yourknightinshiningarm-or

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐙𝐙𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐂𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐒 𐙚᭄

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡. matthew sturniolo + reader ➳ established relationship, p in v, sub!matt

it was his own fault for saying that out loud. taped in video. matt owned purple fuzzy handcuffs, and now you wanted to wear them. no, no on yourself. on matt.

sweat covered his pale torso, his skin damp and reddish from your kisses. matt had both hands tie, the soft lila contrasting to his large hand.

the worst of all? he was enjoying it.

he enjoyed when you got closer and closer to him, almost close enough for him to place his lips on your nipples, your swollen boobs bouncing in front of him and blocking any other sight.

you were just warming him. nothing else. you stayed sat, applying pressure down on him, receiving his entire dick inside of you. matt was a mess, especially because he couldn’t move.

the stupid handcuffs were hurting his wrists and he couldn’t lift his hips high enough to thrust into you, turning the whole scene into torture. matt sighed in frustration — he wasn’t getting any relief.

“you want this don’t you?” you teased, dragging you nails across his chest, slightly teasing his sensitive nipples and hearing a gasp. you moved your hand to your own tummy, showing off yourself to matt. “look how deep you are” you said.

matt’s toes curled and he chewed on his bottom lip, nodding over and over again. “then speak up” you commanded, only to hear another annoyed sigh. you raised your eyebrows, the dominant look in your eyes being enough to intimidate him.

“please!” matt spoke, closing his eyes in embarrassment. “p-please i n-need you to move” he practically begged. you cooed with faux sympathy, moving the dampened hair from his forehead and kissing his lips.

you then turned around, getting on reverse cowgirl. “i’ll move. but you can’t do anything, alright? you’re only allowed to watch.” you said. “you were a bad boy, and that’s your punishment. trapped in your purple fuzzy handcuffs”.

© 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓 est. 2025

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇, 𝐈’𝐌 𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐖˚ ༘ 🌱⋆｡˚

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐂𝐎𝐖/𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 . MDNI . TW// Naked man . Yandere . Suggestive? . Darling is breastfed by yandere. Male lactation . Forced affection

𝐒weat dribbled down your forehead, your scratchy sleeve running across your skin hastily before any sweat got into your eyes.

The hay bale in your arms irritated your forearms but you pushed through, throwing it inside the loft of your classic red barn.

The horses neighed, a little greeting for you, making little circles in their stalls as if brimming with energy.

You mustered a smile, trying to ignore the aching pain at your temples. Your head felt like a watermelon wrapped in rubber bands, about to explode at any moment.

You turned, exiting out the other end of your barn, picking up a tin bucket and kneeling in front of your large collection of flora.

You grumbled as you picked fat caterpillars off your Bougainvillea and unceremoniously tossed into a bin.

A deep frown marred your face as you looked at the various bite shaped holes in the leaves of your pretty flowers.

You sent a scorching glare to the bucket full of caterpillars.

 “You handful of bastards better be grateful I’m not feeding you to the barn cat..” you hissed, voice filled with genuine resentment.

The loud thunk of a truck made you jump out of your shoes, accidentally dropping the bucket, the caterpillars flying into the luscious green grass.

You bit back a groan, knowing you would have to pick out the little creatures by hand later.

You lifted your head, peeking at the men in white lab coats, who were throwing something extremely large into a pile of dirt near your house.

Now what the hell? They have no right to be dumping their shit in your backyard! Not after you had busted your lower back to keep it clean!

You were about to stomp over and throw some hands, however the men got into their high tech van and disappeared in a cloud of black smoke.

You coughed as you approached the garbage site, seeing if there was anything to loot off of.

It looked like there was something massive swaddled tightly in styrofoam wrap. 

You prodded the cocoon with the tip of your timber, you let out a small scream as it pulsated under your foot.

You jumped back in fright as the thing inside started moving even more, all out of the sudden, a muffled voice yelled.

You raised your brows, a person? Was a person wrapped in that? You could just stand by and act as if nothing happened but.. cleaning the mess up would be annoying.

You scrambled to dig your nails inside the wrapping and pulled as hard as you could, ripping the tough material to shreds.

You fell back to the ground, a large, naked man emerging from the dirt, styrofoam doing a horrible job of covering up his.. bits.

You kept your eyes up.. sorta, his well endowed chest was the first thing that popped out to you. Quite literally, it had its own shadow and everything, they were definitely bigger than yours. 

He was tall, taller than any creature or human you had ever seen in your life.

You painstakingly tore your eyes away from his chest, mourning the loss of titties.

You scanned his head, his hair was light blonde with brunette highlights, curling towards his face at the slightly curly tips, a curl of hair covering his left eye.

His skin was tan with patches of lighter skin, resembling the spots of a cow.

A golden nose ring gleamed under the sunlight, you just barely noticed the stubs of horns on his head, along side the blonde cow ears.

..Wait hold on a minute, ears and horns? What in the nudist cosplay is this?

The man tilted his head, his ears flicking as he followed you movements, like a baby bird mimicking its mother’s actions.

You didn’t stick around a moment more as you watched the strange male’s strangely beautiful face light up with wonder.

“Master!” He lunged. Missing you only by a hair, you swore you felt his thick fingers tickling your back.

“Stop following me! I am not your master!!” You hollered, speeding up your pace as you tried to jump over the fence of your barn.

“Wrong!” He giggled, strong arms stretching out to grab you, making sure to take victory this time.

“(Y/N)!~” he called out sweetly, opening and closing his hands, resembling of a toddler demanding uppies.

“HOW THE HELL DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?!?!” You never got an answer, simply a jolly laugh.

You ran around for 40 minutes.

And the strange bull cow hybrid didn’t stop, he wasn’t even breaking a sweat, it wasn’t very long until you dropped on the ground.

The man plopped down behind you, grabbing you by your armpits like he would hold a cat. Only to begin having a cuddling session, he didn’t let you go.

You begged him to let you breathe, but he had gotten too attached to let you go, at one point you had decided to take the drastic measure to bite his arm,

Which was a failure.

Because he let out the most pornographic moan you had ever heard.

You slowly retracted your teeth from his arm, deciding to never do that again.

“Well.. Can you at least tell me who you are? Why you are here? Why me?” You bombarded him with question, he hummed, his tail wagging on grass while rocking you side to side like a baby.

“Mm~.. m’ name’s Briar.. I’m a gift for you! And.. Because I saw you first!” He finished with a wide smile, his simplistic answers not actually giving away anything.

He rubbed his cheek against the side of your head, your back cushioned by two very prominent pillows.

You glared at him, wriggling out of his beefy arms and rolling onto the grass.

“Let me stay with you!” He chirped, getting up to follow close behind you.

“No.” You didn’t budge, looking down to dust your jeans off, but when you looked up Briar was giving you the most sopping wet pathetic puppy eyes you had ever seen.

Your harsh glare softened for a moment, no! No! No! You weren’t going to get emotionally manipulated by a fucking cow.

He dropped to his knees, getting on all fours and dirtying his knees with soil. His hands wrapped around your calves as if they were the size of water bottles.

“Please…”

That disturbed you more than you would think, this thing dwarfed every aspect of yours, only reminding you of how quick and effortlessly he could rip an arm of yours off.

“..No!” You grumbled more defiantly, closing your eyes for a second as you looked away.

you curiously cracked an eye open and saw how large drops of tears welled in his eyes, his bottom lip trembled, threatening that he would cry if he needed to.

A strong gust of wind blew in your direction, to your dismay, sending the last piece of wrapping around Briar’s hips off into the breeze.

You almost screamed in terror at the sheer size of that thing, because there was no humane possible way you could call it a penis.

That thing was the fuckin’ size of your arm.

“Okay. Fine. Come inside.” You grabbed his arm roughly, dragging him into your cottage in a panic.

He cheered as he allowed you to throw him inside your room, you skimmed your closet for something—God dammit! Anything to cover his big ass up!

You shakily exhaled as you found the baggiest jeans you owned, your hands gripping the widest flannel you had.

You screwed your eyes shut. Not wanting to see more than you already had.

“Thank..you!” He beamed, you could already imagine the sparkles around him.

You picked up the rustling of clothes, opening your eyes to see how your clothes fitted him.

You didn’t have underwear for him for now, so you had to compromise with just hoping that your jeans would be enough to cover his shame just a little bi…

Nevermind, you could still see the outline of it.

The supposed ‘baggy’ blue jeans hugged his thighs sinfully. This is a stranger, you tried to reprimand yourself, a complete stranger that you should not be ogling at but.. holy cow.

That shit was juicy. The pervert inside you was foaming at the mouth, trying not to pounce and bite the flesh off his legs and ass.

The flannel was hanging onto a single button, the fabric stretched over his chest so disgustingly tightly.

You had to unbutton the very first few buttons to let him breathe properly, it was killing you slowly. The need to bury your head between those glorious, magnificent tits.

You covered your face with your sun hat in shame, wishing to slam your head against the walls.

“Just..Just go.” You fumbled with your words, flush climbing the back of your neck all the way up to your ears.

Briar held his arms pinned to his sides, fingers flexing as he stared at you in awe. How he just wanted to aggressively cuddle you, he wanted to squeeze you so bad.

He thought humans were weird and mean.. But when looking at you he just wanted to bite you, not to harm you per say, just to somehow cope with the warm feeling in his chest.

“Okay!” He skipped out the front door, leaving you in ruins as he waltzed into the barn where the cattle resided.

You watched him interact and play with the cows for hours upon hours, at one point stealing a bell and wearing it around his neck.

“I’m your belle now!” He said, brimming with excitement. He had now taken the title of being your.. helper from now onwards.

You really did try to get rid of him, you tried selling him, abandoning him— Hell, even tying him up.

But annoyingly enough, he always returned, it didn’t matter what method you used, he somehow evaded it.

So you just decided to keep him around under a condition, that he helps out around the place.

He mowed the lawn.. He milked the cows.. He did some weird type of trick on the plants so the caterpillars wouldn’t eat them.. He was magic.

You made the mistake of introducing him to a friend, thinking that since he was so docile towards you, he would be the same way with others.

Could you be any more stupid?

Sometimes your neighbors would show up to chat and exchange goods or take horse back rides around the lands, Briar didn’t like it.

He was possessive and hostile, you had to stop him from trampling your friend to ground meat, you had almost pissed your pants in fear, never had you ever seen Briar with such a hateful look in his eyes.

Luckily, it seemed like he learned his lesson after you gave him silent treatment for two hours. He was in tears, sobbing that he would never upset you again, clinging onto your feet while nudging your stomach with his horns.

He had went as far as tagging his own ear after he got envious of a calf, he saw you clipping the babies ear and immediately begun to pester you to do the same thing to him.

You tried to make him understand that it was solely for identification, that he was already pretty identifiable, but he kept insisting.

You caved in, letting him plop down in your very much weaker and skinnier thigh. You tried to warn him that it would hurt, but he shook his head, affirming that he would take it like a good boy.

You sighed, monotonously counting down from three, before snapping clips closed.

He didn’t even make a face, you told him it was done and handed him a mirror to look at his brand new piercing.

It was a yellow, blank tag. You didn’t bother giving him a number, he wasn’t a legit cow to be kept in the barns so it wasn’t necessary.

You watched with curiosity as he grabbed a alcohol pen from your nightstand and slowly wrote your name on his tag.

“Baby!” He clapped his hands, ears slightly raising to reflect his mood, his tail wagged like a dog’s as he let out a little moo.

“You’re heavy. Get off.” You pushed him off, hoping that this was the end of his strange behaviors and urges.

He whined and pouted but you eventually peeled him off of you, the warmth and squish of his chest against your face leaving and letting you breathe properly.

Well, you thought that was the end of it.

You didn’t ask any questions about his origins or what he was, because in your book ignorance is bliss.

That was until you couldn’t ignore that your pillows and clothes were beginning to go missing, appearing as if by accident in the barn loft.

Briar was beginning to disappear more often, appearing after a few hours and dropping unconscious on your bed.

You noticed that the flannels he usually wore began to look tighter around his chest, more of the buttons on his shirt beginning to suddenly fly off like bullets, narrowly hitting you in the head.

You whistled a little tune, small pebbles crunching under your boots as you walked into the cattle house.

You swung a tin bucket in your hand, turning to your fluffy little cows to milk them of their milk. You spoke in a high pitched voice to them, reaching out and kissing their furry foreheads.

“MnHgh!” A familiar voice suppressed his aroused sounds with their hand, hoping he had fooled you and had slapped a hand over his mouth quick enough.

You stopped petting your cows, walking towards a closed closet door behind you. Your hand wrapped around the doorknob, the metal being slightly warm, someone with overwhelming body warmth had just touched this.

You groaned, Briar. What the hell was he doing now?

You swung the door open, your figure casting a shadow over Briar’s crumpled body on the floor. Another sweet whimper escaped him accidentally, he tried to cover his chest with his arms, as if shielding a secret.

His tan patchwork skin gleamed with sweat under the dim lighting, his eyes were irritated and glassy, like he had been crying for hours before you got there.

“Briar.” You sternly called his name, causing him to look into your eyes, his ears drooped in embarrassment, attentively listening to what you were going to say next. 

“Show me your chest.” Your voice ordered, putting the tin bucket down by your feet. You watched as Briar slowly did as you said, looking away in shame as he revealed himself.

Your eyes widened as you glanced down at his swollen pectorals, his nipples cherry red and tender. His chest was significantly heavier than usual, and even that was saying a lot when it’s common knowledge that he is very much above average.

“What..What happened?” Your eyes darted to his face, worry slowly seeping into your expression.

His obscenely large hand grasped your own, putting it gently on his chest.

You looked down, trying to decipher what his intentions were.. That was until you felt something warm trickling down your hand.

Something white and watery, slowly dribbling down your hand at a steady pace. It was shameful, down right perverted— But you brought your hand to your mouth, licking the substance.

It hit you like a tractor, it was silky—Sweet, better than any liquid you had ever tasted, it’s taste was one too similar to.. Milk?

“Y..Y-You can do that?” You blurted without thinking, pulling the tin bucket under his chest to catch the liquid.

The slightest shy nod of his head, the most bashful smile you had ever seen of him confirmed all your suspicions.

..You actually had to milk him. 

Your face turned warm as your hands reached out to him, wrapping around his soft boobs, softly but methodically squeezing the milk out of him.

They produced milk steadily, squirting into the bucket, the sound of milk splattering against the tin making your gaze hazy.

You knew it was game over when the bucket was full, his chest didn’t seem that decreased in size by much.

You got off your knees to get a new bucket, only for Briar to cling on to you, making you fall between his legs and into his chest.

He didn’t wait, his nipple gently introducing itself into your warm little mouth, milk spilling onto your tongue in a moments notice.

You let out a strangled yell, trying to unlatch but Briar’s hand stopped you, pushing your head closer to his chest, forcing you to swallow the soft liquid.

“Hush, let mommy feed you..” he cooed, hearts forming in his eyes as he forced you to digest his milk.

“HMMPH.” You tried to protest, but didn’t make a move to stop Briar, he just shushed you, acting as if your protests were just a hissy fit.

He overpowered you, that sensitive shy act he put on before, being years light behind him. 

You closed your eyes, knowing there was no escape from bosom jail. Your throat was dry from dehydration and the warm milk being force fed down wasn’t the most unpleasant thing you had experienced.

He cupped the back of your head, a million dollar smile on his plump lips, you were embarrassed.

You pressed your nose close into the soft muscle of his chest, just letting yourself be smothered by warmth, milk dribbling from the corners of your mouth.

You could barely hear the overgrown cow’s deep voice over the sound of your heartbeat.

“What a sweetheart you are..” ♥

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

hey,,,,,,, its me.,,, that person who made the ask abt Briar bathing…… :3 i was wondering if u could maaybe do a little smth for what Briar would do when its “that time of the month” iykwim :3c 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 love ur writing smmm im literally checking tumblr everyday to see if theres new briar content… i love Briar… 🍓

The length got a bit out of hand but here you go!! Sorry for the long wait!! (՞っ ̫ _՞)𓈒 𓂂𓏸

BRIAR MENSTRUAL COMFORT BELOW!

You tossed, turned and contorted in pain, your own womb feeling like it was eating you from the inside out. You had forgotten to buy period cramp pills and now you were suffering the consequences of your forgetfulness.

You were this close to crying out of sheer agony, and it didn’t help that Briar, the fat ass cow you decided to take in was sitting right next to your bed, eyes wide and jaw slightly ajar.

“What the fuck are you staring at?” You hissed, your palms pressing against your lower stomach as if by applying more pressure your pain would thin out.

Another equally horrible wave of pain hit you, making you curl in like a Roly-poly dying on the ground. A cold sweat ran down your skin, drenching the roots of your hair and making you feel all icky all over.

Briar bit his lip, looking unsettlingly pale and concerned, for the first time showing a different expression other than stupid joy or arousal.

You were suffering, and all he could do was watch you cry and squirm. He noticed how you would bend over into a fetal position with your hand lying right above your pelvis, cradling the cause of your pain.

A bright idea lit up a vacant space that most people would call his head, he lifted his own hand, clenching and unclenching it before gently draping it over your stomach.

You turned on your side, looking at him as if he were less than dirt, like a fly on top of a ripe fruit.

In any other situation he would have immediately gotten horny, but he knew better than to act in such a way right now.

Plus, you would definitely pull on his ears later if he ever tried such a thing. his tail wagged subtly behind him, his puppy like blue eyes drilling into your face, trying to study every single twitch and twist of your expression.

You visibly relaxed, that made him perk up even more. you squinted, he was beaming— basically glowing, you didn’t know at what but it still made you want to kick him square in the jaw.

His hand was slightly calloused and overwhelmingly warm. It was like his skin was infused with fire, it made you wonder if lava, rather than blood ran through his veins.

His hand was the kind of warm that you would welcome on a freezing cold winter morning, like the warmth and comfort of various covers stacked on top of your body, not letting even the slightest whisper of cold touch your body.

“You’re fine.” He whispered, offering you his other hand to squeeze, although you were sure that you couldn’t even wrap your own around his, your fingers struggled to hold his index, what made him think you could hold his hand?

You slapped his hand away, pulling the man by his ear into bed.

He let out a surprised yelp as he tumbled into bed next to you, his enormous build taking up most of the mattress. You barely acknowledged the bed boards creaking under your combined weights, instead focusing all your energy on the mutant sized heater in your home.

“You’re so annoying.” Briar heard you speak into his chest, followed by the feeling of something cold touching his skin.

He tilted his head like a huge mutt, inhaling sharply when he noticed you were crying. Panic rose in his heart, why are you crying? Did something happen? Did he hurt you?!

“You’re annoying and warm.” He held you carefully, hands cupping your jaw and making you look into his eyes.

“You didn’t hurt me, just shut up and warm me.” You demanded, silencing him despite Briar never speaking a word this entire time.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips, then your forehead, nose and cheeks. He hoped that his tiny acts of love would distract you from the pain, that his hands would be enough to soothe you.

Why have a soft voice, large, warm hands, a chest that rivaled the comfort of a pillow if not to use it for you?

What good was having all these attributes if he couldn’t use them to pamper and console his baby?

Briar had spent so much time thinking about what he lacked that he didn’t even realize that you had fallen asleep in his arms.

When he looked down to speak to you, you were out like a light. Your forehead was pressed against his sternum and your fists balled tightly around the fabric of his shirt.

He smiled subconsciously, he found himself doing that very often lately. Briar thought you looked like a clingy baby koala. He gently pet your head, trying to get you to loosen your grip on his shirt, not caring about the shirt but rather fearing that your hands would feel sore when you woke up.

He inhaled your scent, letting out a content sigh before falling asleep on top of you. Arms tightening around your form like a possessive seatbelt.

Loser. You thought in your dreams.

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

introducing.. bsf w benefits!chris

confident-ish in public, brings you up in every conversation as if he has to. acts all tough in public then acts all needy the second you two are alone together, constantly needy for you. secretly loves being overstimulated, practically never uses the safe word.

credits to @uzmacchiato for dividers

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

I'm actually sick he looks so good

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

Thinking about a yandere! idol or something idk and a reader who's a fan of said idol. Maybe you've been a fan since his debut. Maybe you got into him just recently because he had a super successful comeback.

Whatever it is, you love him.

Like a lot. You know his birthday, blood type, favourite colour type shit. You've watched this past interviews, got his albums and stuff. Basically a super fan of the persona his company is trying to sell.

Recently he's announced a tour and you managed to snag tickets after staying up all night just to be first on the online queue to get standing tickets. You know, to get as close to him as you can. No VIP tickets cause you aren't rich enough for that but one day. You swear you'll get it one day!

The day of the concert quickly arrives and you've never felt this excited for anything before. Well, maybe except for when you got your first paycheck but that's another story.

Anyway, you fight your way through the crowd and get to stand in the very front of the stage. It's so close! You swear when he comes out you'll be able to count each eyelash on his gorgeous eyes... Or at least as close as the security allows you to get.

The concert finally starts after much waiting and lo and behold, there he is. Your gorgeous, handsome man. It starts out like any other concert, singing, dancing, bla bla bla. Then comes a special segment where he decides to get off the stage and he comes up... To you? When you're recording him for your Instagram story?

"Can I have this?"

You can't believe it. He's asking you. You, of all people, if he can borrow your phone. Of course you agree! Hands shaking and eyes wide with disbelief. No way, no freaking way! Your idol actually talked to you one on one!

"Thanks sweetheart, you're an absolute dear."

The cameras are all on you, your interaction being caught on the big screen for everyone to see. Holy shit, this is a once in a lifetime chance dude! You can't believe you got so lucky!!

He then goes back onto the stage, recording himself with your phone like it belonged to him. You feel yourself growing faint with joy, heart threatening to run out of your chest from how fast it was beating. You still can't believe that this is happening, that your idol is actually giving you personal footage that people would literally die for.

Then the concert ends and you realize he left with it.

It's okay, it must've been an accident! Hahaha... You, uh, will just ask security obviously! You try conveying to them how important it is for you to get your phone back and how it has lots of important things in it.

"No."

Well now what? Thankfully you manage to get home but without your phone, you begin feeling antsy. What are you supposed to do? You can't just get a new one. You had an emotional connection to that one!

You try scouring the Internet for what to do next and how you can get back your phone but obviously nothing pops up. Not even a niche reddit page where someone had asked that like, 15 years ago. You know you wanted an original experience but not like this!

You also try contacting his agency but they don't even reply. Not even a courtesy email saying 'oh we'll look into it, thank you' or something like that. It's bullshit.

Of course, you also try the very obvious method of messaging his social media accounts but there's no way he'll actually reply, right?

YOU: bro ily and all but can i have my phone back pls

GODSWEAKESTSOLDIER: ❤️

Wait he.. actually fucking replied? Your idol replied to you?! Out of the thousands of other people that probably messaged him?! Hey wait, this isn't the time to get all excited! You're here on a mission!

YOU: i need my phone back pls 💔 dude I'm so happy u replied but I really need it back it's important to me and yeah, I'll be sure to treasure the video you recorded at the concert a few days back

GODSWEAKESTSOLDIER: no❤️

What?

You then decided to become his biggest opp and dive deeper into him. Who the hell does this guy think he is? To steal your phone AND give you attitude? You can't believe you used to stand this guy! Cute? Sure he is, but that attitude isn't and you're so- Urgh! You want to crush his balls!

And you realize... Hey, doesn't he kind of look like the guy you befriended all the way back in middle school?

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐨. . .matthew sturniolo

"𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐮𝐳𝐳𝐲 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐜𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐬?"

tw: breeding kink+uses of "mama"!

"shit!" you squealed as matt pounded into you.

it was supposed to be a joke. you'd gone on a shopping spree earlier in the week and had purchased a pair of purple handcuffs from spencer's, planning to leaving them laying around for matt to "find". that was how you'd ended up where you were now; handcuffed to the headboard while matt relentlessly fucked you, tip kissing your cervix.

your boyfriend hadn't made it known he'd found your little gift until today's video. not speaking a word of it to you, he'd casually mentioned having purple handcuffs in his room, knowing it would get you wound up.

"fuck, mama," matt grunted, face contorting with pleasure as his hips snapped against your own. "i'm gonna put a fuckin' baby in you."

you moaned. "not...playing...fair." you grunted, whimpering as you were pulled closer to your orgasm, heat arrowing to your core.

"can't wait to see you with swollen tits and a pretty belly," he whispered in your ear, breath hot against your neck as he buried himself deeper inside you. "you wanted to try out your handcuffs, no?"

"matt!" you cried, the ball in your tummy tightening. "'m gonna cum!"

matt's body was covering your own, eyes looking into yours as he thrusted his girthy cock into you. you wriggled against your bonds, but the handcuffs kept you from tangling your hands in his hair and running your nails down his back. "come on, mama. cum for me. tell me how much being at my mercy turns you on."

unable to cover your mouth, you screamed matt's name as you came, the walls of your cunt clenching around his cock. matt released soon after, moaning filthy things about how much he loved fucking you raw as his cum coated your pussy.

"one of you is cute," he mused as you both came down from your highs, moving to undo your bonds. "but two, though? oh sweetheart."

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

© bratzforchris

lilah yaps ⋆. 𐙚 ˚: matt we know what u r (a freak). interactions are hella appreciated!! if you want to be tagged in what i post, comment an emoji on my intro post!!

tags: @sturns-mermaid @courta13 @iconiccolo @mattsdiamonds @sturnsheart @tezzzzzzzz @oopsiedaisydeer @mattscoquette @angelicameron @eyesonmattyb

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

What if someone was mean to shortcake!reader about having two boyfriends? How would she react and how would Matt and Chris be there for her/help her thru it☹️

if someone was mean to shortcake about having two boyfriends, she’d probably freeze at first—hurt flickering behind her big, soft eyes. maybe she bites her lip or looks down, unsure how to respond, because even the sweetest hearts can get shaken.

but matt and chris? they don’t hesitate. matt would be the calm shield, sliding beside her, voice low and steady, ❝don’t listen to them. you’re loved exactly as you are.❞ his hand would find hers, squeezing gently, grounding her.

chris? he’d be fire.. stepping up, eyes sharp, voice protective, ❝you say one more word, and you’re gonna regret it. she’s ours, and that’s what matters.❞ after, they’d wrap her in warmth :c soft kisses, quiet reassurances, reminding her how fiercely they adore her. they remind her she’s never alone, and that their love is all that counts.

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

older!matt during bunny’s period?

I've done a few things like this before..

matt is super gentle and extra sweet when bunny’s on her period he notices everything like when she’s quieter or tired he sneaks her favorite snacks warms up a heating pad and rubs her tummy softly while planting little kisses all over her forehead and cheeks if she wants cuddles he’s right there holding her close whispering how much he loves her even when she’s feeling crampy or grumpy he’s patient calm and just stays with her making her feel safe and so loved

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

Yandere!Penpal lives on the other side of the world and is an ever-flowing source of entertainment. You can't even remember how you'd stumbled upon this adventurous spirit; one day, his curious letter made its way to your fingers, and the rest is history.

Yandere!Penpal makes sure to write you back promptly despite always being on the road. He tells you all about his latest journeys, the people he encounters, the food, the views. Yet his fascinating escapades never take the spotlight of the conversation: he will dutifully ask about your own life, down to the finest detail. He remembers everything you tell him. He's become your closest friend, your most loyal confidant.

Yandere!Penpal is running out of ideas. After all, it's hard to narrate brilliant travels from the comfort of your attic. He scans over drafts with increasing panic, his tired eyes searching for the faintest glimmer of inspiration. That's when he happens to hear muffled fragments from the documentary you're watching. He lifts his pen, then begins. "Dear (Y/N), you won't believe where I am right now."

Yandere!Penpal has gracefully dodged your occasional plead to meet in person. The globe demands to be explored, he writes with enthusiasm. In truth, he's terrified of the idea you'd ever lay your sweet, innocent eyes on him. His dark, unkempt locks, his gloomy expression, his long, crooked fingers that have been endlessly gripping onto the pen. Oh no, you simply can't. He places an ear over the aged floorboards and concludes you're finally asleep, then carefully tiptoes downstairs.

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

[nsfw] thinking of a yandere who asks to take you out to prom.

you can hardly recall ever seeing him in school. he'd always been the face in the corner of your classroom, his eyes scanning over people and yet he never spoke. he's always seemed interesting to say the least, on the days that he bothers to come in at least.

it's easy to see that he's not well. he's shaking with dying roses in his hands and there's blood from the thorns staining his fingers. and yet, with crowds of your classmate watching you, phones pointed in your face to catch your reaction, you feel unable to deny him.

it was his plan all along. he's a fucking freak, blushing at the thought of your eyes widened up, the little sputter you let out trying to respond to him. it was adorable. you looked so cute, so nervous and shy just for him.

you've spent barely five minutes before he's trying to drag you home. interlocking his sweaty fingers with yours, an expression that's wayyy too happy on his face. once you've reached his home it's a mess, clothes sprawled out all around. he ushers you into the bed, climbing on top of you and you can feel how aroused he is.

literally. he's passionately grinding his hard on against you as he buries his head into your neck, sucking at the skin.

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

thinking of how a relationship with a cold! yandere would be.

he really doesn’t like for you to see him in such a way. he can’t control how monotone he is sometimes, and there are times he feels as though his affection for you is far too grand to be expressed. he hopes you know though, that you can see it in the way that he stares at you.

he’s a very giving person at heart. he doesn’t speak much, but he loves to listen! you’ll ramble off about something and he stares at you the whole time… cue a moment of you trailing off wondering if you’ve said something wrong, or should continue?

“why so shy, dove? continue, i’m invested.” he prompts, and you’re back to yapping!

your friends reaaally don’t like him though. it’d be strange if they did, enjoying the thought of you and such an apathetic person. he doesn’t care about their judgement, but he doesn’t want their views to twists yours. he’d be so happy to see you drop them but no, you’ve known them for years. he hates seeing you defend them, but so long as they quit their attempts to get you to leave him he’ll tolerate their presence around you.

“don’t let them put silly thoughts in your head. they don’t understand the two of us, truly.” he says, his forehead pressed against yours in a moment that feels far too intimate before pressing a peck against your lips and pulling back.

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

[nsfw] thinking about a yandere! vampire who’s holding onto the brink of death before he’s saved by you, a nurse.

he’s bleeding out heavily and you’ve just finished a night shift. he’s cursing the skies and clutching onto his stomach with pain before he can make out the shadow of a silhouette, standing over him as tears stream down his cheeks.

he mistakes you for an angel. wondering why you’re here when the life he’s led is far too full of sin to reach a salvation. he’s mumbling nonsense as you tug him into your arms, trying to figure out the best way to go about it.

luckily, the wounds don’t take too long to heal. dangerous, yes, but with enough care his supernatural abilities sped up the process greatly. he can barely bring it in himself to thank you, embarrassed by the fact that he had to be a saved by a human of all things, yet when you offer up your neck he can’t hold back the feral glint in his eyes.

he’s not drunken for days. you’re stunning, and he’d be a fool to deny you. he barely needs a moment to consider before he’s cradling your face and bringing your neck to his lips, lightly sucking on the skin.

the bite itself feels more intimate than it should have. it’s the first time you’ve sent such a sensation, tingles flowing through your veins as he gently prises his teeth through the skin, sucking slowly as though hesitant.

you can’t deny the feeling of pleasure it gives you, and you lean your head back. by the time he’s finished, with blood pooling past his lips which he licks away, the two of you feel lightheaded. he’s staring at you with a gaze so intent, as though trying to wrap his head around your whole character, before he tilts your chin upwards and embraces your lips in a fervent kiss.

the two of you make love that night. he scratches at your skin and trails his tongue across the marks. even as you scream out against him his face is buried in your neck, covering it in kisses left with traces of saliva. he bucks his hips against you with pace, and later tells you to consider it his thank you.

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

thinking about a darling with a yandere! crush.

you’ve never seen him before but you’ve heard of him. the weird kid, who nobody likes, who lingers near the back. he skips lectures, takes smoke breaks outside and had a decent reputation before he fucked it all over for himself.

seeing him for the first time was like a breath of fresh air if anything. staring into his intense eyes and practically simpering before realising that he was staring too.

there was something about his eyes that you found so intense. it seemed as though he’d lost all care in the world, and therefore found no reason to look away. he looked at you with eyes filled with judgement, and yet with feelings that you couldn’t decipher.

it became a common occurrence. you’d follow him around out of what you told yourself to be boredom, and he’d tear his eyes away from whatever he was doing to gaze back. there’d be times he’d be occupied with something and you’d have a moment without the tension before he suddenly paused his movements and tilted his head to stare at you for a moment, before looking away.

you don’t plan to speak to him, and it seems the same thought applies to him to him. he’d certainly have heard you speaking before, perhaps ranting to a friend or complaining about something, but it seemed he barely spoke. the most you’d said to him would have to have been a meek ‘sorry’ during a time he’d bumped into you, and you could practically feel him pressed up against you before you moved away.

the two of you will be content with just watching. <3

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

Five More Minutes?

Word Count: 6.1k

Tags: sylus x fem!reader, unprotected sex, creampie, morning sex, biting, injury, a bit of blood, teasing, fingering, nicknames like good girl, kitten, my love, grinding, humping, overstim, breeding

Summary: You have to get up soon for a team meeting at your job but Sylus shows you all the reasons you should stay in bed with him instead :3

His warm breath danced across your ear as he left gentle kisses, sending shivers down your spine as he whispered, "Just let me make you cum again." His words were a gentle persuasion, a soft coaxing that seemed to seep into your very being. "You don't really want me to stop, do you?"

AN: Man, it feels SO good to be back writing again. I hope you guys enjoy this little fic I wrote up over the weekend! Another fic idea crossed of the list! Enjoy!

The room is still, wrapped in the muted hush of early morning in Linkon City. The faint glow of dawn filters through the blinds, casting soft, golden lines across the walls. Outside, the city stirs, but in here, time moves slower. The only sounds are the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the steady, even breaths of the man beside you.

Warmth cocoons you—thick blankets tangled around your legs, the lingering scent of laundry detergent on the sheets, and the solid, unmistakable presence of Sylus pressed against you. He’s a furnace, radiating heat even in sleep, his arm heavy across your waist, fingers curled loosely around the skin of your arm as if, even unconsciously, he refuses to let you go. His face is buried somewhere near your shoulder, breath warm and slow against your skin.

Right. He stayed over last night.

The memory unfolds in fragments, soft and hazy around the edges. He’d brought a bottle of wine, a gift for you, though you’d insisted—pleaded—that he share it with you. It had taken a bit of coaxing, some playful pouting on your part, but eventually, with a quiet sigh and a small, indulgent smile, he had obliged.

And then…

Your face heats up.

The night plays back in your mind, moments flickering like warm candlelight—his quiet laughter, the way his eyes softened as he listened to you talk about any and everything, the casual brush of fingers against skin that grew less accidental as the night went on. The pinkness of his face as he poured you both another glass. The slow unraveling of space between you. Then suddenly you both weren't wearing clothes.

Though he hadn't even bothered to remove your underwear, electing instead to just move the fabric aside for quicker access. The moans, the sweat, the pleasurable ache of him pushing inside you, filling you completely until you felt like you couldn't breathe...

You shift slightly in his grasp, your pulse quickening for reasons that have nothing to do with the morning chill.

But something tugs at the edge of your awareness, a vague, creeping sense that you’re forgetting something. A loose thread in your mind, pulling tighter with each second you lie there.

Your hand fumbles across the nightstand, fingers clumsy with sleep as they search for your phone. The cool surface meets your palm, and you bring it close, squinting against the harsh glare of the screen. The sudden brightness stings your tired eyes, and you blink rapidly, trying to focus. The numbers staring back at you make your stomach drop.

Shit.

A team meeting. In an hour.

For a few seconds, you just stare at the screen, mind sluggish, like a machine still booting up. Right. You need to move. Shower, throw on something presentable, maybe down an entire pot of coffee before suffering through whatever motivational spiel Captain Jenna has planned this morning.

You exhale through your nose, slowly, carefully, and begin the delicate process of slipping out of your bed.

The sheets rustle as you peel them away, inch by inch. You shift just enough to lift Sylus’s arm, careful not to wake him, careful not to disturb the heavy warmth of sleep still clinging to him. The air beyond the blankets is cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the body beside you. You manage to slide his arm just far enough—his fingers loosen their hold, giving you the sliver of space you need.

And then, just as you begin to rise—

His grip tightens.

A soft, barely-audible noise escapes him—a quiet sigh, laced with something almost petulant, as his fingers curl tighter against your stomach. Before you can react, he shifts, using that lazy, effortless strength of his to pull you flush against him, caging you in with an arm that’s now locked like steel around your waist again. His face buries deeper against the crook of your neck, breath warm, slow, and completely undisturbed.

You freeze.

For a moment, you don’t move, barely daring to breathe. Maybe, just maybe, if you wait, he’ll shift again, loosen his hold, let you slip away without incident.

But no. His grip remains firm, steady, an unspoken claim that keeps you anchored in place.

You sigh, staring at the phone still clutched in your hand.

Well. So much for an easy escape.

You squirm against him, frustration creeping in as you attempt to loosen his grip. His arm is a dead weight around your waist, unmoving, solid, like he’s anchored you to the bed on purpose. The warmth of his body radiates into yours, making it all the more difficult to convince yourself to leave the comfort of the blankets. Still, you have a meeting. You have to get up.

“Sylus,” you whisper, testing the waters, voice hushed in the stillness of the room.

No response.

You shift again, pressing your back against his chest, hoping that if you disturb his sleep enough, he’ll finally wake up. But he remains perfectly still, save for the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. You know he’s usually a light sleeper so something about the way he’s too still makes you suspicious.

You try again, this time a little louder. “Sylus.”

Nothing.

The stubborn warmth of him seeps into your skin, lulling, dangerous, tempting you to sink back into sleep. But you refuse to fall for it.

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult, you’ll make him wake up.

You shift your elbow into position, drawing in a breath before—

Thud.

Your elbow connects with his chest, firm but not enough to actually hurt him. The effect is immediate.

A low grunt leaves him, but it’s short-lived—quickly swallowed by a laugh that shakes through him, low and unreasonably warm. The sound vibrates against your back, spreading through your chest before you can stop it. It’s deep, rich, full of amusement, and completely unbothered by your attack.

You glare at him over your shoulder, but he’s already grinning—lazy, smug, red eyes half-lidded with sleep but entirely too awake for someone who was just pretending to be unconscious.

“I figured,” he drawls, voice thick with lingering sleep, “if I just held still, you’d eventually give up and fall asleep again.” He pauses, another chuckle slipping past his lips, muffled as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, leaving soft kisses into your skin. The heat of his breath tickles your skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. “My bad for underestimating your stubbornness once again, kitten.”

Your stomach twists, an annoying mixture of warmth and irritation bubbling in your chest.

“You’re an ass,” you mutter, shoving weakly at his arm, though there’s no real force behind it.

He hums, unconcerned, tightening his hold around you with zero intention of letting go. “So you say. Just five more minutes.”

The weight of him presses against you, steady and familiar, and despite yourself, you stop struggling. You could fight it. You should fight it. But the way his body fits against yours, the way his warmth seeps into every inch of you—it’s too easy to melt into it, to let your body settle even as your mind screams at you about responsibilities.

His breathing evens out again, and just for a second, you let yourself sink into the warmth, into the comfort of him.

Five minutes.

Just five.

No, wait. You have to get up.

The thought pushes through the haze of warmth and sleep, clawing its way to the forefront of your mind, insistent and unyielding. You have a meeting. You have things to do. You can’t just stay here, no matter how comfortable, no matter how tempting the weight of Sylus’s body is against yours.

Still, the bed is so warm, the heat of him wrapping around you like a cocoon, the soft rhythm of his breath lulling, dangerous. He smells like remnants of cologne, a hint of last night’s wine still lingering on his skin, and something purely him, something familiar and grounding that makes it incredibly difficult to want to leave.

But you have to.

Sighing, you shift against him again, gathering just enough resolve to push at his arm, attempting to free yourself. His grip doesn’t loosen—if anything, his fingers curl tighter against you, securing you in place like an unyielding anchor.

"I can't stay in bed all morning, Sy" you murmur, voice slightly hoarse from sleep. You push again, trying to inch away, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. "I have a team meeting soon." You pause, bracing yourself for the inevitable resistance. "I'm sure you have things to do as well."

There’s a beat of silence. Then, a low hum rumbles from deep in his chest, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end.

And before you can react, he moves.

Not to release you. Not to let you go.

No, instead, Sylus shifts forward, pressing impossibly closer, his bare chest firm against your back, his lips suddenly hovering at your ear. His voice drops into something dangerously smooth, velvety in its teasing amusement as he whispers,

"Mm…but didn’t a certain kitten beg me last night never to leave her side?"

Your entire body locks up.

Heat floods your face so quickly it’s almost dizzying, embarrassment crashing through you in waves as your mind scrambles to process his words. His breath, warm and deliberate, ghosts over your ear, and every single nerve in your body reacts all at once. A shiver works its way down your spine, traitorous and impossible to suppress.

He remembers.

Of course, he does.

The memory of last night unfurls in your mind like a film reel, every single moment flashing in humiliatingly vivid detail.

You’d been tired out by multiple orgasms, softened by wine and warmth, curled against him in the very same bed, murmuring words you hadn’t really been thinking through.

"Stay, don’t go, just a little longer. Never leave me, please?"

Of course he had assured you that he hadn't been planning on leaving in the first place. How silly of you to think you had to beg him for something like that.

The pleas had slipped from your lips too easily, too naturally, and at the time, it had felt like nothing. But now? Now he was using it against you, and from the smugness dripping from his voice, he was enjoying it far too much.

Him and his constant teasing.

Your face burns hotter, the warmth of him unbearably close, suffocating, intoxicating. In a fit of sheer embarrassment, you thrash against him, twisting, wriggling, desperate to escape. "Oh, don't act like you didn't eat up every word I said! Let me go!"

But Sylus?

Sylus doesn’t listen.

He never listens.

Instead of loosening his hold, instead of giving in even an inch, he does the exact opposite.

He moves again, his hand gliding down the length of your body—slow, deliberate, maddening. His fingertips ghost over your side first, tracing a path too gentle to be ignored, before slipping lower, skimming along your waist, then back up in a slow, torturous caress. His touch isn’t demanding, isn’t forceful—it’s light, teasing, patient. The kind of touch that coaxes a reaction before you can stop it.

You shiver—visibly, undeniably.

And he feels it.

You don’t even have to look at him to know the smirk that’s surely curling at his lips. His fingers continue their featherlight path, unhurried, infuriating, utterly controlled. It’s like he’s memorized every spot that makes you react, testing, playing, pushing just enough to remind you that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Then, in that same, low, velvety tone, he murmurs,

"Shh…don’t strain yourself."

The words are a command, soft but firm, and before you can even process them, he adds, "Just call out."

Your breath catches.

You know what he’s doing.

He’s making you choose.

Stay or fight. Surrender or resist.

And worse?

He already knows which one you want.

"I can't just call out," you groan, frustration thick in your voice as you shift again, squirming against the warmth wrapped around you. "I've already called out four times in two weeks! Unless I have a good excuse this time, I'll get punished with desk duty..."

The thought alone is miserable. Trapped in the office, drowning in stacks of paperwork, stuck behind a desk instead of being out in the field actually doing something meaningful? No, thank you. You’d rather suffer through whatever mind-numbing speech Captain Jenna had planned this morning than subject yourself to that.

But the unshakable weight of Sylus’s arm draped across your bare skin tells you he has other plans.

For a moment, there's silence. A pause long enough that you think maybe—just maybe—he's drifting off again, and if you time it right, you can slip free. But before you even begin to try, he lets out a low chuckle, the kind that vibrates against your back, a lazy sound of acknowledgment that makes your stomach twist with anticipation.

His voice is slow, unhurried, still thick with sleep. "Punished with desk duty, huh? Yeah…that does sound rough…"

For a brief, foolish second, you almost think he's sympathizing with you. That he’ll finally loosen his grip, let you go, maybe even roll over and let you salvage what little time you have left before your meeting.

But then—he leans in again.

His lips hover just beside your ear, his breath warm as it fans over your skin. A barely-there whisper of heat, enough to send a shiver curling down your spine before you can stop it. His grip around you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens—just slightly, just enough to remind you that he’s still in control here.

"I mean…" his voice dips lower, conspiratorial, teasing, smirking without even having to show it. "I could forge a doctor’s note if you really need it."

You blink, caught completely off guard.

"What?"

Sylus shifts, settling himself more comfortably against you, like this is just another lazy morning where neither of you have anywhere to be. His fingers begin to move again—absentmindedly tracing slow, meandering patterns across your stomach. Light, feather-soft strokes that aren't urgent, but they are distracting.

"Yeah," he murmurs, dragging his fingers idly up your ribs before dipping back down, his touch effortless, as if he's not even thinking about it. "I’m pretty good at it, you know. Could make it look real official—some tragic, unavoidable emergency."

You snort. "Oh yeah? Like what?"

He hums again, like he’s actually considering it. "Food poisoning? Appendicitis? Oh, I know." He presses in closer, lips brushing so lightly against your ear that you almost don’t register the words before he says them. "You were in a car crash."

A genuine laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. It startles even you, bright and amused, shaking your body just slightly against his. "A car crash? Really?"

"Of course," he replies smoothly, as if this is the most logical solution in the world. "A controlled one. Just enough damage to make it convincing. Maybe even get you some sympathy points—hell, you might even score a few extra days off to lay in bed with me."

You shake your head, still giggling, pressing your face briefly into the pillow before turning slightly to glare at him over your shoulder. "You are ridiculous."

But your amusement vanishes in an instant the moment his fingers graze lower.

The movement is so subtle—a mere shift of his hand, like he's still idly tracing those lazy shapes against your skin—but it lands over a sensitive spot just below your exposed breasts. The reaction is instant.

Your breath hitches.

Your body betrays you, tensing instinctively, muscles twitching beneath his touch. Your fingers reflexively shoot up to grip his hand, holding on like that might somehow stop him from noticing.

But he notices.

Of course he does.

His fingers pause for just a second, like he’s taking mental notes, cataloging the reaction, committing it to memory. Then, in a way that feels entirely too intentional, he moves again—this time even slower, more deliberate.

A soft, barely-there stroke, skimming over the tip of your nipple.

Your stomach twitches.

A sharp exhale catches in your throat.

You hate how easily your body reacts to him, how he barely has to do anything, yet your skin is already burning. You can feel the smirk on his lips even though you’re not even looking at him.

His voice is quiet, teasing. "Seems you haven't had enough of last night, kitten."

Your entire body goes rigid. Oh, no. No, no, no.

This isn’t good.

You stay still, hoping, praying, that maybe—just maybe—he’ll leave it alone. That he’ll stop before this becomes something you’ll never live down.

But of course, he doesn’t.

His fingers continued their deliberate dance across your skin, each stroke igniting a fire that spread from the bare expanse of your stomach to the very core of your being. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the heat of his body pressing closer, the unmistakable hardness of his cock brushing against your panties, sending electric shocks through your body.

Your breath hitched, an involuntary reaction that betrayed your desire to remain composed. Sylus, ever attentive, noticed your body's response, the way you tensed and shivered under his touch, your nipples hardening further, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Are you sure…” he murmured, drawing out the words like honey, “you don’t want to stay in bed?” His breath was warm against your skin, a tantalizing whisper that sent shivers racing down your spine.

As he spoke, his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, slowly, deliberately pulling them down, exposing your bare skin to his hungry gaze. The cool air on your exposed skin sent shivers down your spine, a contrast to the heat of his touch.

Your body betrayed you, the wetness pooling between your legs a clear testament to your desire. Each brush of his fingers sent waves of heat coursing through you, an insatiable yearning clawing at your insides. You wanted him—needed him—yet the game he was playing was as intoxicating as it was maddening.

His fingers danced lower, their path a tantalizing tease, tracing the edges of your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You shifted, your back arching, your hips moving involuntarily, your body instinctively craving more of his touch, drawn to the heat and pleasure he offered.

Your heart raced, a wild drumbeat that echoed in your ears as you felt the heat of his gaze on you, his fingers poised tantalizingly close to the edge of your desire. You swallowed hard, the words stuck in your throat, a delicious mix of defiance and longing swirling within you.

“I…” you began, but the breathy whisper faltered, caught between shyness and the primal urge coursing through your veins. The way he leaned in closer, his warm breath ghosting over your skin, made it impossible to think straight.

"Sylus stop...I need to..."

"Hm?" he pressed, his voice a sultry murmur that coaxed the truth from your lips as his fingers moved lower. With a deliberate slowness, he dipped the tip of his finger inside you, the sensation igniting a spark that shot straight to your core. You gasped, your body instinctively tightening around him, the warmth of your walls welcoming his intrusion.

"Mghn!"

The way he toyed with you was maddening; it was as if he could sense the storm brewing within, each twitch of his fingers a spark igniting the kindling of your desire. You could feel his cock twitching behind you, hard and insistent against your thigh, and it sent a jolt of need straight to your core.

His warm breath danced across your ear as he left gentle kisses, sending shivers down your spine as he whispered, "Just let me make you cum again." His words were a gentle persuasion, a soft coaxing that seemed to seep into your very being. The warmth of his lips against your ear sent a flutter through your chest, making your heart skip a beat.

He knew exactly what to say to unravel your defenses, to make you surrender to the sensations coursing through your body. His voice was a low, husky whisper, a sensual temptation that seemed to wrap itself around your resolve, weakening your resistance. "You don't really want me to stop, do you?" he murmured, his words a provocative challenge, a dare to admit the truth - that you were helpless against the pleasure he was unleashing upon you.

The way he spoke, the words he chose, it was all so deliberately crafted to break down your barriers, to make you succumb to the desire that threatened to consume you. And yet, despite the warning bells ringing in your mind about your meeting, you couldn't help but feel yourself being drawn back in, helpless against the tide of pleasure that he was so expertly manipulating.

Dammit, he knew exactly how to play you, and you were powerless to resist.

“M-make it quick...” you finally breathed, the words spilling forth with a desperate honesty that hung heavy in the air between you.

His eyes darkened, a glimmer of satisfaction sparking within them as he shifted, pressing his hardness against you more firmly, the friction sending waves of heat cascading through your body. “Good girl,” he crooned, his finger finally dipping deeper into your slick folds with a teasing gentleness that made your breath hitch once more.

You gasped, your body arching instinctively into his touch, craving more, needing him to explore you fully. “Fuck…” you begged, the desperation in your voice a heady cocktail of need and surrender that only fueled the fire between you.

The room seemed to pulse with the intensity of the moment, the morning lighting casting long sun rays that seemed to merge with the heat of the encounter. The scent of anticipation lingered in the air, intertwined with the musky aroma of arousal. Every sense was heightened, every touch magnified, as if the world had narrowed to this single, electrifying moment.

You were drowning in a sea of sensations, the rhythm of his movements synced with the pounding of your heart. The emotional undercurrents were as intense as the physical ones, a primal dance of dominance and submission that left you breathless and yearning for more.

As his finger moved with deliberate precision, you became more acutely aware of the symphony of sensations enveloping you. The aching pressure already building in your lower stomach, the heat, the teasing gentleness, it was too much and yet not enough all at the same time. The dialogue between you was minimal, yet every word, every moan, seemed to speak volumes.

You tried to keep your focus on the upcoming meeting, the fear of being late and the prospect of desk duty looming in your mind. But as Sylus continued to orchestrate pleasure within your soft walls, the rising heat between your legs became all-consuming, your thoughts dissolving into a haze of pleasure.

But when he added the second finger, you didn't have the strength to make him stop any longer.

Your grip on his arm tightening, your nails digging into his skin as you arched into his touch, your body moving in rhythm with his fingers, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The sound of your own moans filled the air, a testament to the pleasure he was delivering, your mind unable to focus on anything but the sensations he was evoking.

"That's it, my love," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Nice and loud, you sound beautiful". He sounded close to unraveling himself, cock now straining impossibly hard against the roundness of your ass.

As Sylus's words washed over you, your body responded instinctively, your muscles clenching around his fingers, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, each exhale a warning to the building pleasure. Your climax approached like a rising tide, your body trembling, your voice reduced to a series of gasps and moans, your nails digging into his arm as you surrendered to the sensations he evoked.

"S-sylus! Im-!".

"I know, I know" he whispered, panting and grinding into your backside. He deftly curved his fingers, hitting that spongy part inside. Your body responded to his movements, your muscles clenching and releasing around his fingers, your breath coming in shorter, sharper gasps, your climax building to a crescendo, until you cried out, your voice hoarse, your body trembling, your release a powerful wave that left you breathless and sated, the fear of work and its consequences now a distant memory, replaced by the all-consuming pleasure Sylus had delivered.

As you lay there, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm, Sylus took advantage of your heightened sensitivity, pushing his cock fully inside you in one smooth motion. Your body, still slick with arousal, offered little resistance, and he filled you with a solid thrust, his girth stretching you, his length filling you completely.

You cried out, overwhelmed by the sensations—the overstimulation of your orgasm blending into the pleasure of his intrusion, which quickly morphed into a slight pain as he began to thrust inside your tightening hole. "So fucking tight," he growled, his voice a low, primal sound.

His grip on your body tightened, almost possessive, as if trying to keep you from moving, from escaping the pleasure he was delivering. You struggled to breathe, your body shaking, your senses overloaded. "Sylus...too much!" you cried out, your voice hoarse, your body practically shaking with the intensity of the sensations.

"You're okay, kitten," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Bite down on my hand."

He offered his hand, his fingers curling around yours, urging you to bite down, to ground yourself as he continued to thrust, his pace relentless, his body a cage of pleasure and pain, his grip on you a reminder that you had no choice but to surrender and take every thrust he was giving you.

You bit down on his hand, your teeth sinking into his skin, grounding yourself in the physical sensation as his thrusts continued, relentless and powerful. The pain and pleasure mingled, creating a heady mix of sensations that overwhelmed your senses. Your body shook, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, your nails digging into his arm as you clung to him, your body moving in rhythm with his.

Despite the pain, he didn't flinch, didn't try to pull his hand away. Instead, he seemed to lean into it, his movements becoming more insistent, his body moving in perfect sync with yours. The friction between you was almost palpable, a living, breathing thing that pulsed with every thrust.

Sylus's movements suddenly became slow and sensual, his thrusts a a new gentle rhythm that built pleasure anew. Your bodies, slick with sweat, moved in sync, your moans filling the air, a symphony of pleasure and desire that seemed to echo off the walls.

As he moved, his cock rubbed against your G-spot, sending shivers through your body, making your toes curl and your fingers dig harder into his skin. His pubic bone pressed against your clit, adding an extra layer of sensation, making your body tremble with anticipation. Your moans grew louder, more insistent, as he continued to thrust into you sensually, lovingly

"Y'know..." he whispered, his voice hoarse and strained, his words barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing. "I could give you a really good excuse to miss work for nine months" His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine, making your body arch into his touch.

Your entire body locks up.

The weight of his words crashes down on you like a lightning strike, your mind screeching to a halt as it fully processes what he just said. Nine months. Nine. Months?

Oh. Oh.

Your breath stutters, your heart hammering so loudly you can hear it in your ears. A fresh, unbearable wave of heat floods through you, burning up from the inside out. You can’t even think properly, your thoughts spiraling into what ifs and impossible images that make your stomach flip so violently you almost feel lightheaded.

Your lips part—you want to say something, anything, but your brain is completely fried, every coherent thought erased by the sheer weight of what he’s implying. Instead, a strangled, breathless noise escapes you, somewhere between a choked gasp and a disbelieving scoff.

Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your body trembling on the edge of release. His thrusts became more insistent again, his pace quickening, his body moving in rhythm with yours, his voice a low, primal growl that seemed to vibrate through every cell in your body. You felt yourself getting closer and closer, your body coiling tighter and tighter, until you were a spring ready to snap.

You find yourself biting even harder on his hand, moaning and choking curse words into his skin.

Sylus still didn't flinch, thrusts didn't even falter, even as your teeth dug deeper into his skin. "That's it, kitten, let go," he urged, his breath hot against your ear, his words spoken with raw desire. "Cum for me". His voice was like a spark to dry tinder, igniting a fire that had been building for what felt like hours.

You surrendered to the building pleasure, your body convulsing around his length, your release a powerful wave that left you trembling and breathless. As you came, your body milked his cock, squeezing and releasing in a rhythmic pattern that seemed to draw him in, pulling him closer and closer to his own release. Sylus followed, his own climax a hot flood within you, his body shuddering as he filled you with his cum, his breath ragged against your neck. You felt his cock pulsing inside you, releasing wave after wave of heat, making your body tremble with aftershocks.

Even as you came down from the peak of your orgasm, you still bit down on his hand, the pain a reminder that you were still alive, still present in your body. Tears streamed down your face, your eyes closed as you struggled to process the intensity of the feelings that had just torn through you. Sylus didn't seem to mind, didn't try to pull his hand away, instead wrapping his other arm around you, holding you close as you rode out the aftershocks of your climax.

The air between you is thick, heavy with the aftermath of what just happened. Your body still hums with sensitivity, the lingering warmth of his touch ghosting over your skin even in the places where he’s no longer touching you. Your breath comes fast and uneven, mingling with his in the limited space between you. It takes a few sluggish seconds for your mind to catch up, for reality to seep through the haze of warmth, exhaustion, and the overwhelming presence of him.

You shift slightly, the movement sluggish and lazy, tangled in sheets that are now an absolute mess beneath you. But something catches your eye, a faint streak of red between his index and thumb—small, but unmistakable. Your gaze sharpens, the fog in your mind clearing just enough to process what it is. His hand. The mark you left there.

Your stomach twists.

Turning fully toward him, you reach for his hand without thinking, grasping it between your own as you bring it closer to examine. The skin is broken, a faint indent of your teeth still visible, a thin smear of blood welling up along the fresh bite wound. You swallow hard, something warm—guilt, embarrassment, maybe a little bit of both—curling low in your chest.

"Sylus," you murmur, tracing the edge of the wound with gentle, careful fingers, your touch barely a ghost against his skin. "You're bleeding. I'm so so sorry."

The reaction you expect—a wince, a sigh of annoyance, maybe even a scolding remark about being too rough—doesn’t come.

Instead, he chuckles.

A deep, amused sound that rumbles through his chest, utterly unbothered. His free hand moves almost lazily, fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you in just slightly. Before you can protest, he presses a warm, lingering kiss to your lips. Then another. And another. Each one deliberate, soft, like he’s trying to reassure you that he’s perfectly fine. That, despite the evidence on his skin, he doesn’t mind.

"You're so cute when you get all worked up and worried about me," he muses, voice drenched in amusement, his lips never straying far from you. "You've seen me bleed before. I healed just fine, this is no different."

You let out a breath, one you hadn’t realized you were holding, but you don’t let go of his hand. Your fingers tighten around his slightly, still feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your own. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen him injured before—this is different. The mark is from you. You did this. The thought makes something in your chest twist, a tangled mix of emotions you don’t have the energy to sort through right now.

Sylus, on the other hand, doesn’t seem the least bit concerned.

He tilts his head slightly, brushing another lazy kiss against your temple before murmuring, "Since you’re so worried, and since you’re already late for your meeting…you can help me bandage up."

You blink.

The words take a full second to register in your mind.

Then, suddenly—panic slams into you like a freight train.

You jerk upright so fast that the blankets tangle around your legs, the soreness in your muscles protesting immediately. But you ignore it, lunging for your phone as a pit of dread sinks deep into your stomach.

No.

No way.

This can’t be happening.

Your fingers fumble against the screen, tapping it awake, and the moment your eyes land on the time, your heart stops.

You stare.

The numbers blink mockingly back at you, taunting you with undeniable proof that your absolute worst-case scenario is now reality.

You were supposed to be in that meeting fifteen minutes ago.

Fifteen. Minutes. Ago.

For a moment, your brain completely short-circuits.

Your breathing is still uneven, your body still warm and exhausted, and yet—somehow, all of that disappears beneath the sheer force of realization slamming into you. Your stomach drops into oblivion, a rising sense of dread climbing up your spine as your pulse kicks into overdrive.

Slowly—mechanically, like you’re in some kind of fever dream—you turn your head, your wide eyes locking onto Sylus.

He’s watching you, still completely relaxed, utterly unbothered. One arm is lazily draped behind his head, the other still in your grasp, and there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips that tells you he knows exactly what’s happening in your brain right now.

You open your mouth, ready to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a strangled, breathless, "No way."

His smirk grows. "Oh?"

You snap your gaze back to your phone, as if staring at the numbers harder might somehow make them change. But they don’t. The reality is unavoidable.

You lunge back toward him, shoving his shoulder as the weight of the realization crashes over you. "No way. No way! There’s absolutely no way our—" You flail your arms wildly in emphasis, words momentarily failing you. "Activities lasted an hour!"

Sylus lets out a low, knowing chuckle, one that does absolutely nothing to ease your growing panic.

"You sure about that?" he muses, arching a brow.

You open your mouth to argue, to deny, to insist that there’s no way you just completely lost track of time like that—but then you stop.

Because, unfortunately, the evidence is right there.

The sluggish ache in your limbs, the dull soreness still lingering in your muscles, the aftershocks still thrumming beneath your skin—all of it is proof.

Your jaw clenches shut.

Your entire body slumps forward, collapsing back onto the bed, an absolutely defeated groan ripping from your throat. You drag a hand over your face, squeezing your eyes shut, as if that might somehow undo reality. "I'm so screwed."

Sylus’s laughter vibrates through the mattress, deep and thoroughly entertained. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s loving this.

A moment later, his good hand finds your waist again, fingers tracing lazy, absentminded patterns against your still-sensitive skin. His touch is warm, soothing, completely unrepentant.

"Relax, kitten," he murmurs, his voice a slow, indulgent drawl.

You hear the smirk in his tone before he even says it.

"The offer for that car crash is still on the table y'know..."

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

At Your Service Pt. 3

⟡ Word Count: 16.2k words

⟡ Tags: boss!Sylus x housekeeper!reader, fem reader, dubcon, drinking, suicidal thoughts, attempted suicide, kidnapping, stalking, degradation, spitting, nicknames like doll, sweetie, sweetheart,

⟡ Summary: Your life is falling apart. Yes, you've left one mans hell behind, but reality is quick to knock you back down on your feet. Faced with no other way, you consider your last option...all while Sylus struggles to come up with ways to get you to come back to him.

Maybe the universe had made a mistake. Maybe it was punishing you for slipping through its fingers. For surviving when you weren’t supposed to. The shame of existing when everything in your life screamed that you shouldn’t be here anymore was unbearable. A curse stitched into the seams of your skin. Every breath you took felt like defiance in a world that never wanted you. And in that moment, it became so clear: maybe it was time to stop running from it. Maybe you should just give the universe what it had always wanted from you—your soul. Maybe then, if you died, everything would finally stop hurting.

⟡ AN: Hi!! Sorry this took so long! I decided to flesh out the plot a little more and give you guys just one extra chapter. (aka I wrote too much to just do one chapter LOL). So this fic will end in part 4! I just love this fic so much! A little tw if you struggle or have struggled with suicidal thoughts! Pls be safe!! Next part will be less angsty and more smutty hehe.

Tag list for this fic is full sadly!! Sorry to anyone that wanted to be added! :(

Enjoy! I spent many days and nights on this. Im gonna sleep for days now (｡>﹏<)

@leiaglamela @shia247 @hyphensei @hummingbirdoooo @beaconsxd @zoezhive @syluslover1 @mmeerraa @webmvie @calebsbabyapple @mysterios-hoe @ymrai @sinstae @sylvieisoffline @blcknebula @wooasecret @chososlvrr @deathlycrow @joshazraelian @mcdepressed290 @sylusqt @harbingers-lullaby @dummiebunny @rachelaishi @dilf-destroyer-04 @rjreins @thelittlebutton @rie-star @blcknebula @zoezhive @theplaid-wearingmoose @chaotictsumu @ni3rdem1se @certainduckanchor @suicidollz @shi-thats-kiera @marliisastarfrfr @ikesimpleton @chososlvrr @seventeen-x @maiznamai @sabage101 @xanhnax @uchihabucketlist @rubylescent @joshazraelian @teary-eyed-egg @writteninlunarlight-years @sylusgirlie7 @finalgirlfanatic

twt/x | ao3

Read the other parts on my masterlist!

Sylus wasn’t one to panic. In fact, he prided himself on his ability to keep cool no matter the circumstances. Strategy, restraint, control—those were his trademarks. Even in chaos, he thrived. It was one of the reasons people feared him. There was always a plan, a backup, an edge that kept him grounded when others faltered.

But that composure cracked the moment his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He was seated near the front of a high-stakes auction, surrounded by the silent, simmering tension of powerful men and women bidding discreetly behind masks and digital paddles. The room was dimly lit, every surface polished to excess. Velvet-lined chairs. Crystal glasses. Shadowy security stationed at every exit. A rare and powerful weapon was rumored to be unveiled tonight—something nearly mythical, lost to time and blood and buried history. He had waited weeks to take a seat in this room. He hadn’t come all this way to be distracted.

Still, something unfamiliar tightened in his chest.

He felt the single buzz in his pocket and instinctively ignored it. But it lingered in the back of his mind, like a whisper he couldn’t quite make out. Something about it felt different. The weight of it settled in his chest, heavy and slow-burning. He didn’t know why, but it stuck with him.

Sylus shifted slightly, subtle enough not to draw attention, and slipped his phone from his pocket. He held it low in his lap, thumb unlocking the screen out of habit. He expected a routine update. One of the twins checking in. A shipment arrival. A simple confirmation.

Instead, it was your name.

The moment he saw it, his entire body stilled. His breath caught. His pulse began to quicken in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline or the auctioneer’s rising call.

He hadn’t heard from you since you'd vanished. Not a single message. And now here it was—your name lighting up his screen. Hope surged in his chest before he could suppress it. Maybe—finally—you were ready to talk. Maybe you were coming back to work. Maybe you missed him?

But then he read the message.

Two words.

"I quit."

They glowed against the screen like a slap to the face. Just two words, sharp and clean, carved straight into him. For a long second, Sylus just stared.

The room blurred. The droning voice of the auctioneer became a distant hum. The subtle movements of the bidders, the gleam of weapons on display—all of it faded into the periphery. All he could hear was the echo of those words in his head and the growing roar of blood rushing past his ears.

His grip on the phone tightened.

Something was wrong. This wasn’t you trying to provoke him. He knew your tone. Knew the way you normally sent a message. And this one was too sharp. There was no dramatics in that message, no play for attention. It read like someone who’d truly given up.

And for the first time in years, Sylus felt it—panic.

Quiet. Gnawing at the edge of his carefully constructed calm. He rose without a word, chair scraping softly as he stood. Let the weapon sell.

He had somewhere more important to be.

He ordered his driver to speed up, urgency creeping into his voice as they barreled through the streets toward Onychinus’s base. The city lights streaked past the tinted windows, tall buildings twisting into a blur, but Sylus barely registered any of it. His mind wasn’t on the road—it was on you. That message. Just two words, but they echoed louder than a scream.

What did you mean you quit? Didn’t you need the money? He had offered you a package most would dream of. Tripled pay. A fast track to financial freedom. A car to get you out of that rundown apartment. It wasn’t charity—it was calculated, but generous. He had made sure of that. So why the hell would you walk away?

His fingers tightened around the phone in his hand. There had to be more to it. Had something happened? Had someone pushed you? Or was this about him? Had he gone too far?

The thought gnawed at him, unsettling. Sylus was many things—ruthless, commanding, manipulative when he had to be—but careless wasn’t one of them. He thought he had read you right. Understood you. He thought he could reel you back in.

Grinding his teeth, he unlocked his phone again and called Luke, needing answers.

The line rang once. Twice.

Sylus's jaw flexed as he waited, each second stretching like wire pulled taut.

Finally, Luke picked up.

"Yes, boss!" Luke’s upbeat tone spilled through the speaker, light and casual, utterly mismatched to the pressure building in Sylus’s chest.

"Is she there?" Sylus asked, voice tight and clipped, barely more than a growl. He was already bracing for the answer he didn’t want to hear, but something in him still held on to the hope that you might be there.

"Uh... Lira? Yeah, she’s here—"

"No," Sylus cut in, his patience thinning to threads. His voice sharpened, cold steel beneath the words. "The housekeeper."

A beat of silence followed. A slight shuffling noise through the line—maybe Luke shifting in place, maybe him realizing too late that this wasn’t a casual check-in. The weight of the question finally landed.

"Oh! Her! Um…I’m not sure. She wasn’t here when we got back. There’s a mess in the kitchen, by the way. Lira said she knocked over some cleaning water. Do you want me to clean it up?"

Sylus’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the phone until his knuckles whitened. A mess in the kitchen. Cleaning water. From Lira. That didn’t sit right. Not one bit. Lira never touched anything that would require her having to work. She certainly wouldn't be cleaning anything. So just how had it gotten in a place it could be knocked over?

A bad feeling coiled low in his gut. He could feel it rising, slow and sickening. 

He hung up without saying goodbye or answering Luke's question.

The unease in his chest didn’t just linger—it clawed deeper with every passing second. A cold pressure built at the base of his spine, an instinctual warning that something had gone horribly wrong. By the time the car screeched to a stop in front of the Onychinus's base, Sylus didn’t bother waiting for the driver to pull into place. He opened the door mid-motion, stepping out before the vehicle came to a full halt.

He didn’t take the elevator. Didn’t greet the guards at the front. Didn’t pause to compose himself. In a blur of red and black mist, he dissolved from the street and reappeared directly in the living room.

The sudden burst of energy made Lira jump where she sat perched on the couch, legs crossed, scrolling lazily through her phone. She looked up sharply, clearly startled by the abrupt appearance.

"Hi, Sylus! How’d the auction go?" she chirped, her voice sugarcoated and bright. She tossed her phone aside, standing up quickly and moving toward him with a bounce in her step. Her arms reached up to wrap around his neck in an affectionate greeting, clearly playing up her charm.

Sylus returned the hug, but his touch was light—detached. His posture remained stiff, his focus elsewhere. His sharp eyes flicked around the room like searchlights, scanning every corner for a sign of you. Your shoes weren’t by the door. Your jacket wasn’t on the hook. The air lacked the faint scent of the shampoo you used or the quiet rustle you always made when moving through the rooms.

Nothing.

You weren’t there.

"I heard you spilled something?" he asked, his voice calm, low, and laced with quiet force. He wasn’t making small talk. He wasn’t here for polite conversation.

Lira blinked in surprise, then gave a light, airy laugh. "Oh, that? Yeah. I guess I did. Just knocked over some cleaning stuff by accident. My elbow slipped," she added with an apologetic shrug, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "It was kind of a mess, but no big deal. I think one of the twins is cleaning it up right now."

Sylus watched her carefully. Every movement. Every inflection. She was trying too hard to sound casual, too quick with her explanation. He could see it—the faint tightness at the corners of her eyes, the slight shift in her stance. She was lying.

He didn’t feel like entertaining Lira’s games right now. So he pressed her.

"Cleaning stuff? Was the housekeeper here earlier?" Sylus asked, his tone deceptively calm, but his eyes locked on her with unnerving intensity, the kind that made people forget how to breathe. He didn’t blink. Just stared like he could see through her skin.

Lira's expression twitched. Her cheerful facade faltered for the briefest second, lips pulling into a tight, annoyed grimace at the mention of you. That reaction alone told him more than he needed. She tried to recover, but the damage was already done.

"Er, yeah. I kinda got some on her and she got like so mad at me," she said with a scoff, arms crossing defensively. Her tone sharpened. "What a bitch. Don’t think she’s coming back."

Sylus’s fist curled tightly at his side, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. That sounded...unlike you. Very unlike you. You didn’t lash out, even when provoked. You swallowed things. Endured. You held your breath until the moment passed, even when it hurt. He knew that about you—how much you took without standing up for yourself. Hated how quietly you hurt. For you to have snapped, something must have seriously gone wrong. And he had a sinking feeling he knew who had caused it.

"Is that so?" he murmured, voice dropping an octave, deeper now, colder. "Did she seem alright?"

Lira rolled her eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth as if this entire conversation were beneath her. "She washed whatever got into her eyes out. She’s probably not blind...I don’t know," she said, casually inspecting her nails like the outcome meant nothing to her. Her tone was flippant, dismissive, and callously unconcerned—far too casual for someone potentially responsible for a serious injury.

It was painfully clear she didn’t care. Not about the mess. Not about you. Not about anything beyond her own amusement.

"Don’t tell me you actually give a shit about some random housekeeper?" she added with a mocking tilt of her head, as if the very notion was laughable. Her eyes gleamed with smugness, and her voice dripped with disdain, like she knew exactly what she was doing—trying to needle him into a reaction.

Sylus’s jaw flexed. He forced his features to remain smooth, impassive. The storm inside him stayed carefully caged behind a mask of cool indifference. He couldn’t afford to let her see it.

In her eyes? The words echoed in his skull, loud and brutal. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. His mind began assembling images, each more infuriating than the last. You, blinking through stinging pain. Your eyes red and watering. Your small hands trembling as you tried to wash it away. Had you cried? Had you screamed? How much had it hurt?

His fists tightened at his sides. Something cold and ugly began to crawl beneath his skin.

He knew Lira. Knew her manipulative streak. Her vanity. Her need to dominate. And you? You had been quiet. Polite. Meek. An easy target. Of course Lira saw you as disposable. It was never an accident. Not with her. She’d done it to provoke you.

The fury brewing in his chest was becoming harder to ignore.

He’d review the cameras later. Every frame. Every moment. If even a fraction of this had gone the way he imagined, Lira would regret it.

Then something on the floor caught his eye. A small glint of glass. A reflection where there shouldn't have been one. He stepped forward, his movement calm but filled with quiet purpose. Kneeling, he reached out and picked it up—and the breath caught in his throat.

It was your phone. Or rather, the one he had bought for you. The sleek device he had carefully picked out among hundreds of others, just for you. Now, it lay shattered. The screen was fractured into a web of cracks, the casing scuffed and bent. It hadn’t just fallen. It had been thrown. Or dropped in a moment of panic.

His grip around the phone tightened as he slowly rose to his feet. He turned it over in his palm, brushing his thumb over the broken glass. Something inside him went cold.

Behind him, Lira watched. Silent now.

He didn’t turn to face her right away. He felt it wasn't a good idea, given the fact he was picturing Lira's skull cracked open on his pristine marble floors.

"Of course not, love," Sylus said smoothly, slipping the phone into his pocket with deliberate calm. His voice was level, but there was an edge beneath it, a chill that hadn’t been there before. "I’m just disappointed she won’t be able to work anymore. She was quite the worker. Reliable. Quiet. Cleaned very well. A shame she’s probably blind now."

Lira snickered softly from behind him, clearly pleased with his response. Her arms slipped around his torso with the confidence of someone who believed they still held control, pressing herself close like nothing was wrong, like she hadn’t just admitted to possibly blinding someone and didn’t care. Her voice slithered against his back like a silk scarf soaked in venom. "Then let’s move on. Maybe hire a guy next time. She didn’t clean that well."

Sylus gave a low chuckle, perfectly rehearsed. Smooth. Hollow. He made sure the sound was just the right volume, just the right tone to pass as indulgent. Inside, his stomach was twisted with rage.

He finally turned, his body uncoiling like a panther in slow motion as he faced her and returned the embrace. His arms wrapped around her gently, his posture warm and relaxed. But his fingers flexed once at her back, and behind her, his eyes had hardened into something sharp and merciless. Ice in his veins. Stone in his chest. His smile had vanished the moment her face was out of sight.

From her angle, she couldn’t see the glare carved into his features, the boiling calculation simmering just beneath the surface. She didn’t see the pulse ticking sharply in his jaw, or the way his muscles stayed too tense beneath the fabric of his suit. This game had gone on long enough. Too long. And if she thought she’d gotten away with anything—if she thought her smugness meant safety—she was sorely mistaken.

Time to step up the act.

Win her over completely. Make her feel secure, untouchable, wanted. Let her bask in his attention and believe she had power—right before he pulled it out from under her and watched her fall.

He pulled back just enough to flash a smile, one of his most convincing. Dangerous in its subtlety.

"I feel awful you had to wait so long for my arrival," he said, brushing a loose strand of her dark hair from her shoulder with fingers that didn’t tremble despite the storm inside him. His voice was soft but steady, a low hum of reassurance that masked a growing hunger for bloodshed. "Why don’t we get you something nice to wear for our next date? Something that turns heads. Something expensive."

Lira beamed at the sound of the word expensive, oblivious. Her eyes sparkled with delight, exactly as he expected. She was already dreaming of dresses, shoes, handbags—all distractions.

The bait was set.

Soon, she would learn what it meant to cross a line that should never have been crossed. To hurt something he considered his. And when that moment came, there would be no signal, no dramatic gesture—just swift, calculated ruin. Only the crushing realization that every compliment, every gift, every smile had been part of a carefully layered trap.

He ordered Mephisto to track you down the moment they stepped out. All it took was a single look—no words, no motion, just the subtle narrowing of his eyes. Mephisto, perched near the archway, caught it immediately. The crow tilted his head once, an eerily human gesture laced with intelligence and loyalty, before lifting into the air.

His wings moved in deliberate silence, slicing through the dusk with practiced ease. Mephisto vanished into the descending night like smoke caught in reverse. Sylus didn’t bother watching the direction. He didn’t have to. The bond between master and creation was deeper than flesh or blood. Mephisto would find you.

And yet, unease prickled at the base of Sylus’s neck throughout the entirety of the date.

He turned his attention to Lira, who had already resumed her gleeful hunt through the store like a child set loose in a candy factory. All the while, Sylus played the part of the attentive, indulgent date, letting the corners of his mouth curl up just enough. His posture was relaxed, his eyes kind. It was all a lie.

"This one compliments my eyes, right? Or maybe the green one? It matches that silk dress I wore last month. You remember that one, right, Sylus?" Lira held up handbag after handbag, her voice high and sweet, an endless stream of self-centered noise. She swiped them from the shelves without care, letting price tags flutter like confetti.

Sylus nodded absently, offering the occasional hum or murmur of agreement. But his mind had splintered far from this store, far from the garish clutches of designer excess. He wasn’t thinking about handbags or colors or eye-matching fabrics. He was thinking about you—your silence, your absence, your pain.

Every minute that passed without Mephisto’s signal twisted deeper into his gut. A slow, cold knife made of worry and fury. What if you were hurt worse than he thought? What if you'd left entirely? What if he had been too late?

He had all the money in the world. His fingers could pull the trigger on a purchase without a thought. Normally, twenty grand on a handbag was nothing. A whim. An indulgence. But now? Every swipe of his card stung. Every gift he handed to Lira felt like betrayal—not of her, but of you. The one who never asked for anything. The one who flinched when touched too suddenly, who worked quietly and tried to disappear.

Spending money on the woman who had hurt you—who had lied to him, disrespected him, and taken pleasure in making you feel small—was a grotesque ritual. One he had to endure to maintain the act. But it grated on his nerves like sandpaper on raw flesh.

Because she had harmed something he valued.

And that was something Sylus did not forgive.

He wore the mask of charm. He kept up the performance. Let her twirl and simper and babble about her next outfit while his mind sharpened every detail of what she had done. He didn’t even flinch when she leaned in to kiss his cheek, whispering something flirty about how generous he was. He smiled. Played the role. But inside, the storm was building.

All he needed now was a signal. A location. Coordinates. Proof that you were safe. That you were still somewhere he could reach.

You were all he could think about.

Even as Lira twirled in front of mirrors and held up garment after garment, all Sylus could see was the image of your red, tear-stained face burned into the back of his eyelids. The sound of your sobs echoed in his ears like a haunting refrain. Every giggle from Lira grated against him like nails dragging across glass. It tore him to shreds.

The only thing anchoring him was the hope that Mephisto would come back with something—anything—that would lead him to you.

He couldn’t focus. He couldn't stop imagining the scene.

Sylus excused himself from Lira with the best lie he could conjure—something about a urgent work call,—and slipped away down the corridor without waiting for her response. She didn’t question it. Why would she? She was too busy picking the most expensive items to put on his card. He moved fast, weaving through racks of overpriced shoes and glittering jewelry displays, ignoring the confused looks of staff as he passed.

The longer he stayed near Lira, the more bile rose in his throat. He ducked into a quieter wing of the boutique, somewhere out of her line of sight. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—the way she'd casually brushed off the incident, the way she'd smiled. It was gnawing at him so much he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t pretend. He needed answers. He needed to see it for himself.

With a few secure taps on his phone, he accessed the base's private surveillance network. He keyed in his credentials, pulled up the timestamp from earlier that day, and began scrubbing through the footage. The knot in his gut, already tight, twisted harder with each second that passed as the video buffered and loaded on the small screen.

He cycled through hallway after hallway, the footage shaky and pixelated on the phone, nothing, nothing, until finally—

There it was. The kitchen. He slowed the footage, heart pounding like a war drum. There you were, hunched low on the ground, silently scrubbing the floor. You looked small. Smaller than he remembered. Worn down, your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear. Every movement was robotic, joyless, your face blank and drained. There was no spark in your eyes. Even from the grainy angle, he could see the shadows beneath them.

His stomach dropped as Lira walked in. She moved with that same fake grace she always wore like perfume—cloying and nauseating. She opened the fridge, plucked something out, and turned.

And there it was.

He froze the frame. Her elbow extended, too far, too precise. The bucket tipped with an elegant arc that was far too controlled to be an accident. He resumed playback.

The contents splashed across your head, dousing your shoulders, soaking your clothes. You jumped, startled, eyes wide as you stumbled back toward the sink. He watched, horrified, as you clawed at your face, trying to rinse the chemical mix out of your eyes. You were panicking. Crying. Gasping. And all the while—

Lira stood there.

Arms crossed. Smirking. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t offer a towel. Didn’t move. And then—she laughed.

A cold, dismissive little giggle that made Sylus’s hands curl into fists at his sides. The sound echoed in the silent room like a slap to the face. His vision swam in red for a brief moment. He leaned forward, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He wanted to break something. Anything. Her, preferably.

Then came the worst part.

You didn’t fight back. Didn’t yell. You simply bolted—scrambling out of the frame like your very survival depended on it, your legs barely carrying you as you staggered down the hall. He watched, frozen, as tears streamed down your face, your whole body wracked with sobs so fierce they seemed to consume you. You looked like a ghost, a wraith of the person he remembered—barely holding yourself together as you collapsed beneath the weight of whatever finally broke you.

Humiliation had etched itself into every corner of your posture. And the silence with which you endured it only made it worse—like you didn’t even believe you were worth defending. Like you’d decided it was easier to vanish than to speak.

He had thought you were healing. Thought maybe—just maybe—you’d given him another chance. That fragile step through the front door of the penthouse, your hesitant gaze, your soft voice—it had felt like hope. Like redemption.

But now it was all dust.

Because of her.

Lira had twisted the story, of course. Lied like it was second nature. Told him you were the one who snapped, who overreacted. But this footage—this brutal, undeniable truth—told a different story. You hadn’t been dramatic. You hadn’t even been angry. You had just been hurt.

And Lira had laughed.

The sight of it made something inside him snap. Rage, cold and precise, coiled in his chest like a blade slowly turning. His blood pounded so violently he could feel it in his teeth. This wasn’t just irritation. This wasn’t annoyance.

This was fury. Real, violent fury.

Sylus had never felt such a strong need to hurt someone before. Much less a woman. His anger was so obvious that even Lira, who normally didn’t notice small changes in his mood, saw something was off when he came back to talk to her. To avoid raising suspicion, he told her that one of their competitors had intercepted a critical weapons shipment, delaying a major deal and throwing his schedule into chaos.

It wasn’t until after the outing, as he stepped out of the car and into the dim glow of his private elevator, that Mephisto returned. The mechanical bird landed silently on his shoulder, claws clicking gently against the fabric of his coat. Sylus didn’t even flinch.

With a soft whir and a flicker of light, Mephisto’s singular glowing eye projected an image in front of him—a brief, stuttering hologram flickering like a ghost in midair.

His heart nearly stopped.

It was you. You were stepping out of a battered ER facility tucked away on the outskirts of the N109 Zone. You clutched a handful of small packets—ointment, gauze, cheap painkillers—and your free hand was wiping at your eyes.

Your eyes were still red, still swollen, still visibly hurting in that grainy projection—and it struck Sylus like a punch to the chest, stealing the air from his lungs. That you had made it all the way to the ER by yourself, clearly in pain, and now leaving with nothing but a few low-grade packets of ointment and gauze, was almost too much to bear. The guilt rushed him like a wave. He had been out shopping, parading around with Lira on his arm as if she hadn’t just been the cause of your agony. He had smiled. He had pretended. He had let himself be distracted by a performance he no longer had the stomach for. And all the while, you had been enduring this alone. He could see the fatigue in the slump of your shoulders, the way your hand trembled as it wiped at your eyes. The image burned itself into his memory, a bitter reminder of where he should’ve been and what he should’ve done. That moment undid him more than any enemy's betrayal ever had.

You had been reduced to walking into one of the worst medical centers in the district alone. Those ERs were notorious—underfunded, overcrowded, and run by scam artists who used outdated tech and pushed overpriced treatments. He knew this. Everyone knew this. The only people who went there were the desperate.

You had been desperate. Probably had gone to this one to save money since you no longer wanted to work for him.

And he hadn’t been there.

He should’ve been comforting you. He should’ve been beside you the second it happened. But instead, he’d let Lira talk his ear off and dragged out the charade, all while you suffered.

Coupled with the fact that he had hurt you in his office—sent you screaming and crying after the two of you had come so close to something real, something intimate—the guilt gnawed at him, relentless and raw. It wasn’t just a lapse in judgment. It was a collapse of everything fragile that had been slowly built between you. He had crossed a line—one he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t. And in doing so, he shattered something he couldn’t rebuild with simple apologies. The sound of your voice—panicked, shaking—still rang in his ears like a ghost he couldn’t exorcise. Every memory of your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands pushing him away, returned in vivid flashes, worse than any nightmare he’d endured before.

Since then, he had moved through his days like a man made of ash. Outwardly composed, inwardly burning. Every moment of your absence stretched time thin. He found himself pacing in the dead of night, replaying conversations that never happened. Imagining how he could have said something—anything—that might have kept you from bolting out of his life again. He went over the same mental scripts a thousand times, but the guilt remained, heavy and immovable. None of the imagined words seemed right. None of them matched the depth of the damage.

And the worst of it was the look in your eyes when you left. That look—it spoke of wounds older than him, pain that he had only added to. Seeing him with Lira had cut you deeper than he’d expected. It hadn’t just made you jealous. It had confirmed something awful for you, something that told you not only could he not be trusted, but that you were never anything more than temporary in his world. And then, after you’d gathered enough courage to return, Lira had gone further. Had physically hurt you. Humiliated you. And he hadn’t been there to stop it.

He would make this right. And he knew exactly how to do it. He just needed time. 

The projection flickered in the air before him, casting pale light against the sleek steel walls of the elevator as it hummed its way upward in silence. His eyes tracked your every movement as you walked slowly into a nearby convenience store. Your figure looked small beneath the buzzing lights of the entrance, your shoulders hunched, head down, the weight of everything you were carrying clearly still pressing down on you. And then—you disappeared through the sliding doors, swallowed by the ordinary glow of artificial lights and low music. The image paused mid-frame, the last sliver of your figure frozen in time.

Sylus exhaled, the breath leaving his lungs in a slow, unsteady wave. He stared at the last frame of you until the projection dimmed and vanished, Mephisto beginning to groom his feathers.

From that day on, he watched you.

Mephisto became his eyes, tailing your every step with silent precision. Sylus couldn’t risk reaching out—not yet. He didn't want to risk making things worse before everything was in place. So he did the only thing he could: observe. When the base was quiet and the lights were low, he reviewed the footage. It killed him—watching you from a distance, unable to speak to you, unable to hold you. But it was necessary.

He had your broken phone dissected and data mined by one of his engineers, not just for intel, but to learn more about you. It was invasive, he knew that, but he needed to understand the pieces of your world you wouldn’t let him near. You didn’t text anyone, unsurprisingly. No family. No close friends. But your browsing habits told him more than words ever could. The music you played late at night, the shows you watched, sometimes on repeat. The food deliveries you favored. The kinds of clothes you lingered on when shopping online. It painted a picture of someone lonely, private, careful.

He watched you shop for groceries with your head down. Watched you lie on benches in public parks, arms folded beneath your head, eyes toward the sky like you were asking the universe for something—anything. Watched you fall asleep on your sofa, your face turned toward the window. And he saw you cry. A lot. Quietly, bitterly. Like you were trying not to make a sound, like even your sorrow had to be hidden.

But at least your eyes looked better now—less raw, less swollen. The redness that once rimmed them like bruises had faded to a dull pink, and the frantic blinking he saw in earlier footage had slowed. You still shielded them from harsh artificial lights, still winced when the dry zone wind picked up near the vents or between buildings, but you weren’t constantly dabbing at them anymore. It was a small mercy, a tiny fragment of recovery he clung to like a lifeline in the midst of everything else unraveling.

Still, you never once came near Onychinus. Not even close. You avoided it like a scar you couldn’t bear to touch. And that hurt more than he could admit. He wasn’t just watching your life unfold.

He was watching it unfold without him.

There was one night where Sylus actually had enough time to sit and watch Mephisto’s feed in real-time. The base was quiet, his responsibilities temporarily stalled, and for once he wasn’t surrounded by the constant noise of demands and decisions. He was alone, tucked in the corner of his private quarters, the room dim except for the soft glow of a single reading lamp. A glass of untouched whiskey sat on the table beside him, the condensation forming slow, lazy trails down the crystal. He didn’t even notice it anymore. His focus was entirely on the screen in front of him.

Mephisto’s lens adjusted with a soft, mechanical whir, zooming in on the grainy outline of you sitting on a concrete bench outside your apartment complex. The N109 zone was unusually still that night—no sirens, no distant shouts.

You were holding something in your lap. He squinted at the screen, leaning in. Cans? At first, he thought maybe you were just out there eating alone, which stung more than he’d expected. But then he noticed the labeling, the shape. His brow furrowed as you reached into your satchel and pulled out a small, battered handheld opener. Cat food. You had several cans of it, lined up neatly in your bag like you’d planned this.

He watched, transfixed, as you cracked open the first can, the hiss of the seal breaking lost to the silent feed. Then the soundless feed shifted as shadows moved.

Out of alleyways. From beneath rusted cars. Across the broken pavement.

Cats.

They came running. Maybe ten or eleven of them. Scrappy, wiry little things with torn ears and patchy fur—survivors of the N109 Zone just like everything else that refused to die. And yet, when they reached you, there was no fear. You laid the open cans down side by side on the bench and sidewalk with the care of someone who’d done this before, who knew their names even if you’d never spoken them aloud. You touched each of them like you meant it—stroking backs, scratching behind ears, whispering words Mephisto couldn’t record.

You had clearly been putting all your newfound wealth to good use.

And then—

You smiled.

It wasn’t big. But to him, it was luminous. Gentle, unguarded, and beautiful in a way that struck him dumb. The corners of your mouth lifted like a fragile sunrise breaking through the storm cloud of your silence, and for a heartbeat, the world felt soft again. It was the kind of smile he could have stared at for hours—the kind that made his chest tighten with the sharp ache of longing. He hadn’t seen it in weeks. Maybe longer. But now that he had, it felt like breathing after being underwater.

Sylus froze. His hand hovered over the control screen, muscles locked in place, breath caught in his chest like a knife wedged between his ribs. That smile—it wasn’t for anyone. Not for him. And yet, how he wished it had been. Wished it had been prompted by the thought of him, that maybe some tiny part of your heart had softened while thinking of something he'd done right. But it wasn’t. It was real because it was yours. Untouched by him. A flicker of who you were beneath all the pain, all the bitterness he had helped create. A piece of you that still had warmth to give despite everything. Despite him. And he ached to be worthy of it.

It hit harder than he expected. Made his throat tighten, made his heart pound with something that wasn’t quite guilt and wasn’t quite longing, but some painful combination of the two. Because in that moment, you weren’t crying. You weren’t haunted. You weren’t braced for someone to hurt you again. You were just...alive. Still capable of kindness. Still capable of love.

He missed that smile so much it physically hurt. And he hated himself a little more for being part of the reason it was gone in the first place.

It hurt so much, in fact, that he got reckless. The weight of that one smile—the one not meant for him—broke past every barrier of restraint he’d built up over the past few weeks. That moment haunted him. It reminded him of what he’d lost. And somewhere in that ache, a dangerous thought took root.

This was his chance.

He could see you in person. Try again. Maybe say something that would make you smile like that—except this time, because of him. Maybe, just maybe, he could remind you of something good, lead you gently back toward forgiveness. Would you blame him? The distance was killing him. Watching you from the shadows wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

So he got up and moved. The next day, he bought out the entire stock of cat food from the nearest pet shop—every brand, every flavor. The clerk looked at him like he was unhinged. Maybe he was. He didn’t care. He loaded it all into a sleek black duffel bag and made his way down to the bench—the bench you always sat on when feeding the strays.

And then, he waited.

The wind in the N109 Zone was dry, biting as it swept through the alleyways. He pulled his coat tighter and sat down, feeling the cool concrete seep through his clothes. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He almost laughed at himself—Sylus, who had faced down kings, mercenaries, warlords, and wanderers without flinching, now sat breathing heavily like a nervous schoolboy.

And all it had taken was a girl.

He waited so long on that bench, he started to question whether you were even coming today. The hours bled together in the dim haze of the N109 Zone’s artificial glow. The longer he sat there, the colder the concrete felt beneath him, and the more his anticipation twisted into quiet dread. He leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning every shadow, every alley, every passerby—hoping, wishing.

And then he noticed them. The stray cats.

They lingered near the edges of the buildings, cautious and silent, peeking out from behind trash bins and crumbling brick corners. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, tracking his every movement. It was clear they were hungry—ribs showing, tails flicking anxiously—but just as clear they didn’t trust him. He was a stranger. And predators in this zone were never scarce.

Still, they watched.

He shifted the duffel bag at his feet and unzipped it slowly. His fingers found one of the cans near the top—chicken flavor. You’d fed them that once. Maybe they’d remember.

With a small breath, he cracked the seal. The soft hiss of the lid releasing echoed quietly in the stillness of the night, sharp enough to make one of the braver cats dart forward. Then another followed. Then another. Within seconds, Sylus found himself surrounded.

A growing circle of thin, meowing cats closed in around him, some dragging along their kittens, all staring up at him with a mix of desperation and curiosity. He placed the open can down gently, then another, and another, spacing them out in a neat row at his feet like he’d seen you do. The cats hesitated at first, sniffing cautiously.

Then—chaos. A flurry of movement as they dove in, yowling and pawing, tails swishing with excitement.

One of them, an orange tabby missing an eye, wandered closer than the others. It circled him once, sniffed the air, then pressed its scrappy little body against his leg. Sylus blinked in surprise. The tabby looked up at him with its one good eye, wide and glassy.

"Mew!"

The sound was soft but insistent. Almost demanding.

Sylus chuckled. Cats didn’t usually take to him. He was too still, too cold, too unreadable. Even animals could sense that. But this one had no fear. It rubbed against his shoe like he belonged there. He could see now—he finally understood—why you came out here night after night. Why you fed them. Why you stayed, even after everything. Surrounded by these fragile, feral creatures, it was hard not to feel something warm.

For the first time in weeks, the corners of his mouth genuinely twitched upward.

He reached down slowly, careful not to scare the orange tabby away, his fingers hovering just above its scruffy head. The cat's single eye blinked up at him, trusting and unafraid, and in that fleeting instant, Sylus felt something shift inside him. He was just about to brush his fingers behind its ears, indulging in the fragile peace of the moment, when a sound tore through the stillness.

"S-Sylus?"

The voice was unmistakable—soft, cracked, hesitant. Yours.

It hit him like a blow to the ribs.

He froze, the motion dying in his hand. His breath caught. His heart thudded once, then seemed to stall entirely. The tabby looked up at him, puzzled by his sudden stillness, but Sylus didn’t notice. All he could hear was the tremble in your voice. All he could feel was the air shift behind him.

For weeks he had watched you from a distance, rehearsing in his mind what he might say if this moment ever came. But now that you were truly here, standing just steps behind him in the flickering light cast by the streetlamps outside your apartment complex, every word he'd ever imagined seemed to vanish.

He turned from his position on the bench to face you, slowly rising to his feet. And there you were—standing just a few feet away, eyes wide with disbelief, mouth parted slightly as if caught mid-thought. You clutched a crinkled bag of cat food to your chest, the branding on it different from what he was used to seeing you carry. Ah. That explained it. You must have walked farther than usual tonight, probably to a different store. That was what had taken you so long.

He tried to keep his voice even, casual. Like his heart wasn’t hammering in his chest.

"You're late," he said lightly, attempting a crooked smile. "I was starting to think you weren’t showing up at all."

You didn’t smile back. Instead, your eyes flicked to the duffel bag near his feet, the one still half-open, revealing the stacks of cat food cans nestled inside.

You exhaled, clutching your own bag tighter.

"Well…this at least explains why there wasn’t any cat food at my usual store..." you muttered, voice dry with irritation but layered with confusion. You weren't directly talking to him. More to yourself as you glued your gaze to the ground.

There was a pause.

He wanted to say something—anything—that would make this moment lighter. But before he got the chance, you suddenly dropped the bag of cat food you were holding.

Your body began to shake, the first sob slipping from you so abruptly it startled him. Your hands flew up to cover your face, shoulders hunching as you folded in on yourself. The sound of your crying wasn’t gentle. "Why?" you cried out, your voice hoarse and cracking under the weight of something deeper than frustration.

"Why can’t you all just leave me alone?"

Tears seeped between your fingers, catching what little light glowed from the apartment windows above, shimmering like glass on the verge of shatter. And Sylus froze. His breath hitched, legs rooted in place, stunned by the sight of you unraveling in front of him.

Still, he moved. A single step forward. His voice dropped to something tender. "Sweetie, I just wanted to—"

But you cut him off like a whip crack, snapping your head up with a look that pierced through him. Your eyes, red-rimmed and soaked, were wide with something bordering terror. You stumbled back, voice rising into something he didn’t think you were capable of.

"No! I won’t let you trick me again. I won’t let you ruin even this for me!"

You motioned around to the scraggly cats that had gathered, now startled by your cry. "These cats are all I have! Leave!"

There was so much packed into your scream—grief, betrayal, loneliness. The echo of your voice bounced off the buildings, raw and fractured, louder than anything he’d ever heard from you. Louder than anything you’d said even when Lira had humiliated you. And that was what made it real.

He had broken something in you. Something precious. Something that had once trusted him.

He stood there, helpless. Stupidly helpless. His usual calm dissolved into something brittle and uncertain. He’d come here thinking he could fix it with an appearance, a gesture, a shared memory. He’d brought the cat food like some peace offering, like this was something that could be solved with tuna and a half-hearted apology.

But this wasn’t fixable. Not in one night. Not with words. You were hurting in a way he hadn’t prepared for. And the awful thing was, he knew he was part of that pain.

"Calm down," he murmured, lifting his hands in a quiet surrender, trying not to spook you more. His voice was low, deliberate, barely more than breath. "I just wanted to see how you’re doing. You quit so suddenly...I didn’t even get to say goodbye."

He paused, swallowing the guilt swelling in his throat. He inhaled through his nose slowly, like maybe it would help him hold himself together.

"I’m sorry. About Lira."

The words left his mouth and immediately felt useless, too soft and too late. They floated in the space between you like ashes, meaningless against the storm you had just unleashed. It was all he could really offer in the moment. He still couldn't explain anything.

You wiped your face with your sleeve, trembling from head to toe. Your breaths came in jagged gasps, like you were barely holding yourself together. He couldn’t help but notice how much you reminded him of the stray cats circling at your feet—skittish, wounded, unsure if they should run or lash out. But even now, some of them nudged their heads against your legs as if sensing your pain, trying in their own small, quiet way to comfort you.

You looked up at him with eyes that burned, bloodshot and fierce. Your voice was cracked but full of fury when you spat, "Oh yeah? Did she break up with you? So you've come to offer me more money to use my body one last time?"

The accusation hit harder than any physical blow could have. Sylus froze for a beat, stunned by the raw boldness in your tone. You were trembling, but your glare was unflinching. He hadn't expected this. He thought you'd cry, maybe even yell—but not this unflinching, wounded rage. Not words that carved right through him.

"Nonsense," he said quickly, his tone trying and failing to remain calm. "I've never once used you. That has never been my intention. I'm trying to show you otherwise."

He stepped forward, slow and measured, but you recoiled like his shadow alone was poison. You took several steps back, your whole body shaking as tears streamed freely once more.

"Fuck you!" you cried, voice rising into a scream that cracked at the edges. "Dirty, lying disgusting man! I can't believe I ever let you touch me!"

And then your words became venom, spat with a bitterness that made his chest tighten.

"Rot in hell—with Lira!"

For a moment, all sound dropped away. The street seemed to still. Even the cats froze, as if stunned by the power in your voice.

You suddenly took off running, the soles of your shoes slapping against the pavement, arms tight against your sides as if trying to outrun the weight of your own pain. You didn’t even look back—not once. Sylus could’ve chased after you. He could’ve reached you in seconds if he wanted, easily caught you, wrapped his arms around you, held you close until all your fury cracked and spilled into sobs against his chest. That was what he wanted. More than anything. To take away the storm inside you. To prove—somehow—that you still mattered to him, that he hadn’t just watched Lira hurt you and get away with it.

But he didn’t move.

He just stood there, rooted to the pavement, heart thudding in his ears as he watched you disappear around the corner. The sound of your footsteps echoed briefly in the distance, then faded entirely.

He exhaled slowly, the breath long and quiet, filled with something that felt dangerously close to defeat.

With heavy limbs, he bent down and opened the rest of the cans you'd brought, the branding still bright and unfamiliar. One by one, he lined them up next to the ones he’d already set out, creating a neat little offering for the cats. A silent gesture. Something you would’ve done. Something that, in its own small way, felt like penance.

The cats began to gather again, cautiously at first, then more freely, drawn to the scent and the quiet. He sat back down on the bench, not speaking, just watching them eat—your ghosts curling around his ankles, your absence hanging heavy in the still night air.

And Sylus sat there, speechless. He had prepared for distance, for rejection. But not this. Not hatred. Still, beneath the sting of your words, something else clung to his chest like a thorn: guilt. Not because you were wrong—but because, somewhere deep down, he feared you might be right.

There was truly only one way he could fix this. Sylus knew it as surely as he knew the weight of the guilt sitting like iron in his chest. He would do anything at this point—anything—to prove to you that he wasn’t the monster you thought he was. Not just some cold, calculating manipulator. The mission, the protocore, the weeks of strategy and precision—all of it suddenly seemed meaningless.

Screw the mission. This had to end. And it would. Soon.

Your words haunted him. They came back to him at night like echoes in an empty room, brittle and sharp: "Rot in hell with Lira!" "I can't believe I let you touch me!" The memory of your voice, so raw and choked with pain, became the fuel that drove him forward.

He didn’t wait.

He gave the twins their orders with little room for questions. Clear out Onychinus's basement. Reinforce the walls. Install restraints—sturdy ones. A bed. A functioning toilet. Privacy. Enough space to keep someone short term.

They didn’t ask why. They never did. They just obeyed.

And as the preparations continued in secret, Sylus played his role above ground with clinical precision. He got closer to Lira, tolerating her presence like poison he needed to swallow. She laughed easily, curled up against him in expensive clothes he bought to keep up the act. She genuinely seemed to believe they were getting serious. She babbled about vacations, about jewelry, about which mansion they might share someday.

It turned his stomach.

But Sylus smiled, played along, even kissed her on the head when necessary. Each touch was calculated. Each compliment a blade hidden in silk. It was a performance, and he hated every second of it. But it was necessary.

Because soon, he would be done pretending.

Funnily enough, he received the final confirmation that everything was ready the moment he returned from one of those wretched weekend getaways Lira had dragged him on. A remote estate in the quieter sector, where she’d posed in swimsuits for pictures while he sat by the window, checking Mephisto’s surveillance updates on your movements. 

The text came in as he stepped out of the car:

"Project complete. Basement secured bossman!"

A dark satisfaction bloomed in his chest.

It was time.

"That was sooo fun. We should do that way more often!" Lira giggled, the pitch of her voice cutting through the air like champagne fizz. She let go of her suitcase with a dramatic flair, dropping it right in front of one of Sylus's men, who wordlessly stepped forward to grab it. Lira didn’t even look back. She was already making her way toward Sylus, hips swaying, lips curled into a sugar-sweet smile. When she reached him, she threw her arms around his neck like she’d done it a thousand times before—like he belonged to her.

Sylus beamed down at her, the image of the doting boyfriend, all slick charm and impeccable polish. "I’m starting to think your definition of 'fun' is testing my tolerance for overpriced cocktails and sunburns," he quipped, his grin laced with just the right amount of flirtation to keep the illusion alive.

Lira laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard, light and airy, her lashes fluttering as she gazed up at him. "You love it," she purred, leaning in so close he could smell her perfume—something floral, expensive, cloying. It made his stomach churn.

But he didn’t flinch. He played along, like he always did.

Then, without warning, her expression shifted. The lightness in her eyes dimmed, replaced with something more intimate, more deliberate. She took a small step back, her hands sliding down his arms. "I've been thinking," she began, voice lowering as if confessing a secret. "I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. And I really want you to meet my dad. He’s on Itiwa Island and—"

The words were out before she realized. She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening. Her lips parted, and for a beat, she looked like a child who’d just blurted out something they weren’t supposed to say.

"Oops! Oh well," she said quickly, waving it off with a flick of her fingers and an exaggerated grin. "I want you to meet him anyway! I really feel...serious about you. Which is crazy for me??? Ha!"

Her laughter came again, forced now, high-pitched and shaky. She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked away, suddenly shy, like she realized she’d given too much.

Sylus’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew. He chuckled as if touched by her words, but inside his mind snapped to a razor focus. Itiwa Island. Finally.

He could almost hear the last pieces clicking into place, a sharp, satisfying snap that echoed in the quiet recesses of his mind. This was it—the final thread pulled loose, the curtain ready to fall. The endgame wasn’t just near. It was unfolding, and Lira, in her arrogant, oblivious way, had delivered it to him gift-wrapped. Not just information, but the excuse he’d needed. The final justification. He no longer had to pretend.

He had spent weeks lying through his teeth, letting her believe he cared, touching her like it meant something. Every fake smile, every forced compliment—it had all been worth it for this. And now? Now he could stop pretending. Now he could break her. Watch her finally understand just who she'd been playing house with. The timing wasn’t just perfect—it was divine. She had no idea that her last laugh had already come and gone.

He gently kissed her forehead, murmured something smooth, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him like a satisfied cat.

"Can we kiss? Like…actually kiss this time?" Lira whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray the desperation beneath her coquettish tone. She licked her lips slowly, her hands rising to cradle Sylus’s face, fingertips brushing his jawline as she leaned in. Her breath was warm and sweet with anticipation, her eyelids fluttering half-shut. She clearly believed this moment was hers.

Sylus didn’t flinch. He remained still, unmoving as stone, letting her get close—dangerously close. His expression was unreadable, save for the faint tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched at his sides. The silence stretched between them like wire, taut and sharp.

Then, with a sudden and deliberate motion, he lifted his hand—not in tenderness, but with calculated disdain. His palm met her face, and he shoved.

Hard.

Lira stumbled backward, the force catching her completely off guard. Her heels scraped across the gravel as she lost balance, arms flailing before she crashed to the ground with a sickening thud. A jagged stone tore into her knee as she landed, slicing through skin and drawing blood. She let out a sharp cry, her voice echoing across the empty lot.

“What the hell, Sylus?!” she screamed, genuine pain mingling with disbelief as she clutched her leg. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Sylus took one slow step forward, then another. He loomed over her now, a dark figure lit only by the harsh yellow streetlight above. Shadows carved into his face, and the crimson gleam in his eye burned like a warning flare. The heat of restrained rage radiated from him, curling beneath his skin like smoke.

His voice cut through the silence, low and cold. "I would never kiss garbage," he said, eyes narrowing with disdain. "Not in this life or the next."

He let the words hang in the air, heavy and final. Lira stared up at him, wounded both in body and pride, utterly stunned.

Lira's face twisted from shock into something far more volatile—raw fury. Her eyes blazed as she stumbled backward, her voice rising, shrill and wild with disbelief. "Just wait until my father hears about this. You'll regret this!" she screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of panic. She clearly believed her threat still carried weight, that the name of a man who had been hiding from him would still make Sylus hesitate.

Sylus gave a slow, cold chuckle, one devoid of humor. Her bravado was almost adorable in its desperation. With the lazy flick of his fingers, he summoned his men forward. She had just signed the last page of her own story. How sweet that she still thought anyone feared her father, a man too cowardly to show his face, too weak to stick around to protect even his own daughter.

"I don’t think anyone will be hearing from you for a very long time," he said, his voice smooth and clinical, like a scalpel. It lacked any trace of anger—just cool, final certainty. He gave a small, precise gesture to the guards without even looking at them. "You know where to put her."

Lira’s arrogance melted like wax under fire. The transformation was immediate and absolute. Her posture wilted, her face drained of color, and her breath caught in her throat. Her lip quivered as she took several shaking steps back. "Wait! Sylus, I’m sorry, okay? I love you. Please, we can just—"

But her plea broke into a shriek as one of the guards reached for her. She exploded into a frenzy, lashing out in blind terror. Her arms flailed, nails slashing at air, at flesh, at anything she could reach. She kicked and screamed, her voice growing hoarse as she struggled against the inevitable. She clawed at their uniforms, at the pavement, trying to anchor herself to something—anything—that might save her. But nothing did.

"Love? You don't truly love anything or anyone but yourself" Sylus scoffed.

As they dragged her toward the looming shadow of Onychinus, her screams echoed down the cold corridor of the night. Each one felt like a jagged shard of glass, cutting through the still air. Her sobs were unhinged, feral—nothing like the composed, flirtatious woman she had been just minutes before. That woman was gone now, stripped bare by fear.

Sylus watched with detached precision, his expression unreadable. Not a flicker of guilt or hesitation crossed his face. There was no satisfaction in his eyes, no gloating. Just cold execution. This wasn’t simply vengeance, not in the way most would define it. This was justice. This was what needed to be done.

He turned slowly, the sound of her cries dimming behind him. The streetlight caught the gleam of his red eye as he stepped away. She had underestimated him. Now, she would learn the cost—stripped of her dignity, silenced, and erased from the equation. And soon, her father would join her. Sylus now had everything he needed to move forward, and with Lira out of the way, there were no more barriers. No more distractions. He would hunt Adan down, rip the location of the protocore from his throat if needed, and finally bring this long chase to an end.

And for Sylus, this was only the beginning of his true intentions. Prove just how much you meant to him. Every move he made from here on out would be for you, and he wouldn’t stop until you saw the truth with your own eyes.

This couldn't be happening. You felt like your whole world was coming apart.

"Robert. C'mon… you can't be serious? Raising my rent right now? Of all times?" you pleaded, your voice thick with frustration and barely contained panic. You sat across from your landlord in his cramped, smoky office, the harsh fluorescent light flickering above. The air was stale with the scent of old carpet and cigar smoke, making your stomach turn.

Robert took another long drag from his cigar, leaning back in his squeaky leather chair, eyes half-lidded with boredom. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift toward the ceiling in lazy curls. Then he gave you a crooked, almost smug smile. "Nothing I can do, sweetheart. Costs are going up. Maintenance fees, utilities, taxes—it all adds up."

You stared at him, disbelief churning in your gut. "But I just need a little more time. I’m almost out of here. This hike is going to set me back several months."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced or simply indifferent. "Shouldn't be an issue for you though, right? Didn’t you get that new job at an office?"

Your heart sank. You hesitated, gripping the sides of your chair so tightly your knuckles went white. The lie you had let him believe—the one that had bought you a little breathing room—was turning against you now. You shut your eyes for a moment, trying to suppress the surge of hopelessness rising in your chest. You had no job. Not anymore.

You should’ve known he’d do this. He’d waited, watched. The moment he sensed your income had changed, he’d pounced. And now here you were, no leverage, no stability, and no way to stop what was coming next.

You knew better than to try and argue with him. In a place like this, where nothing was regulated and everything could be bought or coerced, arguing would only give him more reason to push harder. Anywhere else, what he was doing—raising rent out of nowhere, leveraging fear—would be considered highly illegal. But this was the N109 Zone. The rules here were unwritten, and those with power played the game however they wanted.

Robert was not an understanding man. He didn’t see tenants—he saw numbers, dollar signs, opportunities to squeeze. And if those numbers cried or pleaded? That just made it more entertaining. You could practically feel the satisfaction radiating off him as he watched you squirm. He was probably getting off to your tears.

You wiped your face roughly with the back of your sleeve, forcing your emotions back into the dark corner where you usually kept them. You grabbed your bag and stood up on unsteady legs.

"Alright. I'll...get it to you soon," you said, voice low but firm enough to end the conversation.

Robert let out a low chuckle as you turned to leave. "There’s other ways to pay if you fall on hard times, sweetheart. You know where to find me."

Your entire body tensed, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You stormed out, your footsteps heavy with rage, shame, and the choking need to get far away from the stench of his cigar smoke. You didn’t stop walking until you were outside, gulping down the thick, industrial air like it was fresh. At least it didn’t reek of him.

Men. Were there any redeemable qualities about them? This was the question you had been turning over and over in your head these past few weeks, like a stone rubbed smooth by restless fingers. You'd clawed your way out of one man’s hell, thinking you were free, only to find yourself squarely in another's grip. Though in truth, you'd been caught in Robert's trap since the very moment you signed that damn lease. You just hadn't known it yet. He’d been waiting like a vulture, circling slowly until you were weak enough for him to swoop in.

Now here you were—jobless, cornered, and trying to calculate how long you could hold out before everything fell apart. You didn’t want to touch your savings. That money was supposed to be your escape plan, the key to somewhere far away from this godforsaken city, somewhere clean and quiet where no one knew your name. Not Robert’s next rent check. Not the almost two thousand dollars he now demanded each month.

You could already feel the tightrope snapping beneath your feet. Rent. Utilities. Food. All while the job listings you scoured were either dead ends or dangerous scams. It was all piling up, a slow avalanche that was starting to crush your chest a little more each day. You'd probably accumulate more debt if you didn't do something soon.

You needed another job. Something, anything, to keep you afloat until you could disappear for good. But the thought of starting over again, of reentering the endless loop—filling out the same tired applications, smiling through interviews that felt more like interrogations, pretending you were competent and cheerful while your insides were screaming—made your stomach twist with dread. Still, what choice did you have? If you didn’t find work soon, you’d have to crawl back to the same people who broke you just to survive at your old job.

And that was something you refused to do. No matter what it cost, you would find another way.

Sylus briefly popped into your head, uninvited and unwelcome, like a phantom from a dream you couldn’t shake. His face, his voice, the way he used to look at you—intense, like he could see through you—tried to claw its way back into your thoughts. But you shoved it down hard, burying the memory as deep as it would go. No. You wouldn’t go crawling back. You had quit. For good. Whatever he was trying to do near the cats that day didn’t matter anymore. You didn’t want to know why he had waited for you or what was going through his head.

The truth was, seeing him had cracked something open inside you—raw, confused emotions that surged up like floodwaters, catching you off guard. You had barely managed to hold yourself together before it all came pouring out. So you did what you thought would protect you. You screamed. You raged. You hurled words like knives, each one designed to cut, to drive him away before he could reach the soft, unguarded parts of you again. And it worked.

Had you meant any of it? Not really. The pain in his eyes had lingered in your mind ever since, a weight you carried even as you told yourself it was necessary. But the truth was, he hadn’t come back. You hadn't seen him on that bench again. And maybe that’s what hurt most. Maybe that was the final confirmation you didn’t want—proof that this really was the end.

Your chest ached at the thought that it might have been the last time you'd ever see him. The last time his voice would reach your ears, the last time his eyes would lock with yours. That he had finally gotten the message and walked away for good. A quiet voice inside you whispered that maybe—just maybe—you should’ve heard him out. That maybe, beneath whatever games he played, he had actually come to apologize, to explain. To try. But the louder voice, the one that had grown calloused and cynical, reminded you why you couldn't afford to believe in that.

That voice told you this was what standing up for yourself looked like. It was messy, brutal, and it didn’t come with a warm sense of closure. It came with silence. Loneliness. And pain. But it was still freedom.

Even if it hurt.

You kept telling yourself it was for the best. You needed to grow stronger. To stop giving men like him the benefit of the doubt. To stop thinking that kindness and power could ever coexist in someone like him. You needed to protect what little fragments of yourself still felt whole. You repeated those thoughts like a mantra, whispering them in your head when it got too quiet, reciting them like a prayer every time his name tried to creep into your mind. Again and again, until the sting dulled. Until the memories blurred. Until the lies you told yourself began to feel almost true.

You did some mental math and sighed. As much as you hated to admit it, feeding the cats every day had honestly been setting you back. The cost of all that food wasn’t negligible—not anymore, not when every credit counted. Not that you regretted it. Those scrappy little strays had been there for you long before any of this money came. Before Sylus. Before the chaos. They had kept you company in the loneliest nights, soft bodies curled around your ankles, gentle purrs offering a strange sort of comfort that no person ever had.

And it felt right—necessary, even—to give back. To give them some real food instead of scraps or half of whatever leftover dinner you'd managed to scrounge up. You remembered the way their eyes lit up the first time you brought out full cans, how they meowed and rubbed against your legs like you were some kind of savior. You had smiled then, genuinely, the first in what felt like ages.

But now things were different. Now they weren’t hunting for themselves anymore. They relied on you—completely. And that reliance was starting to weigh on you. Every trip to the store chipped away at the funds you were supposed to be protecting. Every mealtime was a reminder that the little comfort you had created was beginning to turn into yet another responsibility you couldn’t afford.

You'd have to figure out something, and soon. Maybe find a food bank, or a vendor who could give you scraps. Maybe someone in the neighborhood could help. Anything to stretch the time you had left. Because if you couldn’t make this work…then you weren’t just failing yourself anymore.

You were failing them too. But what was new?

You had always been a failure.

As the days passed and the job hunt began in earnest, you hated the realization you’d come to… you missed having a phone. Really missed it. You’d never been able to afford one before Sylus, so you hadn’t known what you were missing. It had just been another luxury that existed on the other side of an unbridgeable gap. But now, stripped of that convenience after briefly tasting it, the void felt impossibly large. You couldn’t check listings on the go, couldn’t respond to opportunities quickly, couldn’t map routes or compare wages, or even distract yourself from your own spiraling thoughts. The world moved faster without you, and you felt stranded in the dust.

God, job hunting the manual way sucked. You walked from building to building until your legs ached and your shoes pinched. You wore your best face, the most polite smile you could muster, and still it felt useless. You had learned about applying online after contemplating quitting a few times while working under Sylus. You’d even bookmarked a few promising sites back then, telling yourself you’d figure it all out eventually. But now? Now you were stuck in analog hell, wasting precious time, energy, and what little pride you had left.

It wasn’t just exhausting—it was humiliating. Each rejection didn’t come with a polite email or a form letter. It came face-to-face, often with someone who wouldn’t even meet your eyes. The eye rolls. The impatient glances toward the door. The irritated sighs. And the most soul-sucking one of all—the dismissive, offhanded phrase that seemed to follow you everywhere.

“Just apply online. What are you doing here?”

The words burned more each time you heard them. Hearing them in the middle of rush hour, with people brushing past you like you were invisible, only made the sting sharper. Each rejection was like a slap, loud and public and unkind. It didn’t matter how nice you were, how hard you tried. To them, you were just some clueless idiot holding up the line.

You didn’t cry—not out in the open. But your jaw clenched harder each time. Your chest got tighter. Every time you walked out of a shop, you felt the weight of failure settle deeper into your body like bricks in your pockets. You kept telling yourself it would get easier. That someone would give you a chance. But the truth was, this was harder than you thought it would be. And you had already thought it would be hard.

You were running out of options, and worst of all, you were starting to wonder if you’d made a mistake. If maybe, just maybe, you’d pushed away the only thing keeping you afloat. But no. No. You couldn’t go back to that.

Could you?

It didn’t get better. In fact, it got worse. The job hunt went from humiliating to downright terrifying. And the one time you actually managed to land an interview—of all places—it was at some rundown building tucked between a boarded-up market and a broken streetlight that flickered like a warning sign. You had been so desperate that you ignored the signs, walked in with shaky hope. But the moment you stepped inside, your stomach turned.

The room smelled like mold and something vaguely metallic. There was a couch in the middle of the room, stained with mysterious fluids you didn’t even want to begin identifying. It wasn’t even near the desk. Just…placed in the center like it was waiting for you. The man who greeted you didn’t even rise from his seat. He just motioned lazily to the couch and smirked.

You didn’t even hesitate. You turned right around and walked out with your hands covering your eyes, as if doing so could erase what you had seen. Your heart raced the entire way home. You didn’t even know what the job was for. He hadn’t said. You hadn’t asked.

You weren’t sure if you felt more disgusted or defeated. That was the only scored interview you’d gotten all week. Maybe longer. And it had been a trap—plain and simple.

By the time you made it back to your building, you didn’t even go inside. You sat down on the cold concrete steps, head in your hands, and just let the silence press down on you.

You had no other choice.

You had to go back to your old job.

You hesitated outside the familiar chipped blue door of the diner, your fingers tightening around the strap of your worn-out bag. The smell of fryer oil and burnt coffee hit you instantly—nostalgic and slightly nauseating. It was the same scent that clung to your clothes during every shift. Every step closer made your stomach twist tighter, each footfall echoing louder in your ears. You could already see your old coworkers through the windows, wiping down tables, chatting like nothing had changed. The fluorescent lights above them buzzed faintly, the sound oddly grating. Your throat felt dry.

You pushed the door open, and the bell above it gave its usual mechanical ring—tinny and tired. A few heads turned at the sound. One of your old coworkers gave you a cautious half-smile, the kind that barely touched their eyes. Another looked away quickly, suddenly fascinated by the buttons on the register. You tried to return the gesture, but your smile came out thin and brittle, like it would snap under pressure. You forced yourself to the counter, heart pounding.

"Hey...is Selene in?" you asked, trying to keep your voice calm, steady. But the slight quiver in your tone betrayed you.

A tense silence settled over the diner. The clinking of silverware paused. Even the distant sizzle from the kitchen seemed to dull. Finally, someone nodded stiffly and disappeared into the back without a word.

It didn’t take long.

Selene emerged like a storm. Her heels clacked against the tiled floor with sharp, deliberate precision. Her expression was unreadable, carved in stone and cold as ice. She stopped in front of you, arms crossed over her chest, and for a brief second, you held onto a tiny, desperate hope that she might actually listen. That maybe she’d let you explain. That maybe time had softened her.

But then she spat—right at your feet.

"You’ve got some nerve coming back here," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "You’re not welcome. You never were. So don't even fix your mouth and ask for a job."

The words hit harder than the spit. You opened your mouth to respond, to defend yourself, to finally say all the things you had held in—but the words caught in your throat like barbed wire.

You knew exactly why she treated you this way. Why you’d been fired so suddenly. Her husband, Scott—also a line cook at the diner—had been creeping on you since your first week. Little comments made in hushed tones, his eyes lingering far too long, the way he’d brush past you when there was clearly enough space. You’d always dismissed it, trying to maintain peace, trying not to cause waves. You’d told him no, pushed him away politely, then firmly. But when he finally cornered you one night by the walk-in fridge and you told him off for good, something shifted.

The next day, Selene had dragged you into the office. Her face had been like stone then, too. "I don’t want homewrecking whores working in my establishment," she’d said with icy finality.

What she really meant was: she didn’t believe you. Or worse—she didn’t care. Maybe it was easier to believe the lie. Or maybe she just wanted to believe it.

You stood there, frozen in the aftermath of her cruel dismissal, her spit glistening on the dingy tile between your shoes. You looked up at her face again, at the loathing in her eyes. Then, slowly, you turned. You walked out into the street, back into the noise and smog and blinking signs of the N109 Zone. You didn’t cry. You wanted to. But your body refused. It was all too familiar.

Still, it burned. God, it burned. Your chest felt hollow, like your ribs had been scooped out with something dull.

Maybe you were right to think the world didn’t want you. Maybe it never had.

You leaned against the nearest rusted street sign, your body trembling as you slid slowly to the ground. The chill of the metal against your back did nothing to numb the ache blooming in your chest. You shut your eyes tightly, as if that alone could block out the weight of the world pressing down on you. But it didn’t. It only made it heavier, louder, more suffocating. The world kept spinning, indifferent to the pieces of you crumbling inside.

What was the point?

What were you even fighting for anymore? Scrambling through humiliation after humiliation just to end up here—alone, jobless, and shattered. You had clawed your way through fear, through power games and manipulation, just to be spit back out like you were worthless. You gave your trust, your time, your body. And what had you received in return? Used. Spat at. Toyed with like you were nothing more than a means to an end, a passing amusement in someone else’s story.

Sylus. Lira. Robert. Scott. Selene. Your parents.

Every name carved a new wound in your soul. Each face, a cruel reminder of how far you'd fallen. Of how no matter how hard you tried to climb, someone was always waiting to push you back down. You weren’t even sure who you were anymore—just a hollow thing shaped by what others wanted from you.

You remembered that alley. The one you had barely escaped from. How cold the concrete felt beneath you as the men laughed and circled. The gleam of a blade, the reek of sweat and breath and malice. The feel of his knife cutting through your clothes. You remembered the certainty in your heart then—that this was it. The end. But somehow, you had survived. Sylus had saved you. And now, for what?

To be broken again. To crawl your way back to something that felt safe, only to be reminded it never truly was.

Maybe the universe had made a mistake.

Maybe it was punishing you for slipping through its fingers. For surviving when you weren’t supposed to. The shame of existing when everything in your life screamed that you shouldn’t be here anymore was unbearable. A curse stitched into the seams of your skin. Every breath you took felt like defiance in a world that never wanted you.

And in that moment, it became so clear: maybe it was time to stop running from it. Maybe you should just give the universe what it had always wanted from you—your soul.

Maybe then, if you died, everything would finally stop hurting.

A few days had passed in a haze of indecision and quiet desperation. You kept to yourself, spending your time among the stray cats that lingered near your building, trying to find solace in their warm, soft bodies. They were the only living things that didn’t expect anything from you, didn’t lie or manipulate. Just existed. And that made them easier to be around.

But no matter how long you sat with them, no matter how many times you ran your fingers through their fur or watched their ears flick toward distant sounds, nothing changed your mind. There was a stillness inside you now—a resignation that had settled like dust in your bones. Nothing was getting better. Nothing was going to change. The world had made that perfectly clear.

With trembling limbs and tears already welling in your eyes, you dragged yourself down cracked sidewalks to the nearest corner store. Each step felt heavier than the last, your chest tight with emotion you couldn't name, not really. Grief? Rage? Exhaustion? Maybe all of it, tangled together like barbed wire.

The dingy fluorescent lights flickered overhead as you pushed open the door. The little bell above it chimed out a tinny, emotionless note. Inside, the store smelled of stale air and old linoleum. The girl at the counter barely spared you a glance, her eyes glued to a magazine she clearly wasn't reading. "Welcome," she muttered in a flat, lifeless tone.

You didn’t respond.

You wandered toward the shelves, eyes glazed over, unsure where to begin. Your fingers hovered over the rows of alcohol bottles lining the back wall. You had never drunk before—never seen the appeal. But today wasn’t about appeal. Today was about escape. Forgetting. Quieting the noise that had grown too loud inside your head and ridding yourself of this world forever.

Labels blurred in your vision, your tears now threatening to spill. You had no idea what you were even looking at—brown bottles, clear bottles, red and gold labels promising warmth or fire or numbness. It all looked foreign.

You just stood there, frozen in front of shelves lined with vices, trying to find the courage to pick one. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, something inside one of those bottles could dull the ache that had taken root in your soul.

You jumped as someone suddenly appeared next to you, the unexpected presence snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts. A child? No older than ten or eleven, with messy hair and dark circles under his eyes. He wore a torn hoodie, oversized sneakers, and had the street-hardened expression of someone who'd grown up too fast. He barely acknowledged you, just glanced up, rolled his eyes like you were in his way, and reached down to grab a bottle of cheap whiskey from a lower shelf—clearly one he was familiar with.

Anyone else might’ve reacted with shock, disbelief even. But in the N109 Zone, this was routine. Children strolled into liquor stores like it was a corner market, picking up cigarettes or alcohol on behalf of their parents—or for themselves. There were no laws here, no enforcement. Just survival, any way you could manage it. If you could pay for it, you could drink. You watched the kid shuffle off, bottle in hand, without a word or glance back.

You sighed, feeling a fresh wave of exhaustion settle in your chest. The sharp fluorescent lights overhead made everything feel sterile and unreal. Your fingers traced along the glass necks of the bottles until you found one with the highest alcohol content you could find. You didn’t know if it would even taste good, and frankly, you didn’t care. You just needed it to work.

Gripping it tightly, you clutched it to your chest like a lifeline and made your way toward the register, your footsteps slow and heavy, like you were wading through water. The dull thud of your shoes on the floor echoed in your ears, matching the rhythm of your heartbeat.

You don't know why, but you end up turning around and buying out the whole shelf of that alcohol. Maybe it was the pressure building in your chest or the numbness crawling in behind it, but something compelled you to do it. It’s not like it mattered, right? You had the money—at least, for now. And who was going to stop you?

No one cares about you.

The girl at the counter looked at you with an almost pitying sort of confusion, like she could instantly tell this was your first time. Her eyes lingered on your face, maybe trying to gauge whether she should say something. But she didn’t. Instead, she sighed, scanned each bottle slowly, and finally rung you up with an almost mechanical "Have a good night."

You barely responded. Wobbling slightly under the weight, you wrapped your arms awkwardly around the box they gave you—seven heavy glass bottles clinking together inside like a cruel lullaby. Every step outside felt like a challenge, your arms aching, the corners of the box digging into your palms. The wind blew through your jacket, biting at your skin, but it didn’t feel like anything. Just one more discomfort to ignore.

You eventually make it home, the door creaking open louder than usual in the silence. You kick it shut behind you and make your way to the kitchen table, where you carefully lay out each bottle one by one. The labels blur slightly as you stare down at them. An army of glass and liquid. Your fingers twitch over one of the caps, but you don’t open it. Not yet. For now, you just stand there in the dim glow of your apartment, staring at the lineup like you’re trying to convince yourself that one of them might offer something close to peace.

You struggled to open the first one, your fingers fumbling with the cap as your nerves and frustration worked against you. The seal resisted at first, stubborn and tight, but eventually you managed to wring it open with a strained twist and a sharp click. The scent hit you immediately—a sharp, punishing wave of bitter herbs and alcohol so strong it nearly made your eyes water. You instinctively gagged, recoiling slightly as the pungent aroma clawed at your nostrils.

"What the hell is this?" you muttered, coughing into your sleeve. You turned the label over, squinting to make sense of the small print. Absinthe. 47 percent alcohol level. Your stomach twisted. Surely this would aid in your journey to drink yourself to death.

With a shaky breath, you tried to steel yourself, pinching your nose and lifting the bottle to your lips. You took a deep swig straight from the neck, forcing the liquid down, without pause. Instantly, your throat ignited with a fire so fierce it felt like swallowing acid. You doubled over, sputtering and choking as the bitterness coated your tongue.

"Ah! Aghck!" you coughed, the liquid spraying from your mouth and soaking your shirt in a streak of cold, sharp-smelling alcohol. Your eyes watered, chest heaving as you gasped for breath. It tasted like cleaning supplies and punishment. 

You stood there trembling, staring at the bottle in your hand, wondering how people made a habit out of this. Surely there were better ways to forget your problems? But still, you held onto it. You weren’t done yet.

You hated living more than you hated the taste and the burn—and that was saying something. So you used that hatred. You clenched your teeth, ignored the fire clawing down your throat, and forced yourself to finish your first real swig of the absinthe. It was vile, bitter beyond belief, but you swallowed it down like a punishment you’d earned.

You stood there, blinking, surprised at how little you felt in the moment. No dizziness. No numbness. Just the horrific aftertaste coating your mouth like burnt herbs and regret. You scoffed bitterly. So this was it? So much pain for so little payoff? Maybe you just needed more.

So you did. You drank more. You searched the cabinets until you found an old, dusty cup—maybe from a diner or just a mismatched glass. You didn’t care. You poured a generous amount of the green liquid in and downed it. Then another. And another.

At first, you felt fine. Still in control. Still upright. The room was solid, your breathing calm. Then your heart started to race. The thumping in your chest accelerated like you’d just been sprinting down the block. Your limbs began to feel heavy, like you were sinking into the floor. The edges of your vision softened, blurring the lines of your kitchen into a swirl of murky colors.

You reached for the counter to steady yourself, missed, and nearly toppled over. The world tilted violently. Your knees buckled, and you crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Everything spun, the ceiling melting into the walls, the walls into the floor. Your body felt too far away, your thoughts slurring, slipping through your fingers.

And then—just black.

You awoke a bit later, blinking slowly, the world swimming in and out of focus. Your body felt like lead, limbs sluggish and unresponsive as you struggled to sit up from the cold, hard floor. Every joint ached, your head pulsed, and your mouth was dry like sandpaper. Groaning, you glanced to your side and saw the bottle you’d been drinking from. It wasn’t even halfway empty.

And yet, you felt like you were dying.

Your heart pounded in your chest like a warning bell, loud and erratic. You could feel your pulse thrumming at your temples, your wrists, your neck—too fast, too hard. Panic bloomed in your chest as a sickening heat flushed through your body. A sharp, twisting pain coiled in your stomach like a hot wire tightening and writhing beneath your skin.

You cried out, a strangled sound torn from your throat as your body convulsed with the pain. Your vision blurred as you clutched at your abdomen, crawling across the floor in a desperate, pitiful attempt to get to the door. Each movement was agony. You were drenched in sweat, your shirt clinging to you like a second skin.

You reached the doorframe, collapsing just short of the knob. You could barely lift your hand. Your fingers twitched against the floor, nails scraping wood. "H-hhwalp..." you croaked, voice barely more than a whisper, the word distorted by pain and tears.

You were so stupid. So reckless. You didn’t want to die like this.

But the world was fading fast around you.

You reached again, weakly, for the doorknob—your last hope flickering like a dying flame.

By some miracle, you manage to swing the door open, your trembling fingers finally gripping the knob and wrenching it sideways. The door creaks open with a groan, and you lurch forward, barely staying upright as you stagger outside into the hazy, grimy air of the corridor. Each breath is sharp, like inhaling fire and rust. "H-halp..." you whimper, your voice thin and fractured, the edges of your vision clouding into black. The world spins around you like a broken carousel, lights smearing across your vision like spilled paint.

You don’t last long on your feet. Your knees buckle and you collapse hard onto the rough concrete, the impact jarring every bone in your already aching body. The ground feels colder than you expect, like it wants to swallow you whole. Your head pulses violently, each beat hammering against your skull as if your brain is trying to escape. You cry out again, the pain overwhelming and unrelenting. Your body shakes uncontrollably. But then, through the chaos and haze, you feel a warm hand on your shoulder.

"Well well, what do we have here? Can’t hold your liquor, huh?" a man’s voice jeers, laced with sharp amusement.

You look up, eyes swimming with tears and disorientation. The world is a blur of shadows and streaked lights, but even through your muddled senses, you recognize the face looming over you.

Robert.

You don’t care who it is anymore. You just want help. You want the pain to stop. You want a hospital, a doctor, anyone with clean hands and sterile tools who can reverse whatever hell you’ve poured into yourself. Your mouth barely forms the words.

"Rober...help me..." you slur, your head lolling to the side as you try and fail to sit up. Your limbs are bricks. Your thoughts, fog.

Robert chuckles, the sound low, greasy, and self-satisfied. He clearly finds amusement in your collapse. "Oh, no worries, doll. I’ll help you," he says smoothly, but there’s something behind his voice that sends a fresh wave of dread through your sluggish mind.

You barely have time to register the shift in gravity before Robert scoops you up into his arms. The movement is clumsy, jarring, and you feel every tremble in your muscles react in protest. The world lurches violently around you, your stomach flipping with the sudden upheaval, nausea cresting at the back of your throat. Then it hits you—his smell.

It's nothing like Sylus. There’s no warm cologne or expensive leather—just the sour stench of sweat, cheap cigar smoke, and the faint metallic tang of alcohol-soaked clothes. It’s repulsive. It settles into your nose like oil in water, impossible to ignore, and so intimately invasive it makes your stomach tighten even more.

A deep-rooted fear creeps up your spine. Something about being in his arms, against that reeking shirt, sends every alarm in your body ringing. You want to scream, to fight, to claw your way out. But your body no longer responds. Your limbs go slack. Your heart races in futile protest. The dread is overwhelming, but there's no time to register it.

Your eyes flutter once, twice. A weak yelp escapes your lips before your vision blurs to nothing and the world collapses into blackness again.

[yourknightinshiningarm-or]

CAN WE GET A SNEAK PEEK OF THE AT YOUR SERVICE P.3??!?😭😭😭

Yessss!! It’s almost done!! Here’s a screenshot from the draft (sorry not sorry for any incorrect grammar I’m fixing it all later LOL). I really went all out for part three since I’m lowkey sad it’s ending. Ty for waiting!! 🤍