#also this is a VERY good and well-acted scene from both sides | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nanamisgirly · 1 month ago

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Up for the challenge, Kitten ?

summary ⭐︎ Lying to yourself about the undeniable chemistry with the mischievous white-haired guy from finance was probably—already—a bad move. But getting too drunk on that team-building trip…? And thirsting over him? In front of him?? After losing a challenge??? Yeahhh, definitely the baddest move ever.

pairing ⭐︎ marketing!worker!AFAB reader x finance!engineery!Sylus content ⭐︎ multiple scene (surfing, interview, with friends,…), new characters, avoidance, one scene where reader is doing anxiety (very slight), provocative reader, expressing ‘flushing cheeks’ as to express her timidity/shyness nothing to do with skin color!!!, their dynamic change throughout the story, mutual pining that evolves, reader qualifies herself as brat, drÿ hūmpįng, consensual king sylus!, p€ssy drunk, dümbificãtion (both), big d sylus, fįngērįng, ōrál sëx (f. receiving), drunk confession, sylus is blushing almost the whole story, he moans!, big stretch, making it fit, cüm play, praising, domsub, breaking glasses (surprise surprise), ōrgásm denial, bēggìng, brat taming, sqūrtíng, emotional sēx, unprotected sēx (asked), êdgìng, sūcking on fingers, ōvërstímulātiön. and some more surprise !!

wc ⭐︎ 24.8k notes ⭐︎ hihihiiii i’m sooooo happy to show you this work!! i enjoyed writing this a lot lot lot. i practically giggled each time i wrote frfr. and honorable mention to Meliaa my pretty lovely financial girl the only icon of this show in my opinion. I imagined her as a tall honeyed skin girl with green eyes and curly hair… ‘s all she’s just my baby🙂‍↕️🤞 also (if u read this) please know that i’d very much appreciate your comments i do not eat i promise! i tried to be creative with some formulations so any feed back is welcomed. don’t be shy to comment (or send ask anonymously) if you enjoyed something/ a scene/ a phrasing,… I WOULD DIIIIIE TO KNOW❤️❤️❤️ and ofc reblogs (with silly tags) are appreciated very very much. here that’s all ENJOYYY!! 💋

⊹ — read on AO3

arts cred adeline_ns (on x)

“Well, it’s not that bad.” Rafayel, your best friend, shrugs mockingly as usual.

“What do you mean not that bad?” you snap back, irritation running your bold hot as you pour yourself a cup of coffee.

As if pairing with Sylus, that insufferable, numbers-worshipping financial engineer, for the goddamn new product launch wasn’t already punishment enough, now there’s a team-building retreat. Together.

Okay, fine. Not just the two of you. His precious finance department and your marketing team were all being herded off to some idyllic escape in the name of bonding.

Your directors had insisted: “it’s primordial for interdepartmental alchemy,” they’d said, probably while high on some synergy charts and LinkedIn buzzwords.

Right. For work.

Your ass.

“You both made a good job, y’know,” Rafayel goes on, completely unbothered by your sour mood. “The new product’s a carton-breaker. It’s probably the best we’ve ever had. Sold out in three hours.”

“And it cost me my peace,” You mutter, rolling your eyes. “That man is the most irritating human to ever walk this planet. He’s smug, pretentious, and always, always, with his ‘it’s better like that’ crap.”

You scowl, your eyebrows tightening at the memory of all those late nights stuck in the office with Sylus. Him and his spreadsheets. His precision. His baritone voice calmly suggesting you redo your entire pitch deck because his model showed ‘opportunity loss.’ As if your creative campaign had been a PowerPoint napkin sketch.

You’ve convinced you lost at least three brain cells—and maybe a fragment of your soul—in the process.

“Still.” Rafayel sips his coffee, side-eyeing you. “Didn’t hear you complaining when he brought you that almond croissant every morning.”

You shoot him a death glare. “That was strategic manipulation.”

“Sure,” he hums, not even trying to hide his grin. “Definitely not a tiny act of affection.”

You pretend to gag. “Please. I’d rather date my inbox spam folder.”

Rafayel leans against the counter, smug as ever as you put some sugar on your drink. “You keep talking about him, though.”

“I keep talking about my trauma, Rafayel. That’s called processing.”

He raises both hands in surrender. “Hey, hey. Just saying. For someone you hate, you sure remember the way he says things. Like, word for word.”

You go silent, blinking at him.

Then you chuck your spoon at his head.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You drag your carry-on behind you, already regretting every life choice that led to this team-building retreat. The airport smells like burnt espresso, it’s hushed with pressed people and kids crying there and here. Businesswomen and men walking rapidly as you approach the gate.

You scan the group—matching lanyards, branded hoodies, excessive happy smiles—and then you spot him.

Sylus.

Easy to spot on with his over-six-feet-tall plus broad shoulders, mullet white hair and glasses on. Moreover, it would have been easy to spot him anyway, with all those people orbiting him. From finance girls to marketing execs, even the barista from the airport café did a double take.

You roll your eyes so hard you see your own frontal lobe.

Sylus’s eyes flick over the crowd like he just smelled you. He smiles as he makes his way toward you, escaping the boring conversations he was having. “Didn’t think I’d see you voluntarily show up before boarding.” He starts.

“I’m not here voluntarily,” you reply flatly. “This is corporate coercion. I was promised a beach and wi-fi. Not you.”

He grins slowly. “Still dreaming about me, I see.”

“Only in nightmares. You’re the sleep paralysis demon of my professional life.”

“Well, well,” he says, that smug, infuriating slow-blooming smile already placarded on his face. “They let you through the airport security with all that hostility?”

You don’t break stride. “Only because I promised not to stab anyone until we land.”

He chuckles, falling into step beside you. “Still the ray of sunshine I remember. It’s comforting.”

You glance at him sideways. “Lose the smirk, Sylus. This isn’t runway. It’s gate 23B.” you say as you take a look to the tailored half-coat he wears.

“And yet you’re still checking me out,” he says, completely unbothered. “You know, I do have that effect on women.”

“You have an effect, of course,” you mutter. “Like a rash.”

The white-haired man grins wider, clearly enjoying this too much to your liking. “You wound me. But don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to work through your unresolved feelings. I hear there’s a group trust exercise. Maybe we can unpack that deep, smoldering resentment of yours.”

You curse everyone and everything in this moment—but especially Rafayel, for not being here because he’s from the accounting team.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The heat hits you first. It’s thick, golden, the air smells like slat and the delicate arums of flowers. It wraps around you like a much-needed hug as you step off the plane and onto the tarmac.

You blink against the absurd beauty of it all. Mountains in the distance, ocean so blue it feels fake. The kind of place people Photoshop themselves into for dating apps. Someone even hands you a flower necklace. Yes, really.

The company’s rented local vans wait at the edge of the small airport, sleek and air conditioned. Everyone piles in, sunglasses on, trying not to look like children on a school trip. Bu, well, it’s hard not to have your eyes glim in front of the sweetest candies ever.

The ride is really short, you stare out—amazed by the long palm trees adoring the side of the road, all the signs in French written all over. Even the van is extremely pretty, beautiful colors, the inside with parkette—nonetheless.

Everything feels like postcard, too much sky, too much blue, too much sand.

It can only light your mood up, excited to discover and try all the new places, this island has to offer. And as you arrive to the hotel your jaw drops even more on the floor.

It’s everything but a hotel.

It’s an overwater fantasy—individual thatched-roof bungalows stretching out in neat little rows over the turquoise lagoon, each one with its own steps straight into the sea. There are kayaks tied to docks. Hammocks. Glass floors.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“Careful,” a voice says beside you. “That almost sounded like joy.”

You jolt.

You turn to see Sylus standing far too close to you, sunglasses perched like a movie villain, watching your expression, analyzing you the same way he’d do to collect data on your ability to feel wonder.

“Don’t ruin this for me.” You scowl.

“Just want to make sure you’re still the same bitter, overworked gremlin I flew in with,” He says, almost too casually, as he shrugs.

“What if I push you off the dock? That’d be bitter enough for you?” you smile sweetly, with venom. You don’t wait for a response. You’re already walking away, basket hitting the wooden pier that stretches out into the clearest water you’ve ever landed your eyes on. Below, fish dart through the turquoise shallows.

Only joy seems like to exist—laughter, waves, sunlight dancing on water, and the distant clink of someone’s luggage wheel catching on a board. You step into the reception area — a wide, open-air pavilion with carved wooden beams and the kind of aesthetic minimalism that screams wealth. A breeze drifts through, carrying the scent of salt, flowers, and something vaguely eucalyptus. There’s a giant bowl of chilled towels near the desk. You briefly consider burying your entire face in one.

You’re hit with a weird, floating sensation. Like you’re not entirely convinced this isn’t a jetlag-induced hallucination.

“Alright, team!” calls a voice.

You turn to see the HR rep—bright polo shirt, clipboard, and the perky energy of someone who does trust fallsvoluntarily. She claps her hands once, sharply. “you’ll now be assigned your little island homes” she announces with a thick French accent. “they’re arranged in alternating order,” she continues. “One marketing, one finance, and so on—so we can organically mingle across departments while still having your own space to rest, reflect, and practice emotional regulation.” She adds the last part like it’s a joke.

It's not.

She holds up a color-coded keycard. “Each one has a king-size bed, private sun deck, direct access to the lagoon, and a bathroom bigger than your last apartment. No roommates, don’t worry—just the occasional curious stingray.”

You exhale, half-relieved, half-annoyed you even felt relief.

“But do feel free to visit your neighbors,” she adds, with a bright smile that feels like a trap. “They’re just a plank or two away.”

You glance around. And right on cue, Sylus is behind you again, keycard in hand, eyebrows raised.

“What number are you?” he asks, already knowing.

You hold yours up slowly. “Bungalow Seven,” you say, flat.

He grins. “Six.” He leans in just enough for you to be hallowed by his overpriced cologne. “Well, lucky for you—close quarters build intimacy. Or at least…proximity-induced confusion.”

You narrow your eyes, still not looking at him as he’s behind you. “Confusion?”

“You know. You hear something at night—soft moan, splash, name screamed into the lagoon…and you can’t quite tell if it’s passion or someone getting attacked by a mantra ray.” He raises his brows, leaning even closer to you. “Either way, I’m flattered you’d be listening.”

Your lips twitch. Then you process to turn slowly at him, giving him a practiced smile. “If I hear screaming, I’ll assume a shark got into HR’s bonding activities. Hopefully starting with you, my dear.”

He steps back, hand on his heart. “God, you flirt like a weapon.”

“Good thing, I’m not flirting then.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You wake up to a sunset bleeding gold across your bungalow’s ceiling, your suitcase half-unpacked and your soul still somewhere over the Pacific. You’d meant to take a short nap, only to recover from the long flight—but your body had other plans. Plans involving horizontal collapse and borderline hibernation, apparently.

You groan as your hand fumble on the crumpled itinerary beside your bed instead of your phone and you’re meet with a beautiful ‘dinner: 7:30p.m. Main pavilion, Buffet style. Casual dress.’

You consider not going for long long minutes.

But eventually, you rinse the plane out of your skin, throw on something linen-adjacent, and follow the distant sound of laughter and clinking silverware toward the glow of the main dining pavilion.

It’s stunning. String lights twisted through palm trees, low tables on sand, candles in hurricane glass. The buffet is obnoxiously good—long tables of grilled fish, tropical salads, fruit that looks airbrushed, and at least three kinds of rice that you know you’ll mess up mixing.

You make a beeline for a plate, eyes still adjusting to all the beauty when a sudden voice takes you by surprise. “Hi, is this your third attack on the buffet too?”

You glance up.

A beautiful lady—maybe your age—with sharp cheekbones, beach-curled hair and a quiet sort of chaos energy in her green eyes looks at you with the warmest smile.

“Actually, it’s my first. I’ve just come out of my hibernation.” You speak. “I might eat an entire papaya and feel nothing in my stomach.”

“Perfect,” she grins. “I need someone morally flexible to split the grilled pineapple with.”

You raise and eyebrow. “Is this a recruitment tactic?”

“Yes. I’m building a breakaway cult. Our only rule is ‘never speak during HR icebreakers.’”

You let out a small laugh at her playfulness. “Meliaa,” she sticks out her hand. “Finance team. But the cool side.”

You take it. “Marketing. Emotionally retired.”

She clinks your plate with hers. “Welcome to paradise, emotionally retired marketing. May your bungalow be crab-free, and your neighbor be bearable.”

“Too late on that one.” You snort.

Meliaa doesn’t pry, but the glance she throws you says story time later. She leads you toward the beach seating where everyone’s half-tipsy, pretending not to be networking. You sit together under one of the big lanterns—the ocean playing a slow, welcoming melody.

Her company is surprisingly easy—funny and calm, absolutely nothing near those grumpy financial creaturesyou’ve met. Hours pass by a blue and your connection is well-welcoming, light. And somewhere across the pavilion, you catch a glimpse of Sylus’s raspy voice—low and amused, probably a bit tipsy.

Meliaa nudges your elbow with her own. “Now that I think about it. You’re the one who headed the carton-pleinlaunch a few weeks back with Sylus, right? The product that basically triggered a LinkedIn civil war?” You blink, mid-bite as she adds, “With Sylus. Unless I completely imagined the dozens of Slack messages and corporate gossip about you two…”

You follow her nod toward the far table, where Sylus is comfortable sprawled in a way that should be illegal in dress pants. He’s mid-sentence, surrounded by a few persons of the finance-team, one hand curled around a glass that is probably too overpriced for what it is, whine. His white mullet hair is slightly windswept, glasses pushed high on his straight nose, skin doing that just-warm-enough-to-look-unbothered glow.

You hum noncommittally.

“Oh, come on,” Meliaa says, stabbing a piece of pineapple. “you two set the whole building on fire—metaphorically and tragically. I’m sure people are still talking about it like it was a royal wedding.”

You hum again. Higher pitch, not biting.

“Everyone’s obsessed,” she adds. “Even the legal team has a weird theory that you two are, like, creative soulmates.”

You resist the urge to flip your fork.

Truth is, yes—the campaign was brilliant. Seamless. Unhinged. A little too synergized, if you’re honest. But working with Sylus felt like surviving a beautiful car crash: effective, chaotic, and guaranteed to give you a twitch in your right eye.

Meliaa tilts her head, watching you. Then, with surgical timing: “So…did you fuck?”

You fork pauses mid-air.

“What??”

She shrugs, unbothered, popping the pineapple into her mouth like she didn’t just detonate a small social bomb. “Just asking. The tension in those launch photos was giving me very two-slide-too-close-to-each-other-in-a-PowerPoint energy.”

You blink. “We co-authored a product deck, not a sex tape.”

Meliaa cackles. “Same thing if you zoom in enough.”

You glare, but it’s all smoke. She’s laughing, and you’re…not really as mad as you probably should be. In fact, a small smile twitches your lips. “Anyway,” you soon to be friend says with a blink, “if you ever do, just give me a sign. Like, blink three times at the salad bar.”

You sigh and shove a chunk of mango in your mouth before replying, “Don’t wait too long. you’re more likely to see a robot cry on live television than catch me fucking that person.”

And as if summoned by sin, Sylus turns. His gaze slides across the crowd and lands directly on you, locking eyes—with his usual playfulness in his ruby eyes, a cocky smirk well put on his stupidly handsome face, he lifts his wine glass.

You don’t move. Just raise your slice of mango with your fork in silent salute, smile sugar-sweet but, unfortunately, the mango you put in your mouth is nothing sweet—it lost all his delicious taste.

Meliaa lets out a low whistle. “Oh yeah,” she murmurs, hiding her smile. “This is definitely going in the Slack thread.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next morning arrives in a slow, golden blur.

You spend the first half of it shuffling through the company’s very earnest attempts at “bonding.” There’s a trust exercise involving coconuts, a brainstorming session under a frangipani tree, and a mindfulness circle where someone from accounting got a bit too real during the 'one thing you’re grateful for' round.

Corporate bliss. With flip-flops.

Turns out, Meliaa’s in Bungalow Five. Just two wooden planks down from yours. She’d greeted you at breakfast like an old war comrade, slid a way-too-sweet coffee into your hand, and muttered, “Let’s survive this day like it’s a team-building hostage crisis.” You’d instantly felt grateful for her existence.

By the time the afternoon rolls around, most of the group is half-sunburned and sticky with coconut-scented resolve.

And God thanks, you’ve got quartier-libre for the late afternoon. Which mean :

“Meliaa!” you scream between breaths, as her surfboard shoots up like it’s trying to reach heaven. “You good?!” you laugh so hard your ribs ache, your friend getting absolutely bodied by waves was, apparently, your new favorite pastime.

She resurfaces, choking on saltwater and pride, hair slicked back like a shipwrecked mermaid. “That wave had audacity,” she gasps. “Tell my manager I died in the line of duty.”

You smirk, “already did. Also told tem you left your company laptop to me in your will.”

She flips you off dramatically with her water-wrinkled fingers.

“I also told you how to do this—like, a thousand times,” you say, wading over to grab her leash. “What was that? You flopped like a cursed baguette.”

“Okay, French Kelly Slater, I didn’t grow up inside a GoPro ad like you,” she huffs, still clinging to her board like it personally betrayed her.

You shrug your shoulder in false desinvolture, “what can I say, you missed all the fun then.” You help her get back on. “Bend your knees. center of gravity. Don’t throw yourself forward like you’re trying to hug a wave.”

“that’s rude. I’m an empath. The wave seemed lonely.”

You groan, push her board around to face the next set of baby swells. “Okay, empath. Paddle, paddle, up, not a crucifixion poses this time—”

She tries again and almost makes it this time, popping halfway up before immediately slipping off and flailing into the water. You clap slowly, “10/10 for drama. 3 for form.”

Meliaa bursts out laughing, face barely above water. “You know what, I’ll just float. Floating is my destiny.” You paddle over, letting your board drift beside hers, both of you bobbing gently in the turquoise, the sun warm on your shoulders.

And just as a smartass remark starts making its way out of your mouth—

“Ladies.” A raspy, low voice crackles right into your eardrums.

Meliaa shields her eyes, squinting at the sky as she floats on her board. “I think that’s your fuckboy.” She murmurs for only you to hear as Sylus paddles toward you.

You don’t even need to look to know she’s right. The syllables already reek of well-dressed arrogance and ego-drenched cologne, splashing straight onto your last nerve.

“I thought I heard two struggling seals and figured I should investigate.” Sylus drawls lazily as his board bumps against yours—utterly unbothered by concepts like personal space.

You shoot him a glance.

And immediately have to discipline your eyeballs. Because no, you’re not going to acknowledge how the wetsuit clings to him like it was vacuum sealed by the gods.

You’re definitely not acknowledging the stretch of his strong thighs on either side of his board, solid and extremely salivating. And you’re certainly not acknowledging the way his ridiculous mid-length hair is slicked back making him irresistible, droplets catching on his lashes, making him look like he’s been hand-painted for thirst traps.

He raises an eyebrow, smirking but before he could even open his mouth, you’re quicker to beat him, “Sorry, we don’t speak corporate dolphin. Can you translate?”

Meliaa snorts, sinking halfway off her board from laughing.

Sylus only chuckles under his breath and leans in closer—so close you can actually count the droplets on his chiseled jaw—planting both of his annoyingly large hands between his thighs as his head stops centimetersaway from yours.

“Y’know,” his voice drops enough to touch something hot in your stomach—your eyes drifting from his board nudging yours to his sharp eyes. “you’re quite funny to talk to,” he murmurs, head tilting as his eyes sweeps over you. “Always some bratty answers coming out of your mouth.” Before you can shoot back, his ruby eyes drop—flicking to your plushy lips and pausing there just long enough to spark heat in the salt-thick air. “Wonder what else you could do with that pretty mouth.” And then his eyes crawl their way back to yours, dragging your pulse up with them.

Meliaa slaps a hand against the surface of the water. “Yeahhh,” she says, pushing herself upright on her board with dramatic flair. “I’m letting you two flirts in peace before the ocean turns into a sex scene. I’m too hot and too single to witness this tension up close.”

“Go choke on a seashell.”

She cackles, already drifting off. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t film!”

You steal a glance at Sylus but he still as his eyes fixed on you—lips curled into that smug smirk, again. He leans in a fraction closer, water lapping gently between the boards. “Why are you always so bite-bite with me?”

“Bite-bite?”

He nods, lips twitching. “Yeah. All teeth. Little nips every time I open my mouth.”

You tilt your head back, putting some distance with him. “Maybe I just enjoy chewing through bullshit.”

He hums. “You’re so full of heat. I wonder what you’d do if you weren’t busy pretending you hate this.”

“Hate what, exactly.”

“This,” he says, motioning between you. “Me. The banter. The fact that when I get close,” his board nudges yours again, “You don’t move fully.”

You inhale slowly, refusing to blink first. “Careful. You sound like you want something.”

“I do.”

You wait for him to continue as you can clearly see mischief playing behind his pupils. “First one to ride that wave all the wain in—” he jerks his chin toward the break rolling in the near distance “—wins.”

You squint. “Wins what?”

He smiles, a real smile this time. “Don’t know. Anything the person wants.” You look at the wave, then at him.

“You’re on, Sylus.”

The wave rises, it’s a monster—one of those waves’ surfers dream about and lifeguards whisper warnings over. You both paddle hard, muscles burning, adrenaline surging like the tide behind you. You catch it at the same time, boards slicing the face of the wave with a smooth hiss.

You two pop up in perfect sync, knees bent, bodies low—rooster tail of spray spreading behind your boards. Sylus is good—too good even. His form is fluid, confident. So confident he glances at you mid-ride and winks.

He can’t help but grin as you push forward, carving hard and spraying him with a mist of seawater. He lets out a small chuckle, swallowed by the roar of the wave, and retaliates by riding dangerously close to you as if he wants to bump you off—except he knows exactly how not to. “Friendly reminder,” he calls out, voice teasing over the crash of the surf, “if you fall, I’m totally carrying you back like a tragic romance heroine.”

“Dream on, Sylus.”

You pump down the face of the wave, gathering speed, muscles burning as you pull ahead. He chases right on your tail, throwing in a flashy spin. You’re nearing the shore now. Sand is visible. And so is the crowd gathered on the beach.

The wave’s energy is starting to fade, so you crouch lower—your board starts to shake slightly beneath you, but you hold. There’re only few meters left from the shore and Sylus is still standing upright when you hear his raspy voice again, “Ready to call it a draw?”

You laugh. “Only if you’re afraid of losing.”

His eyes gleam. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He suddenly crouches, touches the water with his fingers, and then—leans back dramatically like he’s sinking onto a bed. And, somehow, he’s still balancing perfectly, defying gravity itself. You jaw drops. “Show-off,” you mutter, brows furrowed in slight annoyance. The wave fizzles out, both boards glide into the shallows…

And Sylus hits the sand a second before you.

The water settles as silence makes its room between you. And as you try—hallucinate—to ingurgitate your defeat, the insufferable-financial-man-who’s-surprisingly-good-at-surf jumps off his board with his arms stretched wide and yells, “Victory tastes like salt and glory!”

So uncharacteristically him.

“By half a fin.” You roll your eyes, but you’re honestly too amused by the rare, boyish joy lighting up his face—the usual seriousness replaced with something softer, freer.

“A win’s a win. But hey—” He walks toward you, water sliding up his thighs, offering you a hand. His voice dips, low, “you were amazing. Like, scarily good. I didn’t know you could ride like that.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you up—but you don’t miss how your hand looks small in his, how he holds it a beat longer than necessary. “Yeah? I didn’t know you had physics-defying arrogance.”

“Only when you’re watching.” He squeezes your hand. “Now I get to ask you what I want, right?” He adds, voice laced in teasing heat.

“I guess so,” you murmur, pulse ticking in your throat. “Choose well. This ain’t happening again anytime soon.”

His full lips twitch upward. “Then I’ll make it count.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next two days pass in a blur of sun and carefully scheduled corporate bonding. Paddleboard relays, beachside obstacle courses, something called ‘synergy sprint’ that involved trust falls and colored ropes—and a surprise group meditation session where Meliaa muttered ‘If I achieve inner peace, I’m quitting finance.’ Just loud enough for half the team to hear.

As for you, you play your part. Smile for the group photos, nod during the workshops, give your best fake-enthusiastic thumbs up when the manager says something like “let’s circle back to those pain points in a blue-sky brainstorm.” It’s all fine.

Functional. Entertaining in a mildly corporate-absurdist way.

But one thing keeps triggering you: Sylus.

He’s sharp, composed and maddeningly unreadable. Nothing out of the ordinaire. He leads his mini team through challenged with smooth authority, gives concise answers, asks the right questions. He’s polite and focused.

What is out of the ordinary though, is his lack of… teasing.

And that’s the part that makes you feel stupid for noticing. You shouldn’t notice. Especially when you both aren’t in cold—not when you laughed your way out of the water after the surf challenge.

And even if you were in cold, it shouldn’t annoy you. You shouldn’t feel strange when he doesn’t find a way to sit next to you during lunch time. You shouldn’t expect him to land an offhanded remark or throw a lazy smirk with a playful one-liner with that serious face of his.

“You two fought, when I left you in the water the other day?” asks, voice low as she ducks behind you during a ridiculous team-building dodgeball game, clutching your shoulders—using you as a riot shield.

“What?” you blink. “no.”

She lifts a brow. “So, he’s just suddenly forgotten how to flirt with you?”

“He was not flirting.” You scoff.

She gives you a slow, dramatic side-eye. “ ‘Wonder what else you could do with that pretty mouth’ ring any bells?” She copies him by dropping her voice octaves lower. “If that’s not flirting, I’m throwing out every lace set I own.”

You catch the ball midair before answering. “Maybe he’s just… dialed back.”

Meliaa leans in close, palms gripping your shoulders harder, and murmurs, “Oh, he’s dialed something, alright. Question is if it’s his mouth or his self-restraint. Either way, he’s one look away from unzipping that repressed little soul of his with his teeth.”

You choke on your own saliva, coughing once—just in time to get nailed in the shoulder by a foam dodgeball from one of the interns.

Your friend cackles behind you. “And that’s for ignoring sexual tension, babe.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The sun dips lower, staining the sky in warm amber as the salty breeze drifts lazily through the open windows of Meliaa’s bungalow. She’s sprawled on her bed in a silk robe, long legs elegantly crossed as a skin-care mask repose on her angelic face.

Meanwhile, you’ve totally made a chaos of her room. A freaking mess—robes, pants, tops all upside down, flung with total disregard for gravity or dignity. You’re moments away from burning the entire place to the ground in pure aesthetic defeat.

It wasn’t supposed to be this dramatic. You moved your stuff in earlier, hours before, when you both decided getting ready chez Meliaa would be ‘more fun.’

Lies. Meliaa’s fun. You are spiraling.

You only needed to find a pretty outfit for your last day in this idyllic place to be finally ready. But it seems like you’d be more likely to dig up a dinosaur bone than a fit deserving the view of the sun kissing the sea at the horizon.

You stand in front of her, two outfit options dangling in each hand, your energy somewhere between fashion breakdown and ritual sacrifice. “Okay,” you groan, as if you’ve just been through war. “Honest opinion. No diplomacy, no fake corporate optimism. Rip me to shreds if needed.”

Meliaa, still unmoved, peeks through her mask with the kind of look that should be illegal in five countries. “Rip away, darling.”

“Sooo, option one: these low-rise white pants—you know the ones; the wind would flirt with them. And bonus point for comfiness. Paired with this top,” you say, holding up a barely-there lace halter. The lace slides down the back in elegant X, letting your arms sleeveless and the front is as much laced on your tummy to spiral on your chest where white tissue is covering the strict necessary.

Meliaa hums, already intrigued.

“Orrrr,” you say, brandishing the second outfit like a weapon, “this simple dress.” And by simple dress you mean a lavender open-back gown with thigh-high slit, a plunging neckline, and hidden sorcery in the lining that keeps it clinging exactly where it should.

“I’m emotionally attached to both and also convinced neither is good enough to stand in front of the sun as it kisses the sea goodbye.” You continue, longing both of your fits.

Your friend lets out a deep sigh as she removes her mask. She sits up, eyes sharpening. “First of all,” she starts, “the white pants set is dangerous. That top should come with a warning label. I know a certain man that’ll short-circuit and probably miscalculate someone’s quarterly forecast.”

“But—” she raises a finger, “the dress is art. That slit says, ‘I have emotional depth and possibly a dagger’. That neckline? That’s a tax write-off for heartbreak.”

You blink, waiting for her final decision.

“The pants and the top are a better match for tonight.” You glance at the dress, a little heartbroken that she didn’t make it. “It’s just too beautiful to be wasted here.” The woman adds like she read your thoughts.

You nod, a slight pout tugging at your mouth as you lay the lavender dream gently on the floor. “’Kay. Let’s get ready then.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Dinner drifts by in waves of laughter, glinting glasses, and too many toasts. Someone near the bonfire sings just off-key enough to be charming. The vibe loosens. Barefoot colleagues dance in the shallows; others collapse into the sand, dizzy with wine and sun-warmed skin, their cheeks pink from both.

The night starts soft—genuinely good. Even the air feels kind when you arrive with Meliaa, the breeze teasing the hem of your white pants and tugging at the red lace thong she begged you to wear, claiming it ‘spiced up the whole vibe.’ The slender strands rise high on your hips, slipping above your waistband.

But speaking of Meliaa… she’s nowhere to be seen.

Not since she made the ravishing acquaintance of some tall tanned brunette named… Caleb? Colby? Somehitng with a C and abs and the prettiest violet eyes. You lost track after your third glass of wine, the alcohol coating everything in a warm blur.

“S’uch a traitor.” you mutter, hiccuping softly as you slump back on your elbows in the sand. You’re not far from the sea—close enough to hear the lull of it kissing the shore. The candles flicker in the wind. Your hair’s undone, skin flushed and glowing.

You reach lazily for the bottle at your side, your body half-curled to grab it—fingers barely brushing the glass neck—

A hand beats you to it.

“I think you’ve had enough.” A voice says—low, dry and extremely familiar. You blink up, trying to focus but disoriented by the angle. You know if your neurons work a little more you could probably put a name on this very attractive tone…

Your head tip up from where you were hunched over—

Red eyes.

Vivid. Vivid and locked on you like you’re a storm he sees coming from miles away and still chooses to walk into. It zaps through you, sharp and electric.

Your breath hitches when Sylus drops beside you, the bottle landing with a soft clink on his other side. He doesn’t say a word as he stretches his long legs in the sand, back slouched with that casual arrogance he wears like sin.

“Heyyy..” you mumble, lips already turned in a pout as you lean fully into him. “wznted t’ po-pour s’m… s’mrthing…” Your arm reaches lazily across his lap, moving at a snail’s pace, coordination drunk and dying. Your breast presses firmly against the inside of his thigh, warm through the fabric of his pants, and your ass lifts to reach farther… letting your low-slung linen pants slip lower—giving Sylus a perfect, lingerie-ad-campaign flash of your laced triangle thong.

His breath shifts but that doesn’t mean he looks away.

His glasses are still perched high on that too-sharp, too-wide nose, the metal frames catching the soft glow of the lanterns. His white mullet is loose tonight, a little windswept, a little fallen out of place—soft-looking in a way that makes your fingers twitch with the urge to tangle in it.

And his ears—oh, his ears—have more silver than usual. Tiny earrings crawl up the curve of his left one like constellations. There’s even a thin piercing at the top, barely visible, but now seared into your memory forever—you want to follow all those with your tongue.

Just as your fingers graze the bottle, Sylus lifts it and shifts it out of reach—effortless, like swatting a bug. A splash of the drink hits his designer pants.

“Oopsie,” you murmur, blinking down at the dark stain, faking compassion. “S’ your faulty. Your thighs’re too…” You wave vaguely, struggling to find the word. “... too like that. All big and muscly and in the way of my needs.”

His jaw tics once.

“Gimme,” you whine, reaching again—more determined now, zero coordination though. You shift onto your knees and—predictably—overshoot.

Thump.

“Shit,”

“Goddamn it” you both murmur at the same time.

Your body crashes into his left shoulder, throwing both of you sideways into the sand. His head hits with a muffled grunt, yours landing hard on his chest, knocking the breath out of both of you. One of his arms snaps up by pure instinct, hand cupping the back of your head to keep you from full-on faceplanting into his sternum.

“Y’counldn’t—” you start, voice muffled against his chest. You try to push yourself up but only succeed in straddling one of his thighs, palms flat on his chest, which is annoyingly firm. “You… y’couldn’t j-juh—juss gime ze btwolle, huh?” If you weren’t swimming in fog and expensive rum, you might’ve noticed the sharp pink blooming across Sylus’s cheekbones. The crimson climbing up his neck. The way the tips of his ears are glowing red.

“You drank too much,” he grits, shifting like he might sit up—like he might do something responsible. But you clamp your thighs tighter around his lap, grounding him in place.

“Nooooo,” you drawl dramatically, leaning in until your breath warms the shell of his ear. Your hair drapes over your shoulder like a curtain, catching light like a halo—if halos were horny. “Y’know… I’ve been vrrrrryyyyyygwoood,” you giggle into his neck. “didn’t even ask why you didn’t use your prize…”

Sylus goes very still.

He tries not to react to the way your hips are seated on him—warm and wholly dangerous. Or to how your lashes flutter against your flushed cheeks as you blink up at him, dilated and infuriatingly cute.

“What prize?” he murmurs, already knowing, already regretting it.

You jab a finger into his chest, miss, and land somewhere on his clavicle. “The one you won. Szurffff thingy… I did—I h-had lowzse…” your words fall apart on your tongue, melting into giggles. “You said, um… what was it… vic’tory like… c-con’quest? Trophyyyy? K-kiss-your-brat?” you squint, nose scrunching. “Ugh. You always gotta use aklll— I meant allll those compzlicazted words…”

Sylus chuckles low under his breath as he looks at you. Really looks at you. The curve of your flushed cheeks. The glitter of alcohol and something wanting in your eyes. Your mouth parts, soft and pink, talking too much. But so plushy and squishable and… kissable.

“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, and it slips out too raw.

Your brows lift in genuine surprise. “Whass’ that?” you slur, cocking your head like a sleepy cat, lashes fluttering slow. “You… scared?” His hand holds your hip without meaning to. “No. I’m trying to be decent.”

You drop your forehead to his, smiling lopsidedly. “I dowan d’cent…” you say, gaze dropping blatantly to his mouth, your fingers come up naturally, brushing over his bottom lip, a thick press with your index. “I want t-to…” The rest of the sentence melts, heavy and hung in your throat. Your index finger stays right there, curved against the soft dip of his mouth.

And Sylus—Sylus who’s kept his distance half of this trip, who hasn’t teased or toyed with you since that wave-slick day—looks like he’s one deep breath (heavy breath for him) away from saying fuck it all.

But, unlike you, he sees the people watching you. You’re sunk so deep in this little world made of sand and him that you don’t care about the curious eyes of your team glancing your way.

Sylus doesn’t say a word, he simply moves. Once second, you’re straddling his thighs, lips brushing his chin—next second, you feel gentle fingers flipping you off his lap and into the sand beside him. You yelp, legs kicking slightly, your hair messier. “H-hey!” you whine.

But he has turned away, he needs to physically disconnect to breathe again. He tries to reset his pulse, forearms braces on his knees. His cock is pressing brutal and hard against the inside of his pants—impossiblyhard because of your bold moves.

“Are you into moons?” you mumble as if nothing happened.

“… What?” his head tips toward you, the confusion etched in the small crease between his brows. His voice a little hoarse.

“Moon Girls,” you explain, “saw ‘em… hoverin’. Gr-gravitating. L-like horny moonz.” your face twists with annoyance. “You didn’t tease me those past days. Why? What gives? Did I stop being… what’s the word…” you trail off, spinning your hand in a drunk spiral. “…quite funny to talk t-to?”

You scoot closer to him until your thigh is pressed fully against his. “Y’know... I’m not olly funny” you add, hiccupping into the sentence. “I’m alose charming,” you counter with your chin raised, teetering on dramatic.

His voice sounds wrecked with restraint when he finally speaks. “You’re something.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m a brat.”

He stiffens instantly.

“I mean—y’said I give bratty answers.” You nuzzle in closer, your forehead now bumping against his bicep. “You like that, huh? You like when I act like a brat?”

His eyes drop to your lips. The air is boiling.

“D’you wanna see wh-what else my pr-pretty mouth can do?” Your sounds like a velvet trap as you lift your head to look at him with big utterly honest doe eyes.

His face turns. His lips part just slightly. He leans in until your noses are touching, breath tangled. “If I say yes?” he asks, voice barely a thread.

You freeze. Then hiccup. Then smile. A lazy, proud, drunken grin that melts every edge off your words. “Well… th-that’s a wuh-win-win situayshun.”

He huffs the quietest laugh, head shaking just once. His glasses slip down his nose. And without missing a beat, you reach up and nudge them back into place, your fingertips brushing his hot skin. You smile ear to ear as his obvious happy self, almost found of him.

“You’re going to regret all of this tomorrow, kitten,” he whispers, voice deep and tight with tension.

“Y’gonna kiss me or-or just call me pet names ‘til I pass out?”

He stays frozen for what seems like eternity before he lets his palm rest on the sand behind him and lets his weight drop on them. “You’re drunk,” his voice as loud as the sounds of the waves. “So drunk.”

You nod with exaggerated solemnity, your forehead bonking lightly against his shoulder. “Mmhmmmm, but like… like sexy drunk.”

He huffs, dropping his head back to look at the dark sky—asking the stars to give him patience tonight. Especially since more people are staring now. A couple of them whispering. Sylus’s jaw flexes once, then twice. He stands and pulls you up with him.

When he finally looks at you again, his mouth is twisted into something between a smirk and a prayer. “Come on,” he says, hauling you up in the same motion. “You can’t stay out here giggling in the sand.”

You make a noise of protest. “I c-can!”

“Oh yeah? You wanna giggle while face-planting into the resort lawn?”

“’S not the worst place I’ve had my face,” you mumble into his chest as he stops and effortlessly scoops you into his arms without much warning.

“Jesus,” Sylus mutters with his deep raspy voice. “You would say none of those stuff sobber.”

Your arms hook loosely around his neck as he starts walking, his steps long and steady. “Why not?” you ask, batting your lashes. “You said I was bratty. Brats say stuff. Brats say filthy lil things…”

He swallows audibly, jaw tight and serious. “You’re really testing me.”

You hum, cheek pressed to the side of his neck. He smells maddening—a bit of salt and his cologne, not something strong but more something inebriate. “But y’like me,” you whisper, words a bit thick to come out. “You like me even when I’m… mez-meessy.”

“You’re a disaster,” He wants to sound reproaching, but it’s awfully close to fond.

You lift your head, still clinging to his shoulders tightly—as tight as your drunk limbs allow you. “Y’ didn’y answer…”

“Answer what?”

“Why you didn't use your prize,” you pout. “You won. I was… generous loser. Coulda kissed me. Made me beg. Made me cry, maybe. That’s what they do in those brat stories, right?”

Sylus nearly stumbles. “God,” he says again. “Do you hear yourself?”

You grin, eyes glassy. “I’m adorable.”

He adjusts your weight, one arm under your thighs, one wrapped around your back. “You were more than adorable tonight,” he says, quieter now. “Everyone saw it.”

You blink slowly, putting more effort than necessary to understand this conversation. “saw w’the?”

“You. That dangerously beautiful, laced top and panties. Everyone was looking at you.”

“They were?”

Sylus hums. “…You jealous?” you mumble, your voice so small, so teasing.

“Not jealous,” Sylus replies, voice like flint. “Just… hyper-aware.”

You use your arms around his neck to push you up—or push him down—so you could nuzzle the base of his neck. “You didn’t tease me…” you murmur, bringing this topic again. “You were all noble and hot…was g’ing cra-zyyyy.”

He doesn’t reply. But his grip tightens.

“Y’know,” you go on, soft and dreamy, “I saw one of those girls. The Moon Girls. From earlier. She touched your arm. I would’ve clawed her if I wasn’t so busy bein’ tragic an’ pretty.”

“Kitten,” he warns, voice so low it rumbles through his chest. “Shut up.”

You giggle, your lips pink from too much wine and not enough water. “Y’called me kitten again. That’s not very decent of you.”

When he arrives at your bungalow, he doesn’t let you down. Instead, he keeps carrying you, one arm strong under your thighs, the other rifling through your tiny purse with calm precision while you’re draped all over him as a horny scarf. He hooks the key into the lock, muttering something about how you’ve filled your bag with “thirty lip glosses and zero dignity.”

You wiggle slightly in his arms, your lips pressing just below his jaw—leaving a perfect, wicked lipstick stain behind. “One bisouuuu,” you whisper, smirking widly as he goes rigid all over again. “Juz one. Not even for me,” you hold up your hand in a shaky promise, palm raised like a scout. “F’r you! You earned it…”

When he sets you down—tries to—his grip locks tight around you as your knees keep buckling and buckling under you. “You’re gonna wake up tomorrow and want to bury yourself,” he says gently as you sag against him.

“Then you can bury me,” you breathe, lips ghosting over his neck. “Deep. Real deep…”

“Don’t say stuff like that…” he groans under his breath, murmuring your name like it pains him.

“Your dick is pressed against me,” you add without flinching a tiny bit.

But Sylus? He freezes.

Your hands come up to fist his shirt near his collar. “You’re so—warm. Hard,” you move your arms, looping them lazily around his neck, hips tipping forward, chasing the heat. “You seem big… ‘s nwot fzair.”

His brows knit, the muscle in his jaw keeps flexing as he fights the urge to do anything. To move. To breathe. Your drunk gravity has him—hooked, hot and dying slow.

You rise on tiptoe, trying to close the distance, your elbows resting on his shoulders as you press your lips on his chin—Sylus dodging your kiss right in time and leave another pink stain here. He has his brows furrowed in concern, eyes begging for you to stop.

“Y’zeem like…” your voice falters, but your heavy-lidded eyes are dead serious. “Like a man who givespleasure…”

Sylus shuts his eyes for one breath. Two.

“Y’have long fingers,” you continue quietly, one of your hands dragging slowly up his chest, then to his mouth—pressing lightly to his bottom lip for the second time tonight. “So much lips—I mean, soooo full. And your nooseee…”

The other hand is tracing his nose now, fingers lazy and soft. He should stop you. He should move. But he’s frozen—shaking with restraint.

“You’re wasted,” he says, finally. Barely above a whisper. “And I’m not that guy.”

Your faces are the closest to each other that they’ve ever been. Your breaths intertwining with the other—he smells like menthe, yours a faint sent of strawberries alcohol, the one you had drunk earlier. “You could be…”

“Yeah,” he mutters, hand slipping lower on your waist, guiding you gently toward the bed, his strong legs finding their places in between yours as his guides you. “But then I’d have to spend the rest of my life hating myself.”

He tucks you in, brushing the hair off your face with fingers that could—God—do so much more, you blink up at him.

“Bet you’d still fuck good with the guilt,” you mumble.

He lets out something between a laugh and a strangled sob. “You’re gonna be insufferable in the morning.”

“I’m always insufferable,” you whisper, already drifting. “But cute. Real cute.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

“I don’t get it.” You complain quietly at the table, staring at the foam like it might offer answers. Rafayel and Meliaa exchange a look over their mugs, some weird mic of concern and confusion that makes your chest tighten.

“He’s been avoiding me—“

“Wasn’t that what you wanted though?” Rafayel cuts in, raising an eyebrow. You kept talking in loop, repeating the same things over and over again since this afternoon:

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I just—he’s weird lately. Since we came back from the retreat.”

To be fair, everyone’s been acting off. People from marketing and finance keep eyeing you like you grew a second head—whispering things you can’t quite catch, falling silent just as you pass. Everything would’ve been fine if he’d just acted normal. Or if, at least, you had a clue what the hell was going on.

Across the table, Meliaa and Rafayel are finishing their pastries, casually sharing a plate as if they’ve been besties for years.

You squint at them, coffee in hand. “The two of you got close,” you mumble.

Meliaa shrugs, sipping her oat latte. “The vibes vibed.”

You nod vaguely and look back into your mug like it holds answers. You try to kick your brain into gear—comb through anything that might explain all this weirdness—when something clicks.

“Hey, um…” you start, not sure where you’re going, but you’re already talking so may you just end your thought. “You’re kind of always up to date with what’s going on around the company, right? You could maybe… ask Sylus something? I mean you both work in finance.” You try to make it sounds as casual as possible. And not desperate.

Meliaa pauses mid-sip, eyes already gleaming. “Sure” she says slowly, her tone light. “I’ll just go up to him and be like, ‘Hey Sylus, you know that girl from marketing who always looks like you’re personally offending her when you open your mouth? Actually, she’s super offended when you don’t flirt with her. Thought you should know.’”

“That’s not—” you start, flustered. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Rafayel nearly choking on his drink, very much not hiding his laugh. “No.” you say with a voice that tries to sound convincing—but fail experimentally.

Meliaa grins into her cup, unfazed. “I’m just saying… if someone is being weird, it wouldn’t kill you to ask him. Directly.” She says it casually, but there’s something under it—something that lands a little too squarely.

“So, you do know something, don’t you?”

“Moi ? I was far too busy being cornered by that tall, sexy brunette from legal—” Rafayel stiffens beside her—enough for you to notice. His fingers pause around his glass. His eyes narrow, darting to her, unreadable. “While someone, was getting very cozy with a certain white-haired finance boy. Very cozily and very drunk, if I recall.”

Your stomach flips.

You were indeed very drunk. And what you recall, is waking up with a pouding headache, the violent urge to vomit, and barely enough time to catch yoru flight—remembering nothing from the previous night, except someblurry moments with Sylus on the sand. And a shiver on your skin that had nothing to do with the cold.

Meliaa hums, all fake innocent as she drops the next bomb. “Sure. Just drunk enough to be all over him, and spend half the night looking at him like he was dessert.” She draws the words out and taps her spoon against her mug. “Not judging. I fucked that pretty violet eyed boy. I’m just… observing, y’know?”

You open your mouth to respond—defend or deny something—but Rafayel suddenly gets up, too quickly. His chair scrapes back loud against the floor.

“Well,” he says tightly, “I’ll leave you two to your girl talk—”

“But Rafa—” you start, a bit throwed off by his reaction as he’s always up for some gossip.

“I’m going.” He avoids your eyes as he adjusts the sleeves of his jacket, already halfway turned away. “And I already paid for our drinks. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, ladies.”

Not a single glance to you. But to Meliaa? One long, unreadable look.

And then he’s gone—out the coffee shop door with a jingle of the bell overhead.

You sit there, incrédule, and if you were in some cartoon, you’d be drawn with your eyes out of your orbits. The silence stretches and you stare at her, blinking over and over again.

You probably feel like your eyes are falling out when Meliaa chokes—literally spits half her oat latte back into her cup.

“What,” you ask slowly as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like nothing happened, “was that??”

“Nothing,” she says faster than her brain can catch up, avoiding your lasers eyes. “It went down the wrong pipe.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb on me now. Why was Rafayel bolting like he owed you child support?”

“She busy-busies herself stirring foam that doesn’t need stirring. She’s smart.

“Oh my God. YOU BROKE HIM!!” you exclaim a bit too loudly.

“I didn’t break anyone.”

“You broke that man, Meliaa. He fled like you unlocked a trauma.”

She mutters something under her breath. You immediately lean forward.

“No, no, no. No mumbling. Speak clearly for the people in the back like you always do. Did something happen between you two?”

“Nothing major.” She shrugs

“What does that even mean?!” you drop your voice to a whisper this time. “Did you kiss? Sleep together? Is this a situationship? Friends with benefits—”

“Gosh,” she sighs.

“Did you emotionally destroy him and eat a croissant over his corpse?” you press.

“I will leave you here,” she says flatly, but her ears are bright pink and you know you’re onto something.

“Meliaaaa, be honest with me. Am I in soap opera? For your information, I’d love to! Are you secretly dating my other best friend ?!!”

“I think you are in a soap opera. And without my help.” She says calmly.

“Don’t know what you mean,” you reply, taking a biiiiig drink of your coffee—completely ignoring her veryobvious jab at a certain tall engineer.

“You don’t know what I mean?” Meliaa repeats, unimpressed. “Babe, you walked into that team retreat acting like a marketing angel, and left looking like a guilty little sinner. I don’t even know if Sylus has recovered.”

You scowl. “That’s bold coming from someone who may or may not have left emotional debris all over Rafayel’s soul.”

“Better than leaving literal drool on Sylus’s shirt—”

“I did not—wait, did I?” you blink in horror.

She sips smugly. “I’m not saying yes. But I’m also not saying no.”

You gape. “What happeneeeed that night? Tell meeeee,” Your head drops onto your shoulders in fake defeat. “I remember the lights, the sand, the pretty sounds of the waves and just… a fucking bottle of wine next to me and white hair with his insufferable smirk. I possibly haven’t done something stupid right? Did we kiss?? Did I try to kiss him??? Did I—”

Your phone buzzes violently on the table. You glance down and nearly knowk ober your drink when you see the name lighting up your screen :

Claire—Supervisor Marketing.

You grimace. “Ugh, it’s Claire. She wants me in her office.”

Meliaa whistles. “Someone’s in trouble.”

“I don’t think so. She probably wants to talk about the campaign I’m working on.” You grab your bag. “Or maybe she found out I asked IT to unblock Tumblr on the office Wi-Fi.”

Meliaa snorts. “Please keep me updated if you get fired.”

You rise from your chair dramatically. “I will. But we’re not done talking. I will circle back to your tragic friends-to-whatever arc with Rafayel.”

She waves you off, already unlocking her phone. “I’ll be here. Being innocent.”

You squint. “Liar.”

She blows you a kiss as you leave the coffee shop in whirlwind of caffeine, gossip and rising dread about facing your very no-nonsense supervisor.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You knock lightly on your supervisor’s office door, already catching the scent of the expensive perfume and power-tripping. You slap on your most professional smile—the one that stops just short of your eyes.

And when you hear a clipped, singular ‘yes’ your heart races up.

She doesn’t bother looking up when you enter, her attention glued to her screen—fingers tapping slowly and loudly across her keyboard like she’s solving nuclear codes and not just… most likely responding to an email.

Finally, she gestures the chair in front of her desk with a lazy motion of her chin. You sit, back straight and composed.

“I called you in to inform you,” she says, smooth and clipped, “that your campaign from last quarter—the one with Mr. Sylus—has been selected for an internal spotlight interview.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, heart fluttering and racing up once again but this time not from apprehension, no—from joy.

Spotlight interview.

That’s big. So big that you almost obscure how she said Sylus’s name—too friendly with a we-are-close tone.

Claire’s smile is tight, practiced. “Both of you will be featured. A joint interview. A short panel and a video segment.”

You school your face, play it cool. “Oh. That’s… unexpected. I thought the focus was on the new rollout—”

“It was,” She interrupts smoothly, leaning back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “But apparently, someone in executive comms thought the pairing was…” Her stilettos gleam. “Impactful enough to highlight.”

You nod politely. “Well, that’s flattering.”

Her smile doesn’t budge, but her fingers tighten slightly around the pen she’s holding. “Yes, well, some people get very lucky with their assignments.”

Your jaw clenches faintly. “It wasn’t luck.” You immediately soften your tone to stay within the HR-approved border. “That campaign broke regional KPIs by—”

“121%, I’m aware,” her voice’s still cool as pressed linen. “You’re thorough. Ambitious. That much is clear.” You get the sense she wants that to sound like a compliment, but unfortunately it drips with something else—something like a slap dressed as praise. You wonder how long she’s been waiting to remind you she technically still outranks you.

Claire stands abruptly, walking to her window as if the skyline will soothe her clear irritation. “Just be sure to keep things professional during the interview,” she says, her tone skating dangerously close to condescension. “I know you and Mr. Sylus had… a certain rapport.”

Your ears heat despite yourself. “We worked well together.”

“I’m sure you did.” She turns, scanning you—eyes going up and down, that same fake-firm smile frozen on her face. “Comms will reach out this week. You’ll have to coordinate schedules with finance.” A slight pause. “Shouldn’t be too hard. He always seemed… very available for your timelines.”

Goddamn, that’s beyond jealousy… that’s professional envy garnished with personal salt.

“Of course,” you reply, sweet as syrup. “we’re both very committed to making things work.”

Claire’s eyes twitches almost imperceptibly. “Dismissed.”

You rise with practiced grace, shoulders squared, chin high as you pass her office’s door already calculating outfits, lighting angles, and exactly how smug-not-smug you’ll look on camera next to Sylus when he inevitable flirts during the interview—with the interviewer!! Not you, of course.

You’re practically jumping on your feet—probably too much. So much that you don’t notice the fucking wall directly in your path.

Full force. Full face.

A loud BAM that eco throughout the whole floor. You groan as heads turn your way in concern, someone even audibly winces. You ignore them all, ignore even that inconvenient event and square your shoulders again as you keep walking toward the elevator.

But unfortunately, and because humiliation likes company, you bump into someone. You start to grumble an apologize—as you’re literally struggling to find stability—but you feel strong arm holding you in place—

“Hey, be careful next time, kitten.”

Kitten. That surname awakens something—moments to be precise. Blurry moments. Soft sand, salty wind, white hair contrasting with the dark ocean... and arms.

The man looking down at you, catching you in the same strong arms and keeping you from falling.

Sylus’s face is serious. Serious lips pulling into a straight line, serious ruby-red eyes, serious brow pinched in the slightest crease (as his usual), serious nose—serious everything.

You take a step back, barely recovering, barely holding your heart into your ribcage, barely breathing—as you see him for the first time since the work trip. And while you’re busy reeling, he’s already throwing a line. “Well,” he says, eyes flicking down to where your shoulder just collided with his chest, “didn’t know you missed me that much.”

You roll your eyes, pulse sprinting. “It’s your fault for standing in front of structural hazards,” you mutter, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeve—and your pride.

He lets out a low chuckle, something that shoots your body, like drugs.

But just as you open your mouth—maybe to say something flippant, maybe just to breathe properly again—the elevator dings. Doors glide open.

He steps in wordlessly.

You hesitate for half-second, too long, before following him inside. And when you do, you realize the elevator is completely empty. Leaving alllll the space for you both.

Too much space, actually.

So much space that Sylus stands on one side and you take the opposite. As far away as the metal box allows you.

And it’s dead silent. You glance sideways—his arms are crossed on his firm chest, his jaw sharp in profile, eyes fixed on the ascending floor numbers. His mullet hair perfectly netted with gel, some rebellious hair falling on his forehead. His ears are empty—for your displeasure… all his earrings and piercing earrings are gone.

Your throat tightens. The silence is anxious.

The elevator hums softly, and you fumble for something to say. Anything to break the tension that’s crawling under your skin like static. But your brain pulls a blank. No witty comeback, no sarcastic jab.

You don’t know what to do. What to say. This Sylus is foreign to you.

It’s just you and him, and this unbreathable silence… and the suffocating awareness of your lack of knowledge on what you did the last night of your trip. The maddening echo of ‘what did I say?’ eating you alive.

You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. A growing feeling you’re not used to fills your body, and you’re novice to this—novice to control nervousness.

You keep throwing glances at him and his unreadable face does nothing to calm your state.

But unfortunately, your mouth beats your mind and speaks on its own, “Did I…” you pause, tongue dry, heart hammering. “Did I do something that night?” something that made you want to stay away from me?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and exposed. Sylus’s jaw ticks as he turns slowly to look at you—straight in the eyes. Digging holes on your skin through his rectangular glasses.

Ding.

The elevator doors slide open to an incoming flood—people, noise, coworkers stepping in and chatting about deadlines and lunch—leaving your question between you two like a live grenade.

You get bumped forward in the small wave, forced to shift closer toward the center—and that’s when his hand catches you.

A strong hand, wrapping around your forearm with casual force, yanking you gently but firmly toward him. You stumble slightly and end up right in front of him—his body now behind yours, one hand still resting just above your elbow.

He shifts to the corner, shielding you from the crowd without a word. His chest barely brushes your back. His breath grazes your temple when he leans down the slightest bit to murmur, voice low for only you:

“Not here.” And his voice is so deep, so raw, so—

You shake your head—there’re so many people in the elevator and you having bed thoughts wasn’t quite the right moment.

You swallow, trying to force some air into your lungs. You could stay quiet like he asked. You could just wait. But feeling the heat of him behind you, the faint shift of his chest when he breathes, his perfume wrapping around your lungs…

Maddening.

“Fine,” you whisper so only he hears, arms crossed now. A hip cocking so your ass could shift backward and be at his crotch level so your ass could… graze. “If you’re trying to punish me with the silent treatment, it would work better if I remembered what I actually did.”

No response. But your little brat move definitely had an effect on him—his tailored trousers suddenly not sitting quite so comfortably anymore. You tip your head slightly, voice whisper-thin and soaked in fake innocence. “Unless I confessed a dark secret? Or maybe I tried to…” You drop your voice impossibly lower as your eyes meet his and the top of your head hit his chest from the back. “…Kiss you?”

And you probably don’t remember a single thing. But pretending you know exactly what happened—what you did, what you didn’t—is your only weapon right now. The performance is the whole game, isn’t it?

And that drives Sylus like a mad man.

But he still hasn’t say a word. He keeps staring straight ahead like you’re not burning holes into the back of his sanity—you press further, shifting again against his obvious bulge, “You’re cruel, you—”

“You didn’t kiss me.”

His voice slices through the tiny space between you, too close to a growl.

Ding.

He doesn’t move and wait patiently for the people to leave—until the noise dies. Before guiding you to the side with measured calm—firm and steady hands wrapping around your hips. He shifts you aside, clearing his path.

You suck in the most needed breath of your life—air, finally—but it doesn’t soothe anything. Not your heart, not your nerves, and certainly not the heat crawling up your throat.

You don’t know if you’re more breathless or furious.

So just as the doors start to close, you shout, “Don’t be cold for the interview.” Your voice is loud and sharp.

The doors are nearly shut when he stops—turning slowly toward you—his eyes find yours through the narrowing gap.

Smoldering.

And you feel it. It’s consuming you.

The electric thing pulsing between you both like a drawn wire waiting to snap.

Stronger than ever.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Conference Room C. 30 minutes.

The robotic chime from the room’s speaker system is barely done when his voice follows, just as grating:

“Did you hear that? Don’t make us late.”

You glare at the cracked ceiling like it personally betrayed you. Your eyes twitch at the insufferable sound of hishorrible voice hitting your eardrums. You glance at him through the mirror you’re putting make-up in front of.

“I don’t even understand why they put us in the same room.” You mutter, feeling your nerves reaching the maximum of their capacity.

Sylus throws an arm over the back of the couch, smugly comfortable as one leg is crossed over the other—his head dropping to the resting head. “Small budget,” he says. “Big dreams.”

You scoff. “The company makes millions. They could at least give us two rooms.”

“They could,” he agrees. “But they didn’t. Because they know people like us can make it work.”

“You’re a man. I’m a woman.” You say as you eye the choice of lipsticks lying on the table. It’s the last touch for you to be ready.

He finally looks at you, eyes dragging from your naked thighs to your hands fidgeting between the multiple choice of lipstick to your face.

“And?” his voice sounds dangerously calm.

Conference Room C. 20 minutes.

“And a lot of things could happen.”

A beat.

“Like?”

You meet his eyes through the mirror. Your mouth quirks—seeing an opening to push his boutons, to annoy him just as much as you’re annoyed.

Annoyed by the situation. Annoyed by his permanent bak-and-forth. Even though you deserved it. Annoyed byhis sexy form. Annoyed by the white shirt and the two buttons udone from the start. Annoyed by that damn chain holding the collar together and dropping into the opening of his shirt—between his defined pectorals. Annoyed by his long white hair brushes the tops of his shoulders. Annoyed by the silver earrings that made an apparition. Annoyed by his sexy glasses—fitting him way too well.

“Like you’re a man. And we know what men are capa—”

“What are you assuming?” he cuts you off, sharp. His voice like a blade cutting through the electric air starting to form.

You hear the leather couch squeaking as he rises—watching him approach in the reflection, long legs taking slow step toward your chair.

“I’m not that kind of man.” He’s angry. Obviously angry. But not loudly angry. A kind of hurt, angry…

And you turn your chair around to face him—but as you’re meet with strong thighs dressed in a thighs skinny jeans molding his structured muscles, right on your eyes levels, inches away from you… it’s intimidating. And Sylus sees you longing here, so he brings his fingers to lift your chin.

“If I were,” he leans in, letting his other hand drop on the back of your chair, his face bringing closer to yours. “If I were that kind of man, I would’ve taken advantage of you the last night of the trip.” Your breath catches, finding struggle to breathe—to smell anything else than his perfume.

“Instead…” his voice softens, but it coils around you, tighter than before. “I dodged your kisses. Even though I wanted it more than anything else in this world.”

A silence follows, heavy and hot.

“I let you talk, Ramble about how you thought I was hot. Sexy. How you wanted me to take you apart and put you back together in ways no other men would have done before..”

Conference Room C. 10 minutes.

His magnificent red eyes gleam, pupils slightly dilated as his fingers tighten on your chin. “I would want to make love to you. Perhaps, you sounded like you wanted to be fucked, like an animal.”

He tilts his head, gaze dropping to your parted lips—voice dropping lower.

“Who would have thought…” he almost whispers against your lips. “A pretty little thing like you wanted to get fucked raw? Thought about my dick, hands, and lips in this way?”

You swallow hard, unable to come with a smart answer.

“But maybe it was my mistake,” he muses, the chair tilting further back as he leans in harder. “Because you said it yourself…” his thigh slips between yours—your knees spread by the pressure alone. “…You’re a brat.”

Another long pause.

“And brats?” he smirks now, his veiny hand once holding your chin trace down, until it wraps around your throat—thumb resting on your pulse point, pressing, making you gasp. “Brats need to be punished. That’s what they do in your stories, right?”

Your chest rises, falls. Something between fear and craving coils low in your stomach. And just as you think he might kiss you—

He steps back, jaw so tight you hear it click.

“But I’d never touch you like that.” His voice barely there, the ghost of it brushing your skin. “Not unless you are stone-cold sober. Not unless you beg me for it.” His voice is barely above a murmur, and you swear your probably imagined this sentence from how hard your heart is pounding—muffling everything.

Conference C. 5 minutes.

He circles your chair like a storm pulling itself together. Picks up one of the lipsticks you’d been staring at before. “Wear this one,” he turns it in his fingers with something unreadable in his expression.

“That’s the same shade of the kisses you left on my jaw and chin that night.”

- - -

The overhead light is clinical everything is too quiet—except for the clock.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

You’re sitting naturally… or pretending to at least. Legs crossed, palms resting flat against your thighs, your body rigid under the illusion of poise.

Lipstick : perfectly applied.

“Glad to see you listened to me,” Sylus voice comes low and heat-wrapped. He’s sitting next to you in another single couch—close to yours but far enough for your heart to have a normal beat.

You hum—noncommittal.

Your throat too tight to come up with anything clever. Your head’s still not here. Still in the lounge room. Still caught on that single sentence, the one he left you with like a match to gasoline : ‘brats need to be punished. That’s what they do in your stories, right?’

And it’s like this meticulous sentence detonated something in your head, flashes of your night coming slowly to your mind. Your knees buckling as he kept you pressed against his chest, your words—words that would never come out sobber, the kind of filth you let slip between giggles… and hiccups… and need…

Your mouth had said everything. And he’d done… nothing.

Heat crawls up your chest now, wrapping around your neck, pinking your cheeks. From the corner of your eye, you see Sylus watching. Smirking like he knows exactly what memory just came rushing back—head resting in his hand, elbow propped on the armrest.

Red eyes fixed on you, lazy and unbothered while you silently unravel next to him. And it’s so hard to act natural. With all those lighting and cameras trained on you like prey… it wasn’t the moment for the memories to come back.

“Well, we’re getting started in about five minutes.” A lady with a smile too bright to be real says, “I’ll ask questions about your collaboration, the launch, the success. Nothing personal, nothing crazy.” She continues, adjusting her notepad. “Just act normal, and everything’s gonna be fine.”

Easy for her to say.

You shoot her a polite nod, but your spine won’t relax.

Someone behind the camera gives a hand signal—letting you know that the camera hit recording. You adjust slightly in your seat, smile easy but measured. Sylus sits back with that usual unreadable seriousness.

The interviewer begins her intro—bright voice, polished tone—giving a quick overview of your roles in the company, your departments, and the product campaign that’s made your names unavoidable in the internal news cycle.

“Alright,” she says, flipping her page. “The New Horizons campaign took off faster than expected, with 200% increase in engagement in the first three weeks. Everyone’s calling it the blueprint for cross-departmental collaboration. What made you two clicks?”

Your answer flows like liquid. “We never tried to click.” You smile enough to take the edge off the honesty. “We were brutally honest about our differences from the start. But I think that’s what made us sharp. We weren’t afraid to challenge each other.”

The interviewer nods. “And that didn’t slow anything down?”

You shake your head once. “It pushed us forward. I focus on market behavior, storytelling, user emotion. Sylus…” you glance sideways at him, briefly. “Breaks things down to the finest equation. We worked in parallel, but we also pulled each other out of our usual lanes.”

He exhales a short huff—more amused than dismissive. “She doesn’t like rules.” His gaze flicks toward the woman in front of him, then back to you, lingering. “I like results.” He makes a small pause before adding—just to tease you. “She delivers.”

You bite back a smile, the edge of your mouth tugging upward anyway. “If you were about to say something bad,” you murmur to him, light and playful, “I’d have ripped your head off on camera.” You almost forget your encounter with him earlier—feeling your body relax at the sight of the missed Sylus.

“You seem close to each other.” The interviewer chuckles, scribbling down something. “And it seems like… there’s no ego between you.”

“Oh, but here’s ego,” you admit easily. “But it doesn’t get in the way. We both want the same thing : the best outcome. The rest in just noise.”

Sylus leans forward a little, forearms resting on his knees, voice just a touch lower. “It’s rare to find someone who know how to make the noise useful.”

Your chest rises, calm. Steady. Steady.

“You two sound like a dream team.” And the way the woman says it, the way her face lights up. You know that shift—when an interviewer finds their entry point, and starts aiming lower, under the surface.

“Some days,” you say lightly.

Sylus nods in agreement, completely unfazed.

“Talking about dream and certain days.” She flips her page, a little too casual. “You both went to the team-building retreat weeks after the campaign took off. It was mentioned a few times in your department note—apparently, that was a needed pause.”

Your pulse kicks. You nod, lips already shaping your answer before your thoughts fully form. “Yes,” you reply, voice calm. “There was a creative gridlock in the weeks leading up to the launch. Making both our team works harder, day and night, without interruption. Everyone was operating on different bandwidths. The retreat… was really great to reset things. It felt like a bowl of fresh air.”

She laughs slightly. “Sounds intense.”

“It was,” you reply, gaze unwavering. “We had to drop a lot of personal pride to get anywhere.”

Then she turns to Sylus. “Do you agree?”

He pauses—and that silence says everything. He knows exactly what she’s poking at. Still, his voice is even when he replies. “I think we underestimated how fast things can change when people stop performing.”

She smiles sweetly and asks, “Is it ok to answer some anonymous questions?”

The woman’s smile grows just a little too sweet, pen poised when she sees the glances you and Sylus are exchanging before nodding. “Alright, then.. First anonymous question.” She reads from her page, “be honest : who’s more competitive between the two of you?”

You tilt your head, gaze sliding to Sylus with faux consideration. “I’m strategic,” you say slowly, fingers folding neatly in your lap. “He’s obsessive. So, define competitive.”

He doesn’t even look at you—speaking like he already predicted your answer. “She cheats.” You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I optimize. Don’t be mad because your precious equations can’t calculate charm.” That earns a small upward twitch of his mouth. “They can. Charm just isn’t scaleable.”

“Tell that to our numbers,” you shoot back. “Or to the CEO who called my presentation ‘a case study in persuasion.’”

The interviewer grins. “So… both of you?”

“Exactly.” You and Sylus say at the same time—not even trying to coordinate it.

The woman hums as she flips to the next card. “Second one’s fun. What’s one habit the other has that drive you crazy?”

You bite your lower lip in thought. And the man beside you can’t help but let his eyes drag over them—you’re oblivious. “He pauses before answering like he’s running an internal lie detector test.” Sylus lifts an eyebrow, his full attention on you, almost mock-offended. “I think before I speak.”

“You brood before you speak.”

The interviewer chuckles again. “And Sylus?”

He lets a beat pass��his eyes still on you, something sharp and fond behind his gaze… the intensity of it, almost makes you squirm on your couch. “She has zero patience. For meetings. For protocol. For… silence.”

You smile, but your heart pounds hard against your ribcage—knowing exactly what he meant. “Because silence means you’re about to say something cryptic and inconvenient.” You try with a wrecked voice.

“You don’t need silence to say something inconvenient.” He murmurs it so low the woman on the other side misses it—much to her displeasure.

“Alright, alright… let’s try something a little deeper, shall we?”

There’s a small silence—that kind of pause that feels too prepared. Like she’s testing waters.

The stillness in your spine tightens like a reflex. You clear your throat gently, keeping your tone smooth. “He…” your eyes stay forward, though you feel the subtle shift of Sylus leaning back beside you, “...knows how to surf. Pretty well, actually.”

It’s true. It’s harmless. And absolutely not what the interviewer was fishing for—judging by the way her brows twitch up, like she’d bitten into something too bland.

You fight the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Sylus doesn’t smile, of course. He rarely does. His voice is flat, unreadable. “She talks too much when she’s nervous.”

You side-eye him immediately, lips parting as more flashes of this night come back to you. “That didn’t surprise me though,” he adds, glancing at the interviewer before locking eyes with you. “But she listens when it matters.”

The woman goes still for a beat, caught off guard by the sincerity buried in his otherwise clinical tone. “Well, that’s… good to know.”

She looks between you. Then reads the final one, “Last question. What’s something you haven’t said to each other yet?”

There it is.

Your pulse kicks, and you can feel Sylus shift next to you—just a subtle change in the air around his body. Not something anyone else would catch.

One second pass.

Two.

Three.

“If there’s anything worth saying,” he says finally, his voice calm but edged with something harder, “it’ll be said off camera.”

She laughs softly, almost like she’s impressed—or disappointed. “Well. That’s fair.”

The red light above the camera dies out. The room relaxes with it. Crew members begin to stir, chairs scraping gently, quiet voices picking up around you. You exhale deeply, tension releasing from your shoulders. The session’s over—but the real conversation, the one left dangling in the silence between you and Sylus?

That one hasn’t even started yet.

Still, you try not to think too deeply about it as the last mic clicks off your blouse. You murmur a quick thanks to the sound tech before rising to your feet, smoothing your skirt. Sylus is already up, straightening his sleeves with quiet precision. Like he didn’t just dodge the most important question, for the interviewer. Like he didn’t just put your world upside down in the lodge. Like his fingers aren’t still burning your chin.

You walk past him—ready to put all this comedy behind you but suddenly he calls your name, and you halt mid-step.

“You hungry?” his voice breaks the static in your head.

“What’s the offer?” your eyes narrow. Almost defensive.

He slips his hands in his pocket, walking beside you as you head toward the exit. “Dinner. Meliaa’s already on her way.”

“Meliaa?”

“I called her,” he says simply. “She was close by. I thought you would like her presence.” Well the real reasonis : with Meliaa around, the odds of you saying yes were higher.

“I called Rafayel too. And Caleb,” Sylus adds, glancing down at you. (With Rafayel into the equation now, the odds were even more higher.)

You dig through your mind, trying to recall who’s Caleb. And—

“Caleb is the tall brunette with the purple eyes. He hooked up with Meliaa during the retreat.”

“Yeah...” you say, nonchalant. Like you knew exactly who he was the whole time.

Sylus only nods, offering nothing else, as he holds the door open for you.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The restaurant is warm and low-lit. it’s tucked away behind a wine bar, too nice for a work dinner, too casual for anything official. The kind of place where the shadows lean in and the drinks hit too smooth.

Your comrades are sitting near a floor-to window glasses, you spot them first. Meliaa is pinned between Rafayel and Caleb at a round booth. Her expression is bright, animated, her cheeks slightly pink on her honeyed skin… but you don’t miss the restless tension in the way her fingers toy with her glass stem. Rafayel is a little too close, one arm resting behind her on the booth’s back and Caleb, on her other side, has his thigh pressing firmly against her—not budging.

You don’t miss the way Meliaa shifts her shoulders back when she sees you. Relief flickering in her eyes.

“Oh, thank God,” she grins. “I was starting to consider stabbing one of them with a breadstick.”

Rafayel turns his head lazily toward her, the pad of his finger brushing the small hair on the back of her neck.

“You’re late,” the brunette man suddenly speaks.

“5 minutes,” Sylus replies before you do, voice cool. He’s already assessing the table, his eyes flicking from seat to seat. But as expected—and rather quickly—he takes the open space beside Caleb. They’re probably friend… you assume.

That leaves you with one seat. Next to Rafayel.

Not that you complain about that.

You’re complaining about sitting directly across the hot-sexy-long-white-haired man.

Meliaa shifts to make room—which only forces the two tall men to move in closer—giving you a smile that’s part apology, part plea. You slide in beside Rafayel, feeling the heat of his arm radiating next to you. Like he’s burning hot.

Another thing that is burning hot : Sylus gaze already on you. Sharp and unreadable beneath the low amber light.

Tension coils on the table. From all sides.

You clear your throat. “So, what did we miss?”

Caleb chuckles, low and amused, swirling his drink. “Just Meliaa dodging questions.”

“Dodging?” Rafayel cuts in with a slow tilt of his head. “I’d say she’s being very generous with her silence.”

Meliaa doesn’t answer. She just lifts her glass, sips, and stares down the center of the table like it might save her.

Well, it won’t.

But you will.

You hum and probably wait for few seconds—let the silence stretch until the static in the air buzzing between the glances feels heavy.

“I want a little drink,” you say abruptly. That earns you a flash of narrowed eyes from Sylus and a very enthusiast, far-too-fast, “Coming!” from your girl.

You reach the bar like it’s finish line—and you’re both relieved, it’s a small, expensive restaurant. Which means fewer people tonight. Fewer eyes.

Meliaa slides onto the stool beside you, fixing her curls with one hand while the other flags the bartender like her life depends on it… and it just might. The only real question is : whose life is spiraling faster?

The moment the bartender turns his back to mix the drinks, you lean in.

“Okay,” you murmur low, “what the hell is going on?”

She blinks at you, innocent. “What do you mean?”

You give her a look—a look that means, I Know, You know, We know.

She exhales sharply, bringing two fingers to pinch the bridge of her nose. “You remember Caleb. My little paradisiac escape?”

You nod.

“Well…” she winces. “Our one nightstand… kind of became a five-night stand. Plus, texting. And maybebrunch. And, um, sex on the roof of the lodge and… sex everywhere, actually.”

You tilt your head, amused by her unraveling. “And Rafayel?”

She picks up a lim wedge from the bar and pops it in her mouth like a criminal about to testify. “I didn’t plan that either. You just introduced us and we… clicked.”

You swear you only bite back your laugh because she she looks two seconds from yanking her own hair out. “When I said ‘you’d like him’ I didn’t mean like him naked in your bed.”

“I didn’t mean that too! They just kept showing up.”

“They’re both into you.”

She mutters something under her breath, before adding, “They both fuck extremely well, too.”

The bartender returns with your drinks.

“I told them both I’m not looking for anything serious,” she insists. “I was clear. And they agreed. Verbally. Out loud.”

“And yet, back there,” you nod toward the table, “they were both glued to your sides like emotionally unstable shoulders pads.”

Meliaa groans. “Y’know what’s crazy?” she slides her stool closer to yours and lowers her voice. “They both know I slept with the other…” you raise a brow as she drops her voice even lower and bring a hand to your ear like she’s whispering the world’s most scandalous secret. “…And they both told me they want to prove they fuck better than the other.”

And here, you totally snap. You laugh so hard you nearly fall off the stool—actual tears leaking down your face. Meliaa just stares, green eyes wide like she’s been betrayed.

“You’re laughing to my hexagon of bad decisions?” she accuses.

“Giiiiirl,” you wheeze, wiping at your cheek. “You have two sexy, emotionally deranged men down bad for you and you call it a problem?” you shake your head, trying to calm down. “Just go for it and fuck them both.”

“I already did!!!”

“At the same damn time, sweetie.”

“You did lose all your last brain cells on that interview...” she takes her drink and finish it in one go.

She clinks her empty glass down with too much force than necessary. And you’re still puffing next to her when she sighs dramatically and speaks.

“Yeah. You’re right.” She twists in her stool to look at you, a wicked glint flickering in her eyes now. “I will do it. Will fuck them. Senseless.”

You snort. “They’re more likely to fuck you senseless.”

She waves a dismissive hand in your face like you’re speaking nonsense, then grabs your shoulders with both hands. “Thank you for your advice, soldier.” She says sweetly, pressing her hands on your shoulder to get up.

You look at her going back to the table like the chaotic soldier that she is before calling after her, “Please stretch first!” and go back to your chair still laughing under your breath. You exhale, trying to cool the remnants of amusement off your face, only to feel someone move into the space she just vacated.

You don’t even have to look—you know that presence too well by now. It drapes over you like a shadow.

Sylus slips onto the high stool beside you, turning it slightly so his body angles toward yours. His long legs stretch out, planted on either side of your own—silently claiming territory. One arm drape lazily along the counter, the other resting loose over his knee.

There’s no rush, no sound, just the heavy calm he wears like cologne.

But it’s like the air shifts to accommodate him... and so does your pulse. He’s still dressed in the white shirt—made of sin and for sluts men.

You inhale without thinking.

“I’m a slut?” Sylus voice is… confused.

Ahhhh, your damn mouth. You didn’t even realize you said your last thoughts out loud.

“Well…” you trail off, letting your eyes drop on his open collar and the chain diving in, “dressed up like this, yes.”

His brows lift slightly, a smirk twisting his lips.

Oh. A smirk.

It’s been a while.

“Calling me a slut then?”

You shift slightly on your stool, annoyed at the way your thighs press tighter together to the sound of his hoarse voice. “I mean,” you mutter, eyes refusing to meet his, “if the shirt fits.”

He leans a little closer—letting you feel the gravity of him. “Maybe I wore it for someone specific?”

Your head jerks toward him, “And that someone was… a reflective surface?”

His mouth twitches. He definitely missed your little games. “Are you jealous of my mirror now?”

You glare. “I’ve seen the way you look at it.”

“That mirror’s been there for me when no one else was.”

“Ew… now you sound pathetic.”

“Do you like pathetic men?”

The question caught you off guard. “What?” The heat is rising up your throat simmering just beneath the surface, and you feel yourself unraveling under the weight of his gaze.

“Pathetic men,” he repeats, approaching his stool to yours until your round sit is trapped between his thighs. “Do you like them?”

“I like everything and everyone but you, Sylus.” You say under your breath toying with your glass—unwilling to drink it. Unwilling to let the alcohol dull this. You want to feel every second of it. Every pulse of heat. Every flick of his voice against your skin.

“You’re not that special,” you lie.

He tilts his head—giving you an unfair view of his bronzed neck, the muscle there taut, kissed by the dim bar light. “I’m literally trapping you against the bar right now,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, “and you haven’t moved.”

You straighten, bristling— mostly from the burn pooling in your lower stomach. “I could move.”

“Of course, do so.” A simple challenge.

As you don’t move, he leans in until his lips are brushing delicately your ear “Exactly.” He dissociates every syllable. And you swear how he says it… it feels like a kiss. A taunting kiss.

Your entire body flares hot. From the tips of your ears to somewhere shameful deep.

You grip the edge of the bar for support and stand.

Fast.

Too fast.

Because of your original position and Sylus one, your legs tangle in the small space he created. The movement throws you off your balance and you tumble forward between your stools.

You gasp—a surprised, inelegant sound—as your hands shoot up, grabbing at the nearest anchor: the back of his neck, his hair, thick and soft between your fingers. Your body crashes against his chest, knocking the glasses on his face askew.

His arms snap around you with effortless speed—one bracing your lower back, the other slapping flat against the bar to keep you both upright.

His grip doesn’t loosen. You don’t move.

“Well,” he says, voice a little breathless, but laced with that same maddening smirk. “Aren’t you a professional at falling into me?”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out. Your brain can’t think—too busy thinking about his hand splayed wide against your back. Technically it’s your waist, but the way his forearm is low, hot and firm just above the swell of your ass—

“That’s three time now, kitten.” he adds, adjusting his glasses with a slow slide of his fingers. “I’m gonna start thinking you’re doing it on purpose.”

“Maybe,” You whisper face burning hot, body burning hot… pussy burning hot.

Your thighs press together for any kind of relief, but you’re trapped. His are bracketing yours—caging you in a tight hold. Your chest is flush against his collarbone, your shirt stretched over the shape of your breasts as they rise and fall, pressed to the open cut of his shirt, that damned chain cold between your hot bodies.

He exhales, a slow, shaking thing, and his breath fans your lips when he speaks again. “You mess up my glasses again…” his voice dips lower, gravel catching at the edge, “and I might actually lose my patience.”

You blink hard, struggling to hold your ground—but your fingers are still in his hair, fisted tight. And something in you wants to push further. Wants to abandon everything, let it all go, and just sink into the heat of this.

So, you tug.

Not hard, but with intention—your nails scraping gently at the base of his scalp as you guide his face up to yours. His head tips back, lips parting slightly, the faintest flush of pink climbing his high cheekbones. His lashes flutter low. And you swear, swear he’s just as close to breaking as you are.

The way he looks like this. Held in your hands? Seeming vulnerable?

You can’t help but push your thighs a bit higher, grinding against his cock. Well, more like a damn monsterfrom the tent straining against his jeans.

His hand presses harder into your lower back, pulling you the rest of the way down until you’re practically straddling his lap—so you could have the perfect friction against your pulsing clit.

“You drunk?” he rasps, eyes glassy already.

You shake your head, almost dizzy from how close you are. From how hot it is in here. “No,” you breathe.

“Good,” he says, almost to himself. “When you said you wanted a little drink I…” he cuts off, biting his cheek.

You trace your fingers up through his hair again, soft strands curling between your knuckles. “What?”

He doesn’t look away. He can’t. Not when he’s drowning in the liquid, he wanted oh so badly. “I got scared,” he whispers, his voice barely a small stain on the lipstick he asked you to put.

It feels like you’re drinking his words, drinking him. “Scared?”

His hand slides higher, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt, brushing your bare skin and making you jolt. “Yeah, because… I don’t know if I can wait past tonight.” His voice fractures. “With all my respect.”

Oh god.

“I don’t think I want to wait,” he confesses, lips ghosting the corner of your jaw. “And if you get even a littletipsy, if you told me something sweet, if you looked at me the same way you did the last time you were drunk…” his tongue darts across his bottom lip, and your eyes track it like prey. “If you even whispered all the unholy things, you want me to do you again, and I couldn’t do anything—”

Your breath is ragged waiting for his next words. “—I think I’d lose my mind. Completely and utterly.”

And he’s not even really touching you but the wet ache between your legs grows as if he was just buried deep and dragging you wide open.

“I’m sober,” your voice comes rougher than you expected. “100% sober.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours. Those eyes looking at you like he wants to make you, his meal.

“I want to use my prize.” He says with an unsteady voice. Referring to the challenge he won during the retreat—and it feels like it’s been centuries since this moment in the clear water.

You lean in, almost forgetting you’re in a public space. “Yes, tell me.”

Both his hands grip your waist tighter, pressing you harder on his length.

“Please, spend the night with me.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The cool night air hits your flushed skin like a slap—you’re practically dragging Sylus across the small, dim parking lot by his collar, heart slamming so hard it’s a miracle your heels stay under you and your shirt isn’t ripped by the hard boum boum boum of your organ.

You see his car parked on the corner right after you turn. It’s a sleek, lack, and vicious-looking engine. Clean line, matte finish, purring low and luxurious under the streetlamps. It’s the kind of car that screams I have more money than your entire bloodline reunited.

Sylus fumbles quickly into his pocket to pull out the key.

But in no time, you shove him right against the side of his stupid expensive car, the impact solid, the look on his face wild. And then you’re on him. Palms pressed flat to his chest, mouth nearly on his, breathing him in like oxygen you’ve been starved for.

He smirks. “Impatient?”

“You asked politely,” you growl, voice rough with something molten and raw.

Your hands slide down—over that infuriating shirt, feeling his abs twitching under the fabric. You trail down to the waistband of his jeans that have done nothing to hide what he’s packing.

He’s rock hard. And when you drag your body flush to his, grinding against him shamelessly, he groans. Deep and low, eyes fluttering closed.

“I waited,” you whisper against his jaw—leaving a hint of your lipstick. “I was nice, reallyyyy nice… But Sylus, if I don’t have you inside me soon—”

His hand comes up, palm cupping your jaw—firm, putting some distance between your filthy mouth and his skin. “You think—” he’s breathless, fighting to put some air into his lungs. “—I haven’t been waiting?” You open your mouth to snap back something, but his look on his eyes makes you stop.

What is happening between you is beyond lust. It’s something consuming, aching and needy.

“I want this to slow,” he says softly, thumb stroking your cheek. “Not some rushed thing in a car. Not—”

And you’re probably on the verge of psychiatric.

He’s making you insane. His self-control is insane. His mouth is insane. His hands are insane. His needs to do good is insane.

Everything is too insane.

You crush your lips onto his. And it’s only just a peck. A hard peck. Just to soothe your need you think. But when your mouth pulls away by only inches, his hand comes to your throat—drawing you back flush to his body. And in one fluid motion he switches places—pinning you between the car and the long, sharp line of him.

And this is kiss is nothing nice.

It’s all pent-up frustration erupting between your mouths. His lips force their way between yours—nothing delicate like he suggested moments ago.

Your lower lip is effectively trapped between his generous one—sucking on it, nipping them. And slowly he pushes your lips apart—a moan leaves your mouth and he’s muffling it directly as his tongue slides between your welcoming warm.

He’s dominating this kiss. Tilting your head with his hand on your throat where he needs it—to drink you like hewants to.

It’s maddening, the way he kisses is maddening.

Because even though he’s obviously the one in control, he stills chase your pleasure—chasing every whimper, every moan every gasp. His glasses are skewed by now, your kiss having knocked them off their straight line, completely fogged by your breaths.

Your lipstick is smeared across his mouth and jaw, staining him in smudged proof of your hunger. There’s even a faint line beneath his nose, a bold mark left from where he dragged up his face.

Sylus is high.

High on you. High on the way your skirt rode up your thighs. High on the feeling of your ruined panties clinging to your cunt—leaving surely a dark, obscene patch of slick on his pants.

The kiss was so nasty, there’s drool on the corner of your lips once he drags his mouth away from yours—well, not really. His lips are still pressed against yours a thin string of spit is connecting you both.

“You’re wet,” his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a marathon.

And it’s not mocking, not teasing, it simply hurts him.

His hand shifts from your jaw to your thigh, curling under the hem of your skirt—slow at first but when he meets the hot mess between your legs with the tip of his fingers… he’s losing all last strands of sanity.

A sound punched right from his gut comes out of him and straight into your mouth—forehead falling to rest against yours.

You smile, your cheeks rosy as you struggle to breathe. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve got myself wet back in the bar.”

“Of course you did,” he hisses, dragging your soaked panties aside with a rough swipe of his fingers. And the cold hair hitting raw your swollen pearl makes you throw your head back and hips jolt forward.

“You love teasing me, don’t you?” his voice feels distant, a small siren voice through the fog overtaking your brain.

You nod and find a smart-ass answer he lives for, “Love watching you pretend you’re composed.”

“Kitten—” he warns, voice not even sounding human.

He presses two fingers to your entrance. Not pushing in. Just sliding between your folds, gliding through the wetness like he needs to punish himself with restraint. His eyes drop to watch—if he can, through the blur of actual tears swelling at his lashes. His self-control is fighting for its life—but it’s cracked, shattered by the warm of your pussy dripping down his hand.

Every breath he takes against your neck is a prayer not to fuck you right there, right now, with no mercy.

“Don’t you dare be soft with me,” you fist his shirt, hiccupping. “You’ve had months to be gentle.”

He crushes your body to the car door, hand diving beneath your thigh and lifting—hoisting your leg up around his hips so you’re perched, pinned, spread open for him to rut into with that thick, unrelenting hardness pressing through his jeans. The dry friction alone make you cry out—the damp heat of your cunt grinding against his cock through layers, but it’s still too much.

“I’m going to fuck you stupid,” he says against your mouth, so low, so close, voice a whisper and a threat. “But not here. Not like this.”

You shake your head, dazed. “Why not?”

His hand grips your thigh tighter, almost bruising. “Because if I do it here, I’ll ruin you for real. You won’t walk. I’ll make a mess of this pretty car, and I won’t stop. I won’t fucking stop, kitten.”

You whimper, forehead resting against his shoulder now, breath fogging on his skin. “Sylus…”

“Get in the car.”

He breaks away long enough to hit the key fob. The sleek lights flash, the door clicks open with a quiet hum—and before you can think or process, he’s pulling you down, dragging your panties back to its place, letting the elastic snap back against your sensitive clit with a loud slawck—that almost make you cum on the spot.

He’s pulling the handle and forcing you in. You stumble into the leather seat, still gasping, body trembling. He leans into the frame, one hand on the top of the door, the other on your thigh—sliding up again.

“Buckle in,” he rasps, eyes dragging down your wrecked body, lips still shiny with spit and your smeared lipstick.

He shuts the door and stalks around the car to the driver seat in long stroke.

- - -

When the elevator dings, he pulls you down the hall—fast and controlled. The click of your heels echo against the pristine floor. His apartment door opens with a quiet beep. A smooth slide.

Rich-boy security system.

Once you enter, you’re directly overwhelmed by his scent. A light perfume of spice and… lavender, maybe, or something even more ruinous.

His place is clean, minimal everything nettling put at their places. The skyline behind the floor-to-ceiling windows glows like fire, golden-orange spilling across glossy floors. Somewhere to the left, a low fire crackles in a stone-lined hearth near the couches, throwing dancing shadows over leather and glass.

You stay where you are, just inside the doorway. The door clicks shut behind you, and you press your back against it, heart hammering. He moves ahead, smooth and silent, dropping the key fob onto a table like it’s the last thing tethering him to restraint.

Then he turns. And the look he gives you—slow, raking, searing—melts everything inside you.

Your lipstick is a mess. You know it. It’s all over his face too, smeared beneath the sharp line of his cheekbones, staining the edge of his mouth. His white hair glows silver in the firelight, casting flickers over the chain resting against the open collar of his shirt. His glasses have slid low on his nose, and he makes no move to fix them.

The tension between you is unbearable. Electric. You feel it coil in your stomach, in your thighs, your throat. One spark away from burning everything to ash.

You can’t take it.

“Sylus…” your voice is breathless, cracked. “Do something. I’m going crazy.”

His head tilts—barely. A shift in the firelight. But his eyes are pure heat. He walks toward the living room with precise steps. And each one he takes is just worse than the other. Torturing you until your bones disintegrate.

“You remember what I told you earlier?” he says without looking back.

“Huh?”

“Before the interview.”

“You said a lot of things.”

“I did.” He drops onto the couch, sprawling back with a quiet sigh—legs spreading wide, arms draping along the back. He adjusts his glasses with a single lazy finger, and his haze finds your again. “And one of them was that I want you to beg.”

Your breath catches. He pats his thigh, palm open. “Come here.”

Your pride should say no—should anchor you at the door, fighting for some last scrap of dignity. But unfortunately, the heat pooling between your legs has already ruined your panties—and far more, your thighs are sticky with your substance.

You’re stepping forward before your brain can catch up, led purely by instinct.

“Come sit,” he murmurs. “Right here.”

It’s humiliating.

His eyes never leave you, locked on your skirt, watching the way it hugs your hips, how it sways with each slow, hesitant step.

The tension in the room deepens, thickens until it suffocates.

“And you know what else I said?” His voice is smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, still undressing you with his eyes. You reach him, heart thudding so hard it rocks your ribs.

You shake your head, pulse roaring in your ears.

He smirks the kind of smirk that knows exactly how it splits you open inside. “I told you brats get punished.” He runs his middle finger around his thigh—slow, little circle… and your eyes open wider by millimeters. “You qualify as one, don’t you?”

“That’s what you said,” he adds when you don’t answer. “Last time… you hinted you liked being put in your place.” His voice is slick with memory.

You instantly go hot all over. And even hotter as you stop in between his thighs, and he looks at you through half-lidded eyes—his cheeks flushed of that soft, delicious pink.

“That’s quiet mean of you…” your reach for his chain, looping it between your fingers like a leash. “Considering you already kissed me—”

Your sentence dies—gasped away in surprise when two firm hands come to your ass and pulls you onto him.

You collapse into his lap, one hand shooting to brace yourself against the couch behind his head, the other gripping his shoulder as your hair spills around your face—falling to make a perfect halo around you.

Your breath quickens as you’re hit with another memory: a flustered Sylus, flat on his back in the sand, eyes glazed, mouth parted.

Just like now. Unless now he’s more… dangerous, sure.

“And so?” he whispers, his mouth one breathe away from ravishing yours entirely.

“What are you gonna do to make me beg?” you ask.

“Strip.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I won’t repeat myself.”

You gulp audibly. Because the way he looks at you are giving everything but soft.

So slowly, extremely slowly it’s borderline painful, you remove your top—dropped without care onto his pristine floor. Leaving you only with a laced bra and your strained nipples like they’re offering themselves to theirmaster.

“What I will do to make you beg, mh?” His gaze burns as one of his knuckles brushes your clavicle. A single featherlight touch going straight between your thighs.

“That’s easy.” his index finger trails down the center of yoru chest. It glides to the dip of your bra—right between your breasts where a tiny single red bow is. His thumb presses into the delicate bone at your sternum.

“I will just toy with you.” And he bites his lip because you’re already semi-shaking his thighs—the strain on his control his palpable. He absolutely wants to devour you, make a mess out of you.

Claim you in all the way a man has never possibly done before. He continues his way with you. A single finger along the edge of the cup, grazing the curve of your breasts without ever touching the peak.

Your hips twitch.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he murmurs, almost curious. His lips ghost the air near your throat but doesn’t land—he lets you feels his warm breath when he speaks again. “What happened to all that attitude, kitten?”

His hands move—and you fight not to growl… or scream… or cry… you don’t know which reaction is more appropriate.

His long digits palm your ribs, sliding up up and just when you think he’s going to take the full weight of your aching breasts and give you some relief—he trails down. Leaving your skin flaming where he touched it.

“Your skirt’s on the way.” He mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching in evil delight as your brows knit together in full, tortured frustration. “Can’t feel you soaking your panties correctly.” His white hair glints in the firelight like moonlight on snow. “Make it easy for us both and get rid of this.”

You groan—a bratty, breathless sound—but obey. You push up on shaky feet and toss the skirt so fast it’s nearly offensive… if you weren’t so eager.

“That’s right.” His voice’s smug velvet sliding under your skin.

One hand slides up to your shoulder. A single finger dips beneath the strap of your bra and, without a hint of hurry, drags it down your arm. It falls loose. He repeats the process on the other side, watching the lace shift lower—watching your nipples grow tight under the exposure, making his mouth salivate.

Your skin prickles are you unconsciously start to rock yourself on his pants. You whisper nearly delirious. “Touch me.”

“But I am touching you,” his voice’s syrup-thick, his lips ghost along your cheek, then your jaw, then the slope of your neck—never landing long enough to satisfy. “Maybe you just need to learn patience.”

“Don’t—” you start, voice breaking on the word.

He clicks his tongue. “The rules are the rules, kitten.”

His rough palms splay wide across your thighs, fingers curling until his blunt nails catch the edges of your lacy thong. He tsks. “You nasty little thing,” he hums. “You wore this under your skirt… to the interview.”

You press down harder into his lap, rutting now, your body no longer interested in playing coy. One of your hands snakes down to guide his fingers.

He grabs your wrist instantly—gently, but with firm finality. His eyes darken. “I could have taken you long ago…” the heat of his breath brushing your collarbone. “If you hadn’t made it so hard for us to—”

“I made hard nothing.” You cut in.

His brow arches. “You interrupted me?” he drawls, leaning back suddenly and dragging his warmth away.

You bite your inner cheek, heat pulsing between your legs for so long it’s unbearable now. “Fine…” you start slowly. “Maybe I made something hard,” your lips twitch slightly in amusement. “Your dick, maybe.”

The second the word leaves your lips, you know it’s the wrong move. So wrong. Especially with how tight you’re clenching around nothing.

Because in one blink—one heartbeat—he moves.

You yelp as he manhandles you. In less than a second, he’s flipped you over. Your chest crashes to the cushions, your ass perched high on his lap. One strong arm pins you there, his palm flat between your shoulder blades, keeping you down like a misbehaving pet.

“You are a brat,” he murmurs above you, voice dangerously fond. “Guess I’ll have to remind you what happens to smart mouths.” Then his hand slides down your back. Pauses just above your ass. You shiver, bracing yourself for slap….

That never comes.

A spank would be too merciful.

Instead, he drags his index under the curves of your ass, across the damp strip of lace stretched tight over your soaked cunt. He traces your swollen slit with the lightest touch—barely grazing the obvious outline of your folds through the ruined fabric. So soft it hurts.

And suddenly he takes the twin straps of your ridiculous thong and pull.

So harsh that your squirm uncontrollably, your eyes nearly rolling back in shock. A ridiculous high-pitched moan escapes you as your panties catch itself between your fat lips—a hard pressure on your swollen clit.

“Sylus—” you gasp.

He chuckles darkly behind you, sounding maddeningly pleased. “That’s better,” he murmurs. “Fits nicer like this.”

Your whole body is trembling. You’re humiliated and throbbing and nothing is enough. Or is it? Is it enough when he doesn’t let go of the straps and rocks them?

Then side to side and gentle little tug. Each motion saws the lace tighter, sliding it exactly where it hurts the most—barely over your clit, dancing just on the edge of pleasure and pain. You sob into the couch.

Because no, it is not enough.

Sylus knows how to tease you with cruel finesse. His thumbs drag circles into your asscheeks. His knuckles skim the backs of your thighs. His mouth brushes behind your ear like smoke and never offering you the deliverance you need.

You make helpless little noises in the back of your throat, and it only fuels his precision. He lets one fingertip ghost over your inner thigh, dragging closer, closer until it’s nearly brushing the ruined lace clinging to your cunt.

Your hips jerk back, chasing the phantom touch when he backwards.

“Please,” you gasp, not even realizing the word came out of your mouth.

“Hm?” his voice is silk. Mocking.

You clench around nothing. Practically crying.

“Touch me,” your voice muffled by the cushion, you say louder your next word. “Please.”

He tugs the panties again, this time even tighter. Your muscles tense on his lap. “What was that?” he breathes against your temple.

“I—fuck, Sylus—please, I need it. I need you to—” but the words never quiet reach your tongue.

“Say it.” He’s so close behind you that you feel his voice vibrate in your spine.

You twist your head over your shoulder to look at him—his jaw is clenched, lips red and stained with your lipstick, his eyes black with hunger. He’s wrecked but won’t move until you break.

“Say what you need, kitten. Not some vague whining. Not ‘touch me’.” He leans in, breathing heat into your ear. “Use your words. You’ve never had a problem with that mouth.”

“I—fuck,” Your face burns. “Your fingers..”

His hand stills against the top of your thigh. “But they are touching you.”

“Inside me,” You almost scream. “Inside my pussy. Please, Sylus, please—”

One hand comes to the meat of your ass, spreading you. The other, those long cruel fingers, trails from the soaked strap of your thong down between your folds, and this time doesn’t stop.

Two fingers press into your entrance with no pretense, no mercy. He sinks them deep and slow to hit your spots fast and precisely.

“Oh God—”

“Fuck.” He groans behind you, forehead dropping to your shoulder as your cunt clenches around him violently, gripping down on the length of his fingers. “You’re so wet,” he pumps, once. You choke out a sound that’s not a moan, not a cry, just something wrecked from your chest.

“That’s it,” his lips brushing your neck. “You wanted my fingers?” and he give you three more hard thrusts making you arch off the cushion and lift your ass higher.

“You’ve got them.” He scissors them open inside you, and you swear you’re seeing the goddamn constellations in front of your eyes.

“Shit, do you even feel them?” he grits, voice barely human. “You’re dripping everywhere, you’re so wet my fingers easily slide in.” He growls when your pussy answers—wet sounds and droplets of arousal dripping on his expensive pants.

“Look at the mess you’re making,” he whispers, almost reverent. “You’re soaking down my wrist.” When he pulls back, it paints his skin—slick, shining, messy.

“Sylus!” you choke on a sob when he adds another finger, your walls fluttering violently around the stretch. You’re so close—teetering, body tight like a drawn bowstring. Probably two or three more thrusts and—

He stops. Withdrawing completely.

The emptiness is a sucker punch. A broken sound rips from your throat, half-sob, half-curse—too raw to be dignified, too honest to hold back.

Before you can twist around and claw at him, he’s already moving—flipping you with a suddenness that makes your heart stutter. You land on your back with a soft thud against the couch, hair fanned wild, and legs still spread from desperation.

His figure looms over you… a shadow made of fire.

“Open,” he orders, holding those soaked fingers just inches from your mouth. And you do, because what else could you possibly do?

But before he slips them past your lips, he drags the mess of your arousal across them—painting your mouth with yourself.

When his digits land on your taste buds, your tongue curls immediately around them, helplessly obedient. He watches closely through his rectangular glasses, his collar’s chain hitting your chin as he hovers over your figure.

RIP.

A swift, shocking sound of lace tearing. Your gasp nearly causes you to bite down on his fingers, but his eyes catch yours with a silent warning: don’t even think about it.

He tosses the ruined panties aside like they were in his way all night, like they never stood a chance. His lips hover beside your ear as you still suck greedily on his fingers.

“Keep going, since you’re already so good with your mouth…” A smirk ghosts across his lips, wicked and warm. “I’ll enjoy mine too.”

You blink up at him, dazed.

“Keep sucking on my fingers while I taste my favorite lollipop,” he growls.

Sylus disappears between your volcano. And at the mere feeling of the tip of his tongue on your cunt—he feels himself levitating. You taste knocks the air from his lungs. His free hand tightens around one of your thighs, forcing it wide open. The couch creaks under the pressure of how hard he holds you down.

His tongue swirls around clit like you’re the sweetest candy ever. Flicking the delicate nerve side to side before closing his lips around it. He sucks so hard you jolt forward, moaning around his fingers.

A dark, animalistic sound reverberates from deep in his chest, straight into your bones, as he closes his eyes and feasts you. He licks up all the juices that came down your folds and the junction with your thighs like it’s some divine nectar he must drink to keep living.

“What kind of taste is this?” he rasps, totally delirious, so delirious he removes his fingers from your mouth, bringing his two thumbs to spread your lips open wide so he can bury his nose deeper into you.

He pulls back only to blow a slow, teasing breath on your throbbing clit. Then dives back in, slurping all the way from back to front. A helpless moan vibrates from his throat against your core. He ruts his cock against the couch like he can’t help it, seeking relief from the ache you’ve caused.

Your hands fly to his fluffy hair, gripping the base of his neck and his silken strands to push him deeper, as your thighs fall open wider—giving him full access to your desperate pussy.

And Sylus, so lost, gives in his need. Sharp teeth gently napping your clit, not to hurt you—applying the right pressure to send you plunging into the abyss of pleasure.

“Need you to soak my face, kitten,” He murmurs, voice all smug and drunk.

And honestly? he feels like he’s the one to cum first, into his boxer, nonetheless. And without a single touch coming from you.

His hands grip your thighs with such desperation you’re sure you’ll bruise tomorrow. The friction against your clit, the slick and drools pouring from his tongue… it all sends you spiraling. So fast, so full, you’re sure you’re seeing your orgasm breaking open like fireworks behind your eyes.

But it doesn’t.

Your head snaps up looking at him and he’s already looking at you. His ears are flushed pink glasses crooked and fogged, hair a fucking mess like he’s been through war.

A war he’s winning.

“The fuck are you doing?” you snap, heavy breathing as he denied your orgasm once again.

“You didn’t beg.” He tsks, his voice maddeningly calm, lips brushing tender kisses up your pubic bone like an apology.

You try to move—try to rut your hips against his mouth, anything, anything—but he’s stronger. He barely even needs to hold you down. His grip stays lazy and firm and so damn effortless it makes you scream inside.

You sob, a real cracked sound, torn raw from your throat. Because it’s torture. Because you were right there. Twice.

Because your body doesn’t know how to deal with the pleasure that keeps burning and burning with no outlet.

So, you eat your pride and beg.

“Sylus,” you whisper, a trembling whimper hanging from your lips, eyes glassy and rimmed with the shimmer of real tears from overstimulation. “Let me cum, please. Please,” you say, as if repeating it might break whatever sick restraint, he’s shackled you with. “I can’t take it anymore, I—”

He goes back in without warning. His tongue flicks your clit fast, precise, lips locking around it in a tight, desperate seal. And before your brain can register, he pushes two fingers deep inside you, curling them right into that spot that makes your vision blurs. Fucking you open on his tongue and digits with ruthless precision.

You’re brought to the edge really quickly like he has memorized the exact rhythm of your undoing.

Your spongy walls clench so tightly around his knuckles you think you might break them. You gasp helplessly squirming under the sheer intensity of it all.

“My good girl, asking all nicely and cutely.” He chuckles on your glistening folds, another hand going up, up, up—finding your bras and pushing it down with slow force until your tits spill free.

He toys with your hardened nipple, rolling it between his fingertips, pinching them until your much smaller hand come to cup his.

Your body draws tight like a scream with no sound, all nerve endings snapping taut as violin string, and then—

He hums. The vibration of it sends a shudder up your spine, that’s what does it. That’s what tears you open.

You squirt.

So hard and so unexpected your vision whites out at the edge, hips bucking hitting his teeth, thighs closing around his head and he lets them. Let’s you suffocate him in your divine warmth.

You soak him for what seems hours, your slick is everywhere—on his wrist, his palm, his nose… even your ass sticks to the soft couch.

“Fuck—fuck, exactly,” he grows, eyes fluttering shut as he devours your orgasm that followed right after. Your limbs go slack, twitching as wave after wave crashing through your core.

And it doesn’t help that Sylus keeps going, mouth still latched to your cunt like it’s his only salvation, fingers pistoning in and out with greedy, relentless strokes, chasing every last drop of your high like he wants to taste your very soul.

You sob his name through grit teeth, clamping your plush thighs tighter around his face and—

BREAK.

“Huh?” he withdraws, fingers dragging out so slow it makes your back arch with the aftershocks—barely registering the breaking sound of something.

“You broke my glasses.” He chuckles out, almost cheerfully and licks his fingers clean, discharging his glasses with no more attention to them—moaning deep in his throat when your remained liquid hits his tongue.

“I—I didn’t… what?” your chest is rising and falling rapidly, one breast out, your lower body naked and messy, your eyes half-lidded blinking up at him through wet lashes.

His gaze is molten, locked to your pussy as it flutters mindlessly when he speaks with a rough voice. “My glasses,” he says, panting. “You broke them with yoru thighs.” He kisses your jaw, “hot.” And he kisses your mouth, letting you smell and taste your essence on him. Tongue gently slipping between your parting lips—contrasting with the feverish need he ate you out minutes ago. Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden intimacy.

When he breaks the kiss, one hand snakes behind your back, expert fingers unclasping your bra, stripping you in one fluid motion. Then he prosses to remove his shirt, impatient. The next victim’s his belt, fast and jerky. And that’s when you notice the wet spots that your core left where you grinded on him earlier but also the wet wide spot on his crotch and the freaking bulge straining his pants—bigger than before.

“Did you—did you cum?” you ask, surprised. “And get hard again?”

“He laughs softly. “I didn’t, it’s just…” he exhales through a crooked smile, discarding his pants until only his boxer remain—a perfect view of his cock sitting monstrously against his lap. “Guess I got a little excited. And the pre-cum kinda… never stopped.”

His lips trail soft kisses across your cheeks, your temple, the bridge of your nose. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing right under your eyes as he kisses your pouty lips. “I should say,” he murmurs, voice lower. “As much as overstimulating you was… unreal—” he chuckles once, quietly, like it’s secret between you. “—I want to make love to you.”

And there’s no more teasing in his voice. He almost looks at you with puppy eyes, almost pleading you through his long lashes. But most importantly, he’s checking for the smallest flicker of discomfort.

When you nod, small but certain, he scoops you up as if you weigh nothing. One arm beneath your thighs, the other curled around your back—holding you close to his bare chest like you’re breakable. And you kind of are. Because your legs are trembling. Your heart’s wild. And your body? Your body doesn’t know what to do with the echoes of the orgasm he just ripped out of you.

“Use your words, big girl,” he says softly.

You inhale a deep breath as new feelings start to grow on you. “Yes, Sylus. I’m okay with that.” Your arms wrap tightly around his neck, your legs wrapping as tight as they can around his waist when he gets up the couch and walks.

“We’re going to my bedroom, still okay?” You only hum, nuzzling your head on his shoulder. And the more you walk his house, the more his scent—dark cologne, the clean warmth of expensive wood and luxury soap—settles into your skin in the most delicious way.

Once he steps into his room, you can only be amazed. Because like the rest of his house, it’s minimal with subtle gold accents, matte black fixtures. But it’s in a warm way. The bed is massive, low to the ground and made with silky charcoal sheets. On the far wall, huge windows give way to skyline view, but the curtains are drawn halfway, letting in just enough city light to paint shadows over the sharp angles of the room. A sleek black shelf houses a series of rare books and vinyls, but not a speck of dust dares exists.

He places you delicately on the bed, kneeling between your thighs, looking at you like your body is some lost divine scripture that needs to be studied.

Remembered. Painted.

His gaze lingers. His hands trail slowly up your legs, tracing patterns on your skin.

“Sylus… remove your boxer for the sake of God. I’m going insane.”

“My kitten’s getting impatient.”

“Yes! How are you supposed to make love to me with your boxer still on—”

“There’s a lot of ways,” he whispers hot against your skin.

He leans down, lips brushing softly over the swell of your chest before wrapping around one of your nipples—sucking gently, tongue dragging greedy circles. There’s nothing hurried, he only wants to enjoy himself. Taking all his time to commit your skin to memory as he’s been waiting a looong time.

His free hand slides up to cup the weight of your other breast—palm wide, fingers splaying to massage every inch. His thumb brushes your nipple, again and again, coaxing little whines from you while his tongue torments the other.

You arch into it, fingers lacing through his hair. “I could whisper sweet nothing into your ear, until you come.”

“That’s torture—” you gasp, your back arching as he nips lightly and soothes it with another swirl of his tongue.

“It’s not.”

“It is!” you snap, tugging at his hair and forcing him to lift his head. His mouth leaves your breast with a wet sound, lips kiss-bitten and glistening. “Even for you. God, Sylus, you’re painfully hard.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“That so?” you mutter, and you sneak a hand between your bodies. Palming him through the fabric causing him to hiss through clenched teeth.

And if you weren’t sure he was huge, the weight pressing against your palm is all the confirmation you need. A fucking thick dick is straining against the soaked cotton of his boxer briefs, throbbing against your touch.

You push his boxer down, eyes locked to the place where skin is revealed inch by inch.

And you swear that’s some joke.

Not only is he thick… but his length is delirious.

Two veins trace the sides of his shaft, pulsing with heat, visibly twitching. The tip is fat and flushed red, the redder red you’ve ever seen. His shaft is slightly lighter than the rest. Rivulets of pre-cum keep forming at the tip and slip down the vein like they’re drawn to the base of him and hitting right under his bellybutton. It’s even slightly curved, and you can’t see your face but you’re sure drool is pooling at the corner of your lips.

“I promise I’ll be gentle,” his voice takes you out of your trance. And his voice is not cocky, or smug or arrogant like most men.

No, he’s genuine and real.

“I—that’s not, I mean—huh..” the words tumble out awkward and fragmented.

Your body feels caught between panic and desire, staring at the reality of what’s about to stretch you open. Because how the hell you’re going to take all that?

“I’ll go slow. We’ll take our time,” answering your silent question with a soft kiss on your lips, soft lips against soft lips—a whisper of affection rather than hunger.

His nose nudges yours as he props himself up on his forearm beside your head.

And the world seems to still. All that heat and chaos burns into something deeper. Vulnerable.

The weight of his cock nestles between your folds. It presses against your slit with aching patience, the kind of pressure that makes your body clench in anticipation.

But he doesn’t push in, he lets his tip circles over your clit, drinking on each breathy twitch, each flutter of your lashes. He slides through your wetness, letting your bodies get reacquainted, soaking himself in all the arousal he pulled from you earlier, until his shaft is completely coating of you.

He drags his whole length over your puffy folds again, watching the way they wrap around his girth. He makes a different type of mess between your thighs.

This time with intent. This time with… love.

His forehead presses against yours, and there’s something twisted in his expression—an ache. A soft panic. “I forgot a condom,”

But your response is immediate.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, skin to skin, until not even air exists between you. Until every inch of his length is trapped perfectly between your soaked folds, your pussy pulsing around nothing yet, craving.

“That’s ok. I—” a whimper. “Just… just pull out in time. I’m clean. And—I take the pills.”

His eyes flutter shut. “I’m clean too,” his breath is slightly shaky, as if disappointed of himself. “I’m sorry..”

“That’s okay,” you say quickly afraid he won’t finish what he started. “I promise. That’s more than okay, Sylus.”

And finally, not without a sharp exhale from him, he shifts his hips. The thick head of his cock kisses your entrance.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

As you only nods, he insists. “I mean it,” he says, voice raspy. “Even if it’s one second in. I’ll stop.”

“I know,” you whisper, heart loud in your chest. “I trust you.”

And Sylus just might as well feel his heart shatters in devotion. You’re so open beneath him, vulnerable and trembling… he’s about to show you just how much you can trust him.

His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers tight, grounding you to him. The tip pushes past your entrance, and your lips part on a trembling gasp—a sound caught between pleasure and ache. Your cunt flutters, clamping down on just the head like it’s enough

“Fuck,” he groans into your neck, shaking. He tries so hard to hold back and be careful. “You’re so tight. I thought I prepped you enough, I—”

You cling to him, fingernails digging into the back of his hand as the other come to claw against his back. His hips move forward once again, another inch in. Your eyes accumulate tears as you arch off the bed, legs wrapping tighter around him.

“You’re pulling me in, kitten,” his voice cracks, and full of awe. He feels as overstimulated as you, his veins pulsing against your warm walls, the raw feeling of your soaked cunt making his eyes water too.

His brows draw together in a pained sort of bliss as he presses his forehead to yours. Your walls are fluttering widely, the resistance to tight to let him slide in. So his hand slips down your belly. “Gotta soaks you more, yeah?”

His thumb begins circling, slow and sloppy, dragging maddening shapes into your swollen clit. Enough pressure to make you writhe, make your hips jerk under him. And your body answers in the only way it can—with more slick, more heat, more unrelenting need. “Gotta make this pretty cunt weep for me.”

And greedily, your pussy loosens around him by millimeters—just enough for his length to dive deeper onto your warm. “That’s it,” he groans. “There you go. She’s opening up for me now. Such a good kitten we have here.”

His breath hitches when he slides another inch deeper, your walls hugging him tighter, soaked and pulsing. “You’re doing really good, my girl,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Let me love you like this.”

You can feel the tears slipping past your temples. From the stretch, from the emotion, from how filthy and tender it all is. Every word makes your heart tremble, every roll of his hips makes your soul splinter a little more.

And once he bottoms out—hips flush against yours—Sylus’s jaw clenches, entire body trembling with restraint as he fights every primal instinct screaming at him to thrust.

As for you? You’re whimpering beneath him, nails dragging down his back in a desperate scramble, his cock stretching you to the brim borderline with discomfort but never crossing this line. It’s just overwhelming pressure and the need for him to move.

Your pussy is still trying to accommodate when your hips roll on instinct, chasing friction—anything—but it nearly undoes him.

“W-wait—wait,” Sylus gasps, and his hand squeezes yours so tightly it makes your fingers ache. His other arm wraps around your back, trying to hold you still, trying to hold himself together.

His cock throbs violently against your velvety warm, the curve of his dick hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. Your whole body is begging for deliverance, for movement. While his, is begging for stillness. He physically can’t move, not when his length is wrapped from base to tip by your dripping pussy.

“Kitten,” he groans into your neck, something wrecked that send a shiver through your spine. “I can’t—I can’t… move yet. You’re—mghn—too good.”

“Sylus,” your hips move again, desperate this time. “Please…”

“I need… a second,” he pants, biting down on your shoulder. “You feel like… like fire.”

The words hit you deeper than it should. It’s not some dirty talk. It sounds like confession. And even more has his long digits find your face. Gently cupping your jaw as he pulls back the strict necessary to look at you.

Eyes red-rimmed, sweat curling on his forehead and neck—sticking his hair on his skin. His lips part in a quiet awe as he makes eye-contact with you.

He pulls out an inch.

An inch. Nothing more.

And he slides back in.

You moan loud—no control, no shale. The stretch is heaven, the friction molten. Your hands claw at his back again as he repeats the motion, dragging his cock out in torturously slow inches… and pressing back in deeper.

Your breath stutters. “Sylus—”

“Shh, I know,” he whispers, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your tears. “You’re taking me so well, baby. So fucking well.”

And then he starts moving.

Not fast. But with intent. Deep, full thrusts that make your body arch off the sheets. His hips grind against yours at the end of each stroke, making you feel every press, every glide, every drag of his cockhead against that spot that makes your soul flicker.

Your pussy clutches him harder with every thrust. Your legs shake around his waist.

And his voice turns into something darker, deeper, even filthier now that he’s buried deep and claiming you one thrust at a time.

“Listen to that,” he pants, eyes flicking down between your bodies, where you’re joined. “You hear how wet you are for me? How sloppy this perfect cunt sounds every time I slide in?”

And how could you not hear them? It’s the only sound in his room. The wet slap of him inside you is filthy, echoing through the sleek, expensive room like a symphony of ruin. Your slick coats his cock, his thighs, your inner legs. You’re dripping from being so full, so thoroughly claimed. Every thrust feels wetter, dirtier—needier.

“That messy little pussy talkin’ back to me.” He’s rutting into you so deep your vision sparks. “Keep making those sounds, kitten,” and as if it’s on command, your puffy folds let out a louuud squelch, a boble of slick dripping down his balls. And your mouth moaning out loud his name.

“Well, both of you talkin’ to me is also great,” he chukles, a hint of the smug Sylus coming back.

His thumb finds your clit again—rubbing it in tight, practiced circles. He uses the pressure of his thrusts to roll your body up into his until your back’s arching and your throat’s spilling out shameless, broken noises.

His voice is distinct sound in your ear when he speaks again. “Want me to feel that sweet cunt chokes my when you let go?”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out—just this high-pitched whine as your entire body coils tight. Pleasure so bright it borders on pain.

“Say it. Say who you belong to,” he growls into your ear, hips pounding you now, hard and deep, not rough—just desperate. “I wanna feel you milk me like you need it.”

Tears are sliding down your mouth, your cheeks red. “You—” your voice breaks. “Sylus. To you, Sylus.” His thrusts get ragged, frantic. His mouth finds yours and he licks your wet lips before kissing you feverishly. “Come with me. Come on my cock, now.”

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave detonating from the inside out. Your pussy clamps down around him with a violent, soaking pulse. You scream—actually scream—as your body shudders and seizes, limbs locking, spine arching, eyes fluttering shut.

He groans a sound punched from his soul. His cock throbs inside you once, then again, then again. Your feet press down his ass when he tries to pull out. And his eyes blown wide, panic fodling his features. “Kitten I’m gonna—”

“I know, come in me..”

“But—”

“Come. In. Me.” You say firmer, feet and thighs locking him in place.

Hot, thick ropes of cum spill as your order. Filling deep into your fluttering heat. He jerks against you, his hand still holding yours presses harder on the mattress, sweaty.

Your cunt’s still twitching, sucking at him greedily, as if trying to keep every drop. He stays buried inside, breathing hard, nose in your neck, arm curled tightly around your waist like if he lets go, he’ll lose part of himself.

The room’s full of panting and the sound of your soaked bodies pressed together, skin clinging with sweat and arousal. Eventually, he pulls back and your walls clamp slightly around him making him whimper.

Sylus is intoxicated by the mess down your thighs and how his cum lakes out of you in white bullet. He can’t help himself but bring two fingers and push it all back in making your thighs twitch with overstimulation.

“You’re insufferable,” you laugh as you feel your body goes limbs.

“As if,” he narrows his eyes, a playful grin tugging his lips. “You enjoyed all of this.” He smiles, kissing you for the nth time tonight.

BONUS

“Did you saw that?” Claire’s voice is slow, dripping with distaint. Your marketing supervisor seems to have found a new gossip to talk with the woman interviewer that had the courtesy to receive you and Sylus on her panel months ago. “Sylus?” she whispers just as lower. Poor things. Unfortunately for them, you’re sitting front row to their little whisper-fest, legs crossed casually at your desk, Meliaa lounging across from you, sipping her absurdly large iced coffee. She flashes you a devilish grin. This is her doing. She’d planted tiny mics days ago Claire’s desk when she started to be more irritable. ‘Just to catch the juice,’ she had said sweetly when you tried to scold her. “Yes!!” Claire exclaims, trying to keep her voice quiet. “It’s been months since he’s come to work without a lipstick stain on his collar.” You bite back your laugh. Meliaa claps a hand over her mouth. “You think he’s seeing someone?” the interviewer murmurs, the subtle pinch in her voice betraying her clear disappointment. Claire hums knowingly. “Seems like it. He’s even less grumpy. And I swear, he was texting someone. I saw it on his phone when he left it at the cafeteria table… he saved the contact as Kitten.” Your face heats instantly, but you fight to keep your expression neutral. But Meliaa’s eyes are already screaming: you little minx. Claire continues, adding that the girl might be you. “Could be,” the other woman says wistfully. “She did seem… close with him.” Claire scoffs. “Close? She looked like she was two seconds away from sitting in his lap.” Meliaa snorts. “She did, though.” You give her a playful kick under the desk. She grins unapologetically. “So unfair,” Claire murmurs. “I’ve been trying to get Sylus to crack a smile for years. Suddenly this twenty-something comes in and he’s all happy and glowing and—moaning at his phone screen.” Your head jerks up. “Moaning?” Claire nods solemnly. “I walked into the break room last Friday. He was alone. I swear he looked at his phone and whispered ‘fuck’ like it physically hurt him.” You and Meliaa exchange a look. She wiggles her brows. You look back at your laptop, your cheeks heating more now—not from embarrassment, but from memory. Last Friday. That was the day you sent him that picture under your desk. The one with the lace. The one captioned, “Guess what I’m not wearing at this meeting?” “She’s got magic,” the interviewer mutters, jealousy obvious on her voice. And right on cue, your phone buzzes on your desk. Sylus💋: Boardroom’s free. Five minutes. You barely success to suppress your grin when another message pops up. Sylus💋: And bring your lipstick. I want it all over me. Including my dick. You tuck your phone into your blazer, smiling ears to ears. The absolute audacity of the man. You lean toward Meliaa with a sly little smirk and whisper, “Looks like I’m about to go work my magic.” She exhales, bringing her fingers to her nose like she’s been through it for the thousands time now. “Well, I’ll guess I’ll call my entertaining men.” You both high five each other before you strut out almost jumping to the ceiling.

•͈ ₃ •͈

(can't add a divider whaaaaat • ︡ᯅ·︠ ..... if you made it here, know you're some special creature! hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. and plslslslslslsssss comments what you thought about it pslslslslssssssssss)

🏷️ : @tinyweebsstuff @min-the-monster @ellenoreridgewood @ikesimpleton @kpop-athena @thiccthed @lovelyletterssentatnight @sh3sa1dwhat @marliisastarfrfr @fullofdelightt @grlyeetswrld @fantastucbaby @jadeloverxd @sylustabbykitty @sleepisfortheweakpooh @dummiebunny @imindmemind @yourownstars @mdxilyyy @jupkoe @fancypeacepersona @mothmansockpuppet @sennie-xx @bakubae000 @sylusaethercore @velainey @lostpsycho13 @meg1oss @libraryyyyyyyy @calebs-apple @jaisisnsnsh @pina-chan @mothmothmothmothmothmoth

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cheapshrimpysheep · 10 months ago

Text

Pocky Game

SUMMARY: How would they react if you asked them to play Pocky with you? Do they already know the game? How do they act while playing? And who is the first to finish the biscuit stick and kiss the other?

CHARACTERS: All NRC students (except Ortho)

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Bullet Points; Kissing; suggestive?

WORD COUNT: An average of 310 words per character.

COMMENTS: I had this idea for some time but only now did I write it down. I don't know what else to tell to you other than: I hope you enjoy 😘

CONTEXT: The Pocky game is a party game played with Pocky, a Japanese chocolate- or candy-coated biscuit snack. Two participants place the Pocky between them “Lady and the Tramp” style, and try to be the last to hold onto the biscuit, often resulting in a kiss.

Since it's a game similar to the famous scene from "Lady and the Tramp" where they eat spaghetti, my headcanon is that this game exists in Twisted Wonderland.

How to play:

Pick a partner that you wouldn't mind kissing.

Face your partner and put a Pocky stick between you. Each partner takes an end of the Pocky stick in their mouth.

Each partner bites their end of the Pocky stick until their mouths meet in the middle. The first person to pull away loses!

Riddle has no idea what this game is, you'll have to explain it to him. “So, if I understand correctly, you lose if you pull away and you win if you keep eating the biscuit stick. Very well. It sounds simple. But is there any purpose to the game? Is it some kind of endurance test?” You say, in a way, it can be seen like that. He smiles.“I see. Are there any other rules I should be aware of before we begin?” You say no, that you already explained everything.

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and point the other side at him for him to bite. He does so and you begin the game. The closer he gets to your face the more he will blush. Until he starts having difficulty looking you in the eye and diverts his attention to the biscuit stick, which makes him make a cute face.

When there is only one bite left to finish the game, it is his turn and he pulls away. “W-wait!” The only times he gets redder than he already is is when he's angry, but of course this was not the case. “You never said there was a possibility that neither of us would pull away. If we both continue eating the biscuit stick until the end, what happens? Because if we had continued...” He looks away, embarrassed.

You apologize because you thought finding out during the game would have been a fun surprise. But you didn't know he wouldn't like the idea of... kissing you.

“What? No, no! It's not that I don't like the idea, I actually really wish I had done it... it's just that... I didn't know that it was the objective and I didn't want to, you know, be ill-mannered in case you...” Then he gets slightly upset with you. “You should have warned me! You lied to me when you said there were no more rules.” He smirks confidently. “If you were a student of Heartslabyul, it would have been off with your head for this. But I will allow you to play again and if I consider the end of the game satisfactory, you will have my forgiveness.”

In the second round, even though it's his turn, he will stop and hesitate, he wants you to be the one to consent. So you take the last bite and kiss him. You feel his lips relax. And If you deepen the kiss, he will reciprocate and hug you, pulling you towards him by the waist.

Ace knows this game so well that it's not you who invites him to play, it's he who invites you. “You also bought a box? Ha ha ha, we thought the same thing. That's a good sign.” He winks at you and smirks. “What box do we start with?”

While you play, he looks you in the eyes with a mischievous and provocative look, to see when you will chicken out and lose. The longer this takes, the more he will smile and the more smug his look will become. His face reminds you of a sly cat.

When there's only one bite left for your lips to meet, he stops, to let you choose whether to kiss him or give up and lose, while he looks you in the eyes defiantly.

If you finish the game and kiss him, his eyes will widen in surprise, but soon after that he will close his eyes and you will feel his lips form a triumphant smile. He place a hand on the back of your head to deepen the kiss.

He's the one who breaks the kiss with the most smug smile he's capable of. “Wow, chill out. We still have a lot of biscuit stick to play with.” There is a pause in which you reply. “What do you mean I was more excited than you?!” He blushes. “Lie! You were enjoying it as much as I was!... Wait! I mean...” He blushes even more. “You know what, let's play again to find out.” He smirks again.

The name of the game is not unfamiliar to Deuce, but you’ll have to remind him what kind of game it was. You explain the rules to him, that both players eat the biscuit stick from one side and the first one to pull away loses. “Okay, so whoever finishes the biscuit stick first wins?” He asks and you confirm.

“I see. So let's... wait! What happens if none of us pull away?” He asks innocently. You suggest that he finds it out while you play. And he trusts you, so he accepts the suggestion.

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and point for him to bite the other side. He does so, and as your faces get closer he begins to blush.

As the two of you take bites, it seems to bring out his competitive side, causing him to pay more attention to his bites of the cookie than to the fact that he's getting so close to you.

He's the one who takes the last bite and kisses you. But he'll quickly jump away and start apologizing. “Sorry, I didn't mean to- I mean I didn't think- expected-” He stammers, unable to finish a sentence and almost as red as when his Housewarden gets angry.

If he sees you looking sad or disappointed because it looks like he didn't want to kiss you, he'll immediately tell you that's not the case! Clumsily, and stumbling over his words.

“Wait... that... that's what you wanted? T-To kiss me?” The poor boy is a little slow. But now that he's realized this, he's going to try to muster up all the confidence he can and suggest that you try it again. And if you take out another biscuit stick to play again he'll be like: "Ah, yes! Try again the game, yes. That... that's what I meant, haha”

Cater was the one who had the idea. And it was probably trending on Magicam. He will ask you to play in the cutest way that only he knows how to ask. “Oh, you know this game too? So you can play with me right? Right, [Y/N]-chan~? You're not going to tell me that you've already played this with other people and you're not going to play it with me. You're going to make Cay-kun very sad, and a little jealy~.”

If you accept, he'll ask you if he can film you two playing. He promises not to post it on Magicam if you don't want him to, but the footage will be so cute that he'll at least want to keep it as a souvenir for himself. “Pretty please~?”

He will play like it's any other game, while looking sweetly into your eyes. Yes, he is taking the opportunity to flirt with you. If you get embarrassed, even just a little bit, he'll find it super cute.

He will let you take the last bite and decide whether to kiss him or not, while he looks at you seductively as a way to convince you to kiss him.

If you do, you'll feel his lips form a smile as he deepens the kiss. One of his hands on top of one of yours and the other on your cheek.

After the kiss, he will stay very close to you, wanting to hug you and with his forehead touching yours, laughing. Like those couples on social media.

Trey recognizes the name. “It's that game where two people eat the same biscuit stick until they meet in the middle, right?” He smiles awkwardly. “Isn't it usually played between crushes?”

If you answer yes in a way that makes him understand that that is exactly why you want to play with him, he'll give you that rare smirk of his, and chuckles. “Okay. I'll be happy to play with you.”

Even though he knows how the game works, he will let you have more control over the game. You'll take the first bite and he'll follow, as if the fun part for him was seeing you having fun and not the game itself.

He will be smiling sweetly the whole game, but when only the last bite is left, his smile turns into a smug as he looks into your eyes, and he kisses you, kindly and relaxedly. Then he'll pull away with that smug still on his face and he'll even lick his lip.

“Well, I guess we both won. That's what you wanted, right? Did I play well?” His expression is a mix of his gentle side with the rare cheeky side. “Oh,you would like I hadn't pull away so soon? Sorry, I'm still getting used to the rules of the game. I don't mind playing it again if you want. It was fun. With or without the biscuit stick.”

Yes, Leona knows what game this is, and he will tease you for wanting to play it. “Isn't that a cubs's play? How cute.” he says lying in the botanical garden, as always. “And why are you asking me to play? Do I look like someone who plays these games?”

You take that as a no (or at least as a 'try to convince me') So you say that if he doesn't want to, you'll find someone else to play with. Points if you say something like: "Maybe Tsunotarou would like to play with me."

“OI! I never said no! But if you want, you'll have to play with me lying down, because I'm not going to get up to make you that favour.”

He just straightens his head, resting it against the base of a tree before you begin. He opens his mouth for you to put the biscuit stick in his mouth. The only thing he'll do is bite that whenever it's his turn.

At first, his expression is neutral, almost bored. But every time your face gets a little closer to his, a smug smile forms on his lips. In the last bite, not only is he smiling, he's looking you in the eyes like a greedy predator.

He takes the last bite, attacking you with a kiss. He's been standing still the whole game, so when he does that you almost get a jump scare. Just like felines preparing to attack.

But he doesn't just attack you with the kiss. At the same time he puts his hands on your waist and makes you lie underneath him.

He breaks the kiss for a moment and looks at you to see your reaction with the most smug smile on his face. “As if this wasn't why you asked me to play with you. Now deal with the consequences.”

Jack doesn't know what game it is, but maybe he's heard the name somewhere. You'll have to explain it to him.

“Okay, it sounds like a simple game. And... You want to play it with me?” He says rubbing his neck. You say yes and if he wants too. “I... I think I don’t mind.” He says wagging his tail.

If you insist on knowing if he is really sure he wants to play with you, he will stop beating around the bush and tell you bluntly: “Yes. Yes, I would like to play it with you.” But blushing a liiittle bit.

You are the first one to put the biscuit stick in your mouth. He will follow you. He'll be flattered the whole game. He's never played a game so... intense for him.

Whenever your eyes meet, he looks away and his ears lower.

When there's only one bite left he'll stop and let you decide whether you want your lips to meet or not.

If you kiss him, his ears will immediately stand up straight! And if you don't pull away, he will relax, his ears will go back down, and he’ll deepen the kiss.

And you might be surprised when that shy boy a minute ago, suddenly pulls you close to him by your waist and turns the kiss into a passionate one. His tail wagging like crazy, by the way.

And as suddenly as he brought you closer to him, he will pull away, embarrassed for having let himself be carried away.

He will start apologizing and if you want to keep the flame burning, the best option is to shut him up with another kiss. He will love that.

A game that involves eating? Sign Ruggie up! A game that involves sharing food? “Hum... In that case I should have something else for the halves I let you eat.” He bargains with you.

You can try to dissuade him with something like: “But it's just a silly game. And it's just a biscuit stick.” But he will respond with: “It could even be a freshly picked dandelion, I don't play with food.” He's telling the truth, but trying to appear playful.

You suggest giving him the entire box if he plays with you once. But play the game the way it should be played, not finding a way to play around the rules just so he can keep the box. “Shye hee hee. Don't worry, I have no reason to do that.”

You're the first one to put the biscuit stick in your mouth and wait for Ruggie to start eating the other side. But he looked at you and the cookie with a mischievous look, came closer, opened his mouth and... ATE ALMOST THE ENTIRE THING IN ONE BITE! Leaving you just one bite away from placing your lips against his and ending the game. His gaze was cutely mischievous.

If you finish the game and kiss him, he will hold it for a second just to see if you don't pull away. And when he realizes that you are enjoying the kiss, he will grab you by the waist and deepen the kiss. And there is only one way to describe his kiss: Greedy

Azul doesn't recognize the name of the game, but when you explain it to him he realizes it's a land version of one that exists under the sea. And he'll ask you if he can see the box.

He glances at the front, but then turns it over to see the ingredients list on the back. He's counting the calories, isn't he? You try telling him something like, “Come on, it's just a silly game. Just a little biscuit stick.”

But to your surprise, he starts talking about how a game can be a brilliant marketing strategy, to wonder if he could incorporate those biscuit stick into a dessert on the Mostro Lounge menu and whether the students would be interested. You ask for his attention again.

“I’m deeply sorry for wandering off in thoughts while you were talking to me, but I heard everything you said, don't worry. And since you just gave me an idea for a special new item on the Mostro Lounge menu, the least I can do is accept your invitation to play. That might teach me more about this product. And... that way we’ll be even, correct?” He adjusts his glasses.

His confidence starts to slip as the game starts and he realizes how close your face is to his, and how close it will be by the end of the game. He tries his best to remain unmoved and maintain eye contact with you, but he can't stop the blush from appearing on his face.

When there's only one bite left, he stops so you can take the last one and decide whether the kiss happens or not.

If you do, you will feel the tension in his lips, but he will not break the kiss. And if you don't do it either, it will start to relax and deepen it. The tension turns into a smile and you feel his hands cupping your face.

Jade doesn't recognize the name of the game, and asks you if you could explain to him how to play and what it consists of. He recognizes the description as the land version of a game that also exists under the sea.

“Ah yes, I believe I understood how this game works.” Then he gives you that deceptive smile he does when his true intentions are suspicious but hard to tell. “And you chose me to play it with you? Well, I'm honored. I'm more than eager to partake in this land activity with you of all people.”

You are the first one to put the biscuit stick in your mouth. He follows you with a calm smile. But the eyes, they're focused on yours, intensely.

He follows the instructions you explained at the beginning, imperturbably, as if he were truly just following the rules of a simple game. But that was just what he showed. From the look in his eyes you could tell there was much more behind this behaviour.

He always shows himself so passive that it almost came as a surprise to you when he took the last bite like an attacked to kiss you. But his eyes weren't completely closed, just half closed. As if he was observing you and studying you while enjoying the kiss.

And when you start to deepen the kiss, he pulls away, with a charming and dangerous smirk on his face. “It seems that we ended the game in a draw. That is not usually a very exciting outcome, is it. Perhaps we should play another round. And perhaps... make up some new rules of our own. Wouldn't that be interesting?”

Floyd doesn't recognize the game by the name you said, but if your description makes it seem fun in some way, he'll agree to play with you. The problem is that it seems boring to him. It's just eating a cookie. What's so special about that?

You decide to reveal to him that the real reason people play it is to get a kiss from their crush at the end. This makes him smile mischievously. “Aaaah~ So that's why you want to play with me, isn't it Koebi-chan~?” The smile becomes cute. “And what is my reward if I play?”

You say if he doesn't want to kiss you he can just not play. And he sulks. “Ehh? That's not what I said. I want to know what I gain by playing.” He smirks. “Because I don't need to play to get a kiss, do I?” He pauses for a moment to appreciate your reaction. His cute smile returns. “Ah! I know, why don't you give me the box of biscuit stick as payment?” And then he says in that deep voice through the sinister smile. “You're not going to play with anyone else, are you?”

If you accept he'll be like ‘YAY. Let's play then! :3’. You are the one who puts the biscuit stick in the mouth first and he follows with a relaxed look and smile. He follows the rules like you said, but it seems like he's more focused on you than the stick, as if he was amused watching your movements and reactions.

He leaves the last bite for you, watching you with mischievous eyes and an amused smile. If you take the last bite and kiss him, he won't move, not even return the kiss, to see how long you can hold out like that.

When you break the kiss disappointed he will say with a smirk: “Aww, Why so sad? Wasn't it the win you wanted? I told you the game was boring.” He takes the box from your hand, and he wraps an arm around you to pull you close to him. “Now if you still want to make out, you should just do it you know? I'm in the mood so don't waste it.”

Kalim doesn't know what game it is but he accepts any invitation to play anything. He's like: “Of course I'll play with you! Hum... what game is that again?” And after you explain he will say with his big enthusiastic smile: “Sounds fun! I know I can't accept food from other people, but it's you, even Jamil says it's okay accepting things from you. So how do we start?”

You are the one who puts the biscuit stick in your mouth and points it to the other end for Kalim to bite. He does so with a cute, innocent smile.

He seems to be having fun playing. When there is only one bite left to finish the game, it is his turn, and he ends the game giving you an extremely loving kiss. Like a smooch.

He breaks the kiss with a huge happy smile on his face. “Ha ha! This is fun! Can we play again?”

He will make you play with him until the box is empty. And when he asks to play again and you say that the cookies are gone, he will say: “Ow, I was having so much fun. You too? That's great! We should buy more. I'll pay for all of them.”

When you go to the Mystery Shop to buy more and Kalim discovers that there are several flavours, he will buy ALL OF THEM! All of the ones that Sam has? Yes, because Sam, somehow and at that moment, has ALL OF THEM THAT EXIST!

Jamil knows the game because he's heard of it, If not from schoolmates, then from his sister or something. “Isn't that the game where two people eat a biscuit stick to kiss at the end?” He says this with a neutral face, but then he makes that smug face, with one eyebrow raised. “And you want to play it with me? *chuckle* Fine. I don't see why not. I just have one question: Will you allow me to finish the game however I want?”

You say that as long as you follow the basic rules, he can end the game however he wants. “In that case, don't forget that you were the one who allowed it.” He says.

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth, but before he bites the other side, he puts a finger on your chin to tilt it a little and only then bites the biscuit stick.

He plays the whole game with that cocky smile. This is one of those rare moments where he lets his cheeky side show.

When there's only one bite left, he lets you decide how the game ends. The moment you touch your lips to his he will grab you and pull you towards him to deepen the kiss in the blink of an eye. Like a snake biting its prey in a single moment.

And then, he breaks the kiss, licking his lips, and still with his arms around your waist. “You're the one who said I could end it however I wanted as long as I followed the rules.” He says with a smirk and brings his lips closer to your ear. “I hope you haven't regret it.”

Yes, Vil knows this game. There was a time when it became very popular and he usually keeps up with those trends. Especially because sometimes they are incorporated into teen shows. “If I ever participated in one of those scene? No. No offence to the genre but I prefer to participate in films and genres that are less... melodramatic. That and IF I were cast in one of those shows there would be little chance of me getting the love interest role. I am perfectly aware that I’m more of a ‘mean girl’ type.” He says with a certain pride in both his voice and his face.

“And you want to play it with me?” He smirks charmingly. “My dear, you and probably all my fans. I hope you know that if I accept, firstly what a privilege and honor it is, and secondly, that this must remain between us. *chuckle* Well, if you understand that, then perhaps I can give you that pleasure.”

He lets you be the first to put the biscuit stick in your mouth and extend the other side to him, inviting him to bite. He does so with elegance and as if he were following some kind of etiquette for that game that you didn't even know could exist. That and he even places his index finger and thumb on your chin to adjust your posture while playing.

When there's only one bite left, it's his turn. He closes his eyes and kisses you gently and delicately. He'll stay like that for a second before breaking the kiss, and lovely looking at you with a soft smile.

“I must admit it was more satisfying than I expected. Thank you for inviting me to play. I shall be the one inviting you next time.”

Epel's never heard of that game, mostly because he's never been interested in that kind of stuff. So you explain it to him. But he doesn't quite understand why that would be fun. “So two people eat a biscuit stick from each side until someone pull away? But what if no one pull away-... wait... Don't tell me the goal is to kiss at the end!?”

When you confirm, his surprised expression begins to turn red. “A-and you want to play it... WITH ME?! No, it's not that I don't want to. I mean...! Hum... you just caught me off guard. But... yes, I... would like to play with you too.” He ends up agreeing with a sweet smile.

He starts playing a little shyly, but as you two take bites he starts to see it as a real game and his competitive side gives him confidence. So much so that when the last bite arrives and he takes it, kissing you, he only realizes it too late.

He quickly pulls away, blushing profusely! He stumbles over his words as he apologizes, because at the same time he also remembers that that was the intention of the game.

“EH! Wait! This is what you wanted, isn't it? Why am I apologizing? Oi! Are you laughing at me? Fine! Let's play again!” He gives you that confident smirk. “And this time, I'm not pulling away! I'm warning you!”

The second time you play he is definitely more confident. And he keeps his word, as soon as you kiss again, he doesn't pull away. His lips start out tense, but they relax as he forgets about the game and enjoys the kiss.

Of course Rook knows this game! A fun excuse for two lovebirds to kiss? How would he not know something like that? “Oh, and would you like me to have the honor of being your playmate? Mais bien sûr, Trickster! It will be my greatest pleasure.” He smiles enthusiastically.

“May I have the honours?” He asks, holding out his hand for you to hand him the box. He takes one of the biscuit stick and puts it in his mouth, inviting you to bite the other side and start the game.

He plays with a big “innocent” smile on his face. But eventually, as your faces get closer, his eyes change to that hunter's gaze.

When there's only one bite left for your lips to meet, he stops and lets you decide whether to take the last bite or pull away, while he fixes his intense gaze on you, observing you. Yes, he likes to hunt, but part of hunting is also setting traps and waiting for the prey to fall into them.

If you finish the game and kiss him, you will feel the smile he already had grow and the kiss becoming sweeter and more passionate. His hands cupping your face, him bringing his body closer to yours, and then one of the hands slowly leaving your face to end at your lower back.

When he finally releases your lips, he's looking at you with desire. “Très bien Trickster. Your lips are sweeter than the chocolate in the biscuit stick.” He brings his lips closer to yours again. “And now, I so ache to taste that mixture of flavours again. Would you allow me to play this once more with you? There are some sensations I would like to introduce you to, as a token of my gratitude.”

Ooh, Idia knows very well what game you are talking about. Probably for the same reasons that you know it too. “Do you think you're in an Otome game or something?” He mocks you with that smug smile. “And even if you wanted to live that fantasy, why me?” he sulks. ”Do you think I would be the only one to fall for this ‘cause of the games I play? That's a bit mean, don't you think? Or did the association of one thing with the other make you feel pity for me? I'm sure any student with good taste would love to play this with you, you don't need to invite me just because no one would do it with me.”

You tell him, in the form of a scolding, that you want to play with HIM! Not out of pity, but because you like him. And maybe, just maybe, you expressed it quite bluntly because of the adrenaline of being upset with him at the moment.

“Y-y-you like me?! C'mon, why would you?” You two continue to argue until he says something like: “FINE! I'll play with you, but when you lose because you pull away at the first bite, don't blame me.”

He's the one who reaches into the box and takes out a biscuit stick to put in his mouth and points the other end at you with an almost annoyed look on his face. Which looks more like a pout.

You take a bite, he takes another and so on. As your faces get closer, to your surprise, he seems to become more confident. Do you really want to play? He'll show you how a game is won! The heat of competitiveness escalates because of the dangerous mix of stubbornness of the two involved.

When there's only one bite left, it's his turn, and he's already so heated up by the game that he finishes it as if he were making the final strick. Turning your kiss into a surprisingly passionate attack.

But only for a second, until he opened his eyes in disbelief and immediately pulled away with his hair bursting pink, and the paleness of his face contrasting with his blush.

“I-I-I warned you!” He sees you smiling, and his smugness strikes with full force. “Oh! So you weren't just baiting, you really wanted it. Fine then. Next round! And this time I'm not going to chicken out in victory, you hear?”

Malleus is already beaming with joy that you invited him to something. The fact that it's a game only makes him even more excited. Even though he has no idea what game that is. You just explain the rules, that two people eat the same biscuit stick until someone pulls away and that person loses.

“I see. It seems like a simple game to play. But what happens if neither player pulls away?” You decide to respond with: ‘Why don't we play to find out?’ He laughs ans smirks. “Fearless as ever, Child of Man. Are you truly not concerned about what might happen if you withhold information from me? Fu fu. Very well. We shall see how our game ends.”

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and point the other side at him for him to bite. He does it with a loving smile, and tries to take bites the same size as yours. He doesn't want to cheat without knowing it.

When there's only one bite left to finish, he stops, not knowing what to do. So you're the one who ends the game and kisses him.

He is surprised, but doesn't break the kiss, instead he maintains it and deepens it. He carefully puts his arms around you to bring you even closer to him. And then brings one of his hands to your cheek. You can feel him controlling his strength to make sure he doesn't hurt you, even though he wants to hug you tighter.

He breaks the kiss unexpectedly. “I am not hurting you, am I?” He asks slightly concerned. “I am learning to control my strength, but I am afraid I might run the risk of burning you with my breathe.” You say you weren't feeling hot at all, or at least not that kind. “That is other of my concerns. I may not hurt you at first, but if I let myself be carried away... I am not aware if the same thing happens to you, I hope so, but I feel the need to show you through actions like this how much I'm in love with you and that could be...”

You tell him that just as he learned to control his strength, he can learn to moderate other things. And perhaps the best way to do that is to continue training with you, little by little. Maybe with another round of that game?

Silver doesn't know this game, but if you’re willing to explain it to him he will be happy to play with you. You explain the rules except the part about what happens if neither player pulls away. But Silver doesn't remember to ask either and you start the game as soon as he understands the basic rules.

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and point to the other end for him to bite. He does so and plays as you had explained to him, taking a bite whenever it is his turn. His expression remains the same throughout the game... as always.

When there is only one bite left he stops, confused about what he should do and looks at you, or rather, into your eyes, looking for a hint or something like that. And you decide to be the one to end the game and kiss him.

He is surprised, but does not pull away. He just stays like that the whole time you do. Even though his lips are relaxed, it's as if he simply accepts it and does you the favor of staying there.

You're the one who has to break the kiss, probably disappointed that it seems like he didn't reciprocate.

“What's wrong?” He asks, with the same neutral face as always. “You look sad. Did I do something wrong while playing?” You explain to him, in your own way, that it seemed like the kiss was nothing to him, but he didn't pull away either, so you were confused.

“I failed to express myself again.” He says, now with a slightly disappointed expression. “I'm sorry. I... really enjoyed it.” He smiles for a second and then goes back to being disappointed with himself. “But I didn't know what to do, so I just... let you lead, I think. I understand now that I should have taken some kind of initiative. We could play again if you could give me a second chance? Would you be willing to tutor me in how to express myself to you through a kiss?” He smiles at you again. “I would be very grateful.”

Sebek doesn't even know what game you're talking about and he's already complaining about you wanting to play a silly game with him. But fine, he lets you at least explain the game and the rules.

“Just as I thought, a foolish human game. And it is not even productive as a sport to train the body or an intellectual one to train the brain. Why would I waste something as precious as time playing something like that with you? The game is simply two people eating a biscuit to see who can finish it the fastest. FOOLISH!”

You opened your mouth to correct him and say that that wasn't really the goal, but thinking about it, maybe it was a fun way to convince him to play. So you choose to insinuate that he is so slow at eating that he wouldn't be able to beat a mere human in such a competition.

“WHAT?! You believe you're up to my standards in any kind of physical competition? HA! That's what we're going to see, human.” He says smugly. “Pass me one of those biscuit stick, if you please.”

He's the first one to put the biscuit in his mouth, and he even crosses his arms looking at you with a defiant and cocky look.

You start playing, and quickly, without him noticing in time, he kisses you. But only for like half a second before pulling away in the blink of an eye. “AH! YOU DECEIVED ME!” He says with a serious and offended look but a blush on his face. “This is not a game, it's a trap! AND I FELL FOR IT!”

You ask if he didn't like it, and his blush only deepens. “Th-those weren't my words! Do not distort my speech!” So you ask, with a smirk, if he would play with you one more time. “Very well! We shall play again.” He smirks too. “ And this time I will not pull away! Be warned, human!”

As incredible as it may seem, Lilia doesn't know this game well, but he has heard of it. This is a recent thing for very young people, and as that phase of his life had already passed and Silver was never interested in those things, he ended up never having the opportunity to get to know the game.

You see his eyes light up with amusement and interest as you explain the game. “Khee hee hee, sounds like a simple but fun game.” Then, he smirk with a sly look. “I wonder what happens if neither of us pulls away. I assume you were inviting me to play because you are also interested in finding out? Fu fu. Let's play then. Will you do the honours?”

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and Lilia bites the other side. He plays with a cute expression rather than a smug one, probably to make you more comfortable and confident playing. His red gaze can be too penetrating, at least for the first round of the game.

When there is only one bite left to finish, he stops, even if it’s his turn. He wants you to be the one to decide how the game ends.

You take the last bite and kiss him. And now you can feel from his lips that his cute expression has given way to smugness again. He cups your face and deepens the kiss. He is surprisingly (or not) very skilful, so much so that if the kiss were a dance he would certainly be the one guiding it.

And he's the one who breaks the kiss, gently, and gives you a cute smile. “I know I'm irresistible, but let us save some energy for the next rounds, shall we? How many biscuit stick are in the box?”

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

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ccsainzleclerc5516 · 10 months ago

Text

Testing His Patience

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Warnings: smut, jealous girlfriend, a bit toxic btw idk if Max even has a sister, I completely made Carla up

Now you have to admit that you were a jealous type of a girlfriend, but like really jealous, the possessive type of a girlfriend. It was something that you couldn't help and you weren't proud of it, but it was either that or you weren't interested at all. It's not your best feature, and you know it very well, but when you love, you love with all your heart, strongly and completely and that's exactly why you don't let anyone mess with or touch something that's yours.

You weren't really insanely jealous and acted like a crazy person about it, but Lando knew from the very beginning that you had a little jealousy problem, although you didn't always and constantly show it. For example, you were never jealous of his fans, but you would be jealous if Lando paid more attention than you would like to one of his girl friends or, for example, Max's sister Carla.

Oh, you didn't like her at all. She was a thorn in your side and you couldn't really do anything about it because she was Max's younger sister.

Carla was only 20 years old, but she sure didn't look 20. Lando's known her ever since he's known Max and Max is like a family to him. Their friendship is on another level, it's very special and they both mean a lot to each other. However, Lando always looked at Carla as Max's younger sister and she looked at Lando as Max's best friend.

And that was the case until half a year ago, when you noticed that Carla had turned into a "pick me" girl and that she was trying to flirt with Lando on several occasions in front of your own eyes.

At first you ignored it because you knew Lando would never even look at her that way, but when it started happening more and more often it started to bother you a lot. You told Lando about it, but he didn't take it seriously and just brushed it off.

Now Lando hated your jealous scenes. He loved you more than anything and showed it to you all the time, but he hated it when you used to give him a jealous outburst from time to time. It bothered him because he saw it as you not trusting him, and he never gave you a reason to not trust him, but sometimes you just couldn't bite your tongue even if you wanted to.

It was the same this time. An article online titled "Lando Norris and Max Fewtrell's Sister?" which talked about Lando possibly dating his sister and also had a picture of Carla hugging Lando after taking the pole position, was the final straw.

People didn't know about you and Lando. They didn't know that you have been together for two years because you agreed that you wanted to keep your relationship private and away from the media because Lando wanted to protect you and your relationship at any cost.

But lately, this idea of keeping a relationship private has started to do more harm than good precisely because they always linked up Lando with some girls and talked about how he was with them, when in fact he wasn't at all. All of that started to affect your self-confidence and it definitely increased your feeling of jealousy.

That led to arguing with Lando about Carla all over again and Lando was not having it.

"Y/n, please don't do this again. I had a busy weekend and I just want to lie down together and relax in front of the TV. Please stop."

"No, I'm not gonna stop! I'm sick of it! I'm sick of her making me feel like a fool!" You yelled clenching your fists.

Lando sighed trying to keep his cool, running his hands over his face and then through his curls.

"She does it all the time and even in front of me! I see the way she looks at you, the way she always finds an excuse to touch you, the way she always tries to prolong the hug with you, the way she's at every single race." Exasperated, you continued to speak in a raised tone, barely catching your breath.

"And you keep letting it happen! You never said anything to her nor have you ever done anything about it even though you know how it's making me feel, Lando!"

You continued to complain for probably another 3 minutes without stopping until you completely pushed his buttons. He abruptly got up from the couch where he was sitting at and walked towards you grabbing your waist and harshly pushing you against the wall. You winced in pain as your back hit the wall behind you.

"What? What do you want me to do? Do you want me to fuck you in front of her? Is that what you want?" His eyes darkened as he yelled tightly gripping your hips. "I absolutely don't give a shit about her. I don't even notice all those things that you keep talking about because you are the only one on my mind." He continued talking, looking deep into your eyes, his gaze penetrating your soul.

"But do you realize that she is Max's sister and that I can not do anything about it because Max is like a brother to me. I love you, y/n, I love you more than anything in this world, but I don't ever want to put myself in a situation where I have to choose between you and him."

"No one even knows about us, Lando. Do you know how much it hurts me to see them trying to link you up with other girls that aren't me?" Your eyes slowly began to fill with tears, but you were still angry and wanted to prove your point so you didn't let them rush down your cheeks.

"But I kept us a secret because I wanted to protect you, y/n! I would love nothing more than to show you off every fucking day, but at what cost? So that they can completely invade our privacy? Send you death threats? Mess with your mental health? I'd fucking lose it if anything happened to you, y/n! Fuck!!" He yelled letting go of your waist and turning away from you trying to calm down.

You were angry, but he was angrier. His patience was wearing thin and you could sense it.

When you stayed silent for a moment, Lando thought that you had tried to give yourself a chance to understand this situation.

"Maybe you won't have to choose between me and him, but you will have to choose between me and her."

But when these words came out of your mouth, you completely drove him crazy with your stubbornness. He pulled your arm and threw you onto the couch hovering over you.

"Don't test my patience, y/n" He said through gritted teeth pinning your hands above your head. "I'm telling you, I'm getting sick and tired of this shit. How many times do I have to remind you that I only want you?" He asks grinding himself against you.

His mouth moved down to the level of your neck, pressing his lips to your thin skin. "Why do you always have to make things so difficult when you know that I'm only yours? What part of that don't you understand, huh?"

It was his time to talk now. His hand found its way down your stomach and into your panties making you moan at the unexpected contact.

Your back arched off the couch as two of his fingers slipped inside you while his thumb continued to rub your clit. You tried to close your legs around his hand, but that only resulted in him spreading them even more and watching you whimper open-mouthed beneath him.

"From now on," He kissed you hard and passionately before he started. "Every time you try to act like a brat, i will treat you like one. I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk for days." His fingers quickened their pace as he held you firmly down on the couch with his other hand.

You were so wet, so close. "Oh, fuck, Lan.." You whimpered trying to grab his wrist.

"But you'll never get to cum, if you don't stop acting like that." And just when you were about to, he stopped pulling out his fingers that were glistening with your wetness. You whined almost crying out when he decided to deprive you from the release you needed so bad.

He pulled off your leggings and unclapsed your bra, leaving you in only black panties and a tight crop top that showed your hard nipples. He leaned down to kiss you, his tongue fighting against yours, before he pulled down his grey sweats and shirt tossing them somewhere to the side.

He grabbed his hard prominent member through his boxers grunting as he pumped himself through the fabric. You tried to move to a sitting position to be closer to him and kiss his stomach all the way to where he needed you the most, but as soon as you tried to get up, he pushed you back down on the couch. He pulled down his boxers freeing his cock and taking it in his hand. He hovered over you again and pressed his red leaking tip against your clothed folds rubbing himself up and down.

"Do you want to cum, baby?" He asked leaning down closer to you and pressing a soft kiss on the side of your neck.

"Yeah, I do."

"Yeah? Does that mean you're going to be a good girl for me then?" He asked squeezing your boob then lifting up your crop top just above your nipples. Your response came out as a whimper as he stuck his lips around your nipple and began sucking on it.

"I can't hear you, baby" He let go of his cock and let it rest against your stomach as both of his hands played with your breasts.

"Yes,-ah- yes"

Holding your breasts, his teeth bit your nipples so hard that you cried out in pain.

"Ah, Lando, it hurts, fuck" You whined. The pain was so stinging it made one tear roll down your cheek.

"Shh, it's okay, baby, it's okay" He cooed you kissing your cheek and now gently caressing your nipples with his thumbs while grinding his cock against your stomach. "You like it when it hurts, don't you baby?"

He moved your panties to the side and positioned his tip at your entrance. "So wet for me" He commented spreading it with his tip all over your slits. Your fingers went down to your clit as he pushed in. The face he made when it first went in, head thrown back, eyes closed, lips slightly open letting out a long moan in relief, it almost made you cum right away.

He stayed still for a moment, not wanting to move because he was so painfully hard that he knew he would come in a matter of seconds and he wanted to at least wait for you.

He pulled you by your thighs even further down on him and then hovered over you again. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he pressed his forehead against yours.

He started thrusting in slow, but deep and hard knocking the air out of your lungs. "C'mon, baby, take it, take it like a big girl" He said holding your face between his hands.

You were so turned on by his words. You loved it so much when he'd be angry like this and then ruthlessly took all of his anger out on you. You could feel yourself dripping down as he kept ravaging you with his cock.

"I-I'm so close, Lan" You whispered.

"Yeah, baby?" He took your leg and lifted it up to wrap them around him. That way he got to thrust even deeper into you, knocking your mind out of your body. "You gonna cum around my cock?" He asked against your skin.

Before you could even answer, you threw your head back against the couch, you gripped his shoulders tightly trying to resist him and get away because the pleasure was so intense you couldn't take it. But he didn't let you escape from under him, he continued to fuck you through your orgasm as you screaming out his name filled his ears.

"That's it. That's a good girl." He praised you kissing your chest to calm you down as you were barely being able to catch your breath.

"You can take it a little longer, love yeah? I'm almost there." The weight of his body was completely pressed against yours, you could feel his heartbeat, see beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he kept pounding into you like his life depended on it, like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

Once you pressed your lips against the sensitive spot on his neck and ran your tongue over it, he lost it. His breath hitched, head tilted back, grip tightened around your waist and soon he was cumming inside you, filling you up to the brim.

His head fell on your shoulder and you wrapped your arms around him, wanting to hold him even closer to you if that was even possible.

When both of your breathing calmed down and your pulses returned to normal, Lando pulled out of you. He watched as his cum rushed out of your pussy at the loss of him and hissed at the sight. "Fuck, baby" He leaned down and kissed your thighs making you blush.

...

The next race weekend, Lando took P1 and you were there to support him. You blended into the group with Max and the rest of his friends including Carla.

You were annoyed that she was here for yet another race and once again doing everything to draw his attention to herself. But you weren't going to let her get the best of you this time.

Although when Lando came closer to all of you to celebrate his victory, she was the first one to go and hug him. At that moment your heart ached and Lando saw the sadness in your eyes as you stood on the side watching him from afar. At that moment, he finally understood what you've been talking about all this time. He felt your hurt through your teary eyes and therefore without a second thought he made his way through the crowd to you, pulling you to himself and trapping you into a tight hug and a passionate kiss in front of thousands of people and cameras before whispering

"It's always you."

#lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris smut #lando norris #lando x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff #lando norris x you #lando norris blurb #lando norris one shot #f1 smut #f1 #f1 one shot #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 blurb #f1 fluff

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originalwinnerfanfish · 1 year ago

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Well, I did it

Megatron - I love his tfp design. Probably one of the best iteration of Megs. He is huge, heavy armoured, his face covered with scars… He doesn’t looks like an ordinary military leader who is only capable of giving orders, but like real warrior who can destroy any enemy with his bare hands.

So, in the WOF version, he definitely shares some features with Princess Burn, not only because of his might, but also because of his horns shape and dirty-dark scales (that absorbed blood of his enemies)

Starscream - Boy, I hate him so much 🤣… but in the good way, trust me! In my opinion, when the show's creators make you feel such strong negative emotions towards a villain, it means they've done a great job. Also, I think that his animation in the show was absolutely incredible, because even though he's a 3D model, he still manages to move like a 2D character, which is amazing!

I feel that in my design he still looks more like a skywing, than an icewing (which is kinda logical)

Soundwave - This one was tricky. I couldn't figure out what his mask would look like, so I just made his face a really dark color. I think Soundwave has both gifts of the nightwings, and he’s equally great at telepathy and a future vision. So he doesn't really need equipment to predict enemy movements, which makes him an ideal communicator in the WOF setting. His Laserbeak is part of the armor enchanted by Shockwave, and it might also allow him to open portals (but I'm not sure with this one)

Shockwave - My favourite evil genius. He would definitely have animus magic and mind reading. I think Shockwave is the only one who has advanced the study of magic so far, precisely because he combined it with scientific knowledge and created safer methods of using it, that don't damage the mind. It's like if a Mastermind got animus magic in books.

I also like to think that he didn't heal the damaged part of his face just so that his enemies would fear him more)

Dreadwing - This man deserved better! It's really a shame that he was removed from the show so quickly due to financial problems. It would be great if his arc got a proper conclusion in season 3.

Considering that I didn't want to make him a hybrid, it was difficult to choose a suitable color palette. So let’s just say, that I tried my best😅

I don’t think that he would have any nightwing powers, but honestly it doesn’t even matter - this guy can make a bombs, what else does he need to be cool

Arachnid - Did anyone even doubt that she would be a hivewing? Damn, she even got her own “Othermind” virus. Her design was the easiest to work with - just a little poisonous ass (suspiciously similar to Maleficent).

Just like Starscream, I hate her, but in a good way. She's one of the creepiest characters in the entire series, who’s acting like a fucking heartless monster, especially with Arcee, but even so, there's always was something mesmerizing about her. I just really like strong female villains

Knockout - Wery bright and charismatic guy, definitely one of my fav cons!

I tried to draw him as handsome as possible. Worked a lot on the face shape and coloring, and as for me it turned out pretty nice (finally).

Most decepticons think Knockout is as stupid and lazy as all the other rainwings. And it's not like he completely disagrees with that. Of course he’s not stupid and lazy, but if it’s means less dirty work on the battlefield, well, he’ll continue act like a tipical rainwing

(I also believe that Megatron keeps him as an “art”)

Breakdown - Fun fact: "Operation Breakdown" was the very first thing I saw in this series. And it was an interesting experience for 8 year old me. Maybe that's why I'm so scared of eye gouging scenes in movies now…

I think that he didn't have any siblings initially due to his parents nature, and even after meeting Bulkhead, he felt uncomfortable among the other mudwings. And this is why he later chose the side of the decepticons. And maaaaybe because of one cute rainwing influence)

P.s.

I think that, being mostly nightwings and icewings, the decepticons are much more concerned about purity of their blood and rarely accept half-breeds into their ranks.

During the war, there were many animus dragons among decepticons, which is why they have so many artifacts that allowed teleportation and communication at a distance. But, honestly, I still can't imagine what Nemesis would look like in this AU

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vanillawildflower · 1 month ago

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i’ll actually die on the hill that it’s jeremiah who is the most consistently misunderstood and mistreated character on the show, not a certain #someone else just because his key character traits aren’t being brooding and mysterious and having avoidant attachment style.

jeremiah describes being fully wasted and dissociating with lacie then sobbing afterwards (while she was very much proud of it) which full well sounds like he was taken advantage of yet all b*nrads don’t give a fuck and still shit on him for “cheating”. when it’s been established in canon that he thought they were fully broken up. not even mentioning, steve and taylor have been ACTUALLY cheating on their sos for months, but of course b*nrad defenders and consistent logic just don’t mesh well together.

jeremiah is constantly described as never taking anything seriously, when we’ve seen time and time again that he is serious. even freaking steven acts like he’s a joke (some best friend there lol). who was taking care of susannah’s bills? who stepped aside if it would mean his brother could be happy? who was the MOST supportive of belly going to paris to follow her dreams instead of staying where she was comfortable? and who stayed in the hospital all night when steven was hurt, keeping his distance for belly’s sake but being on standby, just in case she might need him?

jeremiah haters also describe him as manipulative and vindictive, but remind me again. which brother was making fun of belly over her checking her appearance, something which obviously meant a lot to her at that time (it’s the name of the frickin show)! which brother made her constantly feel like she was just an afterthought and not the first choice? which brother always left her hanging and wondering what she’d done wrong? right. whereas jeremiah is always telling belly she’s beautiful, that she can do anything, and that she deserves everything. it’s not even a competition for me

jeremiah is constantly slut shamed when he and belly have had the longest and strongest relationship in the show by far. he’s also the only canon bi character which makes this extra weird. poor writing but also the double standards against jeremiah specifically, all the time, is really something.

all of this isn’t even mentioning the fact that jenny had to do a complete character assassination of jere (in the books—and likely, in turn, the show, though the full extent has obviously not happened yet though i’m bracing myself for it) to stop him from being the obvious better choice, because he is and has been. we have seen jeremiah be an extremely mature, supportive, open, warm and loving partner to belly, and belly in turn is HEAD over heels in love with him. i mean, girlie is skipping towards him, smiling stupidly in all their scenes, and calls him her soulmate and last love. she isn’t constantly upset and doubting herself and insecure the way she was with a certain someone else.

the ONLY way they are not endgame now is by completely ruining jere and bellyjere’s relationship, because so far it’s pretty much been an idyll (taylor herself says this) – obviously it hasn’t been perfect all the time, but they’ve never given up on each other, and always come out the other side stronger. will this likely downfall make sense for them? no. will it make sense for jere’s character? no! but there’s no other way for bellyjere to not be endgame with how happy they were together for over three years—the longest main relationship by far in the show. it’s the only way to make b*nrad and c*nrad the favored choice. if you have to destroy one ship to make another look better, how good is it really? my genuine question for jenny.

so i stand by this. jeremiah is the most consistently misunderstood and mistreated character in tsitp by far — both by the fans and the creators.

#pro bellyjere #bellyjere #team jelly #jeremiah fisher #pro jeremiah fisher #anti bonrad #anti conrad fisher #i’m not even anti conrad in s3 he’s been fine actually but for prior seasons and to avoid c*nrad stans if they don't want to see this #no matter how valid i believe this criticism is

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romanoffsbish · 4 months ago

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A Change in Routine

Wanda Maximoff x Fem!R

Warnings: Angst to Fluff (Hurt-Comfort) | Retired Hero Guilt | Neglect | Arguing |

When Wanda lets the public opinion get to her, the distance her emotions created proves a threat to your love, and eventually your safety—can the witch mitigate the damage? | WC: 3.1k

The sound of rain pelting against your rooftop window woke you from your sleep rather suddenly, you gasped on your spit and reached out to your side to find cold sheets. After your eyes sluggishly opened you could see, and now hear, that it was actually hailing outside.

A sad chuckle left you as you felt the iciness you'd held at bay for a month now spread throughout your chest.

The woman you loved with all of your heart, who'd spent every night entangled with you since she moved in had not made it to bed last night. In the beginning it was actually you who teased her about never sleeping alone, you'd called her clingy with obvious adoration and she said she'd sleep where she felt most at peace.

Did she no longer find safety in your loving arms?

——-

This weird feeling of loneliness struck you, because yes this was her first night in three years sleeping without you, but it wasn't the beginning of her abrupt distance. The energy between you both shifted two months ago, and you were frustratedly looking for the reason why.

Which was impossible since she barely spoke to you.

You knew where she was, downstairs in her bedroom, where she'd really only set up an art studio for her to use in her downtime now that's she retired the suit. A daybed was placed in there so you could visit and she could nap whenever she pleased. Which was also usually with you, her head in your lap as you hummed along to a tune inside your mind, lost yourself in some mediocre sapphic romcom; predictably comforting.

Though, she never knew that when she fell asleep you'd put that book down and just admire her face. A hand gently brushing the tangled waves, painted in shades of crinkled green and blue, behind her ear so that you could catch a glance of her lightly flushed cheeks, it was late Spring after all and she naturally ran warm.

Usually, well as of late, she was holed up in there all day, only leaving to collect mugs of coffee—Wanda hated the drink and always scolded Natasha for it.

"You're going to have a heart attack, Romanoff."

The redhead would smirk. "I could use a good thrill."

You missed when your very own redhead would sip on her mug of green tea, while Nat visited and told you what she could about what's been going on back at the tower. Usually stories about the men acting up and her putting them in their place—just like she would you two now but it'd been awhile since you'd had her over. When Wanda started to shut you out you'd done the same to everyone, feeling a bit too off kilter to talk.

Now you lay in bed, stuck in tumultuous thoughts, left unaware of the crack in the window above you. Well, until it shattered and you were greeted with ice pelting into your skin hard enough for you to scream in pain as shards of glass accompanied it and left some marks. A burdened sigh left you when you realized that would likely attract the one person you didn't want to see.

In a matter of a minutes time, where you continued to lay there and allowed the ice and water to pelt you just so you could feel something, Wanda came running in. Taking in the scene with a frazzled expression, she stood frozen for a second as your hurt eyes met hers.

Then, with a brisk flick of her wrist the manifestation of your emotions disappeared. It'd been over a year since your powers couldn't contain themselves; you were hurting and Wanda pretended not to know why.

"Baby," Wanda cried out frantically, "what's wrong?"

You rushed back on the bed and refused to let her touch you, the rain might be gone but the effects of your powers remained, pieces of ice melting on your already drenched skin but her heart stuttered at the mistrust in your eyes. She was feigning cluelessness and something about that look in her eye set you off.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," you laughed somberly, "but I can't think of anything worse than your touch."

"Y/N," she choked on her hurt; you were being cruel.

"No," you cut her off, "I have a right to my feelings."

"As do I," she threw back defensively and you sighed, already knowing that this was going nowhere. "Mhm." Gently, your feet slid into your house slippers and you quietly made your way to the bathroom. Wanda heard the shower running and screamed into your wet pillow.

This response was what chronic sleep deprivation looks like, Wanda supposed. There was so much guilt swirling inside of her most days that she just couldn't sleep. Which was ludicrous honestly, because all she ever needed to do was talk to you, and she'd be righted. There in turn is why she hadn't yet, because you would give her a reassurance she didn't feel she deserved.

Most nights, as of late, she'd get about two hours of sleep before the need to punish herself returned. At about two in the morning she would slip off to her studio, then around six she would return to your side. Last night though, she couldn't even stomach laying beside you, she felt like such an undeserving failure.

The problem she faced was simple, remorse for the dormant life you both lived together. It was perfect until she caught wind of an alien attack and the news articles to follow, "Scarlet Witch and Illusion MIA." Said article went on, in detail, about how selfish you were both being to abandon the world of civilians when you had powers the 'normies' only ever dreamed of.

It was unfair, truly, as you'd given up your childhoods to be forged into these monsters but willingly folded into the side of good as soon as the opportunity arose. Yet the world could only see you two as ingrates, as if you were not regular people before science made you, and just as deserving of a peaceful, domesticated life.

Wanda sighed, completely ready to jump up and go after you but her body refused to comply the longer she laid in your marital bed, your scent far too comforting. Her body melted further into the messy sheets that still held your warmth amongst the water, heart panicked as she wondered if this would be the end of your love, but she just couldn't help it as her eyes fluttered closed.

When you stumbled out of the bathroom an hour later, dressed for the day, you were startled by Wanda's face. Not that you were put off by it, but just that you were shocked to see her, usually she'd have stormed on out. Instead, she was snoring like she hadn't slept in a year, and at closer observation you wondered if it were true.

"Oh Max," you sighed sympathetically, fingers gentle as they brushed some hair from her tired face, then you leaned in to faintly kiss her forehead. "I wish you would stop hiding from me baby; I miss you terribly..."

With her pale skin, and bags more noticeable you set off to find a source for her turmoil. A short jaunt later and you were stood outside of her room, there had never been a reason to enter without her before, so you were a bit nervous to do so—were you crossing a line?

The more you thought about it all, the less inclined you were to care as you would rather upset her than let her continue to live in this constant state of anger and subsequent avoidance. It was threatening everything you two spent so long building and you were far too determined to not let it take your sweet love away.

There was no lock to get through, so you cautiously swung the door open and nearly fell to your knees. "Oh God." It was truly a horrific sight, every canvas that lined the wall of a person she likely felt she had failed. You easily recognized them as civilian casualties from recent attacks, it puzzled you why she clung to them when she wasn't apart of the mission. It was morbid.

One half of each individual's canvas portrayed them as happy—full of a life they no longer had, and then the other half was them frowning with black, voided eyes that were repeatedly marked over, scarred; hopeless is all you felt deep down as you stared at the blur of faces.

You honestly couldn't help but shudder as you walked further into the emotionally charged space, it was an endless stream of canvases, and you felt nauseous. A trembling hand touched one of the painted faces, feeling as she used a raised paint to create the scars.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" The hairs on the back of your neck stood up and you shifted to face her, there was a terrifying look in her eyes as if you'd been an enemy and not her wife. "What is all of this, Wanda?"

"None of your business," she bit back venomously but you could see she was just scared to face it. "I think anything that hurts my wife is in fact my business."

Wanda faltered slightly, then said, "your wife is fine."

You laughed bitterly, "the fuck she is—what is this?" Wanda flinched as you threw your arms out and gestured to all of the morbid pieces of her artwork. Just as equally as her next word was, "punishment."

"What?" You barely whispered as your heart shattered. She caught you off guard, leaving the room suspended in silence as you weighed out what to even do, and after a moment of processing you surged forward and yanked her into your arms and held her there firmly. "I'm not sure what happened to make you feel like you were at fault here, but you weren't—we're retired."

"That's the problem," she yelled and you flinched back, nearly knocking one of the unfinished paintings down but she caught it with her powers and glowered. "Get out of here Y/N, I didn't invite you into my safe space."

"Oh," you countered softly, she could see your heart shatter and Wanda wanted to take her words back. The witch was seconds away from approaching you to take it back, if she even could, but then the room shook.

"Y/N?" You looked at her with fearful eyes, not really sure what was going on, you felt hollow. "I don't know what to do," you squeaked, body shaking as you tried so hard to process everything that was happening, it was all so unnatural and sudden, you were panicking. Wanda's heart shriveled up and she felt sick to her stomach at the sight of you, stood beneath a cloud, then it shifted into something that terrified her as a black portal of sorts began to emerge from behind.

"Y-Y/N/N," she called gently, "you need to calm down please just breathe for me baby, okay? Slow, steady."

"Wanda, I-I feel so weird," you were really dizzy, the witch watched you sway softly just before you fell limp. Then just as she went to fight your reality bending with her pure chaos the hole began to suck everything in the room—her morbid canvases, art supplies, you. This manifestation of your fear and the innate need to make Wanda feel better were too strong at this stage for her to neutralize, instead she could only mitigate damage.

It was an easy choice to make as she used her powers to keep you from being taken to whatever hell your energy had opened up. Swirls of red wrapped around you, she struggled but managed to pull you into her arms where she held you tight until you'd calmed.

Eventually, once all the proof of her self assigned punishment was gone, the hole faded into nothingness. You were both left on the floor, which was messed up by strewn about art supplies but she didn't care at all. Wanda's only concern was you, her fingertips gently ran over the fresh cuts on your arms, guilt threatening to swallow her whole alongside the anxiety she now felt. For putting you in such a state of distress, one that might have cost her you, her actual safest place. She honestly couldn't figure out why she said those words.

Wanda's heart didn't stop beating fast until your eyelids began to twitch, and she could trace the movements of your eye beneath. It had taken two hours, where she sat in silent observation, until soon enough she saw that beautiful shade she adored most in the world. She half sobbed, half laughed, the sound a clear mix between her relief, remorse and anxiety.

Just as she expected, just a look of worry from you and she was putty to your loving gaze. "We should talk." Wanda nodded, then jumped right on in. "I read an article about us recently, and it really messed me up."

Understanding washed over you instantaneously, you'd read it too, so you quickly sat up against your better judgment to get closer and got more than you bargained for as you fell forward, right into your wife's rumbling chest. Wanda smiled and shifted until she could cradle your body, you were sat between her legs but she wanted you closer too. Between choosing you or her clinging to her guilt, well, the grief she'd have felt if she lost you would outweigh all of her prior loss.

The somberness returned, because she'd never think twice about her decision but she still felt such immense guilt, it was unfair—to you, to her and your shared life. A comforted smile bloomed across her face as you lovingly wiped her tears away with gentle fingertips.

"We earned this life, baby," you softly reminded her, "Too many times I have nearly lost you Wanda, and I couldn't bear it if I lose you now when I finally know what it's like to love you without fear. I feel for those innocent people, I always do; but we didn't kill them."

"What if my powers saved even one of them?" You stood firm in your convictions. "What if it was worse?"

"What do you mean?" Wanda questioned without accusation, just a need to understand. "I just nearly sent myself into oblivion, what if I'm on a mission and did that to the civilians? I can't go back to that life and I can't worry about you. My anxiety is out of control the older I get, and my powers follow the stream."

"Oh honey," Wanda shifted until you were laying on her chest, then she snapped you both onto her daybed, her hand calmingly soothed down your back as she just let you cry and appreciated that your powers cut her a break this time around and let you just feel the pain. Tears streamed down her temples, soaking into her roots as she felt your pain so immensely, with you.

"I want peace and I think we've earned it after so many saves. Wanda, you never knew what it was like to live a life without pain, you never knew peace. Embrace it."

"It's hard," she admitted, but she also felt it easing the longer she felt the pressure of your love as she held you. "I'll do it though, for you my dearest love I'd do anything, even burn the world down to the ground."

"You are so confusing," you teased, her words a direct contradiction to her prior turmoil. Then you softly kissed her skin and whispered, "get some sleep."

Wanda shifted once again until you were lying on your sides, facing each other so you could see her smile just before her lips pressed to yours. It was a tender moment shared, with the potential for more but you were also right, so she pulled back to nuzzle into you, where you met her with your arms wrapping around her, one hand stroking her hair to provide comfort.

As soon as you heard a soft snore you pulled out your cell and sloppily texted with your free hand and thanked Friday for her revisions. Hey, you free?!

🕷️: Is it really you, or is all just an illusion? 🤔

Haha, very funny Widow. I missed you too... 💕

🕷️: What'd you need me to do? Please say break bones. I'll also take shooting at Tony for sport.

😳 your insatiable bloodlust is concerning, Tasha...

Also, 😗

��️: mhm, that's what I thought.

You continued talking for a few minutes, filling the woman in on the journalist who hurt Wanda and she was quick to plan his demise. Then you politely asked your seething friend to just scare him half to death versus her original plan of introducing him to the reaper himself. The assassin promised she would take care of things and you returned the favor with a dinner invite for the following weekend before looking down.

"You're just so beautiful," you sighed dreamily and the redhead smiled, you knew she was still fast asleep but could, on some magical level hear you, so now it visualized. It was easy to get lost in your wife's beauty, especially in moments where she was at peace like this. Even with the traces of insomnia on her features she still held the beauty to outshine anyone in a crowd.

After a long moment of admiring you slipped her off your arm and made your way upstairs to clean the bed. You'd been hopeful that she was tired enough to stay asleep, but after only half an hour you heard the creeks of your wooden stairs, then the door flew wide open. Wanda's eyes were red rimmed and you immediately enveloped her in your arms, "why are you crying?"

"I-I," she couldn't vocalize it, but you knew what she was thinking as soon as her hands fisted into your shirt, there was a fear in her eyes that you quelled with a firm kiss and a tug of her body into yours. "I'm not going to leave Wanda, we talked it out, we're okay."

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed, again, and all you did was move your connected bodies to the fresh grey sheets. "I know baby." Wanda's frame melted into yours, and she sobbed into your neck until she once again fell asleep.

Things were far from perfect, you knew Wanda would need to adjust to being free without guilt, but for now, with her back in your arms, you could accept things.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff angst #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff imagine

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zombie-bait · 10 months ago

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Went into The Penguin after seeing the trailer expecting Sofia Falcone to be some crazy minor antagonist who exists to just get in the way (*cue Gotham flashbacks*) and instead got a very powerful (and honestly quite justified) rendition of feminine rage motivated by betrayal, societal misogyny, gaslighting and isolation. It's very overt messaging, too. Her family, her coworkers, her friends, her city, even her therapist have all used her for their own means. You get to a point where you see that genuinely everyone in her life has fucked her over and she's not going to play by their rules anymore. And fuck, man, of course she doesn't take the high road but the one she goes down is not only satisfying but borderline righteous for the character and the audience.

On top of that, I truly cannot exaggerate how delighted I am that the show gave reasons to root for AND against both her and Oz. Neither of them are particularly good people but you completely understand where they're coming from and you find yourself wanting for them to succeed, even though one's success very much might mean the downfall of the other!! They have kind qualities alongside their cruel ones which work very well to humanize them.

With Oz, you understand what kind of person he is after only a few scenes. He will lie and schmooze his way to the top however he has to. He plays every side which puts him on the edge of danger and power constantly. Every time he's called out for not having a plan he doubles down on his confidence and acts scandalized even though he's absolutely talking out of his ass. He also takes care of his ailing mother and has spent his entire life being talked down to by anyone and everyone.

Sofia on the other hand, takes a while to unravel. And I love it. The point of her is that she's a mystery. A wild card. Slowly, you learn that she has ambitions, that she has suffered at the hands of others, that she has caused suffering with her own hands and that her family will never see her as anything but a problem. Visually, she is contrasted with Oz as smaller, frailer, younger. The narrative, like her own family, almost leads you to underestimate her. But with episode 4, the painting finally comes together. You see an ambitious young woman sharpened down into a jagged weapon and know that there is only one path left for her. You come away from the episode not feeling like she's an antagonist or a villain, but more like she's a secondary protagonist in a show that already has a fairly strong one.

tl;dr this show kinda fucks. The quality has surprised me in all the best ways possible and I'm genuinely excited to see more.

#the penguin #sofia falcone #the penguin hbo #oz cobb #gotham #dc universe #hbo #its been a while since I got into a show #so this is a win for 2024

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litsenn · 3 months ago

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Hi, I hope it's alright to ask your thoughts on something about Astarion. I just think your posts always show a very deep understanding of Astarion as a character, especially in regards to his complicated views on sex and intimacy, and I really appreciate and respect your analyses. I'm only on my second playthrough, so I like to hear from people who have played a lot more than I have.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Astarion’s state of mind in the first sex scene in act one (I'm currently writing about it). The more I think about it, his experience seems to be a very complex mixture of both positive and negative that exist simultaneously. These are just some of my current personal thoughts (all of this in the context of the PC being someone who treats him well and is generally a good person):

This is the first time he's getting to have sex on his own terms in 200 years, and that's probably liberating, in a slightly terrified and overwhelmed way. He is likely trying to convince himself that he feels more empowered and in-control than he actually does, because he needs that feeling.

He knows the PC better than he ever knew any of his past targets, but he doesn’t yet believe that they truly care about him, either.

The sex ends up meaning more to him than he thought it would, but I also imagine it isn't exactly enjoyable for him, given his dissociation, feelings of disgust, and the fact that this was all just supposed to be an act.

He is also probably struggling to reconcile the fact that he’s growing to genuinely like the PC with his belief that they are fetishizing him (this also connects with your incredible post about Astarion’s feelings about feeding on the PC at this point, and how biting during sex can be enjoyable for him, though still uncomfortable in that he views it as transactional)

He feels like his performance here is important to his survival, because in his mind he is using sex as currency to get the PC on his side. The transactional nature of it is probably comfortable in its familiarity, yet no less disgusting for him.

So what I’m ultimately trying to ask is:

In your opinion, how much of this experience feels positive to him vs negative?

Which of the feelings mentioned above do you think are at the forefront of his mind going into the encounter? Which ones “win out” over others? Are there more factors I forgot / didn’t list?

(I hope I made this sound somewhat coherent. I’ve had a hard time articulating my thoughts about this scene.)

First of all, thank you so much for your kind words 😭 I’m always very touched when people say they enjoy reading my stuff. I don’t know if my understanding of the character is so relevant, all I can say is that I relate to him on many levels, and therefore I analyse him from my personal perspective. Which also means that my posts are just one interpretation among many others.

Now, concerning this scene, there’s a lot to unpack. And I first have to say that there is no clear answer to the question "Did he enjoy it or not?". IMO, it will always be yes and no. And I'm only offering a personal analysis of this ambivalent situation.

Proceed at your own discretion because I’m going to talk about trauma, SA, sex-work and complicated relations to sex in general. Be careful.

Please, keep in mind that al of this is pure speculation (and forgive the typos😅)(and this post is long and chaotic, sorry).

I globally agree with all your points, and I love that you mentioned the complexity of his feelings during this scene. We can all agree that he has contradictive feelings about sex in Act 1. It's not just disgust, not just hedonism, not just attraction, not just manipulation: it's all of this and more.

And that’s one of the things I love about the writing of this character.

Sex is always complex (for everyone) but for survivors it’s even more complicated. And I love that Astarion’s narrative stands against the “perfect victim” tropes and the idea that SA survivors are incapable of enjoying sex. Despite the decades of SA, Astarion still enjoys it and wants it, but his desire is tainted with self-loathing, with fear. He deals with those through defence mechanisms and what I’d call “automatisms” from his former experiences and obligations.

That's why before I answer your questions, I want to add one point which can also work as a foreword to the rest of the post: Astarion is attracted to the PC.

He says it during the confession scene, and there's no reason for him to lie at this point. Likewise, if the PC tells him they can be together without having sex, he's indeed relieved, pleasantly surprised, but he jests about it being a challenge.

I think there's some truth in those words: it will be somehow challenging. First because sex is the only kind of intimacy he's known for 200 years; it's will be difficult to "quit the habit", to discover and get used to new ways to get close to someone. Secondly, because he does find the PC attractive and probably wants to be able to have sex with them without feeling bad about it.

After all, it seems like he enjoyed sex very much before Cazador turned him, since at the beginning, he thought he could still enjoy having sex with his targets.

Meaning sex wasn’t something that disgusted him before all this. He might be able to remember (deep down) that sex can be 100% enjoyable.

Yet, it doesn’t necessarily means he’s now incapable of enjoying it; it only means that it’s going to be more complicated. He needs to rediscover how to fully enjoy it again – on his own terms – now that he’s free to give his consent.

Take the brothel scene for instance; if the PC has sex with Astarion and the Drow twins after dealing with Cazador, he's at first very excited about it. And I don't see any lie here, he's genuinely enthusiastic.

Unfortunately, during the orgy, he realises that it’s not for him ( not yet at least). Being with many people, and/or with someone that is not the PC is still an experience that triggers his trauma. But he didn't know that, he wasn't expecting his trauma to manifest. He wanted to do it, he wanted to enjoy it.

Not only he falls back into his old mechanism: sex as a performance, Astarion as an entertainer who must give the best performance to his partners, paying no attention to his own desire and needs. Followed by dissociation, which is something that happen automatically. You don't decide to dissociate. It's your brain switching off because the reality is too uncomfortable. It's survival.

Anyways, this bad experience is typical of what can happen to someone who's healing. It's normal. You want to explore your sexuality, and sometimes it works perfectly well, and sometimes not. That’s what healing is about. It's not linear, and sometimes it's messy.

It is true that some SA survivors are perpetually sex revulsed. And some of them become sex-addicts. And for most of them, it’s somewhere in-between. Still capable of enjoying sex VERY MUCH, but also finding themselves disgusted by sex sometimes for reasons they can’t really explain. There’s no rule as to how survivors experience sexual attraction.

All of this to say that it is clear to me that Astarion experience sexual attraction, that he is attracted to the PC and that even in Act 1, an important part of him wants to have sex with the PC.

Back to your points.

Control, habits and defence mechanisms

I like how you said he “is likely trying to convince himself that he feels more empowered and in-control than he actually does, because he needs that feeling.”

There’s definitely something in his mind that still thinks as a slave, something which believes that he must have sex to be safe. Because it was the case for as long as he can remember.

Seducing people, sleeping with them without thinking about his own needs, that's part of his habitus. His body has been a tool for so long that he still sees it as such.

It’s ingrained in his mind, and even if he’s regaining his agency, some of the seeds planted by Cazador persist in his mind (and will until the Act 2 confession). Astarion says it himself, it's instinctive. And as you put it, it's somehow comfortable, it's charted territories.

A part of him tells him his only value relies on his sexual skills. Therefore he associates sex to a “safety net”. But he probably hasn’t acknowledged that yet in act 1; he prefers to lie to himself and to pretend he’s sleeping with the PC because he has become the puppet master. It's easier to think that way. But in fact, it was just a automatism, his survival instinct. So even if he’s really attracted to the PC, Astarion is still driven by fear and by a need to control how the PC feels about him (precisely because he's so afraid to lose control over the situation). And sex is the perfect tool for that. His body is the perfect tool.

[I can recall a few numbers of times when I had sex with people while lying to myself and pretending I 100% wanted it, pretending I was the one in control, when in fact, I had sex with those persons for reasons that had nothing to do with my own desire. It doesn't mean I didn't find them attractive, it doesn't mean I regret having sex with them, but it still means that my motivations weren’t what I thought they were, that my decision to have sex was still controlled by something else in my mind, something different from my actual desire. I acknowledged it months and sometimes years later.]

When Astarion welcomes the PC in the clearing, he’s performing. When I say he’s performing, I mean in the way he presents himself as as a person craving for sex, and he expresses his desire as such. He puts on the mask of the “mysterious sexy vampire”, keeping his voice low and his smirk sharp. He plays his part, the one he's played for years. He pretends to be the lover he thinks the PC wants him to be, the overly seductive vampire with his exaggerated declarations.

I think there are several ways to explain why he feels the need to perform:

It has always worked with his target up to now

That's the only way he knows

The exaggeration is also a shield behind which he can hide his vulnerabilities

Let me explain that last point : Saying a simple “I’m attracted to you, I want to be with you tonight”, without all the grandiloquence, is not something he would do at this point (even if that's how he feels), because that would make him look vulnerable. That would mean being honest with himself and with you, letting you see his raw desire, so to speak. It would feel too real (I purposely insist on that word and you all know why), and it's easier to exaggerate the whole thing and to pretend to be the hedonistic and over-the-top vampire. After all, he’s confident, he’s been doing that for years. He knows it works. He knows he’s hard to resist.

But when you think about it, he's obviously lying, saying he wanted this to happen since his first meeting with the PC... Come on, the first time they met he was ready to kill them.

It's a lovely lie, just like the "I love you" during his second proposition for sex (I talked about it here), but when you look into it, it's far grimmer.

Once more, there's a parallel between sex and death: "to have you"= Killing you. I already talked about that connection here, so I'll just quote myself: "It's possible to see Astarion's offer to kill you as a foreshadowing of him offering you to have sex with you. And considering what sex means to him at this point of his life - a tool to manipulate, which can lead to his partners to death - the parallel between the two in early act 1 makes a lot of sense to me."

But oh! µTav/Durge survived that first night with him! The PC is still here in the morning! That's new! It never happened to him before, waking up next to his partner. He needs to control this unusual and terrifying experience! Quick!

So I tend to think that the little remark about the PC being loud all night falls along those lines. He displays his (exaggerated) hedonistic and over-confident part of his persona, as a way to reassert that he’s the one in control. As if saying, reminding them: "I made you (the leader of the group) scream all night because I decided to, and everybody knows about it. I’m the one calling the shots.”

But I think it's also as way to hide how he really feels about that night. So instead of opening up and saying how he feels about it, he teases the PC about their own enjoyment. Another defence mechanism.

And yet, the mask cracks a little bit when he asks if the PC wants to lose themselves in him; he suddenly looks terribly sad…

he asks for a consent he was never able to give before that

That’s probably a line he’s said thousands of times before and those who agreed did get lost… in death

It brings him back to the feeling of being a toy for others to enjoy, for people to use so they can "lose themselves"

The look on his face here is what he's trying to hide during this scene. He's wearing that mask (which will come back later if you ascend him), because he needs to protect himself. I'm not even sure if he acknowledges it at this point. It's an automatism.

But I believe that, as the night unfolds, he finds himself enjoying it.

Maybe it's just me, but I tend to feel like he’s getting more like his playful and silly self when you let him bite you. Whereas if you trust him to not bite, he keeps on performing, in control, like he was told to do by Cazador.

If you let him bite you, you roll on the ground and he looks pleasantly surprised. And I think he starts to have fun here.

(Shadowheart, please)

And I think he can enjoy it even if he dissociates. As I said, the switch is automatic when the brain finds itself in a situation that represents some kind of danger or discomfort. For two hundred years, Astarion experienced sex in a way that was all but comfortable, sex he didn’t really want. It makes sense that his brain automatically switches off. Even though he’s having a good time here, intimacy itself is a trigger, no matter how much he's enjoying it. It’s instinctive, just like flirting is instinctive to him, paradoxically.

And I find the way he explains it quite interesting: he pretends it’s because of his bloodlust, because he didn't want to get carried away.

You see in his eyes that he’s lying. And I kinda like it because it’s sooo relatable. Finding excuses to justify dissociation or plain detachment during sex? yeah, that something I did, with answers along those lines: “I didn’t want to hurt you/I didn’t want to be too intense/I didn’t want to be too loud/I didn't want to scare you/I'm a little tired/etc."

And I still think he enjoys it even if he’s not 100% into it. He keeps his distance (mentally, emotionally) and it’s normal because he’s careful, because he doesn’t really know how to let go. And (healthy, happy) sex is about letting go completely, it‘s about trusting someone and allowing yourself to be completely free from your mental and physical restrains and automatisms.

It’s easy to understand why he can’t fully let go: he’s afraid, because he’s not 100% sure he can enjoy this, because he doesn't know how the PC will behave, and because he must be in control to feel safe.

His body knows how it works, so he lets his body act automatically, that body which have danced the same dance thousands of time. He doesn’t have to think and it’s easier not to think. Easier and apparently safer than following his true desires. Here again, it's an automatism: his body knows, he can switch his mind off, protecting it from potential bad memories, protecting him from his own desire and feelings, protecting him from the temptation of being himself.

He can’t let go, he has to be in control. if only to make sure he will offer his partner the best performance. Even if he's enjoying the moment because the PC is respectful, playful, gentle or whatever you imagine for this first night, he can't let go.

As you said, he’s convinced the PC is only here for his looks – But think about it: Astarion himself never offered anything other than sex, he didn’t pretend he was in love with the PC. He only offered his body. By doing so, he's also protecting himself from potential feelings (theirs or his) of attachment and affection.

It's like saying “Don’t get attached to me. It’s just SEX”. He pulls up his own walls to keep the PC outside. It's another contradiction: he suffers from being seen as a beautiful and shallow individual who’s only good for sex, but he says upfront that he won’t give more than sex. He keeps the PC away (emotionally) while suffering from it. That’s another defence mechanism, combined with the fact that he probably still sees himself as a "mean to an end" (unconsciously), unable to see that he can be someone else than the "hedonistic and heartless vampire."

Besides, it's probable that he doesn’t believe it’s even possible for anyone to care about him. So he anticipates a potential emotional disappointment by saying that it’s only sex, convincing himself as much as to convince the PC that there’s nothing more to expect from it.

Positive/negative experience

You asked how much of this experience feels positive to him vs negative. Let's recap.

Positive feelings:

Excitement (first time having sex on his own terms + he’s attracted to the PC)

Physical pleasure (sex + blood if the PC lets him bite them)

Fun

A sense of freedom

Relief and a sense of pride (they fell into his trap)

A newfound affection (they trust him, they respect him)

Good surprise (he can still have fun while having sex!)

The PC being who they are (more about this later)

Negative feelings:

A sense of obligation

Fear

PTSD

The need to perform and make sure they enjoy it

Habits that make him serve instead of just enjoy the moment

Guilt

Shame

Confusion

Disgust

Feeling of being used (even if the PC isn't exactly "using him"; they accept his offer and they're not to be blamed for it)

One could think that the negative feelings are more important, and true, those bad feelings can be destructive. But I don’t think the unbalance is so evident, maybe because the positive feelings are all completely new to him, therefore they may be particularly powerful.

But in fact, they're all entangled and messy, and I believe Astarion himself can’t really make sense of them.

And later, he sums it up all on his own.

What we know, is that a few days later, he remembers that night as a good experience. And exceptionally good experience.

And tbh I think that’s what matters: What he makes of this night, how he digests and, remembers it, and how he looks back at it. It was special. Special enough for him to admit it.

He admits it feels different with you, it feels good with you -- but he can't yet get rid of the negative feelings sneaking in the back of his mind, ruining what should be a lovely moment.

As for the main feeling at the forefront of his mind… I don’t think it would be one feeling, but more a motivation: “I must stay in control” (whether he succeeded is up to discussion). In the end, I think he manages to suppress his main fears, to keep a certain distance, while at the same time finding himself surprised to be enjoying it.

Questionable motivations and enjoyment

As a SA survivor myself and a former sex-worker, there are so many things that fall close to home both in terms of ptsd, of performance and habitus. I perfectly see how desire, obligations, attraction and disgust can mingle until they become difficult to set apart. {Mind you, I’m not saying that sex-work and sex-abuse are one and the same, far from it. One can be a sex-worker and have never been abused].

In the case of Astarion, he’s first and foremost a survivor, and even if he compares himself to a prostitute a few times, he had no choice in doing it. Therefore, it's not sex-work, it’s human trafficking.

Yet, it's still transactional, and just like a sex-worker, he had to perform, to let the partner(/client) believe that he wanted them, that he wanted it, that he was enjoying it, even when it wasn’t the case. Remember how he made Sebastian believe he was head over heels for him.

During the first night with the PC, Astarion decides to have sex without anyone forcing him to do it. But he doesn’t do it out of sheer lust and attraction. He does it because he wants to keep himself safe and he thinks that’s the only way. Which is, imo, closer to what a sex-worker would do: having sex for money because they need that money to pay the rent or whatever they need to survive. No one is forcing them, except the material conditions and (in Astarion’s case at least) cognitive bias (the belief that he’s “only good at that”) + long terms habits.

And just like a SW, he has to make them believe that he's totally into it (believe me, client don't enjoy it as much if the SW doesn't pretend to be attracted to them).

Look at him, he’s performing. He's said those lines multiples times before. Even the movement of his hand: it’s theatrical. It’s planned and calculated.

This too is instinctive. He's done that for years and he is good at it.

Look at the shift, look how easy it is for him to put on a smiling face to "open a lot of doors" (and legs).

And after pretending to be attracted to those persons, he had to pretend sleeping with them didn't affect him. That too falls close to home.

That line in particular. SO FUCKING RELATABLE IT HURTS.

In my experience, there had been bad experiences. But you go on, because you need to. And to protect your own sanity, you stick to the idea that it's fine, that you can do that again. That it doesn't matter.

But it does matter.

And yet....

In the case of SW (which should always be consensual), being with a client can be a nice experience. Some clients are attractive, some clients are very sweet and respectful, some clients are very good fucks, some clients are all of this (and some clients are bastards but we’re not talking about them here). In any case, they are still clients. As a SW, I didn’t see them as potential ‘real’ lovers, and I wouldn’t have considered sleeping with them in any other situation. It doesn’t mean the experience was bad. I had genuine O with some clients and really enjoyed the company of some of them.

It seems contradictory, but it's real.

Back to Astarion: at the beginning of the meeting it ultimately starts with a performance, like the SW pretending they really want it (whereas they're only do it for money), but it might turn into a really good moment for everyone involved.

And IMO, that's more or less what's happening here with Astarion.

It's a tricky thing to explain because I really don’t want to look like I’m promoting forcing anyone to do anything. Sex should ALWAYS happen in a situation in which all the persons involved are 100% sure they want to do it, and 100% sure their partner(s) want to do it.

But there are exceptional situations (such as sex-work or what Astarion’s going through here, and I can think of other cases), where sex remains enjoyable even if the original motivations weren’t that clear. It’s not fully incompatible. Clearly, that’s NOT a healthy way to deal with your sexuality!!! But it can happen. And the main point here is that it still relies on consent. The person fully consents to do it, but they do it for “questionable” reasons (whether they acknowledge it or not), and they enjoy it in spite of having questionable reasons to do it. It can happen.

I think that’s what happens to Astarion at this point.

(That being said, I repeat it: ALWAYS make sure your partner is fully into it, and NEVER force yourself to have sex if you’re not 100% sure you want it!)

From a transaction to something else

It’s interesting to notice that if the PC refuses to have sex with him in the clearing, he doesn’t really seem to care.

He’s probably disappointed because his plan failed, but his reaction is very different from the reaction you get if the PC rejects him after the first night (my post on this matter here) when he seems really sad to be rejected. It means, I think, that this first night was REALLY meaningful – his heartfelt reaction to your rejection to spend another night together makes it clear. That first night was special since his reaction to your refusal is so very different.

In any case, if the PC refuses during that first night, he says he thought you had an “understanding", and it somehow evokes me something like a transaction (as you rightly mentioned in your message).

And it's not the first time he compares sex with the PC to a transaction. The first time he offers them to sleep with him, he presents it as a reward for letting him bite the PC. It's transactional: You let me feed, I give you sex.

He thinks that’s what sex is about. He has never known anything else, or maybe he did a long time ago but can’t remember.

I wrote that long post about how feeding him can be quite problematic given how he might see it as a transaction (here and here): Offering the the vampire bite kink in order to be fed and survive. It’s the same here.

He knows the PC enjoyed being bitten, he’s convinced they're attracted to him, and by being the one who gives "a reward", he presents himself in a position of control. I “allow” you to have sex with me, since you want it so much: I’m the one making that decision, having more power over you.

After all, in his mind at this point, sex is a question of power. (And if he ascends he undeniably falls back into that pattern; treating sex as a reward, as something to use to better control the PC)

You put it rightly in your message, there's also some sort of familiarity with that transactional system that is deeply comforting.

I won't lie, back in the days, it was sometimes difficult for me to be with someone who wasn't a client, because my partners then didn't expect anything from me. Whereas clients always expect something specific, if only in the SW's behaviour, or/and concerning the acts themselves. And it was comforting. I knew what I had to do to please them. But as I said, it didn't always keep me from having a good time with some clients. It's not incompatible. That's why I think Astarion can still enjoy it even though he's performing, and can get attached to the PC even if it started as something more or less transactional.

And that's precisely why it must have been so destabilizing for him!

After all, when that first night together happens, he appreciates the PC (you need enough approval to sleep with him). As you pointed out, they've already spent several days/weeks together, shared a lot things... That's new to him, sleeping with someone he knows and appreciates.

As a SW, I had defined through the years a clear line between people I met for the job, and people I met outside of it. There was no confusion between the two, even for the long-terms clients – even for the clients I cared about. I liked them, but we weren’t friends, we weren’t partners, we weren’t lovers. And we would never be.

I would say that in the case of Astarion, that separation exists, but it’s not as well defined because, despite his experience, all his partners were destined to end up dead (for all he knew) and he barely knew them anyway. He didn’t have to clearly define that separation because there was no opportunity, no room for him to get attached to them. He saw a target, seduced them, slept with them and they disappeared forever.

It was “easy”, he didn’t have to question the nature of his relationship with them. Whereas after that first night with the PC, they’re still there, alive, and they’re still being this great leader who cares about him and his needs, who values him as a person, someone whose company feels good. His habitus is all messed up and his mental pattern is no long relevant.

{From personal experience, and SW put aside, many years ago, before I really started working on my traumas, I forced myself to believe that I didn’t need affection, tenderness, care. I would never allow myself to cry, I refused to get attached to people (except some very close friends). Because I wanted to be in control of my feelings, I thought it made me look stronger, not showing any kind of vulnerability. I was 27 or 28 when I first experienced genuine tenderness and care while having sex and I realized that there was a softness inside me I had hindered for years and that I actually loved tenderness. Before that, I would run away at the first sign of affection, because it made me feel deeply uncomfortable (and vulnerable). And when I finally accepted to experience it, it was completely destabilizing. It felt good, but I needed time to adapt.}

Astarion realizing that he wanted something real, soft, and gentle with the PC might have had the same kind of effect, but worse. Because he was supposed to be manipulating the PC, to pull the strings, and he suddenly found himself being “manipulated” by his own feelings.

It must have been terrifying for him, realising that he could feel something like this. Because it means he doesn’t control himself (his feelings) as much as he wants to, as much as he thought he could. He "falls" for the PC, the expression itself being one of vulnerability.

For him, falling in love = falling into a trap. He was supposed to be the one crafting that trap, and he ends up being trapped by his (uncontrollable) feelings.

That's why he can sound so cynical about your affair. This banter is from Act 2 if you romance him:

He feels uncomfortable, not because you had sex, but because it actually means something, and he doesn't not how to deal with it. It's easier to joke about it than to admit that maybe he's not so much in control.

It's not the PC's fault

He’s hurt, he has PTSD, but he can now think by himself and make his own choices, for better or worse.

It’s normal for us, fans who know the rest of the story, to worry about him and to not want to have him do something he's not fully into. But we should give him some credits and let him experience sex his own way.

When you’re a survivor, sometimes you have great sex experience, sometimes your PTSD will ruin it, and you won’t be able to go through with it. Sometimes you have sex for bad reasons, sometimes you regret it and sometimes you’re proud of it. Sometimes you have healthy sex and sometimes you use it to hurt yourself. It’s normal. That’s what healing is about and how you learn to define your boundaries.

Astarion didn’t have any body agency for two centuries, it’s coherent that his first experience as a free man is driven by questionable reasons. You can’t expect him to immediately find a healthy way to deal with his sexuality.

For instance, if you don't sleep with him at the party, he spends the night with Lae'zel, and imho it's even worse.

She shamelessly uses him like a toy, and he knows about it. But it's still his decision to sleep with her, even if his motivations aren't "good". You can't take that away from him on the pretext of protecting him. He doesn't need that kind of infantilisation. Same thing when he decides to sleep with the PC.

The thing is that the PC can’t know. As benevolent and respectful and selfless as the PC is, it’s part of Astarion's storyline that they don’t notice anything. He does his best to keep the mask up because the last thing he wants is to look vulnerable to you.

And he knows it's not the PC's fault. He slept with them for questionable reasons and he feels bad about it; not because he thinks they hurt him, but because he knows he mostly hurt himself, and he feels bad for manipulating the PC.

He doesn't blame the PC for it, and I'm sure it's not because he's deluded by his sense of guilt. After all, he never blamed his targets for sleeping with him, even the "villains" among them. They're not the enemies.

Those who hurt him didn't hurt him because they accepted to sleep with him, but more probably because of their behaviours during sex.

Besides, if the PC uses the confession dialogue to trick him into sleeping with them again, Astarion accepts before realising how disgusted he feels about it, and there he blames the PC for it, because here they explicitly abused his trust, using his vulnerabilities against him. It's still difficult for him to say no, especially to someone he respects, but he can say no when he's not taken aback in his most vulnerable moments (again: he doesn't sleep with the PC at all if there's not enough approval). Sleeping with him that first night doesn't make the PC an abuser.

In act 1, the PC has no way to know how Astarion is feeling about sex, The PC is one that fool who wanted to love him...

Trust

I already mentioned how pleased he looks when the PC let him bite them, and I think it has to do with trust. They accept to spend the night with him although they know he's a vampire and they trust him not to drink too much. Look at his reaction if the PC warn him not to bite.

He's really disappointed, enough to put an end to this affair. The tone he uses here doesn't seem 100% genuine, though, masking indignation? frustration? sadness? I don't know, but the "it's about pleasure" sounds so fake to me.

He nonetheless decides to not sleep with the PC - he listens to himself and realises he doesn't want to spend the night with someone who can't trust him. The PC has taken back their trust and reduced him to his vampiric nature (as something bad). Whereas if they sleep with him, they show him that they accept him.

That’s what makes that night so special: not thanks to some sort of “collective ecstasy” but thanks to mutual trust. The PC trusts him not to hurt them. Astarion trust them not to abuse him. He’s not ready to be vulnerable, but he allows himself to enjoy that moment with the PC, despite his plan, despite his past. Because they've both come this far and the PC has proved him multiple times that he could rely on them. It’s a fragile trust at this point, but it’s still more than what he’d ever had before.

An essential step

IMHO this scene is essential in the romance route. I know some players wished there could be an option to romance him without sleeping with him, and I perfectly understand why. Realizing that he might have not be totally into it is painful. It’s uncomfortable. I also understand that if the PC is demi-sexual/ace, it makes the romance road a bit awkward. And it’s a valid feeling.

You can romance him without sleeping with him as Karlach origin, and that's because it's Karlach. The tension arises from the fact she can’t and wants it so much (for good reasons), whereas Astarion can and wants it somehow (for questionable reasons). That road is specific to them both because they are a mirroring one another.

Karlach aside, the thing is that in terms of narrative growth and storyline, this first night is the starting point of his healing journey. For the first time in 200 years, he has sex in a safe environment. For the first time, he finds a partner who trusts him enough to sleep with him even though they know he’s a vampire who could bite them. For the first time in his existence he can have real fun while having sex, he can be silly and roll on the ground. And maybe during this moment, he’s no longer the “sexy vampire” but just a man frolicking in the forest with someone he's attracted to. And again, it's still his decision, no matter how "bad" his motivations are. We should give him some credit.

I think it’s a brave move from Larian to put the players in that situation, to make them face the harsh reality of trauma. The harsh reality of being with someone who has such complicated feelings towards sex because of their trauma. It’s real. Very real. And it feels good to be seen.

You don’t always know the past of your sexual partners. You don’t always know what’s in their mind when you’re sleeping together. And if you happen to learn the harsh truth, it stings.

The Act 2 confession wouldn't be such a powerful scene without the first night. Astarion wouldn't have appeared so brave. Telling the PC about his former motivations must have been incredibly difficult, telling them "I wanted it but wasn't really into it" is freaking brave, and it's a token of trust he gives to the PC. Without that first night, it would have fallen flat. The PC would have just felt some kind of pride for not falling for his flirting and...that's it. Good, have a medal. Instead, the narrative puts the PC in an uncomfortable position, asking them: "Can you accept that? Because that's what trauma looks like and it's ugly."

That first night is inherent to Astarion's storyline, and to its message. That man goes from someone whose only reason to exist is being a sensual, sexual being in a cruel environment - someone who cannot connect with others without sex - to a man who finds out that he’s more than that, that sex doesn’t have to be dangerous, that’s it’s so much more than a game of power. And when you compare his grandiloquent attitude during that first night to his behaviour in the graveyard scene, it’s even more telling.

Those two scenes need to exist side by side to make sense, to reveal the evolution.

Everything about him in the graveyard scene - his body language, the look in his eyes, his voice - is a reversed image of that first night. He’s at peace, he doesn’t have to use those stupid lines about “mutual ecstasy” and how he will “taste you”, he doesn’t look down on the PC or look away. He looks into their eyes and tells them with his own words that he’d love to have sex with them.

But you have to experience both situations for the graveyard one to be so powerful. To witness that beautiful evolution. And Astarion too; he has to experience a “not so real” night with the PC to know that he wants something real with them.

It makes it all the more meaningful and sweeter. And imo, the graveyard scene is so freaking hot! Much more than that first night! Because it's genuine. It’s simple. He knows what he wants, his motivations are clear. It’s a man telling his lover “I want you”. A man who's learning to decipher what he really wants and to express it. And it’s more than enough.

[Let’s be honest, it’s been quite challenging to write all this. I rarely talk about my past online (for obvious reasons) and this scene means so much to me. Analysing it feels a little bit like analysing myself. And if you ever went through therapy, you know how hard it is xD In any case, that’s still my pov, based on my personal experience. I don’t pretend I hold the keys to a universal truth about it. We all have our own experience and sensibilities, and all of them are valid, even if we don’t agree in our interpretations.]

Thank you again @rivereverie for giving me the opportunity to dig into all this. I hope my humble opinion will help.

Last thing, some time ago I wrote a short fic about Astarion’s preparing himself for that first night, and it’s here.

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