslvt, @yarafic, @prince-nikko, @leiaglmela @connorsui, @iluvmewwwww75, @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer, @mysssticc, @babygirl-panda19, @someone-somewheres-stuff, @zaynesjasmine1, @honnylemontea, @altariasu, @the-slytherin-poet, @sorryimakira, @pearlymel, @emidpsandia , @angel-jupiter, @hwangintakswifey,

AN: Hi everyone! This is also on A03! Please someone stop me, how the hell did I manage to squeeze in like 4k extra words than last time??? Anyways, enjoy the meal, I definitely have missed writing smut with yan!sylus and reader :3. Also a gentle reminder that reader has no specific skin tone! I just use images that I think represent the chapter well, you can imagine her however you’d like ^^

"I'll make it all disappear," Sylus murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, penetrating the darkest recesses of your fractured psyche. It was as if he possessed the power to reach inside your mind and vaporize the painful memories that clung to you like shackles. "You want to feel so good you won't think about him again?"

Read Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt. 5 Pt.7

The car roars down the empty road, its tires devouring the distance between freedom and your inevitable return to captivity. Luke sits at the wheel, his face completely hidden behind the bird shaped mask. You can’t see his eyes, can’t gauge anything from the way he’s holding himself—just the silent, unyielding presence of the man steering you back to your prison.

You wonder how he sees out of that thing.

Kieran sits beside him, his mask just the same, his fingers tapping a light, almost carefree rhythm on the dashboard as he finishes humming a cheery tune. His face, too, is entirely concealed, leaving you with nothing to hold onto—no eyes to search for clues, no expressions to read.

In the rearview mirror, you sense Kieran shift his head to look at you but can't entirely tell, his hidden gaze offers you nothing. The silence stretches on, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the steady, deliberate breaths of Sylus against your neck, the heat of his body keeping you trapped in more ways than one.

Sylus holds you tight, as if the moment he loosens his grip, you’ll dissolve into the darkness beyond the windows. His large hands are splayed possessively across your thighs, pinning you in place on his lap. Each minute that ticks by in this confined space feels like a countdown to something you can’t define, but the feeling of impending dread settles deep in your bones.

Your mind is a storm, thoughts swirling in an endless, chaotic loop. The gunshot that ended Reese’s life thunders in your head, over and over, refusing to let you go. You can still see it so clearly—the way his body slumped to the floor, lifeless, his eyes wide with the shock of it all.

It feels like it’s eating you alive.

This is your fault.

Yes, Reese was a monster. He’d kidnapped you, lied to you, dragged you into a nightmare you never deserved. But even now, that part of you—the part that still clung to honor, to a sense of right and wrong, the part of an honorable deep space hunter—hated what had happened. You hated yourself for it. He should have been locked away, brought to justice, not gunned down like that.

Your chest tightens. Why didn’t you stop it? You could have, couldn’t you? You didn’t have to let your anger take over, didn’t have to spit those words at him, didn't have to tell him to go to hell. If you hadn’t done that, Sylus wouldn’t have killed him right? The weight of it presses down on you, like you’re suffocating under the guilt.

You can feel it in your bones—the sharp sting of your failure, the way you let your emotions run wild. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You weren’t supposed to be the reason a person died, no matter how twisted or evil they were. You were supposed to be better than that.

But you weren’t.

And now Reese’s blood is on your hands.

The guilt coils tighter around your chest. You can almost taste the bitterness of it on your tongue, a relentless reminder of how you failed. Maybe if you had just kept your mouth shut. Maybe if you had found some way, any way, to de-escalate the situation, he’d still be alive. You wouldn't have to carry the weight of his death.

But you didn’t. And now it’s too late.

This is your fault.

You feel tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you quickly suck in a breath, forcing them back. You can’t let them fall—not here, not now. You can’t let Sylus see the storm raging inside you. If he sees you faltering, sees your weakness, he’ll think he’s won.

You sense his eyes on you, watching, studying, but thankfully, he says nothing. His grip around you tightens slightly, as if he’s aware of the cracks forming in your resolve, but for once, he stays silent, leaving you alone with the war you’re fighting within yourself.

Instead of crying, you shift, turning your head to focus on the window. The dark tint makes it difficult to see clearly, but not impossible. You can just make out the blurred outlines of buildings as they whip past, vague shadows in the distance.

How much longer would this take? How far had you come?

You think back to the agonizing walk that had led you to the convenience store—the endless hours of trudging through unfamiliar streets, hoping for an escape. Time had lost all meaning then, just like it had now.

Lost in your thoughts, you feel your body betraying you, your exhaustion creeping in. You start to drift off against your will, feeling the heaviness pulling at your eyelids as you sink further into Sylus’s lap. You fight it, not wanting to rest your head on his chest, fearing what you might wake up to. But it’s been days since you’ve had proper rest, and the pull of sleep is relentless.

Minutes stretch into eternity, and despite your best efforts, your body begins to give in. You’re teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when suddenly, Sylus’s gruff voice cuts through the silence, startling you awake.

“Luke, tell the chefs to have dinner ready in an hour. Kieran, cancel my meeting with the general.”

Luke and Kieran both nod silently, their masked faces giving nothing away, and just as you’re trying to make sense of the words, the car abruptly comes to a stop.

“Yes, boss!” the twins respond with a clipped tones, as if this exchange is routine.

Everything happens so quickly. The moment the car parks, Luke and Kieran scramble out of their seats with swift, practiced efficiency. The sound of the doors opening and shutting echoes in the quiet night. Sylus shifts beneath you, opening his door, and you awkwardly slide off his lap, trying to maintain some semblance of balance as he exits the vehicle. You watch through strained, weary eyes as he steps out, his figure towering over the open car door. Then, he stretches out his hand toward you.

You hesitate.

The gesture, though outwardly polite, is anything but friendly. It’s not an offer—it’s a command, an unspoken reminder of your captivity. The world seems to close in around you, the air growing thicker, and your heart begins to pound in your chest. Your mind races, but there’s nowhere to run.

“If you’re thinking about driving off,” Sylus says with a low chuckle, leaning down to peer into the car, “Luke’s already got the keys, kitten.”

You can’t help but shoot him a sharp glare. You’d thought about running, yes, but not now—not when escape was utterly impossible. The moment passes quickly, and you open your mouth, wanting to explain yourself, to insist you weren’t planning anything. But the words stick in your throat, useless.

Instead, you shut your mouth, swallowing your frustration, and glare at him in defiance. Wordlessly, you reach out and take his hand. His grip is firm, possessive, as he helps you out of the car. Carefully, you step onto the ground, your heart still racing, knowing you’re walking back into your cage.

You glance around as Sylus pulls you forward, your hand still trapped in his. The sight of the mansion looms ahead, its grand, imposing silhouette becoming clearer with each step. Tall iron gates and bird statues loom in front of you, a place that might have been beautiful if it weren’t for the dread curling deep in your chest.

The mansion is more than just a building; it’s a cage, one that now feels even more suffocating as Sylus forces you to walk beside him, hand in hand like you’re something precious. But you know better. This is control, a quiet but undeniable display of power.

With each step toward the front door, the walls of the world seem to close in tighter, and your heart races faster. The echoes of your own footsteps blend with the eerie silence of the night, the only sound that reminds you how very trapped you are in this place—never truly alone, but never free either.

As you walk toward the towering front doors, your eyes drift upward, almost unconsciously, to Sylus. His appearance has always been striking—red eyes that seem to glow with a mix of malice and amusement, and white hair with subtle gray undertones, catching the faint light of the mansion. His angular features, so sharp and perfectly controlled, show signs of wear now. You can see the tension in his brow, the tiredness in the slight creases around his eyes—things you hadn’t noticed before. It makes you wonder how much stress your escape had caused him. How much had he sacrificed in the time you were gone? Had he been frantic, furious?

As if sensing your gaze, Sylus turns his head slightly, catching you in the act of studying him. A smirk plays across his lips, and his crimson eyes flicker with amusement. "What’s the matter? Falling in love?" His voice is a low drawl, teasing, but there’s something predatory in it—like he’s already enjoying this little game.

Heat rises to your face, a mixture of irritation and something else you refuse to name. You look away quickly, forcing yourself to focus on anything but him. His taunts are the last thing you want to entertain, especially when your mind is still spinning with the weight of what lies ahead. Still, the words linger, taunting you as much as his smirk did.

Finally, the massive front doors loom before you, framed by the same wrought iron and heavy stone that always made the mansion feel more like a fortress. Sylus stops, standing tall beside you, his hand still gripping yours as if to remind you that escape, or even defiance, is out of the question.

He gestures toward a small panel embedded into the wall near the door. "Lean down," he orders, the edge of his voice soft yet commanding, "in front of the scanner."

Confused, you glance between him and the scanner, unsure of what he’s planning. You hesitate, but his unblinking red gaze locks onto you, expectant, leaving you little choice. Slowly, you lean forward, lowering yourself until your eyes are aligned with the scanner. A soft beep fills the air, followed by a click as the door unlocks.

You straighten, startled, staring at the door in disbelief. "Wait," you stammer, turning to Sylus. "Aren’t you trying to prevent me from escaping?"

A deep, rumbling laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head, the white strands of his hair shifting slightly as he leans in closer, his red eyes flashing with amusement. "Your eyes," he says with a grin, "can only get you into this place." He leans in further, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Not out."

His words settle heavily in your chest, and a knot of dread tightens in your stomach. Your eyes—the very thing that could open doors here—were also the key to locking you in. Any hope you might have had, any fleeting thought of escape, is crushed in that moment. The world seems to warp, the walls of the mansion now looming around you like a trap. A cage disguised as opulence.

Why had he even bothered with something like that? The thought gnaws at you as you stand at the threshold of the mansion. Did he seriously think you would ever want to come back inside? The idea seems absurd. You were his captive, forced into this nightmare. There was no version of this where you willingly returned.

But as you glance back at him, his smirk still lingering on his face, you wonder if that’s exactly what he wants. He’s a man who thrives on control, on bending people to his will, and the thought that he might relish the idea of making you come back to this place, on your own terms, sends a shiver down your spine. Would he leave you out there in that desolate city, waiting, desperate, only to watch you break down and crawl back inside? The idea feels like a twisted game only he could design—where escape was impossible not just because of physical barriers, but because he'd burrowed deep into your mind.

You shake your head, trying to push the thought away, but the question lingers, settling like a weight in your chest. Did he think that, over time, you’d surrender? That this grand mansion, this cage, would eventually become a place you’d walk into willingly?

Sylus catches your hesitation, his red eyes glinting in the low light. “Strange, isn’t it?” he muses, his voice smooth and casual, as if he could read the questions racing through your mind. “A key that only lets you in. But maybe someday…you'll want to use it.”

His words hang in the air, and you can feel your pulse quicken, anger mixing with the uncertainty swirling inside you. He can’t seriously believe that, can he? That one day you’d walk back into this place of your own accord?

The very thought of it makes your stomach turn. You can’t imagine a future where you wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to stay away from here. Yet, there’s an unsettling confidence in the way he says it, a certainty that leaves you with more questions than answers.

“As if I would ever, prick,” you spat, your voice sharp and defiant.

Sylus laughs, his amusement rolling off him in deep waves, rich and unhurried. His red eyes gleam, locking onto yours with a look that holds something deeper than mere satisfaction. There’s affection there—twisted, yes, but genuine.

“Ah, there she is,” he murmurs, his grin widening. “I was starting to wonder if the N109 Zone had fully broken you.” His grip tightens, not painfully, but firm and reassuring, as he leads you into the grand mansion. To him, this was always meant to be your home, even if you couldn't see it yet.

You grimace at his words, irritation bubbling up inside you, making your heart race. This was still a game to him—a challenge, but not one born of cruelty. No, he found your defiance amusing, like a kitten batting at the hand that feeds it. He loved it, even.

You silently curse him under your breath as he leads you deeper into the grand house, your feet moving mechanically while your mind fights to keep up. The familiar sights come back into view, flooding your senses like a slow wave of nausea. The glossy black tile beneath your feet, the dark, lavish décor that loomed from every corner—it was all the same, just as cold and suffocating as you remembered.

Your eyes flick to the kitchen entryway, a place that had once offered a glimmer of hope, a chance to escape. You remember fleeing into it, heart racing, desperate to get away from all of this, only to be dragged back into Sylus’s grip. The memory gnaws at you, bringing a fresh wave of bitterness.

It makes you sick.

Every inch of this place, every dark aesthetic, seemed designed to remind you of your captivity. This was a cage, no matter how opulent or luxurious it appeared on the surface. And the worst part was the weight of his hand around yours—the possessiveness of his grip, the unspoken reminder that escape, no matter how hard you tried, was out of reach right now.

Sylus gently guides you toward the stairs, his grip still firm, giving you no room to hesitate. You feel your heart pounding in your chest as your feet start moving up the dark, winding staircase. Every step feels heavier than the last, your pulse thrumming in your ears as memories flood back—memories of when you had fled, heart racing, legs burning, desperate to escape this place. You’d made it down these very stairs once before, only to have freedom ripped away from you.

Now, you were being forced back up, step by agonizing step, into the room you had fought so hard to leave behind.

With every step upward, your resolve starts to crumble. The closer you get to that door, the more you feel the weight of your captivity settling in again, suffocating you. The darkened hallways, the oppressive silence—it all presses down on you, reminding you that no matter how much you fight, this is where you’ll always end up. Trapped.

You hesitate when you finally reach the door to the bedroom. The sight of it makes your stomach twist, your feet glued to the floor as a wave of dread washes over you. Everything in your body screams not to go inside, not to let yourself be locked in that room again. To run, to fight.

But Sylus is right behind you, close enough that you can feel his presence, his breath warm and steady, almost unnervingly calm. His grip on your hand softens, his thumb tracing a slow circle against your skin, as if to soothe your frayed nerves. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice gentle but laced with that unsettling authority. “Go on, sweetie.”

The way he says it is almost tender, but it only deepens the knot of anxiety in your chest. You can’t tell if it’s real kindness or just another layer of control. That soft, coaxing tone… it unnerves you more than his laughter, more than his taunts.

Despite every fiber of your being wanting to resist, you find yourself moving, stepping forward under the weight of his quiet insistence. You cross the threshold into the room, your body betraying you even as your mind screams to stop. The door clicks shut behind you with an almost imperceptible finality, and just like that, the familiar four dark walls of your prison close in around you once more.

You fight back the tears burning at the edges of your eyes as you step further into the room. The familiar surroundings feel like a punch to the gut—the large, imposing bed where Sylus had forced himself on you many many times, leaving behind scars you hadn’t realized had cut so deep. The leather couch in the center of the room, cold and impersonal, where you’d sat, waiting for the next wave of control to sweep over your life.

It’s too much.

For a moment, your knees threaten to buckle beneath you, the weight of it all pressing down with crushing force. The memories—dark, suffocating—swirl around you, making it hard to breathe. You almost crumble right there, unable to withstand the flood of emotions, of trauma that suddenly feels too close to the surface.

But before you can collapse, Sylus is there, his hand wrapping around your arm, guiding you away from the room and into the bathroom. His touch is firm but oddly gentle, a contrast that makes you even more uneasy. He’s pulling you toward the tiled space, and your mind races, trying to understand what’s happening as he begins to carefully, methodically, lift up your shirt to undress you.

“No,” you whisper, your voice trembling, barely audible over the sound of your own racing heartbeat. Your body goes stiff, your hands gripping the fabric of your shirt as if holding onto it could somehow protect you. “No,” you repeat, a little louder this time, your voice shaky and uneven. The tremors wrack your body, panic rising in your chest.

Sylus looks at you with something akin to worry, his touch slowing, but not stopping. He doesn’t force you, but his actions continue with a sense of inevitability, as though he believes this is just part of taking care of you, of ensuring you’re where you belong.

"I'm not going to do anything to you now, you just need a shower, sweetie."

But your mind is somewhere else entirely.

Flashes of memory assault you—dim lights, the scent of damp stone, and the overpowering fear of when you were in that basement. The man who had tried to force himself on you, who had pressed you against the bed with a hunger that still made your skin crawl. Your breath hitches as you remember his hands, his twisted smile. The terror, the helplessness—it's all too real, crashing down on you like a tidal wave.

You hadn’t realized just how deeply the trauma had sunk into you. Not until this moment, with Sylus standing in front of you, touching your clothes, his touch too familiar, too close to the horror you’d endured. You had been holding your emotions back but you couldn't now.

You flinch, your body recoiling instinctively as the memories close in around you. Your voice cracks, barely holding back the sob building in your throat. “Please…don’t.”

Sylus’s hands pause, and for the first time that entire day, you see it,—hesitation flickering across his sharp features. His red eyes, usually so calculating and cold, soften just enough for you to notice. His grip loosens, his fingers no longer working to take off your clothes but instead resting lightly on your shoulders, as if afraid of causing more harm.

“Be still,” he says again, his voice quiet and strangely tender. “I’m just trying to help you.”

But his words barely register. The panic has already set in, tightening around your chest like a vice. Your breathing grows shallow, quick—too quick. Your thoughts scatter, your heartbeat hammering so hard it feels like your ribcage might shatter under the pressure. The room spins around you, and suddenly you’re not here anymore. You’re back in the basement, cold stone beneath your feet, that man’s hands on your skin, forcing you against the wall. Forcing you on the bed.

You gasp for air, but each breath comes in ragged, uneven bursts. Your vision blurs, and your knees wobble beneath you. It’s happening all over again. The helplessness, the terror. It’s like your body has been pulled back into that moment, and no matter how much you try to claw your way out, you can’t.

Sylus moves swiftly, pulling you into his arms before you can collapse. His embrace is strong and grounding, his chest solid against your trembling form. “Breathe, sweetie” he whispers, his voice low, soothing, as if trying to coax you back from the edge of your panic. His hand rubs slow circles on your back, the gentle rhythm fighting against the chaos inside you. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

But you can’t. The air won’t come. Your breaths are sharp and shallow, your body on the verge of shutting down as you feel the world slipping away. You struggle, pushing weakly at him, but his arms only tighten around you, holding you firmly in place, anchoring you.

“Shhh, shhh…” His voice drops even lower, soft and almost tender. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

The warmth of his body presses against yours, his presence somehow steadying the storm inside you. You eventually cling to him, not because you want to, but because it’s the only thing that keeps you from spiraling into complete panic. His hand continues to stroke your back in slow, measured motions, and though your heart still pounds in your chest, his touch starts to break through the suffocating fog.

“I’ll turn around, okay?” he says gently, as if sensing the root of your fear. “You can undress yourself. I won’t watch.”

There’s something in his tone—something that feels honest, reassuring, like he’s not just saying the words to control you but because he wants you to feel safe. You weakly nod, barely, but he catches it. He loosens his grip and takes a slow step back, raising his hands in surrender, his red eyes locked onto yours.

“I’ll give you some time. You don’t have to rush.”

With a careful turn, he faces away from you, his broad back filling the room but no longer imposing. His actions aren’t threatening; they’re deliberate, giving you the space he knows you need.

Your breathing slows and you blink back tears, but your body still trembles. You wipe the remaining tears from your eyes with a shaky hand, glancing around the bathroom as the panic begins to ebb. And then you notice it—something is different.

The bathtub is gone.

It had been there before, you remember. A large, ornate tub that had taken up the corner of the bathroom, a symbol of something luxurious in this prison of yours. But now, it’s nowhere to be seen. Your brows knit together in confusion as you stare at the empty space.

“Where’s the tub?” you ask, your voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Sylus doesn’t turn around, but his response is quick and calm, as if he expected the question. “I had it removed,” he says softly, his voice strangely careful, almost cautious. “I didn’t want you to drown yourself again.”

The words hit you like a slap, sharp and unexpected. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat as the weight of what he’s saying sinks in. He thought…no, he knew. He knew how deep the darkness inside you could go, how close you’d come to actually dying. He’d taken precautions—not just to keep you here, but to keep you alive.

You stand there, frozen, staring at the empty space where the bathtub used to be, and the reality sinks in—there’s truly no escape. Not from this place, not from Sylus, and not from the relentless grip of your own mind. He’s stripped you of every option, every avenue, until there’s nothing left but this.

Nothing left but him.

The exhaustion presses down on you, heavier than ever before. With slow, mechanical movements, you step into the shower, your limbs feeling distant, as if they don’t belong to you anymore. The warm water hits your skin, but it does nothing to ease the weight in your chest. You close your eyes, hoping that the steady stream of water can drown out the chaos inside your head—the panic, the hopelessness, the memories.

But they cling to you, stubborn and unyielding.

Images flash behind your closed eyelids—memories of that basement, the cold stone walls pressing in, the terror that gripped you when the man came too close, his hands reaching, his breath sour. You press your hands against the tiled wall, your body shaking as you fight the memories back, but they keep coming, like waves crashing over you, dragging you under.

And then there’s Reese.

You can’t stop seeing it—the moment his body hit the floor, the sound of the fatal gunshot echoing in your mind like a haunting refrain. His face, twisted in shock and pain. Your fault. The words circle in your mind like a dark mantra, mixing with the trauma of that basement. It’s all tangled together, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t make it stop.

"Go to hell, Reese."

The water cascades down your back, but it doesn’t wash away the guilt. It doesn’t drown out the horror. The images of blood and brain matter sliding down concrete walls.

You press your forehead against the cold tile, letting the water soak through your hair as you fight the rising tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. You want to believe that there’s a way out, some form of freedom—maybe not from this mansion, but at least from the grip of your own mind. But right now, standing under the relentless stream of water, you know that freedom is further away than ever.

No matter how much you fight it, you’re trapped. Inside this house. Inside yourself.

And the worst part? Sylus knows it.

You feel the tears begin to well up, hot and uncontainable, spilling over before you even realize you’ve let them go. They mix with the water, disappearing beneath the steady stream of the shower, unseen, unclaimed by anyone but you. For the first time in what feels like forever, no one is watching. Not even Sylus.

You let the sobs come quietly, your body trembling as the tears fall, merging with the warm cascade. It’s a strange relief, knowing that in this moment, he isn’t witnessing your breaking point. Sylus had made it clear—your pain, your misery, your tears, they all belonged to him.

But right now, this moment is yours.

As the tears fall silently, you press your forehead against the cool tile, letting yourself cry in a way you hadn’t allowed before. The sobs are shaky, barely audible over the sound of the water, but they are real, raw, and they are yours alone. The stream washes them away before they have the chance to leave a trace, like they never existed at all.

Even as your heart aches and the trauma still weighs you down, there’s a strange comfort in the tears that go unnoticed. For just these few minutes, you aren’t his broken thing to fix or keep. You’re just a person, trying to survive, trying to breathe.

And even though the water doesn’t drown out all the pain or the memories, it gives you enough space to let the emotions pour out—if only for a little while.

Xavier’s breath came in shallow bursts as he navigated the empty streets of Linkon City, the familiar hum of his hunter’s watch glowing faintly on his wrist. His blue eyes flicked between the road and the holographic screen hovering just above the watch face. The blue light illuminated his face, highlighting the sharp focus in his eyes. The signal from the phone booth was still there, blinking steadily. That was his main lead—the last place you’d been before everything went silent.

His mind replayed the sound of your voice from the call, every word etched into his memory. Kidnapped. You hadn’t said much, but the panic in your tone had been unmistakable. The moment the call cut, something in him snapped. There was no hesitation, no second thought—he had left almost immediately, speeding through the city, your trembling words echoing in his head.

"Yeah, his name is S—"

Your words echoed in Xavier's mind, over and over, like a haunting refrain. You hadn’t been able to finish your sentence before the call had abruptly cut out, leaving him with nothing but that single, meaningless syllable. S. It replayed in his head as the car sped forward, finally breaking free from the limits of Linkon City and onto the dark, winding road that would lead him toward the N109 Zone.

He had tried to call back the second the line went dead, his hands trembling as he frantically redialed the number, but it was no use. The call wouldn’t connect. Maybe you had run out of money for the payphone. Maybe something far worse had happened.

The not knowing gnawed at him.

Who was S? The question had burned in his mind from the moment you said it. A name. It had to be a name. But just that one letter wasn’t enough to figure out who this person was, let alone why they had taken you. He cursed under his breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter as the dark road stretched out before him.

Whoever S was, they were dangerous enough to bring you to the N109 Zone. That part made his blood run cold. This place wasn’t just desolate—it was the kind of area that most people in the city pretended didn’t even exist. It was lawless, forgotten. A place where the desperate went to disappear, where the city’s darkness festered beneath the surface and on top of it, darkness everywhere you turn.

But why there? What did this S want with you? And why take you so far from the city?

He replayed the phone call in his mind again, your voice shaky but steady as you’d tried to tell him what had happened. The fear had been there, simmering just beneath your words, but you had clearly fought to stay calm.

Xavier’s heart pounded harder with every mile. There was something else that bothered him, something gnawing at the edges of his mind. Why had you been targeted? You were strong, capable—smart. One of the best deep space hunters around. You wouldn’t have let yourself be taken easily. That meant whoever S was, he’d planned this, thought it through, and knew how to get to you. That thought made Xavier’s stomach twist. This wasn’t random. It was calculated.

The car hit a bump in the road, jolting him back to the present, but his mind still raced. He needed to find you, needed to get to you before this S—whoever he was—did something unforgivable. He couldn’t stand the thought of you being out there, scared and alone, waiting for help that felt too far away.

He glanced at the holographic display on his hunter’s watch again, watching as the faint signal pulsed from the N109 Zone. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was the best lead he had. That phone booth, that single clue you’d left him before the call ended, was his only connection to you now.

Who are you, S? The question echoed in his mind as he pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the car roaring down the empty highway.

He didn’t know what awaited him in the N109 Zone, but he knew one thing for sure: he was prepared to fight like hell for you.

After what felt like an eternity, buildings whipping past him, Xavier finally pulled up to the phone booth, his heart hammering in his chest. The headlights illuminated the cracked pavement and the battered glass of the booth, standing alone at the edge of the desolate lot like a ghost from another time. But of course, you weren’t there. The booth was empty. You were nowhere to be found.

Xavier’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he sat there for a moment, staring at the empty phone booth. His mind raced, thoughts tangled in frustration and fear. You had told him you would call back—you had said you were going to that strange man’s house, and then you’d come back to tell him what it looked like. But now, standing there in the middle of the N109 Zone, it felt like that plan had shattered into a thousand pieces.

He stepped out of the car, the cold air hitting him like a slap to the face as he approached the booth. His eyes scanned the area, up and down, looking for any sign of you. But there was nothing. Just silence. The eerie kind that made his stomach twist with unease.

The booth was run-down, even worse up close. He stared at it, his thoughts flickering between panic and regret. Should he wait for you to come back, as you said you would? Or had something already gone terribly wrong? Every second that passed felt like a ticking clock, time slipping away, leaving him more uncertain than ever.

He leaned against the booth, raking a hand through his hair, trying to decide. You had been so determined—so sure you could handle this. You’d said you were going to check out this strange man’s house, get some rest, and then return. But the thought of you going there alone, to that man—whoever he was—made him sick.

I should’ve told you not to go with him.

The regret hit him hard, twisting deep in his chest. He should’ve been more forceful, should’ve stopped you. The second you’d mentioned this man, this stranger who had somehow convinced you to follow him, alarm bells had gone off in his head. He had sensed something wasn’t right. Why hadn’t he told you to stay away? Why hadn’t he made sure you didn’t go?

But you were strong, capable—you had always been stubborn, determined to handle things on your own. And he had trusted you to do that. But now…now you were missing. And he was standing in an empty lot with no idea where you were or who had taken you.

Xavier clenched his fists, staring at the phone booth as if willing it to give him answers. The last place you had been. He thought about turning around, driving through the N109 Zone, checking every corner, every building. But the reality of how vast and dangerous this area was made him hesitate. He didn’t even know who to look for. S. The mysterious man whose name had been cut off by the phone’s disconnect. That wasn’t enough.

Xavier’s stomach growled, pulling him from the fog of his frantic thoughts. He hadn’t eaten properly in hours, and the adrenaline that had been fueling him was finally wearing thin. He gritted his teeth, the pang of hunger a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since he’d stopped moving. He didn’t want to waste time, but he knew he needed to eat, to think straight.

Reluctantly, he climbed back into the car and started driving, scanning the streets of the N109 Zone for anything that looked remotely functional. This part of the city was basically wasteland—most of the buildings were crumbling, their windows broken, and the streets were nearly empty. He almost decided to give up before spotting a flicker of neon in the distance.

It was a convenience store—small, dingy, and barely lit—but it was open. The cracked neon sign buzzed weakly, casting a dull glow over the entrance. It didn’t look promising, but it was all he had. He pulled up, the car’s tires crunching over the broken pavement as he parked.

Xavier stepped out, his eyes narrowing as he approached the entrance. The store looked as worn out as the rest of the area, its windows covered in grime and dust, but the lights inside told him it was still in business. He pushed the door open, the warmth of the store enveloping him.

The place reeked of stale air and something faintly metallic. Shelves lined the narrow aisles, most of them half-stocked but there was variety. Xavier grabbed a few snacks—whatever looked edible—and made his way to the counter, where a grimy man with disheveled hair and yellowed teeth sat behind the register, staring at him with a disinterested scowl.

“Do you take gold?” Xavier asked, pulling out a small pouch from his pocket. It wasn’t unusual for places outside Linkon City to not take gold, as a lot of places were still living in the past. Couldn't hurt to ask though.

The man behind the counter laughed, a rough, guttural sound that made Xavier’s skin crawl. “Gold, huh? Figures. You Linkcunt folks just keep coming in here actin’ like it’s worth more than it is.” He leaned forward, eyeing Xavier with something between amusement and suspicion.

"No, we don't take it."

Xavier pocketed the small pouch, unsurprised by the man's harsh words, “You said Linkon folks? Who else from the city has been here?” His tone was casual, but his heart skipped a beat. Maybe someone else had seen you?

"Linkcunt," the man corrected with a sneer. The man’s eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly. “Why, you looking for someone?” He eyed Xavier and leaned back in his chair, his voice taking on an edge of curiosity.

Xavier pressed, trying to keep his voice steady. “Maybe. Just wondering who else might’ve been through here recently.”

The man scratched his stubbled chin, considering. “Well, there was this disheveled-looking girl who came through a little while ago. Had a lot of attitude, that one. Demanding help. Swiped some snacks and shit when I wasn’t looking. Took off before I could do anything about it.” He shrugged, clearly not too bothered by the theft. “But that’s basically all I know.”

Xavier’s heart stopped. A disheveled girl… Could it have been you?

His pulse quickened, the pieces clicking together. You must have come through here before disappearing. The man didn’t seem to know much more, but this was a sign. You had been close—you had been right here.

“What’d she look like?” Xavier asked, trying not to sound too eager.

The man waved a hand lazily. “Didn't look that closely to be honest. Bitch looked like hell, though. Clothes all messed up, like she’d been through something. But she was quick—didn’t stick around long enough for me to really notice much else. Don’t know where she went after that. Just up and vanished with my stock”

Xavier nodded, feeling a surge of both hope and frustration. You’d been here, that much was clear. But now you were gone again, slipping through his fingers like a ghost.

"You really shouldn't talk about women like that".

He paid for the snacks with some dollar bills he kept in his car for out of city trips, and turned to leave, leaving the disgruntled cashier. His mind already racing to figure out where you could’ve gone from here.

Xavier’s heart pounded in his chest as he stepped back outside, the cold night air hitting him like a wall. You’d been here. Not long ago, from the sound of it. He could almost picture it—your disheveled form rushing through the aisles, grabbing whatever you could before vanishing into the shadows again. You were close, too close to give up now. But where had you gone?

He clenched his jaw, glancing around the empty streets. There were too many directions, too many places you could have disappeared to. The N109 Zone was vast, a labyrinth of forgotten corners and abandoned buildings, and there was no telling where you might have run off to next.

His mind raced, trying to make sense of the little he knew. You had come here to get food, maybe out of desperation—running on fear and adrenaline. And then, like the man said, you were gone. No tracks, no sign of where you’d been taken.

Xavier pulled a crumpled pamphlet out of his jacket pocket, his fingers brushing over the faded image of a sleek pair of boots. It was the same pamphlet the shoe store clerk had given him earlier, and now, it seemed like his only other lead. A shoe store… It might seem like a stretch, but he had learned to follow even the smallest clues. If he couldn’t figure out where you had gone, maybe he could figure out more about the man who had taken you. And starting with something as small as his shoes might just be the break he needed.

He studied the pamphlet again, his eyes narrowing as he recalled his brief conversation with the clerk. The shoes had been expensive, high-end—definitely not something most people in the N109 Zone would be wearing.

But S wasn’t like most people, was he?

Xavier’s mind spun as he hurriedly typed the address from the pamphlet into his hunter’s watch, the holographic screen glowing softly as it processed the information. The watch pinged, highlighting the location of the store in the city. It wasn’t far, but it was a place he wouldn’t have expected someone from the N109 Zone to frequent.

If S was wearing those shoes, it meant he had money—or at least access to it. That was something Xavier could work with. People like that left trails, even in places where they thought they could stay hidden.

He started the car again, his pulse quickening as the watch projected the route onto the windshield. The shoe store was his next stop, and if he was lucky, he could get more information about who S really was. Maybe someone there had seen him, or better yet, could point him in the direction of where he lived or did business.

As the car sped toward the heart of the city, Xavier’s determination sharpened. He was getting closer to answers—closer to finding you. If he could learn more about this mysterious man, this “S,” then maybe, just maybe, he could figure out where you were being held.

As Xavier sped through the dark, crumbling streets of the N109 Zone, the world outside his car blurred into a mix of shadows and faint streetlights. His mind was focused on finding you, piecing together the next step in his search. Then, out of nowhere, a piercing scream shattered the stillness.

His foot slammed on the brake, the car lurching to a stop as his heart raced. The sound of the scream echoed through the desolate streets, raw and desperate. He scanned the area frantically, searching for the source of the cry for help. Then he saw her—a woman stumbling into the dim light from a broken streetlamp, clutching her side, her face twisted in pain.

“Help! Please, help me!” she gasped, her voice cracking with panic as she looked directly at him, her body collapsing onto the cracked pavement.

Xavier’s hunter instincts kicked in immediately. He couldn’t just leave someone like that. He shoved the car door open and rushed toward her, his eyes darting around, looking for any potential danger. The streets of the N109 Zone were unpredictable, but he couldn't just ignore someone in need.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” he asked, his tone urgent but calm as he knelt down beside her.

The woman’s breathing was shallow, her face pale and contorted with pain. She clutched her ribs, wincing with every breath. “I don’t know,” she whimpered, “I was attacked. I need help… please…” Her eyes were wild with fear, darting between Xavier and the shadows beyond, as if expecting someone—or something—to come after her at any moment.

Xavier’s heart pounded, his mind racing. “I’ll get you some help,” he assured her, reaching for his phone. But as he fumbled for it, he felt a shift—something wasn’t right.

The woman’s eyes flicked over his shoulder, her panic momentarily replaced by something colder, more calculating. Before he could react, a blur of movement rushed behind him.

A sharp clink. The keys.

Xavier’s blood ran cold as he spun around, just in time to see a man slip past him, keys glinting in his hand. The stranger, quick and agile, darted toward Xavier’s car, jumping into the driver’s seat. How did I not see this coming? The realization hit him like a punch to the gut—this was a setup.

“Hey!” Xavier yelled, lunging forward, his heart hammering in his chest. But it was too late.

The woman, now standing tall with no trace of pain or injury, smirked at him, her expression smug and mocking. “Thanks for the ride, city boy,” she sneered, her voice dripping with satisfaction as she ran toward the passenger side of the car. She moved easily now, as if the earlier fear and desperation had been nothing but an act. It had been.

Xavier’s mind raced as he sprinted toward the car, but the engine roared to life before he could even get close. The man in the driver’s seat gunned the accelerator, the tires screeching against the pavement as the car sped away, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

His heart sank as he watched the taillights disappear into the darkness, the weight of the situation crashing down on him. His car. His keys. Everything—gone in an instant. And with it, any chance of quickly finding you.

He'd have to walk on foot.

The steam from the shower still clung to your skin as you stepped out, your mind swirling in a haze of exhaustion and hunger. Your stomach growled loudly, reminding you just how long it had been since you last ate. The hot water had done little to wash away the weight of everything pressing down on you—the memories, the fear—but it had, at least, cleaned the grime from your body. You were left feeling raw and exposed, unsure of what was coming next.

You opened the glass door of the shower and grabbed a towel laying on the counter, wrapping it around yourself quickly before exiting.

You saw Sylus had elected to lean against the doorframe when you stepped out, and he turned around to face you. His eyes, those sharp, red eyes, softened when they met yours. "The chef has prepared food for you," he said, his voice gentle. The tenderness in his tone felt unnerving, like everything else with him, but the thought of food was too tempting to resist.

But before you could respond, he gestured to a set of neatly prepared shopping bags laid on his bed outside the bathroom. “I want you to open these first. Consider them gifts I had planned for you… before you ran off.” The edge in his words lingered, but his expression remained neutral. You vaguely remembered him clipping your nails while you were in the bathtub, a pile of shopping bags at his feet.

Ah, you had forgotten all about those. You wrapped the towel around yourself tighter, a knot of discomfort forming in your stomach.

You hesitated for a moment, then slowly approached the bed, your hands trembling slightly as you began to take out the "gifts". The first bag contained delicate pieces of underwear—soft, lace, and undeniably expensive. You swallowed hard, feeling a wave of unease crawl up your spine.

“Gifts for me? Or for you to see on me?” you muttered, unable to hide the malice in your voice, the bitterness slipping out.

Sylus’s lips quirked into a small, amused smile, his red eyes flickering with that familiar, unsettling glint. "Why not both?," he replied softly, the weight of his gaze lingering on you as though he found your defiance amusing.

These weren’t just clothes; they were symbols of his control, of how he saw you. Like you were his little doll to dress up. Still, you nodded hesitantly, accepting the garments with quiet reluctance.

Beneath the underwear were more practical clothes—soft, comfortable tops, leggings, and dresses. Each piece was chosen carefully, and despite yourself, you appreciated the effort, if only because you were desperate for something to wear to avoid Sylus's lingering gaze on your damp body. You chose a simple, slightly loose white dress, letting it fall over your damp skin. Then slipped on one of the many underwear he had bought for you. Sylus watched you quietly, a small smile playing on his lips as he waited for you to finish.

“You might've lost a few pounds from stress, once you start eating more, it’ll fit better,” he said casually, his tone matter-of-fact as though he hadn’t just casually referenced your weakened state. The words hung in the air, a subtle reminder of how long you'll be trapped here. Then, with a surprising softness, he added, “You look beautiful nonetheless, honey.”

“Honey.” A new pet name.

Surprisingly, instead of making you grimace like his usual endearments, it sends an unwelcome heat crawling across your face. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to react, but the flush is unmistakable. Against your will, your gaze drops, and you look away from him, the sudden surge of embarrassment catching you off guard.

Sylus notices, of course. His smile deepens slightly, a quiet satisfaction flickering in his eyes as if he can sense the effect his words have on you. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his gaze on you—steady, watchful—his presence filling the room in an unnerving way that makes it harder to breathe.

He extended his hand toward you, the gesture oddly tender and yet impossible to trust. You hesitated, unsure if taking it would solidify his power over you further or if refusing would draw out something worse. But you take it, residing to the fact that you didn't have much choice.

He moved toward the door, your hand held in his grip. “Come,” he said. “The food is waiting.”

Your stomach growled again, and despite the tension between you and him, you found yourself trailing after him, your body driven by the gnawing hunger you couldn’t ignore. As you stepped into the dining hall, the rich, mouth-watering aroma of freshly prepared food hit you like a wave.

The table was filled with an extravagant feast. Platters of roasted meats sat alongside bowls of vibrant vegetables, glistening under the kitchen lights. There were thick, tender cuts of lamb, still steaming from the oven, their edges crisp and golden. Roasted chicken, its skin perfectly browned and seasoned with herbs, sat atop a bed of caramelized onions and garlic. Beside them, a platter of seared duck breast, cooked to perfection, its fat rendered into a rich, savory glaze.

On another side of the table were bowls of creamy mashed potatoes, rich and buttery, their surface dusted with flecks of chives. A dish of roasted root vegetables—carrots, parsnips, and beets—was arranged in a beautiful display, their edges crisp and caramelized, drizzled with a balsamic glaze. There was a vibrant salad of mixed greens, tossed with fresh pomegranate seeds, crumbled goat cheese, and candied walnuts, the dressing a light, tangy vinaigrette that made your mouth water.

A basket of freshly baked bread sat in the center of the table, the rolls warm and soft, their golden crusts begging to be torn apart. Small bowls of whipped butter, infused with honey and herbs, accompanied them, the scent sweet and savory.

But it didn’t stop there. Desserts, too, were laid out, tempting you even further. A decadent chocolate tart with a glossy ganache topping, dusted with powdered sugar and fresh raspberries, sat next to a platter of delicate fruit tarts, their centers brimming with custard and topped with glistening berries. A tower of macarons in various pastel shades—lavender, pistachio, rose—completed the lavish display.

Sylus pulled out a chair for you, his smile widening as he watched your eyes dart from one dish to the next. "Well don't just stare, sit down".

The sight and smell overwhelmed you, and for a moment, you felt like a prisoner presented with a royal meal, knowing full well the chains still bound you. But hunger gnawed at your insides, and no matter how conflicted you were, your body screamed for sustenance as you sat.

"Eat," Sylus urged, taking a seat across from you. His eyes never left yours, watching, waiting for your reaction.

Your hand trembled slightly as you reached for a piece of bread, the warmth of it soothing in your palm. You tore it open, the soft dough yielding beneath your fingers, and dipped it into the whipped honey butter, taking a small bite. The flavors burst in your mouth, and despite everything, you couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh of relief.

The food was perfect—too perfect. And as you took another bite, you couldn’t help but wonder: was this all part of the game too? Or was it simply nourishment after the storm?

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on you as you ate, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak, just watched you in that unsettling, familiar way—like he was always studying you, always thinking, always planning. His silence, for once, was almost a relief, allowing you to focus on the food and ignore his presence as much as possible.

You couldn’t help it. The hunger gnawed at you, and the feast before you was impossible to resist. The flavors were rich, the textures comforting, and before you realized it, you had cleared almost four plates. Each bite had momentarily dulled the chaos in your mind, letting you push aside the fear, the memories, and the discomfort that still lingered in your chest.

Sylus didn’t comment as you reached for more, nor did he interrupt. He seemed content to let you eat in peace, his eyes never leaving you but his lips remaining closed. It wasn’t until you finally pushed the last plate away, feeling the fullness settle in your stomach, that the silence between you felt heavier.

The weight of exhaustion began to settle over you. The warmth from the food and the sheer relief of being full left you feeling heavy, your eyelids growing heavier by the minute. You hadn’t realized just how tired you were until that moment. Your body felt like it had finally reached its limit.

Sylus stood up, breaking the silence. His movements were smooth and deliberate as he pushed his chair back, his gaze never leaving you. “You must be tired,” he said softly, the same unnerving tenderness in his voice as before. “It’s time for bed.”

You tensed slightly at his words, but your body, worn down by hunger and stress, didn’t have the strength to protest. You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, afraid of what might come out if you did. There was no point in resisting, not tonight.

Sylus moved toward you, his hand extending again as if offering comfort. You hesitated, looking at his outstretched hand, but you didn’t have the energy to reject him. You let him guide you, his touch gentle yet firm as he led you toward the bedroom you were dreading your return to.

You don’t remember when exactly you slipped into unconsciousness, but the world had faded into nothing after Sylus lifted you into the bed. His arms were unexpectedly gentle, cradling you with a kind of care that felt entirely out of place. You were vaguely aware of him pulling the blankets up around you, tucking you in, but then everything went dark. The exhaustion you had been fighting all day finally consumed you, and you sank into the deepest sleep you’d felt in what seemed like forever.

There was comfort in the darkness, the kind of peace that only comes with complete surrender to sleep. No fear, no panic, just the void. You floated there, cradled in warmth. But soon, the darkness gave way to a dream, vivid and consuming.

Xavier appeared first, stepping out of the shadows of your mind. His familiar figure brought an immediate sense of relief. His ashy blonde hair fell into his face, and his striking blue eyes bore into you with the same warmth and intensity that always made your heart flutter. There he was, just as you remembered—strong, dependable, and safe. He reached out, his hand extending toward you, and without hesitation, you moved toward him.

The moment your hand met his, your heart melted, the overwhelming sense of security flooding through you. For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt safe. You felt home.

But something changed.

Xavier’s gaze, once filled with affection and care, shifted. His eyes darkened, turning cold, distant. The warmth you’d found in his presence quickly evaporated, replaced by something harsh and unfamiliar. His lips curled downward, a shadow crossing his face, and his grip on your hand tightened. The shift was sudden, the dream warping around you like a twisted reflection of reality.

"Why did you want him dead?" His voice cut through the dream, sharp and cold, the softness you’d expected from him nowhere to be found.

You blinked, confusion gripping you as his words sank in. “Huh?” Your face faltered, your heart pounding in your chest. His cold stare drilled into you, and you could feel something inside you cracking under its weight. What was happening?

"You're the reason Reese is dead," Xavier said, his words landing like a punch to the gut. His voice, usually so steady, so comforting, was now filled with anger, with accusation. His grip on your hand turned painful, his fingers digging into your skin with an almost crushing force.

“No...” Your voice wavered, barely able to push the word out as your mind reeled. “That wasn’t my fault, it was Sy—” You tried to explain, to say anything to stop the blame from settling on your shoulders. But the words caught in your throat, and you couldn’t finish. You couldn’t get them out.

His face twisted, contorting with anger and something that looked like disappointment. His blue eyes, once a source of warmth, were now filled with icy judgment, the coldness sinking into your skin like knives. His grip tightened further, pain shooting through your hand, but no matter how hard you tried to pull away, you couldn’t escape.

The dream around you blurred, the edges of reality warping and distorting. The ground beneath you seemed to shift, unsteady, while Xavier's figure loomed larger, his presence suffocating. The weight of his blame pressed down on your chest like a stone, suffocating you, filling your lungs with an overwhelming sense of guilt.

You tried to explain again, your voice strangled by the intensity of the moment, but Xavier wasn’t listening. His hand was like a vice, his fingers digging into your skin as his gaze pinned you in place. His words repeated in your mind, echoing louder and louder—“You're the reason he’s dead.”

Xavier's face began to twist, distorting into something grotesque, something no longer human. His once gentle features morphed and stretched unnaturally, his blue eyes darkening into hollow, accusing pits. His grip on your hand became unbearable, crushing the bones in your fingers as his form continued to change, shifting from the man you loved into a nightmare. The warmth that had briefly comforted you was gone, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling cold.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to pull away, but the force holding you was relentless. You stared in horror as Xavier’s form became unrecognizable, his skin taking on a gray, cracked texture, his mouth elongating into a grimace filled with sharp teeth. His eyes, now nothing more than deep, empty voids, bore into you with a hatred that sent shivers down your spine.

“You’re a murderer,” the figure spat, its voice now a low, guttural growl that echoed in your ears, far louder than it should have been. “Murderer.” The word hit you like a physical blow, making your entire body tense as you tried to make sense of what was happening.

“No…” you whispered, your voice trembling as you desperately tried to defend yourself. “It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t—”

“You have blood on your hands!” the figure roared, its voice shaking the world around you. Xavier’s face continued to twist and contort, veins bulging from his neck, his body looming over you like a towering monster. “You told him to die!”

The words echoed again and again, crashing into you with the force of a tidal wave. The weight of guilt slammed into your chest, almost knocking the wind out of you as the grotesque version of Xavier leaned in closer. His voice became more vicious, more unforgiving. “You let him die, and now the blood is on your hands!”

You looked down, and your breath caught in your throat. Blood. It was everywhere—on your hands, dripping from your fingers, pooling at your feet. Panic surged through you, your heart racing as you tried to wipe it away, but no matter how hard you scrubbed, the blood only seemed to multiply, staining your skin, your clothes, everything around you.

“You’ll never wash it off!” the figure screamed, its voice shaking with rage. “Never!” It grabbed your shoulders, shaking you violently as it continued to scream. “You’re a murderer!

You struggled, trying to pull free, but the figure’s grip was unbreakable. The dream spiraled into chaos, the world around you collapsing into darkness as the screams filled the air, overwhelming your senses. The blood seemed to rise like a tide, crawling up your arms, soaking through your skin. You gasped for air, but it was suffocating, the guilt swallowing you whole.

“Murderer!” the figure roared again, louder this time, shaking you until your vision blurred. “Murderer! Murderer!"

Tears streamed down your face as you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but the accusations wouldn’t stop. The guilt, the blood, the rage—it was all around you, suffocating you, crushing you.

And then, just as quickly as it began, the figure stopped. It stood over you, silent now, but its eyes—those hollow, accusing voids—were locked onto you. “You can never escape what you’ve done,” it whispered, the venom in its voice chilling you to the core.

You shot up in bed, heart hammering in your chest, a scream tearing through your throat before you even knew what was happening. The sheets clung to your sweat-soaked skin as you gasped for breath, the nightmare still gripping you in its suffocating hold. Your hands shook violently, fingers instinctively rubbing at your palms, expecting to see the blood, the thick, crimson stain that had haunted you moments before.

But there was no blood.

The room was dark, dimly lit by a lamp settled on the nightstand. Sylus sat beside you, awake, casually reading a book. His red eyes glanced up from the pages, calm and steady, showing no sign of surprise at your sudden outburst.

“You’re okay,” Sylus said softly, his voice low but steady. He closed the book, setting it aside as he reached out, pulling you closer, into his arms with a gentle grip. The warmth of his body on yours was meant to be comforting, but the lingering terror from the dream made his touch feel heavier, suffocating.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, the echoes of the nightmare still gripping you. The blood, the screams, the weight of guilt—it all felt so real, too real to shake off. Your hands trembled in your lap, still trying to rub away the invisible stain that wouldn’t leave.

“Shhh,” Sylus soothed, his voice soft as he stroked your back with deliberate calmness. “It was just a nightmare, kitten.”

But his words barely penetrated the thick fog of panic swirling in your mind. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to steady your breathing, but the image of Xavier’s cold, accusing gaze still lingered in the corners of your thoughts, leaving an ache in your chest that refused to fade.

Sylus’s gaze never wavered from you. He was patient, his grip around you getting stronger as you fought to regain control, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern, though it was impossible to tell how much of it was real. He watched you wordlessly, waiting patiently for your breathing to slow as he rubbed your back in soothing motions.

And you did, eventually. Slowly, your heartbeat began to slow, the cold sweat drying on your skin as the nightmare finally started to loosen its grip. You were still shaken, but reality was settling back in.

Sylus smiled, his eyes softening slightly. “Good girl,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You feel better?"

"It's not my fault..." you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper as tears began streaming down your face, hot and unstoppable. The weight of the nightmare still pressed against your chest, the guilt wrapping itself around your heart. "Reese... I told him to die, kinda. But you killed him!"

Your words trembled in the air, and for a moment, the room felt suffocatingly silent. Sylus’s arm stilled on your back, his red eyes watching you closely. His face remained calm, unreadable, but something flickered behind his gaze—curiosity, perhaps, or even amusement. He began rubbing your back again.

He leaned in slightly, his voice low and steady as he spoke. “I killed him because he took what was mine,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You didn’t pull the trigger, I did. Don’t fool yourself, sweetie.” His fingers gently wiped away the tears falling down your cheeks, lingering on your skin a second longer than necessary.

“His fate was sealed the moment he touched you. You’re not responsible for his death.”

Your heart ached, the confusion and guilt twisting inside you. The memory of Reese's lifeless body, the sound of the gunshot, played over and over in your mind. You knew that Sylus had been the one to end it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that your words, your anger, had driven the final nail in the coffin.

"But I—" you started, your voice cracking, but Sylus shushed you gently, pressing a finger to your lips.

“Don’t burden yourself,” he whispered, his voice soothing but firm. “Reese was a pest, and pests are dealt with. It wasn’t your fault. You said what you needed to say in the moment” His eyes softened, his gaze almost affectionate. “And now, you’re here—with me. Safe.”

"Am I?" you sobbed, the weight of your emotions crashing down on you all at once. The tears came faster, and with them, the memory of that night—the night Sylus had taken everything into his own hands, literally. The sharp pain, the feeling of your skin being sliced open as he calmly removed your birth control implant, resurfaced in vivid detail. The raw fear that had gripped you then returned now, surging like a wave you couldn't hold back.

"At least Reese never hurt me," you choked out between sobs, your voice trembling, barely holding together. "You, on the other hand..."

Your hand instinctively went to your arm, tracing the faint scar left behind from when Sylus had decided, without a second thought, that he would control every part of you—inside and out. The scar was still there, but it wasn’t just on your skin. The memory of that violation ran deeper than any wound that could heal.

Sylus’s expression didn’t shift at your words. His calm gaze remained fixed on you, though there was a slight narrowing of his eyes. His hand paused in its comforting motions, hovering just inches from you, as if calculating how to respond.

“I did what was necessary,” he said, his voice calm, controlled, almost dismissive. "Everything I’ve done has been for you. For us. Why are you crying over a man that handed you and countless others over for crack?"

The flood of emotions broke through all at once at his words.

"Because-because he wasn't supposed to die. Hunters aren't the reason people die, we save people...he could've went to jail he wasn't supposed to-"

You crumpled, sobs wracking your body as the weight of everything—of all you had endured—became too much to bear. Memories you had tried to suppress, to bury deep within you, rose to the surface like dark waves crashing against fragile walls.

The man from the basement. His hands grabbing you, the smell of his breath, the sheer terror that had paralyzed you as he tried to force himself on you. You had fought, screamed, but the memory was still there, etched into your mind like a brand that would never fade. The nightmare you had just woken from had only served to rip open the scars you had so desperately tried to heal.

Your words came out in broken fragments, incoherent between sobs. "That other man…he tried… I couldn’t— I couldn’t stop him…" Your voice cracked, your chest heaving as you babbled through the memories, the trauma wrapping itself around you like a suffocating shroud. "He—he wouldn’t stop… I couldn’t breathe, I was so scared…"

You weren’t even sure Sylus was listening. You couldn’t look at him. Everything blurred together, your mind overwhelmed by the pain, the helplessness, the feeling of being trapped again in that moment. You curled in on yourself, trembling as the sobs became uncontrollable, the terror of that night suffocating you all over again.

Then you felt it—Sylus’s hand, soft and deliberate, gently cradling your cheek. He leaned in, his voice softening into something almost unbearably tender, a tone you never thought he was capable of.

"Poor thing, you're such a mess," he murmured.

His eyes lingered on you with a mix of pity and affection, as though you were something fragile, something cherished. It was as if watching you unravel before him caused his heart to ache.

“I can help you forget,” he whispered, his thumb brushing away your tears with slow, careful strokes. “Let me take the pain away, kitten. You don’t have to carry it anymore.”

His words were soothing, like a lullaby coaxing you away from the edge of your breakdown. His touch was uncharacteristically soft, his presence surrounding you like a cocoon, making it harder to pull yourself out of the depths of your despair. For a brief moment, the way he looked at you—like he truly cared—made you falter.

"I'll make it all disappear," Sylus murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, penetrating the darkest recesses of your fractured psyche. It was as if he possessed the power to reach inside your mind and vaporize the painful memories that clung to you like shackles. "You want to feel so good you won't think about him again?"

You hesitate at his words. The rational part of your mind urged you to turn away, not to respond. To pull yourself from his embrace and fight him. But the other part, muddled by trauma, drove you to stay. To seek comfort, any comfort, even in his arms.

From your captor of all people.

“Yes…” you whimpered, blinking away tears. You didn’t know why you answered that way—your mind screamed at you to stop—but you found yourself reaching out, your fingers clutching the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer.

Anything. Anything to make this pain stop.

His lips crashed against yours before you could even register what was happening, consuming you in a kiss so passionate it bordered on painful. All rational thought evaporated as his tongue plundered the recesses of your mouth, stroking along your palate and tangling with your own tongue in a sensual dance as old as time itself.

You were consumed, caught in the storm of his touch, unable to think beyond the overwhelming need to escape the agony of your memories—even if only for a moment.

Your hands flew to his face of their own accord, fingers threading through his hair as you clung to him like a drowning woman gasping for air. You kissed him back with a fervor born of desperation, pouring all your pent-up anguish and trauma into the hungry clash of lips and teeth. The two of you panted against each other, like animals ready to tear each other to shreds.

Some distant part of you screamed that this was mistake, that doing this with him willingly was certainly wrong. He had kidnapped you after all. Stolen you. But it was drowned out by the pounding of your heart, the ache of need pulsing between your thighs. His hands slid under your dress, calloused palms skimming over hypersensitive flesh, and you arched into his touch with a whimper.

"Sylus..." you whined, already feeling the desperate ache reach your core.

"I know, kitten. Patience, we just started" he said, amusement adorning his face.

His lips found yours again, hot and demanding, silencing any lingering protests. You melted into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. The taste of him was intoxicating, a heady mix of desire and danger that left you craving more. His fingers find the hem of your underwear, wasting no time to remove the obstacle from your wet depths.

Your whole body trembled as Sylus's lips blazed a path down your body, trailing molten kisses along the column of your throat. Each brush of his mouth against your sensitive skin sent electricity singing through your veins, igniting another fiery ache between your thighs. When he nudged aside the fabric of your dress to nuzzle the slick flesh of your cunt, you let out a strangled moan, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you.

The tip of his nose grazed your swollen bud, and your back arched off the bed, every nerve ending sparking with raw pleasure. "Nnnngh…" you whimpered, hips bucking instinctively toward his teasing touch.

Sylus's deep, resonant chuckle rumbled through you, vibrating against your core in a way that made your toes curl. "So responsive," he murmured, his warm breath ghosting over your dripping folds. "Tell me, kitten-were you this wet for him? Did he make you shiver and moan like this when he touched you?"

He grips your thighs almost possessively, waiting for your answer.

His words were like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head, plunging you back into reality. Shame crashed over you in nauseating waves, your arousal doused by the realization of how easily Sylus manipulated your body. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them shut, fists clenching in the bedding.

"No," you choked out, voice brittle. "Never. He never touched me like this…Sylus, please…" The plea was torn from your throat, part desperation, part disgust. You felt filthy, tainted by your own traitorous reactions to Sylus's sensual assault on your most intimate parts.

But despite the revulsion roiling in your gut, your body still yearned for more.

"Its hard to say no when you beg me like that," he said, seemingly satisfied with your answer, began trailing a hot, wet streak against your folds. A gasp punches through your throat, eyes fluttering as you try not to lose all control. The mere feeling of his tongue was sending your brain into frenzies. But it wasn't enough. Wasn't enough to block the pain.

"Sylus, ple-mmph!”

You grip the bedsheets even tighter when he tenderly cuts off your plea with a moan against your clit, his tongue beginning to spread the entrance of your lips apart feverishly. Your breathing gets rapid when you feel something hot breaking past the entrance, deeper and deeper into your walls. Sylus's tongue delved deeper, stroking along your inner walls with devastating skill.

"You don't have to hold the bedsheets." he says, withdrawing momentarily from your depths. He wordlessly guides your hands to the top of his head, and before you can say anything, he's back licking up and down your folds, eventually making his way back in completely. The immediate shockwaves of pleasure make you grip his hair basically against your will, and you tearfully hold his hair as you neared an orgasm.

The pleasure built to an unbearable crescendo as Sylus's tongue relentlessly stroked your inner walls, each slick thrust driving you higher toward the brink of climax. Broken moans spilled from your lips, intermingling with his hungry growls of appreciation. Tears streamed down your face as your hips rocked shamelessly against his mouth, silently begging for the oblivion that hovered just out of reach.

Sylus's strong hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he feasted upon your aching cunt. He seemed enraptured, almost worshipful in his attentions, lavishing your most intimate places with devoted licks and sucks. He ate you out like a starved man. Like he craved you.

Like he missed you.

Occasionally his nose would rub against your clit again and again, a delicious friction that made you sob with the intensity of it all.

When his lips finally closed around your swollen clit and sucked hard, you nearly vaulted off the bed, a strangled scream tearing from your throat.

"Mhgn! Sylus! Please, I can't…it's too much!"

But he didn't let up, his talented tongue circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with ruthless precision. Your vision whited out as you finally reached heaven, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing over you until you thought you might drown in it. Your walls clamped down on his invading tongue, pulsing with the force of your release, unwittingly calling out Sylus's name as you did so.

Finally, blessedly, Sylus withdrew. You melted in the sheets, finally letting go of his hair, boneless and shuddering in the aftermath. Tears streaked your face, but for once, they weren't because Sylus had hurt you. He had done quite the opposite actually.

Taking in the sight of you sprawled before him, flushed and panting, your body trembling. With a wicked smirk, he trailed a hand along your trembling thigh, drawing a shuddering moan from your throat. Evidence of your orgasm coated his mouth, and you watch as he licks the remaining from his lips.

"Tired already?" he teased, quite enjoying the way your body tensed under his touch. "For a hunter I expected you to have more stamina."

The haze of post-orgasmic bliss dissipated as quickly as it had descended, harsh reality crashing back in with brutal clarity. Tears pricked your eyes as the weight of your shame threatened to crush you. You had begged him for it, eagerly spread your legs for your kidnapper as if y'all were lovers. What was wrong with you?

"I..." you trail off, vision blurring with tears once more. What were you going to say? What could you say?

Sylus trailed lazy kisses along your jaw, seeming to sense your internal turmoil within your head. His lips rubbed against your sensitive skin, sending unwanted sparks of pleasure skittering through your nerves.

"If you're still able to think," he murmured against your throat, "then I clearly haven't kept my promise of helping you forget." His nimble fingers worked at his belt buckle.

The leather strap slid free of the loops with a hiss, dropping forgotten to the floor. Soon after, you felt the straps of your dress slip past your shoulders, past your waist, and eventually off your body completely. Sylus's gaze raked over you, lovingly and hungry, devouring the flush on your skin, the swell of your heaving breasts. You felt bare under his scrutiny, stripped of all defenses.

"And here I thought I was doing such a good job of distracting you," he purred, palming himself through his jeans. The rigid line of his erection strained against the faded denim, an obscene bulge that made your mouth go dry. You watched as he began taking his shirt off from over his head, his chiseled stomach and chest coming into view.

"Please..." you whimpered, the word torn from your throat as fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. Your body trembled, caught between the whirlwind of conflicting emotions roiling within you. Revulsion. Lust. Desperation. Self-loathing. You don't even know what you're asking for.

Sylus's expression softened as he gazed down at you, his thumb brushing away the moisture collecting on your lashes. It was uncharacteristic of you to beg for anything other than freedom. It was pulling at his heart and making him feel weak. "Shhh, it's alright sweetie," he soothed, his voice a low murmur. "I'm keeping my promise. Don't think, just focus on me."

Slowly, reverently, he lowered his mouth to yours in a kiss that stole your breath and shattered your reservations. His lips moved over yours with aching tenderness, sipping at your parted lips as if savoring the sweetest nectar. The press of his body against yours was solid, reassuring, anchoring you in the whirlwind of sensation.

His tongue slipped past your defenses to stroke the sensitive flesh within, each languid thrust a silent promise of the ecstasy to come. One large hand cradled your face, angling your head to deepen the kiss, while the other smoothed soothing circles on the small of your back.

When he pulls back, eyes staring down at you, it feels like he's staring into the depths of your soul. His eye begins to glow dangerously, and you begin to feel your mind start to spin and the room start to grow hazy. Voices begin pouring into your ears.

Devour him.

He's right there.

Grab him!

But just as quickly as they started, they stopped. You lay there shocked, unable to process what just happened.

"Your mind says a lot more than your mouth does, kitten" he chuckles, and you can only blink confusingly at him as he begins unzipping his pants. He stands up momentarily to remove his pants and you watch as his cock finally spring free. You feel a gush of arousal as you watch it throb, precum slightly leaking at the tip.

"W-what?" you ask, one half of your brain focusing on his raging erection and the other half wondering why the hell your mind felt like it was splitting in half just a second ago.

But you have no time to ponder such questions as Sylus begins to tower above you once more, grabbing your legs and spreading them apart. You squeal at the sudden touch and shiver when his tip rubs against the slit of your opening. His face is twisted with pleasure and his lips are parted, as if he's restraining every part of himself not to push everything into you at once.

"Slow...please" you beg, your hips involuntarily pushing down on the head of his tip when it greets your opening.

"You want me to go slow, yet your hips are lifting off the bed like you can't wait to have me buried inside you," Sylus teased, his voice a low, wicked murmur. He enjoys the way your face twists in annoyance.

 "So greedy, aren't you kitten?"

"I'm not trying t-mmph!"

You words lodge into your throat as you feel the head of his tip pierce your hole. You gasped, back arching as you stretched impossibly around him. A painful stretch causes you to groan and try to pull away, but Sylus puts a hand on your stomach, holding you down and ceasing all resistance.

"Be still, hah, it wont hurt for long". Sylus lips are parted as he lets out his own breathless groan, his senses being overwhelmed with you as he sinks deeper and deeper.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Sylus groaned, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought for control. He eased forward slowly, inch by excruciating inch, letting you adjust to his substantial size. Your velvety walls resisted initially, clamping down around him like a vice.

Sylus paused, buried to the hilt inside you, his pelvis flush against yours. "Breathe, kitten," he instructed, his voice strained with the effort of holding still. "Try to relax okay?."

You tried to relax, to focus on the pleasant pressure building deep in your core instead of the dull ache in your stretched flesh. Gradually, you yielded, your muscles unclenching as Sylus began to move.

"Good girl," he managed through clenched teeth, withdrawing until just the tip remained before sliding back in with agonizing deliberateness. Over and over, he set a torturously slow rhythm, savoring every drag of your fluttering walls along his rigid cock.

 Soon, the sting gave way to blossoming pleasure, radiating outward from where you were joined. You found yourself meeting his measured thrusts, your hips rocking up to take him deeper, chasing that euphoric friction. Sylus's pace quickened marginally, his self-control fraying at the edges. The slap of flesh against flesh echoed obscenely in the room, a filthy symphony that drowned out your labored breaths and muffled whimpers.

Each deliberate thrust carried you further from the pit of anguish threatening to swallow you whole. The exquisite drag of Sylus's thick cock along your sensitive walls obliterated every coherent thought, leaving only the raw, visceral pleasure of the moment. Higher and higher you climbed, chasing the blissful oblivion he promised, until the first warnings of an impending climax rippled through your trembling form.

Sylus shifted his angle slightly, and stars exploded behind your eyelids as he grazed a spot deep inside that made your toes curl. A strangled moan tore from your throat, lost in the slick slide of bodies and the heady musk of arousal perfuming the air.

"That's it, sweetie," Sylus coo'd, his voice low and rough with lust. "Let go. Think about the one making you feel good right now. Think about me. Only me."

His words shivered through you, igniting something primal and needy. Your hips bucked up to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, harder, faster. Your mind snapped and went blank. You were drowning in sensation, drowning in him, and you never wanted to surface. Never wanted to think about reality ever again.

"You're so cute like this," Sylus purred, punctuating each word with a savage grind of his pelvis against yours. "Brain empty and filled with too much cock to think. Should just keep you like this..."

His filthy praise melted your reservations, stoking the desperate frenzy consuming your body and mind. Nothing else mattered beyond the slick slide of flesh and the heady perfume of sex saturating the air. In this moment, Sylus owned you wholly, a willing slave to his lust. All you could do was surrender, drowning in the exquisite agony of your impending release.

The coil of tension in your core tightened with each passing second, your impending climax hovering just out of reach. Sylus sensed your mounting desperation, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release.

"You're so close," he growled, his rhythm growing erratic as he chased his own completion. "I can feel you tightening up, greedy little thing."

"Go ahead, cum. Let me hear your pretty sounds."

The lewd demand shattered your composure, catapulting you into heaven and you practically screamed his name. Pleasure crashed through you like a tsunami, obliterating every coherent thought. All you knew was the pulsing ache in your core, the rhythmic throb of Sylus's cock buried deep, prolonging your climax until you couldn't take the sensations anymore and almost begged him to stop thrusting.

“Sylus…” you whimper weakly.

Your vision grew blurry as you teetered into overstimulation, your walls clamping down on Sylus's pistoning length like a vise. Thankfully, he was at his own end. You hear a guttural groan of your name in your ear, and then felt the hot splash of his seed painting your insides soon after. His thrusting completely stopped, and the both of you lay there, panting and unmoving.

It was only when you felt his warm seed spilling out onto the bed that you snapped back into reality.

"Did you-"

“Yes, I did it inside,” Sylus murmured, his voice calm, almost too calm. “Where else would it go?”

Before you could even process his words and sit up, he was on you, pinning your arms down to the bed with a swift, ruthless precision, as if anticipating your next move. The weight of him was suffocating, leaving you no room to escape. Panic surged through you, your body instinctively twisting and writhing beneath him, but it was useless. You were trapped.

“After your little escape," he continued, voice laced with playful amusement, "I’ve realized I need to put in more effort. Taming you isn’t as easy as I thought...a baby should be a nice, heavy, leash for you"

“Sylus… please,” you stammer, your heart pounding in your chest. Desperation claws at you as the gravity of his words sinks in. “We don’t need to do this. Not like this. Please, let’s solve this without a child?—I’ll do anything you want. I won’t try to run again, I swear.”

Tears blurred your vision as you begged, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush, your voice cracking with the weight of your fear. But Sylus just smiled, that soft, chilling smile that made your stomach drop. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, his hand disappearing beneath the bed.

“I know you won’t be running away again. In fact…”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him, terror coiling tighter with every passing second. What was he doing? What was he reaching for? You searched your mind desperately, trying to think of anything, anything at all that might change his mind, but you knew better. Sylus was relentless. He hadn’t forgotten your attempts to resist, and now he was only more determined.

And then you felt it—the cold, unforgiving touch of metal snapping around your ankle.

Your eyes flew wide open, your pulse spiking as you looked down in horror. An ankle chain. You were shackled.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling. "No...is this..?"

“Anything I want, you say?” Sylus's voice oozed with satisfaction, a smile creeping across his lips as he leaned in closer. The warmth of his breath contrasted sharply with the cold metal now binding you in place.

“Then make us a baby, sweetie,” he purred, his fingers tracing lightly down your arm. “That’s what I want most right now.”

The weight of his words settled like ice in your chest. A shiver coursed through your body, your mind racing, searching for some way out, but the chain around your ankle clinked softly with every tiny movement, a reminder of how trapped you really were.

“It’s long enough to reach everything in here, including the toilet and shower,” Sylus said, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he leaned down to press a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek.

You shuddered beneath him, your tears finally spilling over as the full weight of your situation crashed down on you. “Is this… my punishment for running?” you whispered, your voice fragile and trembling, as if the question itself might break you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite place. “No, it’s not a punishment,” he said, his tone soft but resolute. “It’s a necessity, honey.”

His words hung heavy in the air, sealing your fate as surely as the chain around your ankle.

Tears broke free, pouring down your face in uncontrollable waves as the reality of it all crushed you. You sobbed openly, your body shaking under the weight of it, and yet there was nothing you could do. Sylus leaned down, his presence overwhelming, his hand softly brushing the side of your tear-streaked face. His voice was low, almost soothing, as if he believed he was offering comfort instead of twisting the knife deeper.

“The faster you accept this,” he whispered, stroking your hair gently, “the easier it’ll be for you. Accept your place by my side and have my baby.”

"I'll take care of both of you, I promise."

His words only made the knot in your throat tighten further. You hated him. You hated him with every fiber of your being, but worst of all, you hated yourself. Hated the fact that you had once given yourself to him willingly, that you had let the devil himself have your body in a moment of weakness, as if you hadn’t known exactly what he was capable of.

The shame of it burned through you, deeper than any chain ever could. How had you fallen so far? How had you ever let him touch you, let him inside your body, your mind—your soul? The answer twisted cruelly in your gut.

But even despite all the burning hatred you had for him in this moment, another unknown feeling sprouted. One that ached and felt almost unbearable to think about. A longing. Festering within the walls of your strained heart and mind. You refused to acknowledge it though, choosing to drown in the sorrow of your new situation.

Sylus shifted beside you, wrapping his arms around you as if you were lovers instead of captor and captive. His warmth pressed against your skin, a twisted parody of intimacy, and you lay there, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. You felt his breathing slow beside you, felt his presence still as he settled in comfortably at your side. But you were miles away, staring into the abyss above, where there was no escape, no solace.

Only the cold, bitter truth. You had let the devil in, and now, there was no way out.