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yinyuedijun · 11 days ago

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When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.)

12.8k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and threats of sexual violence (none from Mydei). Mydei also seems quite terrible to you at first, but this is all unreliable narration; he is actually very kind to you for the entirety of the story. MDNI.

Author's note including discussion of themes, ancient Greek influences, canon lore (including the multiple timelines), and a list of characters and terminology for my non-hsr readers lol. dividers by @/strangergraphics!

They find you at the altar.

The Sons of Gorgo are a cruel people. Their hands are smeared with the blood of your fallen temple, staining the ivory silk of your chiton as they drag you outside. Chaos roars around you: the streets are strewn with corpses, the olive trees are devoured by flames, the sky is filled with ash. The city is screaming in its death throes. The Kremnoans jeer at you, at your humiliation. High priestess of a weak god, they say. Prophetess turned slave. They’ve heard that the hiereia of your temple are required to be virgins. You won't be a holy maiden anymore, after they're done with you.

They argue over who gets to rape you.

You do not cower. You are sitting on the temple steps, surrounded by the corpses of acolytes and worshippers alike, but you remain impassive. You refuse to give the invaders the satisfaction of seeing your tears, and anyway, they are much too small to intimidate someone who speaks to the Titans. They bicker over who is more deserving of the valuable plunder of your body—who has killed more people, who has captured more slaves, who has burned down more homes—and you feel disgust, rather than fear. They're closer to animals than men.

The hoplites fall silent when their leader comes. His hair is fire and gold; his eyes gleam like the sun. He cuts a terrible figure—the shape of a man who feasts on strife and fear. Just like the rest of his army.

Just like Nikador himself.

“What’s happening here?” he says, harsh and oppressive. His gaze is sharp on you, but you do not tremble. “Who is this?”

A soldier speaks proudly: “She was the high priestess of this temple,” he says. “But now she’ll be a slave.”

The men laugh.

“We were fighting over who should get to keep her,” another says. “But I think it's clear as day who's most deserving, eh?”

“The fiercest among us should get the greatest prize,” someone else says. They cheer and bark like hyenas. Their general does not smile. He only looks at you, eyes burning. Outraged. How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their leader to glare at you like this.

“Fine,” he says. “I'll take her, then.”

They grab you with their red hands. Push you toward an encampment, a tent. Laugh in delight and bloodthirst. About time our Crown Prince shows interest in a woman, they say. We were starting to think you were a eunuch, Your Highness! It wouldn't do if he were. In the wake of victory, Kremnoans are meant to take all the glories and treasures they can. That includes all the peoples they've conquered. Our mighty general needs to enjoy his spoils of war!

When they finally reach his tent, they throw you onto the ground, and the pain slams through your bones. You are left alone with the Kremnoan general, glaring up at him from your place on the floor. His eyes are less sharp now; rather than burning on you, they merely seem cold. He will kill me, you think, he will kill me like he has killed my city, but then he kneels down. A hand extends toward you, reaching, pilfering, violating—

You spit in his face.

“Don't fucking touch me,” you snarl, and the general jerks back, surprised. Your hand darts out as he falters, grabbing a dagger from his hip, swift and deadly.

The sharp metal of his gauntlet snaps around your wrist before you can slash open your throat.

“What are you doing?” he snaps. Your brow arches.

“Shouldn’t it be obvious?” you ask, scathing. “I'd rather die than let a Kremnoan touch me.”

His mouth twists. “I have no intention to do such a thing,” he says, and the bark of laughter you let out is so cruel that you hear in it the echo of the soldiers who dragged you to your doom.

“Do you take me for an idiot?” you hiss. “That’s what your people do when they win wars. What the Cult of Nikador does to the women they enslave.” The blade is pressed against your jugular, and you feel its edge when you swallow. “Or will you instead bleed me dry and drink my blood from your chalice? That's what your god demands of you, isn't it?”

His eyes narrow. “Foolish. I was going to help you up, but I suppose you prefer being on the ground.”

You watch him, wary, unconvinced, but he turns away. As if utterly disinterested in you, he crosses the threshold to rummage through his personal effects. You spot a golden winecup in his hands when he turns, and he snorts when he catches you looking at it suspiciously. “You have no need to worry,” he says dryly. “Kremnoans prefer pomegranate juice to blood.”

“If only they preferred to be humans rather than beasts,” you retort, and the general’s eyes harden as he pours himself a drink. You wonder, for a moment, if he will strike you, but he seems to temper himself as he takes his draught.

“I hope you prefer living to dying. If you should, then you won't leave this tent tonight. Doing so would mean throwing yourself to those beasts.”

“I'm already in the presence of one.”

His nostrils flare. You can sense his fury, but his voice is taut and restrained when he says, “Better to contend with one beast than twenty, don't you think?”

Your captor walks over, his boots heavy against the ground as he kneels before you. You expect to feel his hands on your neck, or the weight of his body crushing yours into the earth, but instead you are presented with his winecup, half empty.

“Take it,” he says. When you don't move, merely glaring at him, he frowns and sets the drink next to you before rising again. You're left staring at the nectar, and—unbidden—you see the rivers of blood on the temple steps, lacerations in your holy ground. Smell the copper stench of slain men, hear the sorrowful cries of your goddess through the Evernight Veil. Your captor misinterprets your grimace: “You just saw me drink from that yourself. It isn't poisoned.”

You glance at him, uncomprehending.

“...you mean for me to drink this?”

“Yes. Pour some on the sheets, then drink the rest.”

He turns away, as if to leave. You swallow, disbelieving.

“And then?”

“And then you may do whatever you wish, so long as you don't leave my tent. I have a war to wage, so you'll need to entertain yourself for the rest of the night.”

Entertain yourself. Your city is aflame, your temple is desecrated, and he wishes for you to drink pomegranate juice and amuse yourself until he has the time to rape you. As if you can't hear the screams and cries of your city. As if you can't smell the charcoal and death through the fabric of the tent. As if you will be content to lie back and wait for him to cleave you open once he returns.

How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their prince to be so cruel to you.

You imagine rushing toward him. You envision grabbing his knife, lodging it into his back, in the soft space between his vertebrae, a path into his heart—but you hold yourself back, because you have no doubt he’ll easily overpower you now. No—if you wish to kill him, you will need to do it while he's unguarded. Likely when he's asleep, or perhaps even inside you, depending on how stupid or drunk he’ll be when he rapes you.

You will need to humour his whims until then.

“How much?” you ask when he is about to leave the tent. When he glances back at you, you add, uncomprehending, “How much do you want me to pour out?” And why?

He shrugs. “However much makes sense to you.” The general glances back, thoughtful, and says, “I’ll see to it that someone else cleans up in here tomorrow,” and then you understand.

You drink half of what remains in his cup, and then you pour out the rest.

Your goddess sends you visions that night, dreams of the past, present, future. You peer upon a child drowning in the sea, a poisoned woman with a golden dagger, a mad king cleaving a statue into fifths. You dream of burning villages, fallen idols, a father slain by his son. Aquila closes his eyes; Georios drowns in shadow; monsters roam the earth. A great fortress looms before you, dark and decrepit, and the young king seated upon its throne is covered in blood. He reeks of the corpses of a thousand temples, of your temple. You cannot see his face, but you recognise the shape of him, mighty and terrible—a man who feasts upon strife and fear. You are lying at his feet, wounded. Your chest is heavy, aching, and your heart bleeds in the hand of Nikador, scarlet dripping through his fingers.

You are crying when you wake up.

You do not need to look outside the tent to know that your city is gone. Aurelia is silent, bereft of life—its buildings gutted, its people slain, its treasures stolen. Death has settled over your home, and in its wake, the Kremnoan legion prepares to leave.

The soldiers sent to disassemble your captor’s tent all bear white caps. They must be helots, the children of slaves; you have met a few of them during your time as an acolyte, watching them trailing after the rare Kremnoan master who would sometimes seek supplication at your temple.

You used to pity them for their station; now, they pity you.

The helots give you sorrowful looks as they strip the bed of its red-stained sheets. They speak gently to you when they give you water to wash your face and thighs. They try to counsel you, tell you that Prince Mydeimos is the best person who could have stolen you. He is just for a Kremnoan warrior, they whisper, show the soldiers grace and you'll see, and then they put you in chains.

You do not show the Kremnoan army any grace. You glare at every hoplite who lays eyes on you, and you refuse to bow your head for any of them. On the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, they study you like you are an animal. Some of them look at you with wonder—for you are a divine oracle in the flesh—some with shameless curiosity—for it has spread like wildfire that you have been defiled by the Crown Prince Mydeimos, who has never taken a woman as his plunder—and some with unadulterated glee. They pester you and the other prisoners-of-war, and you recognize them as the animals who sacked your temple and burned your olive groves.

“Has Prince Mydeimos given you a Kremnoan welcome?” they ask in their dialect, mocking. Has he told you what your life will become? Do the men behind you know that their priestess has been ruined, or are they too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?

“HKS,” you retort, and their faces fall. They look at one another, aghast.

“What did you say?” one grits out the Aurelian dialect, and you cast him a cool glance.

“HKS. I called you a hyena—or are you too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?”

You do not expect to be struck. A hand cracks across your cheek; the pain is blinding. You are on the ground, knees in the dirt, reeling. The prisoners behind you are crying for their priestess; the memory-ghosts of the acolytes behind you are screaming for help; the olive trees behind you are turning to charcoal and dust; the city behind you is burning, burning, burning. Oronyx will never let you forget this, nor any other memory.

“What is this?” a voice snarls, and time freezes.

The procession has come to a halt. The hoplites are suddenly children, caught red-handed with a broken toy. The offending soldier swallows, and you feel some semblance of glee. The Cult of Nikador is famed for their obsession with order and with glory. It is taboo among their people to touch another’s spoils, and suicide to try it with one’s superiors. Killing the slave of the Crown Prince would be the same thing as stealing his belongings or breaking his sword—acts of impudence punishable by death.

He stutters: “She—the priestess… she was out of line, Your Highness, mocking us—”

“And you were not out of line for touching her?”

The offending soldier looks at the ground beneath him. Sweat beads his temple. “I… forgot myself. I apologize, Your Highness.”

Your captor is not placated. His gaze roams the bystanders, scalding. “Should any other man be foolish enough to strike the priestess,” he booms, “I will cut off his hand myself. I have claimed her as my war prize, and no one else shall touch her. Do you understand?”

The yessirs are immediate. Unanimous. The general is restless still. He turns to you, the edge of his voice now muted, but still present. “Can you stand?”

I will slit your throat someday, you think as you look up at him. “Yes, my lord,” you reply demurely. “He merely struck my face. The rest of my body is untouched.”

“Then you will ride upfront with me,” he declares. “I will not have my spoils within the reach of anyone else.”

You end up next to him in his chariot, which makes you want to claw off your skin—to be so far from your worshippers, and so close to your captor. You turn your cheek to him, throbbing and bruised, but he deigns to speak with you anyway.

“Tell me,” he asks brusquely, “do you have a death wish? Or are you just a fool? Though even fools usually know when to hold their tongue.”

“I know too many tongues to hold them all, I'm afraid,” you reply neatly in the Kremnoan dialect, and your captor gives you an incredulous stare. You pointedly look ahead, eyes unwavering on the winding road to the City of Strife. “I am the High Priestess of the Aurelian Cult of Oronyx. I will not be cowed by a gaggle of idiots.”

“You are very proud for someone currently wearing chains,” the general remarks.

“And you are very cruel for someone who will someday wear a crown.” You pause then, thinking of your dreams before gambling: “Though a man who plans to kill his father could only be cruel.”

Your captor falls silent. You glance at him, mouth curling in satisfaction as you catalogue his reaction. His features are stoic, and someone with a lesser eye for expressions—someone not practiced in the art of telling fortunes and giving counsel—might miss it, but it's clear as day to you: your captor is ungrounded.

Disturbed.

“I know not what you mean,” he says coolly, and you raise a brow.

“It’s no use lying to me, you know,” you bluff. “Have you somehow forgotten that your war prize is an oracle? That is why your men were so obsessed with staking their claim on me.”

The prince remains composed despite your goading. “...so the rumours of your visions are true.” He studies you. “There were almost children or elderly in your city when the walls fell. Nearly no women. And the Aurelian soldiers… it was as if they knew all our plans.” At your silence, he concludes, “It was you, wasn't it? You foretold our attack and warned them.”

“It seems that the future king of Kremnos is a clever one,” you say dryly.

“And the High Priestess in his hands is a fool.” His jaw clicks. “I am trying my best to keep the wolves away from you, but you seem determined to throw yourself at them.”

You bare your canines with a smile, and you try dangling your newfound leverage over his head. “If I were you,” you reply, “I would be more worried about the wolves who would hunt for you, Your Highness. I’ve heard that King Eurypon and his council threw you into the sea as a baby; I am quite sure they would do the same to you now—unless you kill them first, of course.”

A great deal of being an oracle is guesswork. Oronyx sends you dreams, visions, echoes; people give you hints, gossip, microexpressions. Together, you can get a fairly good grasp on a man’s circumstances. Your captor is no exception: from the way his brows knot, you know that you've guessed true.

His eyes narrow, and he glances back at the rest of the Kremnoan procession, who are too far behind to hear anything. “Keep quiet,” he commands. “Don't think I won't kill you if you are a liability. There are limits to my patience.”

You snort. “I won’t give you away”—not yet—“but it won't be out of fear of death. Kill me if you'd like; I will not cower.”

Your captor makes a noise of displeasure. “I have never met a person so eager to die.”

“Haven’t you?” You arch a brow at the perplexed look he gives you. “Valorous death before glorious return. That’s your way of life, isn't it? You’ve burned my city and destroyed my temple—I will never see a glorious return. By the laws of your own god, there is now only one path left for me.”

You turn your wrists, let the iron chains sing. It occurs to you that you had been dead in your visions—slain by King Mydeimos—but you had not been shackled.

Castrum Kremnos is a prison.

Never have you been anywhere so strange nor frightening. The walls of the fortress climb high enough to eclipse the sun; the streets are crawling with soldiers carrying spears and shields. Every man and woman carries a sword; every child play-fights with a wooden one. Each one of them cheers as their army returns from its campaign, and nearly all of them eye you curiously—the war prize chosen by their famed Crown Prince.

During your long procession into the inner city, all you can hear are the whispers and jeers of the crowd. It is the warriors who are the loudest—the ones who did not put Aurelia under siege and are disappointed to have missed out on the glory of its destruction. They speak about you, about what you must look like beneath your bloodied robes, about how they cannot blame General Mydeimos for capturing you. Any Kremnoan man would want to fuck the High Priestess of their long-time enemy, and that is only truer now that their leader has staked his claim on you. All of them want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince.

Your own face remains unmoving, but Prince Mydeimos’ eyes darken. “Hyenas,” he growls, and you have to stop yourself from snorting at the hypocrisy.

The king is said to be senile and half-mad, and his queen died some years back of illness, so the homecoming warriors are greeted by a high statesman, General Krateros. You have heard many tales of him: legendary strategos, shrewd politician, the right hand of King Eurypon. The Seaside States once launched an offensive on Castrum Kremnos and was met with Krateros’ Goldshield Brigade; every enemy soldier was either put to death or bound in chains.

Chains just like yours.

General Krateros gives you a thoughtful look when he meets you, eyes locked on your iron cuffs. “I had a great hand in raising you, Prince Mydeimos, so I know you well,” he says. You’ve heard tell that after Prince Mydeimos was thrown into the Sea of Souls, General Krateros spent years searching for him at the request of his mother, eventually finding him years later in some fishing village. Krateros has ever since served and counselled the Crown Prince—perhaps poorly, for he says, “I did not take you for the type of man to capture a woman as your bounty.”

“Nor did you raise me to be the type of man to throw an innocent to the wolves,” your captor replies evenly, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

No, you think, you are only the type to put a holy maiden in chains.

Your face must give away your disdain, for General Krateros studies you carefully. “Innocent or not, you may do whatever you wish with her, Mydeimos,” the strategos says, his eyes keen on you. “A predator need not worry for his prey other than how to keep it for himself.”

The message is clearly for you—know your place—but your captor appears to take the words to heart. Keeping you for himself is exactly what he does: rather than sending you to the slave’s quarters or some courtesan house, Prince Mydeimos has you stay in his room and orders that no one—aside from his appointed servants—should be allowed an audience with you.

Thus begins your life as the war prize of the Crown Prince.

If you were a different sort of person, you might enjoy the position. The Aurelian soldiers who fought to protect you are likely chained in iron and performing hard labour; the older women who were accosted in your temple are likely being forced to do menial work; the younger ones may have been ushered into brothels. You are instead placed into a beautiful, private chamber, and you are given robes of silk. Your wrists are manacled like every other slave under Kremnoan law, but the chains are gold. You are told to bathe in fragrant water, and the scent of flowers is ever-present on your skin.

You don't mistake any of this as kindness toward you. It is clear that you are not meant to enjoy this opulence; you are part of the opulence. A thing for the Crown Prince to indulge in, a treasure stolen from Aurelia. The time will come when you are raped, and the time will come when he bores of you, and the time will come when you will be killed at the foot of his throne.

All you can do is face your fate with dignity.

An entire moon passes, and your fate does not befall you.

You are unsure why your captor does not hurt you. Perhaps he is busy with making war; the servants say that he stays at the barracks every night rather than coming home. He might be expected to fuck you anyway, but he visits you only once a day for half an hour, and he only ever stays long enough to ask you three questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone?

For an entire month, your answers are single words: Yes. No. Nothing. You sit as far away as possible from him, though you do not give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear—you always meet his impassive gaze, your own hard-edged.

Sometimes he tries to speak with you: Are you comfortable? Are you bored? Do you want anything? But most days, he leaves as soon as he can, his jaw tight and his eyes filled with something that edges on discomfort. You start to wonder if he finds you too unattractive to touch, if he is debating whether he should kill you instead of fucking you. But regardless of his intentions toward you, it is clear that he does not care for you.

So it surprises you when your captor one day says, “You have not been eating.”

You give him a long look, wondering if you'd misheard.

“No,” you eventually reply. “I have not.”

“Why?”

Your brow arches. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Why?” His expression becomes puzzled—and it aggravates you. You point out, “You are a Kremnoan prince. It should not matter to you if a slave is starving. Or are you worried that I'll waste away before you can fuck me?”

His eyes narrow, and you think you see that hint of discomfort again. “I am worried you will starve to death in my care.”

Your nostrils flare. “I am not in your care. I am your prisoner.”

“I see to it that you are fed and clothed and bathed. Is that not care?”

You snort. “A man who took my home away from me cannot care for me. He can only torture me.”

His jaw tightens. Your captor’s voice measured, but his frustration is palpable: “He can also keep you alive—even though you seem determined to die.”

“Death is a mercy. I would much prefer it to being raped.”

“I thought it would be clear by now that I do not wish to touch you,” your captor says, frowning, and the bark you let out is so loud that he startles.

“Do you think I'd be stupid enough to believe that lie?”

“I think you'd be smart enough to see reality for what it is.”

“Yes,” you reply, voice bitter, “I am smart enough to see the reality of what you have done to my city. And I am smart enough to know the reality of what happens to women after they are captured by the enemy.”

Prince Mydeimos inhales sharply. His eyes flicker with—with something. Something you don't care to identify. Something you quickly decide is disdain.

“Believe whatever you want. Either way, I want to keep you alive.” His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Is it that you want to die? Is that why you aren't eating?”

You give him that fanged smile again. “No, Your Highness, I do not wish to die. I wish to stay alive so that I may someday slit your throat.”

Prince Mydeimos disappoints you when he does not react in kind. “Fine,” he writes off. “You are free to kill me as many times as you want, so long as you eat.” You give him a strange look; he ignores it. “Now, why haven't you? Surely you must want to, if your goal is to live long enough to kill me. Is the food not to your liking?”

A frown. “I don't understand why you care.”

He nods. “So it isn't. Very well.”

You open your mouth, countless questions on your tongue. What do you mean? Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? But Prince Mydeimos leaves, and you are alone again in your prison—untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

Your conversation with Prince Mydeimos leaves you feeling strange. Perplexed. Nervous. The longer you think of it, the more you wonder why he is taking so long to torture you. You'd been dragged into his tent, fully expecting to be either mauled or violated; over a month later, the worst that has happened is that you have been served unappetizing meals, and that you have spent your days so idly that you have grown bored.

But even if you are idle, you are not unharmed. You still dream of the night of your abduction. You dream of the cries of your worshippers, of the stench of burning flesh, of your olive groves turning to ash. You dream of being pushed to the floor of your captor’s tent, of golden gauntlets cleaving open your legs, of pomegranate-red stains on silk sheets. Sometimes the dreams are so vivid that you wonder if they are actually visions from Oronyx—echoes of a future yet to be played out, or a past that you’ve somehow forgotten.

Whenever you wake from these dreams, you crawl under the bed and spend the rest of the night there, and you spend your day afterward untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

You are in one of these tense moods the next time you speak at length with Prince Mydeimos, after his usual questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do yesterday, while you were alone?

“I am trapped in your room, so I did nothing but read your books,” you reply bluntly, picking idly at the chicken on your dinner plate. “Don't you have anything other than war histories, by the way? I should like a romance novel or two. I'd even take a philosophical dialogue over this. Kremnos must surely have a few thinkers who do not write solely about war.”

Your captor stares—perhaps surprised at your sudden chatter, though not displeased by it. Though he does seem perplexed.

“You are not ‘trapped’ here,” he points out, frowning. “I gave you leave some time ago to wander the grounds, so long as you are accompanied by one of the guards I have assigned you.”

“So you say, but not a single one of your guards has thus far dared to let me out.”

Prince Mydeimos frowns. “Why?”

You give him a strange look. “Do you not know the rules of your own land, Prince Mydeimos? Helots are given free movement, and even trusted slaves have some autonomy, but prisoners-of-war are not allowed to wander anywhere except in service of their given task. And my given task is…”

You gesture to the bed, and the prince’s mouth tightens.

“I see.”

You note the displeasure on his face—genuine, a sign of true oversight. “Why would you expect that I'd ever be allowed to roam around as I please?” you ask. “You paraded me around on your chariot as you returned home from war, and you announced me as your plunder to the entire city. Everyone knows I am your prisoner, and everyone treats me accordingly.”

“I have never kept a personal slave, let alone taken one for my spoils,” he says evenly. “I did not think these laws would supersede the orders of a Crown Prince.”

You snort at the sheer absurdity of his answer.

“The Crown Prince of Kremnos has never kept a slave? Your esteemed father has at least half a hundred of them in his personal service, I'd wager.”

“And my late mother did not allow any of them to serve me. She disliked the practice.” His voice is terse, belying something that turns your stomach. You look away, not wishing to think of it.

“Does that matter?” you deflect. “Your Highness, if you wish to ascend the throne and follow in your father’s footsteps, then you'd better get used to keeping slaves. Castrum Kremnos is built on them.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a hard look. “I will not be the kind of king that my father is,” he says bluntly.

His words carry weight. Suppressed anger. You watch him keenly, interested—suddenly wondering if there is more to Prince Mydeimos’ plans to commit patricide other than self-preservation.

“And why would that be?” you ask.

He raises a brow. “You are an oracle. You haven't seen what he's done for yourself?”

“If I could see whatever I wanted at will, do you think I would be sitting here right now?” you ask dryly, and his brow twitches. His expression is otherwise impassive, but his eyes give away his alarm, and you exploit it immediately: “Worry not, Prince Mydeimos. Whatever secrets you've let slip are safe with me, so long as you do not touch me.”

“I thought it would be obvious by now that I have no wish to touch you.”

“And I thought it would be obvious by now that I am not stupid enough to trust you.” You laugh when he frowns. “No need to pout, Your Highness. You don't need my trust to keep me under control.” You shake your chains. "These are all you need."

He glances at your manacles, his eyes narrowing. “Controlling you is not my aim.”

“Then you are a fool and will make for an idiot king.”

“Surely no more of an idiot than the prisoner calling their captor a fool.” He contemplates you, his eyes suspicious. “...have you truly seen my future as a monarch?”

“No,” you lie. I hope you suffer every moment you sit on that throne, you think, remembering how Nikador will reach into your chest and close his hand around your heart, how you will bleed to death at the feet of King Mydeimos. You have no intention of giving him foreknowledge of his victory over you: you remain quiet, unyielding under his shrewd gaze.

The prince eventually relents, though clearly unconvinced. “I'll see to it that the guards and servants allow you some movement,” he says as he turns to leave. “I will… convince them to overlook the laws.”

His hand is on the door when he hesitates, glancing at the full dinner plate on the table.

“Do you still not like the food here? I had it changed after our conversation some time ago.”

You default to your usual answer: “Does it matter?”

He makes a noise—one that almost sounds displeased. “So it still isn’t to your taste.”

“No. I find the Kremnoan palate disagreeable.”

“Well, then, what should change to make you agree with it?”

You come very, very close to laughing in his face. “You could serve me a dish cooked by the Goddess of the Hearth herself, and it would taste like ash in my mouth because I am a prisoner.”

He sighs, closes his eyes, and you suspect he is silently counting to ten. “...I cannot blame you for your misery,” he finally says, “but you haven’t been eating, and I would prefer it if you didn't starve to death under my care.”

“Why?” Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

His voice grows quiet: “Because I do not wish to see any harm befall you.”

The words are so simple. So honest. There is no hint of deception in them, nor in his eyes—which flicker with something that looks so much like pain that even you, with your practised skill of reading expression, find yourself thinking that he feels sorrowful for you. That he feels guilty over you. That he wants to see you safe.

You marvel at what a good liar he is.

Because he must be lying. This must be some kind of manipulation. Perhaps he is afraid of your prescience, or perhaps he plans to use it for his own gain, and this is his way of appealing to you. Or perhaps he wants you to be willing when he fucks you. Some men do prefer that to outright rape; their egos demand it.

There is no other reason for him to come to your room every night and ask if you have been eating, ask if you are well, ask what have you been doing while alone. No other reason for him to say, “You barely touched your food yesterday, nor the day before that. Surely there is something that could be done to make you eat.”

You decide to play along for now. If you will die eventually, you may as well eat better in the meantime.

“More spices,” you say neatly, “and better olive oil. At minimum.”

“Of course,” he mutters. “The oil. I knew it.”

He leaves before you can ask him what he means.

The next day, you are served honey cakes with safflower, grilled fish salted to perfection, and wheat-bread with an olive oil so fresh and thick that you know it can only be an import from the south. The servants deliver to you five texts: three romance novels and two Socratic dialogues. Kremnos has no great storytellers nor philosophers, an unsigned note reads, so you will need to make do with these works from the Grove of Epiphany.

Prince Mydeimos does not visit you, and you find yourself in bed the whole night, three questions echoing in your head.

For whatever reason, Prince Mydeimos continues treating you well. The food is better—you’d even call it mouthwatering, at times—and new books are frequently delivered. He makes fewer stops by your room, possibly because he is busy or perhaps because he is growing disinterested with you. You don't care to ask why.

But as it turns out, he has been trying to find some way around the laws about your movements. He has been failing, too—quite miserably—and his way of compromise is driving you mad.

On the first day you are allowed outside your room, Prince Mydeimos is leading you, taking you for a walk on the palace roofs and parapets. For the first time since being abducted, you feel sunlight and wind on your skin—and you are too annoyed to enjoy it.

“This is your way of allowing me some freedom? Taking me out so you can walk me like a dog? I won't bark for you, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos clears his throat, pointedly avoiding your stare. If you didn't know better, you'd call him embarrassed.

“Because you are a prisoner,” he explains tersely, “I have been strongly advised against letting you wander the grounds unless it is to fulfill your assigned job as my companion.”

“You mean, as your whore?”

Prince Mydeimos looks so offended that you nearly laugh. “As a concubine.”

“Use whatever word you want—a slave you fuck can't be anything other than a whore,” you point out evenly. Your captor gives you a look of mild pain, but it is gone before you can unravel it.

“Well, then, it is a good thing that I will not be touching you,” he retorts. “Regardless, I cannot let you wander without drawing undue attention to myself”—a poor idea right before a regicide, you infer—“but I may eventually be able to let you move freely without me if we are able to convince people that you are serving me willingly. Not as my prisoner, but as my lover.” His mouth slants. “This would require you to give the impression of enjoying my company, however.”

“Then I suppose I will be trapped forever in your quarters,” you reply instantly. When his expression sours, you add, “Worry not, Your Highness. I do not much like the sights of Castrum Kremnos anyway.” Your eyes flick over the strange innards of the city—the high walls hiding open skies, the stone paths barren of any flowers or shrubs, the constant thunder of marching hoplites and proud salutes. The sword of Nikador hanging over the fortress gates, sharpened by the souls of countless slain Kremnoans.

This city runs on war. Hungers for it. It makes your heart pound, has you hearing the screams of your worshippers as the Kremnoans flood through the gates of Aurelia. Gone forever are the musicians who strung on their lyres every morning and night; gone are the streets of laughing children who would always ask you to fix their toys; gone are the olive groves full of birdsong and gossiping women.

Gone is everything that you love.

“You might like it better within the city,” your captor tries to reason, “or if I can someday take you beyond the walls and into the settlements—”

“—then it will still never be home.”

Prince Mydeimos has the grace to stay quiet, for which you are glad.

“...your home,” he says eventually, “what was it like?”

What was it like, before I took it away from you?

You shrug, feeling a dull ache in your chest that you'd rather die than show him.

“Peaceful. Kind. The people were nicer. The music was lovelier. The food was better.”

You remember the flavour of the dishes that the women in the neighbourhood always made for you, the figs and apples and olives that the farmers always brought to the temple, the simple but sweet breakfasts that you would have with the other acolytes—eat up, my love, the older ones would always laugh, eat your fill!—and then all you taste is ash in the sky and copper between your teeth and the acrid, nauseating stench of human flesh burning, burning, burning.

You close your eyes to the looming walls of Castrum Kremnos—a prison from which there is no escape.

“None of it should matter to you, of course,” you add lightly.

Because no matter how much Prince Mydeimos denies it and no matter how gently he treats you, you are just a bed-slave—and Castrum Kremnos does not care about its slaves. The burning of your home will become naught but ink in their war histories—a paragraph if you are lucky, a footnote if you are not. You are merely one massacre in a thousand years of them. Your death will be one casualty in hundreds of millions.

But you return to your quarters later that night, and you see another book delivered—an Aurelian play, wildly popular a few years back—and you notice a lyre on the nightstand, and your meal tastes just like the ones the grandmother next door always brought over to share. You realise that your captor must have sought out an Aurelian helot or slave to make it, that he must have gone out of his way for it. You ask silently: Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? And you answer for him: He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me.

But you eat your entire meal anyway, and then you crawl into bed and cry.

A fortnight later, Prince Mydeimos discovers that you sleep with a knife under your pillow.

It is a harmless thing, sharp only enough to cut the steak that you'd been fed. It brings you comfort nevertheless. After seven days of your mantra—he is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me—you couldn't help but take it. If he is stupid enough to touch you, you will use it to make it as painful for him as possible.

The Crown Prince is sitting on a chair when you return from the bath. He is playing with your little knife, spinning it a hand. His expression betrays neither anger nor displeasure—though there might be a hint of disappointment. Why, you would not know.

“You are afraid of me,” he remarks.

“No,” you lie. “I do not fear you. I abhor you. All the books and Aurelian dishes in the world cannot change that.”

It is slight, but Prince Mydeimos nods. His shoulders bear a heavy weight suddenly, and you avert your gaze. You don't want to see him looking weak, looking human. He is your captor and nothing but your captor: the man who laid waste to your home. He is the heir to a millennia of Strife.

Fortunately for you, he soon returns to his usual, stoic countenance. “You really expect to hurt me with this?” he asks.

“I would try my best,” you say tersely, “if it came to it. I would hurt anyone who tried to touch me.”

You nearly shift under the weight of his gaze, but you manage to contain your discomfort. You return his stare coolly—you don't scare me, Son of Gorgo—until his hand drifts to his waist. He reaches for a sheathe dangling from his belt, and you recoil immediately, expecting the sharp kiss of his blade. But there is no blow, no knife across your neck nor lodged within your heart. He merely holds the weapon out to you, presenting its golden hilt.

“Take this,” he offers. At your hesitation, he adds, “This is not some trap. I am gifting this to you.”

Even as you snatch it, you ask, “Why?”

“Because I think it's wise for you to have some kind of weapon—a real one, not an eating utensil.” He glances at the door. “The palace is full of guards and soldiers, and now that I have begun taking you outside, some of them have seen you and grown… overly curious about the High Priestess of Aurelia.”

Anyone would want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince himself, you remember them saying.

“But I am yours,” you point out, and when Prince Mydeimos looks at you, startled—or disconcerted?—you add, “your slave, I mean. By law, I belong to you. They cannot touch me without facing the wrath of the crown.”

He scowls. “If only the men here were so easy for me to control. Then I would not need to keep you here and worry about…” The prince's brow knots as his voice drifts off, and then he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

You don't want to know what he had been about to say. You don't want to hear him pretend to feel concern over you. You do not want to think that he may be keeping you here for any reason than to fuck you. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me: this is your mantra as you study the blade. It gleams in the candlelight, gold like his hair in the fire of the invasion, and its weight is familiar—the weight of the dagger you tried to slit your own throat with, you realise.

It is light, you notice now. The blade sits easy in your fingers, moves for you too gracefully. You should not be able to hold the weapon of a grown man so easily. “This was made for a woman,” you realise. “And not a very strong one.”

“Not strong in terms of brute strength, no. But she was swift. Deadly.”

You are neither strong nor swift, but you can imagine waiting for the right moment to strike—when he's drunk or sleeping or inside you. You'd run this across his neck. Bleed him dry before he can bleed you.

“You're not worried about me attacking you with this?” you ask, and he snorts.

“Would I be afraid of a kitten with sharp claws?” At your sour look, he either mocks or consoles you—you cannot tell which—“Don’t feel too poorly. Most people in this world could not touch me; I am invulnerable.”

“Invulnerable?”

“Immortal,” he clarifies. “Any wound I take heals without a scar; any death I die reverses without fail.”

“Ah… because of the Sea of Souls, I presume.” You remember the child in the waters of the Styx, the way he cried and cried and cried—and you push away the memory. How many babies have wailed as the Kremnoans marched on their homes? Countless. Countless in Aurelia alone. Your goddess has shown you enough memories for you to know, and sometimes the images blend with the massacre of your worshippers.

A massacre that your captor led.

“So there is no way to kill you,” you remark, voice now subdued.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Something in your captor’s eyes flickers, something that makes you look away again. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me. You cling onto all the visions that your goddess sent you: King Mydeimos is seated on his throne of blood; the claws of Nikador are cutting into your heart. Aurelia is still burning, burning, burning. As long as Oronyx is alive, it will never stop.

No olive oil, spice, nor book will ever change that.

Prince Mydeimos leaves for a time. Okhema—the greatest enemy of the Kremnos—has launched an assault on the city, and it is his duty to defend it. You can hear the distant cries of war from your room, the thunder of marching troops and the roar of terrible men. You hide in the sheets and try not to think of dying Aurelia. You pray for every Kremnoan soldier who invaded your home to perish, to receive the valorous death for which they long.

You play no songs. You receive no books. The food tastes like shit.

For a single night, you think you have been granted your wish. There is a breach into the city, and the bells toll in emergency. The guards tell you to stay in your room no matter what—any Okheman soldiers would desire you, would defile you, and there will be no hope for you if they steal you away, the prized concubine of their greatest foe—and then they leave to join the fighting.

You hide under the bed. You clutch the golden dagger that Prince Mydeimos gave you and you hold it to your breast. You think of all the hands on you as you were dragged from your altar from the Kremnoans, the way they jeered at you and threatened to violate you. If the Okheman soldiers do the same, Prince Mydeimos will not be here to save you—

Save you?

No, he didn't save you. Your captor merely stole you for himself. He is slaughtering the enemy soldiers right now, massacring them the way he did your people. He is taking prisoners of war. He will feed them nicely and send them beautiful novels and texts. He will lie to them, manipulate them, and wait until they're willing.

Or he could be dead.

Of course he's not dead, you idiot, you tell yourself, as soon as you have the thought. He will live long enough to kill you like in the visions, and anyway, he is immortal.

There is no use hoping he is dead—for that is your hope. That he will someday be gone from this world, and that he can never again take away someone's home. That you will have the chance to slit to his throat at least once before he kills you. That you will have the satisfaction of seeing him die before Nikador takes your heart.

There is nothing else you are allowed to hope for.

The fighting ends a few nights later, and your captor returns soon after the bells of victory toll.

Prince Mydeimos is invulnerable, but he looks worse for wear. His armour is scuffed, shattered in a few places. His hair is a mess, sweat and dirt matting it, dulling the gold. The whole of his body—from his legs to the bare expanse of his chest—is covered in a thin layer of soot.

His shoulders relax when he sees you, and you try your best to ignore it.

“You won, then?” you ask. You are in bed, seated in the far corner. The sheets are pulled up to your neck, hiding away your chest and bare arms. The handle of your knife is warm in your palms, comforting.

Prince Mydeimos does not miss the way you clutch it.

“Yes,” he says, voice heavy. There's a tinge of fatigue marring his stoicism when he replies, “Are you disappointed?”

“No.” His eyes flick to yours, belying a surprise that you decide to kill: “I am an oracle. I knew you would not perish in this battle.”

“...of course.” He closes his eyes, counting to ten again. You study him as he tempers himself, wondering why he has returned to you when neither of you enjoy each other’s company.

“Why are you here?” you ask. “Shouldn't you be taking a bath? Enjoying libations with the other soldiers? Toasting the king?”

“I will join the others later,” he says. “I came here first for the same reasons as always.”

Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone? The prince stands at the threshold as he asks his three questions, watching you carefully. It occurs to you that he must have just come from battle, that his first desire afterwards was to check on you, and you drop the sheets but you also look away.

“I am not ill, and I reread some of the books you sent me,” you reply, because you would rather die than tell him that you hid under the bed. “And as for the food…”

Prince Mydeimos glances at the untouched slop on your plate, then frowns.

“My apologies,” he says. “Now that I've returned, I will be sure to make you proper meals. I know the servants here do not make food to your liking, so—”

“What do you mean, you'll make them?” you interrupt. At his blank stare, you say, “Isn’t it the helots who cook all the meals here?”

“They cook for most of the palace. But for your meals, it has nearly always been me—ever since I noticed you were not eating.”

You stare, wondering if you've somehow misheard him. “But…” You swallow, and it feels painful. You don't want to look at him. “That can't be true. There have been Aurelian dishes—it must have been an Aurelian who made them. A slave, or maybe a helot…”

“I learned the recipes myself,” he says simply, “though I did ask an Aurelian to sample it first, an old woman who sells spices in the city. She made sure the flavour was right.”

You want to laugh—or cry? The thought of the Crown Prince of Kremnos bent over a cookbook, sweating at a stove, is so absurd that you don't know what to make of it. “Why would a master cook for his slave?

He shrugs, though you don't miss the way he clears his throat. “I enjoy cooking, and I prefer to make my own meals. It is simple enough to cook for two instead of one.”

“You enjoy cooking,” you repeat flatly, staring.

“Is that so strange?”

“Yes.” He’s not meant to be human. He's an animal who feasts on strife and blood. He lies to you, manipulates you, waits until you're willing. But now you are imagining him going out of his way to find southern olive oil, or thinking on which cut of meat to buy from the butcher’s, or squinting at an Aurelian recipe and wondering where to get cassia, and he isn't supposed to be human but monsters don’t enjoy such quaint things.

“Why would you even know how to cook?” you ask—weakly. “You were raised to be a soldier, a king.”

“I learned as a child, before I returned from the sea,” he explains. “A fisherman’s wife taught me how after I saved her husband from the Sea of Souls. Though they banished me from their home after they learned I was Kremnoan.”

You can't look at him anymore, after that.

A few days later, you are served milopita after dinner.

It is well-made. Prince Mydeimos was generous with the cinnamon, and the apples are fresh. The yogurt is thick. The olive oil is that expensive, southern variety, the one that the old Aurelian woman in the city likely picked out for him. It comes with a cup of pomegranate juice and a bottle of goat’s milk, which you don't touch—paired with the cake, it is too sweet.

You catch yourself thinking that Prince Mydeimos must have a sweet tooth, and then you kill the thought.

The prince comes to visit, which he does not often do nowadays. The Chrysos War has entangled Kremnos into so many battlefronts that he is now always in demand as a general, and all the meals have gone back to being untouchable. But the books keep coming, and now there is sheet music as well. You are slow to read the music and your fingers are even slower on the lyre strings—you have not played much since you were a child, when you were taught as part of your training as a hiereia—but it is enough to occupy you.

You'd been wondering if you would be left alone forever when you received the cake.

He comes to you at night. Steps inside as always, closes the door to block out any listening ears. Leans against the wall, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. This is a constant habit of his; you briefly wonder if he does it so as not to make you feel threatened, and then you kill the thought.

You try not to look at him.

“You ate the cake,” he says, in a calm but distinctly satisfied way.

“Yes. It was quite good.” Sweet on your tongue, nothing like bitter copper between your teeth. You can't believe how sugary the apples are. You can't imagine this cold prison of a city, this home of warmongers, having anything like an orchard—yet they must exist here, for Prince Mydeimos to have gotten fruit so fresh and ripe.

Are the orchards here as peaceful as the olive groves back home? The cake was certainly as good as what you had in Aurelia—something close to what the grandmother next door would make for you. She would serve hers with tea, though, and you'd sit outside her quaint home and watch the children run by, playing. Be careful, my loves, she would say to them as they ran up and down the street. Take care not to fall.

Your heart aches as you think of her.

“I have not had any sweets in a very long time,” you say, trying not to let your voice sound tight.

“Nor have I. It has been too busy for me to bake, and I generally avoid desserts—they are unhealthy—but I made them today.”

“Why?”

“Well”—Prince Mydeimos looks away, clears his throat—“I have not been by in quite a while. I could hardly come empty-handed.”

He is mannered, you think. He wants to show you hospitality. He is treating you as if you are an esteemed guest, as if he enjoys your company, and perhaps that is why he didn’t make you into his personal attendant or a labourer; it is because guests aren’t meant to work in the palace, and—

—and now you're killing the thought.

You must kill these thoughts. You are not his guest; you are his slave. He is not a human; he is your captor. The only reason he hasn’t assigned you any menial tasks is because he wants to make it clear to others that you only have one purpose here: to be a hole for him to fuck, and no one else.

He conquered your city. Sacked your temple. Ruined your home. He will ruin your body too.

“I am a slave,” you murmur. “You do not need to come with anything for me.” You should not be giving me things. You should be taking everything from me. “There is no need to treat me so graciously.”

“What, would you prefer that I torment you?”

“I would prefer you to be honest about your intentions.”

He raises a brow. “And what are my intentions supposed to be?”

You finally take a sip of your pomegranate juice—red and tart and sweet, it tastes like the night you were stolen from your temple—and then you rise from your seat.

Prince Mydeimos is startled when you make your way to him, slow but sure. You have never gone to him willingly before, it occurs: you have always been taken to him by force, dragged by Kremnoan men or compelled by chains. Perhaps he is taken aback by it, or startled by the look you give him—the one you use on worshippers who have incurred the wrath of the Titans—for he presses himself even further against the wall.

There is little space between the two of you when you stop. His face is impassive as ever, but you can hear his breath hitch.

“You like your women willing, don't you?”

His face creases. “What?”

“You like your women willing. The freedmen and the slaves alike, I'm sure. You think that if you ply me with gifts and treats, you will also be able to ply open my legs.”

Your captor watches you in alarm, in discomfort. Probably startled at being found out. “...that's not—”

“It won't work, you know. No matter how kind you are to me, you will always be the man who burned my city and sacked my temple. You will always be the beast who dragged me from my altar and into your bed. If I ever spread my legs for you, it will only be because they are held open by chains.”

His jaw tightens. “You've misunderstood my intentions.”

You laugh, light but cruel. “What, are you waiting for a better time to kill me instead? I know you Kremnoans like to hunt people for sport. Are you toying with your prey right now?”

You see it in his eyes when he snaps.

“Is it so hard to believe that I simply wish to treat you well?” he grits out. “That there is at least one person in Kremnos who finds senseless violence disagreeable? That a Kremnoan man could see an innocent woman about to be torn apart by hyenas and wish to save her? Or do you see us all as mindless animals?”

“I am sure there are some of you who behave like humans, but I don't think they would include the Crown Prince of all people. You lead a nation of warmongering beasts—you ride into battle at their helm.”

His nostrils flare. “My people depend on me. It is my duty to protect them from all those who want Kremnos fall.”

“And protecting your city means massacring cities? Sacking temples? Dragging holy maidens out from their temples to be raped?” Your captor falters, but you are too angry to take any joy in it. Too angry at the hypocrisy, at the golden chains, at the city that is forever burning behind you. “If you were really so kind, why would you even have come back to Castrum Kremnos in the first place? Even if you were a child, surely you knew you were going to be joining an army of monsters.”

“Because I wanted a home,” he snaps, and his voice is so harsh that you flinch. He breathes sharply as you step back, and you watch as he struggles to control his—rage? It must be rage. It can't be hurt.

It can't be grief.

“...a home,” you repeat.

“Yes, even a monster like me would desire a home. I spent my first seven years drowning in the Sea of Souls and the next several being cast away by countless families simply because of my heritage—do you think that was an existence I enjoyed?”

You don't know how to reply. You wish to recall the memories of your burning city, your visions of being slain, but all you can remember now is the baby you saw in your dreams—the one who was tossed into the sea, drowning, drowning, drowning. Is Prince Mydeimos forever being dragged into the tides, just as how you are forever being dragged from your altar?

Does Oronyx force him to remember, too?

Prince Mydeimos does not wait for your response. He walks back to the door, terse. Cold.

“If you are so aggrieved by my presence,” he snaps, “then I won't torture you with it any longer.”

He slams the door on the way out.

You and Prince Mydeimos do not see each other for a fortnight after that.

The moons behave strangely while he is gone. Night is always odd in Castrum Kremnos—too long and too inconsistent, as if Oronyx is struggling against something volatile, a presence that is not Aquila. Still, you can usually see at least one of her two moons—one gold and one red, one always waxing while the other wanes. But for an hour, they blink out of existence entirely, and your blood chills at the sight. At the omen.

Prince Mydeimos, you think immediately, is he dead?

Of course he isn't dead. He will live long enough for you to slit his throat as many times as you wish. He will live long enough to kill you afterward, to give you your valorous death without chains. He will live long enough to offer your heart to Nikador, who will devour it and drink your blood.

But every time you imagine it, all you can hear is his voice in your head, irritating and persistent every night—

Are you eating?

Are you sick?

Your home, what was it like?

I wanted a home.

I worry for you.

You tell yourself to kill the thought. You must kill all these thoughts. You must not believe that he worries for you, even though you are practised in the art of reading faces and all you can ever see in his is plain honesty. You are not allowed to hope that you are right, let alone hope that he is alive.

The only thing you are allowed to hope for is to someday slit his throat before he kills you.

The morning after the moons disappear, Prince Mydeimos returns to you. You are surprised when he walks in—he has never visited you so early in the day—and immediately, you want to say something to him.

But you don’t know what.

The both of you stare at each other, and he seems to struggle equally with his words. All you can think about is your last encounter, and he is likely doing the same.

“Why are you here?” you finally ask—not unkindly. Prince Mydeimos startles at your voice.

“I…”

He hesitates. His eyes, gleaming in the morning sun, are underlined by darkness. They're bloodshot, too. He has not slept, you realise.

“Did something happen last night?” you guess, remembering the two moons and how they flickered out like dying flames.

“Perhaps.”

Prince Mydeimos’ expression falters. You want to look away, but you know now the movements of his face well enough to understand what you should not believe—

I worry for you.

You think of the bells of victory tolling, how soon he came to see you thereafter. “Did you come to check that I was alive?” you ask softly.

His voice is quiet, too: “Perhaps.”

You stare at the stack of books on the table, which has grown so high over the past two months that you always wonder if the whole thing will collapse. The war histories are at the bottom of the pile, read so long ago, but you remember them well—the facts alongside the propaganda. The Kremnoans like to perpetuate the myth that they are incapable of fear, but you think that Prince Mydeimos is failing to maintain this illusion.

“Was what you encountered as frightening as the Okhemans?” you ask.

Were you worried that it would harm me?

“...perhaps.”

Your brow arches. “Is that the only word you know now, Your Highness?”

His uncertainty disappears, replaced by a usual annoyance, and the tension finally breaks. “There is only so much information I can share with a prisoner of war.”

“You have already given away your plans to commit patricide—I do not think any information could be more sensitive than that,” you say flatly. He frowns.

“Oronyx told you what I will do, not me.”

“You could have lied or played dumb about it, at least.”

“Why would I try to lie to an oracle? You said yourself it would be meaningless.”

“Plausible deniability in case anyone overheard. You simply could have written me off as mad had I tried to reveal your plans, you know, it's happened before to oracles who foretell tragedies…” Your mouth slants. “You are not very skilled in the art of manipulation, Your Highness. You won't survive the court for very long after you ascend the throne, at this rate.”

“I can survive it well enough,” he says curtly. “I'm alive right now, aren't I? Though I'm sure that disappoints you constantly.”

“No, I'm glad for it.” He blinks. “If I am going to slit your throat, you will need to live long enough for it to happen.”

He snorts. “Of course. I look forward to the day.” Prince Mydeimos looks at you then—scrutinizing. “You will need to stay alive too. Have you been eating? Have you been healthy? What have you been up to while I was gone?”

“I have been eating, and I am not ill. Terribly bored, but not ill.”

He frowns. “Bored? What could you possibly want for, with all that I have given you?”

You give him a long look, sensing an opportunity. “Well…”

He scrutinizes you. “What is it? Better food? More books? Another instrument, or a sharper weapon? I have an entire library at my disposal, plus the royal armory. Name whatever it is you want.” His voice is impatient, but his shoulders are relaxed, weightless. You can't it in yourself to deny the truth: he is relieved that you wish to demand something from him.

It makes you want to crawl under the bed.

“No,” you say, subdued. “I don't want any of that.”

“Then?”

Why do I matter to you?

Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

“I want answers.”

There are no temples dedicated to Oronyx within Castrum Kremnos.

It is unsurprising. All citizens in Castrum Kremnos worship Nikador, and they war with other gods as often as the Strife Titan himself does. Nevertheless, the main palace has a few shrines dedicated to Oronyx. As much as the Kremnoans like to wreak havoc in the cities of other gods, all deities have their uses, especially Oronyx. It makes you bitter; the Goddess of Time sends enough visions for you to know that the use of her powers is painful for her, and you are certain that Kremnoans do not recompense her with any blood sacrifices.

You do, though. The Aurelian Cult of Oronyx has always honoured its goddess well. If Prince Mydeimos had brought you to a temple, you'd have also asked for a goat and sacrificed it. But as it is instead only a shrine, the only thing you can offer is your own blood.

At night, while the torches are burning low and the windows let through the dim light of the red moon, Prince Mydeimos takes you to the largest shrine of Oronyx. Her altar there is waiting for you—an alcove of cobalt and gold holding within it an azure light, its glow otherworldly. The Crown Prince is startled when you pull out a dagger and steady the blade over your hand; he reaches out and grabs your wrist, stopping you before you can wound yourself.

“What are you doing?” he says tersely. At his alarmed stare, you give him a blank look.

“I am about to appeal to Oronyx for her wisdom,” you explain, “and I will offer my blood in return.”

He gives you a dubious look. “Oronyx demands blood sacrifices?”

“No, but my temple provided them to honour her.” Your brow arches. “Don't tell me that this disturbs you. Your god not only gains strength from every Kremnoan death, he also demands blood sacrifices from other people. Don't think that the world has forgotten your tradition of drinking the blood of your slain enemies."

“We no longer engage in that practice,” Prince Mydeimos retorts immediately. “And in any case, what the Cult of Nikador does is entirely different.”

You squint at him. “What, so blood sacrifices are only acceptable when you do them?”

He sighs. “I only mean… if the god you follow does not demand violence outright, then I would not wish to see you inflict it upon yourself needlessly.”

You look at him, flabbergasted. “You cannot expect me to believe that a Kremnoan would be so averse to a little blood.”

“It isn't the blood that's the problem.” He sounds irritated. “It’s that it's your blood.”

You stare, watching his eyes for some tell of a lie—but you can find none. “You’re being serious,” you realise.

“Yes.”

“You really don't want to see me hurt.”

“Truly.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Not even by a single hair.”

Part of you is aggravated—this is shameless hypocrisy from a man who led an army into your city—but mostly you’re bewildered. You shake your head, turning away.

“I can't believe I ever thought you'd drink my blood,” you mutter, wresting yourself from his grip. “Your Royal Highness’ delicate sensibilities will need to tolerate this. Prophecy isn't cheap, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos finally relents; he crosses his arms as he watches your ritual. Your blade—his blade—presses into your palm, sinks into the flesh and glides along your heart line until scarlet is welling around it. You bear the pain silently; it is nothing compared to what Oronyx must feel whenever her powers are used by force.

Your blood drips onto the altar, and its cyan light flares violently. It is brighter than the golden moon, maybe even brighter than Aquila’s sun, when you begin your incantation. Titan language sounds strange, beautiful but unnerving to human ears; you are unsurprised when Prince Mydeimos shifts in the corner of your eye, uneasy as he listens to you.

O Titan of Time and Night, you say aloud, tell me what my path to freedom is, and show me the true nature of the man who has taken it away from me.

It takes a few moments for the visions to come, but they flash like lightning when they do. You are in the darkness of a decrepit shrine in Castrum Kremnos, standing next to your captor, then—

Daytime. You are somewhere beautiful, with a warm sun above your head and limpid pools everywhere, bathers laughing in the sun. There's a woman with golden hair and sea-glass eyes; she smiles at you, all-seeing even though she is blind, and then—

Nighttime. There are no moons in the sky, and the stars are faded. The city is dying, and you listen to the screams as you watch an unnatural darkness fall upon it. Something is encroaching the palace walls—a dark plague that corrupts all that it touches, a black tide that has been sweeping across the lands. You wish to stay, to lose yourself to it, but the Crown Prince grabs your hand. You can make out his words, just barely: ████ with me to ██████, he says. ███ ██ save you. And then—

Daytime. It is painfully bright where you are now, idyllic. You are watching Mydei. An amicable looking dromas has lowered its head to his palm to eat the feed in his hands. You made Mydei try this—giving the docile beast a treat. You're laughing as you watch him; he looks so startled, out of his depth for royalty. A group of children are spectating as well, giggling uncontrollably at their Crown Prince. You hear yourself: ██ ██ cute… then—

Nighttime. The golden moon is out tonight. You are tired, so tired; you have buried someone, you don’t know who. Mydeimos looks haunted. Your palm is pressed against his cheek, cradling his face in your hands. Your wrists are bare, you notice. His voice is quiet: █ ██ remember ██ ███ ███████ touched ██ ████ this… now, finally—

The end. You are bleeding out at the feet of King Mydeimos. You cannot see his face, but he is malevolent, terrible, and strife runs thick in his ichor veins. Your chest hurts even though your heart is no longer in it, and you are crying, crying, crying—I will ████ you soon, ██ ██, you weep, and now—

It is nighttime, and the torches are burning low in Castrum Kremnos. You are on the floor of a shrine, gasping, your cheeks wet with your grief. Your captor is crouched next to you, his hand on your back—touching you gently, too gently for the man who sacked your city, too gently for the king who will kill you and drink your blood. You pull away from him, terrified, and your captor backs off immediately.

“Forgive me,” he says. “You were—you collapsed, and I only wanted to check what was wrong.”

“I'm fine,” you gasp. “I'm fine. It's just—what I saw, through the Evernight Veil, it was—” Your eyes squeeze shut.

“What? What was it?”

“My future. Your future. I wanted”—you don’t know why you're telling him this, you don't know why you were standing next to him in a beautiful city with a group of joyous children, laughing as he fed a dromas—“I wanted to know if I could trust you.”

“And?”

Your captor stares intently. His eyes burn in the light of the palace torches, in the light of the blazing olive groves, in the light of the golden moon.

It is easy to lose sight of time after peering into the Evernight Veil, for the past, present, and future to blend together. Easy for you to reach out to your captor in Castrum Kremnos, easy to instead see Mydeimos grieving after a burial. He stares at you as you touch his cheek, cradling it. Something is flickering in his eyes, something so painfully human that you cannot bring yourself to ignore it. You can hear him talking to you in the future.

“You can't remember the last time someone touched you like this,” you repeat. At his startled look, you add, “That's what you're thinking, right?”

He jerks back, as if your fingers are scalding. “How did you—”

“That's what you'll say to me,” you say simply, “eventually.”

Prince Mydeimos swallows.

“Does that mean you'll come to trust me, then?”

Now you're at the foot of his throne again, bleeding dry for him—bleeding more than you ever have for your goddess or your city or your people. Your heart pulses in the hand of the Strife Titan, and you close your eyes forever.

“No.”

End Part I

notes: oh my god when I tell you all the suffering I went through trying to write this shitass chapter slfjslfksdfjalsk. between navigating the nightmare of canon lore and a trope that is absolutely out of my wheelhouse, I truly suffered for this story. and I don't think the end product was even that good. regardless, please let me know if you liked it. LOL

as an aside, I'm not sure how obvious it is to people who are reading this blind (as opposed to my followers who've been witnessing my shitposting lol), but mydei is absolutely not into the sexual slavery stuff. he sees you in those golden bdsm chains and feels so uncomfortable that he leaves the room asap. my man is taking immense psychic damage from this situation rip he just wants to make sure you're safe but his palace is forcing him into this wattpad fic situation (i am forcing him into this wattpad fic situation)

#mydei x reader #mydeimos x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #banners from @/strangergraphics #cw.slavery #yueshuo.fics #SoW tag

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neteyawne · 7 months ago

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Toruk Makto's son, Neteyam Sully, is your secret lover...!

Neteyam—your dear boyfriend, has been staring at you all night.

It's another nightly celebration amongst the Na'vi, and the clan is gathered around various fires lit as family and friends tell each other stories and tales.

Neteyam was your secret boyfriend.

As the son of your infamous clan leader, he was expected to be perfect. Stay absolutely in line and make no mistakes. He had no time for distractions.

But for you, he made an exception.

And he couldn't be happier. Yes, stealing glances at you and sneaking away with your smiling face is worth it all. The thrill and happiness he feels with you will forever remain unmatched. It was like his heart was finally living. The dull thump inside now a lively drum that beats to the sound of your soul.

"Neteyam."

He pulls away from the kiss breathless, his braids tossed over his shoulder and a smile in his eyes as he looked at you. He loved it when you said his name like that—

"Hmm?"

He doesn't give you a chance to even try and respond, because he's pressing his lips all over your mouth and face as you squirm and squeal under him

"Neteyam—!"

He laughs, gently tugging you onto the green ground beneath him as you huff. He kisses your pouting lips before positioning you on his legs so you're comfortable.

"Yes. What is wrong?"

He's smiling softly even as his finger taps mindlessly against your hip, and you let out a quiet sigh—not wanting to speak the words but knowing you had to.

"It's getting late. Your family will notice you're gone." You scold lightly, gently tracing the stripes on his chest idly as he shifts under you with a rare grin that stretched over the entirety of his face

"So? They're all fine, I am not needed right now. I will explain later—"

"What? That you were busy with me?" You say, pinching your brows with a sigh as he laughs. You didn't want Neteyam to get in trouble, but he could be so stubborn sometimes.

He's quiet after a bit, and you realize he's in deep thought when he stares off into the trees, tilting his head up towards the darkening sky before he turns to you

"I... I'd just like to stay here with you for a while longer. Is that okay?"

Your heart melts at the sight of his hopeful smile.

"And you think I want to leave you?" You murmur against his lips as he grins, cradling the back of your head in the palm of his hand as he presses a soft kiss onto your forehead

"No."

You're leaning back onto his chest after a while, watching the sun's rays twinkle out of sight as the stars rise—the night comes slowly but surely, and there isn't a single other soul in the world Neteyam would watch the moon with rather than you.

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snowballseal · 9 months ago

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Sleepy Affection

Sylus X Reader

Summary: You're tired. Sylus is the best cuddle partner. Lots of soft love here. That's it.

Word Count: 1061

Note: Self indulgent really, I have a hard time with burnout and sleeping in general, but I know cuddling with this man would solve all of that. Sorry if I overused adjectives.

---

Days as a hunter are long. It’s a part of the job, always being alert, always willing to help when the need arises. And you love it. You love being awake before the sun rises, and the exhaustion in your limbs as you walk home. It satisfies the restlessness in your bones.

But still, it’s hard to not hit burnout eventually.

You can feel it weighing down your body as you step out of headquarters. The sun is just rising over Linkon, and you narrow your eyes up at the sky. Of course you worked through the night. It was that or let your paperwork drag into your weekend. Maybe not the best decision. You sigh, rolling your shoulders. Every muscle in your body aches for sleep.

You don’t want to go home, though. It would be too quiet, too empty. If anything, you would probably end up staring at your ceiling, impossibly restless despite how tired you are. And that sounds absolutely awful.

Before you can think too hard about it, your feet are carrying you towards the transit center. To the one place where you feel safe, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t.

---

The N109 Zone is strangely quiet in the early morning gloom. The streets are nearly empty, the only sound coming from the electric buzz of the overhead wires and the snuffling of a stray dog on the corner. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if being a criminal makes you allergic to the day. Or maybe they’re all vampires. An amused hum dances past your lips at the thought. Perhaps they’re not after the aether core in your heart, but your blood.

One man seems to be at least.

By the time you reach Sylus’ place, it feels like you're walking through a light fog. Or stepping into a dream. The home greets you with a pleasant warmth that eases the tension in your muscles. Music drifts through the halls, distant and fuzzy with that old quality that vinyl has. Like a siren song, it draws you deeper into the dark comfort of the manor.

Right to your sleeping dragon.

Even while he’s sleeping, Sylus looks…dignified. Ethereal even. The soft light peaking through his curtains casts a glow on his features, dancing across his white lashes, making them almost look like snowflakes. Your eyes trail over the relaxed line of his jaw, the contours of his chest and shoulders. He lies so still, you could almost believe he’s a statue, if not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He just looks so…perfect.

It’s hard to believe that this is Onychinus’ feared leader.

Toeing off your boots, you tread carefully to the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, the sheets soft and silky under your fingers. Sylus lets out a low sigh at the movement, red eyes flickering open ever so slightly before falling back shut. Without a word, he shifts and lifts the sheets for you to crawl in next to him.

His warmth draws you in, just like his wispy, old music. You can’t resist it, not that you want to. It’s all the invitation you need to tuck yourself as close as possible, like an exhausted little kitten looking for a safe place to sleep. Sylus immediately draws your leg over his hip, long fingers kneading lazily at your thigh. Every part of you presses against his addicting warmth, drawing a content hum from your lips, completely pliant under his touch. He could do anything to you right now and you wouldn’t complain. But there’s an almost reverent feeling to the way he holds you, the way he traces shapes along your skin and presses gingerly into your wound up muscles.

It’s a rare moment of pure gentleness. No teasing quips. No haughty smirk. Just you and Sylus, the air between you thick with something so incredibly tender. You stay like that for what feels like forever, time lost to soft touches and quiet sighs. Neither of you are willing to break whatever spell has fallen over the room.

Soon enough, though, the weight of your eyelids becomes too difficult to fight. You tuck your face into the curve of his throat, the scent of his cologne washing over your senses. It’s spicy and warm, like worn leather and rum, just so perfectly Sylus.

You wish you could stay like this forever, floating pleasantly on the edge of sleep with him. Just with him. An indescribable fondness curls somewhere deep in your chest.

“I missed you,” you admit into the crook of his neck, your voice thick with sleep and something vulnerable.

“Mmmm, I was wondering why you crawled into my bed in the middle of the morning.”

He wasn’t, really. You both feel it whenever you can’t see each other for too long. It’s like the worst feeling of homesickness. He won’t admit to it, but you can feel it in the way his arms curl possessively around your waist, like he never wants to let you go. You slide a hand up to his chest, savoring the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his heart under your palm. You’ve missed this. Sylus shivers at your teasing touch, those red eyes finally flickering open again to look down at you, half-lidded and unfocused. You hold his gaze, trying to memorize every detail, every fleck of color, the dark gleam of fondness in their depths, matching your own. This is the real Sylus. Gentle and kind, passion burning just below the surface. The one only you get to see. And you love him more than you’ll ever be able to explain.

You curl your arms around his narrow waist, forehead pressing against his chest, “Is it okay that I came?”

You already know the answer. Still, Sylus humors you.

“I would have it no other way,” he rumbles lowly, lips brushing against your hair. “Now rest, sweetheart, I can tell how tired you are. We can talk in the evening.”

You hum, eyes finally falling shut, “Promise?”

“I promise.”

And just like that, you find it impossible to stay awake any longer, lulled by his words and the sound of his breathing. Every nerve, every worry, washes away, leaving you to fall into the darkness you’ve been craving, dreaming of the weekend you can spend together.

---

Honestly took so long to write. I wanted to moment to feel soft and more drawn out, don't know if it worked. But I hope y'all liked it :)

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace reader insert #reader insert #x reader #lads sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #burnout #fluff

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syluses · 3 months ago

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ataxia

sylus x fem reader

⤷ sylus wants kids, sweetie. lots of kids.

kind of a part 2 to this piece, but it can still serve as a lil standalone as well ♡ DAD SYLUS DAD SYLUS DAD SYLUS

cw ▻ nsfw, dubcon, breeding, pregnancy mentions, daddy kink, im a strong believer in sylus wanting a big family, whipped sylus, characters depicted are 18+, stockholm syndrome, yandere/obsessive tendencies, ~2.5k words

notes ▻ eeee they fr live in my head rent free </3 anyways take this crumb while i work on like other fics. daddy sylus is actually KILLING me like always on the noggin 😵‍💫

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

There’s a certain peace you feel, curled up on the leather couch, in watching your husband sit on his knees as the little ones crawl around the carpet, playing with them no different than a toddler would.

Not exactly a pleasant peace, by any means, but a simple, sort of resigned one. Your muscles seem to lose the tension, shoulders always piked high, ready for attack- or some other (meta)physical blow- slumping into rounded blades. You sigh.

Perhaps it’s the knowing that whatever bad thing that could’ve come- already has. Now, you’re experiencing the sloping aftereffects of it.

And this—

Sylus, with a beaming grin, letting out an almost breathless laugh as he scoops up one of the boys and twirls him overhead, the other kept by a protective hand at his side so he won’t bump on the corner of the coffee table—

Is just the fallout.

Ruby-red eyes flit over (and they always do sooner than later, like you’re a beacon in the middle of a dark sea) and crinkle at the edges. You’ve told him before that you don’t like when he throws the babies up in the sky like that, that if they were to suddenly fall, they can’t take flight like Mephisto. He must remember, because he lets out a little, woeful noise and carefully lowers him.

The smile remains, though, kilowatt and wide, a little starry-gazed like he’s inviting you to slip off the sofa and join him on the fluffy rug with your children.

The fatigue natural to post-pregnancy has already claimed you tonight, though. Truth be told, you’d have hesitated even if it didn’t. It’s fine, tending to your children on your own; his long absences leave you with massive windows of alone time with the little ones, and you actually enjoy it (save for the huge toll it takes on your energy, of course, but Luke and Kieran lend a hand where it counts- where they’re allowed).

That sentiment changes a bit, though, when your husband does get home. With his presence comes the cold reminder of how things really are, how you’re still an unwilling counterpart in all this- frilly gowns and jewels and the private chef he hires for fancy dinners (because he has the money for it) be damned.

You want to go home. That wish, hollow as it is, still stands.

…Even if it’s started staggering, in these last few months.

He’s always been more than content with just the two of you, but in the last several weeks, you compare Sylus’s emotional state to a suitcase packed too full, joy spilling out the sides. Evidently, he doesn’t try to close the zipper; he lets it happen with gladness, with his hands open and lifted, but you’re not sure he entirely knows what to do with himself. With these significant developments that are just as new to him (possibly even more, as much as that flummoxes you) as they are to you.

It’s as weird as it is endearing to see what having two children (twin boys, funnily enough) will do to your husband. But if there’s one thing you learned about Onychinus’s illustrious leader in the past couple years of your marriage—

It’s that he does not settle for less.

And when he draws closer, both little ones secured in his lap- dozing off because it’s already thirty minutes past their bedtime- and lifts your hand to place a chaste kiss there, rubbing your knuckles dotingly…

You can tell there’s something more he’s craving.

✿

“A girl,” he moans.

Sometimes- after you’ve just put down the boys for four consecutive nights in a row before collapsing in bed, your lover hardly having the opportunity to show his affections, all but guilted into letting you catch up on your sleep- it’s almost easy to forget how Sylus feels, your brain willing it away. How good he fucks you.

If you’re being more general- how good he takes care of you.

“Give me a girl this time, sweetie, just-“ a gasp, “one more.”

And vaguely, in the haze of sweat and burning hands, his thick, long cock plunging in and out of you deeply- slowly- your juices and his pre slicking between you, sticky as molasses, you wonder to yourself if he’s even convinced of that himself.

Just having one more, you mean.

The twins were unexpected: that right there is an understatement. You were hardly prepared for one rascal- all the countless evenings he spent buttering you up, so attentive, and then cumming into you with whispered vows to knock you up be damned— but when the xray revealed not one misshapen, little form in your womb, but two?

It was a bombshell.

Sylus, beside you (on the leather couch downstairs with your personal doctor he paid God knows how unreasonable a sum to show), had squeezed your hand in his and tried to mask half of his joy. The priority was in comforting you, helping you to realize that this was a good thing- a beautiful thing- that your life was not officially over and- hey, don’t worry, hasn’t he taken good care of you thus far? Surely, adding a couple little ones into the equation wouldn’t suddenly make it impossible.

You’re both very capable people, honey. Even more so together, with him. (Well, he assures you as much, anyway.)

Whether or not he could take care of you was never exactly the worry, though. The worry was that you’d be under his hand forever— and a baby? (two, you strictly correct. Two babies) You could kiss the last hope you had of ever weaseling out from his grip, or luxurious manor, goodbye.

He must know it, buried deep in the back of his head underneath the genuine layers of desire to simply start a family with you, his beloved girl, and flesh out more of a solid, burgeoning life; the silent promise underlying the pregnancy tests and inpromptu housecalls of your poor, overworked doctor.

That a family ties you to him forever.

A tether that’s damn near impossible to cut yourself loose from, even if you stood a punching chance at it to begin with. Glues you together in a way that even marriage doesn’t quite scratch the surface of. Your bond is perpetuated by blood, now. Flesh and bone. Your DNA, warped with his to create—

Monstrosities—

No, a harsh voice in the corner of your skull surprisingly snips back. They’re not monstrosities, far from it. All previous qualms nudged aside (and you had a lot, to be clear; hours spent sobbing and pushing helplessly at his chest as Sylus crooned and wrapped you in his arms proves that), doubts surrounding parenting and your own self preservation- your children are beautiful, that’s true. Healthy. Perfect.

If you’re being honest with yourself, and choose the high road here (the high road means willfully forgetting how involuntary this whole arrangement was in the first place)- they’re positively adorable. With his white hair spiking on their heads but your eyes and lips- and a shared penchant to land themselves into trouble, places they shouldn’t be before either of you stoops over to lift them out. Albeit, you’ll admit that their noses are still up for debate; it’s hard to pinpoint the resemblance when their faces are endearingly round, too chubby to really tell in this stage, but you secretly hope they’ll take after you in that regard.

You… don’t know how you’ll continue to operate if staring at your children is like staring at a mirror image of their father.

But… I mean, they’re fucking innocent in all this—

Your precious boys aren’t like their father. They… won’t be. You’ll make absolute sure of it.

“One more,” he chants, sucking in a long, thin breath through perfect teeth. And damn it all he feels good. So good. Maybe he had more than just one selfish, substratal reason for populating your otherwise fairly quiet home. Because you’re more obedient lately, wanting for it, almost… It gets him riled up in ways he could not begin to articulate. Hesitant still (sometimes he has this awful, basal fear that it’ll never go away, your trepidation towards him)- but sugar-sweet when you lie on the silken bed and present yourself with bashful cheeks that tell Sylus you hate yourself for it but have no real control in the moment.

You moan so prettily for him when he pries your thighs apart and presses them either side of your head, fashioning you like a butterfly, to slide in and out of you with ease. Melodic. Maybe he’s tone deaf to all songs save for you because he knows you, knows you like the back of his hand, pitch and lilt; he could pick out the voice of you in a crowd full of whooping people, he thinks.

Again, you blame your excitement on what he’s done to you. The twins’ pregnancy, the fluctuating hormones that have you bouncing between hysterical sobs and yanking your wide-eyed husband into impulsive, suffocating kisses before his fingers quickly settle around your middle. All the gentle erosion that he’s guided you through across the span of almost two years has left you worn and vulnerable.

But you suppose if something were to ever encourage a deeper bond- strengthen it- what else would it be than to take a man’s seed inside your womb and gift him with a bunch of unruly but cute kids? That’d gnaw away at just about anybody’s inhibitions, even if it grudges you to admit that. It lessens what remnant you held onto of this idea of ‘autonomy’, makes you fully lean onto him.

Sylus takes that news much, much better than you.

It’s… got to be more than physical between you now, you think distantly as he bullies his cockhead against your smooth walls, stroking a spongey spot in the bulwarks of you that makes your head go kaput. Like something spiritual, perhaps. He’s joined his soul with yours and that’s why you’ve been so obedient lately, so needy, clinging onto him and making his back your own personal scratching post as he plays at the idea of impregnating you again.

Oh, fuck, he’s such a bastard you hate him you hate him you—

You suppose your baby girl, inevitable to come somewhere down the line- whether that means during the next pregnancy or the third- won’t be like him, either.

She’ll be a sweetheart, and soft. Perhaps she’ll inherit her daddy’s crimson eyes or his smooth, sharp tongue, his inclination for success, but she’ll carry her mother’s heart with her. She will be kind.

Until someone like her daddy comes along. Flips her world on its head.

(And you know that having Sylus as her daddy would be the simple fact that staves off all potential men intending to prey on her, but still, the thought remains, niggling and bitter.)

“Take daddy’s cock, sweetie,” he goads, breath shot right from his lungs as he traps you beneath him- not that you’ve much the will to resist anymore- and moans over you. “You’ll take what he has to offer, won’t you? Your pretty belly will take all of it in?”

Tears prickle at your eyes when his flit down to your tummy, pupils swelling wildly as his jaw sets tight. He hisses through clenched teeth, cock giving a hot pulse accordingly.

It’s not difficult to imagine the bump there, the mound that’s not yet formed over a for now slim belly and wrinkled skin (stretch marks that you loathe but he worships on most nights, with your heels over his shoulder and his tongue lapping greedily at your pussy, palms kneading the flesh with reverence). It’s hardly been six months since you had the twins (a home birth, he’d insisted, because it was safer that way, more sterile, less stressful for you), but Sylus finds himself pining for your body to adapt to his seed again, for your breasts to plump and your stomach to round, your skin to glow.

(Your hands to reach for him because your emotions have been sat on one long rollercoaster ride and you can’t help whatever the fuck is going on inside you.)

“Sylus—“ You mewl, panting as he knocks his forehead to yours- with a whit more force than you think he’d meant, but he’s a little dazed right now, and your pussy feels so good, so don’t hold it against him, kitten- and grunts back. “Yes?” He breathes, and you liken the sound to a gust of wind, powerful and shaking.

“I- I don’t know,” you all but wail, desperately trying to tamp down your sounds of pleasure before they can escape. You’re failing.

Your reticence is for a number of reasons. First of all, your boys are just down the hall, swaddled in their respective cradles under their rotating airplane fixtures and sleeping soundly. You don’t have any intentions of changing that- especially for something as stupid and pathetic as essentially whoring yourself out to their father (and you’re not a whore, but you can’t help but feel like one when you start to bask in the attention he gives you- your hormones post-pregnancy compelling you to do all sorts of wild things).

And secondly, Luke and Kieran don’t renown you as stubborn for no reason, or your husband, lovingly, as a drama queen— and there’s a defiant part of you that does not want to see the satisfaction on his face when you start to crumble under his ministrations and open your mouth about it.

But all that, for Sylus, is a wonderful work in progress.

And if we’re to be crystal, for as much as the N109 Zone’s number one magnate prioritizes the end goal, he thoroughly enjoys the process.

“You don’t know what, Sweetie?” He whispers. It’s all he can manage right now, you’re squeezing him so tight. In that moment, the fog parts, and he knows with a hundred percent certainty that you do not want him to leave. Yes, your cunt is saying as much, and he rewards it with a carefully angled thrust right against your g-spot, but your face tells no different a story.

You’re beautiful. Perfection embodied. Makes him lose his breath a little.

“I-If I want a girl,” You heave. “If I want one at all.”

Something like dejection passes across his handsome visage then, or maybe it’s uncertainty that weakens the tight knotch in his brow as he inwardly struggles- between his approaching climax and the single mind he’s got to stuff you full of his release- for an appropriate answer. He doesn’t want to anger you. Doesn’t want to make you hate him, no, especially not when you’re finally starting to dip your toes in his waters after all his painstaking efforts to make you comfortable. Oh, God knows Sylus would kick himself for that.

…But this will be good for you. Having another, he means. It’ll be good for the both of you and if you’d just let him show you—

He’s painted the perfect demonstration of that quite well with the boys, hasn’t he? In this past handful of months, you’ve never looked happier and you’re positively glowing and all Sylus has ever wanted was to see your pretty face light with that dazzling, little smile. The twins he’s given you, unbidden as they initially were through your lens, make you so, so happy.

This will be so, so good.

Perfect.

If you’d just give in.

Oh, you’re so maddening sometimes but he adores you, every part and piece. He stoops over so his damp lips brush the lobe of your ear, the perspiration dotting his temple wetting your flushed cheeks. He croons, “You do. You do want it. I’ll show you, kitten, just how bad you need it. The twins need a sister, don’t you think? They won’t know anything other than playing rough, if not.”

Your fingertips squeeze into the lean planes of muscle of his back. He’s burning up, near feverish what with the heat sweltering between your sandwhiched bodies, but he gives a shiver in response like he’s enduring temperatures below freezing.

Panic, beneath the misty veneer of pleasure that makes your face go slack- and the subtle, inexplicable flash of something that almost convinces you Sylus is right, that you do want it- slips into the forefront of your muddled brain. Reaches a hand through the dirt and revives itself, reminding, no, no, you don’t want this, you don’t want him, you don’t want—

You let out a delicious gasp as he spears into you, the flesh of your thighs dimpling as he presses down the undersides of them. Firm, but gentle. It’s true, you’ve become considerably more flexible since meeting him- since having to accommodate him- but he’ll never give you anything more than you can take.

You’d never admit it, but there’s almost a little bit of comfort in knowing that.

“I-I’ll make sure they know how to play nice,” you force out, taking your lower lip in your mouth and suckling as the telltale rush of your climax draws nigh, hardening in your belly as it builds. “I’ll make sure they know how to be gentle, Sy!” Foreign to your own ears. Your voice is horrid as you belatedly register it, all sniveling and gasping- downright pathetic as you cling onto him for dear life and he ruts into you like a dog in heat.

You’re grasping at straws now, you know, but for as feeble as your excuses are, you hope they hit their mark. That they’ll get him to reconsider-

“But sweetie,” he breathes tenderly, “you’re already making sure I’m gentle,” he reminds in a pleasant voice, edged with the remnants of a self control that unravels at a steady pace. “How will you juggle between the three of us? Hm?”

His cockhead, fat and precise, catches on that spot in you that makes you go positively crazy and your eyes flutter back. You let out a strange, choked sound that he marvels at before he capitalizes on the reaction completely, buffetting away at the final walls you’d erected against him tonight.

All are near crumbled.

“I’ll find a way,” you nearly squeak- high-pitched and unconvincing because his mind’s already made- before he’s lolling your jaw back towards him and smashing his lips to yours in a decadent kiss, silencing your protests- for as weak as they are.

It’s close to visceral, the contact, wet lips melding hungrily with yours, trading groans and mewls as he effectively pistons his hips into you and paints colorful stars across the black span of your eyelids. In a word- invasive. Torpefying, all your limbs unfurling and slipping away from him in favor of curling into the sheets as your release approaches at whirlwind speeds, blunt fingernails clinging onto you so tight there’ll be bruises formed tomorrow- as well as an apologetic, rueful sigh on Sylus’s end, because he swears to God he’s trying to hold back—

Fucking mind-numbing.

And isn’t that just what you need? A quiet conscience? A shot of morphine fed through a needle straight into the veins, an emotional kind of tranquilizer or- or something to moderate the snarled mess your heart’s become all because of him—

It seems he’s cognizant then, pupils dilated madly as he finally blinks, of the hands that clench too tight- withdrawing them immediately from your thighs (regrettably, they remain cleaved open in a willing offer for him, shaking and red with his prints) to loop your wrists either side of your head. Holding your hands. Ever the romantic. You almost laugh, seconds off from that white-hot tidal wave of pleasure, at the irony of it all. Onychinus’s formidable, takes-no-bullshit leader, fucking you with all the grace of a big clumsy dog but all the love of one too— loyal and determined, bleeding heart on his sleeve.

He’s still kissing you, sucking on your tongue filthily, and all you can think of is waking the boys sleeping soundly next door how exquisite it feels, his thick member dragging in and out of your walls like it’s his right. Sylus certainly believes as much.

He’s ruined you too good for anyone else; you’re starting to believe it, too.

“There you go, kitten!” He gasps. “Let go. Just- fuck- let go for daddy. Such a good, good girl. Such a good mommy, you are. Our- oh, fuck, that’s it, that’s it, perfect- Our little girl will be so, so lucky to have you.”

When he comes, you do, too.

#love and deepspace #lads x reader #sylus x reader smut #sylus smut #love and deepspace x reader #lads smut #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus x you #sylus x reader #yandere #lads sylus #sylus qin #calebrity #okay now i PINKY PROMISE next sylus fic will be a new concept #just had to get this off my mind whew #‧₊ 🍰.┊𝒄𝒂𝒌𝒆𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

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madamechrissy · 2 months ago

Text

Baby You're No Good

Pairings - Cult leader/clan Leader Geto x F! reader

Summary - You have been promised to marry the psychotic, human hating leader of the Geto Clan, Suguru. Your heart sinks at the wedding when you realize you're likely to be ended once you've fulfilled your duty, giving him an heir. He detests you on sight, as do you, but something happens the first time you lay together, Suguru swears you're some witch, because he can't get enough of you. He becomes consumed with fucking you, with the excuse of 'having an heir' but you begin to wonder just where the lines are blurring. Would you survive this- and will Suguru survive being with you?

CW- Arranged marriage trope, ENEMIES TO LOVERS, psychotic Geto lol- lots of hate sex, Suguru calling you a stupid monkey, angsty, FULL of smut. Reader is a virgin bc she's sheltered due to been promised to him. Reader is FEISTY asf and mean right back. Explicit sex and Geto being whipped/insane/obsessed and psycho. This part- Heavy angst, SO MUCH angst actually, mentions of pregnancy, potential health issues, emotional sex/lovemaking- oral (m and f recieiving) violence, and more angst. WC this part- 6.6k

The next two parts will be the alternate endings <3 Plz share/comment/ like if you enjoy( is that the right word though)

<<<Part Three - Playlist - Masterlist - Part five (Sad end) - Part six (soon)

Part four

One more day.

One more day before Suguru leaves.

You’ve avoided him the entirety of the week, so terrified of him - not to mention he’s got you locked up for most of it, a barrier around the manor so you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. When he allows you around with the girls, you start to feel this overwhelming sadness, not just for everyone to be killed, hurt, destroyed… but he also has two girls that look up to him like he’s hung the moon in the sky.

All they do is gush about him constantly, Suguru this and Suguru that, their eyes all lit up as they do, does he even think of the possibility he won’t return? The plan is for the girls, you, and a select few people for your protection stay, while he leaves tomorrow to potentially never come back again, or just as bad, accomplish his fucking goals. Then how could you look at him again?

You know what he’s already done - but this is to the point there is no return. Suguru has refused to even speak to you hardly, until he summons a doctor today, and now instead of perhaps going to a doctor’s office, you’re in a small little room, the little heart rate machine intimidating. Suguru stands off against the wall, granting you space, while the doctor frowns in concern while doing your vitals.

“Your blood pressure is too high, and your heart rate is through the roof. Are you under any stress?” You damn near laugh, looking at Suguru then, who can’t even stand to meet your gaze.

“You could say that.” You answer quietly.

“At these vitals, you can’t healthily have a baby.” Your heart pounds even faster, when Suguru’s hand comes to your shoulder, finally tilting your chin up to look at him.

“Try to calm your breathing.” He murmurs, you can’t though, how can you.

“Take a deep breath.” The doctor orders, you shut your eyes and try to do just that, trying to regulate some, as the cuff squeezes again, and you hear the doctor sigh. “Still far, far too high… alright, let’s see if there is a heartbeat.”

You lay down nervously on your back, when the doctor lifts up the shirt that you’re wearing, brushing cold metal against your skin.

“How long do you think?”

“Maybe five weeks.” He nods now, dipping the wand lower, and then you hear it, loud and clear, a little heartbeat. “Oh my…”

“There it is, it’s a little quick hmm.” He’s measuring the beats now, as Suguru feels everything around him shift.

Your eyes fill with tears, hand fluttering to your tummy, taking several breaths to calm yourself as you look at him for a moment. You’re terrified, he can see it in your gaze, not what he wants you to feel, to be, he has images of him and you together, holding your baby in your arms, but what if he couldn’t? What if he…

He bites back his emotions, clearing his throat now. “You’re pregnant.”

“Yes.” Your tone is flat, while your mind runs a million miles a minute, your own images vastly different from Suguru’s.

All you can see or feel is destruction looming.

When the two of you quietly walk back through the halls, you pause at the door to your room, eyes looking up at your husband. “Locking me in all night, right?”

“As if you want to see me. You haven’t even spoken to me until today.” You bite a trembling lip, looking down now. “You’re having my baby.”

“Will they even know you?” Suguru cups your face now, lips in a tense line, aching to touch you, fuck to hold you, but he knows you’re disgusted by him right now.

“You really think I’m weak, should I show you how powerful I am?” You scoff, shaking your head at him.

“It’s just like you, to flaunt your power, isn’t it?” He raises a dark brow at you, when you smack his hand off. “You won’t choose me or the baby, so don’t expect me to make this easier for you.”

“You will see, it’s better for everyone. Everything.” He’s cupping your face with both hands now, stepping you into your room, what’s been your prison for the week, until he’s leaning down, lips a breath away. “You don’t see my vision.”

“I see insanity.” You shove him off, his heavy breath breaking you, pulling you back against him, making you weak. “I see someone who’s so far into his own bullshit, that he doesn’t see what anything is.”

“Fuck you, you’re still such a mean little bitch.” He angrily kisses you, earning your teeth biting his lower lip, tearing the skin as you do.

“Fuck you, psycho.” He laughs darkly, blood dripping across his lower lip, swiping at it with his thumb.

“Your heart rate is probably high, huh?”

“It always is. It comes with having a batshit crazy husband who wants to fucking kill everyone. Our parents even!? The baby’s family!”

“Shh, stop.” He’s got you by the shoulders, but you’re too far gone.

“How can I be happy, how can I be a mom like this? When all I can do is see the death that you bring.”

“You won’t trust me. I’ll keep you safe.” He’s kissing you again, for a moment you let go, lips you miss, a body you crave, his energy filling you and making you drink every bit of him up, blood smearing and tasting like copper on your tongues. “Fuck…”

“No, we won’t.” You gasp and pull back.

How can you love a fucking monster.

“You’ll dine with me tonight, wife, do you understand?” You roll your eyes at him, looking away now. “Answer me, brat.”

“Fine. I’ll be there, Lord Geto.” He sighs, for once the two of you had something… close to not hate, but here you were, again.

“Wear the yukata I send up.” You roll your eyes.

“What choice do I have?”

Suguru has never really given you one.

******

You sit across the insanely long banquet table that night later on, donned in the elegant robes he’s bought you, hair done up with butterfly pins, a stain of red on your lips. You drive him to insanity with your beauty, the earrings dangling and reflecting lights that spread across your skin, while the soft chandelier lighting just illuminates your beautiful body.

You are quiet as can be, sipping on your water, while Suguru has red wine in his golden goblet. “So, husband, what did you need me here for?’

Your audacious ask makes Suguru tense, gripping the step of his goblet so tightly he could crush it. “Ever think I… enjoy your presence?”

“Hah … no.” You earn his scowl - good - better his scowl than you to feel more for him, for a ticking time bomb of a man you should hate.

Your heart races in your chest as he stands then, striding with those long legs across the room, yanking you up then by your wrist. “Stop pretending.”

“You stop pretending, as if you could care.” Suguru glares deeper now, hands dancing across your body, watching your nipples press against your robes, his thumb brushes one, earning your traitorous whimper.

“Your body reveals all your lies.” You smack at him, expecting a smack right back, but instead he just lifts you up on the banquet table, standing between your thighs, slipping up the robe bit by bit to reveal the lacy stockings you’re wearing. “God, look at you.”

“Pathetic, right? A mo-”

“So fucking perfect.”

“No!” You’re shaking when he kisses you, inhaling and exhaling faster and faster as the desperation tears you both apart. “No. Stop making me… feel this.”

“Feel what, hatred?” He nips your lower lip with his teeth, you wish you did, fuck you wish you did.

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

“Fuck you.” He’s picking you up, as a groom would a bride, it’s too intimate, it’s just too much, truly, you wriggle but he keeps you close against him, fingers pressing into your flesh, burning you.

Suguru burns you.

“Where are we going, tossing me in my room?”

“You’re spending this night in my chambers.” You gasp, and in moments you’re being carried past the curious eyes of many, staring at the sorcerer who hates humans so much, delicately holding you this way.

“I refuse. What’s the purpose, who knows if I can keep an heir with this as my life, anyway.” Your words stab him as much as they stab your own heart, when he settles you down, locking his door with a resounding click, the incense burning still on his black side table filling your lungs, as you back away, he’s just walking forward.

“Do not say that.” His broken voice makes you choke up, his perfect features for once soft, vulnerable, his hand touching your tummy. “I heard the heartbeat.”

“Racing.” He looks at your achingly beautiful face, destroying him bit by bit.

He lets out a shaky breath, cupping your face gently, something Suguru Geto just did not do. He was looking down at you, his eyes dark with pupils dilated, glimmering with something you would almost think were tears, but there was no way, was there? No way that Suguru Geto could truly feel, not this cult leader who has lost his mind, who you’re clinging to just glimpses of currently.

His breath ghosts across your sore, bitten lips, thumb swiping away a tear that falls without you truly knowing, brushing the salty tear across the apple of your cheek, his other hand drifting down your back. It’s too intimate, it’s too sweet of a way to touch you, causing you to break apart piece by piece, hands that had clutched to fists on his robes releasing their grip, your head tilting down.

“Don’t do this, Suguru.” Your words strike him like a stab to the chest, your teary eyes looking back up at him, hair falling softly to the side, brushing against his arm softly, while he pulls you closer.

“There’s a good chance Satoru will kill me.” His words are flat, matter of fact, as if you’re having a conversation about tea, not murder. Your heart thuds in your chest as he speaks. “I may not come back.”

“You’re choosing this, instead of me. Instead of us.” Your hand goes to your tummy this time, vivid images of it growing in his mind, of seeing your glow, seeing a smile, and not the pain that he brings instead.

If he wasn’t so selfish, he’d let you escape.

“I’ll make sure you and the baby are taken care of, if I don’t return. I have things set in place-”

“No, no! You think they won’t kill me without the connection of being your wife?” You’re pulling away, but Suguru is dragging you back against his chest, sighing, brows drawing together while the girl he loves looks so hopeless.

“I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“Just choose me. Choose us. Stop this madness, it’s not who you are-”

“You do not know me.” His dark tone takes over, earning you shoving at his chest, turning away, only for him to drag you back against him, pressing your back against his hard frame, an arm coming around to wrap you tighter.

“You won’t let me, you won’t let anyone. I miss my family, I miss my friends, yet you keep me trapped here, and now you won’t even choose me?”

“I would choose you, over anyone. You’re… beautiful-”

“No. Do not.” You’re wriggling in his hold, as his big palm presses against your tummy now, and you’re sniffling tears of fury, chest heaving when he turns your face towards him, hand gripping your face even tighter.

“You are. Allow me this night with you, even if it’s just me drinking all of you up.” Your sobs make you shaky, when he grips you right between your thighs, pressing up against your heat, eliciting a whine he shouldn’t deserve.

“Allow what, you to fuck me before you go on a murder rampage!?”

“No. Allow me to do what I should have with you.” He turns you now, picking you up like it’s nothing despite your struggling, gently lowering you on the bed, watching you avidly as his fingers trail down the silk brocade of your robes. “Allow me to worship you for tonight.”

“Worship a human? Before you end us all?” Your hesitation waivers with every moment that Suguru lays on you, every gentle brush of his rough fingertips on your skin, while violet eyes grow deeper, more vulnerable. For a moment you see it, you see him, the dream that you believe in so foolishly.

“I will never end you. You are my only exception.” His whisper breaks you into pieces, his hand unknotting the ties of your obi, letting that purple silk fall against the bed with a whisper, baring a breast as he presses the material apart.

“Exception?” Your little breathy voice ignites too much in him, his lips hovering over yours, while his thumb brushes a sensitive peak, heat pooling in your tummy so unwillingly, fingers itching to entangle in his silken raven locks.

“You’re the exception.” He repeats, hand gripping a breast now, squishing in his huge hands, eliciting the cry from your pretty lips, as he instead wishes to say more.

That he’s fallen.

But how can he ever truly love someone?

If he did- he’d let you go, not take such liberties he knows he does not truly deserve from you. “It’s your choice, if you want to share this last night with me.”

“Oh I get a choice in something now?” Your words hurt, but they’re true, as your own hand slips to your robe, parting it fully and revealing your gorgeous body to his fiery gaze, making Suguru falter. “One last time then.”

“One last time.” Suguru growls softly, then his lips slam on yours, sucking up all of your oxygen, taking over everything you are and everything you have been, in that moment, you decide to just forget, to lose yourself in him. “Let me show you everything I should have.”

“Suguru…” He’s shushing you, kissing down your throat too sweetly, lapping at your collarbone with a light flick, as his hands explore more of your body, the robe strewn under you like a blanket, as he works his journey to your breasts. “Just… just fuck me okay…”

“No. Not tonight.” Your back arches when he sucks a breast into his hot mouth, tongue flicking your nipple, the peak tightening against his taste buds. Your hands do give in, entangling in his locks, as you feel your resolve weakening. “Beautiful. Perfect.”

“Don’t… you’ll just hurt me more.” Your emotions catch in your throat, when he leans up, cupping your face.

“It’s the truth, I will speak about it tonight.” Your lips are taken over again, less gentle and more fiercely, while Suguru’s hand trails down your waist, your hip, his heavy weight pressing on you. “You feel perfect.”

“Shh.” Your lips try to hush him, your hands slipping down to grab his cock, stroking it, but he grips your hand, kissing down your body, between your breasts and lower, breath making your hips buck when he’s right over the hood of your clit.

“Should be worshipped.” His murmurs, sending shock waves through your body when he hungrily kisses your thighs, higher and higher, fingers pressing into the plush of them, gripping and squeezing, leaving marks you wish would just stay forever. “Wanted to kiss every inch of you.”

“No…” He chuckles without humor, teeth gently nipping your thigh now, looking up at you under dark, long lashes, cheeks flushed from the pressure rising.

“Yes. I always have.” You shake your head once more, while he’s kissing up your other thigh, so hungry, so ready, and you feel yourself let go, for once with him fully, if this is the last time you have this hungry, damaged, beautiful man, you’re going to have him.

He’s swiping his tongue up your slit, and instead of tensing, closing your thighs as you did, telling him to just stop, you do what you’ve longed to, pulling his face against your cunt and grinding your hips up. He moans, realizing you’re letting go, you’re pulling his hair so hard at the root, letting out wanton, loud moans you’d usually cover up.

Suguru loses himself drinking every bit of you up, eyeing your perfect body under his lashes as he fucks his tongue inside your snug walls, moaning against you as he watches you unleash. Ways he could never see you, always holding back, and he supposes he held back too, why wouldn’t you? But you’re screaming his name out when he glides two fingers in your soppy little hole, flicking his tongue on your clit now.

“That’s it, fuck my face Princess.” Princess, you could swear you dreamed Suguru said that once, you blink in confusion at him, pausing, while the squelching sound of your greedy cunt around his sure fingers fills his room.

“Princess?” He sighs, realizing it’s slipped out, but for once he does not hide it, behind some cruel jab at you. He may never touch you again, if he survives this or not, and he can’t spare a moment.

“Princess, please.” Suguru saying please!? You’re gulping down words you ache to say ‘Suguru I love you’ ‘pick me please’ ‘more, more, more’ and simply nod, doing just that, grinding your eager, soppy cunt all over your sorcerer’s perfect features.

Fuck.

You both think it in your heads, that you can’t get enough of his mouth, his tongue fucking into you as his nose bumps your little twitchy clit, the obscene sounds of him drinking the arousal that starts to pour all over. His fingers replace his tongue inside you, his tongue flicking your clit faster, when his hand presses firmly on your tummy. You’re screaming out while your hips roll, dragging him even closer.

“There, there, f-fuck!” Everything is shattering around you while he flicks you over and over again, working you and pushing you to the edge, watching you topple over with those eyes of his, devouring your body every bit as much as his tongue lapped at your glistening folds.

He pulls his fingers out after feeling your walls flutter around them sucking them and moaning. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Don’t…” Suguru slips back up your body, heavy weight pressing down on you, while you untie his robe eagerly, kissing yourself off him. “Fuck it.”

“Fuck… what-” You cut him off, flipping the two of your positions, shocking him for a moment, while you untie that knot fully, revealing a chiseled body you’ve longed to worship and never let yourself. His lips part while he brushes your hair back, and you’re kissing down his chest, while he murmurs your name.

“If this is the last time, then I’ll do what I want.” Suguru’s strong muscles tense when you kiss lower, and his hands entangle in your locks, shaky breaths releasing as you’re lapping at the line of hair above his pretty cock, which you reveal with a gentle tug.

“You want to suck me, Princess?” He asks, in shock, the few times you have, he’d shoved his cock in your mouth, forcefully and brutally, and you’ve never kissed down his body, how could you- why would you?

You’re holding his thickness in your hand, earning a soft cry from his glossy lips, stroking the bead of precum into a little circle along his slit, earning his body tensing under you, cock throbbing in your hands. “I couldn’t let you know. Arrogant bastard that you are - your cock it’s… pretty.”

Suguru chuckles and your teeth hit his tip just a bit in anger, only causing him to thrust his tip further in your hot, wet mouth. “Fuck, there you go… take it all, it’s yours.”

You’re sucking him down, eagerly and full of every bit of energy you’ve kept under wraps for these past weeks, watching his eyes dilate further, damn near black, his blush across his perfect cheekbones. Suguru isn’t talking shit, there’s no hate sex, it’s whispers of ‘perfect’ ‘feels so good’ ‘there’ as he lets you move, hips still, watching you in awe.

“Taking me so good, fuck look at you.” He doesn’t encourage you, he mocks you, but for tonight he allows every liberty, he lets all those whimpers he tries to hide go. “Fucking so pretty like this.”

You whine as his words hit, your cunt dripping so badly you have to rub your slit while he pumps up into your mouth, until he drags you off his cock, your lips pulling off with a loud pop, and he kisses his taste right off you. He’s got you under him once more, cock hot and heavy and burning against your inner thigh, kissing you over and over.

“Never felt anything like you.” You almost tear up again at his husky declaration.

Why, Suguru, why?

Why can’t you just stop this.

Why can’t you choose me?

“That’s not-”

“God it’s true.” He’s got his huge hand on his cock, guiding it into your soaking wet entrance, your nails clinging to his skin as you scream out, back arching for more. “Never, ever felt anything like you. I never want to.”

“Suguru…” He’s sliding his cock in and out of your slick walls, a hand gripping yours, as he shoves in so deep, and all you can do is fall apart for him.

“I haven’t wanted anyone but you since that first night.” You shake your head, but he’s staring right into your eyes, glimmering with his own emotions. “My exception.”

“Shh.” You’re kissing him back with hunger, while his cock moves inside you, knowing every spot, tip grazing just the spot now, forcing you higher, until it feels like there’s nothing but Suguru anymore.

His hair falls soft against your skin while he bites your neck, and your nails leave marks on his skin that’s coated with a sheen of sweat, while he pumps harder, but achingly slow, letting you feel every inch. So many inches he stuffs you with, balls slapping your ass that’s got the juices from you flowing against it, slap slap slapping and echoing in this room, his moan vibrating your ear.

“Wanna fill you every moment, want so much cum inside you it never stops. You can’t get rid of it.”

“Ngh…”

“Everyone will know you belong to me.” You’re whining as he bites your neck harder, pulling back with saliva glossing his lips, cupping your face now. “Say it.”

“No - ngh!” He slams his cock so deep, until he’s bottomed out, your tight walls stretching to accommodate, gushing down his length.

“Once.” He pleads, thumb brushing your swollen lips, cock sliding in even harder.

“You can’t ask for it.”

“I can. I am. I need to hear it.” You’re shaking your head even as he’s devouring you, fucking every thought out of your head, every warning there should be, it’s all faded until it’s just him. “You’re mine.”

“No.” He’s exhaling, lips passionate while he deepens the kiss, moaning into your mouth while your thighs clench on his hips, and he presses inside even deeper.

“Mine for tonight.” His pleading ends you, you’re cupping his face now, taking a shaky inhale before you speak it, the madness.

“Yours for tonight.” Suguru slams his lips back down, fucking into you so deep you can’t remember where he ends, where you begin, can’t breathe, feeling the drops of his tears, of a man you thought couldn’t feel, splattering along your cheeks.

“Come with me, now, Princess.” The way he murmurs that damn name is too much, you let him surround you, as he lifts a thigh. “With me, now.”

“Suguru I- ah!” You’re cumming when he starts pumping his hot cum so deep inside your now sore little hole, spurts rushing across all your walls, while you’re crying from how hard you’ve peaked, how much you feel, and see his watery eyes in your swimming vision.

“There it is, feel her gripping me. Wants it all, hmm?” You’d usually shake your head, but you’re nodding, sniffling while your tears mix together on both of your mouths, his hand gripping your waist bruisingly. “Imagine when you’re round with me.”

“Don’t say it.” He sighs now, as he eases out of you, watching the mess of both of your fluids gushing down his royal purple blankets, making him feral at the sight, fingers brushing over your stomach, making you shiver, sensitive to everything. “You can’t think it.”

“But you are having my baby.” Suguru kisses your tummy far too fondly, as you sob further, as he makes you feel more.

“I’ll hate you forever if you go. Forever, Suguru Geto.” He sighs, resting his forehead against your tummy now, while your fingers caress his shoulders, watching the goosebumps rise all over his skin.

“I know, Princess.” He eases off you now, eyeing the slutty mess he’s made of you, swollen lips, bruises on your skin, red marks all over, the indentations of his teeth.

He loves you.

“Stay in bed with me then. Don’t go.” He looks away as you sit up, your hair falling back now, revealing more of your bitten shoulders. “Stay.”

“You don’t understand how long I’ve worked for this. You don’t know about the world like you think.”

“You’ll punish them all for a few?”

“It’s not that it’s…” Your hand touches his chest, feeling a usually steady heart beat erratically against your palm.

“We could have this. We could give ourselves to this. Together, go away, so far away Suguru that no one will find us.”

“I can’t-”

“Bring the girls. I’ll raise them with you, far away from the hate that’s poisoning you, there’s something there, I can feel it.” Suguru stands now, strong muscled back just enhanced by the glow from the moonlight filtering in, hair falling against his back, between those shoulders that bare too much.

“Let me clean you up.” He goes to his bathroom, coming back and cleaning you far too gently, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Will you lay with me tonight?”

“Suguru…”

“Shh, just… for once, let me hold you for the night.” His emotions alone fill his throat, making his voice husky, you’re sniffling even as he swipes your tears. “I know you hate me, and you should hate me. But please, this one night, let me just hold you.”

“Fuck you for this.” He exhales, then moans softly when you kiss him, the taste of your salty tears against his lips. “Please, one night where I feel you against me, where you’re in my arms. You’ve only allowed one night… during your nightmare.”

“Nightmare of you.” You hold nothing back, you never do, a sharp tongue and words that pierce through his very soul. “Why?”

“I want you in my goddamn arms. You… I mean it, the exception.”

“But not enough to choose me.”

Suguru sighs now, pulling you closer, a hand slipping across your lower back, burning your skin. “Lay with me once. Tonight. Let me hold you in my arms.”

“Oh fuck you.” He’d laugh if he didn’t hear the fucking pain in your voice, feel your brutal kiss returning his own, hands entwining, bodies moving against each other. “You don’t even deserve to hold me.”

“I know I don’t.” He brushes your hair back behind your ear, eyes drinking in your pretty face, as if for the last time. “But please let me.”

“You’re asking something, and saying please?” he just gulps, you take a shaky breath then, turning on your side, hand slipping under the cool silk of the pillow. “Then hold me, if you wish, before you leave.”

Suguru pulls you against himself, and you hate how good he feels, his hard body still so warm from your exertions, his rough palm pressing against your tummy, unspoken words so loud between the two of you. You’re in love with a selfish, cruel man, but what is even worse is how much more you know there is.

You see why Satoru still loves him, after every atrocity he has committed.

You love him too.

“I hate you for making me feel this.” Your hushed words pierce him so deeply, when he pulls you closer, burying his head against the crook of your neck.

“I don’t hate you.”

“Lies.”

“I don’t. Far from it.”

“Just… shut up.” He’d smile surely, your attitude is like no other, even screaming his name you still never let up on him.

What would it be like when he came back?

Would you forgive him?

“You are one of the most important people to me-”

“No. Stop now before you destroy me further.” You go to move, and he yanks you back against him, this time facing him, and he sees the streaks running down your cheeks. “I’m not enough.”

“You are-”

“I’m not enough to stop you. We are not enough.” He holds you against him, even as you cry, until in exhaustion you fall asleep, sticky tears he swipes off gently, looking at your precious face, exhausted, drawn, lacking its usual color.

At this heartrate she can’t carry a baby.

The doctor’s words ring in his ears, when he slips the blanket over you, holding you tightly while you gently snore just a bit. “I love you.”

You don’t hear him, and that’s for the best.

He aches to stay right here, when he has to awaken at four in the morning, the sun has not yet risen, when he has to leave the girl snug in his embrace, knowing he may never see her again. Suguru kisses your forehead, something he didn’t allow himself, last night the two of you had finally let go, the way you’d said ‘yours’ plays in his head, over and over, like a melodic symphony of his longing.

“Forgive me, Princess.”

*****

Waking up you reach for him, but Suguru is no longer there, just a bunch of rumpled sheets, the scent of him lingering, but long cold to the touch. You sit up in a room you’ve never slept in, Suguru Geto’s chambers, you’ve been fucked on every square inch of them, but never have you stayed the night. Your heart pounds in your chest so loudly you feel the dizziness of the blood pumping too fast.

No.

No, no, no.

“He can’t… he can’t…” You’re whispering frantically, gathering the crumpled robes, the ones he’d laid under you, even they have his scent just lingering on their silken material, while your shaky hands tie it on quickly.

You rush to the door, bare feet padding against the marble, you see Sashimi with his tongue lolling out, with Mimiko and Nanako, who are casually giggling and sipping on boba tea, as if everything is just fine. They come to you then, while you’re clutching the robes to your chest, the curse licking at your hand, while they tilt their heads at you.

“What’s wrong?” Mimiko asks.

“You look upset.” Nanako says.

“I am… worried about Suguru.”

“He’s so strong, don’t be!” Mimiko says with a grin.

“He is, he’ll win, promise.” Nanako and her hug you, trying to cheer you up, not realizing the depths of his mania, of his insanity.

“Are we alone?” You ask softly.

“No, dad wouldn’t leave us unprotected. Please don’t worry, he’s the strongest that there is!” You give them a soft smile, though you’re breaking apart inside piece by piece.

“I need to… get changed.” They watch curiously when you stride past them, now in a full panic, hastily getting dressed before finding the phone you’ve hidden under your mattress, dialing his number.

“Hey there sweets.” Satoru’s casual voice over the phone startles you.

“Tell me he’s…”

“Nope, he’s here all right, they’re all here.” Your cry over the phone speaker hurts Satoru even as he’s watching his best friend and everyone there marching slowly. “It’s not your fault that you couldn’t stop him.”

“Can you… take me there?” Satoru blinks, while his friend marches, dragons flying overhead, curses everywhere, sprawling across the streets, where his students and comrades stand ready, gathering together.

“As much as I disagree with Suguru on many things, humans are fragile… you’re not suited for a battleground.”

“Satoru please, maybe if he sees me-”

“That’s too dangerous.” He cuts you off, as your cries grow more desperate, and Satoru sees a student struggling, he curses. “I have to go.”

“Just trust me-” He hangs up, as you’re in a panic, completely unaware of what is even happening, rushing to the front doors, seeing the dome surrounding you glimmering when you try to touch it, jolting you back.

You fall to the soft clipped grass now, hands gripping the blades until you rip them from the roots, hopeless, terror sinking in.

What could you even do?

Could you forgive him?

You didn’t even say it… that you love him.

Would it have mattered if you had?

*****

Suguru smirks hours later, as tired sorcerers battle his own, his curses, he’s got them attacking people now, watching as they fall, but it doesn’t bring all of the satisfaction that he thought it would. He’s got you in his fucking head, his heart, ingrained like his own curse rushing through his veins, images of your tear streaked face, sounds of that little fetal heart beat echoing in his mind.

He didn’t even get to tell you.

Would it have mattered?

As his curses are destroyed more and more, Satoru’s clearly brought in several powerful sorcerers to help, some faces he recognizes from long ago. He sees Nanami, so different now, who gives him a disgusted scowl as he annihilates one of Suguru’s followers, swiping the blood off the white and black spotted blade.

“You’ve gotten strong, Kento.” Suguru says, when Nanami’s serious face scowls, and he pushes up his green goggles.

“Don’t dare call me that, anymore. My friend is long gone.” That shouldn’t hurt, Suguru would laugh at it, but the words sink in. “Now I’ll have my turn at you, killing children.”

“If the students would leave I wouldn’t harm them.” Suguru puts up a stance, hand bursting with Energy, as Satoru watches and remembers your plea then, while he crushes someone’s neck in his hands.

He needs to get you.

It’s the only option to end it.

Satoru’s gone in a flash, and you scream out when he’s right in front of you, jolting you up out of your bed, he lifts his white bandages with a finger, eyes swirling as they take you in, a blush on his face when he sees your disheveled state. “I scared you…”

“What’s he doing!?” You stand now, hands on Satoru’s chest, he realizes then that he’s not even putting up his infinity, as you look up at him desperately. “Is he…”

“It’s a shitshow to say the least, sweetheart. I have no time, I need to bring you, but I can’t guarantee the safety, I will try my best though.”

“No, no. Get me there. I have to try.” Satoru wraps an arm around your waist carefully, pulling you against his lithe body.

“Sorry you should hang on, and… prepare for this. Okay?” You nod then, feeling oddly comforted in his embrace, while he drops his mask back down, and you cling to his black silky jacket.

“I’m ready.”

He was not kidding when he said it, how sick and dizzy you’d feel teleporting with the white haired sorcerer, seeing the disaster all around you, endless curses you couldn’t believe, sorcerers in uniforms exhausted. Humans screaming in the distance, things are on fucking fire, figuratively and literally, buildings and walls destroyed. You gulp down the rolling nausea, while Satoru balances you.

“Easy.” He murmurs, you take an inhale through your nose, when Suguru catches your eyes, mid fight with a blond sorcerer, faltering as the man gets a slash against him, rivulets of blood rushing across the new slash in his robes.

“Suguru…” Your words hit his ears even as the sounds of destruction surround him, infuriated as Satoru holds you, stomping forward while you step out of his embrace, swaying just a bit.

“This is too far, Satoru. Leave her the fuck out of it.” Satoru’s laughter infuriates him, when he steadies you, murmuring in your ear.

“Give yourself a second.” You nod, stepping more steadily, as Suguru’s blood splattered face falls, softening when you stand toe to toe with him, the wind blowing your robes around your ankles, whipping around hair as he bends down, cupping your face.

“Get out of here. Now. It’s not safe.”

“The world isn’t safe, look what you’re doing!” You gesture wildly, making him observe just what you mean, injured sorcerers, death everywhere, his own curses disintegrating, former friends, former classmates, former teachers. All looking at him with the same sadness, though nothing compares to yours, when his eyes return to your face. “It’s not too late.”

“It’s too late, far too late. What did I tell you that night?” You shake your head, gulping with your dry throat, taking his hand and placing it on your tummy.

“We can run away. We can stop before more are hurt.”

“I can’t just-”

“You can. This isn’t you!”

“It is me!” His scream and grip on your wrists cause you to step back in fear, he realizes it, he sees it, the reflection in your glittering eyes- you’re terrified.

“I’ll never forgive this. Don’t do it, please just… let me be enough.” Suguru looks to the battle, then back to you, a million scenarios swirling in his head, when suddenly a blast hits you, and he watches the love of his life knocked to the ground.

“No… no… no!” He’s scowling, as the sorcerer who was one of his continuous blasting errant blows, he hadn’t even meant to hit you, but your body was…

Human.

You’re human.

Suguru kneels to the ground, eyeing your unconscious form, shaking you, smacking at your face, when he feels Satoru kneeling, checking your pulse. “This is your fault, Satoru, how could you bring her-”

“This is all you.” His words are cold and sharp, while his fingers feel the faintest of a pulse. “She’s human, Suguru.”

“And you brought her-”

“She’s human.” Satoru repeats once more, softer voice now, looking at him behind that blindfold. “I can get her to Shoko. But this needs to end.”

Suguru picks your limp body up in his arms, cradling you against his chest, your arm dangles limply, head falling to the side.

Suguru has a decision to make.

Let you go with Satoru to Shoko, and end this, disappear forever from your life, so that you could find a sliver of happiness he could never give you.

Or carry you to her himself, and try his best to redeem himself in your eyes.

“Stop.” He orders everyone loudly, voice resonating in echoes across the ripples of everyone, his curses stop first, then his fighters, while he pulls you tightly against him, the place you have always belonged, yet he never deserved to have. When he eyes what he’s done, the monster he became in your terrified eyes, he knows it then, he should have stayed in that bed, he should have listened.

He should have chosen you.

What does he do?

So I know this one is BRUTAL- but I will be doing dual endings, for five and six, one endgame Sugu/ reader, and one bittersweet and angsty. NO ONE will die so please don't worry either way, but be cautious of the warnings so you know what you're getting into! I know this one is very emotional, I'm crying with you :')

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#suguru x reader #cult leader geto #geto suguru #suguru geto x reader #clan leader geto #suguru geto #suguru geto smut #divider by cafekitsune #divider by strangergraphics #suguru geto angst #geto x you #geto x reader #geto x y/n #geto x female reader #suguru geto x you #suguru geto x female reader #geto smut #suguru smut

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syluss-littlecrow · 5 months ago

Text

night of secrecy

the extension of Nights of Secrecy card by syluss-littlecrow ♥️

warnings: smut, pwp, unprotected sex, steamy fucking, pussy eating, overstimulation, orgasms for sure, Sylus should be a whole ass warning by himself!, extension scenes for LADS card, canon events (TO ME!!!),

a/n: I'm back!!! At least for now... Also happy new year my little crows. I apologise for the extreme inactivity. Life caught me by the throat and flung me unfortunately not into Sylus's arms 😔🙏🏻 nonetheless, I was the happiest person on earth when we finally, FINALLY, got a spicy card for Sylus!! It was... WOO. definitely needed to extend the in-between scenes because thats what I wanted and y'all are suffering with me. Love you all as always and take care ♥️ also! Please give me a while to go through my inbox!! I'll try to answer your messages as much as I can! 🙏🏻

w/c: 2.8K

“Looks like we’re on the same page on not wanting to waste time.”

His voice pulled your attention back to him. You watch the way his eyes are pretty much devouring you whole, and you've suddenly forgotten what he tastes like. And obviously, you’re ready to go in for seconds.

Your mind is slowly clouding from the desire seeping into your veins. The intensity of Sylus’s gaze on you suddenly dawn's onto you and you're briefly distracted by the snow pattering against the windows, your gaze grazing the midnight sky with snow looking like glitter, dousing the whole area outside of the warmth you're enveloped in.

Before you realise it, Sylus snaps your attention back to him.

Your eyes are back on him, and the way he's staring right into you sends you fucking shivers.

“Don't get distracted at a time like this, kitten.”

Your hands wrap around his neck and you yank him closer, not missing the way Sylus’s eyes widen for a split second before he’s tasting you again.

God, you taste so fucking good.

The kisses grow deeper and more desperate, just like the first round on the couch, but this time, Sylus wants to make sure he's the one eating you whole. You let soft moans slip out between exchanging tastes, and you hear Sylus take a deep inhale. He’s got his weight pressed onto you, but he's trying not to crush you, and you feel his thick cock pressing hard against the inner of your thigh.

Who's gonna drive who crazy first?

The silk bedding beneath you only grows warmer, completely taken over the heat both of you are emitting.

“No looking.”

His palm blocks your vision, shutting off your sight, the intensity of your other senses slowly setting ablaze.

His kisses are relentless, sprinkled with soft bites along your bottom lip. His fingers find yours on the bed, tightening your grip, his moans and breathing growing in intensity against your lips. You want to keep this sensation and him in a jar and lock it up forever.

Sylus lifts his palm off your eyes, knowing he's had his fill for now and knowing that he has you soaked and sticky, he watches you catch your breath, your eyes in a daze. The faint smear of your lipstick on his lips from ruining yours catches your attention.

Maybe you should wear red lipstick more often.

His eyes are back on you now, his breathing still heavy. Even though the lights are dim and warm, the way you have his cheeks dusted with red all the way to his ears makes your heartbeat accelerate. You've never come this close to seeing the leader of Onychinus look like this.

Your fingers trace below his left eye, and a rush of possessiveness bleeds through your words, barely a whisper.

“Am I being too greedy…if I want you to keep your eyes only on me?”

A soft chuckle comes out of Sylus. He catches your wrist before it falls and presses his lips gently against your palm before he locks his eyes with you again

“You've always had that right. Which means you could be even greedier.”

And his lips dive for your cheek, and trails down to your jawline, and down to your neck, setting the patches of skin he kisses ablaze. He bites and sucks, making sure he leaves his mark, hiding his satisfaction whenever he hears you whine his name.

You feel the warmth of his palm slide down your thigh, and it gives you goosebumps. You watch the way he kisses the top of your knee as he lets his fingers trail lower down.

“Do you want it, kitten?”

The “yes” that spills out of your lips almost instantaneously draws a smirk from Sylus. He's ready to leave your clothes in pieces. But your palm presses against his bare chest just before he gets a chance to go further, as if stopping him. Sylus pouts slightly, grabbing your thighs once more.

“You haven't changed your mind, have you? You just said yes?”

Only when he catches the playful grin you wear that he realises that you're painfully teasing him. Nonetheless, he plays along with you–spoiling you with kisses as he pulls you by your legs closer to him.

“I'm hoping your answer is still yes…”, he mutters, switching his gaze between you and your supple thighs.

“…because I'm not holding back anymore.”

His fingers hook the waistband of your panties, and he slides it off your legs, his lips curled in a satisfied smile when notices the glistening sheen of your panties.

He thinks you're so fucking pretty when you're unraveled and wet for him.

Sylus has his palms pushing your legs apart, his attention now on your soaked pussy, practically inviting him for a taste.

He presses his lips against your pussy lips, his tongue then gliding up and down, brushing against your clit, over and over. You hate how he's so perfectly precise at finding your weakest spots. But then again, you let him into your territory, and that's your problem to enjoy.

Your breathing gradually staggers, your fingers curling against the soft white locks of his hair. Sylus is forcing your hips to stay onto the bed while he fucks you with his tongue. He hears you whimpering his name every time his tongue flicks against your clit, the pleasure shooting up your spine over and over again.

“S-Sylus..”, you mumble, your pussy pulsating once more when he sucks on your clit. “Gonna cum. Fuck.”

Sylus doesn't directly respond to you, but rather, his fingers that aren't holding your lower body down circles the entrance of your soft pussy, and then he pushes his fingers in.

You gasp, your body jolts slightly from the pressure. Now you're clawing the bedsheets and your moans pour out of you freely, competing with the squelching and wet sounds coming from your cunt.

His muffled moans vibrate against your cunt, as if beckoning you to just let it all out, and it drives you over the edge topped with his fingers fucking your pussy, long enough to hit your most sensitive spots.

“Fuck, fuck! Sylus I'm cumming-”, cutting off when your orgasm hits you fucking hard in waves, the pleasure tingling down your spine, your mind in a beautiful, horny mess, only filled with Sylus.

Only when your body settles down, and your legs snap together by instinct, does Sylus slowly lift his messy lips off you, and his fingers, covered in your cream, staining the red bedding in the process.

He really pulled every single orgasm out of you–you’re left catching your breath, and trying to stop your thighs from shaking.

In a haze, you watch Sylus drop his shirt onto the floor, his fingers unbuttoning his pants impatiently. He slides both apparels off swiftly, letting his thick cock free from the fabric tightness.

You swallow at the size of him, but at the same time, you just really want him to fuck the thoughts out of you so fucking bad.

Sylus combs his hair back, the red flush on his face growing more obvious.

Then he's back to distracting you with his kisses down your thighs, slowly going back up to your lips, not forgetting to give your tits a nice squeeze.

You feel his cock brush against your pussy, drips of his precum mixing into your mess.

Your fingers stroke his hair as he deepens the kiss. You feel the cold metal of his necklace pressing onto you, and it's definitely heating up.

His lips hover near your ear.

“Could I, kitten? Please?” It almost comes off as a beg and it tickles you ears so good.

Honestly you couldn't say no even if you wanted to, you're as hungry for him as he is for you.

You push him away. For a second, Sylus is ready to cease in case you really aren't ready.

Instead, you slowly spread your legs once more in front of him, the initial shyness replaced by boldness.

“It's all for you Sylus. Didn't you say I could be greedier?”

Sylus knows he's the luckiest man in the fucking world.

He bends and pushes your legs, almost folding you into half. His cock is lined right at your pussy hole, almost teasing you. But before any words could come out of your mouth, he pushes in, filling you instantly, stretching your hole open. You take a sharp inhale, grasping Sylus’s outstretched hand, and Sylus pauses, waiting for you to adjust, even though he's only half way in.

“You're so fucking tight for me, kitten. I'm only half way in.”

You squeeze his hand in retaliation, and Sylus is amused by the pout you wear on your face.

“You're too big..” you mutter.

Sylus only chuckles, stroking your thighs in an attempt to comfort you.

He feels you relax, but he watches for your reactions, and when you give him the green light, he stretches you out with the remainder of his length, knocking the wind out of you. He leans in, mostly hovering over you so he doesn't crush you with his weight.

“You gotta let me in, sweetie. You're squeezing me a little too good here”, he teases, his lips trailing down your neck.

You're practically breathless and filled to the brim. It feels like fucking heaven–squeezing against his cock and hearing Sylus gasp when you tighten around him.

You catch his lips with your palm when he's about to bite against the skin there.

“No biting here.”

His hands release your thighs at the same time, instead, taking both your wrists above you and holding them down with one hand.

“First you want it rough, now you want it soft. Aren't you a hard one to please tonight, kitten?”

He opts for kisses instead, and it melts into your skin, once again sending shivers.

“Why won't you be a good girl and tell me what you want you really want kitten?”

The way he's calling you a good girl with a voice velvet and drizzled in honey sends you shivers.

“I'm not falling for your tricks…” you mumble.

Sylus kisses your ear and his low groans whenever he feels you tighten around him.

“Then I'll start moving, kitten.”

You nod. Unfortunately, your hands are still bound above you, so that's the most you could do.

When Sylus begins thrusting slowly in and out of you, your mind slowly goes blank. All that's flooding in is how fucking good he feels in you. Your greed grows into a bottomless hole at an exponential speed. His name spills from your lips like a mantra, and you call him over and over again, sometimes getting cut off with a moan when he hits the perfect spot.

“I love it so much when you call my name, sweetie. It sounds like heaven in my ears.” He's barely able to form his sentence when you squeeze him again, sucking him back into the endless rounds of euphoria.

“Feels good. Sylus, you feel so good,” you whimper, realising you're letting yourself get lost into his heat. You feel him smile against your skin while he presses more kisses all over your face and neck. He pulls out momentarily, leaving you empty and slightly frustrated.

The tension builds, and he releases your hands in the midst of his kisses, letting you switch positions–landing yourself above him.

Your ego swells up slightly when Sylus casts you a suprised expression. But it quickly turns into a smile.

“Ah, so what you wanted was control?”

His cock is just resting right at your ass and you feel the warm, sticky fluids slide right down to your pussy.

You watch him lick his lips.

“Unfortunately, I can't give it to you”, he says. “At least, not yet.”

His hands glide upwards to the round of your ass, pressing his cock right at your pussy hole.

You lift your hips slightly, his cock pushing into you the second time, with much less resistance thanks to how wet the both of you got. It still takes your breath away when he fills you up. You swear he's bulging in you.

Sylus’s warm hands rub circles from your hip to your waist to soothe you, despite the fact that he almost could break just from watch you take his cock right in front of him.

“That’s my good girl. You're taking all of me so well.”

Your mind is threatening to fall apart from the pleasure once more. It's dizzy and thick, building a thick haze in your mind once more.

You lift your hips and he pushes you down, his cock filling you up again.

And soon enough, you're bouncing on his cock.

His grip on your waist is firm yet tender. He guides your hips, and peppers words of encouragement while he fucks you from below.

“That's it, kitten. Like that. Just for me.”

“Feels good hm? Of course it does. Look at your pretty fucked out face.”

“Good girl–hng–! you're such a good fucking girl for me.”

You watch the ways his eyebrows knit in pleasure. At times, he’d barely have his eyes open, from the way he's doing everything in his power not to explode in you. Not yet. He wants to be a little more greedier.

Maybe just a little more. He doesn't want it to end so quickly.

After all, greed can't be satisfied. Only momentarily.

Sylus knows that all too well. And god forbid he'd keep you locked up in here with him as long as he wanted.

Shit. You're taking so much from him and it feels so fucking amazing.

Your thighs are trembling from riding Sylus. It's too much yet not enough at the same time. His thickness presses against your g-spot endlessly, and Sylus swallows hard when you throw your head back, the sweat trickling down your neck, past your tits, all the way down, while your whole body shakes in sheer pleasure, accompanied by the obscene wet noises.

“Look at me, kitten.” His voice lures you back to him, like it always does.

You make eye contact with him, your eyes so pretty and glazed, as if in a spell. Under his spell.

“How are you feeling?” His finger traces down your chin.

“So full. I’m feeling so full of you”, you manage to reply, lifting your hips, letting Sylus see the full view of the wet, creamy, sticky mess you've made on his cock. You still have the rest of him stuffed deep in you, and you're not lasting any longer.

Every thrust he pushes into you drives you closer to the edge a second time.

Sylus groans and bucks his hips when you lower yourself on him once more. At this moment, he realises nothing in this world could be better than this.

“Feels weird, Sylus”, you mutter, pulling your pussy lips to take more of him in. You're grinding slightly more desperately, the tension builds. Fuck, you're gonna cum again.

The sounds of skin slapping only grow wetter, thicker and louder. Sylus bites his lip when he feels you go tight on him, his hands now on your ass, taking a handful and guiding you to fucking him.

“Fuck. Feels so good, kitten. You're gonna cum all over me?”

Too delirious, soaked in complete pleasure and begging to chase the high, you nod.

He listens to you sob and cry when your second orgasm washes over you, fluttering all over his dick. Sylus cups your cheeks and pulls you in for another wet and messy kiss.

“Cumming too, kitten. Be a good girl and take it all.”

Unfortunately he doesn't give you a chance to answer, mostly because you have your tongue out for him to devour and he doesn't hesitate. His low moans flood through your ears, his warm and thick cum filling you up so much that it leaks out of you before he pulls out.

He hears you squeal but the sounds of wet kisses override it, and he still makes you bounce off his cock until he's satisfied with emptying everything in you.

The air is thick and still for a moment when the both of you pull away, pants filling up the room.

The both of you have red flushed on your cheeks. His grip on you loosens. Instead you move in for a kiss on his forehead, which takes him by surprise.

In the second, he realises how much he adores you.

You're his first love, and you'll be his last.

Your phone pings in the middle of the day, just as you reached home after dropping Sylus off from cleaning up his mission.

There are two messages–one from Sylus and one from…Luke and Kieran?

The message preview from Sylus stating to call him when you're home safe. But your curiousity is piqued with Luke’s message. Before you could respond, Kieran’s messages pops into the groupchat with the three of you in. You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion at first, but then you laugh it off.

Luke: Did you know if something happen to boss-man? I've never seen him glow like this before.

Kieran: holy shit he actually smiled and greeted us when he came in 🤔 is the world ending?

#l&ds sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deep space sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #l&ds smut #love and deep space smut #sylus x reader #sylus smut

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lomlhwa · 4 months ago

Text

no way out (p.sh)

pairing: hostage!reader x maifa boss!seonghwa

preview: seonghwa loves to collect pretty things. when he saw you, he knew he needed to add you to his collection.

tags/warnings: fem reader, (leather) gloved fingering, pussy slapping, begging, gun + knife play, edging, overstimulation, s&m, dacryphilia, degrading, praise, pet names (doll, princess, baby, angel), hair pulling, possessiveness, marking, choking, unprotected penetration (wrap it before you tap it), creampie

trigger warnings: kidnapping, noncon, beginning stages of stockholm syndrome, guns and knives ofc

wc: 2.7k

song recs for this fic: criminal by britney spears

a/n: please read the tags and triggers very carefully!!!

seonghwa sat comfortably in his black mercedes benz, watching the people around him. his dark tinted windows gave no one any awareness of his presence. many people gawked at his car, amazed to see something so expensive on this side of the city. “anything catching your eye, boss?” his driver asked, breaking the thick silence. seonghwa shakes his head, staring into the rearview mirror. “no, but we’ll give it another couple of minutes.” he returned his eyesight to scan the crowd.

the leather seats of his car were comfortable enough to give him the relaxation he needed while scoping out the crowds of people. spending so much time indoors had caused him to forget just how many people live in seoul. he leaned back against the headrest, wishing that endeavours like these didn’t take so long. he crosses his arms, his leather gloved hands resting on his biceps.

he spotted plenty of objectively attractive people, some he might’ve dared to test on any other occasion. but he knew what he wanted. finally, through the crowd, he spots you. you glow within the crowd like the sun in the sky. “there.” the man in the passenger seat is quick to jump out, standing in your way. you trip over yourself a bit, startled by the sudden presence in front of you. “sorry ma’am, do you have a minute?” he asks, your eyebrows furrowing. seonghwa climbs out of the car and appears behind his bodyguard. “no, i don’t,” you respond, quick to dodge both men, staring down at your phone. seonghwa watches you speed walk away, crossing his arms over his chest. your thoughtless resistance attracted a dark part of him. “that’s the one. follow her.”

both men are quick to pile back into the expensive car and follow your direction. they trail behind you, watching you as you walk into your apartment building. they sit in the parking lot for longer than most people would consider appropriate. seonghwa checks his watch. he has a meeting soon, he cannot sit here for much longer. “contact hongjoong and have him send some men here to get her for me.” his order is stern and his driver nods. slowly, they pull away from the parking lot and drive back to the mansion where the mafia resides.

_______________________________________________

a few days later, seonghwa is greeted by a knock on his office door. the doors open to reveal two lower members of the family, wooyoung and san. “what can i do for you, gentlemen?” he asks, tapping on the papers on his desk to indicate that he’s busy. the two men stand in front of him timidly, keeping their heads lowered. “she’s here,” san says. seonghwa’s eyebrow raises, his tapping coming to an almost immediate halt. he rises from his chair, the two bodyguards in the room immediately tense up. “where is she?” wooyoung visibly gulps, adjusting on his feet. “the safe house, as you requested. she was very combative. yeosang is with the doctor right now, dealing with the scratches she gave him.” seonghwa chuckles, imagining the image of a girl your size doing damage to a man built like yeosang.

seonghwa nods, waving the two men off. they’re quick to scurry away from the intimidating leader. he digs around in his drawer, pulling out his pistol. he’s quick to shove it into his gun holster before moving his coat back to cover it. he adjusts the holster on his other thigh, housing an intimidating looking knife. “let’s go.” seonghwa is quick to strut out of the room, heading directly for his car. he climbs into the backseat, his guards moving swiftly so as to not anger him. sitting in the backseat, he finds himself filled with an unusual sense of nervousness and excitement.

the usual procedure for entering the safe house would require seonghwa to enter with the protection of his bodyguards. something was gnawing at him and telling him to go in alone. “stay in the car. if i don’t come back out in 10 minutes, you may leave.” with that, he climbs out of the car. he punches in the short number code, listening to it beep quietly to signal the locking mechanism letting him in. he pushes the door open and the air is thick with tension. he doesn’t know where they put you or if you’re even restrained. however, based on the damage to yeosang, he figures it’s probably a safe bet that you are restrained.

the door clicks behind him and he decides to kick off his combat boots. it doesn’t take much effort to find you considering your constant, slightly muffled screams for someone to help you. seonghwa finds you restrained on a dining room chair, your hands tied behind you and your ankles tied to the legs of the chair. you flinch when he finally enters your line of sight. you’re gagged with what looks like a cloth or a bandana. your eyes widen with a look of familiarity.

seonghwa leans against the wall, tilting his head to the side. “hi, angel. remember me?” you turn your head away, avoiding his domineering gaze. a rush of frustration fills his veins, running his tongue over his teeth. he walks into your line of sight again, this time he flashes his gun at you. “you wanna try that again? remember me?” your eyes widen and you nod vigorously. a smile spreads over his face as he re-conceals his weapon.

“do you know why you’re here?” he asks, leaning against the wall as if he had all the time in the world. you shake your head, desperately trying not to drool around your makeshift gag. seonghwa clicks his tongue, as if he’s disappointed in your cluelessness. “you’re here because you disrespected me. bad girls don’t get to just walk away from people like me.” he stares at you through his eyebrows, his anger showing in his face. you can’t help the adrenaline rush you get that prompts you to start struggling against your restraints.

seonghwa is quick to close the space between you, grabbing you by the chin and staring into your eyes. “stop fucking struggling.” your body freezes like a deer in headlights, all of your movements stopping just as soon as they started. “do you even know who i am?” the empty look in your eyes gives him the answer he needs. it shocks him a little. someone who doesn’t know the most infamous person in the entire country. “have you ever heard of park seonghwa?” a strange glint passes over your eyes before you nod. he smirks before gesturing to himself. “you’re looking at him.” he pauses. “ honestly, you should be flattered that you’re here. i don’t pick just anyone to test like this.”

you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. “mmf- test?” you do your best to speak around your mouth covering and seonghwa chuckles before re-composing himself. “well, i have to see if i can break you. did you really think a pretty girl like you was going to get abducted like this and not get fucked?” a new rush of horror overcomes you and it lights a sinister flame within seonghwa. he can tell how anxious you are based on how the rhythm of your breathing immediately changes. he likes the way you react to his words. “oh princess, you’re in for a real treat.”

everything in you is telling you to beg for your life. scream, cry and hope a hardened criminal like him has at least a little bit of empathy left in him. you know these efforts are futile, however. seonghwa sheds his coat and places it on the table next to you. his slim figure in his attractive suit have you wanting to drool. you stop yourself when your eyes meet his pistol once again. you gulp, watching as he adjusts his gloves. “i think it’s best i start your test now.” before you can react, he’s untying your legs and arms, forcing you to stand. you whine, your legs feeling numb from sitting for so long. he shoves you onto the couch in the living room. he watches you scramble away, not even moving to stop you. he knows there’s no escape.

“are you done?” he asks, his tone that of an exhausted father dealing with his bratty toddler. he crosses the room, throwing you over the armrest of the couch. he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your pants and underwear, pulling them both down with one quick tug. “god, you’re fucking dripping. what a whore. you like this, don’t you?” you shake your head, kicking your feet as if to try and keep him away. “get off m-me!.” your speech is muffled from the gag. he shoves your legs apart and slots himself between them. seonghwa lands a harsh slap to your ass, causing you to yelp. “i said, are you fucking done?” you twist to look him in the face and scowl. you pull your gag off your face before speaking. “fuck you.”

seonghwa leans over you and presses your face into the couch with one hand, while he uses the other to shove two gloved fingers into your cunt. you cry out, your sound muffled by the cushion “whores don’t speak like that to their owners, do they?” his fingers move quickly inside you, thrusting in and out. the leather rubbing against your walls adds to the already euphoric feeling. you grip the couch cushion so hard your knuckles turn white. seonghwa shoves another finger into you, curling them to find your g-spot. he leans over you further to whisper in your ear, his fingers still working an orgasm out of you. he pulls your head up by your hair to get better access to your ear. “if i didn’t know any better, i would say this is turning you on. i can just feel the way you’re clenching.”

finally, you manage to kick him in the knee, sending him stumbling back. you gasp for air, your lungs desperate for oxygen. you don’t even have time to reap the benefits of getting him off you before he returns. this time, you feel something cold press against the skin of your ass. you hear the click of seonghwa cocking his gun. your whole body tenses, sucking in a sharp breath of air. “yeah, i bet now you wanna fucking behave.” he slides the barrel of the gun over your slit, collecting your slick. “p-please, don’t.” he sighs and shoves your face back down into the couch. “don’t speak unless spoken to.” he shoves the gun into your hole, the cold metal sending shivers down your spine. you know better than to fight back now.

he slides it in and out slowly, cherishing the way you suck it in with ease. the fear coursing through your veins heightens the pleasure. your whining and squealing at every drag inside you. seonghwa groans at the sight of you at his complete disposal, his gun inside you keeping you obedient. your legs begin to shake as you near your high, a feeling you regret. “ple-ah please,” you mumble into the couch.

“please what, baby?” you cry silently into the cushion, your shoulders shaking. your body reacts against your will, your orgasm barreling towards you. “c-cumming.” seonghwa says nothing as your orgasm crashes into you, your body trembling uncontrollably. as you finish, seonghwa shoves his gun into as far as it will go, making sure you can feel him brush his finger over the trigger. “this is the one time i’m gonna be nice to you. next time you cum without permission, i’m pulling the trigger.” he pulls his pistol all the way out of you, licking the remnants of your release off the gun.

he moves away from you slightly to pull his pants and boxers down mid-thigh. “stop it, p-please. i don’t want this.” seonghwa shakes his head before shrugging. “i don’t care what you want.” he keeps you bent over the couch, watching as your nerves continue to twinge. your cunt is red and swollen from use, yet still visibly slick. he drags his tip over your folds, gathering your wetness. you claw at the couch to try and crawl away, but he’s quick to pull you back. “don’t forget who has the gun, princess. one quick movement and you could be dead on this couch. do you want that?” you shake your head, fear making you shiver.

“didn’t think so.” with that, he shoves into you. his tip jabs at your cervix, the sudden stretch having you gasping for air. seonghwa’s jaw falls slack, watching the way his cock disappear into you. he fans his hands over your ass, grabbing and squishing your plush flesh. a hard slap rings through the room and you whimper, digging your teeth into your bottom lip.

seonghwa’s hips begin moving. he’s nicer to you than he expected you to be. that doesn’t last, however. his thrusts pick up speed when you start wiggling under him, your own body betraying you in its desperation for pleasure. “silly girl, can’t even resist her captor's cock. just admit how much you like it, baby.” you shake your head, breathing so hard it’s making you dizzy. your brain is turning to mush and you’re losing your ability to fight back. not that you really want to anymore. he’s making you feel so good, why would you want to run?

seonghwa manhandles you, flipping you over and moving you so your ass is hanging off the couch cushions. he slots himself back between your legs in one quick motion. he shoves in to the hilt, snapping his hips against yours so hard you might bruise. he wraps his arms around your waist to snap into you harder and your eyes roll back. the room fills with noisy skin slapping sounds and the wet noises leaving your core. “fuck, you feel so good. you clench so pretty around my cock, baby.”

he pulls his knife out of its holster, dragging it over your skin without pressing down. “i’m claiming you as mine. you will never know another man’s touch.” he adjusts his grip on the knife, guiding it down to your hip. seonghwa presses the blade into your skin, dragging it to carve an ‘s’ into your flesh. the stinging pain sends a new course of pleasure through you, your core sucking him in harder. “i knew you were dirty, but not this dirty. you like that, doll? you like when the man who kidnapped you carves his initials into your body?” you nod, your body twitching.

seonghwa traces a few more lines into your skin with his knife before putting it down on the table behind him. he gathers your blood on his fingers and brings them to his mouth. “c-cumming,” you sputter. before you can say anything else, his gun is pressed to your temple. he shakes his head at you, clicking his tongue. his incessant thrusts into you are not helping you fight off your orgasm. “what did i say?” tears spill from your eyes, your eyeliner running down your face. you breathe so hard it hurts your chest.

“please, please, need to cum. can i cum?” you plead. you hiccup, your bottom lip quivering. he pouts at you, pressing the gun against your head harder. his hips stutter and it becomes obvious that he’s been fighting his own orgasm. “cum for me, princess.” your eyes roll back and your back arches against him, his face pressing into your chest. you clench and unclench, hearing him let out a low moan. “that’s it, baby. milk my fucking cock. it’s all yours. yeah, it’s yours.”

finally, your body relaxes. you had anticipated feeling a new rush of fear once the pleasure left you. but, you found yourself seeking his comfort. he holds you gently, discarding his weapons. “you passed the test, doll. i broke your brain and now you’re mine. i’ll keep you safe.” swiftly, he puts his clothes back on properly. he lifts you, carrying you out of the house despite your obvious lack of clothing. san and wooyoung stand outside the door patiently, waiting for instruction. “clean the house, make it spotless. also, i need one of you to grab my gun and my knife. i don’t wanna re-scare my baby right now.”

with that, you’re carried into the very car that had followed you just a few days ago. except this time, seonghwa got what he wanted.

#lomlhwa #ateez #atz #seonghwa #park seonghwa #ateez smut #atz smut #seonghwa smut #park seonghwa smut

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