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fawnnlvr · 8 days ago

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red velvet hair | criminal minds

summary: in which the bau is never fully prepared for the disturbing stories of one of their assistant agents who never fails to leave them absolutely speechless.

pairing: criminal minds x catvalentine!reader

word count: 1.5k

warning: this is so stupid. mentions of blood and mental illness because cat valentine. ♥︎ this is truly the stupidest thing i have ever written and willingly posted. im sorry in advance to whoever has the misfortune of coming across this.

masterlist

author's note: this is honestly for doodoos and giggles. i just like the idea of having a ditzy reader like cat valentines absolutely traumatize the already traumatize. also, i know i should be posting about my hot!diva!reader but a girl can get distracted :( also i just love victorious and i might do her helping out spencer with his addiction because cat was addicted to bibble.

The BAU wasn't really sure how you got hired as a apart of the behavioral analysis unit since they were not sure how you passed the psychological evaluation or written tests. You were what the FBI considered a special exception, just like Spencer Reid since you were extrodinary in passing the phsyical tests and using unique ways to solve problems. You also were very charming towards your instructors and Strauss. It weren't even the little things that led them to question how your mind worked, it was the things you'd say and do outright that you considered to be normal; today was one of those days that Hotch made another mental note to get you drug tested later on.

You and Penelope gathered around Spencer's desk to see the photo that Penelope had printed out. You leaned on Spencer's chair while Penelope leaned on top of the desk as you all stared in shock.

"It's remarkable. Something like this makes you questioned everything you thought you knew." Spencer stated, shaking his head at Emily's photo as you nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, it's like the monolith in 2001." The computer tech commented, a teasing tone in her voice as she eyed Emily who sat not too far away.

"So there was actually a time when something like this was socially acceptable?"

Penelope sighed at Spencer's inquiry, "You and [Name] are young. 80s left a lot of people confused. This is erm... especially sad."

"Alright. Very funny guys. Very funny." Emily finally spoke out in a dry tone, snatching the paper out of Penelope's hand. "What'd you do to it?"

"Do?" Garcia hid a laugh.

"You obviously altered it in photoshop or something — that hair." Emily scoffed, as she showed the photo towards them, not believing it was ever her.

"Oh— no pussycat, that is— that's all you. Garfield High, class of '89."

Emily peered down back at the photo, a new frown appearing in her face, "You really didn't change anything?"

"I hacked it as is. You're really trying to tell me you don't remember rocking that look."

"Perhaps your lack of recognition stems from a dissociative fugue suffered from an adolescence. Say it a Siouxsie and the Banshees concert." Spencer joked which caused penelope to giggle but you were very confused.

"Who?"

"You don't know Sioxsie and the — nevermind" Emily cut herself off, sighing. It was already terrible that she graduated in the 80s and she did not need to be reminded of her age yet again.

"Well whoever they are, they must be pretty cool. I think you looked really cool in your yearbook photo, Emily." you said with such sincere and genuiness that the receiver of the compliment's heart warm.

"You think I looked cool?"

"Yeah! We could've maybe had been friends had we gone to school together. But, what happened to the coolness now?" you tilted your head. You asked the question without any hint of malicious intent, and full of genuine curiosity. You like when people dressed goth or alternative. You never were one for status quos and your entire high school was filled with people of that nature.

Spencer and Penelope stifled a laugh as Emily stared out into space, questioning where her life went wrong to have such a backhanded compliment by a girl who used to skip the number three when counting. They learned that habit was fixed during your FBI academy days.

"What are we talking about?" Morgan had joined the group, a cup of coffee in his hand. "Woah! Prentiss, that's you? Oh my that is, something!"

"What is going on?" Rossi followed behind Morgan, the same suprise is evident on his face. "Oh! That is a... lovely photo."

"You know what, what did you guys look like in high school because I am positive we all went through a phase." Emily asked, defensiveness clear in her tone.

"Well fear not because I had time this morning for another hacking of a fellow agent, Miss [Surname], and let's just say that I have never felt more jealous of a life lived than yours my dear."

"Oooo I haven't seen this picture in a while!" you squealed, excited to see how you were at one of the happiest times in your life. Penelope brought out the photo and everybody gathered around, curious as to what era of you they would see.

They always knew that you were a sort of special type of person but they had only met you in this era of your life. The you they know and love is somebody who is undeniably herself and a sweetheart who gives everybody her love unconditionally.

They never would've expected for Penelope to pull up a photo of an alternative fairy-like girl. You looked into the camera with the smile of a model in the perfect position that caught you from all the good angles. Your head perfectly tilted just a teensy bit down, your smile not quite reaching your eyes but offering a sense of lightheartedness and mischief, and your eyes captured this sort of fun youthfulness. You also wore a hot pink off the shoulder shirt with cybersigilism prints and many metal necklaces. But what caught the other agent's eyes the most was your red hair.

"Did you get your photo professionally taken?" Spencer inquired, his mouth still slightly agape.

"You barely aged! What year did you graduate?" Rossi asked, although he wasn't quite sure he wanted to hear the answer at his old age.

"Hollywood Arts, class of 2002." It had been six years since then but still at 24 years old, you barely changed in terms of style from your high school self.

"You went to an arts school?" Emily asked and you enthusiastically nodded.

"Who would've guessed I would've joined the FBI?" you laughed, reflecting on how much life had changed since then, "One time, I performed in a play as this spy who used bananas as a gun and now I get to use a real one. How crazy is that?"

"More concerning than crazy." Spencer muttered under his breath.

"What's with the red hair?" Morgan was still fixated on your dyed hair which sort of did make sense from how much you already express yourself through your clothing and personality like Penelope had.

"I had red hair for I think six years, but my hair wasn't exactly the healthiest so now it's natural, but i loved it so much." you shared with them.

"Why did you choose red?" Penelope questioned and you laughed because to you, the background behind the decision was one you could look back and find humor in.

At that moment, Hotch and JJ quickly made their way towards the bullpen area to inform the rest of the new case that had landed onto them that needed their utmost attention.

"That's actually a really fun story. In my freshmen year—" Hotch and JJ knew better than to interupt your while you are sharing a story because it could either truly be a fun story, or a disturbing one that they would later bookmark to discuss with you later. "I snuck out of my house to hang with my friends and when I tried sneaking back inside— my brother thought i was an intruder—"

The entire group could imagine where this story was going because any mention of your older brother never involved anything good nor legal, but none of them could have expected the full story. Except Doctor Reid, who quickly tied together the red hair connection to the scared brother.

"And so he took a vase and smashed it over my head. I was like knocked down for a few seconds but when I pulled myself up, I looked in the mirror and the blood had stained my hair since I had blonde highlights and I thought— wow, I look amazing with it! So later that week, I dyed it red. I also just really love red velvet cupcakes."

You innocently looked at the reactions of your fellow agents and none of them could speak. Emily opened then closed her mouth. Spencer couldn't even muster up any words for the first time in forever as you left his mouth slightly agape once again. He had predicted the story's route but even as he did, he is never prepared for you to actually say it. Sometimes he sort of hopes he is wrong, but on the off chance that he is, the story is always weirder or more disturbing than he imagined.

JJ and Penelope just locked eyes and couldn't move. Hotch blinked at you with the same stare of, 'We will call the counselor again'. Rossi learned to stop getting suprise and just offered you an encouraging smile and thankfully, he broke the silence.

"Red velvet cupcakes do look scrumptious. The red hair suited you."

You had an innocent laugh, "Right? When me and my friends performed a food song to little kids, I even dressed as a red velvet cupcakes. I had this whipped cream hat and everything."

"Um, I think Hotch and JJ have a case." Spencer stated and everybody did their best to snap out of their daze and direct their attention towards what should be more important.

"[Surname], can you please get the preparations ready for the trip." Hotch stated. You were the assistant of the group and part of your job involved getting traveling arrangements ready and helping JJ communicate with people.

"On it, sir!" You walked away without a care in the world as the rest of the agents made their way to the briefing room.

"Hotch." Morgan stated his superior's name with loud concern.

"I know Morgan."

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader fluff #criminal minds crackfic #emily prentiss x reader #spencer reid fluff

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rednightmare18 · 2 months ago

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oh, fine. let's talk about sin.

This is a note about religion and KCD2—particularly how it applies to Hans & Henry’s relationship development.

It isn’t my intention to write the definitive post on this subject, and this is certainly not an academic summary, a Tumblr History Lesson, or a thesis statement on why you can’t write whatever the hell you please. But as much as I detest fandom discourse, I also dislike seeing my words misused as a bludgeon against fan writers, and so I am stepping in to provide what I hope will be some useful CliffsNotes to everyone.

Take them or leave them, they are here with the intention to help fic writers make (briefly) informed decisions about how to embark on their creative research. KCD2 spoilers under the cut. PSA: If I see you using this nastily to harass fanfic writers you don't like, I will be very upset with you.

The medieval Catholic Church's doctrines were not representative of a homogeneous, mythical One Medieval Worldview on everyday life—nor was the MCC a monolith of its own. It is important to differentiate the Catholic institution from “the average medieval person’s ideas about daily life.” A quick foray into documents and moral treatises written by church officials at the time will reveal that the clergy was also not a monolith, but a hierarchy of individuals with vastly different ideas and recommendations on how humans should live. We simply cannot stamp a single religious document, decree, or interpretation (that was successfully published and preserved for hundreds of years; the vast majority were not) as a one-size-fits-all primer on what your average village blacksmith thought about things. I would certainly bristle were a historian from 2800 to suggest my country’s government & preeminent religious institutions painted an accurate picture of my (or my neighbors’) moral opinions on every subject under the sun. I bet you would, too. Critically, this does not mean all the common people embraced same-sex romance and all the religious officials reviled it. Indeed, it means people are people and their opinions will differ based on their personal experience, environment, personality, and priorities. Christianity profoundly affected the medieval world and mentality in ways both conscious and unconscious, much as any major global religion does, but it does not and did not make Europe into a dystopian Christian hivemind that thoughtlessly parroted a single unified view of every topic under the sun.

Religious opposition vs. religious guilt. Remembering that “people are people,” it is likewise important to differentiate religious opposition from religious guilt. Male lovers, particularly those in a position of high status (who were expected to produce heirs), would certainly face opposition to their desire to fuck off into the woods and kiss their boyfriend forever. It would certainly not be prudent or safe for a minor lord like Hans Capon to openly flaunt his romantic love for his squire; religiosity-fueled accusations of sodomy were useful as political bludgeons to threaten enemies and de-legitimize rivals. Caution is required. However, I find it is also important to note that Hans and Henry seem to express no personal guilt over their love for each other, religious or otherwise. It is telling that they do not step back from their relationship after consummating it under duress; on the contrary, both of them immediately seem to take it for granted that they will continue sharing their lives without any further negotiation required, and admitting their romantic feelings for each other has changed little of this, save for bringing them closer and providing relief. It is also telling that if Henry chooses to confess to his dream-parents that his devotion to Hans is romantic in nature, they react with surprise, but do not lecture him about sin. (In fact, his mother immediately leaps to Henry’s defense after his father reacts with shock.) Henry himself expresses no grief to them beyond a vague acknowledgement that hearing this must be a surprise. This is important—Henry’s parents appear in his dreams as representations of Henry’s inner doubts, guilt, grief, and misgivings. They do not throw up any real opposition or disgust to his intention to “settle down” with Hans. (Which is frankly a bonkers thing for Henry to say in any sense.) Despite the opposition they face from their environment and the expectations of status placed upon them—and despite Hans’s anxiety about being forced into a betrothal and how this may frustrate his intention to spend every waking moment with Henry—Henry and Hans both seem to feel completely positive about consummating their romantic relationship. For all intents and purposes, they canonically provide each other with comfort, love, and certainty. Not a shred of guilt or self-hate bubbles up into the canon text where each other is concerned. (This isn’t to say you can’t add this element in your fanworks if you choose. I’m not your dream-Martin!) NOTE: There is one moment during The Kiss scene in which Henry shows clear inner conflict. After Hans initiates a kiss (that Henry visibly rushes to accept), Henry turns his face away from him briefly, which causes Hans to perceive rejection and scurry away. Henry's expression is visibly troubled before he turns to the door. I see a valid argument for interpreting this brief expression of distress as gut-reaction frustration or revulsion, either at himself or even to the physical kiss, but we don’t really have enough canon input to say for certain what causes this flash of doubt. In any case, when it’s gone, it’s gone. At least for the purposes of KCD2 where it left us. You can’t “break up” with Hans after this or back out of the romance; Henry has decided for himself that the only way to go is forward.

Everything’s the same—but different. Homophobia in the 1400s was a different beast from homophobia in the 2000s. I will not dive into this here because I've written about it elsewhere to share background research on my own monastery fic, and because the topic is far too large to summarize in a bullet-pointed list. Simply, the medieval world did not codify sex acts or romantic feelings as identity markers in the way we do; while sodomy was certainly a taboo, this was a classification of non-reproductive sex acts, not slang for “gay man.” We cannot, in essence, “backport” our contemporary homophobia into the Middle Ages; it doesn’t make sense. Similarly, we cannot backport our bizarre late-1900s+ anxiety about pregnancy termination into 1403, but if you think I'm going to dive into that here except by way of brief comparison, you are cuh-razy. Worth noting that taboo also does not mean alien... or secret. More on that below.

Normalcy, Secrecy, and Taboo. One thing KCD2 (and KCD1, to a lesser extent) does very well is dismiss the Victorianized pseudo-history that same-sex romance, sex, and affection were some sort of widely-kept secret from society that did not dawn upon people until the second half of the thousands. In KCD, no one is surprised or bewildered by stories, both fictional and local, of same-sex lovers. Yes, medieval people knew about gay sex and no, “discovering” that it exists would not have shocked them—because a taboo is not necessarily an unknown. While NPCs react with different shades of opinion to conversations about same-sex romance, the world does not treat this as alien; it wasn’t. It is discussed casually, albeit with some discretion depending on context and company. KCD2 even enables you to play a Henry who has had prior sexual experience with men (see the Black Bartosch interactions) and has already embraced his own same-sex attraction to the extent he can confidently, casually sexually advance on men.

The Elephant in the Room: Class. Remember that the class divide at hand provides as much—if not more—opposition than the religiosity. Feudalism itself was built into medieval Catholicism. I sometimes think KCD downplays the importance of class, especially in KCD1, as it allows Henry to openly speak to Hans in ways that are unthinkably inappropriate given the feudal consciousness of the time, with almost no punishment or reaction from those around them. Not just because these interactions might indeed arouse suspicions of same-sex romance, but because a commoner risks severe punishment (or death!) for putting his hands on a lord, interrupting him, and insulting him in public. (Yes, including a noble’s bastard, a designation which is more harmful than not in many ways.) That's not to say Hans himself would not allow Henry to speak to him in this way; it's clear he desperately enjoys the novelty of someone who speaks to him freely, even in the earliest hours of KCD1, before they are tightly bonded. But it is strange there is so little blowback or external punishment for Henry when he baps His Lordship upside the head and calls him a buffoon in front of a gaggle of His Lordship's soldiers, on the precipice of dangerous military action, with Captain Bernard no doubt on the verge of apoplexy nearby. For this reason more than any other, I would argue, Henry and Hans’s relationship spits in the face of feudal order—and it does so even without the romantic consummation.

That's enough of that now, Jesus. I hope someone finds this to be a helpful bullet-point summary and it facilitates a more confident venture into historical fiction research! So TLDR; regarding the fandom's current anxiety of, "Am I making the Sin of it all too big of a deal?" my ultimate answer is yes, but also no, for it deeply depends on the context and the creator's intention. Love you lady, buhbye.

#kingdom come deliverance #kcd2 spoilers #henry of skalitz #hans capon #hansry

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 10 days ago

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𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 — 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐝

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 ]

𝐚/𝐧 : To the anon who infected me with this brainrot — thank you. You gave me the excuse I didn’t know I needed to spiral into unhinged Sylus/Zayne territory and honestly? I regret nothing.

I know this won’t be everyone’s cup of venom, and guess what? I don’t care. I had the most fucking fun writing this. The tension? The filth? The power-play in a hospital of all places? I blacked out and woke up with a smirk and open wounds.

This is indulgent, messy, and exactly how I wanted it to be.

To the rest of you who get it — welcome to the descent. 🖤

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : When Sylus stumbles into the hospital, bloodied and half-feral, the last person he expects to find waiting is Zayne—calm, cold, and far too composed. But beneath the antiseptic lights and tension-laced stitching, something unspoken begins to crack. A rivalry forged in fire gives way to something darker, deeper… needier. And when the night finally stills, their restraint does not.

Enemies don’t always stay enemies—especially when desire tastes like blood and victory comes in moans.

𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐰 : blood and injury, a brief hospital setting, explicit sexual content between two male characters (Sylus x Zayne, SnowCrow), rough sex, biting, mild dominance dynamics, and themes of emotional repression. NSFW

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 : angel - slowed // velours

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧 : [ Press Here! ]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒.

It breathes in pain, exhales panic. The walls tremble with the weight of suffering—hallways pulsate with noise, machines bleating like dying animals, voices clashing like metal on metal. Somewhere, someone is sobbing. The sound slices through sterile air with the precision of shattered glass.

Sylus moves through it untouched.

Blood paints him—slick, warm, insistent. It clings to his leather like it belongs there, seeping through to the muscle beneath, fusing with him. His boots strike the polished floor in steady, wet percussion, leaving behind a trail he doesn’t bother concealing.

He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

A nurse sees him first—her eyes widen, mouth parting around a gasp or a warning or a question, none of which matter. She steps into his path, clipboard clutched like a shield against the storm she senses too late.

He crashes through her like wind through brittle glass.

Another makes the mistake of reaching for him near the triage desk. He shoulders her aside without pause, a statue in motion, merciless and monolithic.

Their voices follow, desperate and distant.

“Sir, wait—”

“You’re bleeding—!”

“Security—!”

He keeps going.

Pain gnaws at his ribs—sharp, insistent—but it’s a whisper compared to the mission that devours him from the inside out.

Ahead, the elevator blinks. Its numbers crawl down at a glacial pace.

Too slow.

Too fucking slow.

He doesn’t think—he veers, pivoting toward the stairwell like a creature redirected by instinct alone. His blood-slick hand slams against the door’s push bar, and it groans open under his weight.

Then he runs.

Boots drum down the concrete steps like war, each impact sending fire lancing through his side. He doesn’t falter. He can’t. Not now.

Adrenaline screams beneath his skin. Rage—hotter, purer—follows in its wake.

The landings blur. Floors melt into one another—white lights, grey walls, the stench of disinfectant and dread. None of it registers. None of it matters.

Administrative wing. End of the hall. Last door on the right.

The thought pulls him forward like gravity—dark, absolute, inescapable. Something waits for him at the end of this path. Something inevitable.

He bursts through the stairwell door, shoulder first. The executive floor yawns open—pristine, glistening, wrong. Too quiet. Too clean. An illusion of order wrapped over rot.

His blood hits the tiles like scripture.

A secretary half-rises from her desk. Her face distorts—horror, confusion, fear. She opens her mouth.

Sylus looks at her.

She sits back down.

Good.

His wound screams now, louder with every breath, but he silences it. He has to.

He doesn’t stop until he’s at the end of the corridor, until the carved wood of the office door stands before him like a final trial.

Until he’s close enough to feel it—that heartbeat pulsing steady and slow on the other side, like a metronome, like a dare.

Zayne.

Sylus presses a blood-wet palm flat against the door.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does.

The door gives under his palm, swinging open with a low, reluctant groan.

The air inside is different. Cleaner. Colder.

Sylus crosses the threshold without hesitation, dragging streaks of crimson across the sterile floor. Behind him, the heavy door thuds shut, sealing the world out like the lid of a tomb.

Zayne is already standing. No coat. No gloves. Sleeves rolled back, throat bare, the razor line of his jaw catching the light like a blade.

For a stretched, brutal moment, neither man speaks.

Sylus feels it—the weight of that gaze, glacial and unblinking, raking over every torn, blood-slick edge of him. He meets it head-on, jaw locked, a silent refusal to flinch.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t waver. No frown. No widening of the eyes. Only calculation. Only that familiar, lethal patience that strips a man down to the bone.

The silence between them crackles, louder than the chaos Sylus left bleeding behind him.

He takes another step forward, deliberate, blood dripping from his fingertips to splatter on the immaculate tile. The room presses against him—too bright, too clean—as if the walls themselves are trying to scrub the violence from his skin.

He lets them try. He does not yield.

Zayne leans back against the edge of his desk, arms folding loosely across his chest, posture crafted with casual disinterest.

A lie.

Sylus sees it—the slight clench of his jaw, the betraying flicker of a pulse at his throat.

It would be easier if one of them spoke. If they named the thing that strangled the air between them, heavy and hungry and vicious.

Neither does.

Sylus tilts his head in a lazy, almost mocking angle. Blood slides down his wrist, tracing over his knuckles before kissing the floor.

Zayne’s eyes follow the movement, clinical, sharp.

Still, he says nothing.

Still, he doesn't move.

They stay there—locked in the kind of quiet only men like them can survive—made of defiance, of pride, of something darker and uglier festering beneath the surface. Both unwilling to yield. Both already bleeding from it.

The metallic tang of blood thickens at the back of Sylus’s throat. He smiles anyway—a slow, jagged thing, all teeth and no mercy.

Zayne’s lips part slightly, the ghost of a word forming, then dying.

Instead, he straightens to his full height, uncrossing his arms with a patience that could kill a man.

He turns to the tray of surgical tools laid out with clinical precision. His movements are steady, practiced, cold.

Another lie.

Sylus watches every motion—the way Zayne’s fingers curl, precise and impersonal—though Sylus knows there is nothing impersonal about this.

Not tonight.

Zayne lifts a pair of sterile scissors from the tray, the metal flashing wickedly under the overhead lights.

When his voice finally cuts through the thick silence, it slices clean to the bone.

“Take the jacket off.”

No question. No hesitation. No kindness.

Just command—sharp and undeniable.

Sylus’s grin widens, slow and feral, sharp enough to bleed.

This was going to be fun.

He shrugs the jacket off one shoulder.

Not quickly. Not efficiently.

Deliberately. With precision masquerading as compliance. Each motion a provocation sheathed in silk.

The leather clings for a moment—blood acting as glue—then peels away with a soft, viscous sound. The lining is stained deep red, like meat flayed from bone. Beneath, the muscle gleams where blood has smeared and dried, slick over the sharp terrain of his bicep, the curve of his ribs.

He keeps his eyes locked on Zayne.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t wince.

Lets the silence stretch between them like barbed wire, taut and trembling.

The other sleeve slips free with slow defiance, dragging across tense forearms until the ruined jacket hangs from his fingers—dripping, warm, still humming with violence.

He drops it.

It lands at his feet with a wet slap, blood blooming beneath it like something obscene and living.

Zayne doesn’t look down.

He’s too busy watching Sylus.

Not merely watching—studying, the way a marksman watches for the exact breath before a body breaks. His arms hang loose now, no longer folded. His fingers twitch once, subtly, betraying restraint. As though they ache to move. As though they’re waiting for permission neither of them will give.

Sylus draws in a slow breath through his nose.

Lets the moment breathe with him.

The silence of the hospital folds in—clinical, cold, pretending not to notice the electricity crawling up its walls.

Then Sylus reaches for the hem of his shirt. Torn. Soaked. Clinging like a lover that doesn’t know when to let go.

He grips the fabric with both hands and pulls. Inch by inch, it peels upward, exposing flesh mapped with bruises, scrapes, half-healed chaos. The cut along his side snags the cloth, forces a sharp hiss through his teeth.

Still, he keeps going. Still, he doesn’t look away.

The shirt comes off in one final rip—discarded without ceremony, a blood-soaked flag of war flung at Zayne’s feet.

Now bare to the waist, Sylus stands still.

Wounded. Unbothered. Unapologetic.

There’s blood dried in the hollow of his throat. Sweat slicks the small of his back. Scars catch the light like secrets.

He is beautiful in his ruin. Defiant in his vulnerability.

Zayne says nothing.

But the tension in his jaw speaks volumes.

He steps forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Scissors in one gloved hand—controlled, precise, surgical. Not trembling. Not urgent. But not untouched, either.

Sylus sees it.

In the flicker of his gaze. In the mouth drawn too tight. In the way Zayne’s eyes pause just a second too long over the curve of a rib, the ghost of a scar.

Zayne lifts the blade.

Holds it near Sylus’s skin.

Doesn’t touch. Not yet.

When he speaks, the word lands low, rough-edged, soaked in command.

“Sit.”

Just one word. One drop of control dropped into a room full of gasoline.

Sylus doesn’t obey. Not immediately.

He smiles first—wider now. All teeth, all understanding. The kind of smile that threatens and invites in the same breath.

Then, slowly, like he's offering charity to a starving man, he lowers himself into the chair.

Not obedient. Not submissive. Just choosing, for now, to allow.

Zayne moves without speaking.

He sets the scissors aside with methodical care, the faint clink of metal barely audible over the hum of fluorescent lights, too bright, too sterile. The tray beside him is a battlefield of precision: gauze, antiseptic, needle, thread—all clean, all sharp, all lies.

Nothing about this feels clean.

He tears open a swab, soaks it in antiseptic. The smell strikes first—chemical, brutal, a memory of every failure written into the bloodstream.

Sylus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t brace. Just spreads his knees a fraction wider and leans back, silent, waiting.

Zayne steps between his legs.

No permission asked. None needed.

The first press of soaked cotton lands just beneath Sylus’s collarbone.

It burns.

Not from the wound.

From the hand that holds it—steady, clinical, too careful by half.

Zayne doesn’t look at him. His gaze stays fixed, surgical. Or pretends to be. As if Sylus is nothing but meat and blood and damage to be stitched back together. As if this isn't a different kind of dissection.

The swab moves in slow, precise circles, tracing bruises like they mean something. Like he’s reading a map only he understands.

The room thickens with it.

Not pain. Not blood. Something worse.

The lack of it—no slips, no gasps, no mistakes.

Zayne is too careful. Zayne, who isn't supposed to care.

And yet— —the fingers in the gloves tremble, just once, just enough, the smallest rebellion against the mask he wears.

Sylus notices. Of course he notices.

Zayne switches to a fresh swab, the next drag of alcohol biting down Sylus’s ribs. The motion forces proximity—his face close enough that Sylus can feel the ghost of breath over his skin, accidental or not.

Sylus tilts his head, lazy, predatory. Watches from beneath half-lidded eyes.

Zayne doesn’t react.

Or tries not to.

Another swab. Another pass. Each one slower than the last.

There’s a gash along Sylus’s side—shallow, ugly, insistent. Zayne presses gauze to it, firm, unkind. His other hand braces Sylus’s hip, gloved fingers pressing down too tightly, gripping too long.

Sylus breathes through his nose. Endures it.

No wince. No break.

When Zayne pulls away, Sylus shifts.

Barely.

But it’s enough—enough that the inside of his thigh drags against Zayne’s leg.

Contact. Friction. Intention.

Zayne freezes.

Just for a breath.

Then he moves—careful, controlled—reaching for the needle already threaded, already waiting.

His voice, when it finally cracks the silence, is quieter now. Not softer.

“Hold still.”

No please. No kindness. Just another command, brittle at the edges.

Sylus’s lips part. His tongue flicks against the inside of his cheek— —not a smile. Not this time.

Only the ghost of something darker, meaner, hungrier.

He doesn't move.

But the stillness is a lie.

Because they both know—

—hands always start shaking eventually.

The needle bites into flesh.

Sharp. Clean. Unapologetic.

Sylus doesn’t flinch.

No hiss, no grunt—only the steady, deliberate rise and fall of his chest, breath anchored low like a weight dropped into deep water.

Zayne’s hand moves with mechanical precision—push, pull, knot, cut—the rhythm of a man carving distance into something already too close.

Each stitch is perfect. Small. Precise. Surgically cruel.

But perfection never holds.

By the fourth puncture, the tremor starts.

Subtle at first—a tightening around Zayne’s fingers, a twitch at the wrist.

The needle hovers a fraction too long against torn skin, hesitation bleeding into the room.

Sylus feels it.

Feels everything.

His gaze drops—not to the wound, not to the blood—but to Zayne’s mouth. The clenched line of his jaw. The muscles in his throat working against the weight of restraint.

The next stitch sinks deeper than necessary.

Not an accident.

A message.

Sylus exhales, slow and deep, the breath ghosting against Zayne’s forearm where it cages him close. The contact is incidental. Harmless.

Weaponized.

Zayne’s fingers tighten on the needle, the thread drawn taut enough to hum with tension.

Sylus shifts, deliberate—muscle flexing beneath gloved hands, a sinuous reminder of everything Zayne is touching, everything he’s trying so hard to treat like just another body broken open by violence.

The next stitch drags.

Not smooth. Not clean.

Zayne makes a sound—small, unguarded, almost a breath—but Sylus catches it. Tastes it. Tucks it away like a trophy.

He tilts his head, lets his voice spill out low and poisoned, a blade wrapped in silk.

"You're losing your touch."

The words slip into the room like smoke through cracks, seeping into marrow.

Zayne doesn't answer.

He doesn't have to.

The thread pulls harder. The needle punctures deeper. His hand presses firmer against Sylus’s side, pinning him under the thin excuse of stability.

But they both know better.

It isn’t the wound Zayne’s trying to steady.

It’s himself.

Sylus’s mouth curves—not into a grin, not this time—but into something colder.

Hungrier.

Challenge, sharpened to a lethal edge.

When Zayne leans in to set the next stitch, Sylus moves—barely—a calculated tilt of the head that brushes their faces together.

Skin against skin. A whisper of violence. A prayer of desecration.

Zayne freezes.

The needle hangs suspended, half-threaded.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, the room holds its breath with them.

Sylus inhales the sharp, chemical tang of antiseptic, but underneath it, something richer coils—salt, blood, heat, the feral stench of fury barely contained.

Zayne pulls back.

Sharp. Controlled.

Barely.

The suture snaps tight under a brutal final tug, knotting the last line of blood shut with a surgeon’s precision and a fighter’s violence.

Finished.

At least on the surface.

The needle drops into the tray with a clatter, metallic and final, too loud for the suffocating quiet.

Zayne peels one of off his gloves next, slow, methodical, his fingers flexing like a man reminding himself of every inch of skin he hasn't yet surrendered.

Yet.

Sylus leans back in the chair, shirtless, bloodied, smiling the way only men who have already won do.

And maybe he has.

Because Zayne’s hands are no longer steady.

And Sylus—

—Sylus isn’t done pushing.

Sylus watches everything.

The way Zayne breathes through his nose. The way his spine locks rigid. The way restraint leaks out of him molecule by molecule, a slow, irreversible hemorrhage no amount of professionalism can suture shut.

Good.

Sylus shifts—barely—but the sound of his boot scraping the floor splits the quiet like a crack in porcelain.

A warning. A dare.

Then, with blood-slicked fingers, he lifts a hand and wraps it around Zayne’s wrist.

Not tight. Not rough.

Just enough to feel the hammering pulse beneath fragile skin.

For one suspended second, Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even breathe.

Sylus tilts his head, the movement lazy, almost cruel, and lets his voice slip free in a low murmur.

“You’re shaking.”

Not a question. An accusation. An invitation.

Zayne’s jaw ticks hard enough to crack bone.

Still, he says nothing.

Coward.

Sylus tightens his grip, just slightly, thumb brushing the frantic beat fluttering against tendons and bone. The betrayal Zayne can’t hide. The confession he can’t choke down.

Sylus leans in—not touching, not bridging the chasm fully—but close enough that his words could bleed straight into Zayne’s bloodstream.

“It’s not the blood that’s getting to you, is it Doctor?”

He watches the swallow hitch Zayne’s throat. Watches the sharp flare of his nostrils. Watches him break, molecule by molecule.

Zayne’s free hand curls into a tighter fist, knuckles whitening under the strain.

Sylus smiles, slow and deliberate.

Predator wearing the skin of patience.

“You want to ruin something, don’t you?”

A whisper. A blade drawn slow across a throat. A mockery crafted over years of bruised silences and things left unsaid.

“Me.” “Yourself.”

Both truths rot between them, sweet and sickening.

Zayne wrenches his wrist free.

Not violently. Not with rage.

With the kind of restraint that bleeds—measured, agonizing, a choice that costs something vital and irreplaceable.

He takes a step back.

Breathing harder now, like the air itself is razors.

Sylus stays seated.

Legs spread, blood drying in ugly constellations across his ribs, wearing destruction like a throne.

Looking, in that moment, like the only goddamn thing in the whole clinical, fluorescent world worth burning for.

And Zayne— Zayne looks at him like he knows it.

They hang there, suspended on the wire of everything they cannot say. Everything that would kill them if spoken.

Sylus tilts his chin up, delivering the final blow in a voice carved from iron and temptation.

"Tell me no."

A beat.

A breath.

"Go on."

Daring him.

Daring him to pretend there’s still a world where either of them can walk away untouched.

Zayne doesn’t answer.

Because there’s no point lying anymore.

Zayne moves.

Fast. Final.

His hand clamps around Sylus’s throat, fingers biting into battered skin, palm pinning him to the chair like a verdict handed down without trial.

The force is controlled—barely. Enough to catch Sylus’s breath, not enough to leave bruises.

Not yet.

Sylus doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t lift a hand. Doesn’t so much as flinch.

He only looks up.

Eyes molten, merciless. Mouth curved in a ghost of a smirk—something too ancient, too ruthless, to be called human.

A dare. A promise. A loaded gun cocked and waiting.

Zayne’s grip tightens, knuckles flashing white under the strain.

His body crowds into Sylus’s space, pressing him back against the hard frame of the chair, pinning him there like a specimen under glass. Every muscle in him vibrates with the effort it takes not to crush, not to consume, not to end this the way every instinct is screaming for.

Sylus tilts his chin higher into the hold, offering up his throat like a king surrendering a crown he never intended to relinquish.

The world beyond the office dies. No footsteps. No voices. No alarms.

Only breathing—strained, brutal—and the cold, relentless tremor crawling up Zayne’s arms.

He leans closer.

Until their foreheads almost touch. Until he can taste defiance thick on Sylus’s skin, salt and heat and inevitability.

Still, Sylus does not blink. Does not speak. Does not yield.

His pulse thrums steady against Zayne’s palm—a taunt, a siren's call, a noose tightening in reverse.

The bastard is enjoying this.

And Zayne—

Zayne is coming undone one heartbeat at a time.

His other hand fists in the back of Sylus’s hair, yanking his head back farther, exposing the ruin of his throat to brutal scrutiny.

A sound rips out of Zayne—low, raw, almost a snarl—the ghost of something feral clawing its way up from the place where he keeps his control buried.

His chest drags rough and ragged against Sylus’s bare skin, a friction that feels more like a confession than any words could ever be.

Sylus lets him.

Lets him see it all—the open wounds, the bruises, the smudged fingerprints of other wars.

None of it mattered.

None of it touched him like this. Only Zayne. Only now.

The chair groans under the strain, Sylus’s shoulders digging into the plastic, his legs spread wide, shameless, relaxed in a way that weaponizes the posture into something obscene.

The look he gives Zayne—half-lidded, mocking, starving—says everything he refuses to utter aloud.

Is this it? Is this all you’ve got?

Zayne’s fingers tighten, riding the bleeding edge between domination and destruction.

And Sylus—

Sylus just smiles.

Wider. Crueler. Knowing.

Because he knows. He’s always known.

Zayne will fall first.

And Sylus will make sure it hurts when he does.

Zayne snaps.

Not with fists. Not with shattered glass.

Something colder. Sharper. Surgical.

His hand tightens once—bruising, warning—before he drives Sylus back against the chair with a jerk hard enough to rattle the frame.

The impact slams through Sylus’s spine—a brutal reminder of leverage, of how easily control could shift hands if he let it.

He doesn’t.

He only laughs.

Low. Dangerous. A sound scraped from the bottom of a broken chest.

Zayne’s palm stays locked at his throat, the other hand twisting tighter into his hair, dragging his head back, leaving his mouth half-parted, his body arched under the pressure.

"Say it," Zayne grits out, voice worn down to something ragged and feral.

His breath scorches across Sylus’s skin, hot and seething, pulled from a mouth stretched too tight to be anything but furious.

Sylus’s lips part— Not in surrender.

In provocation.

"Say what, doc?"

Mockery, pure and venomous, poured straight into the wound.

Zayne’s fingers twitch, his control fraying at the seams.

Sylus feels it—the tremor of rage trembling through every corded muscle straining not to break him apart.

But he doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t yield.

He leans into it—spine grinding harder against the chair, the violence fed into his bones like communion.

Zayne yanks his head back another inch, brutal, stretching the cords of his neck taut, making breath itself a conscious, costly thing.

"Say what you came here for," Zayne snarls. "Say why you dragged your half-dead ass through my hospital."

Sylus’s heart beats slow and steady against the hand trying—and failing—to master it.

He could lie. Could pretend it was proximity, necessity, survival.

But they are too deep now. Too ruined for anything less than the truth.

Sylus drags his tongue across the inside of his cheek, tasting the iron of blood and something meaner lodged between his teeth.

His gaze never leaves Zayne’s.

Not once.

"Came to see if you'd finally break."

A heartbeat. A breath.

Then a whisper, soft and devastating—

"Guess I didn’t have to try that hard."

The words crack the air between them.

Zayne’s snarl is silent, carved into the brutal line of his jaw, the burning fury in his eyes, the death grip bruising Sylus’s throat.

The chair groans under the strain, the screws biting into the frame like they, too, are barely holding together.

Sylus lets it happen.

Lets the pressure bleed through him.

Lets the bruises form.

Lets the moment devour the last scraps of reason between them.

Zayne’s face is so close Sylus can see the fine tremors tracing his mouth.

Can feel every brutal inhale clawing past the wreckage of self-control.

One push from ruin. One word from collapse.

Zayne leans in, mouth brushing dangerously close to Sylus’s ear.

The breath that strikes Sylus’s skin is a furnace blast—hot, wrecked, soaked in promises that should never leave the mind, let alone the mouth.

“One more word,” Zayne rasps, voice broken beyond repair, “and I’ll make you beg.”

Not a threat. A vow.

Sylus’s pulse kicks hard, hammering against the fingers bruising his collarbone.

He could break it here. Now.

One word, one push, and Zayne would shatter.

Instead, he chooses cruelty dressed in silk.

Sylus tilts his head—just enough—until his lips ghost the shell of Zayne’s ear, the barest scrape of contact, the kind that makes breathing a forgotten concept.

His whisper threads velvet and venom into a single, devastating breath.

"Good boy."

Two words.

Soft enough to wound. Sharp enough to destroy.

The reaction is instant.

Zayne jerks back, fury slashing across his features, hands locking down like vices—

—and Sylus moves faster.

His own hand lashes up, seizing the back of Zayne’s neck, fingers threading into the sweat-damp short hair, yanking him down with brutal, merciless force.

No warning. No hesitation. No mercy.

Their mouths crash together in a collision of teeth and violence.

The impact shudders through both of them— violent, graceless, inevitable.

Not a kiss. Not anything so civilized.

An assault. A confession. A dragging out of need from the wreckage they’ve both been pretending didn’t exist.

Zayne fists the meat of Sylus’s side, dragging him higher into the brutal contact, answering violence with violence, hunger with hunger, breathing into the hollow of Sylus’s mouth like he could drown them both before he’d ever let go.

Neither gives ground. Neither yields.

This isn’t surrender.

This is war.

And they’ve both already lost.

Zayne deepens the kiss with a brutal drag of teeth, biting Sylus’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Sylus answers with a vicious sound ripped from the depths of his chest—half-laughter, half-snarl, pure violence dressed in heat.

Their hands grapple for dominance—Zayne shoving, Sylus pulling—until there’s no clear boundary left between them. Only heat, only violence, only the shared ruin of blood and sweat slicking every frantic clash of mouths.

Sylus arches under the onslaught, body snapping taut against Zayne’s weight, every nerve lit up like a battlefield.

This isn’t gentle.

It isn’t careful.

It never could be.

Zayne seizes a fistful of Sylus’s hair, wrenching his head to the side, dragging his mouth along the sharp line of his jaw, teeth scraping a brutal path toward the vulnerable skin just beneath his ear.

He bites there— savage. Claiming. Final.

Sylus gasps against him—a broken, guttural sound—hips canting up in a sharp, desperate grind that leaves no room for pretense.

Zayne answers by slamming him harder against the chair, one hand locking around Sylus’s hip, fingers digging into bruised flesh like he means to leave fingerprints stitched into bone.

The chair groans under their fury, its frame shrieking with every shove, every desperate collision of bodies driven by something far older and darker than want.

Sylus retaliates—nails raking down Zayne’s back through the thin barrier of his shirt—not enough to tear, but enough to mark. Enough to brand.

Zayne's mouth crushes back to Sylus’s—devouring, punishing— a raw collision of teeth and tongue that tastes of blood, rage, and something black and bottomless neither of them dare name.

Their breathing shatters, breaking apart in harsh, ragged gasps, filling the room with the sound of collapse.

Zayne braces one knee between Sylus’s legs, forcing him open wider, grounding him in place, crushing any last delusion of escape between bruised thighs and battered pride.

Sylus takes it.

Takes all of it.

And smiles against Zayne’s mouth like he planned this ruin from the very start.

The kiss twists crueler, angrier—every drag of Zayne’s mouth a curse, every clash of teeth a confession they cannot bury deep enough to silence.

When Zayne finally tears away, ripping the kiss apart with a savage snap of teeth, a thin string of blood smears between them—Sylus’s lip torn open, the red glistening like a war-banner across his mouth.

They freeze there.

Locked. Breathing hard. Hands still fisted in ruined clothes and broken skin.

There’s nothing left to pretend.

Not anymore.

Zayne’s hand remains clamped around Sylus’s throat, thumb dragging a slow, possessive stroke across the bruised column of his neck—half reverence, half claim.

Sylus swallows against the pressure—slow, deliberate—his gaze gleaming with something filthy and victorious.

Sylus lifts a hand.

Slow enough to taunt.

Not to shove Zayne away. Not to fight.

To command.

His fingers brush along the sharp edge of Zayne’s jaw—featherlight, a mockery of tenderness.

He feels it—the tension thrumming beneath skin, the tremor buried deep in muscle and bone.

Good.

Without a word, Sylus presses down.

Down. Guiding. Demanding.

Zayne resists—for half a breath. One strained heartbeat of pride.

Then he sinks to his knees like gravity itself answers to Sylus alone.

The sight is obscene.

Zayne kneeling there— shoulders rigid, fists curled against the cold floor like he could anchor himself against inevitability.

Sylus tilts his head, studying him like something expensive he’s deciding whether to ruin.

Then he spreads his legs wider.

The chair creaks under the slow, deliberate shift of weight, leather whining against blood-slicked skin.

Sylus’s fingers tangle in Zayne’s hair, dragging short strands through his grip with deliberate cruelty.

"Open me up," Sylus says, voice low, wrecked, soaked in sin.

Not a plea.

A command. A sentence.

Zayne looks up through his lashes—eyes blackened with rage, wreckage, worship—and Sylus watches the war rage behind them.

Pride. Fury. Reverence.

All bleeding into something far too raw to name.

Slowly, Zayne’s hands rise.

Unsteady.

Unbuttoning. Unzipping. Dragging down the ruined waistband just enough to bare sharp hipbones and the thick, hard line of Sylus straining against bruised, bloodied skin.

Sylus hums low in his throat—a dark vibration rippling across the fresh bruises blooming along his neck.

His thumb brushes Zayne’s cheekbone—almost tender, almost cruel.

"That's it," he murmurs, a threadbare mercy stitched into the violence.

"Be a good boy for me."

Zayne’s breath stutters against his thigh—hot, broken, wrecked.

Sylus tightens his grip in his hair, tilting his face up, forcing him to hold his gaze.

"You're going to open that pretty mouth," Sylus breathes, thumb stroking the corner of Zayne’s lips, "and take everything I give you."

Zayne doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

He just breathes—shallow, frantic—caught between defiance and the desperate inevitability of submission.

Sylus smiles then.

Slow. Poisonous.

The kind of smile that promises two things: Ruin. And mercy.

Both.

"You want it," he whispers, voice scraping the last vestiges of restraint from the air, "same way you wanted to break me."

He spreads his legs wider—an invitation, a command, a final noose.

Another silent dare.

Another sentence written into skin.

Zayne’s hands clench against Sylus’s thighs—white-knuckled, trembling—but he doesn’t pull away.

Not anymore.

He’s already kneeling. Already gone.

Already home.

And Sylus—

Sylus plans to make sure he never forgets it.

Sylus shifts in the chair, spreading wider, dragging Zayne closer with nothing but the lazy pull of fingers curled deeper into his hair.

Zayne’s breath stutters against Sylus’s exposed skin—hot, uneven, wrecked.

Sylus watches.

Watches the way pride collapses under the gravity of need. Watches the flicker in Zayne’s lashes, the tremble in his fists clenched against Sylus’s thighs like lifelines.

"Go on," Sylus murmurs— a velvet-draped blade. "Be good for me."

The command slices the thick silence clean open.

Zayne obeys.

He leans in.

His mouth brushes the sensitive crease of Sylus’s hip with a reverence that borders on the sacrilegious. His tongue follows—tracing bruised flesh, tasting blood, sweat, salt.

Ruin.

Sylus’s head falls back, a low, broken exhale ripped straight from his chest. His grip tightens in Zayne’s hair—enough to remind him of the leash wound invisible around his throat.

"Fuck—look at you," Sylus hisses, glancing down, gaze locking on Zayne’s wrecked, dark eyes. "On your knees for me."

Zayne answers with nothing but a needy, fractured sound vibrating into Sylus’s skin, his mouth trailing lower, lips drawing a path with aching deliberation.

When his lips close around the head of Sylus’s cock, Sylus’s whole body shudders—not from pain. From the effort it takes not to come apart.

Heat envelopes him—wet, tight, devastating.

His knuckles whiten in Zayne’s hair, anchoring him to the moment, the sensation, the worship.

Zayne moves slow at first—languid, deliberate—mouth dragging inch by inch, pupils blown wide with something filthy and fragile.

Sylus can’t look away.

The sight of him—beautiful, broken, hungry—chokes the air from the room.

He rolls his hips forward, shallow but commanding, deeper into the slick heat of Zayne’s mouth.

Zayne takes it.

Stretches. Chokes. Endures.

His hands bruise into Sylus’s thighs, clutching tight enough to leave marks, enough to say I won’t let go until you make me.

Every gag, every wet, obscene sound fans the fire into something relentless.

Sylus brushes a thumb over the hollow of Zayne’s cheek— feeling the stretch. The effort. The surrender.

"That’s it," he breathes, voice dragging like velvet through gravel, hips rolling harder. "Good fucking boy."

Zayne moans around him, the sound reverberating up Sylus’s spine like a prayer that ends in collapse.

Sylus thrusts deeper—punishing, reverent—his other hand cupping Zayne’s jaw, forcing it wider, forcing him to take it all.

Zayne’s eyes glass over, tears beading in the corners as his throat struggles around each brutal thrust.

Sylus knows he’s cruel.

Knows he should stop.

But he won’t.

He can’t.

Not when Zayne kneels like this.

Not when he offers himself up like something sacred. Something holy and ruined and his.

Sylus fucks harder, the chair rattling beneath them, the frame groaning like it, too, is near collapse.

His climax hits like a blade.

Sudden. Inevitable. Merciless.

He grips Zayne’s jaw, forces his gaze upward.

Look. Look at who’s breaking you.

Their eyes lock.

And Sylus snaps.

He comes down Zayne’s throat with a hoarse, wrecked sound, hips stuttering, fingers gripping so tight Zayne’s scalp screams in protest.

Zayne takes all of it.

Swallows it—messy, greedy, grateful.

Only when Sylus pulls back, breath ragged, does he release the hold on Zayne’s hair.

Zayne stays there. Kneeling. Mouth wrecked. Throat working around the aftertaste of surrender.

Sylus watches him—still sprawled in the chair, still bleeding, still owning every inch of the man knelt before him.

"Good fucking boy," he mutters again, thumb dragging across Zayne’s ruined mouth.

Zayne leans into the touch like he was made for it.

And maybe—

Maybe he was.

Zayne lifts his hand, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist.

The smear of red left behind looks deliberate. Almost elegant. Like art rendered in aftermath.

He doesn’t look at Sylus when he speaks, voice husky but controlled.

“You’ve made your point.”

Then he rises.

Pushes off the floor with a composure too careful to be real.

His knees crack as he straightens—the sound loud in the thick, ruined silence.

He smooths the wrinkles from his slacks like a man trying to stitch himself back into dignity.

Sylus says nothing.

Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Zayne’s hands brush dust—blood, sweat, the last fragments of pride—from his thighs with surgical precision. Like he can erase what just happened if he’s careful enough. Like it didn’t touch something vital.

He turns without waiting for a response. Walks to his desk.

Measured. Unhurried.

His spine is too straight. Every step bleeding tension he pretends isn’t there.

He reaches for something—paperwork, a folder, maybe just the illusion of barrier.

But behind him—

The chair creaks.

Soft. Subtle. Predatory.

Sylus rises.

Fluid as breath. Quiet as regret.

Zayne doesn’t notice.

Not until Sylus is there. Close. Too close.

Heat bleeds between them as Sylus presses in—chest to back, hips aligned, breath ghosting over the curve of Zayne’s neck.

Not touching with force. Touching with intention.

Zayne goes rigid. Hands hovering above the desk. Spine pulled taut like a bowstring ready to break.

Sylus leans in.

His mouth brushes the shell of Zayne’s ear, his voice a whisper made of ash and ruin.

“We’re not done.”

The words burn into skin like a brand.

A pause. A beat.

Then Sylus’s hand slides forward.

Slow. Precise.

Fingers settling at Zayne’s hip. Thumb stroking the waistband of his slacks. Grip flexing just enough to promise—

Not mercy. Not escape. More.

Zayne doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

But his breathing stutters—the only betrayal in a silence stitched from control.

Sylus smiles against his neck.

“Not even close.”

Sylus lets the silence stretch. Tight. Taut. Intentional.

Then he dips lower.

His lips graze the shell of Zayne’s ear, tongue flicking out once—just enough to taste the salt pooled there.

“You want me to stop,” he murmurs, voice spun from silk and shadow. “Say the word.”

He already knows Zayne won’t.

His hand moves with that same cruel patience he’s always carried—sliding down the flat plane of Zayne’s abdomen, past the crisp edge of his shirt, to the belt that holds everything together.

One tug.

The buckle gives with a sharp, metallic click—a sound that slices through the sterile hush of the office like a verdict.

Zayne’s head tips back. Slow. Deliberate.

It lands heavy against Sylus’s shoulder.

His eyes close. His breath stutters—too shallow, too fast for a man who prides himself on composure.

Sylus presses a single kiss to the hinge of his jaw. Just once. Like punctuation. Like a signature.

Then his hands are moving again— palming the heat beneath Zayne’s slacks. Hard. Hot. Barely restrained.

“Fuck,” Sylus breathes, voice rough with approval. “You're already aching for it, aren’t you?”

His thumb drags along the shape of Zayne’s cock through the fabric—slow strokes, precise pressure. Just enough. Never more.

Zayne grips the edge of the desk in both hands—knuckles bone-white, head still tipped back, mouth open like he’s halfway between a moan and a prayer.

Sylus unzips him—knuckles grazing skin, dragging the fabric down just enough to free him.

Zayne’s cock springs free—flushed, straining, glistening under the fluorescent lights like something profane made sacred.

Sylus wraps a hand around the base—tight, possessive—and begins to stroke.

Slow. Intentional. Designed to ruin.

Zayne makes a sound—guttural, wordless—hips twitching helplessly against the rhythm.

Sylus chuckles. Low. Wicked. Quiet as a curse.

The sound vibrates into Zayne’s spine.

“That’s it,” he murmurs at his ear. “Let me feel how close you are.”

Zayne gasps when Sylus’s thumb rolls over the head—slick and merciless. His fingers dig into the desk now, carving truth into woodgrain.

Sylus works him—long, firm pulls from base to tip, each stroke calibrated just shy of too much.

His other arm winds around Zayne’s waist, anchoring them together—no space, no escape.

Every twitch. Every curse. Every stuttering breath—

Sylus feels it all.

Zayne’s body jolts with each pass of his hand, the sound of slick skin obscene in the quiet, building toward something furious and unstoppable.

“Say it,” Sylus breathes, lips dragging down the curve of Zayne’s throat. “Say whose hands make you fall apart like this.”

Zayne tries— tries to swallow it, to grit his teeth against the truth clawing up his throat.

Fails.

His voice breaks open.

“Sylus—”

One word. Not a plea. Not a command.

A confession.

Sylus strokes faster now—unforgiving, punishing. His grip slick, tight, brutal in its focus. Zayne’s thighs tremble, hips chasing every drag of that hand, breath disintegrating into short, frantic gasps.

But just when the edge rises— just when the heat crests and tips toward the fall—

Sylus stops.

Freezes.

Fingers locked around the base, tight, merciless.

Zayne chokes on a groan, his forehead crashing to the desk, breath ragged, arms trembling under the weight of restraint and denial.

Sylus kisses his ear. Soft. Final. A sentence more than a touch.

“Not yet.”

Sylus steps back—just enough.

Just enough to make Zayne groan—low, wrecked, frustration breaking through his composure like wildfire through brittle bones.

Zayne’s hips twitch where he’s bent over the desk, cock flushed and dripping, thighs trembling from the brutal ache of denial.

Sylus palms the curve of his ass—both hands now—

squeezing hard enough to bruise before dragging him back, tilting his hips, arranging him not for convenience—

but for claim.

How he wants. How he’s earned.

Zayne doesn’t resist.

He just presses his cheek to the wood, breath fogging the surface, hands splayed wide—surrender made flesh.

Sylus drags his cock along the cleft of Zayne’s ass— slow, heavy— smearing the mess of earlier teasing along sweat-slicked skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with smoke and steel. “Ready to be fucked open and begging for it.”

Zayne huffs a broken breath, a whimper curling into something that might be a laugh.

“So fucking full of yourself.”

Sylus grins—sharp, unrepentant—coating himself in the slick still leaking from Zayne’s last unfinished fall.

“And you're still bent over this desk with your cock dripping,” he growls, lining up behind him. “So who’s winning, doc?”

Zayne opens his mouth— but whatever he meant to say dies the second Sylus pushes in.

Not a thrust. A claim.

Slow. Relentless.

Zayne’s mouth parts in a silent gasp, one hand clawing the desk, the other bracing his weight as Sylus sinks in deeper—

inch by inch, control by control, breath by breath.

“Shit—fuck,” Zayne groans, hips jerking back, a collision of plea and instinct. “God—just move.”

Sylus does.

Not fast. Not hard.

Just deep.

A single, devastating pull out—then back in.

A rhythm of purpose. Of punishment. Of possession.

Zayne shudders with it, spine arching, every stroke dragging over the spot that makes him see stars behind his clenched eyes.

Sylus leans in, chest to back, mouth right at his ear.

“You feel that?” “That stretch? That ache?”

His teeth scrape along the edge of Zayne’s jaw.

“That’s mine.”

Zayne’s fingers claw at the desk, knuckles pale, the sound of skin on skin rising around them—wet, sharp, relentless.

“Say it,” Sylus growls, hips snapping forward. “Say who ruins you like this.”

Zayne shudders.

His voice breaks.

“You—fuck, Sylus—you do.”

Sylus licks a slow line up the back of his throat, then bites—not to draw blood.

To mark.

“Good boy.”

And the praise—

hits harder than any thrust.

Zayne moans, louder now, legs trembling beneath him, his whole body stretched thin by the weight of every second he’s not allowed to fall apart.

Sylus keeps him there— on the edge, at the altar, in the fire.

Drawing it out.

Making him feel every inch he’s not yet allowed to have.

“You’ll take what I give you,” Sylus whispers into sweat-drenched skin, “And you’ll thank me for every second I keep you wanting.”

Zayne’s head drops.

Another choked noise tears free—raw, pleading—as Sylus grinds deep again, every movement slow, devastating, possessive.

Zayne’s voice is gone.

Wrecked.

“Please—fuck, Sylus—let me—let me come—”

Sylus doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t yield.

Not yet.

He buries himself to the hilt, heat flooding between them, breath spilling against Zayne’s neck.

And then—

“Not until I say.”

Zayne groans—low, wrecked— as Sylus grinds in deep and holds there, the stillness sharp, brutal, a pressure that makes sweat bead at the back of his neck.

He shifts—hips twitching, seeking friction, any rhythm at all— desperate.

Sylus gives him nothing.

Just leans in. Breath curling over the back of Zayne’s neck like smoke.

“So greedy,” he murmurs, voice slow, sharp. “Where’d that control of yours go?”

Zayne hisses, knuckles white where they clutch the edge of the desk. His cock—flushed, leaking, untouched—throbs helplessly.

Sylus watches it.

Watches the way hunger pulses through him—blinding, base, intoxicating.

Still buried to the hilt, he pulls back just enough to make Zayne whine—then slams back in. One brutal thrust. One full-body shiver.

“Say you want it.”

Zayne gasps, the words tumbling from his mouth in pieces.

“I want it—fuck, Sylus, please—”

Sylus grins.

Feral. Cruel. Victorious.

And then—finally—he gives in.

His hand wraps around Zayne’s cock—hot, slick, punishing—stroking him in perfect, merciless rhythm to the roll of his hips.

Zayne arches off the desk with a strangled moan, caught in the no man’s land between retreat and collapse.

Sylus fucks into him deeper, harder—every thrust timed with the savage drag of his fist, wringing Zayne toward the edge in tidal waves.

“You feel that?” Sylus growls against his neck. “That’s me. No one else. Only me.”

Zayne nods blindly—eyes shut, lips parted, the truth already wrung from his bones.

“God—Sylus—I’m close—I can’t—”

Sylus curls around him—one arm banding across his chest, the other still stroking— and pulls him upright in a single, brutal motion.

Off the desk. Into his arms. Never breaking pace. Never letting go.

Zayne’s head falls back against Sylus’s shoulder, mouth open, gasping like he can’t draw breath without him.

Sylus bites down at his throat—hard—then kisses the mark like an apology.

His hand works faster now. Slick. Brutal. Beautiful. Every pass a promise, every thrust a possession.

Zayne jerks in his arms—hips chasing the rhythm, legs barely holding—ruined.

"Let go," Sylus breathes, voice raw. "Come for me."

Zayne’s body goes taut—bowstring tight—and then he breaks.

“Sylus—fuck—!”

He comes hard, spilling across Sylus’s hand, trembling, breath caught in a chest that no longer knows how to steady itself.

Sylus doesn’t stop.

Keeps driving into him, faster now, chasing his own end with violent, desperate thrusts.

The room fills with the sound of slick skin, shattered breath, and the heat of something far too big to name.

Zayne slumps in his arms—boneless, trembling, wrecked. Head buried in the curve of Sylus’s neck. Lips brushing skin with every gasping inhale.

And that— that— is what undoes him.

Sylus drives in one final time, groaning into Zayne’s hair as he comes, hips stuttering, hands clenching Zayne’s waist like he could carve permanence into bone.

It tears through him—raw, blinding.

And all he can feel is this:

Zayne. Broken. Breathing. His.

They stay like that. Locked. Burning. Every nerve thrumming with what they didn’t say.

Sweat. Come. Silence.

Zayne’s lips part—just enough to let one word fall out.

“Fuck.”

Sylus kisses the side of his throat.

Low. Final. Irrevocable.

“You’re mine.”

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