#Ruby finally cracks

[brilliantfantasticgeronimo]

the dream!!! honestly

[rubys-domain]

i did some beyond the map border shenanigans, and i discovered something that's either really wholesome or really creepy depending on how you want to look at it

i might be very far from the first one to discover this, but if you open the camera while paimon's trying to take you back within bounds (asuming you're not in a stance that keeps you from opening it like swimming or something), paimon stays onscreen and keeps moving like she does in the paimon menu. but if you move the camera so that it's looking at her from the side, she'll turn to face the camera and do her little wave.

now i don't think they'll do it, but... if genshin pulls some "you, the player" thing endgame... honestly i would be interested in seeing how they pull it off

[humanjarvis]

sylus had never cared for his birthday—until you. 

year after year, he preferred to let the day slip by undetected. no half-hearted well wishes, no unwanted gifts. it was…simpler that way.

but when you’d come into his life, he’d allowed himself to be naive. to imagine spending the day with you, happy and untroubled. 

with only a few days to spare—he still hadn’t told you his birthday—you’d thrown yourself into his lap as a last resort. with big eyes and a pleading pout, you’d coaxed him into telling you the date, and he’d folded like a paper crane: april 18.

but instead of the satisfied smile he’d anticipated, your exaggerated pout became real; you were crestfallen. you had a mandatory mission scheduled for that day, you’d told him. and he’d cracked a smart joke in response. 

he should have seen it coming, with fate’s constant assault on him. it was foolish for a man like him to ever hope for anything. 

he’d be okay on his own, just like he had been in all the decades prior, but for once in his life he’d been looking forward to celebrating with you. and perhaps, just a little, being celebrated. it would have been nice. unfamiliar, yes, but if you were the one doing the celebrating…nice.

he supposes there’s always next year, though—if you still tolerate him by then.

with a heavy sigh, sylus steps into the base after a late-night joy ride, too consumed by his woes to sense the figures scattered in the shadows of the living room. 

the next second, something soft and warm pounces on his back, and the familiar feel of your body is the only thing keeping you from being flipped and pinned to the floor—and not in the way that he fantasizes about. 

he relaxes almost immediately, and as he steadies you in his strong arms, you lean down to speak into his ear: “surprise,” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek in a lingering kiss. 

“SURPRISE!” come the calls of the other culprits. in sync as usual, luke and kieran pop up from their hiding spots, jazz hands on full display. and it seems that mephisto is the final accomplice, with his excited caws echoing through the room.

sylus sets you down gently when the lights flick on. crimson streamers and balloons adorn the room, but not to be outdone is the giant, crow-shaped cake staring up at him from the coffee table. a party hat made of frosting and sprinkles sits atop its head.

as he takes in the scene before him, sylus’s stunned face softens with mirth. clearing his throat, he gives the twins a grateful nod, and they preen at his approval. with an excited high-five, they shuffle out of the room, tugging a displeased mephisto with them by the tail. 

in the quiet that follows, he pulls you close, feeling the warmth of your bodies blend. he holds you like this for a few moments—swaying gently in each other’s embrace, surrounded by the signs of your love. 

a few more beats, and he pulls away slightly—just enough to cradle your cheek in his calloused hand. and when he rasps a quiet “thank you,” eyes shining like polished rubies, he hopes you can feel his sincerity. 

[blood-smiles]

𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ୭˚. ᵎᵎ

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐆𝐍! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 TW MDNI . slight nsfw . yandere content . stalking . submissive yandere . creepy thoughts . highly unprofessional behavior from yandere . if reader is a simp and Alejandro is a bigger one .

You organized various assortments of products on shelves, placing each product perfectly, the name of the item fully on display,

While stepping back to admire your work you heard the squeaky shoes of a little kid, suddenly a small body crashed into your side and landed on the floor with a sickening crack,

“Jimmy! Jimmy! Oh my god! JIMMY!” The frantic voice of a woman called out, you instantly turned around, seeing the little boy wailing on the ground, his arm twisted in an uncomfortable direction,

You crouched down next to the child, trying to get him to calm down as you inspected his arm,

The same woman ran in your direction and pushed you off her child with a rough shove, tears welling up in her eyes,

“YOU! YOU DID THIS TO MY CHILD!” She shrieked, holding the kid in her arms,

“I-I ma’am! I swear it’s not that, your child was running and crashed into—“ 

“I DONT WANT TO HEAR IT! I AM GOING TO SUE YOU FOR THIS!” She screamed at you, her spit landing on your face as you stepped back,

A burning pain splattered all over your face, the woman’s purse making a harsh contact with your nose bridge, 

Small red droplets dirtied your white uniform polo shirt, 

She scooped up the injured boy in her arms and ran outside the store, yelling profanities and curses at you,

Suddenly a loud crash was heard as the woman kicked the large shelves, causing the tall shelves to come down on you, one by one alike to dominos,

You can’t remember what happened next, as you woke up in a hospital.

So. You have a huge law suit over your head now, a metaphorical guillotine over your neck, just waiting to be brought down on you, decapitating you and your clean record,

You stood in the waiting room, the fresh smell of floor cleaner wafting into your nostrils, helping you distract yourself momentarily,

“Mx (Y/N)?” A deep voice rings out, pulling you back into reality,

You glance up at the source of the voice, your (e/c) meeting with scarlet red hues, sharp eyes encased behind glasses,

You slowly got up, using your crutches to stabilize your footing, the man waited for you, his eyes inspecting your form as if calculating your every move, he stared at you for longer than needed but you ignored his eyes and kept acting as if nothing was happening,

He politely opened the door for you, giving you enough room to limp inside the office, after you successfully sat down, the man stood in front of his desk,

His ruby eyes were drilling into your own, as if memorizing every single detail of your iris, you looked into his eyes too, trying to seem confident,

If you looked close enough you could see the slight color difference under his eyes, you recognized that gaze— of exhaustion and pulling all nighters, but he did do a good job minimizing the eye bags!

You didn’t get to look at him properly but he was very well dressed.. the classic black vest along with black dress pants and a white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms,

Pretty purple hair gathered at the back of his head in a ponytail, two tresses framed the sides of his face, bringing more attention to his sharp features, he was attractive.. Very attractive.

After another round of continuous staring the male finally cleared his throat, breaking the suffocating tension in the room,

“I am Alejandro Ortega, your defense in the court.” He stated clearly, sticking his hand out, asking for a hand shake,

“Oh. I’m (Y/N), thank you for your time sir.” You politely stretched out your arm and gently shook his hand,

His larger one enveloped your own hand, giving you a steady and firm handshake, slightly squeezing your hand in his,

His touch lingered, hand still tightly held around yours, he stared into your eyes, unwilling to let go,

You half smiled, trying to pull your hand away from his, slightly becoming unsettled when he didn’t let go,

He coughed, letting go of your hand and sitting down on his own chair,

He crossed his legs under the desk, taking out a paper and a pen, tapping the opposite side of the tip on the paper sheet, he discussed with you the phases of how he was planning to defend you in this case, giving you a bit of a background check on him,

“Well then, please tell me how everything happened, mx (Y/N).” 

You started retelling the events of the store, your hands coming in play and moving around to emphasize your actions and feelings,

A soft smile bloomed on the man’s face, sometimes even chuckling quietly at your exaggerated gestures,

Alejandro liked—No, adored your company, you were so charismatic and lively, your energy was so contagious that even his hard exterior had began to show cracks,

The buzzing in his chest wouldn’t stop, his hands were sweaty and his face felt warm, just what was this feeling? He is supposed to maintain a poker face and not show any favoritism with his clients.. Oh but you.. he couldn’t help but show contentment around you,

Unfortunately you soon had to go home and rest, he felt truly pity for you, being all bruised up and injured— on top of that you were in the process of being sued, 

Such a sweet soul you have, he would make sure that you would be well protected under him, he would hate to see you in harms way,

Alejandro finished helping the janitors cleaning up, he waved everyone off as they left, with suitcase in hand he leaned against the wall,

Ever since your appointment with him he couldn’t stop thinking of your face and voice, perhaps he could use your files for some.. private research.

He opened the doors of his home, his wife, Ume, peeked into the hallway as if already knowing it was him who entered the manor,

Her long white hair flowed behind her as she sped walked towards him, she brushed her bangs out of her beautiful face as she approached him,

“Honey! Did you get off work early?” She wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a loving peck on his lips,

Alejandro grunted in response, peeling her arms off his shoulders and neck, he despised physical contact from Ume, he hated her voice, to him it sounded like nails scratching against a chalkboard, it irritated him, greatly so.

Ume was not at fault, for she had done no wrong to him, she was what any man would wish for, she was obedient, beautiful, loving and skilled in every aspect,

He just hated the intent behind his marriage with her, ever since he had slipped out of his mothers womb and brought into this world he had no control over his life, for it had been decided for him,

What he was going to be, who he was going to marry, where he was going to study, who his relationships were and even how he should feel,

He had no control over his life, he had never had any control over his own livelihood, his parents had controlled him even beyond the grave,

He hated his life. He hated Ume. He hated his parents. He cherishes you. He hated everything but you.

You had brought excitement to his life somehow, you came into his office and sparked something in him with your attitude and personality,

Maybe his life wasn’t so bad.

He stared at the knives in his kitchen, his hand itching to find something— someone to slice into ribbons with the sheening blade of the knife,

When did he become so violent? Was he this savage all along?

He shook his head lightly, taking off his glasses momentarily as he cooked dinner for his self and Ume,

He flipped the chicken and rice in two plates, as he brought the food and placed it down on the long hall table,

Ume awed at the perfectly cooked food, she dug in immediately, complimenting him and his cooking skills every time she spooned food into her mouth,

Alejandro subconsciously clutched a napkin in his hand, his knuckles turning a ghost white from sheer force,

“..Thank you” he muttered, his hand shakily cutting off some chicken and inserting it into his mouth,

His mind wandered off to your beautiful eyes, those beautiful (e/c) gems twinkling under light enamored him so much..

Alejandro noticed how your eyes would wander off sometimes, looking at him intently, as if you were listening to the most interesting thing in the world, it just made him feel so bashful..

How long had it been since he had seen you? 5 hours? 5 days? 5 years? God, he can’t remember anymore, just being away from you felt like an eternity, it was driving him insane..

Maybe next time the both of you meet you can go out for a drink together.. he smiled a little at that, perhaps he could invite you to a garden and talk to each other and learn more about you..

“Dear? What are you smiling at?” The gratingly annoying voice of his wife chimed in, anger rose inside him, taking most of his willpower to keep a calm mind and most importantly of all not to lash out at her,

“It’s none of your concern, Ume.” He answered coldly, glaring at her, a small vein sprawling across his temple in irritation,

She looked taken aback by her husband snapping at her, her smooth caramel tinted skin draining of color, her wonder turning into a fear in a flash,

Just as she was going to open her mouth to apologize Alejandro cut her off, 

“—I’m going to go take a shower, I’m finished with my diner, wash the dishes please.” He instructed as he left but not before giving her a pointed look,

Alejandro shut the bedroom door behind him, huffing as he sat on his and Ume’s shared bed

Ume wouldn’t understand, she would break down if she ever found out he had developed romantic feelings for someone else,

As soon as he makes developments in yours and his relationship he will make sure to get divorce papers signed immediately,

He wouldn’t want you to think he was unfaithful, because he isn’t.

His marriage never worked out anyway, he can only imagine the beautiful domestic life you would have with him,

He wouldn’t have to come into office, he could be your stay at home husband! He knows how to cook, clean and overall good spouse.. He spent most of his childhood honing these skills by taking care of his little sister,

He simply goes into work to avoid having to see his insufferable wife, even a minute away from her made his life expectancy slightly increase,

He opened the water, staring at his reflection before stepping into the shower,

Cold water ran from the shower head, landing refreshingly on the tall males’ back and body,

He sighed, relaxation seeping into his body slowly and steadily, he leaned his body weight onto his forearms,

His forehead rested on the cool shower walls, cleansing his thoughts for just a moment, his long hair stuck to his forehead and shoulders as water slipped off in small droplets,

 as hard as he tried he couldn’t fend away certain thoughts, all of them being of You. You. You. Ý̵̯͙̰̾Ô̸̱͉̖̣̾͝Ú̷͎͍.

Look at what you have reduced him to.. A lovesick fool.. craving nothing more than you— It has only been five days, yet you live in his brain and heart like maggots, digging deeper and deeper into him..

Yet he didn’t care, he would allow you to do so because he knew that he secretly liked it, he liked having someone to obsess over and follow like a lovesick puppy,

he had been saving his love for too long, and now it seems that you pulled the trigger on his heart, for this dangerous love ridden russian roulette has just started.

He now understands why he suffered for so many years, he sees now that it was all for you, it seems that god has gotten tired of torturing him and sent you, as his savior— his light.

If he knew things would come to this he would have chosen to suffer again and again, continuing what appeared to be an endless cycle just to be able to meet you and reach zenith.

He is holding his heart in his hands for you, it was you awakened feelings he never thought were real, now assume the consequences of your actions, won’t you, love?

Ume stalked the halls of the huge mansion, her heart feeling heavy after she upset her beloved husband,

She smoothened down her dress as she shakily opened the bedroom door, seeing that the room was empty she sat down on the bed,

Staring at the bedroom door longingly she decided to slightly peek through a crack in the doorway,

The water landed against the shower floor, helping muffle out the small whimpers and moans that were heard from Alejandro,

His hand fisted his cock rapidly, his hips bucking into his soft hand to feel some kind of friction, the sound of his hand clapping against his skin being audible even with the drizzling water ambients,

Ume’s eyes widened, never had she though her husband could ever make such.. Sinful sounds, it seemed he was saying something between the strangled sounds of pleasure..

“—N).. (Y/N).. Mmph! (Y/N), please..” 

(Y/N)? Who was this (Y/N)? Why was her husband saying that name? Was he cheating on her?

Her green eyes zeroed in on his body, watching as his back would arch and tremble whenever he would get close to climax,

Ume had tried a handful of times to get some kind of intimacy going on with Alejandro, going as far as getting some.. Aphrodisiac products, however it seemed that even under the influence of such hard core drugs he would rather deal with it himself than come close to her,

His free hand roamed his body, soon reaching up against his chest and starting to play with the soft muscle, 

Delivering soft and hard squeezes, soft groans muddled with mutters of “I love you”s slipped out of his lips,

Dampened hair fell over his eyes as he pressed his cheek against his shoulder, gentle sobs mixed with the sound of water running,

His thrusts slowed down as his thighs pressed together, with a final cry of your name the knot in his stomach came undone,

Loads and loads of white semen painted a section of the tiled shower walls, he kept thrusting into the air, riding out his high.

Ume closed the door quietly, sitting on the bed she placed her hands over her face, her well manicured nails digging into the sides of her soft face,

Whoever this.. (Y/N) was she was going to speak to, and it’s not going to be pretty.

Alejandro was her husband, hers only, and she was willing to fight tooth and nail for him,

The bathroom door opened, showing the ruby eyed man walking out with a towel wrapped around his waist, delicate beads of water dripping off his hair and rolling down his skin abdomen,

“Is there something wrong?” He asked with a raise of his eyebrow, eyeing her down menacingly,

The pretty woman but her lips while smiling, kicking off her shoes and spreading her legs open, an idea popping into her head

“Well.. perhaps, I’m feeling awfully.. Hot down there, help me will you?”

It had been 3 months precisely, it was your court date, you dressed up as best as you could afford, brushing your hair neatly and ironing your clothes to perfection,

You arrived early, looking at the huge court with furrowed brows and crudely covered dark circles, you weren’t able to get a wink of sleep last night,

Your mind couldn’t stop thinking of all the worst possible scenarios— What If you lost and went to jail? What if you were forced to sleep with a crazy cell mate? Sentenced to death? Having to use forks as hair brushes for the end of your days?!

A hand gently fell on your head, softly caressing your hair, you met scarlet eyes, beautiful eyes, the same shade as blood,

“Everything is going to be alright, I can assure you that, so please don’t worry your pretty little head over whatever you are thinking, will you promise me that?” You knew that voice, that was your lawyers voice, it was always so soothing to you, never was his voice rough or hoarse, it was always so warm and gentle..

You nodded, your worries calming down slightly, you weren’t expecting it but it sure was meaningful to you, you knew he was very.. Stoic most of the time, you liked to think he might have a soft spot for you, although the probability of that is probably non existent, oh how you were so so wrong.

The both of you entered the court, you were sweating buckets of sweat, pulling at your collar once in a while to try and freshen yourself up,

“Defendants please rise.” The judge called out, her voice strong and authoritative,

The both of you stood up, you were so nervous in the moment that you totally ignored Alejandro’s hand clasped around yours, his fingers intertwined tightly in between yours,

Alejandro was right, he was good, good was a massive understatement, he got evidence from places you didn’t even recognize, you had no idea if some of the documents had been falsified or not due to how legit they looked,

By the end of court you weren’t the one in cuffs, but the mother of the little boy, who had been taken into custody,

She yelled profanities at you, kicking and screaming at the police men to let her go,

Alejandro stood in front of you protectively, eyes narrowed into a glare, gaze as sharp as knives and glass shards,

You were so happy and relieved, weight had been lifted off your shoulders, you felt as if you were going to cry or happiness,

Your chest felt light as you hugged Alejandro, thanking him a million times over and over,

Had you overstepped boundaries? Maybe, Would Alejandro normally flip out and do something unseemly? If you were someone else, yes.

But it’s you, how could he deny you of something he had been wanting to do for a long time? How? So he wasn’t.

He deserved this too, he had gone through so much trouble to fake so much evidence to get that dirty bitch in jail, and you were willingly giving him his reward,

He basically threw himself on you, his arms over your head, he adjusted your arms on his waist, letting you hug him as close as you desired,

His face was close to your hair— so so close to you, he just had to smell you, just one second, please please please please please please.

He breathed in your scent, his eyes threatening to roll back into his head, you smelled so good, he knew his wife was in the audience but he couldn’t give less of a fuck,

Let her watch, let her see how he loved you so much more, he didn’t care anymore, he wasn’t going to hide it anymore, because it was true he had become so intimately infatuated with you he couldn’t even stand being a moment without you,

He had all he ever wanted right in his arms, and he didn’t care what he had to do to make you his, 

He didn’t care if he had to frame innocent people over and over again, he didn’t care if he had to make shady deals with hackers or mafia men, he will do crazy shit and get away with it!

If he had to let the world burn for you he would turn the world ablaze until only ash and cinder was left, only to light it on fire again over and over just to prove how much he loved you.

His eyes met his “wife”’s emerald like gaze, her eyes shining under light with jealousy, he knew she wanted to tear the both of you apart,

But he wouldn’t let her, as he would be the one ripping her to shreds this time around,

He will do anything and he means everything for you. 

He would do it all in your name. ♡

[caffeinewitchcraft]

You are a Blacksmith

Set in the universe where your destiny is written on your arm

(The Hero and Hope) (Being Villagers) (You are the Demon King)

You are a Blacksmith.

That’s why the dragon’s fire doesn’t burn you.

“Pretty sure dragon fire is hotter than a forge,” your party’s leader pants. Kent is a veteran adventurer of twenty years to your two years and he’s seen his fair share of dragon fire before today. There are curling scars dragging the corner of his mouth down into a permanent scowl that pairs oddly with how high he has his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He exhales noisily. “I think you’re just a freak, actually.”

“Not nice,” Sella says. The archer is your age with twice your experience. Her leather armor is well-beaten by four years running around with Kent and getting far closer to battle than an archer should. Her red hair is tied with golden thread that matches the golden charms dangling from her necklace. She adds a new one with every successful monster kill. It’s lucky she’s so stealthy or else she’d be jingling with every step. “Mande is an exception, not a freak.”

You’re a party of exceptions. Most adventurers are Villagers or Guards, common destinies that don’t always find a place within a town or village that have so many of each already. There are days you report for a mission, and you’re offered a blacksmith’s job on the spot just because of the mark on your arm.

Kent is a landless Lord. There’s a story there, you know, but it’s not one he’s ever volunteered. You can see his destiny pull at him in the remote reaches of the Kingdom, where no Lord has laid roots and the monsters run roughshod across the barren soil. Nights where you’re too far from civilization find him gazing up into the stars, his fingers curled like claws into the earth. The look on his face then is so hungry that the first time you saw it, you offered him provisions from your own pack. He’d shaken his head wryly, his scarred frown twisting, and walked off into the night by himself, only returning in the morning light.

Sella is a Guardian without anyone to look after. You knew her story before she told it to you, whispering it like a bedtime story before the end of the world. She was part of a traveling theater group. She looked after them, feeding them and retrieving those with wanderlust from their journeys before curtain call. When a monster siege led by a Demon King fell upon the city they were performing in, the Lord called his people into his castle and locked the doors.

The troupe were not his people. But they were Sella’s.

Until they weren’t.

You drag your battle hammer up and over your shoulder. Conveniently, the dragon fire has burned away the wet viscera that had been clinging to it. The metal is dark with soot, but undamaged.

The things you smith can’t be melted by any fire except your own.

The skeletal trees make the scene of this final battle oddly silent. Ash drifts from the sky, carried by a wind too high to feel. You can hear your party sniping at each other behind you and the gentle gurgle of the beast’s body settling comfortably into death.

The red dragon is beautiful. Its scales gleam and sparkle like rubies in the late afternoon sun and its talons shine like obsidian. Each part of the creature could make an average family rich for a month. You consider it from an arm’s reach away. You chew your bottom lip as you think. Your adventures have taken you across the continent from the southern coast you call your home, to the western land of rivers, to the northern desert and then here, to the eastern dry lands. After all your travels, you find yourself still thinking of home often. Crab is a delicacy where you’re from despite being so close to the water. The preparation can be tedious which makes it a dish reserved from significant occasions. Cracking the shell was always your job…

“Oh,” Sella says faintly. She makes an attempt to rise and nearly tips over in the process. If it weren’t for her bow, she’d be on the ground. Her knees shake as she uses a combination of a tree and her bow to pull herself up. “Mande, rest first! In an hour I can help you—”

You bring your hammer down on the jaw of the dragon. The bone shatters after just two blows. It’s best not to think about how beautiful it looked flying overhead or the intelligence in its eyes. You’ve always had a single-minded focus and you rely on that now.

“Leave her to her dismantling,” Kent grumbles. He’s now curled up on the ground is if in his sleeping roll, hands tucked neatly under his chin. It can’t be a comfortable position given his full suit of armor no matter how peaceful his expression. “If she’s got the energy for it, who are we to argue? Just keep the ribs intact. That’s what the client wants.”

Smash!

“It’s our turn to do the dismantling,” Sella says. She glares down at Kent. “Mande already did last week’s gryphon and the hydra. Get up!”

Smash!

“I’m an old man who needs his nap time.”

“You’re an irresponsible leader who needs to do his part.”

Smash!

“Once Mande stops swinging that thing around, I will.”

“She won’t hit you—”

“She hit me last week!”

“And I apologized for that,” you say through gritted teeth. You let your hammer fall by your feet. Your last blow sent tremors through your arms. The dragon’s jaw is like glass compared to its skull. “Sincerely.”

Sella makes a gagging sound when you fall to your knees next to the cracked skull. “Mande, don’t put your hand in there, that’s – oh, that’s so gross.”

“The book I read said it’d be…aha!” Your fingers graze something cool and metallic. You abruptly feel like crying. It’s been seven months. Seven long months of endless missions and danger and being away from home. This entire dragon is priceless, but you’ve forfeited your share for this. You blink rapidly to keep your tears at bay. You aren’t going to cry. Not until you’re sure that you’ve really found it. “Quick, hand me my waterskin.”

Your urgency gets even Kent up and bustling towards the dragon’s corpse. With trembling fingers you accept the water from Stella, pulling out your prize. It’s smaller than you thought, only about the length of your arm or a third the length of the dragon’s skull.

With bated breath, you gently trickle water over the length of it. Your party kneels beside you, watching just as raptly.

“What is it?” Sella breathes.

Kent is wide-eyed as, inch by inch, your treasure reveals itself.

“A dragon’s silver wit,” you say. The silver is mottled by the dragon’s black blood and grey brain matter. “The last ingredient I need for a Hero’s Sword.”

-----.

“You can’t just make a Hero’s Sword,” Kent is still saying a week later. He throws his hands up to the sky. “Heroes make them from air and magic and righteousness. Blacksmiths just repair them!”

You didn’t ask for Sella or Kent to follow you home. In fact, you assumed they wouldn’t. The slaying of the red dragon marked the end of your time in the Adventurer’s Guild. Now you’re ready to return to your position as the southern port’s best blacksmith and you thought they’d be ready to return to the best two adventurers the Capital Guild had.

“I’ve heard legends about it,” Sella says. She’s walking backward. You’ve already warned her that the roads this far away from Capital aren’t as smooth, but she’d scoffed at your concern. Now it’s pure stubbornness to prove you wrong that has her continuing to walk backwards despite nearly tripping twice already. “Excalibur was manmade.”

“The legend of Hero Arthur is manmade,” Kent retorts.

“If you believe that,” you say, “you really don’t need to come home with me.”

Kent blinks. “Well,” he says slowly, “on the off chance it’s not a fairytale, I desperately want to see it.”

“Then shut up and follow Mande,” Sella says. She elbows him and mutters under her breath. “Or else she might not let us stay at her house.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sure the dragon fetched enough coin for the both of you to get your own rooms at the inn.”

“Sure,” Kent agrees. He grins wickedly and the expression makes him look ten years younger. “But we’re not going to do that, are we Sella?”

“Nope,” Sella chirps. She loops an arm through yours before you can protest and squints at the horizon. “Is that your hometown over there?”

A hazy line of blue and white roofs is barely distinguishable in the fading light of day. Sella has better vision than you. You’re sure she can see the masts of ships in port, the green and yellow flag waving over the chief’s house, maybe even the orchard that creeps right up to the edge of the bluffs.

You can’t wait to see it yourself.

You aren’t sure how long you’ve been smiling, but your face hurts by the time you find your voice. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

----------.

Mom hurls a loaf of bread at your head when you walk through the front door, Kent and Sella in tow.

Kent catches it an inch from your face. “Whoa, whoa!” He waves the bread as if unsure whether he should drop it or throw it back. “It’s your daughter! Mande! Put down the bread basket!”

“Mande and friends,” Sella says cheerfully. She waves at your Mom, Dad, and little brother. “Hello! I’m Sella.”

“I threw it because I know who it is,” your mom says. The grey streaks on either side of her temple are wider. Her round, kind face is pale with anger. “We thought you were dead.”

“We got your letters,” your dad says before you can ask. His hair hasn’t changed; he’s bald. He’s wearing his leather apron from the forge at the table. He takes a bite of soup. “All three of them.”

“Not nearly enough,” Mom snaps. Then, “And they could have been forgeries.”

“Who would forge a blacksmith’s letters home?” you ask in exasperation. Is that why she never replied? “Mom, please.”

“Don’t giveme that when you’ve been dead for seven months,” she says. She stands abruptly. “Three of you? Sit down. I don’t have enough soup, but bread will fill anyone’s stomach.”

“I’m Kent,” Kent blurts out before Sella can push him into a chair. He sits with a thud. “Sella, it’s rude to sit before introducing yourself!”

“Ruder than not knocking or coming for dinner without an invitation?” Sella hisses at him. She turns a charming smile on your little brother. “Sorry to intrude. You must be Axton. A pleasure to meet you.”

Axton doesn’t return her greetings. His eyes are fixed to the package strapped to your back. “Is that…?”

You swallow hard as your family’s eyes turn to you. You carefully pull the cloth-wrapped rod from your back. Your little brother isn’t so little anymore. You can see he’s taller than you as he stands in unison with Dad to clear a spot on the table. His long, thin hands make quick work of the ties.

There’s complete silence as the burlap falls away to reveal gleaming silver.

Axton’s throat bobs. He’s barely eighteen with the soft look of a fawn hovering around the edges of his jaw and cheekbones. Mom and Dad have done a good job feeding him while you’ve been gone. Seven months ago your brother looked like a wraith, all the light taken from him as if it all came from his hero’s sword.

“You’re going to make me a sword,” Axton says at last.

You’ve thought about this moment for seven months. You imagined you would say something like it’s okay now or maybe big sister fixed it. When his hero’s sword was taken from him, you thought about all sorts of things. It took a month for you to set out on this quest rather than one of revenge. It wouldn’t have helped Axton if you’d forged a hundred weapons of war to punish those who’d hurt him. It wouldn’t help Axton to pretend you fixed anything.

So instead you tell the truth.

“It won’t be the same,” you say. “It won’t work the way you want it to. Not right away. You’ll need to train with it and learn it as you would any other weapon. Your instincts won’t help you. But…it won’t break when I’m done. It won’t bend or chip. It won’t melt. It will serve you, Axton, until the exact moment you don’t need it anymore.”

Axton flies around the table to throw his arms around you. It’s amazing you came from the same parents. Where you are short and stocky, he’s really like a deer. His long arms could encircle you twice as he lifts you with a hero’s strength. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

And then you’re being hugged all around. Your dad’s strong, Blacksmith arms are crushing you to your brother, your mother’s soft cheek is against your shoulder, and there’s plate mail digging into your spleen while a sharp elbow digs into your spine.

You manage to turn your head just enough to see Kent hugging your from behind and Sella hugging him from behind. It’s her elbow that’s jabbing you.

“This is sweet,” she says. Her voice is a little muffled from how her face is pressed against Kent’s back. “We should hug more.”

“Does this make your brother a Hero?” Kent asks.

“This is a family hug,” you say.

“Duh,” Sella says. “That’s why we joined.”

You really can’t argue with that.

-

(Patreon)

Next week's story: Everyone in LA has two job. You've got a big smile and a talent for seeing ghosts. It's no surprise what your jobs are.

[shapard]

Tantrum🕷️

Satan x Succubus!fem!reader

Tw: Smut, slow burn, therapist x client, Satan being Satan to the low life, p in v

6k

Satan is so Hot

Part 1 > Part 2

The story begins after the cut

You exhaled slowly, your breath shaky as your eyes scanned the list of today's clients. One name stood out like a drop of blood on pristine parchment: Satan. Yes, the Satan. You’d laughed when the receptionist first told you. Surely, it was some dark joke, right? But the chilling sincerity in her eyes told you otherwise. For the next month, the King of Wrath himself would be your client. His personal therapist—or "anger coach," as they called it—was conveniently on vacation, leaving the responsibility to you.

Your fingers hovered over the file, tapping lightly on the thick paper. His profile was sparse yet enough to send a chill down your spine. Anger issues. As if that needed to be stated. Brutal, cruel, unpredictable. Lies often. Has a dangerously short temper. And the last line, hastily scrawled like a warning, stood out the most: Approach with caution.

The note on your pad detailed when and where you were to meet him: Satan’s castle. Even the thought of it made your stomach churn. The clock on your desk screeched, breaking your trance. It was time.

Your palms were clammy as you left your room, dread curling around your spine. The limousine waiting outside was overkill, with its glossy black finish and an interior too luxurious for comfort. You sank into the seat, but even its plush softness couldn’t ease the knot tightening in your chest. Your fingers toyed nervously with the fabric of your shirt. "Why am I doing this to myself?" you muttered, your voice a hoarse whisper.

The drive stretched on, the limousine cutting through a landscape that seemed to grow darker, more twisted with every passing mile. Gnarled trees loomed like skeletal hands, their shadows dancing over the cracked road. The closer you got to his estate, the more oppressive the air became, thick with heat and a faint metallic tang that clung to your throat. When the car finally stopped, your breath hitched.

The castle loomed above you like a blackened wound carved into the earth itself. Jagged spires clawed at the sky, and the air was heavy with the faint stench of sulfur. The gates creaked open, revealing a procession of imps scurrying about with feverish purpose. Their glowing eyes briefly landed on you before darting away, like vermin avoiding a predator.

You swallowed hard, stepping out of the limousine. The ground beneath your sneakers radiated an uncomfortable heat, as if the very earth resented your presence. You hesitated, looking up at the fortress before you. Every instinct screamed for you to run. But you were a therapist—for Lucifer’s sake, you’d dealt with impossible clients before. Just not ones who could incinerate you with a single breath.

A small, hunched imp dressed in a tattered butler’s uniform approached, its head bowed. Without a word, it gestured for you to follow. You obliged, your legs moving stiffly as if weighed down by chains. The castle’s interior was worse. Shadows seemed alive, twisting and curling around corners like smoke. The halls were cavernous and eerily silent, save for the echo of your footsteps against the stone floor.

You were led through corridors that gleamed with wealth. Gold littered every surface, accompanied by piles of glittering jewels—rubies, diamonds, and sapphires, carelessly heaped as if they were nothing more than pocket change. It was suffocating in its opulence, but it was the odd details that unsettled you. A scorch mark on the wall, as if something—or someone—had been obliterated there. Deep claw marks gouged into the stone.

When you entered his chamber, the atmosphere shifted entirely. Heat rolled over you in waves, and the room smelled faintly of ash. Your eyes roamed over the space, catching glimpses of heavy iron chains, monstrous workout equipment, and a hulking throne that seemed carved from molten rock. And then, your gaze rose.

He was there.

The dragon loomed in the far corner, a creature of pure, terrifying majesty. His scales shimmered like molten obsidian, and his horns, wickedly curved and sharp, glinted faintly in the dim light. His golden eyes burned like twin suns, locking onto you with an intensity that made your stomach drop. His chest rose and fell with a deep, growling breath that reverberated through the floor.

"So," he rumbled, his voice a deep, guttural drawl that made the air vibrate. "You’re the replacement.”

You froze, your body rigid as his gaze raked over you. His tone dripped with disdain, his lips curling into something between a snarl and a smirk. You felt like a mouse under the eye of a serpent.

“A succubus?” he sneered, the word laced with contempt. His massive frame shifted as he lowered his head, bringing his razor-sharp teeth dangerously close to your trembling form. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement dancing in their molten depths. “For a succubus, you look... innocent.”

You flinched as his claw moved, its sharp tip hooking under the edge of your buttoned shirt. With terrifying ease, he pulled you closer, the heat radiating from him suffocating.

“Sir,” you managed, your voice wavering as you fought to hold your ground, “this is… inappropriate.”

The dragon chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Inappropriate?” he repeated, his tone mockingly sweet. “Oh, little one, we’re far beyond ‘appropriate’ here.”

For a moment, the tension was unbearable, his golden gaze locking onto yours, unyielding and searing. Then, with a huff, he released you, his massive claw retracting as he settled back.

“Let’s see how long you last,” he muttered, his voice laced with dark amusement. “They always break, you know.”

Your knees felt weak, your breath shallow as you took a hesitant step back. This wasn’t going to be like any other client you’d dealt with. And as his gaze lingered on you, predatory and calculating, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were stepping into a game you didn’t fully understand—a game where the rules were written in blood.

“Let’s start with something simple—an introduction.” You tried to project confidence, raising your voice slightly to ensure he could hear you clearly. The weight of his molten gaze bore down on you, but you kept your posture straight. “Before we can trust each other, we need to know each other.”

Your words hung in the air, daring to challenge the suffocating silence. His golden eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his reptilian features. You forced a smile and continued, your voice steady despite the thrum of fear in your chest. “My name is Y/n L/n. I’ll be your therapist for the time being. In my spare time, I enjoy drawing. Now, would you care to introduce yourself?”

The room seemed to grow hotter. A deep huff escaped from Satan’s nostrils, the force of his breath stirring the papers on your clipboard. His head tilted ever so slightly, as though studying you from a new angle. “You know who I am.” His words were low and blunt, carrying the faintest edge of impatience.

You kept your expression neutral, though your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “Of course, I know. But I’d like to hear it from you.” Your tone was calm, measured, even as the edges of his form seemed to ripple with heat.

That caught him off guard. His brows furrowed, and for a moment, his eyes lost some of their predatory sharpness. His breathing, which had been fiery and erratic, grew slower, more controlled. “I am Satan,” he said at last, his voice still low but tinged with pride. “The Sin of Wrath. The first sin.”

You didn’t flinch, though the words carried a weight that pressed against you. Liar. The truth was well-known—Lucifer was the first. But you kept that observation to yourself, instead lowering your gaze to jot something down on your notepad.

The scratch of your pen seemed deafening in the charged silence.

“What are you writing?” His tone was sharper now, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. You glanced up cautiously, noting the slight flare of his nostrils and the way his claws flexed against the stone floor.

“It’s nothing important,” you assured him, your voice soft but deliberate. “Just a few notes for me. Is that okay?”

His eyes narrowed further, glowing faintly as if testing your words for deceit. After a tense moment, he leaned back, the massive muscles in his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah… I guess.”

You allowed yourself a small exhale, the pen trembling faintly in your grip as you made another note. “Thank you. So, tell me—what’s your favorite hobby?” you asked, keeping your tone light, almost conversational.

Satan blinked, clearly caught off guard again. “Hobby?” he repeated, as if the concept were foreign to him. A pause stretched between you, and then he shrugged. “Uh… I like working out.”

Internally, you groaned. Great, you thought, suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. A gym bro with anger issues. But outwardly, you smiled, though your fingers tightened slightly around your pen.

As you scribbled his answer, you felt a subtle shift in the air. His gaze hadn’t left you, and there was something unsettling about the way he watched you now—curious, calculating, like a predator studying its prey. The edges of his mouth twitched, as if he were amused by something only he understood.

“Do you always write so much?” he asked suddenly, his voice a little too casual.

You froze for half a second before looking up. “Only when it helps me understand my client better,” you said evenly.

Satan’s lip curled faintly, exposing a hint of razor-sharp teeth. “Interesting,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly. His massive frame seemed to loom larger, casting a shadow that swallowed the light around you. “You seem… different. For a therapist. For a succubus.”

The word dripped with disdain, but there was an odd curiosity in his tone as well. Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

“I don’t think I fit the usual mold,” you replied lightly, though the words felt thin against the heavy atmosphere.

Satan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “No, you don’t. But we’ll see how long that lasts.”

The way he said it felt more like a warning than a casual remark. And as the room grew unnervingly quiet again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had just stepped into something far more dangerous than you were prepared for.

“Anyway,” you began, trying to dissipate the strange tension in the air, “what do you usually do to calm yourself?” Your voice was steady, professional, but you were acutely aware of the weight of his golden gaze lingering on you.

Satan tapped his claw against his chin, the sharp tip glinting faintly in the dim light. “I work out,” he said simply.

You nodded and placed your notepad down. “Have you ever tried anything else? Something less�� physical?”

He shook his head, leaning back with a nonchalant shrug. “No.”

“Interesting.” Your pen hovered over the page, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Bingo. A potential breakthrough, something to work on next week. “Maybe you should try something new,” you suggested, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.

Satan raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Something new?”

You nodded, maintaining your professional tone. “Yes. There might be situations where you aren’t able to work out. Finding an alternative that brings you calm can help—something you enjoy that doesn’t rely on strength or exertion.”

You could see him thinking, his gaze becoming distant for a moment before snapping back to you. Then, he said it, blunt and unapologetic:

“Sex.”

Your pen slipped slightly, leaving a faint mark across your notepad as your head shot up to meet his gaze. “Excuse me?”

“Sex,” he repeated, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “I enjoy it. Specifically, I love to dominate. It brings me a sense of calm, of control.”

The heat in the room seemed to spike as his words hung in the air, heavy and electric. You felt your breath hitch slightly, your professionalism faltering under the weight of his admission. Your teeth caught your bottom lip, a subconscious reflex as your mind betrayed you with images you hadn’t invited.

Satan, towering over you, his claws dragging possessively over your skin. His deep growls vibrating against your neck as his body pressed you into the bed like prey. The way his molten gaze would devour every inch of you, a predator savoring its prize.

The thought was dangerous, forbidden—and utterly intoxicating.

“You’re quiet,” Satan observed, a faint smirk curling at the edge of his lips. He leaned forward, resting his massive claws on the table between you. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to sit straighter in your chair, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed your inner turmoil. “Not at all,” you lied, your voice wavering slightly.

His smirk widened, the sharp tips of his teeth glinting faintly in the low light. “Liar.”

Your breath hitched again as he stood, the sheer size of him making the room feel smaller, more suffocating. He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate, predatory. His shadow fell over you, and you tilted your head up to meet his gaze, your heart pounding furiously in your chest.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, velvety growl. “Have you ever let someone take control of you? Completely?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. His presence was overwhelming, his golden eyes boring into you with an intensity that felt like it could strip you bare.

“Let me guess,” he continued, his voice smooth and teasing. “You play the role of the confident therapist. Always in control, always composed. But I wonder…” He leaned closer, his claw tipping your chin up slightly. “What would happen if you let go? If you surrendered—for once?”

Your pulse raced as his words sent a shiver down your spine. The air between you was charged, thick with tension that felt ready to snap at any moment.

“I—” You barely managed to speak before his smirk deepened.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he purred, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “I can see it in your eyes, feel it in the way your body reacts to me.”

Your breath quickened, your mind a blur of conflicting thoughts. This wasn’t supposed to happen—this wasn’t professional. But the pull of his presence, the raw magnetism of him, was impossible to ignore.

As he leaned back, giving you a moment to catch your breath, his smirk softened into something darker, more sinister. “We’ll see how long you can resist,” he murmured, his voice like a promise—a challenge.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of your notepad like it was a lifeline. Whatever line had just been crossed, there was no going back now. And the worst part? Some small, treacherous part of you didn’t want to.

You glanced at the clock on the wall, the ticking seconds echoing louder in your ears as you realized the session had come to an end. It felt like both a relief and a punishment. You cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure. “Our time is up for today.”

Gripping your notepad tightly, you rose from your chair, the slight tremble in your legs betraying the inner conflict you fought to suppress. “I’ll see you next week?” you asked, your voice carefully measured, though the second heartbeat between your thighs throbbed mercilessly, reminding you of how thin the line was between professionalism and raw, unspoken desire.

Satan leaned back into his seat, his massive frame exuding power and ease as his ever-present smirk stretched across his face. “You’re quite interesting, you know that?” he said, his golden eyes glinting with something dark, something dangerous.

The way his words curled in the air, dripping with molten heat, sent a shiver down your spine. And then he said it—your name.

“See you next week, Y/n.”

The sound of your name, as it rolled off his tongue like a lazy threat, like a predator marking its prey, felt like fire licking at your skin. It wasn’t just the way he said it—it was the way he owned it, as if your name wasn’t yours anymore but his to use, to savor, to command.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you fought to maintain control of yourself. His gaze lingered on you, heavy and consuming, as if he could see every thought, every reaction you tried to bury. The room felt smaller, hotter, as if the very air bent to his will.

You took a deep breath, willing the flush creeping up your neck to subside, and bowed your head slightly—a courteous gesture, but also an excuse to break free of his burning gaze. “I’ll… take my leave now,” you managed, your voice steadier than you expected, though your body betrayed you with every trembling step toward the door.

The silence stretched, but you could feel him watching you, his presence looming even as you turned your back to him. Each step felt heavier, your legs weaker, as if some invisible tether pulled you back to him.

“Y/n,” he called softly, his voice low and dripping with amusement. It was enough to stop you in your tracks, your hand hovering just above the door handle.

You turned slightly, not enough to meet his gaze but enough to let him know you were listening.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” he said, his smirk audible in his voice. “Next week… I expect us to get much more personal.”

Your breath caught, and you didn’t trust yourself to respond. With a hurried nod, you pushed open the heavy door, stepping into the hall as quickly as you could without outright running.

As the door closed behind you, the weight of his words lingered, wrapping around you like a vice. Each step away from his chamber only made the ache within you stronger, and the echo of his voice—dark, commanding, possessive—played on repeat in your mind.

When you finally reached the outside air, you exhaled deeply, pressing a hand to your chest as if to steady the wild beat of your heart. But no matter how much distance you put between you and him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were still trapped—bound not by his hands, but by his voice, his gaze, his presence.

And the worst part? You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to escape.

______________________

Your mind drifted to Satan again, as it often did these days. His golden eyes, the low timbre of his voice, the weight of his presence—all of it lingered with you like an intoxicating haze. It was wrong to think of him this way, wasn’t it? You're the therapist. A being of ancient power. Yet his words from the last session whispered through your mind, sending a shiver down your spine: “Next week… I expect us to get much more personal.” What did he mean? The thought left you breathless, your lip caught between your teeth as you tried to push the memory away.

With a sigh, you turned your attention to the mirror, pulling yourself together. Today was a new session, and you needed to remain professional. No room for fluttering thoughts or the heat that crept up your neck every time he said your name. After all, you had a job to do, and you’d prepared exercises meant to calm, not... whatever this was. You brushed out your hair, adjusted your outfit, and gave yourself one last look. You could do this.

The drive to his mansion felt longer than usual, the limousine’s quiet luxury giving your mind too much space to wander. By the time you arrived and stepped out, your palms were clammy despite the crisp air. You gathered your supplies—a palette, brushes, a canvas—and headed to the imposing doors. They opened with a creak, and there he was, standing tall, his figure sharper than usual in a tailored outfit that clung just enough to his form to make you notice. Was he doing this on purpose? The thought made your cheeks flush.

“Satan,” you greeted, keeping your voice steady as you stepped inside.

“Y/n,” he said simply, his golden eyes locking onto yours. He always said your name like it was a secret, something sacred.

You set your supplies down, the clinking of brushes breaking the charged silence. He tilted his head, his gaze flicking over the items with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “What is this?” he asked, his tone edged with intrigue.

“Painting,” you said, smiling softly. “It’s something that can help channel emotions. I thought it might be worth trying with you.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, but the flicker of interest in them was unmistakable. “You think this will calm me?”

“It’s worth a shot,” you replied, your tone light. “But first, I need you to… shrink a bit. Your current size might make it tricky.”

He arched a brow but complied without argument, his towering form diminishing to something more manageable. Even so, he still loomed over you, his presence filling the room in a way that made your breath catch.

You handed him one of your favorite brushes, your fingers grazing his. The brief contact sent a spark through you that you tried to ignore. “This one’s precious to me, so don’t break it,” you said with a teasing smile.

His golden eyes darkened slightly, his gaze lingering on you. “Why would you entrust me with something so valuable?” he asked, his voice low, almost reverent.

“Because I think you’ll manage,” you said simply, turning to demonstrate. The truth was, you trusted him in a way you couldn’t explain, and the weight of his gaze as you worked was almost palpable.

You dipped your brush into the paint, your movements fluid and purposeful as you applied color to the canvas. You explained the process, your voice calm, almost hypnotic, as you encouraged him to let his emotions guide him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” you said, glancing at him. “Just let it flow.”

Satan watched you intently, his focus shifting between your hands and your face. There was something mesmerizing about the way you moved—graceful, confident, entirely at ease. He tried to mimic your strokes but grew frustrated when his didn’t have the same beauty. Fire flickered briefly at the corner of his mouth as his grip on the brush tightened.

“Take your time,” you said gently, your voice softening. “You’ll manage.”

Those words seemed to echo in his mind, silencing his frustration. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. His golden eyes settled on you again, and this time, there was something softer in them—something that made your heart skip a beat.

“Pretty,” he murmured, the word so quiet you almost missed it.

You glanced up, assuming he meant his canvas. “It’s not bad for a first try,” you said, smiling.

But when your eyes met his, you realized he wasn’t looking at the canvas at all. He was looking at you. The intensity of his gaze made heat rise to your cheeks, and for a moment, you were lost in it.

“I… meant your canvas,” he said quickly, the faintest hint of a stammer in his voice. He turned away, focusing on his painting as if the moment hadn’t happened. “I suppose this isn’t for me,” he added, his tone returning to its usual steadiness.

You sighed softly, setting your brush down. “That’s okay. We’ll find something else to try next time.”

When it was time to leave, you gathered your supplies, his lingering gaze following you to the door. “Till next time, Y/n,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

You smiled, bidding him goodbye before stepping into the limousine. As the car pulled away, you stared out the window, your reflection blushing faintly. “Cute,” you muttered under your breath, thinking of his fleeting shyness.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to think of him a little differently too.

As the limousine glided down the winding road back into the city, Y/n leaned their head against the cool glass of the window. The world outside blurred into streaks of light and shadow, but their mind was too preoccupied to notice. Their chest tightened as they replayed the day's moments, each interaction with Satan etched into their memory with vivid clarity.

His golden eyes watching them, the way his brows furrowed in frustration only to soften when he heard their encouragement, and that one unguarded word he’d uttered—“pretty.” Y/n sighed and closed their eyes, the image of his intense gaze surfacing unbidden. He had said it so quietly, yet it echoed in their ears, lingering like a secret between them.

Why am I letting this get to me? Y/n thought, shaking their head. Satan was their patient. A being to be studied and guided, not… admired. And yet, there was something about him—something magnetic and impossible to ignore. His raw power was undeniable, but beneath the towering presence and occasional flashes of anger, there was a vulnerability that Y/n couldn’t help but find fascinating.

When the mansion’s doors had first opened to reveal him, standing there like some otherworldly figure carved out of the very shadows of the underworld, Y/n had been struck by how human he seemed despite his demonic origins. He was capable of humor, of curiosity, and, at times, even shyness—like when he stammered over his compliment and turned away. That brief flash of awkwardness had been disarming, endearing even, and it left a warmth in Y/n’s chest that refused to fade.

_______________

The past few weeks had been a blur of trial and error as you and Satan searched for a way to calm his tempestuous nature. Every method—meditation, physical exercises, even music—had ended in failure. Yet, with every attempt, the two of you had grown closer. Comfort had crept in between the boundaries you’d initially set, a warmth that softened the edges of your professional relationship. Perhaps it was too much comfort.

Frustrated, you ran your hands through your hair, tugging slightly as you let out a groan. “What’s left?” you muttered, mostly to yourself. You hated admitting defeat, but the lack of progress was wearing on you.

“Are you okay?” Satan’s deep voice broke through your spiraling thoughts. He leaned against the edge of his desk, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as they scanned your face. Concern lingered in his tone, though there was something else in his expression—something darker, more intent.

You sighed, leaning back against the wall, your shoulders sagging. “Yeah, I’m just… out of ideas,” you admitted, rubbing your temples. “Nothing seems to work. Maybe you were right all along—this isn’t going to change.”

A low growl escaped him, and he moved closer, the space between you shrinking with every step. “There’s one thing we haven’t tried,” he said, his voice a seductive rumble. He reached out, his clawed fingers brushing along the curve of your neck with a gentleness that sent a shiver down your spine. The ruby necklace he’d given you weeks ago caught the light, glinting like a drop of blood between you.

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching. “I’m open,” you replied, though your voice wavered. You weren’t sure what you expected him to say, but the tension in the air was thick enough to drown in.

His lips curved into a slow, wicked smile, and his eyes seemed to glow brighter. “Let me please you,” he said, the words both a question and a command.

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

His hand slid lower, taking yours in his. His touch was firm but surprisingly warm, and you couldn’t ignore the way your pulse quickened. “For weeks, I’ve been thinking of you. Not just as a distraction from my anger, but as something—someone—I want to consume. Every thought I’ve had has been about how to lure you in, how to make you mine.”

Your heart thundered in your chest, your body tingling with the weight of his confession. He slipped a delicate, shining ring onto your finger, the smooth metal cold against your skin.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near-growl. “I’m throbbing for you, aching to show you what it means to be claimed by me.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. His clawed hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

The first touch of his tongue against your neck made you gasp, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. His other hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head to the side to give him better access as he traced slow, burning lines along your skin.

“Satan…” His name fell from your lips in a breathless moan as his claws found the waistband of your pants, the sharp tips grazing your skin without breaking it.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your throat, his voice raw with need. “Tell me you want it too.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded, your hands clutching at his shoulders as if to ground yourself. That was all the confirmation he needed.

With a growl, he lifted you effortlessly, pinning you against the wall. His lips crashed into yours, the kiss rough and demanding, leaving no room for hesitation. His sharp teeth grazed your lower lip, and the pain mingled with pleasure in a way that made your head spin. His hands roamed your body, one clawed hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your hip, holding you firmly in place.

You gasped as he tore open your shirt, the fabric giving way like paper under his strength. His golden eyes roamed hungrily over your exposed skin, and the heat in his gaze made you shiver. “Perfect,” he growled, his lips descending to your collarbone as his claws worked your pants down, leaving you bare beneath his burning gaze.

He pressed his body against yours, his skin hot like fire but not unbearable. The sensation was intoxicating, his power and desire radiating off him in waves that left you trembling. His mouth found your chest, his tongue and teeth teasing sensitive skin until you were writhing beneath him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you fought to keep some semblance of control.

But control was the last thing Satan allowed. “Let go,” he commanded, his voice a low snarl as his hand slipped between your thighs. His touch was rough but precise, drawing sounds from you that you’d never made before. He smirked against your skin, clearly pleased with the effect he had on you.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. Your hands roamed over his chest, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, the heat of his body searing into your palms. His growls deepened as you touched him, and when you whispered his name again, it seemed to drive him over the edge.

He latched onto your nipple, his hot, eager tongue swirling around the sensitive peak as though it held the key to quenching a deep, unrelenting hunger. The heat of his mouth sent a surge of pleasure coursing through you, your back arching instinctively to press closer to him. Each flick and tug of his tongue was deliberate, rough yet skilled, and it drove you wild with every second.

Your hands found his horns, gripping tightly as a loud, unrestrained moan tore from your lips. The sensation of his horns beneath your fingers—solid, commanding, and so uniquely him—only heightened the intensity of the moment. He groaned in response, the vibration of it against your skin adding a tantalizing edge to the pleasure.

As you opened your mouth to say something—perhaps to beg, perhaps to curse his name—his massive hand moved swiftly, covering your mouth and silencing you with an almost possessive dominance. His palm was warm, his claws just barely grazing your jawline, a silent reminder of his power.

“Shh,” he growled against your skin, his voice thick with desire and control. “No words. Just feel.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine, your muffled protests turning into needy whimpers against his hand. His golden eyes flicked up to meet yours, the intensity in them making your pulse race. He didn’t need to say more; the look alone spoke volumes. You’re mine, and I’m going to show you exactly what that means.

His free hand trailed down your side, the sharp edge of his claws leaving ghostly trails that tingled with a mix of anticipation and pleasure. He shifted slightly, his lips abandoning one nipple to lavish attention on the other, his teeth grazing it just enough to make you gasp against his palm.

“Such sweet sounds,” he murmured between kisses, his voice a deep, sinful growl that left you trembling. “I want to hear every single one.”

He claimed you fully then, his movements powerful and relentless as he pushed you to your limits and beyond. The roughness of his touch, the possessiveness in every kiss and thrust, sent you spiraling into a state of pure bliss. He was consuming, overwhelming, but it was everything you hadn’t known you needed.

When it was over, you were both breathing heavily, your bodies tangled together on the floor. His claws traced lazy circles on your skin, the sharp tips surprisingly gentle now.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his golden eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that left no room for argument.

You smiled, brushing a hand through his tousled hair. “Yours,” you whispered, and for the first time in weeks, you felt completely at peace.

“I need to take you fully,” he growled, his voice rough with restraint, though his burning gaze made it clear his control was hanging by a thread. His golden eyes bore into yours, aflame with desire and something deeper—possessiveness, perhaps, or the primal need to claim you completely. His hot breath fanned across your face, each exhale like a spark threatening to ignite you from within.

You swallowed hard, your body trembling beneath him as you nodded, unable to form words. He stood, towering over you even in his "smallest" form, and the sound of his belt buckle clicking open made your heart skip. His hand gripped the base of his shaft, his claws brushing lightly against his skin as he stroked himself. His movements were deliberate, slow, as he smeared the slick arousal you’d already left on him along his length. The sight of it was utterly mesmerizing.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, his voice a rumble of raw need. His eyes darted to your smaller frame beneath him, the contrast between your softness and his powerful figure making his jaw tighten. Your body trembled under his intense scrutiny, and the way you shuddered only seemed to spur him on.

“You’ll take all of me,” he promised darkly, his lips pulling into a feral smirk before he positioned himself at your entrance. Slowly, he began to press in, the stretch almost overwhelming as he filled you inch by inch. The thickness of him made your breath hitch, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your body struggled to accommodate him.

When he was fully seated inside you, he let out a guttural groan, his head falling forward as if savoring the way your body gripped him so tightly. “Perfect,” he muttered, his voice laced with awe and lust. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

He started to move, his thrusts deliberate and forceful, his pace building with every stroke. The wet, sinful sounds of your body meeting his filled the den, mingling with the guttural sounds he made as he lost himself in the rhythm. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, his rough movements perfectly hitting every sensitive spot.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice thick with pride as he watched your body arch beneath him, your moans spilling out freely. “Taking me so well—every inch of me.”

His hands gripped your hips tightly, claws digging in just enough to leave marks as he pulled you into each thrust. His pace quickened, his breathing harsh and uneven, a symphony of raw need that filled the space around you.

Your moans turned into cries of ecstasy as he pounded into you harder, the force of it making your head spin. The pressure building inside you was unbearable, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. He growled your name, the sound reverberating through the air as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice breaking slightly as he thrust even harder, his control finally snapping. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure and submission. “I’m yours.”

The words seemed to ignite something in him, his movements becoming even more relentless. His growls deepened, and the way he pounded into you left you utterly breathless. Every nerve in your body was aflame, and as you reached your peak, the intensity of it shattered you completely, your cries echoing through the den.

Moments later, he followed, his movements faltering as he let out a deep, primal groan. You felt him shudder above you, his body rigid as he spilled into you, marking you in a way that felt both physical and otherworldly.

For a moment, the only sounds were the two of you catching your breath, the heat of his body still pressed against yours. He leaned down, brushing a surprisingly tender kiss against your forehead, a stark contrast to the ferocity he’d shown moments before.

“You’re mine,” he repeated softly, almost as if reassuring himself.

And as you lay there in his arms, thoroughly claimed and utterly sated, you knew he was right. You were his. And you didn’t want it any other way.

Saw no one making shit about him so here I am your savior. Damn y'all.

💫

Masterlist

[shaiyasstuff]

wilted promises | sylus | finale

synopsis : In a meadow of endless datura, you follow a silver-haired boy who feels both familiar and distant. Here, time is soft, pain is distant, and the world outside is nothing but a memory. And so, you wait, lingering in a place that is both sanctuary and surrender. content : non-canon!, marriage!AU, Sylus is mean, ANGST with little comfort(?), reader goes insane, set in somewhat victorian era, painter!reader, childhood lovers - “Healing takes courage, and we all have courage, even if we have to dig a little to find it.” – Tori Amos

parts : one | two | finale

“You don’t have to leave yet,” he says gently. “But when you’re ready, you’ll know.”

The air is thick with silence, broken only by the soft sound of your footsteps.

You feel a soft pressure gripping your hands as your eyes searched the source, but only to be met with darkness around you.

It felt like you were being lead somewhere, by an invisible hand.

You could hear light footsteps, the faint swish of your movement being the only other sound, while the world around you hums with quiet energy.

Your breath is shallow, your heartbeat loud in your ears, punctuated by the faint thrum of something unseen.

The hand tightens around yours, the presence steady, guiding you forward.

“You’ve been lost a long time,” you hear a whisper, the voice barely cutting through the stillness.

You blink, and suddenly, the world around you shifts—the shadows deepen, vibrating with a low, electric hum.

A soft shhkkk crackles in the air, making your skin prickle. The sound of distant voices, like a lullaby, fills the void—hushhhh—then silence again.

The presence leads you forward, the quiet pressing closer, broken only by the soft thud of your footsteps.

Another crack, louder this time, makes you flinch. Your grip tightens but the voice remains calm.

“This way.”

You follow, heart pounding, feeling the growing pull of something.

Then, a sound—a drip… drip… drip—of water, subtle at first but growing louder. It feels as though the world itself is shifting, guiding you toward something unknown.

“You’re closer now,” the voice says softly.

And with every step, the pull grows stronger, leading you to whatever lies ahead.

It was like opening your eyes after a sleep.

Blinking a few times as your vision clears to the scene before you.

A vast meadow of datura flowers stretches out before you like a dream, their fragrance thick and intoxicating, their delicate petals swaying in rhythm with the wind.

A boy with platinum silver hair walks ahead of you, a figure so familiar yet so otherworldly. His hair glows in the dim light, an ethereal halo against the setting sun, while his ruby eyes watch you with a calm intensity that speaks of both comfort and an inexplicable sorrow.

You follow him, unable to resist the pull of his presence, the way he seems to draw peace from the meadow itself.

With every step, your heart lightens, the crushing weight of your thoughts and fears slowly lifting, as if the world around you is gently holding you, soothing your wounds.

“This… this is peace.”

Your chest ached at the rare beauty of it.

A moment untouched by the pain of the world.

The boy turns to you then, his smile soft but distant, a flicker of sadness hidden beneath the warmth in his gaze. His ruby eyes, so full of innocence, glisten with something you can’t quite name.

A deep longing, or…. a kind of farewell?

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he whispers, his voice like the wind—gentle, yet carrying something deeper, something that calls to the very core of you.

The meadow is breathtaking, the flowers gleaming as though touched by magic, their sweetness filling the air—intoxicating and dangerous all at once.

And yet, you can’t look away. The pain of the past seems to vanish with each step, the weight in your chest easing with every breath of the flower-scented air. For once, you feel lighter.

For once, you are free.

But as you take another step, something tugs at you.

A faint flicker at the back of your mind, like the shadow of a forgotten memory or a lingering doubt.

You look at the boy, his figure glowing in the dusky light, and something about his eyes—so deep, so knowing—makes your heart twist.

What is it?

“Why does he look at me like that?”

The flowers whisper their secrets, the soft rustling of their leaves a lullaby.

You don’t question it. Not now.

You’re too tired to question.

Too tired of the storm, the pain, the grief.

The meadow feels like a dream, one you’re too afraid to wake from.

And so you let yourself sink into the warmth, into the boy’s comforting presence, allowing yourself to simply be for the first time in so long.

But in the deepest recesses of your soul, you know—something isn’t right.

Something is waiting, lurking.

And though the meadow is beautiful, it is also a trap.

Yet in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to care.

Ah, this is what peace feels like.

Days blur together as you remain in the meadow with the boy, the world outside this dreamlike space becoming a distant memory.

The sun seems to always hover on the edge of twilight, casting a soft golden glow over everything.

The boy with platinum silver hair, his ruby eyes unwavering, is always there, leading you deeper into this serene, strange world.

You find yourself laughing again—a sound you haven’t heard in so long.

With every passing day, the weight on your chest grows lighter, the haunting memories of your past receding like echoes of a far-off storm.

The boy is a constant source of comfort, his presence as warm and steady as the meadow itself. He teaches you things you had forgotten—how to smile, how to be present, how to simply exist.

Together, you walk for hours among the swaying daturas, the air thick with their intoxicating scent.

He points out the little details of the world around you—the way the flowers bend toward the sunlight, how the wind dances through the grass—and each time you notice something new, something beautiful, your heart swells with an unfamiliar sense of peace.

But the boy never speaks of himself.

He is always just… there, a silent figure at your side, offering no more than what you need in that moment.

Sometimes, you ask him questions, but his answers are vague, drifting like the breeze.

“Who are you?” you ask one day, curiosity getting the better of you as you sit beneath the shade of an ancient tree.

He smiles, that soft, distant smile filled with secrets. “I am who you need me to be,” he replies cryptically, his ruby eyes glinting in the fading light.

You don’t press further. Somehow, the answer feels like enough.

Yet, as much as you let yourself be consumed by this idyllic world, a small part of you still feels something is off. There is an unsettling edge to the beauty around you, something you can’t quite place.

The more time you spend in the meadow, the more it seems to pulse with a strange energy—an energy you don’t understand but are drawn to all the same.

Still, every time the thought creeps into your mind, you look at the boy, and all doubts slip away, drowned by the warmth of his presence.

Days turn into weeks, and the line between dream and reality grows hazy. The boy remains a constant, a companion in this strange world where time has no meaning.

But beneath the surface, the same question gnaws at you.

“Why am I here?”

And each time you try to answer, the question fades like mist in the morning light.

The boy, with his platinum silver hair and ruby eyes, has become your constant in this world of daturas.

He is no longer just a companion but something more—an anchor, a guide, someone who knows the hidden corners of this dreamlike place, yet never speaks of himself. His silence is comforting.

But today, something feels different.

As you walk through the vast meadow, the breeze soft against your skin, he speaks, his voice gentle and steady, like the rhythm of the wind.

“This place… it’s a world of your creation,” he says, his eyes glimmering as he looks across the sea of flowers.

“A reflection of your heart, your soul. It’s a sanctuary, one you’ve made for yourself, away from the pain that’s followed you. Here, everything is as it should be.”

You stop in your tracks, staring at him.

“A sanctuary…?”

The word feels foreign in your mouth, as if you have not truly understood its meaning until now.

He nods, his gaze unwavering.

“Yes. But it’s not the only world. You can leave this place whenever you choose. It exists for you—to heal, to rest—but it is not the only truth.”

Your heart clenches as his words sink in.

You look around at the datura flowers, the vibrant colors that have come to feel like home, the air thick with their sweet scent.

“Could I leave this?”

You felt safe here.

The pain, the memories that haunted you, the despair that nearly broke you—none of it exists in this world.

It is just you and the boy, walking through the endless fields, basking in peace.

Yet now, a nagging doubt rises within you.

“What if I leave, and this peace is lost?”

The boy seems to read your thoughts.

“It won’t disappear. This world is within you, and you can carry it with you wherever you go. But you must decide if you want to return to the world outside.”

The quiet that follows is heavy, laden with a decision you’re not sure you’re ready to make.

The idea of leaving the meadow, leaving him, is almost impossible to grasp.

But there is another part of you—a part that has spent too long in the dark, too long in silence, waiting for something to change—that urges you to step forward, to return, to face whatever comes next.

“Why don’t you want me to stay here forever?” you ask softly, the question hanging in the air like the wind itself.

His ruby eyes soften, though his expression remains unreadable.

“Because you are not meant to hide away. You are meant to live, to feel, to grow. This place is safe, but it is not the only way for you to find peace. You must face the world outside, with all its pain and beauty. It’s where you truly belong.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest. “But I’ve been through so much. How can I go back?”

The boy smiles faintly, his eyes full of understanding.

“You don’t have to face it alone. And you don’t have to carry it all by yourself. The world may be difficult, but it’s also full of possibilities. You are strong enough to return. And you will find the courage when you’re ready.”

Your fingers tremble as you look down at the soft petals of the datura flowers at your feet.

“Don’t be afraid to choose,” the boy murmurs, his voice the softest of whispers. “It’s your decision, and I’ll be here—always—if you ever need to find your way back.”

For a long moment, you stay silent, the weight of the decision pressing against your chest.

The peaceful world you have found here, the escape from everything that once felt too heavy to carry.

Is it enough?

Or is it just another way to avoid facing the life you left behind?

Finally, you meet the boy’s gaze, his eyes full of patience and understanding.

For the first time, you feel like you are standing on the edge of something new.

You don’t have all the answers, but for the first time in a long time, you feel like you have a choice.

“I’m not ready yet,” you say, your voice quiet but firm.

He nods, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.

“You don’t have to be. Take your time. But know that when you’re ready, you’ll be able to go, and you’ll carry this place with you. You’ll carry the strength you’ve found here.”

You nod, the realization sinking in slowly but surely.

“I know I don’t have to carry this pain forever. I will return when I am ready, when I feel strong enough to face the world outside.”

And with that, you sit down beside him, the weight of your decision still heavy but strangely comforting.

In this moment, you don’t need to make a choice. Not yet.

For now, you will simply sit in the meadow, among the flowers, with the boy at your side.

And when the time comes—when you find your strength—you will know it.

Until then, you will be here, healing, piece by piece, until you are ready for the world that awaits you.

—•

Two years.

Two long, aching years of silence and shadow.

The low hum of machines fills the room, their rhythmic beeping a quiet metronome to time that has long since lost its meaning.

The air is still, heavy with the scent of antiseptic and something softer—something fading.

Outside, the world moves forward, uncaring, relentless.

But in here, everything is frozen. Unchanged.

Sylus stands in the doorway, his breath shallow, his hands trembling at his sides.

You are still here. Yet, you are not.

The pale sheets drape over you like a shroud, the hollows of your face softened by the dim glow of the machines that keep you tethered to this world.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe on your own.

But you are here.

And so he stays.

He steps forward, slow and hesitant, as though he is intruding upon something sacred.

His fingers graze the edge of the hospital bed before coming to rest over yours, cold and still beneath his touch.

You don’t flinch. You don’t react.

But he pretends you can feel it. He pretends you know.

“I came to see you,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

It feels like a confession.

Two years.

He’s spent them clawing his way back from the ruins of who he used to be, drowning in silence, in regret, in the wreckage of everything he failed to hold onto.

The house is emptier now.

The things you left behind gather dust.

The flowers you once loved bloom and wither without you there to see them.

And Sylus? He exists.

He moves through the motions of life like a ghost, like a man trying to stitch himself together with hands that still remember how to destroy.

His fingers tighten around yours, his grip gentle, reverent.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” he says. “But I hope you can feel it. That I’m trying.”

His breath shudders as he exhales, his gaze tracing the curve of your cheek, the faint rise and fall of your chest, the way the light casts shadows across the contours of your face.

You look untouched by time, like a figure trapped in glass—preserved, unreachable.

“I think about the boy I used to be,” he says, the words fragile, breaking apart in his throat. “The one who promised to protect you. The one who promised to make you happy.”

A bitter smile flickers at his lips, fleeting, gone before it can settle.

“I lost him for a while. But I think… I think I’m trying to find him again.”

He looks down at your hand in his, at the way his thumb moves in slow, absent-minded circles over your skin.

He wonders if you would have stopped him back then.

If you would have taken his hand in yours, held it firm, and told him that he was still someone worth saving.

“I planted the daturas,” he whispers, as if saying it aloud makes it real.

“Not to replace what I destroyed. Not to forget. But to remember.”

The words hang in the air, fragile, delicate things.

“To remember what it was like to believe in something,” he continues, voice barely steady.

“To remember you. To remember that there’s still something left in me worth saving.”

Silence stretches between you, vast and unbearable.

His throat tightens, but there are no tears left.

He has spent too many nights unraveling beneath the weight of them.

Now, all that’s left is this—this waiting, this aching, this unspoken grief that coils in his chest like something permanent, something unshakable.

He lets out a slow breath, pressing your hand against his lips, the touch barely there.

A prayer, a plea, a quiet, unspoken I miss you.

“I’ll be here when you wake,” he promises, the words trembling.

A long pause. A breath held. A silence that does not break.

“…And if you don’t…” He stops. His fingers curl over yours, his grip faltering, failing. His jaw tightens. His eyes squeeze shut.

“No,” he lets out a shaky breath. “You will.”

Because if you don’t, he is not sure what will be left of him.

He stays for a while after that, watching, waiting, listening to the hum of the machines and the sound of his own quiet grief filling the spaces where your voice used to be.

The world outside moves forward, the sun sets and rises again, but in here, nothing changes.

Time does not move.

And so he waits.

Because he learned that healing is not grand, not loud. It is small, it is quiet.

It is the act of planting something and waiting for it to bloom.

It is the patience of love that endures, even in the silence.

It is the hope that one day, the light will find you again.

—•

The air is thick with the scent of datura, sweet and intoxicating, clinging to your skin like a lullaby you can’t quite shake.

The meadow stretches endlessly before you, bathed in the soft light of an eternal twilight. It has become your world, your sanctuary, a place untouched by time and grief.

But something feels different now.

The boy with silver hair stands beside you, his presence steady, unwavering.

His ruby eyes, always so calm, hold something new tonight—something heavy, something quiet.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he asks softly, though he already knows the answer.

You do.

The meadow hums beneath your feet, restless.

The flowers sway in a rhythm that feels less like a breeze and more like a whisper, as if the world itself is waiting.

As if it knows.

The peace that once held you here is thinning, unraveling at the edges like a dream that can no longer sustain itself.

“I don’t want to go,” you say, the words barely more than a breath.

The boy doesn’t reply right away.

Instead, he watches you, as he always does, with patience, with understanding.

He doesn’t force you, doesn’t push. He only waits.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he says eventually.

But you are.

You are afraid of what waits for you beyond this place, beyond the quiet, beyond the safety of a dream that has cradled you for so long.

You are afraid of waking up and finding nothing but emptiness.

You look at him then, really look at him, and something inside you twists.

“You remind me of him,” you whisper.

The boy tilts his head slightly, his silver hair catching the dying light. “I know.”

There is no surprise in his voice, no hesitation.

It is a simple truth, one he has known all along.

Your throat tightens. “Are you—”

“No,” he interrupts, gently but firmly. “I’m not him.”

He says it like a reassurance, like a promise.

But it doesn’t stop the ache in your chest.

Because you wanted to believe, just for a little while, that maybe you never lost him at all.

That maybe, somewhere between dreams and waking, he came back for you.

But you know better.

You lower your gaze, your fingers curling around the petals of a datura flower.

They are soft, fragile. Just like this moment.

Just like you.

“I still love him,” you admit, voice trembling. “Even after everything.”

The boy says nothing. He doesn’t need to.

The silence stretches between you, and you don’t know whether it is comforting or suffocating.

“But I don’t think I can forgive him.”

The confession tastes like sorrow.

Like something breaking apart inside you.

And still, the boy does not tell you what to do.

Because its always been your choice.

The meadow stirs around you, the flowers swaying in waves, as if urging you forward.

The world is waiting.

“It’s time,” the boy says at last.

You hesitate. “What if I can’t do it?”

His ruby eyes soften, and for a fleeting moment, you swear there is something in them that you recognize—something warm, something aching.

“You can,” he murmurs.

“And when it hurts, when it feels too heavy, you’ll remember this place. You’ll remember that peace is something you can carry with you.”

Your breath shudders as you close your eyes.

You are afraid.

But you do not want to stay here forever.

Not anymore.

The boy steps closer, reaching out. His fingers brush against yours, light as a whisper, a farewell.

The meadow dissolves.

The flowers fade.

And the dream slips away.

.

.

The first thing you feel is weight.

A heaviness pressing against your body, your chest, your limbs. The air is sterile, cool, unfamiliar.

There is no scent of datura, no soft wind to carry you back into the safety of dreams.

The second thing you feel is warmth.

Something solid. Something human.

A hand, wrapped around yours.

You inhale sharply, your throat raw, your body sluggish as if it has been asleep for too long. And then, slowly, your eyes open.

The world is blurred at first—shadows and light bleeding into one another.

The rhythmic beep of a monitor hums in the background, steady, unwavering.

And then, him.

Sylus.

He is here.

His head is bowed, his forehead resting against your hand. His fingers tremble where they clutch yours, as if afraid to hold on too tightly, as if afraid you might slip away again.

You watch him, the rise and fall of his breath uneven, the weight of two years of grief carved into the angles of his face.

He looks older, wearier.

But the moment you shift, the moment your fingers move—just barely—his eyes snap open.

Shock. Disbelief. A breath stolen from his lungs.

“You’re here,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked, unsteady, as if he doesn’t believe it.

You swallow, your throat dry, your voice fragile as you whisper,

“I’m here.”

A sharp exhale. A quiet, broken laugh that sounds more like a sob.

And then Sylus, who has always been composed, who has always hidden behind silence and regret, falls apart.

His head drops against the edge of the bed, his hand gripping yours like it is the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

His shoulders shake, and you feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the tremor of something raw, something desperate.

You are too weak to lift your hand, too weak to do anything but watch as he crumbles beneath the weight of everything he has held for too long.

But you don’t need to move.

Because for the first time in two years, you are here.

You woke up.

And he who had once let you slip through his fingers, who once let love decay into silence, he does not let go.

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep again until the first traces of morning creep through the window, soft and golden.

The world feels heavier now, pressing down on you in a way that the dream never did.

The air is thick with something unspoken, something fragile.

Your body feels foreign, stiff, as if time has reshaped you into something unfamiliar.

You are not in the meadow anymore.

There is no endless stretch of flowers, no eternal twilight, no silver-haired boy waiting for you at the edge of a dream.

Only this.

The weight of a body too long at rest.

The dull ache in your chest.

The faint, mechanical beeping of a world that has continued without you.

And him.

Sylus.

He hasn’t moved from his place at your bedside, his posture slumped forward, his head resting against the mattress as if the act of keeping watch has drained him of everything.

His fingers are still curled around yours.

As if letting go would mean losing you all over again.

You take a slow, shuddering breath, testing the limits of your body, the fragile strength that remains.

The smallest movement feels monumental, but your hand shifts just enough, just barely, tightening ever so slightly around his own.

His breath catches.

And then, slowly, he stirs.

When he lifts his head, his eyes find yours, and in them, you see everything.

Relief.

Grief.

Something raw and aching, something that has been buried for far too long.

He swallows hard. “You’re really here.”

His voice is rough, wrecked.

As if he has spent too long speaking to ghosts and is now remembering what it means to be heard.

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I—”

He is already moving, reaching for a glass of water on the bedside table, his hands trembling just slightly as he lifts it to your lips.

The water is cold, foreign, but real.

The sensation of it against your tongue, against your throat—it is grounding in a way the dream never was.

You swallow, slow, deliberate. When you finally find your voice again, it is hoarse, fragile.

“How long?”

The words barely escape, but he understands.

A long pause. His fingers tighten around the glass, knuckles white. When he finally answers, his voice is quiet.

“Two years.”

The air leaves your lungs.

Two years.

It doesn’t feel real.

It doesn’t feel possible.

The meadow was endless. Timeless.

It had stretched before you like something eternal, something that could not be measured by the ticking of clocks.

And yet, the world outside had moved without you.

The weight of it settles in your chest, heavy, suffocating.

Sylus watches you carefully, as if he is afraid you might disappear again.

His hand is still on yours, grounding, steady.

There is too much to say.

Too much that cannot be said.

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself against the storm brewing inside you.

Two years.

How much has changed?

How much has been lost?

How much of you still remain?

When you open your eyes again, he is still there.

Waiting. Watching.

“Why?” you whisper.

It is not a complete question.

It is not meant to be.

But he understands anyway.

His gaze drops to your intertwined hands, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin.

There is something fragile in his expression, something quiet and worn.

“Because I couldn’t leave you,” he says.

The words are simple, but heavy.

They settle in your chest like something permanent, something that will not be easily shaken.

He does not say I’m sorry.

He does not say I should have done better.

He does not say I wish I could take it all back.

But you hear it anyway.

In the way he holds your hand.

In the way his voice wavers.

In the way he looks at you, as if he is not sure if he has been forgiven, or if he ever will be.

You don’t know if you have the answer for him.

Not yet.

But you do not pull away.

And for now, that is enough.

The first few days are a blur of movement and silence.

Doctors come and go, voices hushed, hands careful as they take your pulse, check the machines, speak in low tones about recovery, about therapy, about how miraculous it is that you are awake.

They speak around you, as if you are something delicate, something breakable.

You do not tell them that you have already been broken.

You do not tell them that you have already spent an eternity learning how to piece yourself back together.

Sylus is always there.

Sometimes he speaks. Sometimes he doesn’t.

But he is there.

It should be strange, having him so close after so long.

After everything.

But at the same time, it isn’t.

Because even in the dream, in the meadow of flowers and forgotten time, he had never truly left you.

Even then, his presence had lingered in the boy’s eyes, in the quiet spaces between words, in the way the world itself seemed to hum with something familiar.

You do not know what it means yet.

You do not know how to face him, how to reconcile the past with the present, how to navigate the weight of everything left unsaid.

But you are awake.

And the world has not forgotten you.

That is enough for now.

—•

You can’t sleep.

The hospital room is too quiet, too cold.

The scent of antiseptic lingers in the air, sharp and clinical, nothing like the dream you left behind.

You turn your head slightly, your gaze drifting toward the chair beside your bed.

Sylus is there, just as he has been every day since you woke.

His body is slumped forward, his arms folded, his breathing slow and deep.

He is asleep.

And for the first time, you see him without the weight of his gaze, without the careful control he holds around himself like armor.

He looked exhausted.

Even in sleep, there is tension in his shoulders, a heaviness in the lines of his face.

How many nights has he spent like this?

How many times has he sat in this chair, waiting for something that felt impossible?

You watch him for a long time, your fingers curling weakly into the sheets.

You are still angry.

You are still hurting.

But as you listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, as you watch the way his fingers twitch slightly in sleep.

You know that whatever happens next, whatever road awaits you.

You will not be walking it alone.

writer’s note :

And that concludes the final chapter for wilted promises! I think this is a good note to leave the story as is, you are awake, and you’ll have to face everything that’s happened now. His family, his reputation, how the world views you but at least you know, he’s beside you now.

I spent quite some time thinking how I wanted this to end, but then I thought, if I stretched it out for too long, then the story would lose its melancholic feel right? XD

But my haaaarrtt!! I kind of also want to add an epilogue to this where it shows the healing process because that would be an interesting write.

Send me asks to know what you guys think!

masterlist

[littlelovelunette]

Anal hcs for sevika and ambessa pls🤲🥺

Headcanons (Featuring Sevika & Ambessa Medarda)

When she goes anal on you

Contains anal, smut, buttplug

Sevika

the idea comes to her naturally and she expects the same from you really since you claim you can match her freak

so gentle with you at the start, prepares you by fingering your ass with two fingers

asks you to relax every now and then because she doesn't wanna make it feel way too painful

“are you sure you can take it?” sevika asks with a brow raised and arms crossed when you first brought up the matter

“it's supposed to sting a little at the start.” sevika says when she finally sinks her strap inside your asshole causing you to let out a loud whimper, and a series of complaints.

“i guess we could go slower.”

uses a damn lot of lube so you're not too uncomfortable, “if you're not ready for this,” she backs the strap away, “maybe we could do with fingering for now?”

doesn't continue if you cry from the pain because she simply can't handle seeing her little angel cry

“shh, it's okay, we can continue later if that's what you want.” sevika doesn't shame you for being unable to take it up the ass

however if you do... there is no restraining this woman anymore

Ambessa Medarda

her prep game is amazing, she uses all sorts of lubricants and oils that she can get her hands on

massages them onto your ass and dipping digits in your ass crack just to rub more of the substance on your hole, “just lay back and relax.”

encouraging you to take more every now and then, showering you with praises and kisses

no nonsense when it comes to love making and absolutely unashamed when you say you like it in the ass

“sweet child.” she praises as she sinks her fingers in your ass making you groan in pain, “its so weird...” you whined causing her to chuckle

chances are likely you'll love the feeling of anal with ambessa since she takes it so slow and she has plenty experience being soft and gentle with these things (she's slept with twinks)

ambessa buys you a golden plug to keep in your cute little asshole while she can't touch you there. the base of it has a red ruby gemstone

“mommy's gonna be gone for a little bit, yeah? keep it inside.”

[toweringclam]

So I think I figured out what Fifteen's problem is. Not as a flaw in the writing, mind. A flaw in the character.

Every New Who Doctor has been a reaction to the trauma of the Time War.

Nine raged

Ten ran

Eleven repressed

Twelve wallowed

Thirteen regressed

Fourteen finally admitted he had a problem and sought help.

And Fifteen, I'm certain now, relapses.

Fifteen started out doing great. All his trauma processed. Ready to face the world. And maybe at first it worked (though sadly we didn't get to see his many offscreen adventures with Ruby). But like... you don't stay better. You have to work at it. And he's very much not doing that.

There's a brittleness to his good cheer. Be it the gods of chaos, the loss of a lover, or his first real confrontation with racism, he doesn't deal with adversity very well. He breaks down, he hides, he acts like everything's fine. It's not fine though. He's not okay. He might've dealt with his problems, but he didn't equip himself with the tools needed to deal with new problems.

He's gonna crack eventually. We can already see it happening.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Crawling back to you

synopsis-> His new concubine start to slowly become an obsession for him

The dimly lit chamber is thick with the heady aroma of sandalwood and smoldering embers casting their flickering amber glows across ornately gilded walls.

You kneel demurely before the towering entity that is the indominable King of Curses with a tray of succulent fruits balanced precariously in your lap.

Despite the dozens of lithe, scantily-clad courtesans draped across plush cushions surrounding Sukuna's imposing throne, not a single one possesses the capability to enrapture his full, unadulterated interest like you.

He attempts schooling his expression into one of practiced aloofness yet finds his scrutiny involuntarily drinking you in from the corner of his periphery.

The modest way loose tendrils of obsidian tresses fall around your delicately sculpted features...How those full lips part just enough to reveal a glimpse of glistening teeth worrying your lower pout while plucking a ripe persimmon free...

Even the flutter of those thick, sooty lashes framing those eyes as you peek up through them with an achingly sweet naivete.

Something viscerally primal stirs low in Sukuna's abdomen each instance your gazes accidentally lock - simultaneously thrilling yet inexplicably vexing him to the core.

He shouldn't find any fascination or particular novelty in your obvious purity and fragility, should he? After all, you pose no formidable threat to one who has mercilessly throttled nations with nary a conscious thought.

Yet he cannot prevent those four obsidian-tipped limbs from imperceptibly tightening with the overwhelming compulsion to simply...take you right there.

To lash out and possess every scant inch until the searing brand of his essence remains molten and permanently etched into your very marrow.

Maybe then you'd no longer exude such blinding radiance capable of rooting him in place like some pathetic, feeble-willed human wretch.

Every sinew instinctively coils rigid when your delicate fingertips drift upwards to present that glistening persimmon temptingly close.

Except your feather-light caress doesn't retreat once his lips part to accept your offering.

Instead, the pad of your thumb ghosts across his bottom lip with a tenderness and reverence he finds utterly transfixing.

And just like that, the last thread of rigid control over his carnal urges combusts instantaneously.

Sukuna's vision fractures into a million shards of ruby as your hopelessly innocent proximity suddenly consumes his restraint whole.

"Get out..." The abdominal maw snarls in a guttural rasp now utterly stripped of his usual controlled veneer.

Every talon-like fingernail hollows razor-deep grooves into the armrests flanking his throne when you instinctively flinch back with those dewy irises rounded in terror.

"Now."

The massive chamber remains utterly frozen until you scramble backwards on hands and knees finally fleeing his presence.

Only then does Sukuna finally permit himself to surrender - lifting a single beckoning digit to numbly brush across the very spot your captive touch seared straight through his exterior not a moment prior.

What sacrilegious witchcraft have you entangled him within?

This unfathomable compulsion to simultaneously profane and protect?

He's the almighty King of Curses - feared and reviled across every realm. Yet a solitary brush of your chaste fingertips against his mouth threatens to dismantle every staunch defense he's meticulously crafted over centuries of brutality and indiscriminate annihilation...

Head bowing forward until his pallid death mask cracks in a bitter sneer, Sukuna releases a blustering huff of mirthless derision directed solely at his own lamentable weakness.

Loathing how you've wormed your way beneath his armor so effortlessly with scarcely any intent whatsoever.

He vows to purge this infuriatingly inexplicable yearning to possess your radiance before it blossoms into something...darker. Something treacherous...

For both your sakes...

[slut4sugu]

aged!up characters — mdni! (containing: soft smut, sweet kiri, implied reader's first time."

a/n: lowkey half on break and half not, just been thinking about this with kiri for a min lol

"you okay baby?" Kiri asked from above you, his voice wavering slightly as he bottomed out inside of you. His big calloused hands gripping your waist as if he were holding back. Your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to relax and get used to the stretch of his ridiculously big dick.

You had always fantasized about your first time being with him, but you didnt fantasize about getting split into two on his dick. Biting down on your lip you nodded, "Mhm, m'fine just wait a minute." Letting out a breath, you opened your eyes to see Ejirou now leaning closer over your half naked form splayed out so pretty on his mattress.

You’d have blushed on instinct—cheeks hot and eyes darting away—if he wasn’t already buried so deeply inside you, body pressed to yours like he was made to fit. But even now, even with your nerves frayed and fizzled in the best possible way, you couldn’t help but drink him in.

Ejirou's skin was lightly tanned from his hero work, Faint scars and calloused lines kissed his chest and abs. A soft sheen of sweat highlighting the sculpt of muscle that flexed subtly with each breath. His fiery red hair, down tonight and tousled from your fingers, framed his face like a halo.

You still didn't know how you managed to attract a himbo like ejirou kirishima.

Catching the way your gaze lingered, he flushed. A pretty pink tint decorating his skin as a soft chuckle rumbled from his chest, low and affectionate. “You’re lookin’ at me like I hung the stars, baby,” he murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckles. His voice was warm—teasing, but slightly shaky, like your admiration knocked the wind out of him.

You smiled up at him, your fingers trailing gently over one of the pale scars on his side. “You kinda did,” you whispered, voice breathless but sure. His ruby eyes softened, almost impossibly so, as if your words carved a permanent mark into his heart. Closing the distance between you two further, he pressed his forehead gently to yours—close enough for your breaths to mingle.

"I love you so much." He breathed out, one of his hands coming up to cup your cheek softly. Your heart fluttering in your chest at his tenderness, the smile on your lips growing as you nuzzled your face into his palm. Pressing a kiss to the inside of it as you giggled, "I love you too Eji." Your eyes flickered up to his, playful mischief swirling in your sparkling brown eyes.

Ejirou huffed a soft chuckle through his nose, leaning down to kiss your temple, then your nose, then finally brushing his lips against yours. “You sure you’re not hurtin anywhere pretty?” he murmured again, voice rumbling low against your mouth, his body still perfectly still inside you, letting you take your time.

You nodded, pressing your forehead to his. “Yeah 'promise. I'm uhm okay Eji, you can move now if you're ready." You mumbled shyly, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck. Letting out an airy chuckle Eji kissed your cheek sweetly, his voice laced with honey, "Your so cute babe, I'll be gentle, I promise."

His forehead rested against yours, as he rolled his hips into yours. Kiri's breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between your moans and gasps. You could feel him trembling just slightly, as he breathed. "you feel s'good baby fuck! mm so happy you let me do this for you."

"wasn't just for me eji ah,—wanted mmfh, wanted to make you happy too." you whimpered, threading your fingers through his thick red hair, tugging him even closer as he buried his face into your neck. The sudden twitch of his cock against your velvety walls made you giggle.

His laugh joined yours, muffled against your neck as he pressed a kiss just below your ear. “Shit, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice cracking slightly with affection and pleasure. “You’re gonna kill me if you keep talkin’ like that.”

Your giggle turned breathy as his hips rocked a little deeper, hitting that sweet little gummy spot that made your toes curl. Ejirou kissed his way down your neck as you moaned out his name. Clawing at his back as you whined. His hands never straying too far, as one cupped your cheek and the other rubbing lazy circles along your waist, grounding you through the building intensity.

"You always make' me feel like I'm fuckin dreamin’,” he murmured into your skin, teasingly nibbling the spot that made you shiver. “So perfect. So damn perfect for me.” You whimpered at the sweet praise, your hips bucking up instinctively to meet the slow grind of his.

You felt him smile against your throat, pressing a lingering kiss there before pulling back just enough to look into your glossy eyes—his own shining with something deeper than lust. “Love you, y’know that?” he whispered, brushing your hair gently away from your damp forehead. “More than anything.”

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms and whispered warmth, you felt it too—safe, adored, and entirely his.

[hopeyoufindalovelikethis]

Hello! After gathering my courage, I’m excited to share my first piece of writing here. I prefer a love that's warm and homey, not rushed — something slow and real. I hope you enjoy it and that it resonates with you.

Synopsis | Your first time — where Sylus tries so hard to be gentle, even when every part of him is burning with need, because he refuses to scare or hurt you.

The world outside didn’t matter. There was only Sylus — and the way he looked at you, like you were something fragile and precious he had no idea how to hold without breaking.

He hovered above you on the bed, his tall, broad frame almost eclipsing you completely. His white hair, usually so perfectly in place, was a tousled halo around his fierce, too-bright eyes. His tailored suit had been tossed aside, shirt half-unbuttoned, clinging to him like a second skin.

He could crush you without meaning to. And maybe that's why he moved like every breath was a war he fought against himself. You reached up — hand trembling — and brushed your fingers against his cheek.

He flinched. Not away from you — never from you — but from the tenderness he found in your touch. As if he didn’t believe he deserved it.

“Sylus...,” your voice came out small, breaking, but it made his whole body shudder.

He leaned down, so slowly, giving you a lifetime to pull away. You didn’t. You never would. His lips met yours, feather-light, trembling with restraint.

His hand — massive compared to yours — cradled the side of your face, thumb stroking a line just under your eye. You were so small beneath him and he was so painfully aware of it. Every move he made was hesitant, asking permission without words, terrified of hurting you even by accident. You felt the strength coiled under his skin, barely held back. The shivering in his shoulders. The quiet, desperate way he breathed you in.

The kiss deepened when you rose up slightly, pressing closer to him. That small, instinctive motion cracked something inside Sylus.

He let out a low, guttural noise, something helpless and broken, and gathered you up against him — hands sliding down your sides, so, so carefully, like he was touching something sacred.

He kissed you harder, but still shaking, trying to anchor himself. You could feel the tension in him — the way he trembled from the effort of holding himself back.

His knee nudged your thighs apart almost without thinking, but the second he realized, he froze, forehead pressing against yours, breathing ragged.

"Tell me to stop,” he rasped.

You opened your eyes — wide, dark brown, shining — and shook your head.

"Please, don't stop, Sylus.”

Sylus swore under his breath, voice low and guttural, and kissed you again, this time deeper, slower, almost reverent. His hands roamed over your body, mapping every curve, every tremble, with aching tenderness.

Every time you gasped, every tiny whimper you couldn't hold back, Sylus paused, shuddering, checking you were okay. His fingers traced the curve of your hip, the small of your back, everywhere but where you needed him most — afraid to rush you, afraid to ruin this moment.

You finally had to reach for him, small hands fumbling at his shirt, pulling him closer, grounding him.

"I'm not glass," you whispered, voice cracking with emotion.

At that, Sylus broke.

He kissed you like he was starving, his body pressing more firmly to yours, surrounding you. He shifted lower, carefully easing you back onto the bed, his weight a heavy, comforting presence. Even then, he bore himself up on his elbows, not daring to let himself rest fully on you, not wanting to overwhelm you.

You felt every second of it — how carefully he aligned himself with you, how his big hands framed your hips, almost reverently, thumbs stroking soft, absent circles against your skin.

Sylus stilled above you, his breath ragged, and for a long moment, neither of you moved. His ruby-red eyes were soft, studying your face with a mixture of concern and reverence, as if trying to read every flicker of emotion there.

He could feel it in the way you tensed, in the delicate tremble of your body beneath him. He needed to be sure. Needed to make sure this was something you wanted. Something you were ready for.

“Are you okay?” His voice was rough when he spoke, barely a whisper.

His fingers gently brushed the side of your face, a question in the touch. His thumb stroked across your cheek, eyes locked onto yours, checking for any flicker of hesitation. His tone both urgent and tender.

“I need to know, if you need me to stop... just say the word.”

His body remained poised, controlled, a silent promise not to move further unless you were ready. It was as if every inch of his being was focused on your comfort, the intensity of his usual self-control now wrapped in a gentle restraint.

You could feel his heart beating beneath you, wild and frantic, but every part of him was waiting — waiting for you. He leaned in, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.

“Do you need more time?” His voice was softer now, his words a reassurance. “I’m not going anywhere, but I need to know you’re okay.”

Sylus’s gaze flickered down to your body, then back up to your face, never once breaking his careful watch. He didn’t want to rush you, didn’t want to overwhelm you. The weight of his desire was tempered by a raw vulnerability that he rarely allowed anyone to see.

“Please, just tell me what you need.” His words were thick with emotion, and it was clear: He’d do anything for you — but only if you were ready.

Sylus’s hands trembled slightly, though his touch was steady as it traced the outline of your jaw, lingering near the curve of your neck. It was almost as if he were memorizing the feel of you — every inch, every soft curve — as though afraid to break the fragile moment.

His gaze was unwavering, locked onto yours, his red eyes filled with something so much more than hunger. There was love there, a tenderness that clashed with the fierce reputation he wore in the outside world.

“Let me know if I’m pushing you too far,” he murmured, his voice a deep growl of raw emotion. “I’ll stop if you need me to. I won’t do anything you’re not ready for.”

The words were both a promise and a plea, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of causing you pain, emotional or physical. Even as the ache in his body grew stronger, he remained still, his body poised in a perfect balance of restraint. He wanted you so badly, but more than that, he needed you to feel safe — to feel wanted for you — not just in the ways he desired.

“I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed. You’ve never done anything wrong. If you need a moment, I’ll give you all the time in the world.”

His thumb brushed across your lips, a soft, reverent gesture. There was no question in his voice, no uncertainty. Only the raw devotion that he had for you — the willingness to move at your pace, to honor your body and your feelings in the way he had promised.

He waited for you, reading your face, looking for the tiniest shift in your expression. His own breaths were coming in shallow gasps, but he held back. He had to be sure. He couldn’t risk moving any further unless he knew you were ready, even if the burning desire inside him made him feel like he might break from the weight of it.

You could see the conflict on his face, the way he fought against his own instincts, his own overwhelming need for you. You could feel the weight of his desire, but it was tempered with something far deeper — respect.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice steady, though laced with longing, “You’re not alone in this. I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You met his gaze, your breath coming faster now, the uncertainty still gnawing at you, but the reassurance in his eyes began to calm your nerves. You knew he was being so careful with you, so patient — and something in his touch, in his gaze, made you feel like you could trust him completely. You were scared, yes. But in his arms, it didn’t feel like fear.

“Are you sure?” you whispered, your voice small, tentative, but full of longing.

You wanted this, wanted him — and yet, there was still a part of you that feared he might change his mind. Sylus smiled softly, the edge of his usual sternness softening as he lowered his forehead to yours.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” His voice was steady now, calm but full of deep emotion. “This is you and me, and nothing else matters.”

He let his lips hover just above yours, his breath mingling with yours, and for a moment, time seemed to slow. The world outside disappeared. There was only him, only the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. You could feel his care wrapping around you like a blanket, pulling you closer to him.

“Are you ready?” he asked gently, his voice barely above a whisper. His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, the tenderness in his tone making your heart flutter. “We go at your pace. Always.”

There, in that moment, you knew — with him, it would never be about rushing, never about expectations or pressure. Sylus would never push you. He was waiting for you to decide, for you to choose, and that small action — giving you the control — made all the difference.

With a soft exhale, you nodded — shy, vulnerable, pulling him closer, feeling the safety and love in his arms. The moment of hesitation melted, replaced with the quiet heat of desire, and Sylus pressed forward so gently, inch by careful inch, it almost broke your heart.

When he finally entered you, it was with a broken, whispered groan, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of holding himself back. You clung to him, burying your face against his neck, holding your voice, breathing him in, feeling the stretch, the pain, the fullness, the heat, the trembling, the love that were brought by him in waves.

He lifted his face and now was inches from yours, his breath warm and shallow against your skin. His lips brushed yours with an almost reverent touch, and the kiss was soft at first, lingering, as though he were savoring the moment. When he deepened it, it was still slow — tender — as if each second was a treasure, each caress a reminder of what they were building together.

You gasped softly, not from pain, but from the overwhelming sensation — the intimacy, the reality of him being inside you, a slow, burning stretch that made your chest ache.

Sylus froze the moment he heard it, panic flashing across his face, his voice cracked, “Am I—?”

He swallowed hard, his hands trembling where they cradled you, still fighting to be impossibly gentle. You shook your head quickly, pulling him down, and your hands caressed his ethereal face.

“No... please, don’t stop,” you whispered, voice breaking with emotion.

He kissed you then — so tenderly you thought you might fall apart — and continued moving, slower than the ticking of time, easing into you with painstaking care. Every shift, every small adjustment was deliberate, carefully timed — he made sure you felt no discomfort, only the slow, steady pressure of him, pushing and pulling with a tenderness, giving you the chance to breathe, to guide him as much as he guided you.

His eyes never left yours, constantly checking for any sign of discomfort, any trace of hesitation. Every shallow breath he took was laced with restraint, as if he couldn’t bear the idea of hurting you, even by accident. And with each glance and breath, his red eyes softened, the intensity of his usual gaze replaced with something gentler, something that only you could inspire.

Suddenly, a dark thought crawled into your mind. Your body — soft, curvier than the women you knew he had always been surrounded by — tensed under him at first, old insecurities bubbling up, unwelcome. You couldn’t help but wonder — if he noticed, if he compared.

But, as if you speaked your insecurities out loud, Sylus shifted slightly, framing your face between his hands, his red eyes burning into yours — not with lust, but something rawer. Deeper.

“You don’t even know, do you...” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with emotion.

You blinked up at him, confused, trembling.

He pulled back his face — his gaze softened unbearably — to whisper, “Only you,” he said, voice cracking, “Only you.”

Tears welled up behind your eyes, but this time they weren’t from fear. They were from relief. From the kind of love that could see every imperfect part of you — and cherish it like it was the rarest thing on earth.

Sylus rocked into you again, still painfully slow — cradling your body like something he couldn’t bear to lose, pausing every few seconds to brush your hair back, to kiss your forehead, to murmur your name like a prayer. His hands, so large and strong, mapped your curves with almost desperate reverence, fingers splaying against your hips, your waist, your back — not to control, not to claim — but to worship.

The deeper you sank into him, the more you realized that this — this slow, loving rhythm — was what you’d needed all along. It wasn’t just about the physical act. It was the quiet, aching connection between two souls finding their way toward each other.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered against your hair. “You’re mine.”

You were overwhelmed — not by the physicality, but by the depth of emotion. The way he worshiped you with every touch. The way he looked at you, like you were his whole world and he was terrified of ruining you. Tears slipped from your eyes — not from pain, but from something far deeper.

Sylus felt them immediately. He pulled back just enough to see you, panic flashing across his face again. But when he saw your smile — trembling, tearful, utterly happy — he made a broken sound, held you tighter, and kissed you fiercely, again and again, like he could taste the emotion between your tears.

As the night wore on, Sylus’s steady movements became more familiar, and with that familiarity came a deeper understanding of one another. You both moved together, a dance of trust and tenderness, of soft gasps and shared warmth. There was no rush, no moment of doubt — only the slow, steady building of something undeniable.

The world outside of the two of you ceased to exist. There was only the space between your hearts, the soft press of your bodies together, the heat of your connection radiating in every touch. Sylus’s movements were deliberate, never hasty, as if he wanted to make sure you felt every inch of his affection, every ounce of his love.

When the two of you finally found stillness, when his body rested against yours, and your limbs tangled together under the warmth of the blankets, there was no need for words. Sylus’s arms wrapped around you protectively, pulling you closer as if to keep you from ever drifting away.

“You’re mine, in every way,” he whispered, his lips against your forehead, as if he needed to remind you that this moment, this love, was real. “And I’ll spend every day making sure you know it.”

His voice was thick with the weight of his emotions, the words wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You didn’t respond immediately, not needing to, because in that moment, you knew. You felt it. The bond between you was unbreakable, forged not just in the intensity of the physical, but in the quiet tenderness that only the two of you shared.

You curled into him, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath you, the soft warmth of his skin against yours a constant reminder that you were loved. Not because of how you looked, or because of any expectation, but because of who you were — the woman he’d chosen, the woman he would never let go.

Sylus held you close, his breath slow and even now. You buried your face against him — listening to his heartbeats, breathing in the smell of his skin, feeling his warmth. As you drifted into a peaceful, contented sleep, wrapped up in the softness of his love, finally you let yourself believe:

You were safe.

You were loved.

You were understood.

[nyao-mi]

NOT MY ASTARION BRAIN ROT CONTINUING CUS LIKE i just got the scene where he literally says he misses seeing his face and that like he wishes he knew what he looked like and i??? WANTED SO BADLY FOR IT TO BE AN OPTION TO DRAW HIM

LIKE IMAGINE STARING AT HIM ACROSS THE BONFIRE, watching the way the light dances across his pale skin. youve been through hard times and one of the things you've learned to get through it was to draw

at first, you loathed the fact that you had to paint rich people for mere couple pieces of gold when you knew your art was worth more than that. you loathed even more that they'd upturn their posh noses at you and scoff when, truly, they knew what a treasure your art was.

now, seeing astarion, the way his white hair seemed to almost form a halo around his head, reflecting the moonbeams that graced his body, watching as he crossed his legs and meditated; you knew that you didn't regret a single second of the trials and tribulations that led you to this point.

you could finally put this agonizing skill to use. you could draw him.

and so you scrounged up some paper, an ink well, a quill; all things you'd pocketed during your adventures with the rather willful vampire.

you sat there, nib of the quill scratching against the parchment.

your art was nothing compared to the paintings you'd done before; these were mere lines and ink blots. you wished you could truly show him how beautiful he was through water color or pastels. instead, trapped in a land you barely knew, all you could do for him was this.

he had his eyes closed, of course, so you drew them from memory. strikingly red, like rubies, like blood. you didn't forget his crow's feet; you loved the way they wrinkled when he laughed. you shaped his lips, soft but rough from years of bite and chew, and formed it into his infamous mischievous grin.

his hair always seemed unruly but, drawing it now, it felt like drawing gorgeous chaos; there was an order to it, the way the bangs fell across his forehead, the way the sides feathered in front of his ears and curled behind them.

when you stopped, you realised you'd drawn him over and over, across several pieces of parchment.

the way he frowned and his fangs would glance across his lips. the way he'd look confused and his eyebrows would furrow. the way he'd look longingly at the stars, mind distant and eyes almost empty, like he'd made so many wishes that were never granted by the cosmos.

you never liked tooting your own horn but you felt like you truly captured him.

so, you took your pieces of paper, all drawings of him, dozens of them, small and sketchy; you took it all and you sat beside him and spread them out in front of you.

it took him a second to realise you were there. he'd been letting his guard down recently, especially when you were on watch duty, and it took you laying your head across his shoulder for his eyes to flutter open.

he opened his mouth, like there had almost been a retort slipping off his tongue, but the sight of your drawings stopped him.

he let out a ragged breath, eyes flickering across all of them. his clawed hands hovered in the air, trembling, as if taking a hold of the drawings would make them crumble under his touch.

and perhaps, in his head, he really believed they would.

'darling,' he'd call you, his voice wet with unshed tears 'what's all of this?'

of course he'd still joke. it was how he coped with things. he joked to hide how he truly felt and, of course, you were always there to understand.

'it's you,' you answered a matter-of-factly, as if you hadn't just turned this vampires world upside down 'its you the way i see you.'

and that's what makes him crack. because maybe, since you were the one that drew all of it, you hadn't noticed. but he noticed.

he noticed all the love and devotion you spilled across the page. every single detail, every single stroke, it was all from love.

and as someone who had never been on the receiving end of it, astarion cracked and he hid his face into your neck and he cried.

they were soft sobs, almost unnoticeable. but he cried nonetheless.

he cried for his past that he'd lost under his sadistic master, he cried for his difficult present that seemed impossible to escape, and he cried for this hopeful future you seemed to lay out in front of him.

he cried because he didn't realise that he had this much hope left inside of him. because he didn't know what else to do in the face of your devotion.

you just sat there, humming and rubbing his back, ignoring the way his arm wrapped around your waist, claws digging into your skin as if you'd disappear in front of him if he didn't hold on to you as tightly as possible.

[joelsrose]

Whispering Pines

hey guysss this is a bit different to what i've written in the past but i hope you enjoy!!! -> warnings: pervy?!joel, age gap, reader and friends are early-mid20's? nonconsented recording? creep behavior lmao

It had been the kind of semester that didn’t just drain you—it hollowed you out. Weeks blurred together in a haze of caffeine-fueled cramming, group assignments that somehow made you question the very concept of teamwork, and those endless nights where burnout settled in your bones like cold rain, seeping through every layer no matter how tightly you wrapped yourself up.

By the time your last lecture finally ended—an anticlimactic slide deck and a half-hearted wave goodbye—the only thing any of you could agree on was that you needed out. Not just a night off. Not a half-hearted brunch with bottomless mimosas. You needed out out. Out of the city. Out of the noise. Out of the flickering, headache-inducing fluorescents of the university library. Out of your own damn minds.

And so, naturally, the search began—phones in hand, curled up across a pile of mismatched throw blankets in your shared apartment, each of you scrolling Airbnb listings like it was a sacred ritual. Tabs opened and closed, locations filtered and unfavorited. Too expensive. Too basic. Too far. Too small. Until finally, like it was waiting for you all along, one listing stopped you dead in your tracks.

It was titled: “Whispering Pines Cabin – Quiet, Secluded, Peaceful.”

The photos were straight out of a fever dream—weathered wooden beams, a wraparound porch framed with fairy lights, the kind of antique furniture that looked like it had stories soaked into the wood. There was a fireplace with a leather armchair beside it, a deep stone bath in the master suite, and a hot tub that overlooked a private clearing surrounded by towering pines. It looked too good to be real.

You clicked to read the description.

“Simple, quiet, private cabin. I live nearby and maintain the property myself—happy to help if you need anything. Wood for the fire included. Please treat the place with care, she’s old but beautiful. – Joel Miller.”

“Guys,” you said, your voice suddenly lifted with something suspiciously close to glee, “how good does this place look?”

There was a pause as the other girls crowded in to look over your shoulder. Dani, ever the skeptic, squinted at the screen and muttered, “In the middle of the woods? I’ve seen enough horror movies to know how that ends.”

Ruby laughed, nudging her. “Relax, you freak. It looks amazing. Kinda romantic, actually.”

“I’m booking it,” you said, already clicking the dates and entering your card info, heart fluttering just a little. Maybe it was the idea of silence. Maybe it was the promise of being far from responsibility.

Maybe it was the name at the bottom of the page.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊.

The drive had been long, the kind that stretches out in golden hours and half-finished playlists, where the car windows stayed rolled down just enough to let the wind whip your hair into a mess and carry in that warm, pine-heavy breeze that smelled like summer freedom and something older.

You’d driven most of the way, hands on the wheel, bare thighs sticking to the seat, the music just loud enough to drown out any thoughts that tried to creep in. Your three best friends—Dani, Ruby, and Salma—made the car feel smaller in the best way, laughter tangled with the occasional off-key singing, the familiar comfort of their voices keeping you grounded even as the GPS took you further and further into nowhere.

The roads had started out suburban, then rural, then something else entirely—long, empty stretches of cracked asphalt lined with trees that grew taller the deeper you went, their branches forming a canopy overhead like a slow descent into something untouched.

The street signs vanished. The last gas station you passed had looked abandoned. Even the sky felt quieter.

“Shit,” Dani muttered from the back seat, leaning forward between the front seats, her brows raised as she squinted at the narrowing road. “This place is creepy as fuck.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Shut up, Dani. You’re just a scaredy-cat.”

“She literally screamed at a moth last week,” Ruby chimed in, laughing as she glanced down at her phone. “Okay, turn left up here—I think we’re close.”

You flicked the indicator on and turned onto a dirt path that crunched under the tires, your breath catching slightly as the trees parted and the cabin came into view like something out of a forgotten dream.

There it was.

Bigger than the photos.

A long gravel driveway winding through wild grass and wildflowers, the trees arching protectively around it. The cabin itself was a soft, weathered wood, the color of old whiskey, with a wide porch that wrapped around the front and one side, strings of fairy lights already glowing against the early dusk, swaying gently in the breeze. A stone chimney climbed up the side like a spine, smoke-free but promising. There were rocking chairs. A swing. A pair of boots left by the front steps.

You all gasped, like you’d stumbled upon something sacred.

“Oh my god,” Salma breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

You pulled in slowly, gravel crunching beneath the tires, the engine humming a final breath before you turned the key and let the silence wrap itself around you like a weighted blanket. It was the kind of quiet that pressed up against your skin—not hollow, not empty, but full of something watching, something just beyond the trees. The forest seemed to lean in as if holding its breath.

The car doors opened one by one, slamming shut in uneven succession behind you, echoing a little too loudly in the still air. Ruby stretched, arms overhead, groaning as she rolled her shoulders. Dani was already snapping a photo of the cabin, her phone tilted at the perfect angle. Salma took a slow step toward the porch, dragging her small pink suitcase behind her, wheels crunching over gravel like bones.

“Okay,” you murmured, pulling your phone from the cupholder, the screen lighting up with that familiar thread of messages—Joel Miller. You’d been texting back and forth the last couple days. Nothing much, just details. Check-in time. Key instructions. He’d said he’d greet you personally when you arrived. That he liked to make sure everything was just right.

You thumbed out a quick message.

We’re here.

Salma glanced around, shielding her eyes from the dipping sun. “Where is he?” she asked, her voice quiet, as if she didn’t want to disturb the hush that had settled over the clearing.

“I’m not sure,” you said, eyes still on your phone, waiting for the little dots to appear. “I’m sure he’ll reply soon.”

You walked toward the porch first, the wooden steps creaking beneath your boots like they hadn’t been stepped on in a while—each groan echoing softly into the stillness, like the house was stirring awake at your presence. You glanced over your shoulder. “Let’s get the bags up here while we wait,” you called, voice light, masking the little flicker of unease beginning to press just beneath your ribs.

The girls followed without protest, laughter carrying up the steps as Ruby dropped her duffel with a dramatic grunt, flopping onto the porch swing like she’d just hiked the Alps. Salma rolled her small suitcase in gentle zigzags, its wheels catching on the uneven wood slats, while Dani hung back, surveying the tree line with narrowed eyes like she was waiting for something to move out there.

The air smelled like sun-warmed timber and something almost sharp—herbal, grounding. Cedar maybe. Or sage. You weren’t sure, but it clung to your clothes, slipped into your lungs, felt... good. Familiar.

You stepped up to the door, fingers curling around the brass knob—dull with age, smooth from use—and paused.

The door was already ajar.

Just slightly. Not enough to call open, but enough that you could see the gleam of dark hardwood floors beyond the frame. A single sliver of shadowed interior, cool and unmoving.

No wind. No creak. Just… open.

Your heart gave a small, startled stutter. Not a full beat missed—just enough to notice.

You instinctively leaned in, pushing the door a fraction further with your fingertips, wood groaning softly like it was trying not to wake something.

“Don’t just go in!” Dani’s voice hissed behind you, sharp and low, and her hand clamped down on your forearm. You turned, startled by the grip, by the sudden fear in her face. She wasn’t joking anymore. Her eyes were wide, jaw tight. It looked wrong on her—like a mask slipping. “What if it’s not safe? What if someone’s in there? Like—already inside?”

You blinked, caught off guard by her shift. “It’s probably fine,” you said, trying to brush it off, though you hadn’t let go of your phone. Your thumb hovered over the screen, just shy of unlocking it. “Joel said he’d leave it open. He’s expecting us.”

Dani didn’t look convinced. “That doesn’t mean someone else didn’t get here first.”

Ruby groaned from her spot on the swing. “Jesus, Dani. It’s not a crime podcast. It’s a rental.”

You laughed—light, a little forced. “Okay, Miss Paranormal Activity. Let’s just leave the door open and start bringing stuff in. If he doesn’t show up in ten minutes, I’ll call.”

⋆. 𐙚 ̊.

The cabin was beautiful in a way that didn’t feel real, like you’d stepped into someone’s memory of a home rather than a structure built with hands.

The walls were paneled in warm, aged wood that glowed honey-gold in the late afternoon light, and everything inside seemed to hum with the soft hush of something sacred—thick rugs underfoot, old books stacked beside velvet armchairs, lace curtains fluttering gently in a breeze that you hadn’t felt pass through the door.

A stone fireplace took up nearly an entire wall in the living room, flanked by shelves full of antique trinkets and black-and-white photographs in weathered frames.

“Dibs!” Ruby shouted suddenly, her suitcase bumping along the floorboards as she disappeared down a hallway in a blur of curls and laughter. “Whoever finds the biggest bed wins!”

Salma rolled her eyes and followed with a soft smile, and Dani hung back by the front door, still looking around with narrowed eyes, like she was waiting for something to jump out from behind the curtains. You walked deeper into the space, drawn by the warm glow spilling from the kitchen, your steps slow as you tilted your head to take in the details.

There was something too perfect about the place. Not staged, but curated. Lived-in, but untouched.

“This place is beautiful,” you said aloud, half to yourself, walking backward toward the kitchen as you continued to admire the ceiling beams and low-hanging glass lanterns, the way everything felt quietly suspended in time.

You turned the corner—

—and screamed.

A sharp, startled noise escaped your throat before you could stop it, your hand flying to your mouth as your body jolted back a step.

There was a man standing in the kitchen.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, older—maybe mid-fifties, maybe older than that, but solid in the way that men rarely were anymore. His hair was thick and silvery, curling slightly at the ends where it met the collar of a faded green flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His jaw was sharp but peppered with scruff, a scar cutting clean through his left eyebrow, and his eyes—dark and lined at the corners—were wide with alarm as he clutched his chest.

“Shit!” he barked, eyes going even wider. “Jesus, darlin’—you just about stopped my damn heart.”

Your hand was still over your mouth, your other pressed to your own chest as you tried to catch your breath.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, breathless laughter spilling out of you now that your brain was catching up. “I didn’t know you were here—I texted, and we didn’t see you, and the door was open and—god, I’m sorry.”

He exhaled hard, still holding his chest as he gave a lopsided, rueful smile. “Nah, that’s on me. Should’ve been out front to greet y’all. I was just tryin’ to get some food ready for you girls.” He reached back and pulled a phone from his back pocket, squinting at the screen. “Hell, I’m terrible with this thing. My daughter had to help me write the damn Airbnb ad. I still don’t know where half the buttons are.”

You smiled, your nerves settling as the initial shock gave way to something easier, warmer. He didn’t seem dangerous—just big, rugged, and maybe a little awkward. “It’s okay,” you said, stepping further into the kitchen. “It’s nice to finally meet you… Joel, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, reaching out to shake your hand, his grip warm and firm, his palm calloused in a way that told stories. “How rude of me—not even introducin’ myself proper.”

You took in the details now that you were closer—the thick veins on the back of his hands, the way his shirt clung slightly at the chest, the scent of cedar and something faintly smoky clinging to him like second skin. He was old. Definitely. But handsome, in that worn, masculine way that wasn’t filtered or polished—just real. The kind of man who had built things with his hands. Who had probably loved someone once. Who now lived alone in the woods.

“That’s okay,” you said softly, smiling as you stepped aside to gesture toward the others. “These are my friends—Salma, Dani, and Ruby.”

The girls had all come to the doorway, eyes wide from your earlier scream, but now smiling politely, murmuring their hellos.

“Lovely to meet you girls,” Joel said with a slow nod, the deep timbre of his voice like gravel worn smooth with time, steady and unhurried. His gaze passed over your friends with polite detachment—Salma with her arms crossed loosely, Dani still slightly wary, and Ruby already beaming—but when his eyes settled back on you, they held for a breath longer than necessary. Not overt. Not unkind. Just... lingering. Like he was cataloguing something.

You weren’t sure why that made your stomach flutter.

“Well,” he said, stepping back toward the counter, wiping his large hands on his jeans with the absentminded grace of someone used to doing everything himself, “figured the drive was long, so I got some drinks and snacks laid out for you girls. Nothin’ fancy, but should take the edge off.”

The kitchen table was lined with mismatched plates—slices of warm sourdough bread, local cheeses, a bowl of cherries so red they almost didn’t look real, a few little ramekins of olives and nuts, and beside it all, a chilled glass jug of something pink and citrusy that was already starting to bead with condensation. There was even a tray of chocolate chip cookies, still slightly soft in the center, their scent curling into the air like a lullaby.

“Woah,” Ruby said, her eyes widening as she practically pranced forward, hair bouncing, already reaching for a cookie. “This is awesome,” she added, mid-bite, mouth full but too delighted to care.

Joel watched her with a faint smile, brow arched in mild amusement, arms folded loosely across his chest.

You chuckled, catching his eye, and mouthed a quiet sorry over Ruby’s unfiltered enthusiasm. He gave a soft huff of a laugh and shook his head like to say don’t worry about it, the corners of his eyes crinkling deeper when he smiled.

“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands together with a quick, dry sound that broke the moment’s softness. “You girls want the grand tour?”

“Yes, please,” Salma said brightly, setting her water down and already stepping away from the counter, eager to move.

“Alrighty then,” he said, turning with an easy sort of authority, beckoning you all to follow as he moved toward the hallway, boots thudding softly against the wooden floorboards. “Come on, I’ll show you where everything is.”

You fell in behind him, your friends chatting softly as they trailed after, the golden light of late afternoon spilling through the wide windows and catching on the slope of Joel’s shoulders as he led the way, moving with the kind of ease that only comes from belonging. There was something in the way he moved through the house that felt intimate—his fingertips grazing doorframes, his voice low as he described the walls like they held memory, not just timber and nails.

“This place was my daddy’s,” he said as you passed through the narrow hallway, his voice echoing slightly against the old wooden panels. “He built it piece by piece back in the eighties, way before Airbnb was a thing. Back then it was just a little hunting lodge—no electricity, barely had running water. My brother and I used to sleep right there on that floor,” he added, nodding toward the small guest bedroom with a soft grin. “Freezin’ our asses off half the year, but we thought it was the best damn thing in the world.”

Each room he showed you was carefully preserved—rich in dark wood, accented with soft fabrics and little details that felt too personal to be staged. A chipped mug left beside a window. A denim jacket hanging on the back of a chair like someone had just stepped out. The main bedroom had a four-poster bed draped in white cotton, the sheets tucked tight, the view overlooking the treeline like something from a dream.

When the tour came full circle, you all ended up back in the kitchen, the air now scented with warm bread and citrus, your friends laughing as they settled into the high counter chairs, nibbling at the spread Joel had put out like it was some enchanted forest feast. Ruby had her legs tucked beneath her as she crunched on almonds; Dani was chewing slowly, suspiciously, as if she still hadn’t entirely decided whether Joel was a serial killer or just a very attentive host.

You turned to him as he leaned against the kitchen sink, arms folded, watching the group with a small, unreadable smile.

“So,” you asked lightly, brushing your fingers along the edge of the counter, “any housekeeping we should be aware of, Mr. Miller?”

He chuckled—deep and soft, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Joel, please,” he said, shaking his head. “Mr. Miller makes it sound like I should be wearin’ a tie or somethin’.”

You laughed at that, a bright, effortless sound that bounced off the wooden beams and made Salma glance at you with a small smirk. Joel didn’t say anything, not right away. Just watched you. His gaze lingered—not lascivious, not overt. But heavy. Concentrated. The kind of look that made your skin warm in places you hadn’t realized were exposed. He didn’t blink until you looked away.

He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head, suddenly shifting his weight like the laugh had knocked something loose in him.

“I’m not too strict,” he said finally. “You girls are here for vacation, so I figure you oughta enjoy yourselves. If you’re gonna drink, try not to break anything expensive—though honestly, not much in here’s worth a damn except maybe the stove and the piano in the sitting room.”

He pointed vaguely toward the far end of the cabin where you hadn’t lingered during the tour. “And I’ll be stayin’ just down the path yonder,” he added. “There’s a little shed that’s been converted into a guesthouse—got my own entrance, my own everything. I’ll be outta your hair unless you need me. But if you do, feel free to message me—if I can even figure out how to turn this damn thing on.”

He held up his phone with a sheepish grin, squinting at the screen as if it had betrayed him one too many times.

You smiled, something in your chest softening. “We’ll try not to burn the place down.”

He looked at you again—more gently this time, but no less intently. “You do that,” he said quietly.

You turned back to the counter, missing the way he kept watching you for just a moment longer than necessary, his fingers drumming lightly against his thigh, like he was trying to commit the sound of your laugh to memory.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊.

The wine had been cracked open almost as soon as the sun began to dip below the tree line, and now the four of you were sunk deep into the hot tub, the surface bubbling lazily around your bare shoulders, steam curling up into the cool evening air like the exhale of something ancient and patient.

The sky overhead had darkened to a soft violet, stars just beginning to flicker awake above the pines, and the soft, distant sound of cicadas filled the gaps between your laughter. Your limbs were warm and weightless beneath the water, the tension from the long drive slowly unspooling from your muscles with each passing minute, the wine already buzzing pleasantly in your bloodstream.

“This is so nice,” Dani sighed, her eyes closed as she let her head fall back against the lip of the tub, the string lights strung above casting golden halos in her damp hair. “I feel like I can finally breathe.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased, swirling your glass lazily as you grinned at her. “So you’re over the whole ‘axe murderer hiding in the woods’ thing?”

Her eyes snapped open, “Hey. Don’t joke about that. I swear to God.”

Salma and Ruby cracked up immediately, the sound spilling over the surface of the water like spilled champagne.

“I’m just saying,” Ruby added, leaning forward to top off her drink with a dramatic flourish, “why was he kinda… hot?”

“Oh my god, Ruby,” Salma groaned, nearly choking on her sip. “You’re insane.”

“What?” Ruby said, undeterred, raising her brows as she gestured vaguely toward the woods. “Come on. In that old, gruff kindaway."

You laughed, the sound low and effortless as you shook your head, tucking a wet strand of hair behind your ear.

“Oh, come on,” Ruby pressed, her gaze zeroing in on you now, sly and glittering. “You saw it, right?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual, though you could already feel the heat rising behind your cheeks. “He’s… nice.”

“Nice?” Dani repeated, one brow arching so high it practically disappeared into her hairline.

“I think he was feeling you,” Salma sing-songed, nudging your shoulder under the water with hers.

You let out a mock gasp and slapped her arm, feigning outrage even as your grin betrayed you. “He’s like—thirty years older than me.”

“Which means plenty of experience,” Ruby said with a wink, raising her glass as if to toast to the depravity of it all.

You rolled your eyes, but something in you fluttered. Something you didn’t have a name for.

Instinctively, your eyes drifted past the edge of the hot tub, out toward the clearing that framed Joel’s guesthouse in the distance.

The lights inside were off now, the small cabin dark and unassuming, tucked between the trees like it had been there forever, like it had roots instead of foundations.

The girls kept talking, the sound of their voices soft and familiar behind you, but your focus had narrowed to something else entirely. There—just near the treeline, not quite hidden but not obvious either—something blinked.

Not a flash. Not a spark. A red light. So faint you could’ve missed it.

You squinted, sitting up a little straighter, the water sloshing gently around you as your breath caught. One blink. Then another. Slow. Steady. Purposeful.

You blinked hard, rubbed your eyes. Maybe it was the wine, or the leftover haze of the drive, or the fact that you hadn’t properly slept in two days, but—

There it was again.

The smallest red dot, pulsing in the darkness like a heartbeat.

You opened your mouth to say something— then stopped.

Because what would you even say? That you thought you saw a light in the woods? That maybe someone—or something—was out there watching?

Instead, you turned back to the girls with a smile a second too delayed, lifting your glass to your lips even though it was empty.

You didn’t tell them.

Not yet.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊.

[shaiyasstuff]

trace | sylus | finale

synopsis : You hadn’t just held a candle for him. You’d built entire constellations. content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus now playing : Slow dancing in a burning room - John Mayer(Live in L.A.), In the stars - Benson Boone and Those Eyes - New West toward the ending

part | one | two

“We’re coming to you live from the hometown of rising basketball star, Sylus—”

The TV buzzed faintly in the background, but you weren’t listening. Not really.

“Little Ziera~” you cooed, cradling the squishy eight-month-old in your lap. She giggled up at you, wide-eyed and drooling, her tiny hands reaching for your face like you were the funniest person alive.

You chuckled, gently pinching her fingers. “She’s way too cute to be your kid.”

Shaiya scowled, tossing a cushion at your side. “At least she’s mine. Where’s yours, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m perfectly content as a single, thanks.” You turned your attention back to the baby, who was now trying to eat your finger.

But then—quietly, like she was just thinking aloud—Shaiya said, “It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

Your hands paused for just a beat. Then you smiled again, letting Ziera curl her fingers around yours.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shaiya scoffed. Again. Loudly.

Honestly, you were beginning to think it was her love language. “Sure. That good boy from college—Xavier, right? You dumped him outta nowhere, said you wanted to ‘focus on your career.’”

She gave you a look. “Y/N, I’ve known you since we were fifteen.”

You sighed, eyes flicking to her out the corner of your eye. She wasn’t wrong. “It’s not because of Sylus,” you said.

But your voice cracked on the lie.

Another scoff—Shaiya should bottle them by now.

“It’s been seven years, Y/N.” Her tone softened. “Aren’t you tired? Zayne and I… we worry about you.”

You clicked your tongue, a little sharper than you meant to. “Not everyone gets to meet the love of their life in high school, Shaiya.”

That came out harsher than intended.

But the truth was, you were tired. Tired of pretending the past didn’t claw at your chest every time you let yourself breathe.

Seven years.

That’s how long it’d been since you walked away. Since you packed your bags, left the town, the memories, him.

You had everything now—graduated with a degree in art history, landed a solid career at a museum, built a life.

You should’ve been proud. You were, most days.

But then the nights came.

Nights where you stayed late restoring paintings under soft lamplight, and something—always something—would trigger it.

A shade of gray, the exact tone of his hair when the gym lights hit it just right.

A cluster of rubies embedded in an old frame—the same red as his eyes.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just color. Just coincidence.

Until the night you couldn’t hold it anymore—drunk, curled up on Shaiya’s couch, sobbing into her shirt while she held you like she used in high school.

You didn’t even know why you were crying.

He was just a childhood friend.

Just a boy who made you laugh at the worst times.

Just someone who promised you the stars and gave you silence instead.

Just someone.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because when it came down to it, he had looked at you—eyes you swore once saw your soul—and called you just someone.

And no matter how far you ran, how many museums you worked in, or how many masterpieces you restored…

The little girl in you still ached.

Still waited.

Still wanted to be held and told she wasn’t just someone.

She wanted to hear she was enough.

You sighed, pulled back into the present as you shifted Ziera into your arms. She settled easily against your chest, warm and safe, her tiny breaths brushing your collarbone.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead. “It’s just—”

The words caught in your throat for a second. You hesitated. Thought about leaving it there.

But then, softly, “Maybe it’s because I’ve always held a candle for him, you know?”

You glanced at Shaiya.

She didn’t say anything—just nodded. The kind of quiet nod only best friends give, when they don’t need you to explain further.

“And it hurts,” you added, voice barely above a whisper, “because I really thought he felt the same.”

And for a moment, that truth just hung there—between the two of you.

Quiet, and heavy, and real.

That night, after Shaiya and Ziera had gone home, you sat by the window with a cup of tea, lukewarm and untouched.

The television was still on.

Static humming from a sports channel running a rerun of the same segment. His name blinked across the bottom of the screen.

Sylus. Local hero. Rising star.

You didn’t even have to look to know which footage they’d chosen—his college tryout game, the one where he scored at the buzzer, the crowd on their feet.

His smile had been blinding that day. And distant.

You reached up to close the window, but stopped.

The breeze carried something soft through the screen—a faint echo of summer air, gymnasium sweat, and old laughter.

It was almost cruel how memory worked.

How your body still knew the sound of his laugh even if your heart had tried to forget.

Your fingers curled tighter around the mug.

You weren’t supposed to be here, still thinking about him.

You weren’t supposed to flinch every time you heard his name in passing—not supposed to feel like this.

You told yourself you’d moved on. That what happened in high school was just a chapter.

But the truth was, he’d never really ended. Just... paused.

Like some song you couldn’t stop humming in quiet moments.

Your phone buzzed beside you, dragging you back. A message from your museum supervisor—something about the new restoration project starting tomorrow.

You stared at it blankly for a moment before locking the screen again. You weren’t ready to return to a world where red paint made your breath catch.

Outside, the street was quiet. Not even the moon felt like it wanted to watch you tonight.

You leaned your head against the cool glass.

Seven years. And still somehow—

You missed him like it had only been yesterday.

“So, what do you like to do?”

The question echoed like a crack in glass—sudden, sharp, uninvited.

You blinked, and suddenly you weren’t sitting by the window anymore.

You were ten again, barefoot on sun-warmed pavement, fingers sticky with popsicle syrup.

He had looked down at you, taller even then, shadows of mischief in his eyes.

“Uhm… drawing. I like to draw dragons.” You’d said it softly, barely above a whisper, clutching your sketchbook to your chest like it was something sacred.

He’d grinned—wide, toothy. “Cool. I think that’s the first time you said more than five words to me.”

You remember blushing, shoving him lightly, and the way he laughed like it was the best thing in the world.

Back then, it was simple.

Back then, he made you feel like your shy little world—quiet sketches and messy water colours—mattered.

You blinked again, the present folding over the memory like a sheet pulled over a bed.

Your tea had gone cold. Your heart, colder still.

It was stupid, how one memory could unravel you. How one boy could still live in all the soft places you thought you’d outgrown.

You curled in tighter by the window, knees pulled to your chest, eyes fluttering shut.

You hadn’t just held a candle for him.

You’d built entire constellations.

The morning was gray.

Muted light filtered through your window as you pulled your coat tighter around you, bag slung loosely over your shoulder.

The streets were still quiet, the city not yet fully awake. Just the soft murmur of passing cars and the gentle hush of your boots against pavement.

You didn’t mind the silence.

It gave you time to think.

To breathe.

To feel the ache you kept neatly folded beneath your clothes.

Halfway to the museum, your phone buzzed. You glanced down—Mom.

You answered with a small smile already tugging at your lips.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Y/N, good morning, sweetpea,” came the warm voice on the other end, the one that always sounded like a hug, no matter how far you were.

You shifted your phone between shoulder and cheek. “How’s Dad? Is he still trying to fix the garage door himself?”

Your mother huffed out a laugh. “He refuses to admit defeat. Says retirement hasn’t dulled him a bit.”

You smiled to yourself, rounding a quiet corner as you neared the main avenue. “Tell him to be careful. Last time he nearly threw his back out.”

There was a pause. Then her voice softened, like she was already switching gears.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I bumped into Mrs. Qin the other day at the grocer’s. She said Sylus just got featured in some sports article—local paper did a full spread.”

Your smile faltered.

You didn’t say anything.

Your mother, oblivious, continued, “He’s doing so well, that boy. She says he’s still in town. Isn’t that something?”

You gave a noncommittal hum. “Yeah… something.”

“She wanted to pass along her regards,” your mother added. “Said she misses the days you two ran around like stray cats. Honestly, I don’t think she knows how to cook dinner for less than five people.”

You laughed—quiet, breathy.

Your mother didn’t know what happened between you.

No one really did.

And that was how you preferred it.

Because the moment you’d try to explain—really explain—it would sound pathetic.

Like you hadn’t grown past it. Like your heart hadn’t aged with you.

And how could you tell your mother, of all people, that the boy she still calls sweet had once looked at you like you were nothing?

So you didn’t.

You never did.

You let her memories live in peace. Preserved in the way all mothers choose to remember things—softer, warmer, easier.

“Anyway,” she chirped after a moment, “your father and I are settling just fine. It’s nice being back. Quiet. Familiar.”

Your breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

Back.

You knew they had moved in recent months. Something about the coast getting too loud, too expensive. A small town would be better now that your father had retired.

Back to where it all started.

Of course.

You swallowed, the weight of those words pressing against your collarbones. “I’m glad,” you said quietly. “You deserve the quiet.”

“We do,” she agreed, and you could hear her smile through the phone. “Alright, darling, I’ll let you go. Be safe at work, hmm? And eat something. You sound too thin.”

“I love you,” you said softly.

“Love you more.”

The call ended, and for a moment, you stood still beneath the streetlight.

Sylus.

Of course you knew what he was doing.

You always knew.

You didn’t have to stalk his socials, didn’t have to ask around.

Your mother was more than happy to fill in the gaps. She thought she was doing you a kindness—keeping you connected, reminding you of simpler times.

But all it ever did was open old wounds in quiet, invisible ways.

He was doing great.

Of course he was.

Living his dream, chasing the future, smiling for cameras and shaking hands with people who only knew the part of him he allowed them to see.

Not the boy who once cried on your shoulder when his father got sick.

Not the boy who made you laugh so hard your sides hurt on rainy days.

Not the boy who said you were just someone.

You inhaled slowly.

Then you turned and continued walking, the museum finally coming into view through the morning mist.

It stood like it always did—still, ancient, beautiful in its faded elegance.

Your sanctuary.

Your second skin.

And even though your heart was still somewhere between yesterday and never again, your hands knew what to do.

They always did.

You slipped off your coat and tossed it over your bag, offering a tired smile as you greeted your coworkers.

A few nodded back, some mid-sip in their coffees, others too focused on their stations to look up. The usual.

Sliding into your spot, you pushed up your sleeves, snapped your gloves on, and leaned over the covered piece waiting on your desk.

“What are we working on today?”

Your colleague turned with a grin that said you’re not ready.

“The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun. The original.” His voice held a hint of reverence.

You blinked, processing. “Wait—the one? From the Brooklyn Museum?”

He nodded, practically bouncing. “Mmhmm.”

You stepped closer, the curiosity already pulling you in. “How’d it end up here?”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “No idea. Word is, the chief wants you on it specifically. Said he needed your touch.”

He nudged your shoulder, and you shook your head, amused.

When you peeled the cloth back, your breath caught a little.

There it was—delicate, dark, divine. The paper had aged, but the power in the strokes still pulsed like a heartbeat.

You leaned in, careful. “This piece is so light-sensitive. I don’t even want to know what they had to do to get it here safely.”

And yet, here it was.

Fragile. Faded. Still here.

Still waiting to be restored.

“UV lamp—now.” You flicked a hand toward the supply cabinet. Your colleague tossed you a mock salute and half‑jogged off to fetch it.

When the violet glow finally washed over the paper, you held your breath, moving the beam as delicately as a fingertip tracing silk.

Hairline fractures spider‑webbed beneath the surface and the varnish had yellowed into the color of old honey.

“It’s a miracle it’s still holding together,” you murmured, shoulders tense. “I’m afraid to even breathe on it, let alone touch.”

You set to work with that quiet, unwavering focus people always praised—steady hands, breath held soft.

Outside, daylight bled into twilight, then into ink.

One by one the overhead lamps clicked off as colleagues drifted home, until only your desk lamp burned, a lone circle of gold in the cavernous studio.

By the time the last door shut, you were alone with the Dragon—brush poised, silence thick, night pressing its palms against the windows.

You sighed, stepping back from the table, eyes sweeping over the painting with a tired kind of pride.

It was still far from whole, but something about it already breathed easier.

A quick glance at your watch made your stomach drop. “Shit,” you muttered. It was late—too late.

You peeled off your gloves, fingers stiff, and tied your hair into a loose bun as you moved around the room, quietly packing up your tools, storing everything with the care you always gave your work.

On your way out, you ducked into the bathroom, intent on washing the day from your face before heading home.

Back in the dim studio, the painting remained where you left it—battered and beautiful, raw in its incompletion.

Like it was asking the world to see it.

Look at me.

Even like this.

Especially like this.

You were halfway out the studio when you stopped cold in the hallway.

“My phone.”

Of course. You’d left it on the desk again.

With a sigh, you turned back, your steps echoing softly in the empty corridor.

The room was quiet when you re-entered, humming with the silence of things left unfinished.

You spotted your phone easily enough, tucked near your sketch pad.

But just as you reached for it, something tugged at you.

Your gaze shifted.

To the box.

To it.

Just one more look.

You told yourself it wouldn’t matter.

But it did.

Because the moment your eyes found the painting again, the breath left your chest.

The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun.

And suddenly, you were thirteen again—flat on the pavement after tripping over your own feet, and him, Sylus, standing above you with that crooked grin.

“You’re so clumsy,” he’d laughed, offering his hand. “But damn if you don’t fall like it’s poetry.”

It was bright that day too.

Sunlight catching in your hair.

His shadow falling over you.

And you, smiling like the world wasn’t heavy yet.

Your fingers hovered above the paper now, inches from the Dragon’s wings. They curled like tension incarnate, massive and wild.

The red used in his form was so vivid it almost bled—rage, desire, hunger. He loomed over the woman below, poised to consume.

And yet the woman—radiant, untouched—was bathed in golden light, her figure fragile but unyielding.

Like hope.

Like the kind of faith that doesn’t flinch even in the face of ruin.

Your lips twitched slightly.

Funny.

It almost looked like the two of you—how he was always the storm that never quite swallowed you, how you were always the light that refused to dim, even when it hurt.

You stepped closer, eyes drifting from the Dragon’s horns to the space where the woman stood, untouched but watched.

Desired, but distant.

Blake had painted divine conflict—man’s hunger for purity, the beast’s need to possess what it could not reach.

And maybe that’s what it was with Sylus, too.

He had looked at you like that once.

Like you were something too sacred to hold, too precious to keep.

And still, he let you go.

You pressed your hand lightly to your chest, heart aching in that slow, familiar way.

Maybe that was the tragedy.

You had always wanted to be chosen.

And he had always feared breaking what he loved.

—•

"Hey, you made it, man. And I don’t just mean the trophies or interviews.”

His friend grinned, throwing an arm over Sylus’ shoulder like no time had passed at all. Like they were still in high school, ditching practice to watch sunsets on cracked bleachers. “Look at you. Big shot.”

Sylus huffed a quiet laugh, head tilting just slightly. “Sorry. I’ve been... busy.”

His friend gasped, hand flying to his chest in mock betrayal. “Damn. You sound like an adult. Since when do you apologise, Sylus? What happened to that brooding teen who quoted Nietzsche during suicide drills?”

Sylus smirked, eyes glinting with something dry and familiar. “He still quotes Nietzsche.”

“Thank god,” his friend exhaled dramatically. “Thought for a second you grew out of your villain arc.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

Sylus bumped him lightly with his shoulder, the kind of nudge that said I missed this without having to say it at all. The rooftop party carried on behind them—music floating into the night, glasses clinking, the occasional cheer breaking through.

But up here, tucked just slightly out of reach, time felt slower. Softer.

“You’ve changed, though,” Sylus said after a moment, watching him from the side. “Less of an annoying gnat.”

His friend snorted. “Marriage does that to a man. That, and budgeting spreadsheets.”

Sylus laughed—just a breath of it, low and worn-in. He leaned against the railing, city lights flickering against his jaw, casting him half in gold, half in shadow.

Then came the silence.

The kind that wasn’t awkward. Just familiar.

The kind that curled in the spaces where memories lived.

“You ever think about those days?” his friend asked quietly. “Before everything?”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on the skyline, but it was clear he wasn’t really seeing it.

“Sometimes. When it’s quiet enough,” he said eventually. “Not often. It hurts.”

His friend nodded, something softer settling over him. “You always carried more than you let on.”

Another pause.

“You ever think about her?”

Sylus stilled—not noticeably. Just a flicker. But his friend noticed. Of course he did.

“Yeah,” he said, voice barely above the wind. “More than I should.”

His friend didn’t push. He just let the quiet stretch, like the space between heartbeats.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, gently.

Sylus was silent again. Long enough for the city below to change shape. Long enough to feel like the answer wasn’t easy—because it wasn’t.

“Yes,” he breathed. “But it’s the kind of regret you learn to carry. Like it belongs to you.”

His friend looked at him for a long second, then sighed.

“Damn. You really did grow up.”

Sylus smiled faintly, still watching something only he could see. “Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

His friend leaned against the railing beside him, shoulders just brushing, the wind curling around them like the edge of a memory.

“You ever think about that day?” he asked, voice quiet. “Back of the school. When you pulled her aside.”

Sylus didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to ask which day.

Of course he remembered.

“It was quiet,” he said, after a moment. “She looked at me like she believed—just this once—I might choose her out loud.”

His fingers curled around the railing, knuckles whitening.

“And I almost did.”

His friend said nothing.

“I wanted to,” Sylus continued, voice low, fraying at the edges. “She was standing there, waiting. Not saying anything, but… you could see it in her eyes. She just wanted me to say something. To give her a reason to stay.”

He paused. Let the ache stretch.

“And then Colin showed up. Laughing like he always did. Loud enough for the whole world to hear.”

He exhaled, bitter. “And suddenly I felt it—all their eyes on me. Watching. Judging. Waiting to see if I'd cave.”

A humorless laugh slipped through his teeth.

“So I did what I thought would protect me.”

He stared up at the sky, like the stars might offer penance.

“I let her go. Stepped back. Said she was just someone.”

His friend winced but stayed silent.

“Colin was always watching,” Sylus said, quieter now. “Picking at me. ‘You’re too soft, man.’ Like caring made me something less. And I let him in. Let his voice sound louder than hers.”

His jaw clenched.

“I was seventeen. Thought being loved was a weakness. Thought wanting her made me small.”

The rooftop pulsed faintly with music behind them—voices, footsteps, laughter—but it all felt far away. A different world.

“I watched her walk away,” Sylus said. “Again and again. Every time I didn’t say the truth… I lost her a little more.”

His friend glanced at him, gentler now. “And what was the truth?”

Sylus turned, just slightly. His eyes were far-off, distant with the weight of what-ifs.

“That she was never just someone,” he said. “Not even close. She was… the only thing that ever felt real.”

His voice dropped to something hoarse, something wrecked.

“And I buried it. Smothered it. All so I could look untouchable to a boy who hasn’t mattered in years.”

His friend studied him for a long moment, then asked, softly, “Do you regret it?”

Sylus didn’t speak at first. The silence said enough.

Then, at last—

“Every version of me that failed her still lives inside me.”

He breathed out slowly, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of it.

“And when I dream of her…”

His voice broke, just faintly. “It’s always the same. She’s standing there, waiting. Same look on her face. And I still can’t say it. Still can’t move.”

His friend swallowed. “And if you could?”

Sylus looked out at the skyline, eyes softening like dusk.

“I’d tell her I’m sorry—for every moment I made her feel small. For every time I let silence answer when she needed something more.”

A pause.

“I’d tell her I loved her. That maybe I still do.”

Another breath.

“That she was the only thing I was ever sure of. And I let her think she was forgettable.”

The wind shifted.

The city lights blinked on like stars waking up too late.

But you were gone now, weren't you?

Gone in the way people leave when they’ve waited too long.

Gone in the way things break—not with a sound, but a silence too deep to fix.

And the boy who once stood behind the school, heart in his throat, was still here.

Only now, he finally knew what he should’ve said.

His words faded into the wind, swallowed by the quiet hum of the city.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, after a long pause—

“I did try to warn you,” his friend said, nudging Sylus with his shoulder. “Told you back then you were a dumbass. Pretty sure I said it with love.”

Sylus huffed out a breath—almost a laugh. It caught in his throat.

“You said a lot of things,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well, I was a genius ahead of my time.”

Sylus gave him a look, dry and unimpressed.

His friend grinned. “Come on, you remember. I told you, straight up—‘One day she’s gonna walk, and you’re gonna hate yourself for letting her.’ What did you say back? Something moody and dramatic, probably.”

Sylus stared out at the skyline, jaw tight, but the corners of his mouth pulled upward—just slightly.

“I think I told you to shut up,” he murmured.

“Classic.” His friend laughed. “And then you probably quoted some depressing philosopher about how love is a social construct and solitude is eternal.”

Sylus exhaled, almost smiling. “I was unbearable.”

“Oh, completely,” his friend agreed. “But she loved you anyway. That was the miracle.”

The words hit gently, but they landed all the same.

Sylus went quiet again, the ghost of that almost-smile fading.

“I didn’t deserve it,” he said.

His friend shrugged. “Maybe not. But she gave it to you anyway.”

There was a pause.

“And that’s the thing about love, man. It’s not about earning it. It’s about not running from it when it’s right in front of you.”

Sylus didn’t respond.

He just leaned forward on the railing, eyes following the moving lights below, the wind tugging softly at his sleeves.

“You think she’s happy?” he asked, so quietly it almost got lost in the noise.

His friend didn’t answer right away. He didn’t pretend to know.

“I think,” he said, “she found a way to live without you. Doesn’t mean she stopped carrying it.”

Sylus nodded, once. Like he already knew.

“Then I hope,” he whispered, “she’s carrying it gently.”

His friend looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, he saw not the man Sylus had become, but the boy who once stood behind the school, paralysed by fear, and too proud to say stay.

So he softened his voice.

“You’re not that kid anymore, you know.”

Sylus let out a slow breath.

“No,” he murmured. “But the damage he did still follows me.”

His friend clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then stop walking in circles. Say what you needed to say. Even if she never hears it.”

Sylus closed his eyes.

And for the first time in years, he let the words rise to the surface—not for you, not for forgiveness—

But for himself.

“I loved her,” he whispered. “Not the way people write about in books. Not in fireworks or storms. Just… the kind that stays. The kind that never leaves.”

His friend didn’t speak again.

And they stood there together, in the silence that followed—

Two boys who had grown into men.

One of them still learning how to hold a love that had already slipped through his fingers.

The bus rumbled to a halt outside the stone-fronted building, its tall archways casting long shadows across the pavement. Sylus stepped off last, his duffle slung over one shoulder, hoodie up, the curve of his jaw set in quiet disinterest.

He barely looked up as his teammates filed out in front of him, laughing, stretching, nudging each other like boys who had never had to carry silence the way he did.

He didn’t want to be here.

Team trip, they said. Something educational. A museum visit arranged by one of the girlfriend’s contacts—some kind of PR move, a filler day in the middle of the travel schedule.

He had tuned most of it out, earbuds in and hood drawn. The only reason he’d come was because the coach had raised an eyebrow and said, “It’ll look good on your record.”

So he came.

And then he stepped inside.

The museum was quiet in the way sacred places always are. Light pooled in through high skylights, catching in the stillness of glass displays and the matte sheen of aged canvases.

Footsteps echoed softly across the floor. Voices were hushed.

He thought it’d be boring. Forgettable.

Instead, something in the air caught him off guard.

It wasn’t anything big. Just a shift—like walking into a dream already in motion. Like he’d been here before, in some other life, though he knew he hadn’t.

He stayed at the back of the group, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

The tour guide was saying something about Renaissance anatomy studies, but Sylus wasn’t listening. His eyes moved slowly across the walls, the halls, the corners.

And then—

He saw you.

By accident. Through a pane of glass.

He hadn’t even realised where he was standing until his gaze drifted beyond the sculpture in front of him, to the adjacent exhibit room across the way. The angle was odd, warped slightly by reflection.

But—

It was you.

Or someone who looked so much like you that his heart stopped, just for a second.

You were focused on something—framing a sketch beneath a mount, your gloves brushing delicately along the edge of paper. Your hair was tied back, slightly messy, like it always was when you worked.

You weren’t speaking. Just moving with that quiet kind of precision you’d always had.

The same posture. The same shape of your hands.

His chest pulled tight.

He blinked once. Hard.

But you were still there.

He hadn’t imagined it.

It was you.

You didn’t see him. Of course you didn’t.

You were half-turned, too busy with whatever task had your attention, the same way you’d always been—losing hours in careful work while the world spun unnoticed around you.

He hadn’t seen your face in seven years. Not in real life. Just fragments. Photos he couldn’t stop from surfacing online. Sketches. Dreams.

He stood frozen, barely breathing.

He wasn’t ready for this.

Wasn’t ready for how much it would undo him—just the sight of you.

You looked... the same. Not in the literal sense, maybe. But in the way that mattered. Like memory hadn’t gotten it wrong. Like time hadn’t eroded who you were.

His teammates had moved on without him, rounding the corner toward the next room, oblivious.

He remained rooted, eyes fixed on the sliver of you he could still see.

Something ached deep in his chest—sharp and quiet and familiar.

He had no idea you worked here. No one had told him. No one had mentioned the city, the museum, the chance.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t fate in some grand, poetic sense.

It was accident.

Cruel. Perfect. Unbearable.

Eventually, you stepped out of view. Just like that. Gone again.

And Sylus was left standing there, feeling like seventeen all over again—like he’d let something slip through his hands before he even had the courage to hold it.

He didn’t follow.

Not then.

He walked the rest of the tour like a ghost. Nodded when his name was called. Laughed, once or twice, when someone elbowed him in the ribs.

But his thoughts were somewhere else. Still trapped behind that glass, in the brief glimpse of someone he thought he'd never see again.

When they reached the front entrance, the team began to pile toward the waiting bus. Some were still talking about the exhibit. One had picked up a souvenir book. Someone else joked about stealing one of the miniature busts.

Sylus was the last to approach the doors.

He hesitated.

One foot on the step. One hand on the bar.

This was the part where he walked away again. Quietly. Predictably. Like he always had.

But his hand dropped.

And without another word, he turned around and ran.

Back through the glass doors. Back through the marble halls.

He didn’t know where you’d gone. Or if you’d even still be there.

But this time—he couldn’t walk away.

Not again.

Never again.

He pushed through the glass doors, barely registering the startled glance from the staff at the front desk.

The museum had begun to empty out, the soft lull between exhibits settling over the air like dust. The quiet made every footstep echo too loud. Every breath sounded like it didn’t belong.

He didn’t know where you’d gone.

Only that he’d seen you. That you were real.

That maybe—maybe—this was his one chance to say something before silence caught up again.

Sylus ran.

Through the corridor lined with oil portraits, past the faded sculpture garden, around corners he didn’t recognise, past velvet ropes and signs that blurred as he passed them.

He didn’t care where he was going.

Only that you were here.

Somewhere.

His hood had fallen off. His breath hitched in his chest, fast and ragged. The air was cool but it burned in his lungs.

You couldn’t have gone far.

He skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a display of 17th-century ceramics. A few heads turned. He didn’t look back.

She was here. I saw her. It was her.

His thoughts were fragmented. Uneven.

Memories bled into the walls as he ran—your laughter echoing behind him like the sound of shoes on tile, your voice layered over faint museum ambience.

He half-expected to see you every time he turned a corner. Half-feared you’d already left.

What would he even say?

I’m sorry?

I never stopped thinking about you?

You were never just someone?

None of it felt like enough. But he ran anyway.

He turned another corner—too fast this time—and his shoulder clipped the edge of a glass panel. He winced, stumbled, righted himself.

Still nothing. Just walls. Art. Names that didn’t matter.

Until—

There.

Down a narrow hall, where the light fell in soft gold, you were standing in front of a newly installed piece, clipboard in hand. You were scribbling something. Focused. Calm. Unknowing.

And suddenly, he couldn’t move.

His steps slowed. Each one heavier than the last.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

But he saw you—fully this time. No glass. No tricks of light. No doubt.

Just you.

You were older now.

But there was still something achingly familiar in the way you tilted your head when you studied art. In the crease between your brows. In the gentleness of your hands.

His chest rose and fell, breath uneven.

He stood a few feet behind you, like he had all those years ago—too afraid to cross the distance. Too afraid to speak.

But this time…

He stepped forward.

The sound of his shoes made you stiffen slightly, sensing someone behind you.

You turned.

Your eyes met his.

And for the first time in seven years, Sylus looked at you without hiding.

He didn’t say a word.

Just stood there, chest heaving, heart loud in his ears, as everything he should’ve said a lifetime ago swelled in the silence between you.

And this time... he wouldn’t run.

masterlist

[cece693]

YOU ARE FREE TO LEAVE, BUT KNOW THIS...

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader synopsis: You had enough—determined to end your relationship, you assumed Hannibal would react more to your confession, however, he merely nodded and let you walk through the door. He knows you'll come back; this was merely a lapse in judgement.

The knife rests on the cutting board like a third heartbeat—steady, inevitable, and glinting. Hannibal sets it down only when he hears your key hesitate in the lock, that fractional pause betraying nerves you’ve trained all day to hide. He smiles to himself and wipes his hands on a crisp linen towel, turning the music down until harpsichord and silence become indistinguishable.

You step inside smelling of cold air and decisions.

He knows at once.

Tonight’s cassoulet simmers on the stove, but the aroma doesn’t coax the usual softening around your eyes. Instead, you linger by the foyer, fingers tightening on the strap of a messenger bag you never bring to his house. An exit bag, he thinks—documents, wallet, charger, sweater for the bus ride you expect to take. You haven’t plotted every step yet; the lines in your forehead say you’re still rehearsing your speech.

Hannibal tilts his head in greeting. “You are late.”

“My phone died,” you lie with reflexive ease. “Work ran over.”

He notes the absence of flowers, the lack of a quick kiss, the way you keep your shoes on. Evidence enough. But this is not a courtroom; it is a dining room designed like a chapel, and he the only minister. He gestures toward the table where two crystal glasses wait.

“Sit. Eat while it is still hot.”

“I’m not hungry,” you answer, voice thin. A rehearsal line, spoken too early.

Hannibal’s smile is pale and precise. “How unfortunate. Desire is the seasoning of life; without it, meals—and people—go bland.”

You swallow. “Actually, that’s sort of why I need to talk to you.”

A flick of genuine curiosity warms his gaze. “Proceed.”

You set the bag down—as though placing an infant in a cradle—and fold your hands so tight your knuckles blanch. “I’m leaving, Hannibal. I love you, but I can’t keep living like this. The intensity. The things we see. The things I suspect.” Your throat clicks. “I booked a flight for tomorrow night.”

He watches, unreadable, yet the room seems to contract around your lungs. You expect rage or persuasion—perhaps the cold scalpel of logic—but Hannibal simply pours the wine. Ruby liquid swirls, catching chandelier light like arterial spray. “Merlot,” he murmurs. “Full-bodied. Loyal to the tongue once tasted.”

You flinch at the metaphor. He notices.

“May I ask,” he continues softly, “how long you have planned this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Only to measure my own blindness.”

That stings—he lets it. Silence grows carnivorous, devouring oxygen. Finally, you force the words: “I can’t sleep beside you without wondering if you’re dissecting the sound of my breathing, cataloguing my pulse like… like a specimen.”

Hannibal’s eyelids lower, savoring the accusation. “And you do not wish to be studied?”

“I want to be loved, not preserved.”

He sets his glass down untouched. “You do not leave a relationship like ours the way one leaves a café, closing the door with a polite bell. Love of this caliber is an ecosystem; uproot one vine and entire orchards die.” He steps forward, slow enough not to spook you. “Come here.”

“No.”

“Come.”

Your refusal quavers. He hears the hairline crack—fear, yes, but also history, trust, longing. He steps closer, enough for you to smell rosemary and bone marrow on his cuffs. “Look at me.” Two fingers tilt your chin with something gentler than force, crueler than kindness. “If you must leave, you will at least understand what you abandon.”

“I have shown you every layer of myself,” he says, voice husky with something perilously near pain. “Curated symphonies for your moods. Fed you truth in courses small enough to digest. I have tolerated your moral fevers—your nights of conscience when you fled my bed to retch over thoughts you could not bear.”

Your eyes brim. He brushes a tear away, studying it on his thumb like a jeweler inspecting flawed crystal. “And still you stayed.”

“I stayed because I believed—”

“Because you belong,” he finishes, tone silk-steel. “As surely as spleen belongs beneath the ribcage. Remove it, and the body suffers cascades of failure.”

You shake your head. “That’s not love, Hannibal. That’s possession.”

“Possession is merely the visible spectrum of love.” He smiles, sad and terrible. “The rest lies in wavelengths few can see.”

The room tilts; you step back until the wall stops you. He follows, not hunting—orbiting. “Tell me what future awaits you in whatever city you have chosen. A small apartment. Weeknight dinners of wilted takeout. You will google therapists who promise immunity from the extraordinary. And still, when it rains, you will taste saffron and wonder if I am cooking somewhere nearby.”

Your breath fractures. “Stop.”

“Say instead: continue. Honesty deserves encouragement.”

“I said stop!”

He does. The sudden obedience unsettles you more than pursuit. Hannibal folds his hands behind his back, posture of a surgeon waiting for anesthesia to take hold.

“If your fear is police,” he says, “know they cannot protect you from an ache that originates inside your own ribs. If your fear is me—” he inclines his head—“then you admit I live within you already, and distance is a theatrical illusion.”

You glare, wounded animal edging toward fight. “You think I’m too weak to leave.”

“I think,” he answers softly, “that you are strong enough to attempt it but too sentient to succeed.”

You retrieve the bag, slinging it over one shoulder like a life raft. “I’m going to a hotel tonight.”

Hannibal steps aside, courteous. He even opens the front door. Lamp-lit drizzle threads the street; taxi lights bloom like fireflies. You hesitate in the threshold, cold biting your cheeks. “May I offer you an umbrella?” he asks.

“No.”

“Very well.” He leans against the doorframe, half in shadow, half in amber glow. “You will return.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I have prepared the cassoulet precisely to your palate.” He gestures toward the dining room. Steam curls skyward like a prayer. “When hunger humbles you, my address will be the only one your body recalls.”

You almost laugh—a ragged, incredulous sound. “People move on, Hannibal.”

“Indeed,” he agrees. “But not from sacrament.”

The hotel bed is too white, too flat; your muscles remember the give of his mattress, the scent of bergamot on starched sheets. You dream of silverware glinting under low chandeliers, of a wine glass that never empties. You wake at 2:14 a.m. and realize you are starving.

Dawn paints Baltimore in bruise-purple shadow. You stand outside his townhouse—bag still clutched, pride bleeding from a thousand paper-cut doubts. Before you can knock, the door opens. He has been awake, of course, reading by the fire, hearing your shoes in the gravel. Hannibal says nothing, only lifts an eyebrow that asks, Hungry?

You nod, throat too raw for speech. He takes the bag, sets it gently inside the foyer—never once looking to see whether you intend to stay. Because he knows.

In the kitchen, cassoulet waits, kept warm through the night. You sit. He pours. The first spoonful is a benediction laced with surrender, and when you finally meet his eyes across the table, you expect triumph. Instead you find relief—vast and tidal—as though the world has balanced upon its axis again. “Welcome home.”