Summary: In silent rooms where shadows breathe,
A hidden gaze devours every sigh.
Through wires and walls, it learns to seethe,
Until the unseen stands close by.
I'm alive, I swear. This time I tried something a bit different, but I hope y'all enjoy it :P
AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FAVORITE GINGER
Warnings: Yandere Behavior, Hacking, Cyberstalking, Trespassing, Modern AU, Pretty Reader, Angst, Bad Ending.
Words: 9.066
The blue glow of the smartphone screen sliced through the suffocating, velvet dark of the bedroom like a scalpel. It didn’t simply illuminate the space; it dissected it, exposing every reluctant shadow that clung to the walls of the high-rise apartment overlooking Liyue Harbor. The sterile luminescence traced the sharp, elegant cut of M!Y/n’s jaw, the delicate fan of thick lashes against his pale cheekbones and the faint, uncontrollable tremble of his bottom lip.
In the bustling streets below, that effortless, almost ethereal beauty turned heads among the late-night crowds weaving between glowing jade streetlamps and pulsing neon signs. But up here, in the deafening silence, M!Y/n had long stopped seeing beauty when he looked at his reflection. His face was nothing more than a target now.
A single notification chime shattered the engineered quiet of his "Do Not Disturb" mode. It tolled like a funeral bell echoing through an empty, forgotten temple.
‘𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 <𝟹’
M!Y/n’s stomach lurched with a familiar, sickening vertigo. His eyes flicked to the glowing digital clock on the nightstand: 3:14 AM. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the neon veins of Liyue pulsed with restless, indifferent energy — the golden harbor lights shimmering on black water, the distant, low hum of hydro-powered freight ships, the eternal glow of the Jade Chamber’s modern spires piercing the thick night fog. Inside, the air felt dense enough to choke on.
He didn’t move. He barely dared to breathe. He simply stared until the white light of the screen seared ghosts into his retinas.
Eleven months, twenty-two days, and a handful of agonizing hours had passed since the mistake that invited this living nightmare into his life.
That evening, his younger brother Leo had been inconsolable, fat tears cutting tracks down his flushed cheeks after a high-level player in their shared online game had sweet-talked him out of every rare digital treasure he’d spent years meticulously collecting. M!Y/n — usually the quiet anchor among his circle, the one who calmed Xingqiu’s frantic all-nighters over publishing manuscripts with a steady hand and gentle tea, or checked on Yaoyao during her exhausting late-evening herb-gathering shifts — had felt something rare and fierce ignite in his chest. A protective, blinding fire. He had spent hours on the line with the game company’s support, ruthlessly cutting through layers of bureaucracy and digital red tape until he secured a verbal guarantee that the scammer’s account and IP had been burned beyond recovery.
He had felt like a hero. He had tucked Leo into bed that night, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead and whispering that the “bad man” was gone forever.
He hadn’t realized he had simply painted a brighter, infinitely more dangerous target on his own back. M!Y/n moved out of the house as soon as the stalking started, not wanting to put his family and especially Leo in danger.
Another message materialized on the screen, the refresh rate so smooth it felt inherently parasitic.
M!Y/n’s heart slammed against his ribs like a caged bird desperate to fracture its own bones to escape. Ten minutes ago. He had opened that profile for ten fleeting minutes on a burner phone — his fourth this year — routed through a premium VPN that drained his savings faster than his exorbitant rent. Layers of encryption, proxy chains, every paranoid precaution Yelan’s intelligence contacts had recommended. He should have been invisible. A ghost drifting undetected through Liyue’s vast digital underbelly.
The kaomoji were the worst part. Those cutesy, playfully innocent little faces stretched like a child’s plastic mask over something dark, obsessive and ravenous.
Tartaglia wasn’t merely watching. He inhabited the wires, the signals, the very electricity humming through the drywall of M!Y/n’s carefully guarded sanctuary.
M!Y/n sat up slowly. The expensive silk sheets pooled around his waist like a cold, discarded shroud. He padded barefoot across the dark hardwood floors toward the kitchen, muscle memory helping him avoid every micro-creak he had memorized months ago. He didn't dare turn on the lights. He had come to crave the pitch black, as if it could offer the thinnest veil of protection against the unblinking eyes he felt crawling across his skin — the cameras in the laptop, the smart TV, the voice-controlled ambient lights, the security hub by the front door. Even now, in total darkness, the physical weight of that gaze pressed heavily against the nape of his neck.
He remembered the exact night the monster had finally unmasked itself.
The first messages had been pure venom. Vicious, creative insults from a man whose digital empire had been dismantled by a pharmacy assistant. M!Y/n had snapped back, indignation burning hot in his usually soft-spoken replies. Get a life. Leave my brother alone, you pathetic snitch.
The typing indicator had appeared then. It lingered. Five minutes. Ten. M!Y/n had allowed himself a grim, satisfied smile in the safety of his living room, fully believing he had crushed the troll beneath his heel.
Then the reply came, slow, deliberate, and freezing cold:
‘......𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎’
From that exact second, the rage had evaporated like morning mist over the harbor. What replaced it was far worse: an obsessive, suffocating, syrupy affection that clung to M!Y/n like hot oil on bare skin. Tartaglia no longer wanted war. He wanted absolute possession. Consumption.
M!Y/n’s hand shook violently as he poured water from the filtered pitcher. The glass clinked painfully against his teeth as he drank. He had tried everything. The Millelith’s cyber-crimes unit had thrown up their hands after weeks of exhausting dead ends. His friends — Yelan with her icy logic and encyclopedic knowledge of encrypted systems, Yanfei with her meticulous eye for uncovering hidden patterns and legal loopholes — had helped reinforce his digital walls to military-grade standards. Yet even they had eventually faltered.
"We tracked the IP as far as we could," the lead investigator had told him months ago, rubbing bloodshot eyes beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the station. "It bounced from servers in the frozen north of Snezhnaya, through encrypted relays in Fontaine’s waterways, then vanished into a satellite feed somewhere over the open ocean. This isn’t some basement dweller, M!Y/n. This is a phantom who hunts for sport."
A phantom who knew M!Y/n preferred osmanthus oolong when the coastal nights grew bitterly cold. Who sent anonymous deliveries of his favorite almond tofu when his fridge ran low on groceries. Who flooded every single device he owned with digital bouquets of deep crimson roses — petals sharp as fresh blood — every Monday at precisely 8:00 AM.
The phone buzzed against the granite counter like an angry hornet.
The air in the kitchen instantly turned to ice. M!Y/n’s head snapped up, eyes wide and manic. The blinds were drawn completely tight. The triple deadbolts on the reinforced steel door remained untouched, physically disconnected from any wireless smart system.
He frantically scanned the shadows — the microwave clock’s faint green glow, the toaster’s blank metallic face, the unblinking red standby light on the expensive coffee maker.
Pure, raw panic surged through his veins. He lunged for the utility drawer, metal utensils clattering loudly, and snatched a thick roll of black electrical tape. Moving like a man possessed, he tore off strips with his teeth, plastering them over every lens he could find: the front and rear cameras on his phone, the tiny pinhole above the laptop screen, the infrared sensors on the TV and the smart hub. His breath came in ragged, hyperventilating gasps. His skin crawled as though thousands of invisible spiders were marching across his arms and throat, spinning microscopic webs he could never tear away.
He stumbled blindly back to the bedroom and collapsed onto the mattress, yanking the heavy duvet over his head like a terrified child hiding from the dark. For one fragile, suspended second, silence reigned.
Then came the soft, cheerful chirp of a forced system update.
The phone screen — still thickly taped — flickered to life beneath the layers of fabric. The black adhesive should have blinded it completely. Instead, the display glowed obscenely bright, projecting a perfect, crystal-clear live feed of the bedroom from the front-facing camera. The tape was physically there on the image, yet the lens saw straight through it, through the code, through reality itself.
A small command window opened on its own. There was no typing cursor. The letters materialized one by one, slow and deliberate, like blood blooming in still water.
A raw, broken shriek tore from M!Y/n’s throat. He hurled the phone across the room with all his strength. It slammed into the far wall with a sickening crack of splintering glass and slid beneath the heavy dresser, still glowing faintly in the shadows like a malevolent, unblinking eye peering out from under the floorboards.
He curled into a tight, trembling ball beneath the covers — a grown man reduced to shaking beneath fabric and fear. In the oppressive dark of his Liyue high-rise, surrounded by the indifferent neon heartbeat of the city, he tried to remember the person he had been before Tartaglia. The gentle soul who cared for his family, the protective older brother, the reliable friend.
That man was gone. Now, he was only prey in a cage of glass, fiber optics, and endless invisible threads. And somewhere out in the freezing night, the hunter was smiling.
The morning sun offered absolutely no sanctuary; it was merely a high-definition spotlight. It filtered through the blinds in harsh, geometric slats, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the stagnant air. Every single speck looked like a microscopic lens, a floating eye recording his every flinch and shudder. Liyue’s golden light, usually so warm and welcoming across the harbor’s jade-tiled rooftops, felt accusatory today, as if the city itself had been bought out and turned informant.
M!Y/n dressed with the mechanical, hollow movements of a condemned man. He pulled on an oversized, thick-knit beige sweater that completely swamped his frame — a desperate, futile attempt to bury the “prettiness” Tartaglia so frequently cataloged and coveted. The soft wool scratched against his skin like a hairshirt worn for penance. He actively avoided his reflection in the hallway mirror, utterly terrified that if he looked too closely, he’d see a digital watermark branded directly onto his own skin, or worse, those flat, hungry eyes staring back from within his own pupils.
He left his apartment without his phone. He had shoved it deep into the furthest corner under the dresser the night before, praying the lack of physical proximity would starve the entity inside it, if only for a few hours. The heavy door clicked shut behind him with its usual triple-deadbolt finality, yet the heavy clunk of metal brought zero comfort. Every lock in the world felt like wet paper now.
The walk to Bubu Pharmacy was a grueling gauntlet of paranoia. Keeping his head bowed, chin tucked deep into the collar of his sweater, he felt the crushing weight of every CCTV camera perched on the street corners like carrion birds waiting for him to stumble. Pedestrians brushed past him in the bustling Liyue morning rush — office workers clutching steaming cups of either tea or coffee, street vendors calling out fresh steamed buns, Millelith guards on patrol — but their chatter blurred into a deafening, distant static. He bypassed the usual morning crowd near the harbor market, his erratic heart only steadying slightly when he finally pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the pharmacy.
The shop was a cathedral of sharp scents and dried earth, a fragile, aromatic sanctuary amid the steel and glass of modern Liyue. Bundles of medicinal herbs hung from the ceiling, their earthy aromas blending with the sharp tang of powdered roots under the warm recessed lighting. His coworkers were already busy. Qiqi, usually sorting herbs with blank, robotic precision, paused her task to stare up at him, her glassy eyes catching a rare glint of distress. Herbalist Gui stopped grinding lotus roots, his brow furrowing with genuine concern.
“M!Y/n? My word, you look like a ghost,” Gui said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Are you coming down with that flu that’s sweeping the harbor? Dr. Baizhu said it’s a nasty strain this season.”
“Just a long night,” M!Y/n lied smoothly, though his voice came out as a soft, melodic rasp that felt entirely too thin in his throat, like it might fracture under the slightest atmospheric pressure.
He retreated to the back counter, reaching for a fresh bundle of dried Violetgrass that needed sorting. As he began to separate the tangled, stiff stems with practiced precision, a sharp piece hooked deep into the soft pad of his thumb. He didn’t hiss. He didn’t pull away. He simply watched the bead of crimson blood bloom against his pale skin, slow, vivid, and real.
It was physical. It was a pain that didn’t require a password, a firewall, or an internet connection. For a fleeting moment, the sharp sting grounded him back in reality.
The peace lasted exactly four hours.
At noon, the bell above the pharmacy door chimed — a cheerful, innocent tinkle that made M!Y/n’s stomach plummet like a stone dropped straight into the harbor depths. A delivery driver walked in, his silhouette framed by the harsh midday glare streaming through the glass. He wore a generic, unbranded navy uniform, his face obscured by the low brim of a cap and a high collar pulled up tight against his jaw.
“Delivery for M!Y/n,” the man said, his voice terrifyingly flat and unremarkable, designed to blend perfectly into the background noise of the city outside.
M!Y/n wiped his damp, trembling hands on his apron, his fingers leaving faint traces of herbal dust on the fabric. “I… I didn’t order anything. There must be a mistake.”
“Address matches. Name matches. Sign here.” The driver slid a digital clipboard across the wooden counter. The screen’s artificial glow felt immediately invasive.
M!Y/n’s hand shook so violently that his signature was nothing more than a jagged, panicked lightning bolt. The driver turned on his heel and left without another word, leaving a heavy, sleek black box resting on the counter.
Inside sat a laptop. It was an absolute masterpiece of engineering — titanium casing cold to the touch, an ultra-thin profile, a model M!Y/n recognized as a classified prototype from the recent Fontaine tech summits that hadn’t even hit the open market yet. On top of the closed lid lay a piece of heavy, expensive cream-colored cardstock. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, and slanted with a predatory grace.
M!Y/n recoiled as if physically burned, his back slamming hard into a towering shelf of ceramic pots filled with Qingxin flowers. They tumbled in a chaotic cascade, shattering against the tiled floor in a deafening spray of sharp ceramic shards and dark, damp soil.
“M!Y/n? Is everything alright out there?” Baizhu called out from his private office, his usually calm voice sharp with professional concern laced with sudden worry.
M!Y/n couldn’t answer. His lungs had completely seized. He watched, utterly paralyzed, as the titanium laptop lid began to rise entirely on its own. There was no whirring sound of a motor — only the ghostly, terrifyingly smooth movement of a machine responding to a command from the ether.
The screen didn’t show a login page. It flickered immediately to high-resolution, classified blueprints of Bubu Pharmacy itself, pulled from some heavily encrypted city archive. A small, pulsing red dot sat directly behind the front counter.
M!Y/n’s head snapped up. He scanned the pharmacy's ceiling with wild, hunted eyes — the smoke detector, the motion sensors, the discreet security cameras tucked near the rafters, the digital credit card terminal on the counter. Everything was a potential eye. The air grew thick, suffocating, completely filled with the sharp scent of crushed herbs and ozone. A frantic urge to bolt surged through his veins, an urge to run until the concrete pavement of Liyue Harbor ended and the churning sea swallowed him whole.
But then, a chime rang out. Not from the laptop.
From the pocket of his beige sweater.
His blood turned to slush. He had left his phone at home. He was certain — absolutely certain — he had kicked it far under the dresser. His trembling fingers brushed against cold glass and metal as he reached in, pulling out the device as if it were a live grenade pulsing with malevolent life.
‘𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗? 𝚆𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚎𝚝.’
The sender’s name had changed. It was no longer a faceless hacker handle or a digital mask.
Sender: Ajax
“Who is Ajax?” M!Y/n whispered to the empty air, his voice cracking like brittle porcelain.
The phone buzzed instantly in response, the vibration stinging his palm like a localized electric shock.
‘𝙰 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍. 𝙰 𝚏𝚊𝚗. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠.’
‘𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸’𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔, 𝙼!𝚈/𝚗.’
Across the street, perched comfortably in the second-story window of a nondescript tea house overlooking the pharmacy, a man with ruffled ginger hair leaned back in a plush velvet chair. He wore a simple, unassuming gray hoodie, looking for all the world like a bored university student taking a break from grueling lectures. A lopsided grin played on his lips — practiced, charming, utterly disarming. But his eyes told a vastly different story. They were a flat, matte blue, completely devoid of light, exactly like the bottom of a frozen Snezhnayan lake where nothing living could ever survive.
He watched through a high-powered, military-grade lens as M!Y/n stood frozen among the scattered herbs and shattered ceramic, looking exactly like a panicked angel trapped in a dying garden.
Ajax tapped a lazy, syncopated rhythm on his customized cyber-deck. Suddenly, the pharmacy’s overhead ambient speakers hummed to life. The soothing traditional guzheng playlist abruptly faded out, replaced by a haunting, violently melancholic violin concerto. It was M!Y/n’s favorite piece — the heavily encrypted one he only ever listened to when he thought he was truly, fundamentally alone, late at night with the lights off and the harbor lights flickering in the distance.
Ajax hummed along softly, his long fingers dancing over the keys with the grace of a master conductor leading an orchestra only he could hear.
“Soon, M!Y/n,” he murmured to the glass, his voice a low, pleasant baritone that carried a lethal, velvet edge. “Soon, the digital world simply won’t be enough for either of us.”
He clicked a final prompt, sending one last message to the trembling, terrified man across the street.
M!Y/n’s hand went back into his sweater pocket with mechanical, dread-filled slowness. His fingers brushed against something small, cold, and definitively metallic. He pulled it out into the light, and instantly felt his knees buckle beneath him.
It was a small, silver earring. A teardrop-shaped lapis lazuli, catching the pharmacy's overhead lights with an innocent, mocking gleam.
It was the exact earring M!Y/n had lost in his own locked bedroom three nights ago.
As the violin music swelled into a frantic, weeping crescendo that filled every corner of Bubu Pharmacy, the realization finally settled deep into M!Y/n’s bones like creeping frostbite:
The reinforced walls of his home, his triple-cylinder locks, his carefully drawn blinds, his very concept of privacy — they were all complete illusions. Paper curtains in a theater of absolute control.
Tartaglia wasn’t just a ghost in the machine.
Ajax was a ghost in his house.
And he was growing violently impatient with the distance.
The teardrop-shaped lapis lazuli earring lay discarded on the floorboards where it had been dropped like a tiny, glittering accusation amidst the dirt and shattered ceramic. M!Y/n stared at it until his vision swam, the deep azure stone appearing like a frozen tear shed by his own violated home. The pharmacy, which usually smelled of healing and comfort, suddenly felt like a sealed tomb: stale, cold, and claustrophobic, the air thick enough to clot in his lungs.
The violin music reached a shrieking, dissonant peak, pressing down on his diaphragm like a physical hand, stealing his oxygen one ragged, desperate breath at a time. He couldn't touch the earring again. To touch it would be to formally acknowledge that the breach had transcended code and data. A hacker was a nightmare of ones and zeros, distant and impersonal. But a phantom who could slip through triple-locked doors, stand over him in the breathless dark of his own bedroom, and leave physical souvenirs on his pillow… that was a monster of flesh, blood, and insatiable hunger.
“M!Y/n? Is everything alright?”
Baizhu’s voice sliced through the unbearable tension like a surgeon's blade. He emerged from the back office, his posture straight, his golden eyes narrowing with the sharp intuition of someone used to diagnosing deeply hidden ailments. His gaze flicked from the wreckage of the Qingxin pots to his employee, whose skin had literally drained to the color of bleached bone.
“I… I tripped,” M!Y/n managed to squeeze out. His voice sounded thin and brittle, like dry parchment tearing in a gale. “I’m sorry, Dr. Baizhu. I’ll clean it up. I’ll pay for the ruined stock.”
“Never mind the pots,” Baizhu said softly, his voice dropping its usual professional detachment, laced with genuine alarm as he stepped closer. He reached out a hand to steady him, but M!Y/n flinched so violently he nearly knocked over another display before Baizhu’s fingers could even brush his sleeve.
Baizhu paused, his analytical gaze sharpening into something fiercely protective. “Go home, M!Y/n. That’s an order. Take the rest of the day off. Gui can easily cover the closing shift.”
Go home.
The words landed heavily, like a death sentence read aloud. Home was no longer a sanctuary — it was the primary crime scene. Home was where the earring had been plucked from his nightstand while he slept obliviously inches away. Home was where the shadows had mapped the rhythm of his breathing and the exact creaking pitch of his floorboards.
“I… I think I’ll go for a walk first,” M!Y/n whispered, already backing toward the heavy glass door like a cornered animal realizing the trap has snapped shut. “I need some air. The… the herbal dust is bothering my lungs.”
He grabbed his coat with wildly trembling hands and fled, leaving his apron crumpled on the counter like a shed skin. He didn’t take the new prototype laptop. It remained open on the counter, its screen still glowing with that predatory red dot, a digital hunter tracking its prey in real-time.
The sprawling streets of Liyue Harbor were a cacophony of relentless, overwhelming life. The lunch rush turned the wide sidewalks into a churning sea of bespoke business suits, laughing students from the local academies, and street performers coaxing melodies from traditional instruments. Incense smoke curled thickly from roadside shrines, mixing with the savory, heavy aroma of street vendors frying Jueyun chilies. M!Y/n ducked his head low, pulling his scarf up until it nearly touched his eyelashes, a frantic, futile attempt to vanish into the moving crowd.
Every single person who brushed past him felt like a lethal threat. Every teenager tapping rhythmically on a glowing screen, every businessman checking his smartwatch, every shadow in the alleyway — any one of them could be him.
Ajax.
The name felt infinitely heavier, more solid, than “Tartaglia.” Tartaglia had been a digital specter. Ajax was a man. A man with heavy footsteps that could echo on hardwood, warm breath that could fog a bathroom mirror, and a skeleton key, somehow, to the locked vault of M!Y/n’s entire existence.
He walked aimlessly for what felt like hours, his heart a frantic, uneven metronome hammering against his bruised ribs. Eventually, his exhausted feet carried him to the city’s central park, where ancient, sprawling maple trees stood sentinel beside modern marble pathways. He sank heavily onto a cold stone bench near a massive hydro-fountain, letting the roaring cascade of water drown out the terrifying, oppressive pulse of the city. The mist kissed his fevered skin, but it brought zero relief.
He took out his phone. He knew it was a fatal mistake. Every digital engagement fed the obsession, giving Ajax another intoxicating, addictive hit of the fear he so clearly craved. But the absolute silence was a vacuum, and in that vacuum, M!Y/n’s mind conjured horrors far worse than any text message.
The notification was already waiting the exact instant the screen lit up.
M!Y/n’s head whipped around so fast his neck popped. The park was vast, filled with hundreds of people enjoying the mild afternoon. He frantically scanned the treeline, the sun-drenched balconies of the luxury high-rises overlooking the green expanse, the joggers in bright athletic wear weaving along the winding paths.
A jagged, ugly sob hitched in M!Y/n’s throat. He felt a phantom touch ghost across the exposed nape of his neck — a cool, invisible caress that raised every fine hair on his arms to attention. He shot up from the bench so abruptly he nearly collided with an elderly woman walking her dog. Stammering a frantic, barely coherent apology, he began to run.
Across the street, in his elevated perch within a discreetly rented executive office space, Ajax watched through the viewfinder of his high-powered camera. He no longer needed the digital tracking data; the visual was more than enough to satiate him. He observed how the oversized beige sweater bunched at M!Y/n’s narrow, tense shoulders as he ran, the way his panicked, gorgeous eyes darted wildly for a predator he could not physically see.
Ajax leaned forward, his thumb slowly, reverently tracing the curve of M!Y/n’s cheek on the high-definition monitor. A surge of possessive, white-hot warmth flooded his chest, clashing violently with the flat, dead blue of his eyes.
“Run all you want, little bird,” Ajax whispered to the empty room, his voice a terrifyingly tender silk. He reached for a secondary device — a custom remote relay synced directly to M!Y/n’s apartment systems. “But you have to come back to the nest eventually. And I’ve made it so much more comfortable for you.”
With a single, deliberate click, the smart-locks on M!Y/n’s apartment door cycled open with a soft, inviting chime. The lights inside dimmed to a warm, romantic amber glow, casting long, intimate shadows across the silk sheets. On the bedroom speakers, the encrypted violin concerto began to play once more — slow, melancholic, and endlessly patient.
The hunt was entering its final, most delicious phase.
The Ministry of Civil Affairs archives loomed like a fortress of weathered granite and ancient architecture, its thick, signal-blocking walls promising a temporary, desperate shield against the digital tether that had bound M!Y/n like invisible steel chains. He practically dove through the heavy revolving doors, descending rapidly past the sunlit main halls with their soaring ceilings into the subterranean basement levels. The air grew heavier, significantly cooler, laced with the comforting must of old paper, leather bindings, and faint traces of preservation incense.
He found a secluded, forgotten carrel in the deepest, darkest corner of the basement labyrinth, where the shelves towered like silent monoliths. Dust motes drifted lazily in the weak, flickering beams of light from outdated fluorescent tubes.
M!Y/n sat down and turned his phone off. He didn’t just power it down — he used the tiny, sharp edge of his keychain to pry open the back casing and physically disconnect the battery with violently shaking fingers. A desperate, low-tech ritual of severance. For the first time in months, blessed, total silence enveloped him. No pings. No vibrations. No predatory kaomoji to twist his stomach into agonizing knots.
For over an hour, there was a hollow, terrifying peace. The basement was dimly lit, the only sound the rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat of the ventilation system cycling through filtered air. M!Y/n dropped his heavy head onto the cold wood of the desk, closing his burning eyes. He tried to summon memories of Leo — back when life was simple arguments over school lunches and lost in-game artifacts. He tried to remember the man he used to be: the gentle soul who sorted Violetgrass with patient hands, the reliable friend who listened to Xingqiu's rants. Before he became nothing more than a collection of data points, habits, and escalating fears for a madman to savor like fine wine.
Exhaustion, heavy and grey as Liyue’s harbor fog, finally dragged him into a fitful, uneasy state of unconsciousness.
He woke to a soft, rhythmic click-clack.
M!Y/n bolted upright, his heart slamming into his throat like a trapped, dying bird. The library basement had been swallowed by an even deeper gloom; the motion-sensor lights in the aisles had timed out, leaving only the weak, sickly glow of emergency floor strips.
He was supposed to be completely alone. He had to be alone.
Sitting on the wooden desk, precisely three inches from his left elbow, was a paper cup. A thin wisp of steam curled lazily from the small opening in the lid, carrying the unmistakable, cloying scent of white chocolate and warm cinnamon. It was a white chocolate mocha with an extra shot of espresso and a precise, heavy dusting of cinnamon. His exact, hyper-specific order from the small, obscure café three blocks away that he only visited on particularly rough winter mornings.
Taped to the side of the cup was a small, perfectly square post-it note. The ink was fresh, the sharp, slanted handwriting elegant and utterly mocking in the dim light.
M!Y/n’s blood turned to liquid nitrogen in his veins. He hadn’t heard a single footstep. The library floors were polished marble that echoed like a war drum with every movement. It should have been physically impossible to approach without sound. It should have been impossible unless someone knew exactly how to time their silent footfalls with the pulsing ventilation hum. Unless they had painstakingly memorized the blind spots of every security camera and motion sensor in the entire municipal building.
He pushed the cup away with a shuddering, wet gasp. Hot liquid sloshed over the lid and spilled across the desk like fresh blood from a gaping wound. His wild eyes scanned the total darkness between the towering bookshelves, where the shadows seemed to breathe and pulse with a malevolent, observing life of their own.
“Show yourself!” he shrieked. His voice cracked and fractured, echoing off the stone walls in a dozen broken, pathetic pieces. “Please! Just… leave me alone! What do you want from me?!”
The shadows remained perfectly, terrifyingly still.
Then, the desk’s built-in computer terminal—a hulking, ancient machine with a cathode-ray tube monitor that literally hadn’t been powered on in over a decade—groaned to life with a high-pitched, mechanical whine. The screen flickered with heavy static, bathing M!Y/n’s face in a sickly, jaundiced green glow. A single command-line window opened in the dead center of the screen.
M!Y/n backed away, his heel catching on the frayed edge of a stray runner rug. His spine slammed brutally into a bookshelf behind him, sending several heavy encyclopedias tumbling to the floor with loud, violent thud-thud-thuds that sounded exactly like gunshots in the suffocating silence.
“You’re insane,” he whispered to the glowing screen, chest heaving, hot tears burning at the corners of his eyes. “You’re a monster.”
The screen began scrolling through a rapid-fire sequence of high-definition photos. M!Y/n sleeping in the very carrel he was standing in, head pillowed on his arms. Taken from directly above. Close enough to count the individual lashes resting against his pale cheek.
M!Y/n turned and bolted for the stairs, his lungs burning with battery acid with every desperate breath. He didn’t look back. His frantic footsteps echoed wildly up the concrete stairwell as he burst through the library’s heavy brass doors and out into the dying, bruised amber light of the late afternoon.
He stumbled onto the crowded sidewalk, violently gasping for air, eyes darting frantically across the endless sea of faces. The golden hour painted Liyue Harbor in rich, molten hues — the jade rooftops glowing, the harbor waters shimmering like liquid fire — but the beauty felt aggressively mocking now. He stood there, trembling uncontrollably, desperately searching for a face he didn’t know but a presence he felt everywhere: in the stranger checking his phone a little too long, in the man casually leaning against the lamppost across the street, in the faint, ghostly reflection of the library windows directly behind him.
The wind carried the distant, agonizingly familiar sound of a violin drifting from somewhere among the evening street performers. Or perhaps it was only playing in his own fractured mind.
M!Y/n hugged his arms tightly around himself, the oversized sweater suddenly offering zero warmth. The city that had once felt like home now pressed in from all sides, every camera, every smart device, every shadow a tightening thread in Ajax’s inescapable web.
The realization crashed over him with the crushing, suffocating weight of a physical blow: there was literally nowhere left to run. The authorities were blind to phantoms who danced effortlessly between satellites and offshore server farms. He couldn’t drag this infectious rot to Xingqiu's estate, or to Yaoyao’s quiet home. He absolutely would not lead Ajax to the people he loved.
With a sinking, hollow horror that hollowed out his chest cavity, M!Y/n understood he had been funneled all day long like raw data through carefully routed cables — every panicked turn, every desperate hiding place, expertly guiding him back to the one location Ajax had already claimed as his own.
His apartment.
He flagged down a taxi, his eyes glued first to the driver’s weathered hands gripping the wheel, then to the man’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Was this him? No, the driver was too old, skin like crumpled parchment, eyes tired from decades navigating Liyue’s winding streets. When the car finally pulled up to his luxury high-rise building overlooking the glittering, dark harbor, M!Y/n bypassed the elevator entirely — that steel cage with its unblinking, omniscient ceiling camera — and sprinted up the concrete stairs. His lungs screamed in agony, legs burning with lactic acid by the tenth floor. He fumbled with his keys, the metal clinking like a frantic, utterly useless prayer, before bursting through his own front door.
He slammed it shut behind him and manually engaged every lock, every deadbolt, every heavy chain until his palms were raw and bleeding. Then he slid down the expensive wood until he hit the floor, burying his face in his knees, desperately trying to make himself small enough to simply disappear from reality.
The apartment was deathly, unnaturally silent. The black electrical tape he had applied in his manic frenzy the night before sat like small, square scabs over every visible lens, turning his once-modern, pristine home into something patched, paranoid, and violated.
Then, he heard it.
A low, melodic humming. Tuneless, wandering, and terrifyingly, intimately casual — the exact sound of someone completely at ease in a space that fundamentally did not belong to them. It drifted seamlessly from the kitchen.
M!Y/n stood on legs that felt like solid lead weights sinking into the deep harbor silt. He drifted toward the archway, his heart thrashing against his ribs so violently he legitimately wondered if the bones would finally crack under the pressure. He rounded the corner and stopped dead, the air freezing instantly in his lungs.
The kitchen was absolutely spotless. Every dish he had left abandoned in the sink during his frantic morning rush had been washed, dried, and placed in its exact spot with obsessive, terrifying precision. A fresh pot of his favorite osmanthus oolong tea sat on the stove, the kettle just beginning to emit a soft, rising whistle that sounded exactly like an air-raid siren in the quiet.
And on the small kitchen table sat a single, perfectly wrapped gift in shimmering silver paper tied with a deep, blood-crimson ribbon.
M!Y/n approached it with the stiff, mechanical gait of a man walking his final steps toward the gallows. His fingers tore at the paper in jagged, clumsy hitches, his breath coming shallow and ragged. Inside was a sleek, high-end digital photo frame, its glass face perfectly reflecting his own wide, panicked, bloodshot eyes. As soon as the ambient kitchen light hit its sensor, it chimed softly — the exact same notification tone as his phone.
A slideshow automatically began.
The first image: M!Y/n at the grocery store three days ago, captured from a high angle while he hesitated over a carton of milk.
The second: M!Y/n sleeping, taken from directly above his pillow, the angle intimate enough to trace the vulnerable, exposed column of his throat.
The third: M!Y/n in the shower, the hot steam blurring most details but perfectly, explicitly outlining the graceful curve of his spine and the water tracing down his bare skin.
A strangled, broken sound tore from M!Y/n’s throat. He grabbed the frame, intending to smash it into a thousand pieces against the granite counter, but the exact moment his fingers touched the plastic casing, the display shifted.
It was no longer a slideshow. It was a live feed.
The screen showed the back of his own head — right now, standing in his own kitchen, holding the frame.
M!Y/n spun around with a bloodcurdling scream clawing its way up his throat, but the kitchen was entirely empty. Only the insistent, mocking whistle of the kettle and the faint, sweet scent of brewing tea greeted him. He looked back down at the frame. The video mirrored his every frantic, terrified movement with perfect, mocking fidelity.
Then, from the extreme edge of the frame, a hand slowly entered the shot.
A hand with long, elegant, pale fingers and a heavy, brutal gold ring on the thumb.
The hand reached out and gently “touched” the image of M!Y/n’s cheek on the screen in a slow, digital caress that somehow felt infinitely more violating than any physical blow could ever be.
“Don’t scream, love. You’ll ruin that pretty throat of yours.”
The voice did not come from the frame. It vibrated directly through the metal ducts of the air vents above him—resonant, deeply intimate, and chillingly close, as though whispered directly against the sensitive shell of his ear.
“Where are you?!” M!Y/n shrieked, his voice fracturing into pure, raw desperation. “Where are you hiding?!”
“I’m everywhere,” the voice replied, distorted slightly by the metallic ductwork but unmistakably that pleasant, lethal baritone. “I’m in the copper wires. I’m in the drywall between your rooms. I’m the ghost in your machine, M!Y/n. And I’ve been waiting so patiently for you to finally come home.”
A soft, heavy thud echoed from the ceiling just outside the kitchen. One of the hallway access panels to the crawl space — a panel M!Y/n hadn’t even looked at in years — dropped open with a quiet, agonizing creak.
A pair of long legs swung down first, followed by a lithe, dangerously athletic torso, and finally, a face. The man dropped to the hardwood floor with the silent, fluid grace of an apex predator who had practiced this exact descent a thousand times. He was exactly as M!Y/n had imagined in his darkest nightmares, yet infinitely more terrifying in the flesh.
Vibrant ginger hair caught the dim amber lighting, shining like fresh copper wire. His face was strikingly, undeniably handsome — youthful, sharp-featured, almost disarmingly boyish. But his eyes… those were the true horror. Flat, matte, abyssal blue, like the bottom of a frozen trench where light and life had never once reached. He wore a simple, soft gray sweater and dark jeans, looking for all the world like any other young, attractive man who might live down the hall. A university student. A friendly neighbor. Someone entirely harmless.
He looked exactly like the end of the world.
“Hello, M!Y/n,” the man said, tilting his head with a curious, bird-like flick. A grin spread slowly across his lips, revealing teeth that were just a little too white, a little too perfect. “I’m Ajax. But I think you’ve grown rather fond of calling me Tartaglia by now, haven’t you? It does add a nice… dramatic spice to our little love story.”
M!Y/n backed away instantly until his spine slammed hard into the kitchen counter. His hand scrambled blindly behind him for a knife, a heavy bowl, a pan — anything.
Ajax watched the frantic movement with deeply amused tenderness. “Oh, don’t bother with the cutlery, love. I already moved the sharp ones to the top shelf this morning while you were sleeping. I wouldn’t want you to accidentally hurt those talented, gentle hands in a panic.”
He took one slow, unhurried step forward. M!Y/n tried to bolt laterally for the front door, but Ajax was impossibly fast — faster than any normal human should be. In a single heartbeat he was there, his palm slamming violently against the wood cabinetry directly beside M!Y/n’s head with a dull, final thud, caging him in completely.
All the air between them vanished. Ajax stood so incredibly close that M!Y/n could smell him — crackling ozone and expensive espresso, mingled with something sharp, coppery, and metallic, like fresh circuitry and overheated, predatory skin.
“You’re even prettier in person,” Ajax whispered. His dead gaze raked slowly, agonizingly over M!Y/n’s terrified features with a hunger so raw and unfiltered it felt like skin being flayed away layer by layer. “The lenses and cameras never did your complexion justice. It looks like the absolute finest Liyue porcelain. I’ve spent ten thousand hours watching you through glass and pixels… and I still wasn’t prepared for the real thing.”
“Let me go,” M!Y/n begged, hot tears finally spilling over his lashes and tracking down his cheeks. “Please. Take the laptop… take my accounts, take whatever you want… just leave me alone.”
Ajax laughed—a soft, terrifyingly genuine sound that was somehow worse than any screamed threat. He reached out, and this time, there was no screen between them. His fingers, burning warm and slightly calloused, brushed M!Y/n’s cheek, catching a tear and smearing it slowly, deliberately across his skin like a physical claim of ownership.
“You still don’t understand, do you?” he murmured, his voice a flawless mixture of velvet and steel. “I don’t want your things, M!Y/n. I have the entire world at my fingertips already.”
Ajax leaned in, pressing his body flush against M!Y/n’s, until his lips hovered barely a millimeter from M!Y/n’s ear, his breath hot and steady against the hyper-sensitive skin. “I want the person brave enough to hunt the hunter. I want the one who made me feel something other than static and cold code for the first time in my entire miserable life.”
He gripped M!Y/n’s chin with surprising, agonizing gentleness, physically forcing those terrified, tear-filled eyes to meet the bottomless abyss of his own.
“You deleted my account, M!Y/n. You burned my playground to the ground. So it’s only fair that I take yours, isn’t it?”
Ajax smiled, wide, affectionate, and utterly deranged, and for the first time, M!Y/n saw the full, bottomless depth of the madness swimming just beneath the charming, boyish mask.
“Welcome home, love. Population: Us.”
The realization that there was no escape, no eleventh-hour rescue, crashed over M!Y/n like a tidal wave of black harbor water, dragging him under into the crushing dark. He literally couldn’t breathe. The once-familiar air of his kitchen — usually scented with delicate osmanthus and the faint sweetness of medicinal herbs brought home from the pharmacy — was now entirely consumed by Ajax. Ozone, rich espresso, and that sharp metallic tang of a trap snapping shut.
Ajax’s hand remained locked like a vice around his chin, impossibly strong. The heavy gold ring on his thumb pressed deep into M!Y/n’s jawline like a cattle brand, cold and unyielding.
“Don’t look so tragic, little bird,” Ajax murmured. His voice vibrated directly against M!Y/n’s skin like a lover’s solemn vow laced with lethal venom. He swiped his thumb aggressively across M!Y/n’s cheekbone, smearing another tear into the skin. “I promised I’d take care of you. And I’m a man of my word.”
M!Y/n’s hands scrabbled desperately behind his back across the empty granite countertop where the butcher block used to rest. Ajax had anticipated absolutely everything — every frantic synapse, every primal survival instinct. The monster had already surgically sanitized the space of anything that could be weaponized against him.
“I told you,” Ajax whispered, his grin never once faltering, looking almost sick with affection, “I know the rhythm of your pulse. I know exactly how your beautiful mind races. Did you really believe those cute little deadbolts would keep me out? I’ve been sleeping in the crawl space above your hallway for a week now. Listening to you breathe. Counting your heartbeats when you thought you were completely alone.”
M!Y/n’s stomach plummeted into an endless freefall. A week. For seven endless, agonizing nights, while he had paced frantically in the dark, taping over every lens and flinching at shifting shadows, Ajax had been right there. Breathing the exact same recycled air, suspended only inches above his head like a massive, patient spider in the rafters. The lapis lazuli earring… Ajax hadn’t simply stolen it during a break-in. He had watched M!Y/n sleep, reached down into the dark, and plucked it from the nightstand while listening to every uneven breath.
“You’re sick,” M!Y/n choked out, his voice cracking like thin ice over a deep lake.
“Sick?” Ajax chuckled softly, finally releasing the chin only to slide both large hands down to grip M!Y/n’s narrow waist with agonizing, possessive gentleness. Beneath the soft gray sweater, his body was corded, lethal muscle, as unyielding as the stone cliffs surrounding Liyue Harbor. “I greatly prefer ‘devoted.’ Who else knows you hum to the Violetgrass when you think Dr. Baizhu isn't looking? Who else would walk four blocks in the midday heat just to ensure the barista didn’t skimp on the cinnamon in your mocha? I know you better than you know yourself, love.”
Ajax leaned his entire weight in, burying his face directly into the exposed crook of M!Y/n’s neck. He inhaled deeply, a slow, shuddering, obsessive breath that made the blood freeze solid in M!Y/n’s veins. “You smell like those herbs,” he murmured wetly against the skin, “even with the faint copper tang of that thorn prick from earlier today. Absolutely intoxicating.”
M!Y/n squeezed his eyes tightly shut, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could dissolve into the floorboards and vanish into the earth below the high-rise.
“If you… if you really love me,” he stammered out, desperately trying to weaponize the man’s own delusion against him, “you’d let me go. You wouldn’t do this to me.”
The manufactured warmth vanished instantly from Ajax’s demeanor. The oppressive, crushing silence returned, broken only by the kettle’s increasingly frantic, screaming shriek. Ajax pulled back slowly. His flat, matte blue eyes seemed to swallow what little ambient light remained in the room, turning them into black holes.
“Let you go?” he repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register that physically chilled the air in the room. “Back into a world that doesn’t deserve you? Back to Baizhu, who sees you as just another cog in his pharmacy? Back to Yelan’s cold networks that utterly failed to protect even a shred of your data?”
With casual, terrifying ease, Ajax reached behind M!Y/n and flicked the stove knob. The screaming kettle fell instantly silent. The sudden, absolute quiet that followed was more deafening than any scream.
“No,” Ajax said softly, stepping forward until their chests pressed completely flush together, trapping M!Y/n against the counter. “You don’t belong to them anymore. You belong to the one who tore the entire digital world apart just to reach you. You belong to the phantom who made you his.”
He reached casually into his jeans pocket and pulled out a sleek, black remote. With a single tap of his thumb, the digital photo frame sitting on the counter switched inputs. The live kitchen feed vanished.
M!Y/n’s breath hitched violently, a horrible sound tearing from his throat.
The high-definition screen now showed a child’s bedroom, illuminated softly by a familiar, star-shaped nightlight. Under a tangled mess of superhero blankets, Leo slept peacefully, his small chest rising and falling in an innocent, steady rhythm.
“Leo,” M!Y/n whispered. All fight, all adrenaline, all hope drained completely from his body, instantly replaced by a cold, absolute terror that hollowed him out until nothing remained but a shell.
“He’s a sweet kid,” Ajax noted conversationally, tilting his head with that same bird-like curiosity. “He was so heartbroken when he lost those digital treasures. It was incredibly noble of you to avenge him. A real shame his new bedroom window doesn’t lock properly from the outside, though. The latch is quite loose.”
“Don’t,” M!Y/n begged, his voice shattering completely. He clutched desperately at the fabric of Ajax’s sweater, his knuckles bone-white. “Please, Ajax. Don’t touch him. I’ll do anything. I'll do anything you want.”
Ajax’s smile was radiant, brilliant, and almost tender. It made bile rise sharply in M!Y/n’s throat. He gently untangled M!Y/n’s desperate, clinging grip, brought those trembling hands up to his lips, and pressed a lingering, devoted kiss to the white knuckles.
“I know you will, love,” he whispered. Those dead, abyssal blue eyes locked onto M!Y/n’s with terrifying, triumphant, absolute finality. “You already have.”
Outside, the city lights of Liyue Harbor continued their indifferent neon pulse beyond the heavily sealed windows, casting shifting, colorful shadows across the walls of what was once M!Y/n’s sanctuary. Inside, the apartment no longer felt like a home. It felt exactly like a beautifully decorated, inescapable cage, sealed airtight.
Ajax guided him gently toward the kitchen table with inescapable pressure, pulling out a chair as if they were any ordinary couple settling in for a quiet evening. The tea was poured — perfect temperature, exactly the strength M!Y/n preferred. Steam curled slowly upward into the dim air like incense at a funeral.
“Sit, love,” Ajax murmured, his voice as soft as silk and infinitely more binding. “We have the rest of our lives to plan. No more running. No more fear. Just us.”
As M!Y/n sank numbly into the chair, his legs no longer able to support his own weight, the very last fragile piece of who he had once been finally, irrevocably shattered. Outside, the massive harbor kept moving — freight ships gliding across dark water, jade lanterns glowing, millions of lives continuing without him. Inside, Ajax sat across from him, smiling that boyish, utterly perfect smile, pouring tea like a perfectly devoted partner.
In the end, the phantom had won. M!Y/n was finally home.
And he would never, ever leave again.
Just a reminder that this is a work of Fiction and in no case will I ever excuse or condone any act regarding stalking and whatsoever is written in the story. If you feel like you are being stalked or are in danger then please contact the police or whoever is close to help you.
Summary: A weary solitude is shattered by a cruel and beautiful midnight terror.
A fierce, bleeding collision of pride and hunger rewires the quiet dark.
Bound by a savage token, an unlikely devotion breathes beneath the starlight.
Ayeee, back with another birthday story 😝😝
Warnings: smut, blood, scratching, biting, anal sex, porn with little plot, fluff ending
Words: 4.676 (67 🤨)
The espresso machine hissed a final, dying breath of steam, leaving behind a heavy, humid silence that settled over the empty café. M!Y/n let out a long, ragged exhale, his shoulders dropping as he leaned heavily against the polished marble of the counter. His chest rose and fell beneath his damp uniform shirt.
It had been a brutal evening. The café had been entirely overwhelmed during what should have been a quiet closing hour. A sudden influx of demanding customers had swarmed the shop right as the clock ticked toward his scheduled departure, shattering his plans for a late-night workout and an early night in bed. Instead of lifting weights and clearing his head, he had spent the last two hours grinding beans, foaming milk, and forcing a polite customer-service smile onto his face until his jaw literally ached.
Now, the streetlights outside threw long, amber shadows across the clean hardwood floors. M!Y/n reached behind his back, untying the knots of his stained apron and pulling it over his head. He tossed it onto the back counter, running a hand through his hair. He was exhausted, irritable and completely done with the day. All he wanted was to lock the front door, walk back to his apartment and collapse.
He grabbed a clean rag, dousing it in sanitizer to wipe down the espresso bar one last time. The rhythmic, circular motions of his hand were almost hypnotic in the quiet room.
Then, the air changed.
It wasn't a sound — the heavy glass door hadn't chimed and the deadbolt was supposedly shot into place — but rather a scent. The rich, earthy aroma of roasted coffee and chemical cleaner was suddenly cut through by something entirely different. A heavy, intoxicating wave of night-blooming jasmine flooded M!Y/n’s senses. It was a scent he had grown dangerously familiar with over the past few months. A scent that belonged to no human.
M!Y/n didn't freeze. At this point, the sheer frequency of these unannounced visitations had beaten the capacity for surprise right out of him. Instead, a slow, deep frown creased his features. He stopped wiping the counter, slowly lifting his gaze.
There, sitting carelessly on the edge of a high barstool that had been neatly tucked away just minutes prior, was Harlequin.
The monster leaned back, his posture radiating a fluid, careless grace. His venom-green eyes gleamed under the dim ambient lighting of the closed café, the pupils narrowing to sharp slits as they locked onto M!Y/n. The stark white of his mask-like face caught the amber glow of the streetlights, his wide, permanent grin stretched across his features, revealing glinting rows of sharp, needle-like white teeth. He tilted his head, the bells at the tips of his jester hat letting out a faint, melodic clink that broke the stillness of the room.
"What is it today, you clown?" M!Y/n’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble, thick with the residue of a long shift and a severe lack of patience. "I’m about to go home. The sign says ‘closed’."
Harlequin let out a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating with a dark, playful charm. He shifted his weight, crossing one leg over the other, the long, knee-high jester shoes catching the light. "Closed? For the common cattle, perhaps," he murmured, his tone dripping with a casual, mocking elegance. "But since when do rules apply to me, darling? You look absolutely miserable. Did the little humans run you ragged today?"
"I don't have the energy for your games, Harlequin," M!Y/n sighed, tossing the rag onto the counter with a wet smack. He leaned forward, his frame casting an imposing shadow over the espresso bar. Even without trying, the fabric of his shirt strained slightly against his chest and biceps. "If you're here to steal pastries, the display case is empty. Go bother Pierrot."
At the mention of his rival, Harlequin’s expression shifted subtly, the wide grin on his mask curling into something a bit sharper, more venomous. "Pierrot? Please. That miserable creature is currently boiling in his own silent rage back at the tents. Why would I waste my time looking at his sour face when I could come here and look at yours?"
Harlequin slid off the barstool, his movements quiet, almost liquid. He didn't walk so much as glide across the floor, closing the distance between them until he was standing just on the other side of the counter. Despite being a monster of formidable terror to the rest of the world, he was slightly shorter than the barista. It was a detail Harlequin actively relished. He tilted his chin up, intentionally forcing himself to look up into M!Y/n’s eyes, a wicked spark igniting in his green pupils. He loved teasing taller people, finding a twisted sense of amusement in asserting dominance from a lower physical vantage point.
"Besides," Harlequin purred, resting his gloved hands on the cold marble. "I think I deserve a little bit of your undivided attention. Especially today. Don't you think?"
M!Y/n raised an eyebrow, his eyes tracking the monster's movements. "You don't deserve anything but a swift kick out the door. I've been on my feet for nine hours."
"How cold," Harlequin laughed, though there was a deeper, hungrier undertone to his voice now. He leaned further over the counter, the fabric of his black and golden-trimmed cape brushing against the surface. The scent of jasmine grew heavier, thick enough to make M!Y/n’s head spin. "You know, for a human, you possess a remarkably short temper. It’s incredibly entertaining."
Harlequin reached out, his left hand stretching forward. His long, slender fingers brushed against the front of M!Y/n’s shirt, tracing the line of his collarbone through the fabric. The touch was intentionally provocative, slow and lingering. "You smell like burnt beans and sweat. It’s entirely unrefined... yet, I find myself rather drawn to it."
"Hands to yourself," M!Y/n warned, though he didn't pull away. His blood was beginning to simmer, a volatile mixture of irritation and a sudden, sharp spike of heat pooling in his gut. Harlequin always knew exactly which buttons to push, walking the fine line of danger just to see how far he could stretch M!Y/n’s restraint.
"And if I don't?" Harlequin taunted, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. His right hand joined the first, his fingers creeping up to M!Y/n’s jawline, the fabric of his glove smooth but the underlying sharpness of his claws a constant, dangerous reminder of what he was. "What are you going to do, barista? Throw hot coffee at me? Call the police?"
He leaned in closer, his mask almost touching M!Y/n’s nose. The mouth of the mask parted slightly, revealing a flash of a vibrant green, forked tongue that flicked out to taste the air between them. "You won't. You like it when I mess with you. You like knowing that I chose to come here, to find you, out of everyone in this miserable city."
M!Y/n didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stopped resisting the pull. He narrowed his eyes and leveled a heavy, intense gaze directly into Harlequin’s green pupils. It wasn't the look of a tired worker anymore; it was the look of a man who had completely run out of patience and was about to take exactly what was being offered.
For a fraction of a second, the untouchable facade of the jester faltered. Harlequin’s pupils dilated slightly, a sudden, erratic skip in his chest betraying him. He wasn't accustomed to genuine, intense focus directed back at him without fear or anger — it flustered him, a rare warmth blooming beneath his monstrous exterior. His heart hammered a fraction faster against his ribs, a thrill of genuine curiosity and sudden vulnerability shooting through him.
To cover it up, Harlequin immediately let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his fingers tightening on M!Y/n’s jaw. "Oh? Look at those eyes. Are you trying to scare me, big boy? Because you're going to have to do a lot more than—"
He didn't get to finish the sentence.
M!Y/n moved with sudden speed that shattered the quiet of the empty café. His hand shot forward, fingers bunching tightly into the front of Harlequin’s green-and-yellow jester suit. With a powerful heave, he yanked the monster clean over the counter, the bells on Harlequin’s hat jingling wildly like chaotic chimes.
Harlequin’s sharp gasp cut through the air as his feet left the ground. Before he could twist or flip with that infuriating agility, M!Y/n slammed him down onto his back across the cold marble espresso bar. The impact rang out — thudding flesh against stone, metal pitchers clattering and rolling away. M!Y/n immediately crowded in, his broad frame pinning the clown completely, forearms braced on either side of Harlequin’s head, caging him.
“You talk too much,” M!Y/n growled low, his eyes burning with pent-up dominance.
Harlequin blinked up at the ceiling lights for a split second, genuine surprise flickering in those venom-green eyes. Then that wicked, manic grin split his face, sharp teeth flashing. He arched playfully beneath the human, lifting his legs without hesitation and hooking them around M!Y/n’s hips. The baggy black trousers stretched as his long jester shoes locked behind thick thighs, pulling the barista closer with deliberate provocation.
“Well, well,” he purred, voice silky and unbothered, hips already rolling in a slow, teasing grind against the growing bulge in M!Y/n’s pants. “Aren’t we feeling aggressive tonight? Did I finally crack that boring little human shell of yours, barista?”
M!Y/n’s jaw tightened. He shifted his weight, pressing one heavy thigh firmly between Harlequin’s legs, grinding down hard enough to pin those wriggling hips in place.
“Shut up,” M!Y/n ordered, voice dropping into a dangerous rumble.
Harlequin’s grin only widened. He arched his back off the marble with a soft, mocking whine, deliberately rubbing himself against that powerful thigh like a cat in heat. “Make me, then. Or are you just going to stand there looking all big and handsome while I do all the work? I didn’t crawl out of my tent for a staring contest, darling.”
That was it. M!Y/n reached down, grabbing the collar of the jester’s suit and ripping the closures open with impatient violence. The fabric tore audibly. Harlequin’s gloved hands flew up, claws extending through the material to rake aggressively down M!Y/n’s chest and shoulders, shredding the barista’s shirt and leaving angry red lines across skin.
“Ah—impatient,” Harlequin mocked breathlessly, even as he lifted his hips helpfully, letting the human strip the restrictive layers away. His cape pooled beneath him like spilled ink. The suit jacket and shirt came off in shreds, revealing pale, smooth skin stretched over a lithe, toned torso. When the trousers and undergarments were yanked down and tossed aside, Harlequin’s monstrous anatomy was fully exposed: elegant, pale cock already hard and curved upward, slightly ridged along the underside with a slick, clear bead of precum glistening at the flushed tip. His tight entrance twitched visibly beneath it, flushed a deeper shade of pink-green.
M!Y/n’s breath hitched with possessive hunger. He kept one forearm pressed heavily across Harlequin’s chest, pinning him flat while his free hand ripped open his own belt and fly. His thick, heavy cock sprang free — veined, flushed dark, already leaking.
“You’re entirely too fucking confident for someone pinned down like this,” M!Y/n muttered, eyes dragging hungrily over the exposed body.
“And you’re entirely too slow,” Harlequin shot back, wriggling and squirming beneath the pinning arm, hips bucking up in little demands. He reached down with one gloved hand, wrapping clawed fingers around M!Y/n’s cock and giving it a rough, teasing stroke. “Come on, big man. Prove you’re worth the detour before I get bored and—”
M!Y/n grabbed a fistful of those heart-shaped black curls, yanking Harlequin’s head up sharply. “You asked for this.”
No more words. M!Y/n shoved two thick fingers straight into that tight heat without warning, forcing past the resistant ring of muscle. Harlequin’s body seized, back bowing violently off the counter. A sharp hiss escaped through bared fangs, but his inner walls clenched greedily, hot and silky, already fluttering and sucking around the intrusion.
“Fuuuck—!” Harlequin choked, claws sinking fully into M!Y/n’s back, tearing through fabric and skin alike. Deep red scratches bloomed instantly, blood welling up as the monster dragged his hands downward in vicious lines.
M!Y/n didn’t slow. He scissored and pumped those fingers roughly, stretching the clinging heat with deliberate brutality, curling them to find that sensitive spot inside. Harlequin’s forked tongue lolled out, licking his own lips as broken, breathy laughs mixed with gasps. He kept trying to roll his hips, to control the angle, pushing back against the fingers like he was the one directing the scene.
“More,” he demanded, voice dripping venomous sweetness. “Don’t you dare be gentle, you boring— ah! —human fuck.”
M!Y/n added a third finger, stretching him wider, fucking them in and out with wet, obscene sounds that echoed off the café walls. Harlequin’s cock twitched and leaked steadily onto his own stomach, the ridged length bobbing with every rough thrust of those fingers.
When M!Y/n finally withdrew them, he gripped Harlequin’s pale thighs, shoving them back and apart until the jester was folded nearly in half, knees near his shoulders, ass perfectly exposed and presented on the cold marble.
“Stay,” M!Y/n growled.
He lined up the thick, leaking head of his cock and drove forward in one brutal, unrelenting thrust.
Harlequin’s eyes flew wide, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. A silent, ecstatic moan tore from his open mouth as the intrusion speared him open, stretching his hole to its absolute limit. The burn was intense, the friction crushing and perfect. Inch after thick inch sank in until M!Y/n bottomed out, heavy balls pressed flush against Harlequin’s ass, buried to the hilt in that tight, rippling heat.
“God— fuck, you’re tight,” M!Y/n groaned, forehead dropping to Harlequin’s shoulder. The scent of night-blooming jasmine and sex filled his lungs.
Harlequin recovered with vicious speed. Despite being impaled and trembling, he laughed breathlessly right against M!Y/n’s ear, then sank his sharp fangs deep into the thick muscle of the barista’s shoulder. Blood welled instantly.
“Is that… all you’ve got?” he taunted through the bite, voice shaking but still dripping mockery. His inner walls clenched rhythmically, milking the cock inside him as he tried to grind and roll his hips from below, fighting for control. “Move, you lazy brute. Fuck me like you mean it or I’ll find someone who—”
M!Y/n snarled. He grabbed Harlequin’s hips with bruising force, fingers digging deep enough to leave dark imprints on pale skin, and slammed forward. The first real thrust was punishing — hard, deep and merciless. The counter creaked. Harlequin’s body jolted violently.
Then M!Y/n set a brutal pace.
He fucked Harlequin like he was trying to break him. Heavy, powerful strokes that dragged his thick cock almost all the way out before slamming back in, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and filthy. Every thrust hammered directly against his prostate, forcing broken, ragged sounds from the clown’s throat. The monster’s legs shook where they were forced back, jester shoes twitching in the air.
Harlequin’s claws raked fresh lines down M!Y/n’s back, tearing skin as he thrashed and hissed. “Ah— arrombado! Filho da puta— harder, you pathetic— nnngh—!”
M!Y/n responded by pounding him even more viciously, hips snapping with terrifying strength. He reached up, grabbed Harlequin’s throat with one hand — not choking fully, but pinning him down by the neck — and used the leverage to drive deeper, grinding his cock in filthy circles on every thrust.
“Still running your mouth?” M!Y/n panted, voice gravel-rough. He leaned down, biting Harlequin’s jaw hard enough to leave a mark, then licked the forked tongue that darted out defiantly. “Thought you wanted me to make you shut up.”
Harlequin’s eyes were hazy, pleasure cracking his usual control. His own cock was trapped between their bodies, leaking profusely, painting both stomachs with slick. He kept trying to bite, to scratch, to taunt — snapping his teeth whenever M!Y/n pulled back, licking and sucking at sweat-slick skin like he couldn’t stop tasting him even while being ruined.
But the relentless pounding wore him down. His taunts dissolved into high, broken whines and Portuguese curses. “Porra— M!Y/n— deeper, you bastard— ahh! Don’t you dare stop—!”
M!Y/n fucked him through it, changing angles until every thrust made Harlequin’s body seize and his walls flutter wildly. The café was filled with the obscene symphony: wet squelching, skin slapping, the counter groaning, Harlequin’s desperate gasps and M!Y/n’s low, groans.
Sweat dripped from M!Y/n’s brow onto Harlequin’s flushed chest. The monster’s heart-shaped curls were damp and wild, his hat long discarded. His pale body was a canvas of bruises and bite marks now, cock full and throbbing untouched.
“Look at me,” M!Y/n commanded, tightening the grip on his throat just enough.
Harlequin’s eyes fluttered open, glazed and fucked-out, but still carrying that defiant spark. The sight of M!Y/n — muscles bulging, covered in sweat and blood from scratches, handsome face twisted with lust — pushed him over.
His body locked up. A violent shudder ripped through him as his cock erupted, painting thick, pearly ropes across his own chest and stomach in frantic spurts. His hole clenched like a vice around M!Y/n’s cock, rippling and milking with supernatural intensity.
M!Y/n groaned. He drove in to the hilt one final time, hips stuttering as his own orgasm crashed over him. Thick, heavy pulses of cum flooded deep inside Harlequin’s spasming channel — ropes and ropes of hot seed filling him with every twitch.
They stayed locked together, panting harshly. Harlequin’s body trembled with aftershocks, his usual cocky energy temporarily shattered into limp, breathless bliss.
After a long minute, M!Y/n slowly pulled out. A wet, filthy sound accompanied the withdrawal, followed by a thick gush of cum dripping from Harlequin’s abused, puffy hole onto the marble counter.
M!Y/n stepped back, chest heaving, admiring the wrecked sight: Harlequin sprawled out, covered in sweat, cum, bruises and bite marks, hole still twitching and leaking.
Harlequin rolled lazily onto his stomach after a moment, burying his face in his arms on the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world. A faint, hoarse chuckle vibrated through him. He tilted his head just enough for one green eye to peer back, that usual glint already returning despite the obvious limpness in his body.
“Well…” he murmured, voice raw and satisfied, a lazy grin showing sharp teeth. “I suppose that was… adequate for a birthday treat, barista. You can go home now. I’ll just… rest here.”
M!Y/n stared at the ruined counter, the cum-streaked marble, his own shredded shirt, and the thoroughly used clown.
“You’re cleaning every inch of this counter, you crazy bastard,” he muttered, but a tired smirk tugged at his lips as he grabbed a towel.
The night air was crisp, a sharp and welcome contrast to the humid, coffee-and-jasmine-choked atmosphere of the closed café. M!Y/n walked down the empty cobblestone street, his steps heavy but entirely grounded. Beneath his clean jacket — a spare he had fortunately kept in the back breakroom to replace his ruined, blood-streaked uniform — his back stung with every stride. The long, deep scratches from Harlequin’s claws were already tightening as the blood dried, a persistent ache that flared whenever his shoulders shifted.
He didn't mind the pain. In a twisted way, it felt like a physical receipt of the monster’s presence.
The city was dead at this hour. The streetlamps cast long, flickering puddles of amber light onto the damp pavement, leaving the deep alleys and recessed doorways in absolute darkness. It was the kind of night where normal citizens hurried home with their eyes glued to the ground, terrified of what might be lurking in the shadows of a traveling circus town. But M!Y/n didn't hurry.
As he neared the entrance of a quiet, shadowy park that cut through his usual route back to the apartment, the air shifted. It was faint at first, carried on a low breeze that rustled the freshly leafed oak trees, but within seconds, the heavy, sweet perfume of night-blooming jasmine became unmistakable.
M!Y/n stopped just under the stone archway of the park, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't bother looking around. He didn't need to.
"You're supposed to be asleep on my counter," M!Y/n said into the darkness, his voice carrying clearly through the rustling leaves.
A low, melodic chuckle echoed from above. High up in the sprawling branches of a massive willow tree, a dark silhouette shifted. Harlequin dropped down, landing on the damp grass with an feather-light grace that completely defied his height.
To M!Y/n's slight surprise, the jester had fully rearranged himself. His green and black suit was neatly buttoned, his golden-trimmed cape hung perfectly over his shoulders, and his heart-shaped curly hair was meticulously styled once more. He looked entirely well-groomed, presentable and pristine, as if the explosive, messy encounter on the espresso bar had never occurred. Only the slight dilation of his pupils gave away his lingering excitement.
"And leave you to walk through these dangerous streets all by yourself?" Harlequin asked, stepping out of the tree's deep shadow and onto the paved path. His venom-green eyes caught the moonlight, glowing with a restless, playful energy. "What kind of companion would I be?"
"A normal one," M!Y/n replied dryly, turning to continue his walk down the unlit path of the park.
Harlequin easily fell into step beside him, his long jester shoes completely silent on the pavement. He didn't try to hold M!Y/n’s hand, nor did he offer any conventional physical affection. Instead, he simply walked close. His shoulder occasionally brushed against M!Y/n’s solid biceps, asserting his presence through sheer proximity.
"Normal is so dreadfully boring," Harlequin mused, tilting his head up to look at M!Y/n’s sharp profile. A sharp, teasing grin split his white mask. "Did you know Pierrot tried to corner me before I came out here? He smelled your scent all over me. The miserable old fool looked like he wanted to swallow a box of nails. It was absolutely magnificent."
M!Y/n glanced down at him, an eyebrow raised. "Is that the only reason you tracked me out here? To gloat about irritating your rival?"
"Of course not," Harlequin scoffed, though the lie was transparent. He reached into the folds of his cape, his gloved hand moving with an elegant, rounded flourish, and pulled out a small, intricately wrapped parcel tied with a piece of rough twine. He held it out toward M!Y/n, his green pupils narrowing slightly in a rare display of hesitation. "Here. Take it."
M!Y/n stopped, pulling his hands from his pockets. He took the small package, the paper cold against his calloused palms. "What's this?"
"Open it and find out, genius," Harlequin snapped, his snarky tone returning in an instant to mask his sudden defensiveness. He turned his face away slightly, pretending to look out into the dark expanse of the park.
M!Y/n carefully untied the twine, peeling back the thick brown paper. Inside lay a small, beautifully preserved glass jar. Contained within the glass, resting on a bed of dried, dark moss, was a large, iridescent green beetle. Its shell gleamed like a polished emerald under the moonlight. It was a bizarre, distinctly monstrous gift, but knowing Harlequin’s fascination with reptiles and insects, M!Y/n knew it was a genuine piece of the jester's world.
"I found it in the woods near the old tracks," Harlequin murmured, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, stripped of its usual theatrical flair. "It reminded me of home. The colors. It doesn't die easily."
M!Y/n looked from the jar up to the monster standing beside him. He saw the subtle tension in Harlequin’s shoulders, the way the small brass bells on his hat were perfectly still as he waited for a reaction. Despite his sadistic, chaotic nature, this was as close to a genuine offering of connection as the jester could manage.
"Thank you, Harlequin," M!Y/n said softly, his voice devoid of his previous irritation. He carefully placed the jar into his coat pocket. "It's beautiful."
Harlequin blinked, his mask shifting as his wide grin softened into a smaller, more curious expression. He looked at M!Y/n intensely, searching the handsome man's face for any sign of mockery. Finding none, his heart gave that strange, erratic hop once more — the rare sensation of warmth creeping back into his chest.
To break the unfamiliar tension, Harlequin suddenly lunged forward, his gloved hands snatching the collar of M!Y/n’s jacket. He pulled himself up on his toes, his venom-green eyes flashing with a sudden, risky impulse. He leaned in, aiming a quick, sharp bite at M!Y/n’s cheek — a playful but painful mark to reassert his dominance.
But M!Y/n was faster. His reflexes, trained by months of dealing with the monster's unpredictable behavior, kicked in instantly. He didn't pull back. Instead, he turned his head a fraction of an inch, intercepting the movement entirely.
Harlequin’s lips pressed directly against M!Y/n’s mouth.
The monster froze, his eyes widening in complete shock. The sudden, direct contact of their lips was entirely unexpected. Harlequin didn't know how to react; his hands remained clutched tightly to M!Y/n’s collar, his body completely rigid as the warmth of the human's mouth enveloped his own.
M!Y/n didn't let him retreat. He wrapped an arm around Harlequin’s waist, pulling the monster flush against his frame, deepening the kiss with a slow, possessive intensity. He tasted the faint, lingering heat of the black coffee Harlequin loved so much, mixed with the sweet, intoxicating essence of jasmine.
When M!Y/n finally pulled away, Harlequin was completely breathless. His mask was slightly askew, his pupils dilated so wide they almost swallowed the venom-green of his irises. For once, the jester had absolutely nothing to say. He stared up at the taller man, his mouth slightly parted, his forked tongue twitching in a mix of confusion and profound, secret satisfaction.
"Come on," M!Y/n said, a low chuckle escaping his chest as he released his hold on the monster's waist. "Let's get away from the cold."
Harlequin adjusted his hat with a jerky, uncoordinated movement, his composure completely shattered for the second time that night. He let out a sharp, embarrassed laugh, quickly walking ahead of M!Y/n down the dark path, his bells clinking wildly in the quiet air.
"You are an incredibly infuriating human, M!Y/n," Harlequin called back over his shoulder, his voice returning to its loud, theatrical register to hide the furious beating of his heart. "Incredibly infuriating! But... I suppose I will allow you to walk with me a little longer."
M!Y/n followed closely behind, his eyes fixed on the fluid, dark silhouette of the monster moving through the shadows. The night was far from normal, his body was covered in marks, and his life had become entirely entangled with a creature of nightmares — but as they emerged from the dark park and onto the street leading to his home, M!Y/n knew he wouldn't have it any other way.
Summary: Beyond the fading tents where the eternal twilight grips,
A sovereign yields his warmth to hungry, painted lips.
In the quiet dark where bone and heavy shadows twine,
The monster finds his home and whispers, "Eternally mine."
The air surrounding The Freak Circus always felt several degrees colder than the rest of the city, a localized pocket of eternal autumn that refused to thaw even in the suffocating height of May. It was as if the grounds themselves had struck a bargain with the weather, trading the warmth of the sun for the chilling, static atmosphere of a perpetual twilight. The heavy, layered scents of the big top clung to everything, weaving a tapestry of olfactory memories — stale, buttery popcorn that crunched underfoot, the acrid, chemical sweetness of thick greasepaint, damp sawdust, and the faint, unmistakable metallic bite of blood that never quite washed away from the center ring, no matter how much bleach the roustabouts used.
As the final spotlights died, their harsh white beams shrinking into nothingness, the sprawling striped canvas of the main tent fell into deep, impenetrable shadow. The bustling, chaotic energy of the performance bled away, leaving behind a quiet labyrinth of churned mud, taut guy-ropes, and the skeletal frames of vendor carts. M!Y/n pulled his heavy wool coat tighter around his shoulders, his fingers numb where they gripped the lapels, and exhaled a visible cloud of breath that plumed white against the dark.
But the silence of the circus was never complete. It was a living, breathing entity. There was always the slow, protesting creak of iron-wheeled trailers settling into the earth, the restless, heavy shift of unseen animals pacing their cages, and, tonight, as on so many nights before, the soft, persistent chime of bells.
Silver bells. Small, delicate, and meticulously crafted, their bright, crystalline sound was muffled slightly by the thick, red-and-black checkered fabric to which they were sewn. They followed him at a measured, deliberate distance. Never too close, never too far. M!Y/n had learned to recognize that specific cadence, the rhythmic tink-tink-tink over the gravel, the way sailors once learned the haunting, fatal songs of sirens.
Pierrot did not truly hide; a creature of his impossible stature and vibrant, chaotic design could never truly blend into the mundane shadows of the world. Instead, he simply chose when to be perceived. The bells were both a courtesy and a territorial claim — a gentle, maddening reminder that the shadow trailing M!Y/n stood nearly seven feet tall, possessed a crown of silver hair, and was bound to him with a terrifying, absolute devotion that could easily devour worlds if left unchecked.
M!Y/n walked with a steady, unhurried pace, navigating the treacherous maze of ropes and tent pegs by memory alone. He could feel the weight of those glowing yellow eyes on his back, tracking the movement of his hips, the slump of his shoulders, the steady rhythm of his breathing. It was an oppressive, intoxicating feeling, being the sole focus of something so deeply unnatural.
“You can come out, Pierrot,” M!Y/n said quietly, his voice raspy from the cold. He stopped beneath a flickering, sodium-vapor streetlamp at the mouth of the alley that led away from the fairgrounds and toward the sleeping city. The yellow light buzzed overhead like a dying insect, casting long, wavering shadows across the cracked pavement.
The wind answered first, sweeping a flurry of discarded ticket stubs around his boots. Then, the shadows in the alleyway seemed to fold in on themselves, deepening and separating until a tall, graceful figure stepped forward. His long, stilt-like limbs moved with a liquid, predatory ease that defied the rigid mechanics of human joints.
Pierrot’s porcelain-white face split into that ever-present, too-wide grin, the kind that looked painted on by a joyful but unsteady hand, stretching the limits of his pale skin. His glowing, luminous yellow eyes caught the sickly lamplight and held it, swirling with a restless, bright intensity. Silver hair, softer than spun silk and seemingly untouched by the grime of the circus, spilled over his broad shoulders like moonlight on water, shifting and shimmering with every minimal tilt of his head. The red-and-black checkered suit clung to his lithe frame, the silver bells jingling softly, harmonizing with the night as he offered a deeply theatrical, sweeping little bow.
“I did not wish to intrude too soon, my beautiful starlight… my Lord,” Pierrot sang. His voice was a marvel — a melodic, velvety lilt edged with a breathless, barely contained excitement that vibrated in M!Y/n’s chest. He pressed his black-gloved hands together over his chest, the yellow stars stitched onto his floppy hat catching faint, erratic sparks of light. “But the night feels so terribly empty without you in my line of sight. Your heart… ah, your heart was beating so strongly tonight. I heard it all the way across the grounds, even over the roar of the lions. Like a drum calling me home to you.”
M!Y/n’s lips curved into a small, bone-tired smile despite himself. Months of this strange, terrifying courtship had slowly worn away the sharpest, most jagged edges of his fear, leaving something warmer, heavier, and far more dangerous in its place. He had stopped running. He had stopped flinching. “It’s your birthday, Pierrot. You shouldn’t spend it stalking the damp alleys behind the tents.”
The effect of those words was immediate and startling. Pierrot’s large, luminous pupils narrowed to thin, reptilian golden slits, then flared wide, swallowing the iris in a sea of obsessive black. He crossed the remaining distance between them in a literal blur of color and shadow. He stopped just short of touching M!Y/n, towering over him, his chest heaving slightly. The unique scent of him washed over M!Y/n in a dizzying wave — dark, bitter cocoa, aged parchment, the sharp tang of ozone from an incoming storm, and something strangely electric that made the fine hairs on M!Y/n’s arms stand straight up.
“You remembered,” Pierrot whispered, his voice dropping an octave into a low, vibrating hum that seemed to rattle M!Y/n’s very teeth. One large, black-gloved hand hovered hesitantly near M!Y/n’s cheek before gently, almost reverently cupping it. The leather of the glove was cool against M!Y/n’s flushed skin, but the sheer, raw power behind the delicate touch thrummed like restrained lightning. “You remembered the day I was brought into this world? Oh, My Lord... you are far too good. Far too precious for this grey place.”
“Come on,” M!Y/n said, his voice softening. He reached up, wrapping his fingers as far as they would go around the span of Pierrot’s palm, pulling the hand away from his face to hold it firmly between them. “I have something for you. A proper gift. But we can’t stay out here.”
The walk back to M!Y/n’s second-floor apartment stretched out in a comfortable, highly charged silence. It was a strange procession through the quiet streets of the sleeping city. Pierrot stayed close — closer than he usually dared in public — so that the heavy, quality fabric of his checkered sleeves brushed against M!Y/n’s wool coat with every step. The jester’s head turned sharply at every sudden sound: the hiss of passing tires on wet asphalt, distant, drunken voices echoing from a pub, the shifting of a curtain in a darkened window. M!Y/n could physically feel the coiled readiness in the jester’s massive frame. One wrong glance from a late-night stranger, one sudden move, and Pierrot would strike faster than thought, unleashing all that elegant, brutal violence in perfect, smiling silence to protect his "Lord."
M!Y/n’s apartment building was old, the brickwork crumbling and the stairwell smelling faintly of damp wood and old coffee. When M!Y/n unlocked his door and ushered the creature inside, Pierrot looked almost comically out of place. The low, stippled ceiling of the modest living room forced the towering jester to duck slightly, his long, pointed shoes utterly silent on the worn, beige carpet. He stood dead in the center of the room, his arms hanging at his sides, his golden eyes wide with genuine, unadulterated wonder as he studied the cramped space. He took in the overflowing bookshelves, the faded, comfortable couch, the single potted fern struggling for sunlight near the window. To any ordinary person, the apartment was merely functional and slightly depressing. But to Pierrot, these ordinary things seemed intensely sacred, practically glowing with divinity, simply because they belonged to M!Y/n.
“Stay here,” M!Y/n instructed, shrugging off his heavy coat and tossing it over the back of a dining chair before heading for the narrow galley kitchen.
Pierrot drifted after him anyway, entirely incapable of obeying a command that kept them separated, drawn like a massive, colorful moth to a flame. The soft tinkle-clack of his bells followed, loud in the quiet apartment. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, unblinking, his painted grin soft and mesmerized as he watched M!Y/n open the refrigerator and retrieve a small, plain white box tied with a thin red ribbon.
“I know how much you love these,” M!Y/n said, turning around. He leaned against the counter, untying the silk ribbon with careful, deliberate movements and lifting the cardboard lid. Two dozen brigadeiros sat nestled inside tiny paper cups. They were perfectly rounded, glistening darkly with rich chocolate sprinkles, smelling faintly of condensed milk and cocoa.
Pierrot’s breath caught in his throat in a soft, shuddering, wet gasp. His long, dark tongue flicked out from between his painted lips, tasting the sugar-heavy air. Rows of sharp, predatory teeth gleamed behind the wide grin. “You made them… with your own hands? For me? You dirtied your beautiful fingers… for your foolish jester?”
“Happy birthday, Pierrot,” M!Y/n said simply, holding the box out.
The towering creature stepped forward, dropping to his knees. Even kneeling, he was nearly eye-level with M!Y/n’s chest. He lifted one of the small, chocolate treats from the box with reverent, agonizing care, turning it slowly between his claw-tipped fingers as if it were a fragile gem that might vanish into thin air.
“Jester always said food touched by love tastes different,” Pierrot murmured, his voice thick with an emotion so heavy it sounded like tears, though his painted eyes remained dry. “This… this is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Except for you, my Lord. You are the light that makes everything in this dark, rotting world sweet.”
He slipped the brigadeiro between his lips, closing his mouth around it. His golden eyes fluttered shut, the thick black lashes resting against his white cheeks as the rich, dense chocolate and sticky condensed milk melted on his tongue. A low, vibrating, rumbling sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure rolled from deep within his broad chest — a sound that was half-moan, half-contented, animalistic growl. It vibrated through the floorboards and up through the soles of M!Y/n’s shoes.
When Pierrot’s eyes opened again, the warm, joyful yellow had been swallowed nearly all by the black pupil. The hunger swirling in those glowing depths had absolutely nothing to do with sugar, cocoa, or earthly food. It was a consuming, all-encompassing starvation for the man standing before him.
“More,” Pierrot whispered, his voice dark and ruined. But instead of reaching for the box of chocolates, his gloved hands reached out, spanning the width of M!Y/n’s waist.
He pulled M!Y/n forward, burying his face into M!Y/n’s stomach, inhaling the scent of his clothes. Then, Pierrot stood, his hands sliding up to cradle M!Y/n’s face. His thumbs, thick and strong enough to snap a neck with a twitch, stroked gently, tracing the delicate skin beneath M!Y/n’s eyes.
“I want to be close, my Lord,” Pierrot breathed, leaning down until his mask-like face was inches from M!Y/n’s. “So close there is no room for anything else between us. No air. No light. No world. Only us. I want to crawl inside your skin and live in the spaces between your ribs.”
M!Y/n’s pulse quickened, a heavy, familiar heat pooling in his gut. The sheer intensity of Pierrot’s devotion was a physical weight, crushing but undeniably intoxicating. He reached up, taking one of Pierrot’s hands from his face, and led him slowly down the short, dim hallway.
“Then come,” M!Y/n said, his voice dropping into a husky register. “It’s time for your other gift.”
The bedroom was quiet, the only light coming from the moon slipping through the half-closed blinds, painting sharp, geometric silver stripes across the unmade bed and the hardwood floor. The moment M!Y/n sat on the edge of the mattress, the tentative, reverent energy surrounding Pierrot shattered, replaced by a graceful, frantic urgency.
The jester began to shed his heavier costume pieces. The checkered hat was pulled from his head and tossed aside, landing on a nearby chair with a final, soft chime of its bells. The thick, black frilled collar followed, unclasped and dropped to the floor. Without the heavy, obscuring garments, his silver hair fell completely loose, wild and thick, framing the smooth, bone-white mask of his face. The moonlight caught the strands, making him look breathtakingly ethereal, like a fallen, dangerous angel, yet terrifyingly real and present.
He didn't wait for M!Y/n to invite him further. Pierrot climbed onto the bed, his long limbs folding with spider-like grace as he straddled M!Y/n’s lap, dragging the smaller man backward until M!Y/n was lying flat against the mattress. Pierrot draped his larger frame over M!Y/n like a living, breathing, impenetrable cloak of muscle and heat. His face pressed heavily into the curve of M!Y/n’s neck, his strange, slightly cold nose nuzzling the pulse point there, inhaling deeply as if breathing M!Y/n in could sustain him.
“Listen,” Pierrot breathed against the warm, flushed skin of M!Y/n’s throat, his voice a ragged whisper. “Your heart… it is singing for me tonight. A rapid, frantic little bird in a cage. A birthday song meant only for Pierrot’s ears.”
He slid lower down M!Y/n's body, resting his pale cheek directly over the center of M!Y/n’s chest, going perfectly, eerily still to absorb the reverberation of every single heartbeat. His own body felt like warm marble wrapped in steel — inflexible, heavy, and thrumming with suppressed energy. M!Y/n’s fingers lifted, threading instinctively through that soft, thick silver hair, scratching lightly at the jester’s scalp. The action earned a deep, pleased hum that vibrated through both of their chests, a purr that rattled the bed frame.
Pierrot’s gloved hands began to explore. They slid down M!Y/n’s sides, the leather dragging deliciously against the fabric of his shirt, tracing the cage of his ribs and the dip of his waist with agonizing, deliberate care. When his hands reached M!Y/n’s hips, Pierrot spread his long fingers wide, marveling at how easily he could span the man’s entire lower torso.
“So perfectly, beautifully small,” Pierrot murmured, his voice thick, heavy with awe and a dark, territorial possessiveness. “My hands could hold all of you. Keep you safe in the palm of my hand. Keep you mine, locked away from the dirt and the filth of the circus.” He looked up, his chin resting on M!Y/n's sternum, his painted grin widening just enough to flash a row of razor-sharp, pearlescent teeth. “I thought about this while watching you sleep, my Lord. About how much of me you could take. How beautifully, how willingly you would tear and open for me.”
The air in the room thickened with a suffocating heat. Pierrot’s fingers moved to the collar of M!Y/n’s shirt, working the buttons open with a surprising, agonizing patience given the frantic look in his glowing eyes. He peeled the fabric back inch by inch, exposing the pale, warm skin beneath to the cool air of the room. Once the shirt was entirely gone, pushed off M!Y/n's shoulders and discarded, Pierrot’s mouth fell open. His long, dark tongue — slightly rough like a cat’s, but wet and incredibly thick — darted out. He traced an excruciatingly slow, wet line starting from M!Y/n's navel, dragging up over his stomach, his sternum, all the way to his collarbone.
M!Y/n arched his back off the mattress with a sharp, involuntary gasp, his fingers tightening painfully in the silver strands of Pierrot’s hair.
“You taste better than any sweet,” Pierrot chuckled, the sound dark and vibrating. His smooth, white, mask-like face pressed lightly against M!Y/n's chest. With sudden, fluid efficiency, Pierrot stripped away the rest of his own checkered costume, tossing the garments into the shadows.
Stripped bare, Pierrot was a sight that defied logic. He possessed a body shaped by unnatural, demonic strength and a ballerina's grace. Broad, heavily corded chest muscles gave way to a narrow, solid waist, his arms and thighs thick with dense, terrifyingly powerful muscle that looked like it could crush solid stone without effort. His smooth, stark-white skin seemed to genuinely glow with a faint, bioluminescent pallor in the moonlight, stark against the dark sheets.
He moved to remove M!Y/n’s trousers next, his movements growing noticeably more eager, his breath coming in quicker, harsher pants. He dragged the fabric down M!Y/n's legs, his claws lightly grazing the skin of M!Y/n's calves, leaving faint, white trails. “You are mine, my Lord. Not the circus’s. Not Harlequin’s. Not any other human's. I will guard you from everything — even the parts of my own soul that hunger too fiercely for you.”
Once they were both completely bare, the brutal, shocking contrast between them stole the remaining breath from M!Y/n’s lungs. M!Y/n was fit, a thoroughly average man in his prime, but Pierrot’s towering frame loomed over him like a living statue carved from moonlight and wrath.
And then, there was the undeniable, monstrous reality of Pierrot's arousal. Between those impossibly thick, corded thighs swung a cock that was entirely, horrifyingly non-human. It was far too large for any normal body: brutally long, thick as M!Y/n's forearm, corded with heavy, pulsing veins, and flushed a deep, angry, bruised red at the flared, bulbous tip. It was heavily engorged, twitching with a life of its own, and drooling a steady, copious stream of clear, viscous slick. The heavy precum strung down in thick, glistening threads, pooling and already painting the dark sheets beneath them.
Pierrot let out a low, hungry, almost hysterical giggle at the way M!Y/n’s eyes locked onto his groin, staring with a mixture of raw terror and intoxicating lust.
“Look at you… eyes so wide, so pretty for your devoted jester’s cock,” Pierrot cooed, crawling up M!Y/n's body until the heavy, weeping head of his dick dragged wetly across M!Y/n's thigh. “Don’t worry, My Lord. I know it looks frightening. But I’ll make it fit. I’ll carve my shape into you until your pretty little hole forgets every other feeling, until it only remembers the shape of my cock.”
He moved with sudden, overwhelming dominance, pinning both of M!Y/n’s wrists above his head with just one of his massive hands. His grip was an iron shackle, unbreakable but careful not to bruise. Pierrot's other hand slid down, his large, clawed fingers wrapping possessively around M!Y/n’s own fully hard, leaking dick.
Pierrot began to stroke him, the pace agonizingly slow. His large thumb circled the slick, sensitive head, spreading M!Y/n's precum down the shaft, while he lowered his face again. His long, rough, demonic tongue dragged wetly back up the center of M/n’s chest. He moved to M!Y/n's pectorals, his mouth opening to swallow one of the taut nipples. He licked, sucked, and pulled at the sensitive nub until it was painfully swollen and dark red, his sharp, jagged teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to send stinging, electric shocks of pleasure straight to M!Y/n's groin. M!Y/n whined, his hips bucking up helplessly into Pierrot's large, relentless hand.
"Impatient, my starlight?" Pierrot purred.
He released M!Y/n's dick, bringing his hand up to his own monstrous shaft. He coated two of his thick, long fingers in his own copious, viscous precum. Reaching between M!Y/n's legs, he pressed those heavily slicked fingers against M!Y/n’s tight, puckered entrance.
The jester didn't ask for permission; he pushed inside. M!Y/n gasped loudly, his eyes squeezing shut as the thick digits breached him. Pierrot worked them in deep with a relentless, terrifying patience, pressing against the tight ring of muscle, stretching it. He began scissoring his fingers, curling them upward in a deliberate, hooking motion until he found that swollen, buried bundle of nerves.
Once he struck the prostate, Pierrot attacked it mercilessly. He rubbed firm, fast, punishing circles against the gland. The sensation was explosive. M!Y/n’s back arched off the bed, a broken, breathless sob tearing from his throat. His vision whited out, and his neglected cock gave a violent jerk, spurting weak, clear ropes of precum onto his own stomach as pleasure wracked his frame.
“So tight… so incredibly, delightfully greedy,” Pierrot purred, his voice cracking into a high, manic, terrifying lilt. “Sucking on my fingers, milking them like you were made specifically for this purpose. Imagine… oh, my Lord, imagine how perfect you’ll feel choking on the real thing.”
M!Y/n was shaking violently, cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. His hole was clenching, fluttering, desperate for friction, when Pierrot finally withdrew his slick fingers with a loud, wet pop.
Pierrot shifted his weight, moving his knees to the outside of M!Y/n's thighs, forcing M!Y/n's legs spread impossibly wide, opening him completely. The jester lined up the fat, leaking, dark red head of his dick against the slick, thoroughly prepped entrance.
The initial stretch was utterly obscene. M!Y/n’s rim burned with a fiery, tearing heat as the wide, bulbous crown forced its way inside. It wasn't just large; it was dense, unyielding muscle pressing against M!Y/n's fragile anatomy. Inch after thick, grueling inch, Pierrot split him open. The sheer girth felt like it was rearranging his internal organs.
Pierrot threw his head back and groaned like a dying, ecstatic beast, his silver hair falling around them like a shimmering, chaotic curtain. He stared down, his glowing yellow eyes mesmerized, watching the point of connection as his monstrous, veiny length slowly, inexorably disappeared into M!Y/n’s stretching, yielding body.
“Fuuuck— My Lord… my beautiful master, you’re swallowing me,” Pierrot rasped, his painted grin trembling with the effort of holding himself back. “Look at it. Look how your pretty, human hole stretches to take your monster.”
He was only halfway in, and M!Y/n was already full to the absolute point of bursting. The pressure was monumental. Looking down, M!Y/n could actually see his own lower belly bulging slightly, a distinct, terrifying rise in his flesh from the sheer, immense girth invading his body.
“Please,” M!Y/n choked out, his fingers desperately clawing at the sheets. “Pierrot, it’s… too big–”
“Shhh. It’s perfect,” Pierrot shushed him, a manic edge to his tone. He didn't stop. He kept pushing, a slow, continuous, inexorable glide until his heavy, swinging balls pressed firmly against M!Y/n’s ass cheeks. The thick head of his cock nudged dangerously, heavily deep against M!Y/n’s prostate, lodging itself firmly in M!Y/n's guts.
He didn’t give M!Y/n long to adjust to the monumental fullness. The first thrust was a deliberate, deep, and rolling grind that dragged a loud, broken, shameless cry from the very bottom of M!Y/n’s throat. Then, Pierrot began to pull back, the thick shaft sliding out almost to the tip, only to slam back in.
The pace built with terrifying speed. Wet, heavy, echoing slaps of dense muscle hitting skin filled the quiet bedroom, a filthy, rhythmic soundtrack to the act. Pierrot fucked him harder, abandoning his gentle reverence for sheer, feral need. Every brutal thrust punched the air entirely from M!Y/n’s lungs, leaving him gasping like a drowning man. The massive cock dragged relentlessly, perfectly over his prostate with every single plunge, making M!Y/n's own dick bounce and leak in messy, continuous streaks across his spasming abs.
Pierrot released M!Y/n’s wrists, his large hands immediately dropping to grab M!Y/n’s hips. His sharp claws pricked the soft skin, drawing tiny pinpricks of blood as he forcefully lifted M!Y/n’s ass higher off the mattress, angling him to take it even deeper. He railed him without mercy. The wet, loud squelching sounds were intensely filthy; Pierrot’s endless stream of slick precum mixed with M!Y/n’s sweat and the lube, dripping thickly down M!Y/n's crack and soaking the sheets with every brutal, pile-driving plunge.
“You’re mine,” Pierrot snarled. His voice broke entirely, shattering into that high, echoing, terrifyingly manic tone that usually sent circusgoers fleeing. “This tight, sweet little cunt is mine. Say it, My Lord. Look at me and tell your jester who owns this hole!”
He folded M!Y/n’s legs back, his knees pressing practically to his ears, folding the man nearly in half. The angle allowed Pierrot to pound so deep it genuinely felt like he was fucking directly into M!Y/n's stomach.
“Yours!” M!Y/n screamed, completely lost to the delirium, his eyes rolling back in his head. Thick, stringy drool slipped from the corner of his open mouth as the overwhelming pleasure bordered dangerously on pain. “I'm yours, Pierrot — fuck!”
Pierrot let out a wild, delighted laugh. His heavy, swollen balls slapped violently, rhythmically against M!Y/n's taint. Deep inside, M!Y/n could feel the jester’s cock swelling even thicker, the demonic biology responding to the heat, expanding within his tight, spasming walls until M!Y/n felt he might actually split in two.
The overwhelming stimulation was too much. M!Y/n came first, his climax tearing through him with a shattered, guttural scream. His untouched, completely ignored cock pulsed diamond-hard, shooting thick, heavy ropes of cum through the air, splattering messily across his own chest, his collarbone, and his neck. As he orgasmed, his internal muscles clamped down violently, his hole clenching, squeezing, and fluttering around Pierrot’s impossibly thick shaft, effectively milking the monster.
Pierrot’s glowing yellow eyes rolled back in his head with absolute, delirious joy at the sensation of being squeezed so ruthlessly. His painted mouth fell open in a silent scream.
“Yes—! Yes, milk me, My Lord! Squeeze your jester dry... Take every single drop.”
With a guttural, earth-shaking, broken roar that sounded like a building collapsing, Pierrot slammed his hips forward one final time. He buried himself to the absolute hilt, burying his cock so deep the air was crushed from M!Y/n's lungs, and he finally came.
His cock throbbed violently, expanding one final time. It flooded M!Y/n’s aching guts with an ungodly surge of thick, scalding hot cum. The sheer volume was staggering. It shot into M!Y/n with the force of a geyser, surge after heavy surge pumping relentlessly into him. It was so much liquid that it swelled M!Y/n’s lower belly visibly, a hard, hot knot forming beneath his skin. M!Y/n gasped, his eyes wide as the immense pressure built. The heat was phenomenal. It was too much to hold; the heavy load began to leak out around Pierrot’s shaft, pushing past the seal of M!Y/n's stretched ring in thick, creamy white rivulets that streamed down his ass and onto the ruined bed with every shallow, possessive, twitching thrust Pierrot gave.
Pierrot didn't pull out. He refused to relinquish the connection. He stayed buried deep, his hips still pressed flush against M!Y/n's, grinding slowly, lazily through the intense aftershocks that wracked his frame. He made sure every single inch of M!Y/n’s insides was thoroughly painted, filled, and irrevocably claimed.
Exhausted, the sheer energy of his climax having drained his manic frenzy, Pierrot collapsed heavily over M!Y/n’s much smaller form. He rested his full, crushing weight on the mattress, caging M!Y/n beneath him. His cock was still fully hard, still twitching and weeping deep inside M!Y/n's wrecked, overflowing hole.
Pierrot buried his face in the crook of M!Y/n’s neck, his silver hair blanketing them both. He nuzzled his smooth, masked face against M!Y/n's sweaty, cum-stained skin, his long tongue darting out to taste the salty sweat on M!Y/n's pulse point. He began to purr, a deep, resonant, chest-rattling sound of absolute, delirious satisfaction.
“Perfect…” Pierrot mumbled into the damp skin of M!Y/n's neck, his voice drowsy, dark, and utterly obsessed. “So full of me. Weighted down by my love. My beautiful, ruined, perfect starlight.”
M!Y/n was entirely limp, his limbs heavy and useless, his brain utterly short-circuited by the sheer magnitude of the pleasure and the monstrous filling he had just endured. He could only lay there, his chest heaving, his fingers weakly, involuntarily tangling in the heavy silver locks of the creature resting atop him. He could feel his own cum cooling slowly on his stomach and chest, while the deep, heavy pool of it inside him pulsed with the jester's lingering heartbeat.
"You're crushing me, you massive idiot," M!Y/n managed to whisper, though there was no real heat in his words. His voice was a raspy, exhausted breath.
"Good," Pierrot replied instantly, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that vibrated directly into M!Y/n's bones. He didn't shift even a fraction of an inch to alleviate the weight. Instead, his arms wrapped tighter around M!Y/n's waist, locking them together in a suffocating, unbreakable embrace. "I want to crush you. I want to press you so firmly against my chest that our ribs crack and intertwine, until you cannot tell where the human ends and the monster begins."
Pierrot shifted his hips lazily, dragging a fresh, whimpering gasp from M!Y/n as the thick cock stirred within his sensitive, battered walls, pushing another wave of thick white cum out onto the sheets.
"I am never leaving this place, my Lord," Pierrot whispered, his painted grin pressing against M!Y/n's collarbone as he spoke. His golden eyes, though half-lidded, burned with an unholy, eternal devotion in the dark. "The circus can rot. The tents can burn to ash. You gave me a gift tonight. You gave me a home. You let me carve my name into your very core. I will stay buried inside you until the sun burns out and the stars fall from the sky. You are mine now, M!Y/n. Completely, hopelessly, eternally mine."
The words were a vow, a curse, and a twisted prayer all woven into one. M!Y/n closed his eyes, the heavy scent of cocoa, ozone, and sex filling his lungs. He didn't fight the crushing weight. He didn't try to push the monster away. He simply let his hands fall to rest on Pierrot's broad, scarred back, accepting the terrifying reality of his new existence. In the quiet darkness of the small apartment, wrapped in the arms of a nightmare that loved him too much, M!Y/n finally surrendered to the heavy, sticky heat, letting the rhythmic, purring heartbeat of his devoted jester lull him into a deep, exhausted sleep.
Summary: Cramped and relentless, bodies collide,
pleasure and pain entwined; he falls, broken and trembling, yet clings to the heat that holds him.
AYAYAYAY I'M BACK WITH ANOTHER OBSESSION WOOOOO
Anyways, kinda went wild with this one hehe. 😼
Warnings: porn with no plot, double penetration, mild degrading(?), cringe, ooc(?), idk just smut
Words: 4.666 (goddammit)
The corridor was already narrow, its design more suited for machine conduits than human passage. Yet, in their rush to avoid detection, M!Y/n had followed Phainon and Mydei down it without a second thought. The warning alarms echoing in the distance urged their pace forward—until a sudden hiss of metal sealed off the path behind them.
“Damn it,” Mydei muttered, his gloved hand clenching into a fist. The emergency shutters had dropped, cutting off their retreat. And before any of them could argue about the next move, Phainon’s bright, too-quick voice rang out.
“Here!” he pointed at a side hatch, prying it open with surprising strength. M!Y/n didn’t have time to protest before the lithe man all but shoved him inside.
The space was impossibly tight. A crawlspace? A maintenance shaft? Whatever it was, it wasn’t built for three grown men. Cold steel walls pressed in from all sides, offering barely enough room to shift, let alone breathe properly.
M!Y/n stumbled forward, only to stumble on a solid presence in front of him—broad, unyielding, radiating a heat that contrasted sharply with the freezing steel. Mydei, the ever-princely warrior, had followed in right behind, his annoyed exhale ghosting against M!Y/n’s cheek. And on the other side, behind him, Phainon slipped in last with a low chuckle.
“Well, this is cozy,” Phainon murmured, voice husky with suppressed laughter. His breath brushed the shell of M!Y/n’s ear, warm and teasing.
“Cozy?” Mydei’s tone was sharp, edged with his usual irritation. “This is ridiculous. There’s no space to even stand properly.”
M!Y/n swallowed hard, his body pressed flush between two very different forms: Mydei’s battle-hardened chest against the front of his own, rigid and hot with restrained tension; Phainon’s lean yet deceptively strong frame molded against his back, his hands braced on the steel walls to avoid crushing M!Y/n entirely. The heat of their bodies filled the narrow chamber, mingling, suffocating.
A sudden tremor rocked the station, tilting their balance. Phainon’s weight shifted—his chest sliding flush against M!Y/n’s back, his hips inadvertently pressing forward. M!Y/n stiffened, his breath catching, while Mydei cursed under his breath, his own hands pressing harder against the wall behind Phainon to steady them.
“This is unbearable,” Mydei growled, though his voice came out lower, rougher, like gravel dragged across stone. His amber eyes glowed faintly in the dim emergency light, locked not on the hatch or their escape, but on M!Y/n’s lips.
Phainon chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through M!Y/n’s spine. “Mmm… could be worse,” he said, his words slow, teasing. One of his hands shifted—just enough to brush against M!Y/n’s hip as if by accident.
M!Y/n’s pulse hammered in his ears. The air in the crawlspace was stifling, not just from the recycled heat of the station, but from the closeness—the way Mydei’s body caged him from the front, the way Phainon curved easily around him from behind, like the two had every intention of closing in further.
Another lurch threw them together again. Mydei’s firm thigh pressed between M!Y/n’s legs, drawing a sharp, unbidden gasp from him. Phainon, hearing it, let out a quiet, knowing hum that sent a shiver racing down M!Y/n’s spine.
“You’re enjoying this far more than you let on, Prince,” Phainon whispered over M!Y/n’s shoulder, eyes gleaming with mischief as he watched Mydei stiffen. “Or perhaps…” His lips brushed the edge of M!Y/n’s jaw, so light it could have been mistaken for an accident. “…it’s M!Y/n who’s enjoying this most of all.”
M!Y/n’s breath stuttered, caught between indignation and something dangerously close to want. Mydei’s jaw tightened, but his gaze didn’t waver.
“Shut your mouth,” Mydei snapped, though his voice cracked just enough to betray the tension knotting his chest. His fingers flexed against the steel wall, trying to hold onto something to hold back.
And M!Y/n—trapped between fire and silk, between the rigid heat of Mydei and the sly, teasing warmth of Phainon—couldn’t decide which way to lean.
M!Y/n could feel every breath, every heartbeat in the confined space. Mydei’s body was hot against him, like tempered steel after battle, unyielding but thrumming with restrained energy. Phainon was the opposite—supple, fluid, his warmth curving perfectly against M!Y/n’s back, his every subtle movement intentional.
Another shift of weight forced M!Y/n closer still, Mydei’s chest pressed firmly against his own. His breath hitched, their lips nearly brushing in the closeness.
“Move back,” Mydei said, though it sounded less like a command and more like a plea strangled in his throat.
“Nowhere to move,” Phainon replied smoothly, his grin audible in his tone. His hand ghosted along M!Y/n’s hip again, this time lingering, thumb pressing lightly against the fabric at his waist. “Not unless you want to crush our poor friend here.”
Mydei’s glare was sharp, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t—not in this space. His fingers, once braced against the wall, trembled before sliding lower, brushing M!Y/n’s side in a way that felt anything but accidental.
“Don’t—” M!Y/n started, voice breaking when Mydei’s thigh pressed more deliberately between his legs. His cheeks burned, heat flooding through him faster than he could fight it.
“Don’t what?” Phainon murmured in his ear, his lips grazing the shell before dipping lower, trailing featherlight along the line of M!Y/n’s throat. “Don’t stop? Or don’t make you admit you’re enjoying this?”
The sound M!Y/n made—half gasp, half whimper—answered for him.
Mydei cursed again, but this time it was guttural, thick with frustration rather than anger. His forehead dropped against M!Y/n’s, his amber eyes burning. “You’re reckless,” he muttered, though his hands betrayed him—sliding from the steel wall to M!Y/n’s waist, gripping tight, pulling him flush until there was no space left at all.
M!Y/n shuddered, trapped perfectly between them. Mydei’s lips hovered a hair’s breadth from his, trembling as if warring with restraint. Behind him, Phainon’s laughter softened, turning into something lower, darker.
“Mmm… look at you, Prince,” Phainon teased, pressing closer until M!Y/n could feel the unmistakable hardness against his back. “So desperate you can’t even keep your hands still.”
“Shut. Up.” Mydei’s words came out like a growl, but his mouth betrayed him, closing the gap and crashing against M!Y/n’s lips.
The kiss was nothing like M!Y/n expected—rough, claiming, all sharp edges and heat. Mydei kissed like he fought: relentless, overwhelming, demanding surrender. M!Y/n gasped against him, and Mydei swallowed the sound, his grip tightening as if he feared letting go.
Phainon chuckled softly, though there was no mockery in it now. “Tch. Leaving me out already?” His hand slipped under M!Y/n’s shirt, fingers cool against fevered skin as they traced up his stomach. M!Y/n arched involuntarily, torn between the demanding mouth on his and the sly touch teasing his body.
Mydei broke the kiss with a ragged breath, his forehead still pressed to M!Y/n’s. His chest heaved, and his eyes—half-lidded, glowing faintly—spoke of hunger he’d tried to cage for far too long.
Phainon, taking advantage, tilted M!Y/n’s head back just enough to claim his mouth from the other side. The difference was staggering: where Mydei was fire, Phainon was silk, lips coaxing rather than demanding, his tongue teasing its way past parted lips with infuriating ease.
M!Y/n moaned into the kiss, Mydei’s grip tightening reflexively. The prince cursed under his breath, grinding his hips forward, the friction making M!Y/n’s knees weak.
“Listen to him,” Phainon whispered when he finally pulled back, his breath wet against M!Y/n’s lips. “He’s begging for it.” His hand dipped lower, brushing against the straining hardness between M!Y/n’s thighs.
M!Y/n gasped, the sound echoing far too loud in the tiny metal chamber. Mydei’s eyes snapped to Phainon’s hand, fury and desire warring in his gaze.
“You—” he started, only to break off with another growl as Phainon squeezed lightly, deliberately.
“Me,” Phainon said with a smirk, voice velvet smooth. His other hand slid up, fingers curling around M!Y/n’s throat—not to tighten, but to hold, to control the angle as his lips brushed M!Y/n’s ear. “And you. Both of us. He wants both.”
M!Y/n could barely think past the molten haze in his mind, his body trembling between them. Mydei’s heat, Phainon’s touch, their voices threading together into a trap he didn’t want to escape.
“Say it,” Mydei demanded, voice low, wrecked. His lips brushed M!Y/n’s again, his grip bruising at his waist. “Say you want this.”
Phainon’s hand tightened just slightly on his throat, urging him to answer. “Say it, and we’ll give you everything.”
M!Y/n’s breath came out ragged, chest heaving as though the tight walls of the chamber had squeezed the air from his lungs. But it wasn’t the steel pressing him down—it was them.
Mydei’s presence in front of him was overwhelming, every hard line of his body pressed flush, leaving no room to retreat. His amber eyes burned, filled with a possessive hunger that left M!Y/n trembling. Behind him, Phainon’s lean frame shifted with serpent-like grace, molding to M!Y/n’s back, lips ghosting his ear with maddening patience.
“Say it,” Mydei demanded again, voice gravel rough. His grip at M!Y/n’s waist tightened, pulling him flush against the rigid evidence of his arousal. “Say you want this. Say you want us.”
Phainon’s hand on M!Y/n’s throat tightened just slightly—not painful, but commanding, coaxing his chin upward. “He’s trembling already. He wants it,” Phainon purred, his lips brushing M!Y/n’s jaw. “But let’s hear him say it.”
M!Y/n swallowed, words breaking in his throat. The heat between them, the pressure, the way both men pinned him in place—it was intoxicating. He should have resisted, pushed them off. Instead, his voice cracked, desperate:
“I… I want it. I want you both.”
The effect was immediate.
Mydei groaned low in his chest, crashing their mouths together with a hunger that stole M!Y/n’s breath. His kiss was rougher now, deeper, his tongue forcing past parted lips in a claiming dance. One of his hands slid downward, cupping M!Y/n through his pants with no hesitation, his grip fierce and needy.
M!Y/n gasped into his mouth, his body jerking at the sudden friction. The sound was swallowed, muffled by Mydei’s relentless kiss.
Behind him, Phainon laughed softly, the sound sultry and pleased. “Finally,” he murmured. His hand slipped beneath M!Y/n’s shirt again, trailing up the ridges of his stomach to tease his nipples with infuriating slowness. M!Y/n arched against the touch, helpless, caught between fire and silk.
“You’re burning up,” Phainon whispered, licking into the curve of M!Y/n’s neck. “Let’s see how long you can last between us.”
M!Y/n’s knees buckled when Mydei’s hand pressed harder against him, the prince’s thigh wedged firmly between his legs. His hips ground down without permission, chasing friction, a humiliating sound escaping his throat.
“Pathetic,” Mydei muttered, though his own voice shook. His other hand grabbed M!Y/n’s jaw, forcing him to hold eye contact even as he rutted against his thigh. “Look at you. Falling apart already.”
“And yet,” Phainon crooned, nibbling at M!Y/n’s earlobe, “he’s so eager for more.” His fingers finally dipped lower, undoing M!Y/n’s belt with practiced ease. The metallic click of the buckle seemed to echo in the tiny chamber.
“Mydei,” M!Y/n gasped, panicked and needy as Phainon’s hand slipped into his waistband, fingers brushing coarse curls before wrapping around his throbbing length.
The prince’s jaw tightened, eyes darkening at the sight. “Don’t you dare—”
“Too late,” Phainon cut in silkily, stroking M!Y/n slow and deliberate. The sound M!Y/n made was wrecked, high and broken, his head falling back against Phainon’s shoulder.
Mydei’s nostrils flared, his own control fraying. “You think you can just—”
Phainon smirked, his hand moving faster, pumping M!Y/n until his thighs shook. “He doesn’t care who’s touching him. He just needs it. Don’t you?” he teased against M!Y/n’s ear.
M!Y/n whimpered, clutching at Mydei’s shoulders as pleasure surged through him. “Yes—yes, please—”
That broke the prince. With a guttural curse, he yanked at M!Y/n’s clothes, baring his chest with rough, impatient tugs. His mouth descended immediately, teeth scraping over a nipple before sucking hard enough to bruise. M!Y/n cried out, his hips bucking helplessly into Phainon’s fist.
The space was filled with sounds—the ragged breaths, the slick slide of Phainon’s hand, the wet pull of Mydei’s mouth marking his chest. M!Y/n’s body burned, overstimulated, yet desperate for more.
Phainon’s free hand slid down, pushing M!Y/n’s pants lower until they tangled at his thighs. His own hardness pressed insistently against Y/n’s ass, grinding with measured patience. “You’re going to take us both,” he whispered, teeth grazing M!Y/n’s throat. “Every inch. Right here.”
M!Y/n’s eyes widened, but the thought sent another pulse of heat racing through him.
“Not here,” Mydei growled, lifting his head. His lips were wet, his chest heaving. “There’s no room.”
“There’s always room if you make it,” Phainon countered smoothly, his smirk curling against M!Y/n’s skin. His strokes slowed deliberately, drawing out another broken whine. “Besides, look at him. He’s ready now.”
M!Y/n’s body betrayed him—hips jerking, cock twitching in Phainon’s fist, chest heaving as though he’d drown without them.
Mydei swore under his breath, ripping his own belt loose. The clink of metal, the hiss of fabric, the raw sound of need. His amber eyes burned into M!Y/n’s, filled with frustration, desire, and something dangerously close to devotion.
“Fine,” he bit out, pressing his lips against M!Y/n’s again—less a kiss than a desperate claim. “But he’s mine first.”
Phainon’s laughter was dark and pleased. “Then we’ll share him properly.”
The chamber was stifling now, filled with heat and the sound of ragged breaths. Clothes tangled around M!Y/n’s thighs, his chest flushed and damp from the combined attention of two men who gave him no chance to think, no chance to breathe.
Mydei’s hands were rough, tearing away the last of the fabric that dared to cover Y/n’s skin. His lips claimed his mouth again, bruising and desperate, as if trying to erase every trace of Phainon’s touches with his own. The prince’s hardness pressed hot against M!Y/n’s thigh, rigid with need.
Phainon, meanwhile, was maddeningly controlled. His hand still stroked M!Y/n with unhurried precision, dragging pleasure out until M!Y/n’s knees threatened to give way. His other hand slid lower, teasing the cleft of his ass with knowing patience.
M!Y/n jolted at the touch, breaking from Mydei’s kiss with a gasp. “Phainon—”
“Shhh,” Phainon crooned, pressing a kiss to his damp temple. “I’ll take care of you. We both will.”
Mydei growled, but didn’t stop him. Instead, he shoved M!Y/n harder back against Phainon, caging him in place with his own body. His lips trailed down, biting harshly at M!Y/n’s throat, his collarbone, his chest—marks of possession carved into pale skin.
Phainon’s fingers teased lower, circling the tight ring of muscle before pressing just enough to make M!Y/n whimper. “Relax for me,” he whispered, his breath warm against M!Y/n’s ear. “Let me in.”
The intrusion was slow, deliberate, Phainon’s finger pushing past resistance with slick precision. M!Y/n cried out, hips jerking against Mydei’s as the stretch burned, strange and overwhelming.
“Too much?” Mydei rasped, though his hands gripped M!Y/n’s waist as though he’d snap if he heard ‘yes.’
M!Y/n shook his head frantically, clutching at Mydei’s shoulders. “N-no… more—please—”
Phainon hummed approval, sliding another finger in beside the first, scissoring carefully until M!Y/n trembled between them. The sensation was foreign, but pleasure laced through it, sharp and electric. Every brush of Phainon’s fingers against that spot inside made M!Y/n see stars.
“Good boy,” Phainon murmured, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “You’re opening up beautifully.”
Mydei cursed, grinding his hips against M!Y/n’s, his cock straining for release. “Enough,” he snapped. “I’m done waiting.”
Phainon chuckled, withdrawing his fingers only to grip M!Y/n’s hip, guiding him forward. “Then take him, Prince.”
M!Y/n barely had time to breathe before Mydei hoisted his leg up, hooking it around his hip for better access. The blunt head of his cock pressed against M!Y/n’s entrance, hot and insistent.
The stretch was brutal, Mydei pushing in with a guttural groan, his forehead pressed to M!Y/n’s as though forcing restraint. M!Y/n cried out, his nails raking down Mydei’s back as his body struggled to take the intrusion.
“Fuck—” Mydei hissed, teeth clenched. “You’re so damn tight.”
Phainon’s hands stroked soothing patterns along M!Y/n’s sides, his lips brushing his ear. “Breathe. Let him in. You’ll take it all.”
M!Y/n’s walls fluttered helplessly, stretching around Mydei’s thickness until finally—finally—he was fully seated inside. The prince groaned, burying his face against M!Y/n’s neck, trembling with the effort not to move too soon.
“Gods…” he muttered. “You feel—perfect.”
M!Y/n’s body ached, but the sensation of fullness was intoxicating, overwhelming. When Mydei finally drew back and thrust forward, the sharp spark of pleasure-pain ripped a cry from his throat.
Phainon caught it with a kiss, silken tongue soothing the raw sound. “That’s it. Take him. Let him break you in.”
Mydei set a rhythm—hard, deep thrusts that drove M!Y/n insane, pushing him harder against Phainon, making the chamber echo with every wet slap of skin on skin. His pace was unrelenting, claiming, desperate. M!Y/n clung to him, body wracked with every stroke that slammed against the spot inside him, turning cries into screams of pleasure.
But Phainon wasn’t idle. While Mydei took him from the front, Phainon pressed against his back, his cock grinding insistently between M!Y/n’s cheeks. Each thrust from Mydei forced him further back, rubbing him perfectly against Phainon’s length.
“Not fair,” Phainon whispered, voice dark with want. “I need to be inside too.”
M!Y/n’s hazy mind barely registered before Phainon spat into his hand, slicking himself quickly. His free hand wrapped around M!Y/n’s waist, steadying him as he pressed the head of his cock against the already-stretched ring.
“Wait—” M!Y/n gasped, overwhelmed.
“You can take it,” Phainon promised, voice honeyed and cruel. “You’ll stretch for me too.”
Mydei growled, thrusting harder as though competing. “He’s mine.”
“Ours,” Phainon corrected, and with steady pressure, he pushed in alongside Mydei.
The stretch was blinding. M!Y/n screamed, nails raking bloody crescents into Mydei’s shoulders as Phainon forced himself inside, inch by inch, until both men were buried deep within him. The fullness was unbearable, their cocks grinding together inside his body, stretching him beyond anything he thought possible.
“Fuck—” Mydei’s curse was strangled, his hips jerking as the tightness threatened to undo him instantly.
Phainon’s laughter was breathless, almost broken. “Tight… gods, he’s perfect like this.”
M!Y/n sobbed, pleasure and pain twisting into something molten. Every shift made them both grind against that sweet spot inside, sparks of white dancing in his vision.
When they began to move—one thrusting as the other withdrew—it shattered him. Mydei’s pace was brutal, driving forward with each claim, while Phainon’s was smoother, languid, deliberately opposite to prolong the torment. Together, they left M!Y/n trembling, broken moans spilling from his lips with every drag, every thrust.
Pinned between fire and silk, torn open and filled completely, M!Y/n surrendered to the heat consuming him. There was no escape—nor did he want one.
The chamber was filled with the sounds of them: the wet slap of skin against skin, the ragged, guttural moans of Mydei, Phainon’s low purrs, and M!Y/n’s broken cries that bounced off the cold steel walls. There was no space for escape—only the relentless, consuming heat of being taken by both at once.
Every thrust rocked M!Y/n forward, his body pressed mercilessly into the steel by Mydei’s weight, only to be shoved back again by Phainon’s smooth, grinding pace. His body didn’t belong to him anymore—it was caught in the rhythm of theirs, stretched to the point of breaking yet burning with unbearable pleasure.
“Look at him,” Phainon crooned, his lips brushing the shell of M!Y/n’s ear. His voice was velvet, but the ragged edges of his breath betrayed his own struggle for control. “He’s shaking so beautifully. So tight, so desperate… you’ll ruin him, Prince.”
“Shut up,” Mydei snarled, but his voice cracked, and his hips snapped harder, driving deeper into M!Y/n’s trembling body. His amber eyes, half-lidded and wild, locked on M!Y/n’s tear-damp face. “He’s mine to ruin.”
M!Y/n’s head fell back against Phainon’s shoulder, a strangled moan spilling from his lips as both men ground into him at once, their cocks rubbing together inside the slick, stretched heat of his body. The sensation was maddening—too much, far too much—but he couldn’t stop himself from clenching around them, from craving more.
“Gods, he’s squeezing so hard,” Phainon groaned, his control finally fraying. His teeth sank lightly into M!Y/n’s neck, a mark that stung and burned with ownership. “He wants both of us. He’s begging for it without words.”
“I—I can’t—” M!Y/n choked out, his nails digging red crescents into Mydei’s shoulders. His body felt like a live wire, every nerve lit up, every thrust a spark that pushed him closer to breaking.
“Yes, you can,” Phainon whispered, his hand sliding down to wrap around M!Y/n’s leaking cock again. His strokes matched the rhythm of their thrusts, every drag of his fist timed to push M!Y/n further. “You’ll take us both. You’ll come with us inside you.”
Mydei growled, his pace faltering for a moment as if the words threatened to undo him completely. His forehead pressed to M!Y/n’s, their lips brushing between ragged breaths. “You belong to us,” he muttered, voice low and raw. “Say it.”
M!Y/n’s mind was haze, drowning in sensation. Mydei’s chest was slick against his own, muscles flexing with every brutal thrust. Behind him, Phainon moved with sinuous grace, his hips rolling in perfect counterpoint, each stroke angled to grind deep inside. The rhythm made him sob, his body clenching helplessly.
“I—” M!Y/n gasped, words broken into a cry as Phainon’s hand squeezed him tighter. “I belong—to you—both—”
The confession ripped something primal from Mydei’s throat. He slammed forward harder, every thrust a claim, his lips devouring M!Y/n’s in a kiss that was more teeth and desperation than tenderness. M!Y/n sobbed into his mouth, his body trembling as his release built unbearably fast.
Phainon’s laughter was strained now, a low rumble against M!Y/n’s back. “Hear that? He’s ours. Gods, he’s milking us already…” His hips snapped forward with more force, the slick drag of his cock alongside Mydei’s inside M!Y/n nearly sending all three over the edge.
The tight space magnified everything—their bodies pressed so close that every movement was shared, every thrust a friction of heat against heat. M!Y/n was caught in the middle of it, overstimulated, ruined, yet craving every second more.
“Mydei—Phainon—” he moaned their names like a prayer, his voice high and cracked, legs shaking as pleasure coiled viciously in his stomach.
“That’s it,” Phainon urged, his strokes on M!Y/n’s cock merciless now. “Say our names when you break. Let the whole station know who you belong to.”
Mydei’s thrusts grew ragged, deeper, more desperate. His grip on M!Y/n’s waist was bruising, his jaw clenched as though fighting back the inevitable. “I can’t—hold it—” he ground out, his teeth sinking into M!Y/n’s shoulder hard enough to mark.
M!Y/n’s vision blurred, tears slipping down his cheeks from the sheer intensity of it. His body clenched tight around them both, pleasure threatening to swallow him whole. He couldn’t hold it back anymore—he didn’t want to.
M!Y/n’s body trembled violently, every muscle taut as if strung on a wire about to snap. Mydei’s thrusts slammed deep, each one forcing a strangled cry from his throat. Behind him, Phainon’s pace grew sharper, his velvet composure unraveling into guttural growls with every grind forward.
The chamber reeked of sex now—hot, suffocating, the air thick with the sound of skin slapping, breathless groans, and M!Y/n’s desperate, broken pleas.
“Mydei—ah—Phainon—please—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” Phainon rasped, his lips wet against M!Y/n’s ear. His hand pumped mercilessly at M!Y/n’s cock, slick with precome, every stroke matched to the rhythm of their bodies. “Come for us. Let go. Ruin yourself on our cocks.”
“Say our names when you fall,” Mydei growled, his voice low and shattered. His forehead pressed against M!Y/n’s, sweat dripping between them. “Say it. Now.”
The demand hit as another thrust from both men buried them so deep inside him that stars burst behind M!Y/n’s eyes. He cried out, the sound raw and unrestrained, his walls clenching violently around them both.
“I—Phainon—Mydei—!”
His climax tore through him with brutal force, his body arching as he spilled hot across Mydei’s stomach and Phainon’s stroking hand. The orgasm ripped every ounce of breath from his lungs, leaving him writhing between them, sobbing with the overwhelming intensity.
The way his body clenched around them drove the others over the edge.
“Fuck—!” Mydei snarled, his hips slamming forward in ragged, desperate thrusts. His cock pulsed deep inside M!Y/n, spilling hot, filling him to the brim as he bit down hard on M!Y/n’s shoulder, muffling his own roar of release.
Phainon followed a heartbeat later, his composure finally snapping. He cursed low and filthy against M!Y/n’s ear, his thrusts sharp and erratic as he spilled alongside Mydei, the thick heat of his release mixing inside M!Y/n’s trembling body.
All three collapsed together against the steel wall, their bodies a tangled mess of sweat and trembling limbs. M!Y/n sagged between them, boneless, his chest heaving as though he’d drowned and resurfaced all at once.
Phainon was the first to recover, his laugh low and breathless against M!Y/n’s damp neck. “Mmm… look at you. Completely wrecked. And gods, you look beautiful like this.” His hand slid lazily across M!Y/n’s stomach, smearing the mess he’d left there.
Mydei growled weakly, but his grip on M!Y/n’s waist didn’t loosen. He pressed another bruising kiss to M!Y/n’s jaw, too raw to hide the tenderness underneath. “Don’t get used to this,” he muttered, though the way his forehead lingered against M!Y/n’s spoke otherwise.
Phainon chuckled again, eyes gleaming even through his exhaustion. “Oh, Prince. You’re already addicted too.”
M!Y/n couldn’t answer—not yet. His throat was wrecked, his body trembling, his mind still floating somewhere between fire and silk. All he could do was let them hold him up in the cramped steel chamber, surrounded by heat and the faint hum of the station.
Summary: Two mugs. Rain against glass. A quiet kitchen, a quieter bed. Nothing rushed—just touch, and the kind of love that doesn’t need to speak to be real.
Back once again with a Stanley fic because this man makes me go FERAL
Warnings: established relationship, soft smut (rewrote this since the other version just wasn't hitting it for me lol)
Words: 4.029
The kettle didn’t just whistle; it screamed into the vacuum of the morning, a sharp, metallic intrusion that felt far louder than it actually was.
M!Y/n didn’t flinch. In the years since he’d traded a carbon-fiber rifle for a spatula and a mortgage, he had trained his nervous system to categorize sounds with a clinical, almost detached precision. The kettle was safe. The rain was safe. The low hum of the refrigerator in their modest city flat was safe.
He leaned against the marble countertop, his bare forearms pressing into the cold stone. The chill was grounding. Outside the window, a gray London-esque morning had settled over the neighborhood. Rain pattered against the glass, a rhythmic, staccato beat that reminded him of distant gunfire, but only if he allowed his mind to wander too far into the fog.
He chose not to. Instead, he watched the steam curl upward, white and ghostly, fogging the view of the empty street below. He looked at his hands. They were steady now, but the scars across his knuckles — faint, silvery lines earned in a desert half a world away — were a permanent map of who he used to be.
Behind him, the floorboards groaned.
It was a soft sound, one that a normal person might miss, but M!Y/n felt it in the soles of his feet. He knew that gait. It was a heavy, deliberate tread, the walk of a man who was used to carrying the weight of gear, of expectations, and of a body count that neither of them ever discussed.
Stanley.
M!Y/n didn’t turn. He didn’t have to. The very atmosphere of the kitchen shifted the moment Stanley crossed the threshold. It was as if the room’s center of gravity had been recalculated. Stanley brought with him a scent that was uniquely his: expensive tobacco, a hint of cedarwood, and the lingering warmth of a bed that M!Y/n had only recently vacated.
Then came the touch.
Stanley’s arms slid around M!Y/n’s waist, sliding beneath the hem of his oversized gray hoodie. His palms were large, calloused, and searingly hot against M!Y/n’s stomach. The contrast between the cold marble under M!Y/n’s arms and the heat of Stanley’s skin against his midriff made his breath hitch for a fleeting second. Stanley leaned in, his jaw shadowed with a morning’s worth of blonde stubble, and tucked his face into the crook of M!Y/n’s neck.
“Water’s ready,” M!Y/n murmured, though his voice lacked any real urgency. He leaned back into the solid wall of Stanley’s chest, letting his eyes drift shut.
“I know,” Stanley rasped. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration that M!Y/n felt more than heard. It was still thick with the haze of sleep, stripped of the sharp, commanding edge he used to use when directing a squad through a breach. “You didn’t have to get up yet. The sun isn’t even fully awake.”
“I know,” M!Y/n echoed.
They stood there for a long time, anchored to one another. For men who had spent years in a world defined by movement, by extraction points, Steiner binoculars, and the constant, buzzing adrenaline of the hunt, this stillness was a luxury that felt almost illicit. It was a quiet Sunday. No briefings, no logistics, no political theater. Just the rain, the steam, and the rhythmic thrum of two hearts beating in a kitchen that smelled like Earl Grey and peace.
Eventually, the biological need for caffeine won out. Stanley pulled away, the loss of his warmth leaving a sudden, biting chill on M!Y/n’s skin.
Stanley moved through the kitchen with a grace that was almost predatory, even in his silk pajama pants. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out two mugs. They were an intentional mismatch, a visual representation of the life they had cobbled together from the wreckage of their service. One was a deep, forest-green ceramic, chipped at the rim from a move three years ago; the other was a faded Batman mug, a ridiculous thing M!Y/n had bought at a gas station on their first road trip after being discharged.
Stanley filled them both, the sound of pouring water the only thing breaking the silence. He slid the Batman mug across the counter toward M!Y/n.
“Thanks,” M!Y/n said, offering a small, tired smile.
Stanley didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He leaned back against the opposite counter, his long legs crossed at the ankles, and blew a plume of steam off the surface of his tea. His eyes — those sharp, brown eyes that could spot a camouflaged target at a thousand yards — were fixed on M!Y/n. There was an intensity in his gaze, a way of looking at M!Y/n like he was trying to re-verify his existence, checking for glitches in the reality they had built.
“You were twitching again,” Stanley said quietly.
M!Y/n’s smile faltered. He looked down into his mug, watching the dark liquid swirl. “Was I?”
“Yeah. Your hands. Like you were looking for your sidearm,” Stanley said, his tone devoid of judgment. He knew the feeling. He’d woken up many times with his hand clawing at the nightstand for a ghost. “You were talking, too. Same name as last Tuesday.”
M!Y/n pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth, a bitter taste rising in his throat. It wasn't the tea. “It’s not always the same name, Stan. Sometimes the faces change. Sometimes it’s just a voice.”
“Last night it was Miller,” Stanley said, his eyes never leaving M!Y/n’s face.
The name hung in the air like a live wire. Miller had been their radio tech. He hadn’t made it out of a valley in the Hindu Kush seven years ago.
A long, heavy pause stretched between them. The rain outside seemed to intensify, drumming against the roof of the apartment complex, a relentless reminder of the world’s indifference. They didn’t talk about the dreams often. To speak of them was to give them form, to invite the ghosts to sit at the breakfast table with them.
Stanley had his own ways of coping. He ran ten miles every morning until his lungs burned and his mind went blank. He fixed things — toasters, leaky faucets, the neighbor's door hinge. He built a fortress of routine to keep the shadows at bay. But M!Y/n was different. M!Y/n was a sponge for the world's grief, and sleep was the only time his defenses dropped.
M!Y/n finally looked up, his grip tightening on the warm ceramic. “Do you ever feel like we’re just... playing house? Like we’re two kids wearing their parents' clothes, pretending to be normal people?”
Stanley took a slow sip of his tea, his expression unreadable. He looked around the kitchen, at the magnets on the fridge, the pile of mail on the table, the soft rug under their feet. “Sometimes. Yeah.”
“And that it’s going to catch up to us?” M!Y/n’s voice was small, barely a whisper over the rain. “That one day the army is going to realize they let two monsters back into the wild, and they’ll come to take us back?”
Stanley tilted his head. It was a gesture M!Y/n loved — a slight movement he did when he was processing a complex tactical problem. But this wasn't a tactical problem. It was an emotional one.
“I think,” Stanley said, putting his mug down on the counter with a soft thud, “that we earned the right to pretend. We paid for this life in blood, M!Y/n. Yours, mine, and a lot of people who didn't get to choose. If we’re not good at being 'normal' yet, it’s because we’re out of practice. But that doesn’t mean this life isn't ours.”
M!Y/n exhaled, a long, shaky breath that felt like a weight leaving his chest. The air in the kitchen tasted like the rain outside, mixed with the faint, comforting scent of Stanley’s skin and the Bergamot of the tea.
He set his mug down next to Stanley’s. He didn't say anything as he crossed the small gap between them. Stanley stayed perfectly still, his back against the counter, watching M!Y/n with that same unwavering focus.
M!Y/n stepped into the space between Stanley’s legs, his hands coming up to brace against the older man’s hips. He could feel the lean muscle of Stanley’s body through the fabric of his pajama pants. Stanley’s hands found M!Y/n’s waist instantly, his fingers digging in slightly, anchoring him.
“You still get scared?” M!Y/n asked, looking up into those deep brown eyes.
Stanley’s expression softened, just a fraction. The corners of his eyes crinkled. He looked at M!Y/n not like a commander, not like a soldier, but like a man who had finally found the only thing worth protecting.
“Not of the dark,” Stanley whispered. “And not of the things we did. I only get scared when I think about losing this.”
“This?” M!Y/n repeated, his heart beginning to hammer a faster rhythm against his ribs.
“You,” Stanley said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate vibration. “Us. This quiet. This morning. The fact that I can wake up and know exactly where you are without having to check a thermal scope. That’s the only thing that keeps me up at night. The idea that it’s too good to be true.”
M!Y/n didn’t know how to respond to that level of honesty. Stanley was a man of few words, a man who expressed himself through action and precision. To hear him admit to a fear that wasn't grounded in physical danger was a testament to how far they had come.
M!Y/n leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Stanley’s chest. He closed his eyes, listening. Through the thin cotton of Stanley’s t-shirt, he could hear the steady, rhythmic thump-thump of his heart. It was slow. It was certain. It was a metronome for M!Y/n’s own soul.
“I used to think love was supposed to hurt,” M!Y/n confessed, his voice muffled by the fabric. “In the movies, in the books... it was always about the ache. And in the service, 'love' was just the person you hoped wouldn't have to sign for your casket. I didn't think it could be... this.”
“This?” Stanley asked, mirroring his question from before.
“Safe,” M!Y/n said. “I didn’t know what 'safe' felt like until I didn't have to look over my shoulder because I knew you were already looking over it for me.”
Stanley shifted, his arms winding around M!Y/n’s back, pulling him flush against his body. He buried his face in M!Y/n’s hair, breathing him in. He smelled like home. He smelled like a future they weren't supposed to have.
“Took me a while to realize it, too,” Stanley admitted. “I spent thirty years thinking the only way to stay alive was to be the deadliest thing in the room. Turns out, the only way to actually live is to have someone you’d give it all up for.”
Outside, the world continued its slow, soggy rotation. A car splashed through a deep puddle on the street below. A neighbor's dog barked at a passing shadow. The city was waking up, preparing for a Monday that neither of them had to participate in.
They stayed in the kitchen for a long time, held in a loose, comfortable embrace. The tea in their mugs grew cold, the steam vanishing into the damp air, but neither of them moved to reheat it.
There were still scars, of course. There were still nights when the bed felt like a trench and the shadows on the ceiling looked like falling mortars. There were still days when the sound of a backfiring car made them both drop into a crouch before they even realized they were doing it.
But here, in the gray light of a rainy Sunday, those things felt distant. They were no longer defined by the caliber of their weapons or the rank on their shoulders. They were just two men in a kitchen, learning how to breathe without checking the windage first.
Stanley eventually pulled back just enough to tilt M!Y/n’s chin up with his thumb. His gaze was softer now, the predatory edge replaced by something deeply, almost painfully tender.
“Go back to bed,” Stanley murmured. “I’ll bring the tea. We can watch that documentary about the ocean you liked. The one where nothing dies.”
M!Y/n laughed, a small, genuine sound that lit up his eyes. “It’s called 'Blue Planet', Stan. And plenty of things die, it’s just... nature.”
“If it’s not a human with a grudge, I don't care,” Stanley said, a rare, ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to M!Y/n’s forehead, then his nose, and finally, his lips.
M!Y/n nodded, stepping out of the embrace but keeping his hand entwined with Stanley’s. “Okay. Bed. But you’re picking the snacks.”
“I’m always picking the snacks,” Stanley grumbled, though there was no heat in it.
As they walked down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom, the rain continued to weep against the windows. But inside the flat, the air was warm. The shadows stayed in the corners where they belonged. And for the first time in a very long time, neither of them felt the need to run.
The bedroom was an island. Outside the window, the rain had shifted from a light patter to a rhythmic, heavy drumming, sealing the apartment off from the rest of the world. The city lights filtered through the moisture on the glass, casting long, watery shadows across the walls. Inside, the only light came from the warm, amber glow of the bedside lamp, painting everything in hues of gold and honey.
M!Y/n stood at the foot of the bed, the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on his skin. He reached for the hem of his gray hoodie, the fabric soft against his palms, and pulled it up. The movement was slow, deliberate. As the garment came off, his hair fell back into a messy tumble, and he tossed the hoodie onto the nearby chair.
Stanley was already there, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He hadn't moved to undress yet. Instead, he sat with his large hands braced behind him, his broad shoulders squared, watching M!Y/n with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
In the military, Stanley’s gaze was a weapon — searching for weakness, calculating distance, ensuring survival. But here, in the sanctuary of their room, that gaze was like live fire. He looked at M!Y/n’s bare chest, noting the way the light caught the faint, jagged scar along his ribs and the dusting of freckles across his collarbones. There was a profound reverence in his eyes, a silent admission that after years of destruction, this — this man, this body, this life — was the only thing he cared to preserve.
“Come here,” Stanley said. His voice was a low, textured rasp that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of M!Y/n’s bones.
M!Y/n stepped forward until he was standing between Stanley’s knees. He rested his hands on Stanley’s thighs; the muscle beneath the denim was tense, coiled like a spring, yet Stanley remained perfectly still. M!Y/n looked down, tracing the sharp, handsome lines of Stanley’s face — the high cheekbones, the slight curve of his nose, the warm yet piercing eyes that never wavered.
Stanley reached up, his calloused knuckles brushing along M!Y/n’s jawline. The touch was impossibly light, a contrast to the lethal strength those hands possessed.
“You’re beautiful,” Stanley whispered, his thumb catching on M!Y/n’s lower lip.
M!Y/n felt a swell of emotion in his chest, a mixture of heat and a deep, aching tenderness. He leaned into the touch, his fingers curling into the fabric of Stanley’s jeans. “So are you. Even when you’re being a brooding bastard.”
A ghost of a smirk touched Stanley’s lips before he leaned forward, closing the distance. The first kiss was a slow exploration. It tasted of the tea they’d shared and the salt of skin. It wasn't a demand; it was a conversation. M!Y/n’s hands slid upward, his fingers tangling in the blonde strands at the nape of Stanley’s neck, pulling him closer, deeper.
Stanley groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. He shifted, his hands sliding around to M!Y/n’s lower back, pulling him flush against his chest even though the fabric of Stanley’s shirt was still between them. The friction was electric.
They moved together toward the center of the bed, the mattress sighing under their combined weight. Stanley guided M!Y/n down onto the sheets, his body a heavy, comforting heat above him. The rain outside seemed to swell in volume, a chaotic symphony that only served to highlight the focused, burning intimacy within the room.
“I don’t want fast tonight,” M!Y/n breathed against Stanley’s lips, his eyes searching Stanley’s. “I want to feel every second of it.”
Stanley’s expression softened, his gaze darkening with a promise. “You never have to ask for that. We have all the time in the world.”
Stanley began a slow, torturous descent. He kissed M!Y/n’s jaw, then the sensitive pulse point beneath his ear, his stubble grazing M!Y/n’s skin in a way that made him shiver. His hands wandered, mapping the familiar terrain of M!Y/n’s body. He traced the line of his hip, his palm hot and grounding.
When Stanley reached for the waistband of M!Y/n’s sweatpants, he did so with agonizing slowness. He peeled the fabric down, his eyes never leaving M!Y/n’s face, watching the way his pupils dilated and his breath hitched. Once M!Y/n was bare, Stanley took a moment just to look.
“Stanley,” M!Y/n urged, his voice trembling.
“Patience,” Stanley murmured. He leaned down, his tongue trailing a wet, searing line from M!Y/n’s navel upward to his chest. He swirled his tongue around a nipple, then took the peak into his mouth, sucking gently.
M!Y/n arched his back, his fingers digging into the pillows. The sensation was overwhelming — the coolness of the room, the heat of Stanley’s mouth, and the relentless, driving rain outside.
Stanley finally shed his own clothes, his movements efficient yet graceful. When he returned to the bed, the skin-on-skin contact was like a revelation. The hard planes of Stanley’s chest pressed against M!Y/n’s softer contours, their hearts beating a frantic, synchronized rhythm.
Stanley reached into the nightstand drawer, pulling out a small bottle of lubricant. He warmed a generous amount between his palms, a gesture of care that always touched M!Y/n’s heart. He then reached between M!Y/n’s legs.
M!Y/n gasped, his legs falling open instinctively. Stanley’s fingers were slick and skillful. He started with a single finger, easing in with a slow, rhythmic pressure. He watched M!Y/n’s face, waiting for the slight nod, the permission to continue.
“More,” M!Y/n whispered, his face flushed, his eyes hooded with pleasure.
Stanley added a second finger, then a third, his hand cupping M!Y/n’s length as he worked. He found the internal sweet spot that he knew by heart, curling his fingers with a precision that made M!Y/n’s toes curl and his head fall back. M!Y/n was a mess of soft moans and broken breaths, his hips stuttering against Stanley’s hand.
When Stanley finally withdrew, M!Y/n felt a brief, cold ache of loss, but it was quickly replaced by a mounting tension. Stanley positioned himself, the tip of his length brushing against M!Y/n’s entrance. He leaned down, bracing his weight on his forearms, his face inches from M!Y/n’s.
“Ready?” Stanley asked, his voice thick with restraint.
“Please, Stan. Now.”
Stanley pushed in. It was a slow, deliberate invasion. M!Y/n’s eyes flew open, his hands gripping Stanley’s bicep so hard his knuckles turned white. He felt every millimeter of the stretch, the breathtaking fullness of being filled by the man he loved. He let out a long, shuddering moan that was lost in Stanley’s mouth as they kissed.
Stanley stayed still for a moment, buried deep inside, letting their bodies adjust. He brushed a stray hair from M!Y/n’s forehead, his expression one of fierce, protective love.
Then, he began to move.
It wasn't the frantic, desperate pace of their younger years. It was a deep, rhythmic grind — long, smooth thrusts that felt like they were reaching M!Y/n’s very soul. M!Y/n wrapped his legs around Stanley’s waist, pulling him in further, wanting to eliminate any remaining space between them.
“God, you’re so tight,” Stanley groaned, his pace quickening slightly. “You feel… incredible.”
Stanley adjusted his angle, lifting M!Y/n’s hips slightly. Every thrust now hit with a devastating accuracy, sending waves of white-hot pleasure radiating through M!Y/n’s entire body. The room felt smaller, hotter, the air thick with the scent of their exertion and the sound of skin slapping against skin.
Stanley’s hands moved to M!Y/n’s, interlacing their fingers and pinning them to the mattress. It was a gesture of total surrender and total possession. M!Y/n looked up at him, seeing the sweat beading on Stanley’s brow, the way his jaw was clenched in effort. This was the man who had faced down armies, now brought to his knees by a simple, profound act of love.
The tension in M!Y/n’s body reached a breaking point. He could feel the climax building like a storm: unstoppable, terrifying, and beautiful.
“Stanley! I’m… I’m close,” he gasped, his head thrashing against the pillow.
Stanley didn't say anything, but his movements became more urgent, his thrusts shallower and harder. He reached down between them, his hand stroking M!Y/n’s cock in time with his rhythm.
That was the catalyst. M!Y/n cried out, a raw, high sound that was drowned out by a sudden crack of thunder outside. His entire body convulsed as he came, his muscles clenching around Stanley with a desperate intensity.
Stanley followed a heartbeat later. He let out a low, guttural growl, his face burying itself in the crook of M!Y/n’s neck as he spilled deep inside him. He shuddered violently, his weight collapsing onto M!Y/n, their breaths coming in ragged, synchronization gasps.
The silence that followed was heavy and sweet.
They stayed joined for a long time, the only sound the fading thunder and the steady drip of the rain. Stanley eventually shifted, pulling out and rolling onto his side, but he immediately pulled M!Y/n into his arms. He tucked M!Y/n’s head under his chin, his hand stroking down his damp back.
“I love you,” Stanley whispered into the quiet. It wasn't a confession; it was a fact.
M!Y/n closed his eyes, his body feeling heavy and utterly at peace. “I love you too, Stan. Always.”
The rain continued to fall, but the storm inside had passed, leaving behind a profound, unshakable clarity.
They were soldiers no longer.
They were just two people, finally, mercifully, home..
Summary: A frozen city. A guarded soul. A quiet meeting— where cold begins to crack. What will melt first: steel or silence?
I'm here once again with a one-shot.
Warnings: slow burn (?), NSFW in the end
Words: 5.638
Belobog was always cold.
But today, it felt colder.
Not in the dramatic sense, not the kind of cold that bites through to the bone or howls in alleyways. This cold was quieter — pervasive, persistent. The kind that settled in the air like grief, numbing without pain. It whispered against buildings, swept across the cobblestones, and hung over the streets like a second sky.
Y/n hunched deeper into her coat, gloved hands buried in the thick fabric, scarf wound twice around her neck. Her breath rose in slow, ephemeral coils — pale ribbons that dissipated too quickly to enjoy. Snowflakes drifted down in slow spirals, catching on the tips of her lashes and the wool brim of her hat. She didn’t bother brushing them away.
The Silvermane Guard Headquarters loomed before her, stern and symmetrical, carved from stone the same gray-blue shade as the clouds above. Its sharp lines and flag-bearing parapets stood unyielding against the frost — a fortress not just of walls, but of principles.
She stared at it for a long moment, then exhaled.
“I swear,” she murmured, voice muffled beneath her scarf, “Serval owes me at least a month’s worth of drinks for this.”
A folder—thick, heavy, and filled to bursting with maintenance logs—was tucked under her arm. The paper edges were crisp, her gloved fingers damp where snow had melted against them. She could have handed it off to a courier, or even just dropped it at the front desk. That would’ve been the sensible thing to do.
But no.
Serval had insisted.
Correction: pleaded.
“Just drop it off for me?” she’d said that morning, hair still damp from the shower, eyes half-lidded with sleep. “He’ll ignore the notes unless someone explains them. I mean, I wrote margin comments and everything—”
“You could go,” Y/n had replied, nursing her own cup of coffee, voice dry.
“Yeah, but he listens better when it’s not me yelling.” Serval had grinned into her mug. “Besides, you haven’t met my brother properly, have you?”
Y/n hadn’t. Not really. Only in passing. Glimpses — a tall figure striding across the plaza in glinting armor, posture like iron drawn straight, voice low and unreadable when issuing orders. Every sighting had been like watching a statue move: all grace and discipline, none of it inviting.
Gepard Landau.
Captain of the Silvermane Guards. Defender of Belobog. Local icon of brooding restraint.
She’d seen the wanted posters in the bookstore windows — clean-lined illustrations of him in formal uniform, jaw set, gaze distant — almost heroic, if a little tragic. Always alone in the frame.
Now here she was, standing at the threshold of the Guard HQ, folder clutched tight to her chest like a child with a school project.
Gathering her resolve, she stepped inside.
The first wave of heat was jarring — sudden warmth against flushed cheeks and snow-slick boots. The lobby was stark but orderly, marble floor shining beneath yellow lights, banners of the Guard hanging high from stone pillars. A single desk stood at the center, manned by a young soldier who looked up from his ledger and blinked when he saw her.
She offered the folder wordlessly, watched his gaze flick from the seal on the document to the name scrawled in thick ink across the front. Serval Landau. Recognition sparked immediately.
“She sent you?” he asked, already reaching for the comm button. His voice was polite, but there was a curl at the edge of his smile—something between amusement and sympathy.
“Apparently it’s urgent,” Y/n replied, trying for nonchalance.
He waved her through with minimal questioning and gave her directions to the captain’s office. Fifth floor, east wing. Take the lift, then straight down the corridor until the hall narrows. Door on the left, nameplate in gold.
As she ascended, the building felt more like a cathedral than a barracks. Everything was pristine, purposeful — no clutter, no wasted space. Even the silence felt manicured.
By the time she reached his door, her fingers had thawed. But the nerves had kicked in.
She hesitated only a moment before raising a hand and knocking once, firmly.
The door opened almost immediately.
Captain Gepard Landau stood in the threshold.
He wore the full uniform: the dark silver armor lined with blue, pauldrons gleaming beneath the overhead lights. His blond hair was neatly combed back, a few loose strands falling across his forehead. His expression was unreadable — not stern, but still.
“Captain?” she asked, breath fogging softly in the air between them.
“Yes,” he replied. His voice was low, measured. Not unkind. Just… exact.
There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes, but no suspicion either. Only a quiet scrutiny, as if cataloging her presence for the record.
She held up the folder like a peace offering. “I’m Y/n. Serval sent me. She said you needed these reports before the next patrol rotation.”
He took the folder without a word, gloved fingers brushing hers — briefly, barely — and flipped it open with a soldier’s efficiency. His eyes moved quickly, reading in sharp movements.
“You’re her friend,” he said finally.
Y/n arched a brow, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. “She has a lot of those. I like to think I’m her favorite.”
There was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But something.
“I’ll review these.”
“She also said you’d probably have questions,” Y/n added, stepping lightly into the room without waiting for an invitation. “And that I should ‘walk you through the parts that make you tilt your helmet in confusion.’ Her words, not mine.”
His gaze lifted. She met it. Steady. Curious, now — faintly.
A beat passed.
“…In that case,” he said, stepping aside, “you should come in.”
She did.
His office was exactly what she expected: immaculate, sparse, functional. A large desk dominated the room, flanked by high shelves filled with binders and military files. A topographical map of Belobog stretched across the far wall, red markers indicating patrol paths. A single mug of coffee sat near the window, steaming quietly, untouched.
Y/n tilted her head at it. “You ever actually drink that, or is it for morale purposes?”
He followed her gaze, then returned to his seat behind the desk. “I take breaks. I just don’t waste time.”
“Mm. No hobbies, then? No guilty pleasures like cheesy novels or off-key karaoke?”
“I read military history.”
“Scandalous.”
Something flickered in his eyes again. Drier, this time. A ghost of amusement.
Y/n leaned her hip against the edge of his desk and tapped the folder. “Page five — the notes for Unit 7-B might throw you. There’s an override code listed, but Serval rewired the matrix. Ignore the override.”
He flipped to it without hesitation, eyes scanning. “That explains the energy flux reported last week.”
Their hands met again as she passed him a post-it Serval had attached.
This time, their fingers brushed. Just briefly.
But neither of them pulled away.
His gloves were warm — soft leather over calloused hands. Hers were cold from the snow, her skin pricking with contrast.
When he looked up again, there was something different in his gaze.
Not interest. Not emotion. But presence. A shift.
Awareness.
Y/n offered him a slow smile. “Relax, Captain. I don’t bite.”
His response was quiet, almost dry. “Good. Unauthorized violence isn’t permitted in headquarters.”
That earned a laugh. Sharp, but warm.
And for the first time, he smiled. Just faintly.
Outside, the snow hadn’t stopped.
Y/n stepped out into the wind, wrapping her scarf tighter around her face. The air was sharp again — but it no longer bit. Her steps crunched softly on the frosted steps as she descended, the HQ standing tall behind her like a frozen watchtower.
She exhaled, breath curling skyward.
That had gone better than expected.
He was still guarded, still distant. Like the city he protected — reserved, cold, and shaped by discipline. But underneath the steel, there was warmth.
Just a flicker.
She could work with flickers.
She had time.
One snowflake at a time.
Two Weeks Later
Belobog's sky was the color of old bruises—dusky purples muddling with the exhausted blue of a winter twilight—and the cold had turned cruel in the way it always did when the sun began to vanish behind the skyline. It was the sort of cold that gnawed through wool and leather, the sort that clung to your bones no matter how long you’d been living in it.
Y/n had just finished prying apart a stubborn heating coil, knuckles scraped and soot streaked across her cheek, when the workshop door burst open with a metallic slam. The clatter of boots and labored breathing preceded the frantic voice that followed.
“Emergency on the Rivet Town patrol line—Unit 3 is down! Total system failure in one mech, coolant’s spilling, and—” The junior guard in the doorway wheezed like a rusted valve. “They need a tech. Immediately.”
Y/n squinted at him through the swirl of steam from the broken coil. “Can’t Serval—?”
“She’s mid-calibration downtown. System locked. You’re next up.”
Of course she was.
She sighed, dropping her wrench into the battered toolcase with a thud. “Tell them I’ll be there in five. And someone better warm up the rover unless they want a field tech turned ice sculpture.”
The ride through Belobog’s frozen arteries was a blur of passing lights and the occasional jolt of potholes beneath steel wheels. The transport heater wheezed ineffectually against the cold, and Y/n’s fingers stayed clenched around her thermos of half-drunk coffee more for warmth than caffeine. Snow swirled against the windows like a living thing, thick and wet and relentless. Her boots tapped in rhythm with the rattling toolbox at her feet, each bump of the road echoing the restless pace of her thoughts.
By the time they reached the patrol site just beyond Rivet Town’s edge, the light had all but fled the world. What little remained bled out in bands of gray and deepening blue, casting the snow-drenched ruins in a pallid glow. The mech was a hulking silhouette against the whiteness, half-submerged in a snowbank and bleeding mist from a cracked coolant valve like a wounded animal exhaling its last.
And there he was—tall, unmistakable even in the half-light.
He was pacing, his broad figure cutting a clean silhouette against the jagged landscape, the edge of his cloak whipping lightly in the wind. Even now, with frost clinging to the fringes of his armor and tension riding hard along his jaw, he looked like a statue—cut from ice instead of stone. Immaculate. Rigid. And very much out of place amidst the broken machinery and chaotic chatter of field guards.
He turned when she approached, and his eyes found hers almost instantly.
“I didn’t expect them to send you,” he said, voice low, steady. His tone didn’t carry surprise—only the faint strain of something restrained. Fatigue, maybe. Frustration. Concern.
“Likewise,” she replied, hopping out of the vehicle with practiced ease, toolcase clutched in both hands. “But if you want this mech back online before your squad freezes solid, I’m your best shot.”
The edges of his posture eased—minutely, like a shutter slipping open just enough to let a little warmth in.
“Do what you need.”
She was already kneeling by the damaged unit, muttering under her breath as she flicked on her headlamp and yanked the hatch open with a grunt. A hiss of escaping vapor greeted her, along with the sharp tang of coolant.
“Well, there’s your first problem.” Her fingers moved fast, confident. “Your emergency override was tripped and left half-engaged. Probably fried the failsafes and locked the circulation node. Coolant’s clogged to hell.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “Who patched this up last?”
“Private Elron.”
Y/n froze. Blinked. “Is he twelve?”
There was a pause. Then—
“I’ll see he’s reassigned to something less… delicate. Counting icicles, perhaps.”
She snorted before she could help herself, the sound muffled by her scarf. “You joke, but that was a mechanical innuendo. That’s character development, Captain.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You absolutely did. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Personal growth is nothing to be ashamed of.”
His arms folded across his chest, posture unconsciously defensive. But his lips twitched—just slightly. A ghost of a smirk that barely touched the corners of his mouth.
“You’re very persistent.”
She paused, knuckles deep in frost-slick wiring. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not,” he said quietly. “It’s… surprising.”
Her movements slowed, but didn’t stop. She looked up at him through the tangle of wires and steam, taking him in. Not the armor, not the command—just the man. Sharp edges dulled by wear, shoulders too straight for someone carrying that much weight. He looked exhausted beneath the discipline. Frayed at the edges.
“Not used to people pushing back?” she asked softly.
“Not like this,” he replied after a long beat. “Not with this kind of… familiarity.”
The words hung there, suspended in the cold like crystal.
She stood then, brushing snow from her thighs and pulling off one glove. “Well,” she said, voice quieter now. “I’m not just anyone. And I don’t want to be just another face you forget after a mission.”
Something flickered in his expression. Faint. Elusive.
“You won’t be.”
The repairs took time. Longer than she’d expected, but not for lack of skill. The systems were fragile, already compromised, and the cold didn’t help. Her breath fogged the air as she worked, fingers reddened and stiff but determined. Gepard didn’t hover, but he stayed close—silent, steady, a constant presence just at her periphery.
When the mech finally purred back to life with a quiet hum and flicker of panel lights, the sigh of relief that left her lips was mirrored by something softer in his eyes.
“Thanks to you,” he said, “we won’t have to retire this unit.”
“Happy to save your squad from unexpected snow-based combustion,” she said, popping her back as she stood. “I accept gratitude in the form of hot beverages and spa vouchers.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I can offer one of those.”
“Generous.” She chuckled, breath curling between them. “Careful, Captain. That almost sounded like a joke.”
He didn’t argue this time. Just looked at her in that quiet, steady way of his, like he was trying to map the shape of her presence in his world and not quite knowing where to place it.
By the time she packed up her gear and clambered back toward the rover, the snow had started again—soft this time, delicate and drifting. Gepard walked beside her in silence, hands clasped behind his back, his strides longer than hers but deliberately slowed.
“I’ll ensure your repair notes are included in the report,” he said as she reached the vehicle.
“Be sure to add a line about Private Icicle and his near-disastrous attempt at sabotage,” she called over her shoulder, grinning.
He nodded once. Almost smiled again. Almost.
“Y/n.”
She paused, fingers halfway to the door handle. Turned to him.
His voice dropped—no longer the clipped tone of command, but something closer. More uncertain.
“I’m not good with people,” he said. “Not in the way Serval is. I’ve always… kept things close. Too close.”
“I noticed,” she said gently.
He nodded once, jaw tight. “But I don’t want that to stop this.”
A breath. A beat. Snow gathered softly on his pauldrons.
“What’s this, Captain?” she asked, her voice barely above the wind.
He met her gaze, no helmet, no shield. Just the man.
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But I think I’d like to find out.”
The rush of warmth that bloomed in her chest was ridiculous, sudden, and entirely welcome. It made the cold feel distant.
She stepped toward him, gloved fingers brushing lightly over the insignia on his chestplate—an almost reverent gesture. Not flirtation. Not a tease.
A promise.
“Then let’s take our time, Frostbite.”
He blinked. “Frostbite?”
“It’s cute. It suits you.”
A quiet groan slipped out from between his teeth, and she grinned. He didn’t smile—but his eyes softened, and he didn’t step back when she did.
A Few Nights Later — Outer Snowplain Patrol, 2300 Hours
The cold beyond Belobog’s outer walls was not merely a matter of temperature. It was an entity unto itself. It pressed in from all sides, seeped into bones, clawed at exposed skin with the sharp, vindictive touch of a world that had never been tamed. The wind howled low across the frozen expanse, threading through ruined trees and half-buried outposts like a whisper meant only for the dead.
Y/n tightened her scarf and adjusted the strap of her tool pack as she stepped out of the guard transport, boots crunching onto hard-packed snow. Her breath hung in the air like ghostly smoke, already beginning to sting her throat. She hadn’t been scheduled for this patrol. She wasn’t even technically on shift. But Serval had cornered her earlier with the subtlety of a brick to the face and an arsenal of barely-veiled guilt trips, ending with a text that simply read:
“Do it for me. Or your soldering station might have a sudden accident.”
So here she was.
To her mild surprise — and brief, traitorous spike of nerves — Gepard was already waiting near the outpost gates. He stood apart from the two junior guards prepping a sled unit, his silhouette sharp and unmoving beneath the heavy frost-stained lights. Even beneath layers of regulation winter gear, he looked every bit the Silvermane Captain: posture perfect, helm tucked under one arm, expression unreadable as he glanced her way.
“You didn’t have to volunteer for this,” he said without preamble, voice low but audible even over the wind.
“I didn’t,” Y/n replied, drawing closer. “I was guilt-tripped by your sister via seven angry texts and a thinly veiled threat of sabotage.”
That earned her something rare — the faintest breath of a chuckle. She caught the way his shoulders shifted, like he was holding back more of it than he allowed to show.
“Serval hasn’t changed,” he said.
“She’s the same menace with a bigger wrench,” Y/n agreed.
They exchanged no further words as they passed the checkpoint and began walking, boots carving fresh prints through untouched snow. The night stretched out around them, black and endless, the sky choked with cloud cover heavy enough to blot out even the stars. Wind swept across the plain in unpredictable gusts, carrying with it the groan of frozen trees and the distant, hollow screech of ice shifting against steel.
A kilometer in, they passed the last of the patrol buoys — soft blue lights blinking at intervals like artificial fireflies, each one dimmer than the last.
“You sure you’re alright with this?” Y/n asked after a while, breath puffing visibly between them. “A full patrol, in this mess. With me.”
Gepard didn’t look over. He kept his gaze trained ahead, methodical and unwavering. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She shrugged, but it felt more like a shield than a gesture. “Well… I figured it’d either be comfortable or painfully awkward. Given everything.”
A pause. Then, “You’re unusually blunt.”
“I prefer ‘efficient.’”
He stopped walking.
The abrupt halt jolted her a little, forcing her to take a step back to face him. Snow clung to his shoulders like powdered silver, glinting faintly under the distant lights of Belobog behind them. His eyes searched hers — not harsh, not cold. Just searching. Measuring.
“You’re not wrong,” he said quietly.
That made her heart beat just a bit harder.
She held his gaze, her voice gentler this time. “Gepard…”
“I’ve been thinking,” he interrupted, eyes flicking down to the snow at their feet. “About what you said. That night near Rivet Town. About not wanting to be just another face I forget.”
A silence stretched between them, fragile and waiting. Y/n’s fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her tool pack, grounding herself.
“I couldn’t forget you if I tried,” he said. “You get under my skin. You always have.”
She blinked, caught off-guard by the honesty in his voice. There was no hesitation, no flinching away from the words. Just the weight of them — and the ache she hadn’t realized had taken root in her chest until now.
“We barely knew each other a month ago,” she said, half-choked.
“That doesn’t change what I feel when I look at you.”
The world around them narrowed to the sound of wind, boots in snow, and the steady thud of blood in her ears.
She took a breath — shallow, unsteady — and turned to face him more fully. “Then tell me. What do you feel?”
His jaw tensed. His shoulders squared.
“Frustrated,” he admitted first. “Curious. Guarded. Drawn.” He met her eyes, and there was something else flickering there now — something not soldier-sharp or duty-bound. “You challenge me in ways no one else has.”
“And you hide so much of yourself,” she whispered. “It’s like every time I think I’m close, you retreat. You lock it all away again.”
“I know,” he said — and this time his voice cracked, just barely. “It’s a habit I’ve spent my whole life cultivating. And for the first time… I hate it.”
The confession hit her like the cold — slow, painful, impossible to ignore.
But before she could speak, a shriek of wind carved across the trees behind them.
Gepard turned sharply, eyes scanning the darkness. “Storm’s coming in. Fast.”
She felt it too — the sharp sting of sleet against her cheek, the taste of ice in the air.
“We won’t make it back to base in time,” he said. “There’s a patrol shelter about a kilometer east. Not far.”
She nodded, already adjusting her pack. “Lead the way, Captain Frostbite.”
He didn’t even argue this time.
Fifteen Minutes Later — Patrol Shelter B-9
The shelter looked like a forgotten relic: a squat steel cube half-sunken into a snowdrift, partially buried by years of neglect and storms. Its door groaned as Gepard forced it open, and the interior greeted them with stale air and the metallic stench of frozen rust.
Inside, the space was barely large enough to stand side by side. A folding cot leaned against the far wall. A portable heater hummed weakly in the corner, already devouring the last of its fuel cell. Emergency rations were stacked on a shelf above it, each one stamped with Silvermane insignia and expiration dates that danced a little too close to obsolete.
They peeled off their outer layers with stiff fingers. Snow melted into puddles around their boots. Y/n’s gloves slapped wetly against the cot as she sat, rubbing at her arms and blinking away the sting of windburn.
“Well,” she muttered, voice dry. “Cozy.”
Gepard was unfastening his armor piece by piece. Even beneath the thermal undershirt, he looked broad, solid. Flushed from the cold, damp hair curling slightly against his temples. He caught her looking.
“Something wrong?”
“Nope,” she said, a little too fast. “Just… observing the rare and elusive Off-Duty Gepard.”
He tilted his head. “Are you always like this with people you’re interested in?”
The air turned leaden. Her heart leapt.
She swallowed. “Did you just admit you’re interested in me?”
“I did.”
No hesitation.
No retreat.
Just that voice — low, steady, warm in a way it had never been before. It struck something deep in her chest, somewhere between relief and something that felt too much like longing.
“Say it again,” she breathed.
He stepped forward.
“I’m interested in you, Y/n.”
And when his hand reached out — slow, uncertain — she met it. Fingers brushed. Then curled. And the moment their hands locked together, the tension between them snapped taut like a wire.
“Then stop looking at me like that,” she whispered, pulse skittering, “if you’re not going to do something about it.”
A breath passed.
Then he surged forward — not with recklessness, but inevitability.
The kiss was not tentative.
It was a clash. A release. A storm of heat and restraint giving way, all at once. His mouth found hers with desperate precision, and she met him just as fiercely, her back slamming gently against the cold steel wall. His hand found her jaw, tilting her face with reverence, even as his mouth moved over hers like he’d been waiting far too long.
When they broke apart — panting, dazed — their foreheads stayed pressed together. His eyes fluttered shut.
“I’ve been trying not to want this,” he said hoarsely.
She leaned into him. “Then stop trying.”
And when he kissed her again, it was slower — not gentler, but deeper. Purposeful. A promise, unspoken and undeniable.
Outside, the wind screamed on. But inside, the storm had shifted.
The heater in the corner of the shelter hummed with a soft, almost apologetic persistence — its coil barely enough to thaw the breath from the air, but somehow enough to make the space feel less like a bunker and more like somewhere human warmth could survive. Outside, the storm clawed at the earth in relentless gusts, the frozen world beyond the reinforced walls forgotten in the quiet that settled around them.
Forgotten — because nothing else mattered anymore.
Gepard kissed her again.
It wasn’t careful this time. Wasn’t questioning or restrained. No, this wasn’t a kiss that asked for permission.
It was a surrender.
A confession.
A claiming.
Y/n’s breath caught at the back of her throat, stuttering against the pressure of his mouth as he guided her backward with quiet insistence. His hand, broad and calloused, found the curve of her waist, fingers splayed as if to ground himself — or her — as if he didn’t quite trust the world not to fracture beneath them. The other hand, roughened by years of battle and frostbitten patrols, cupped her cheek with the gentleness of someone who had long since forgotten how to be gentle — but was trying anyway.
The cot behind her creaked in protest as she sank down, guided by his weight, the worn frame groaning beneath them. But the sound was distant, irrelevant. Like the storm outside. Like the war beyond the doors. Like everything that wasn’t him.
Her hands rose without thought, finding the hem of his shirt, the fabric still damp with melted snow and battle-sweat. She hesitated only long enough to feel the heat of his body through it — then slid her hands beneath, fingertips tracing the hard lines of his abdomen.
He stilled.
Just for a breath. Just for a beat.
Not in refusal — never that — but with the quiet, unspoken reverence of a man who hadn’t been touched like this in a long time. Maybe ever. He stared at her, eyes a tumult of restraint and disbelief and want.
“I’ve imagined this,” he admitted, voice barely a whisper. Fractured. Raw. “More times than I can count.”
She looked up at him, her voice low, aching with everything unsaid. “You think too much.”
A breath of a laugh. Then a nod. “I know.”
He helped her pull the shirt over his head.
What she saw beneath stole the air from her lungs.
Years of disciplined training had sculpted him — not in the way of vanity, but in the quiet, utilitarian grace of a soldier. Lean muscle wrapped his frame, taut and capable, like he was carved to bear the weight of others before himself. Scars traced his skin in pale, silvery patterns — faded battles, ancient wounds. Near his ribs, one looked fresher than the rest, still pink at the edges.
She leaned in and pressed her lips to it.
Gepard inhaled sharply, fingers flexing at her hip as if the contact burned. His body trembled once, barely contained.
“Y/n…”
“You don’t have to carry all of this alone,” she murmured against his skin. “Not tonight.”
His breath caught. Not from cold — from something far deeper. A breaking point. A dam cracking wide.
Her coat came next, discarded onto the floor without ceremony. Then her shirt. The cold brushed against her skin for a moment before his hands replaced it — warm, reverent, wandering the line of her waist with a tenderness that bordered on desperation.
His lips trailed down her neck, soft at first, then deeper, more urgent. Each kiss left behind heat, a promise, a silent plea. He moved lower — collarbone, shoulder, the gentle swell of her chest — until she was gasping, her hands threading into his hair as her hips arched toward him of their own accord.
This wasn’t just desire.
It was months of tension that had lived unspoken between them — buried under duty, sarcasm, awkward silences, and longing stares when they thought the other wasn’t looking. Every place he touched her felt like a declaration.
That she wasn’t just Serval’s friend.
That she wasn’t a distraction.
That she was his undoing.
His hands were shaking when he reached behind her, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. Not from nerves — but from restraint stretched to its final thread.
And when it fell away, when her chest was bared to him in the dim amber light of the shelter, he didn’t look away. He didn’t rush. He stared — as if seeing something sacred. As if he had spent too long believing he didn’t deserve moments like this.
“God…” he breathed, reverent.
She cupped his face, dragging her thumb along the edge of his jaw. “Touch me.”
His hands found her again — slowly, carefully — cupping her breasts, brushing his thumbs over her nipples until they peaked beneath his touch. She gasped, her back arching into him, and his mouth followed.
Warm lips closed over her, gentle and exploring, then with more hunger. He sucked, slow and thorough, teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out softly, thighs twitching under him. His other hand worshipped the twin peak, drawing circles that left her trembling.
When he finally pulled back, her skin was flushed, her breaths shallow and uneven. Her eyes — heavy, pleading — met his.
Gepard rose just long enough to strip the rest of his clothing. One boot at a time, then his pants, boxers — every layer peeled off with an almost painful patience. Until he was bare before her, breathless and beautiful in a way that only a man stripped of every defense could be.
He was strong. Solid. The kind of body built to withstand war — yet still human. Still vulnerable. His cock hung thick and flushed between his thighs, twitching as her gaze trailed down.
She swallowed. “You’re gorgeous.”
He gave her a crooked, almost disbelieving smile. “So are you.”
Then he was kneeling between her legs again, hands skimming over the curve of her thighs. Her pants followed, underwear next — soaked through with arousal.
When his fingers brushed the slickness between her folds, her hips jumped, a sharp gasp escaping.
“You’re already wet,” he whispered, voice rough. Like it hurt to speak.
“For you,” she said, barely able to breathe. “For this.”
He groaned — a low, broken sound — and kissed her again, harder now. Desperate. His hand slid between her thighs again, fingers parting her folds, one thick finger sliding in with maddening slowness.
She moaned, her walls clenching, and he added a second, pumping rhythmically. His palm rested against her mound as his thumb found her clit, circling with excruciating care. Her body arched, trembling, thighs clamping around his wrist.
“So tight,” he breathed, staring down at her. “I need you.”
“Then have me,” she said, voice rough with need. “Please.”
He didn’t hesitate.
He lined himself up, cock thick and heavy against her entrance. Even now, even trembling with restraint, he paused — eyes locked on hers.
“You’re sure?”
She reached up, cradling his jaw. “Don’t make me beg, Captain.”
He groaned, forehead dropping to hers — and then he pushed in.
It was slow. Agonizing. A stretch that burned and filled, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside her, buried to the hilt. She gasped, nails digging into his back, overwhelmed by the sheer size and heat of him. He held still, trembling above her, a litany of curses whispered against her shoulder.
“God… Y/n…”
“Move,” she begged. “Please.”
He did.
The first thrust was cautious. The second — deeper, stronger — rocked her against the cot. He found a rhythm quickly, building with each snap of his hips. Every movement dragged a sound from her throat, her hands gripping his arms, his waist, anything she could find.
She wrapped her legs around him, ankles locking behind his back, drawing him deeper. Their bodies met over and over, slick with sweat, burning hot despite the frost clawing at the shelter walls.
Every thrust a reminder that they were still alive. Still capable of feeling. Of wanting. Of choosing each other in a world where choices were often stolen.
“Gepard—” she gasped, head falling back. “I’m—close—”
He grunted, reaching between them again, fingers circling her clit with purpose now. “Come for me.”
She shattered.
The orgasm crashed through her like a wave, her body convulsing around him, hips lifting off the cot as she cried out. He groaned, the tight grip of her walls enough to pull him over the edge. With a low, ragged moan, he spilled into her, hips stuttering as he pulsed deep inside, warmth flooding her.
And then he collapsed — like he’d been holding up the weight of the world and finally, finally let it fall.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Breathing. Tangled. Quiet.
His arms came around her, holding her close, his heart still racing under her palm where it rested on his chest.
After a while, she broke the silence with a tired, cheeky murmur. “So… is this going to be awkward when we get back?”
He huffed a quiet laugh into her hair.
“No,” he said, voice low and sure. “We're going to make this work.”
Summary: A soldier and his former trainee reunite after years apart, reigniting a deep, unresolved bond forged in war.
This MAN IS SO AUGHHHHH 😮💨😮💨
(Rewritten)
Warnings: Age gap (3 years, not too much), porn with plot (?)
Words: 6.101
The heavy scent of cordite and frostbite does not easily wash out of a man’s skin. War does not conclude when the rifles fall silent, when the artillery ceases its rhythmic thumping, and the smoke clears from the jagged ridge. Its echoes merely retreat inward, burrowing deep into the marrow, stitched seamlessly into flesh and bone. Some ghosts do not rattle chains; they wear dull, tarnished dog tags that click rhythmically against a scarred collarbone. They carry their mutilations like unearned medals, moving through the civilian world as apparitions, leaving a terrible, suffocating silence in their wake.
Colonel Stanley Snyder was the archetype of such ghosts.
In the classified, subterranean circles of the military apparatus, he was less a flesh-and-blood man and more a myth wrapped in crisp, olive-drab camouflage and the permanent, bitter haze of tobacco smoke. Severe, mathematically calculated, and terrifyingly absolute, he was the entity conjured in a young recruit’s worst midnight panic. Command did not merely sit upon him; it draped from his broad, sharply angled shoulders like reinforced plate armor. He was a creature of absolute precision, his posture an iron beam forged in a furnace of black-budget campaigns, his gaze a physical weight that could cut through reinforced steel before he ever saw fit to open his mouth.
Stanley had not stumbled into this life by accident or patriotic naivety. He had been meticulously sculpted by it, chiseled out of the permafrost of nameless border disputes and shadow conflicts that officially never occurred. He was the architect of covert sabotage that left nothing but white ash, twisted metal, and frightened local folklore. The kind of wetwork that stayed permanently buried in sealed, alphanumeric files and bloodstained snow.
By the age of twenty-one, when most young men were still fumbling through university lecture halls or learning the basic, mundane mechanics of a civilian career, Stanley was already a living legend. A spectre with a remarkably steady heartbeat, renowned not simply for his flawless execution of orders, but for the chilling, clinical cruelty of his tactics. He possessed an eerie, unshakeable calm that he dragged with him into the exact center of a firefight. He lived on the bitter edge of a burning cigarette, his brilliant, tactical mind always three steps ahead of the grim casualty reports.
Then came the boy.
He was exactly eighteen years old when the transport chopper dropped him at the northern staging base — a brutal, unforgiving installation carved into the side of a frozen mountain. M!Y/n stepped off the ramp into a howling blizzard, looking like a collection of sharp, prominent bones and an even sharper, volatile anger that seemed to radiate from him like heat from a dying radiator. The wind immediately caught the distinct, layered strands of his two-block haircut, whipping his hair violently across his eyes.
When M!Y/n first stood on the icy tarmac, shivering violently but entirely unyielding against the biting sub-zero wind, he did not possess the terrified, malleable look of a typical enlistee. He looked like someone who had been fighting private, devastating, invisible wars long before he ever laid eyes on a recruitment poster. He lacked the mandated military polish. He had absolutely no patience for the tedious, soul-crushing bureaucracy of the barracks. But he stood with a spine like a fixed bayonet, he spoke with a terrifyingly clear, insubordinate cadence, and there was a brilliant yet dangerous fire burning in the deep hollows of his dark eyes.
Stanley, watching from the elevated window of the command center, had recognized it instantly. It was the volatile, unrefined ghost of his own youth — raw, untamed, feral, and begging to be forged into a weapon that could kill.
And so, Stanley made him bleed.
As his direct commanding officer, despite the mere three years of age that separated their births, the chasm of lived experience between them was an ocean of blood and ice. Stanley treated the boy not with leniency or the camaraderie expected of youth, but with a calculated, relentless severity that bordered on psychological sadism.
There were early frost drills at three in the morning, where the air was so aggressively cold it tore at the lungs like inhaling broken glass. There were live-fire exercises through jagged, unforgiving terrain where a single misstep meant a shattered ankle or a bullet through the shoulder. There were psychological gauntlets, heavy with the oppressive paranoia of surveillance, designed specifically to shatter the minds of seasoned operatives twice M!Y/n’s age. Stanley watched him through the crosshairs of a sniper scope, through the grainy feed of base security cameras, waiting for the boy’s mind to snap.
Yet, M!Y/n did not break. He did something far more dangerous, far more intoxicating to a man like Stanley: he adapted.
The boy learned the precise, lethal rhythm of Stanley’s demands. He memorized the heavy cadence of the Colonel’s boots crunching on the frost-heaved gravel. He pushed his own body past the point of muscular failure, excelling until his metrics surpassed every grizzled veteran in the unit. In time, the blind anger softened into a lethal, hyper-focused discipline. M!Y/n became Stanley’s shadow, breathing in the older man’s ruthless, cold-blooded philosophy like it was pure oxygen. He moved when Stanley moved. He neutralized targets when Stanley signaled.
Inevitably, the stark, clinical nature of military camaraderie began to fray violently at the edges. Professional distance melted under the sheer, suffocating intensity of their constant proximity. It began with microscopic infractions. Glances that lingered a second too long over illuminated tactical maps — Stanley’s heavy eyes tracking the hard line of M!Y/n’s jaw, the boy’s dark gaze fixated on the permanent, cynical curve of Stanley’s mouth.
Then came the touches. A large, gloved hand gripping a shoulder to correct a firing stance, the fingers digging entirely too deep into the muscle, possessive and anchoring; a brushed wrist while passing a radio transceiver in the dark, sending a jolt of static electricity through their rain-soaked gear that made both their jaws clench. The line between absolute, unquestionable command and a terrifying, mutual obsession blurred like chemical smoke over a ruined battlefield.
It culminated on a black, rain-lashed night in a forward reconnaissance tent, a year into M!Y/n's deployment. The torrential downpour drummed a frantic, deafening tattoo against the heavy canvas. The adrenaline of a successful, bloody midnight ambush was still hot, bitter, and metallic in their veins. They were completely soaked to the skin, shivering not from the freezing mud, but from the violent, euphoric rush of surviving another twelve hours in hell.
Stanley had closed the distance between them without a single syllable of explanation. There was no grand, sweeping declaration, no soft preamble. It was simply the quiet, gravitational inevitability of two fractured soldiers finding a violent, desperate sort of refuge in each other’s wounds.
Stanley had pinned the now nineteen-year-old against a towering stack of wooden ammunition crates. His mouth tasted heavily of dark tobacco and copper, his large hands mapping the cage of M!Y/n’s ribs with a desperate, heavy ownership that stripped away every ounce of their military discipline.
For months, they existed in that secret, high-velocity friction, hidden from the prying eyes of the high command. Stanley gave M!Y/n every scrap of lethal knowledge he possessed; he taught him how to breathe perfectly through a high-powered scope, how to silence a man in the dark without a sound, how to compartmentalize the horror of what they did until it felt like nothing at all. And M!Y/n gave Stanley everything he had in return — his absolute loyalty, the heat of his body, the ragged catch of his breath, and the fierce, unyielding worship of a young man who had finally found his god wrapped in a uniform.
But the vast, unfeeling machinery of war is a jealous master. It demands sacrifices that no human logic can soften. Stanley, ever the tactician, began to recognize the dangerous, all-consuming nature of what they were doing. He knew the brass was beginning to look too closely at the irregular, suspiciously perfect efficiency of his favorite subordinate. The paranoia of being watched, of M!Y/n being leveraged against him, crept into his mind like black ice. He did the only thing his cold, strategic mind could justify to keep the boy alive.
He broke the bond. He severed the artery. He let him go.
There were no explanations offered in the dead of the freezing night. There were no soft, empty promises of a civilian future after the service. Stanley simply handed M!Y/n a sealed reassignment order to an elite, deep-theater, highly classified unit on the complete opposite side of the globe. He looked down his nose at the boy, his expression locked into an unreadable blank headstone and delivered one final, absolute directive:
"Live beyond this. Be better than the rest of these carcasses. Dismissed."
He never touched M!Y/n again. He stood rigid, a ghost in his own skin, and watched the boy pack his canvas duffel through the reinforced glass of the command tent. The heavy rain streaked the window like the tears Stanley was incapable of shedding.
But though entire oceans and continents separated them, Stanley never truly stopped watching. Every encrypted after-action report, every grim casualty list, every red-classified intelligence file that crossed his desk from the Eastern front — he scanned every single one of them with a manic intensity, searching for a single name. Ensuring his ghost was still breathing.
Four years passed in a chaotic, bloody blur of cordite, adrenaline, and deafening silence. A dozen black operations, two major promotions, and a lifetime of violence later, Lieutenant M!Y/n walked into the high-security, subterranean briefing room at Central Headquarters.
He was twenty-three years old now. The last lingering traces of boyish softness were entirely eradicated, replaced by a dangerous, lean, predatory maturity. There were new, vibrant ribbons pinned to the breast of his crisp olive jacket, medals that spoke quietly of high-altitude extractions behind enemy lines and successful, impossible assassinations. His spine had been forged into pure, unyielding steel.
The air inside the briefing room was thick, suffocatingly warm, and heavy with the scent of stale percolated coffee, aerosol starch and the low, rumbling chatter of high-ranking generals. Massive tactical maps of the Eurasian border were projected across the central screens, glowing with a hostile, blood-red topography.
And there, sitting at the absolute head of the long mahogany table, was Colonel Stanley Snyder.
He was twenty-six, and to the rest of the room, he looked entirely unchanged. The same terrifying statue of ice. And yet, to M!Y/n’s highly trained, hyper-observant eye, he was different. His golden hair was slightly longer now, the strands tucked neatly behind his ears, though a few rebellious pieces framed his high, aristocratic cheekbones. His uniform was immaculate — not a single microscopic crease out of place, the silver brass polished to a blinding mirror shine. His posture remained an iron rod.
But when M!Y/n stepped through the heavy double doors, Stanley’s eyes — those lethal, terrifyingly empty discs — flickered. Just once. A microscopic, violent widening of the pupils that absolutely no one else in the room could have caught, but struck M!Y/n like a physical blow to the sternum.
Stanley didn’t rise. He didn't flinch. He merely lowered his unlit cigarette an inch from his lips.
"Coping, Lieutenant?" Stanley asked. His voice was exactly as M!Y/n remembered — dry, gravelly, perfectly level, carrying the faint, intoxicating rasp of a lifetime of smoke and whispered, deadly commands.
M!Y/n paused at the foot of the table, his combat boots entirely silent on the polished floor. His fingers curled slightly against the seam of his trousers, the only outward sign of the electrical storm raging in his blood. He allowed a slow, half-wry, incredibly dangerous smile to touch his lips.
"Barely, Colonel. But I see the high command has managed to survive without my assistance."
It was an incredibly reckless remark. It bordered on blatant insubordination in a room filled with brigadier generals and intelligence directors. But it was entirely necessary. It was a flag planted violently in the dirt. Because this sudden, unannounced reunion had absolutely nothing to do with the strategic deployment of troops or the geopolitical instability of the border. It was about the volatile, unresolved ghost that had sat suffocatingly between them for four agonizing years — unsaid, unfinished, and burning hotter than white phosphorus.
The tactical briefing dragged on for two excruciating, mind-numbing hours. General officers droned endlessly about troop movements on the northern perimeter, covert asset extractions in hostile territory, and the grim logistics of winter supply lines. But M!Y/n could barely process the English language. He sat three chairs down, his entire nervous system singing with a high-voltage, unbearable tension.
Stanley’s gaze was a physical entity in the room. The Colonel didn’t look at him constantly, but when he did, it felt like a slow, deliberate, scorching brush of a calloused palm directly across M!Y/n’s bare skin. It was a phantom touch that left a trail of fire in its wake. Every silent, heavy look from Stanley was a third-degree burn; every paused breath between sentences felt like a scream in the quiet room. Stanley would periodically click his silver lighter open and shut, the rhythmic, metallic snap-clack sounding to M!Y/n exactly like the chambering of a live round.
When the clock finally struck nineteen hundred hours, the senior staff began to gather their leather portfolios. The room cleared out agonizingly slowly, chairs scraping loudly against the linoleum, officers exchanging brief, exhausted nods of acknowledgement. M!Y/n remained standing rigidly by his chair, pretending to organize his encrypted briefing notes, his heart hammering a frantic, deafening rhythm against his ribs.
Stanley did not move an inch from his seat at the head of the table. He waited until the heavy oak doors clicked shut, the electronic locks engaging, sealing them in the sudden, ringing silence of the secure room.
The Colonel didn’t speak immediately. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a fresh cigarette, and lit it with a single, practiced flick of his Zippo. He inhaled deeply, the tip glowing a bright, angry orange in the dim lighting, before exhaling a thick plume of gray smoke toward the fluorescent panels above. Then, he gave one short, sharp nod of his chin toward the floor directly beside him.
Stay.
M!Y/n dropped his papers onto the mahogany table. The pretense of the uniform, the rank, the four years of distance, fell away in an instant. They were entirely alone again, stripped of their titles and the watchful eyes of the world, returning instantly to the primal, violent calculus of the northern frost.
"Come here," Stanley said. The voice was low, terribly hoarse, stripped entirely of its bureaucratic, icy polish. It was a command, yes, but it was cloaked in a desperate, starving request that made M!Y/n’s breath hitch painfully in his throat.
M!Y/n obeyed. His polished boots made absolutely no sound as he crossed the distance, his eyes locked onto Stanley's. He stopped when the space between them was paper-thin, his knees nearly brushing the crisp edge of Stanley’s uniform trousers.
Stanley leaned back slightly in his chair, his pale eyes cataloging every single physical modification four years of brutal war had inflicted upon the boy. He studied the new thin, jagged scar that cut directly through M!Y/n’s left eyebrow; he traced the broader, hardened line of his jaw, the heavy, dense muscle of his shoulders visible even beneath the jacket, the sheer, dangerous maturity that had entirely replaced the lanky teenager he had discarded in the snow.
Slowly, deliberately, Stanley lifted his right hand. His long fingers were stained faintly with nicotine and smelled sharply of gun oil and brass. He reached up, his calloused thumb catching the sharp edge of M!Y/n’s chin, tilting his face upward before his thumb traveled slowly, heavily across the young man’s full bottom lip, pressing down hard until the pink flesh parted slightly.
"You came back stronger," Stanley murmured, his thumb catching roughly on the edge of M!Y/n's teeth. "They didn't break you."
"I didn't let them," M!Y/n whispered back, his breath hot and trembling against Stanley's palm. He leaned aggressively into the touch, his eyes completely dark with an unblinking intensity. "I came back for you, Stan. I didn't take those suicide extractions just to collect ribbons."
The breath Stanley let out wasn’t a sigh. It was a violent, absolute surrender.
In a fraction of a millisecond, the iron discipline cracked wide open and shattered. Stanley’s hand left M!Y/n’s chin and fisted brutally into the short hair at the back of his head, yanking him down with a force that made their teeth click violently together.
Their mouths collided like a pair of speeding vehicles head-on. There was absolutely no gentleness to be found, no soft or romantic exploration. It was a starving hunger — an agonizing ache that had been suppressed under the crushing weight of a thousand military orders. Years of forced silence, of biting their tongues and bleeding out in trenches, broke apart in a chaotic, explosive rush of heat, saliva, and ragged, desperate breath.
Stanley stood up from his chair without breaking the kiss for even a second. His towering, imposing frame cast a massive shadow as his arms wrapped entirely around M!Y/n’s waist, lifting him slightly off the floor and slamming their chests together. The cold brass buttons of their uniforms ground against one another like shrapnel. Every frantic heartbeat felt like a shared casualty report.
Stanley tasted of bitter tobacco, adrenaline, and the dark remnants of black coffee. His tongue invaded M!Y/n’s mouth with a ruthless, wildly possessive authority that made the younger man groan aloud, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. M!Y/n's own hands clawed desperately at the stiff, unyielding fabric of Stanley’s shoulders, holding on as if the Colonel were the only anchored thing in a world falling apart, while Stanley's large hands aggressively mapped his body, dropping low to grip his waist and pull his hips flush against his own.
"You're mine," Stanley rasped against his lips, his voice sounding like a ragged curse dragged out of a shallow grave, a desperate prayer spoken by a man who had long ago ceased to believe in God. He bit down viciously on M!Y/n’s lower lip until he tasted the faint, sharp copper tang of blood. "You hear me? You never stopped."
"I always was," M!Y/n choked out, his fingers digging like talons into the tense nape of Stanley’s neck, pulling him forcefully back down before the Colonel could even draw a full breath. "I always was, you bastard."
They didn’t speak another coherent word. They didn’t need to; their bodies had completely bypassed language. M!Y/n’s hand slid down to Stanley’s wrist, squeezing the racing pulse point hard enough to leave a permanent bruise — grounding himself, demanding physical proof that this wasn’t some elaborate fever dream brought on by blood loss and sleep deprivation. Stanley kissed him again, slower this time, but infinitely deeper, his lips lingering, dragging agonizingly down the hard line of M!Y/n’s jaw to press a wet, bruising kiss against the pulse fluttering wildly in his throat.
Then, pulling back just enough to look directly into M!Y/n's blown-out, pitch-black pupils, Stanley spoke through completely gritted teeth:
"My quarters. Now."
They moved through the subterranean corridors of the command bunker in perfect, lethal synchronization. They didn't speak. They didn't look at one another. But Stanley walked half a step ahead, his stride long and aggressive, his jaw set in a terrifyingly rigid line. A pair of junior guards stationed near the elevator took one look at the Colonel's expression — the wild, dangerous glint in his eyes — and immediately fixed their gaze on the floor, not daring to breathe. One look from Stanley Snyder could silence a regiment.
He reached the heavy steel door of his private quarters, slid his keycard through the digital lock with a violent swipe, and the moment the mechanism clicked green, he shoved M!Y/n inside and slammed the door shut behind them, locking it with a heavy, definitive bolt.
The heavy steel door slammed shut behind them with a final, echoing clang. Stanley twisted the deadbolt with a violent snap, sealing them inside the pitch-black quarters, illuminated only by the thin green phosphorescent glow of the tactical status monitors on the wall. Before M!Y/n could draw a single breath, Stanley was on him — his weight slamming him back against the cold metal door hard enough to rattle it in its frame.
Their mouths crashed together in a filthy, desperate kiss. It wasn't an exploration; it was an invasion. Tongues shoved deep, tasting of past habits, stress and survival. Their teeth clashed sharply, the metallic hint of blood rising as saliva slid down their chins. Four years of pent-up hunger, of nights spent staring at the ceiling of tents half a world away, exploded between them. Stanley’s hand wrapped securely around M!Y/n’s throat, squeezing just enough to restrict the air, forcing M!Y/n’s head back against the steel while his pulse hammered frantically against Stanley's calloused palm.
"Stan—" M!Y/n gasped, the sound truncated as Stanley’s other hand tore at the front of his uniform jacket.
The sound of straining threads and popping brass buttons pinged sharply across the linoleum floor. Stanley didn’t bother undressing him properly; his movements were driven by a tactical urgency to consume. He shoved the heavy olive fabric down M!Y/n’s shoulders, pinning his arms slightly, and yanked the thin, sweat-soaked undershirt upward. The cold air of the bunker hit M!Y/n’s bare skin, making his muscles twitch, but it was immediately replaced by the searing heat of Stanley’s palms dragging over his ribs, squeezing the hard muscles of his flanks, and rolling his thumbs roughly over his sensitive nipples until M!Y/n groaned directly into his mouth.
"Fuck— Stan—" M!Y/n managed to tear his mouth away for a fraction of a second, his head rolling back against the door, his chest heaving. "More. Take it off."
M!Y/n’s hands were just as frantic, driven by the exact same desperation. He reached down between them, ripping Stanley’s tactical belt open. The heavy steel buckle thudded loudly against the floorboards. He tore at the heavy uniform trousers, shoving the fabric and briefs down just enough to free the Colonel's cock. It sprang out thick, heavy and already rock-hard, the swollen head dark with rushing blood and glistening with a heavy bead of precum. M!Y/n wrapped his hand around the throbbing length, his palm slicking as he stroked him roughly from base to head, earning a deep vibration-heavy growl from Stanley’s chest that sounded like an engine revving in the dark.
"You like that?" M!Y/n hissed, pumping his hand faster, feeling the veins along Stanley's shaft pulsing violently against his fingers. "Look at what you did to me. Look at how I waited."
Stanley didn’t answer with words. He grabbed the waistband of M!Y/n’s trousers and underwear together, using his upper-body strength to yank them down in one aggressive, tearing motion, letting them bunch uselessly around M!Y/n's combat boots. In a brutal, sweeping movement, Stanley spun him around, slamming M!Y/n's front against the cold metal door.
M!Y/n's cheek pressed against the steel, his arms pinned slightly behind him by the discarded jacket. Stanley pressed his full, heavy weight into M!Y/n's back, his broad chest crushing M!Y/n’s shoulder blades. He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive, unscarred flesh at the side of M!Y/n’s neck, and bit down hard enough to leave a deep, purple mark, his teeth scraping over the tendon. At the same time, Stanley ground his thick, leaking cock right between M!Y/n’s bare, tensed ass cheeks, smearing his precum along the tight crease.
"You’re still so fucking tight for me," Stanley rasped against his ear, his voice completely wrecked with lust, the gravelly tone deeper than it had ever been during the briefings. "Four years, and you didn't let anyone else touch this. Did you, Lieutenant?"
"No— ah! No one, Stan, fuck— only you," M!Y/n cried out, his hips twitching backward instinctively, begging for the contact, his cock throbbing and leaking against the cold steel of the door.
Stanley let out a harsh, satisfied breath. He didn't waste time. He dragged M!Y/n away from the door by his waist, throwing him down onto the narrow military cot in the corner of the room. The steel frame groaned loudly under the sudden impact. Stanley kicked his own trousers and boots off with a few efficient, violent jerks, leaving himself completely naked, his pale, scarred skin gleaming in the dim light.
He dropped to his knees between M!Y/n’s spread, trembling thighs, pushing M!Y/n's knees up toward his chest to expose his lower body completely. Reaching blindly to the small locker beside the cot, Stanley grabbed a tube of medical-issue lubricant. He didn't bother with finesse; he bit the cap off, spat it across the room and poured a thick, messy stream of the gel directly over his fingers and onto M!Y/n’s twitching, tight hole.
Two thick fingers pushed inside immediately, shoving past the tight ring of muscle with zero patience. M!Y/n’s back arched violently off the mattress, a broken, high-pitched moan tearing from his throat. The coldness of the lube vanished instantly, replaced by the burning, invasive heat of Stanley's fingers. Stanley crooked his knuckles inside, sweeping deep, finding the hard, swollen knot of M!Y/n’s prostate with mathematical accuracy. He pressed down hard.
"F-fuck—! Stan, please!" M!Y/n’s cock jerked wildly against his own stomach, thick ropes of clear precum bubbling out of his head and smearing across his abs from the internal pressure alone.
"Eyes on me," Stanley ordered, his tone shifting into that command voice, though it was frayed by his own heavy panting. He added a third finger, expanding the tight space ruthlessly, pumping his hand in and out in deep, fast strokes.
The wet, loud, obscene squelching of the lubricant filled the silent room. It was the only sound alongside their ragged breathing.
"Look at me while I open up this greedy little hole," Stanley murmured, his face coming down close to M!Y/n's. "You’re dripping for it. Your whole body is shaking because you know exactly what’s coming."
M!Y/n forced his eyes open, staring up through the dark into the feral, unhinged expression on Stanley’s face. The Colonel's golden hair was completely disheveled, hanging over his forehead, and his eyes burned with a terrifying, raw possession. Stanley twisted his three fingers inside him again, stroking that sensitive internal spot with a rhythmic, punishing speed until M!Y/n was sobbing, his fingers clawing at the rough sheets, his hips bucking up against Stanley's hand, begging for the real thing.
"Enough," Stanley snarled, the pressure in his own groin reaching a breaking point.
He pulled his fingers out with a loud, wet pop. Without a second of delay, he grabbed the base of his own throbbing cock, lined up the fat, leaking head against the rim of M!Y/n’s stretched opening and drove forward with one brutal, unrelenting thrust of his hips.
M!Y/n’s mouth fell open in a silent scream. His eyes rolled back as Stanley buried every single pulsing inch of his shaft inside him, bottoming out against his core. The initial stretch burned deliciously, a raw, massive sensation of fullness that completely overwhelmed M!Y/n's nervous system. After four years of aching emptiness, the sheer reality of Stanley’s size stretching him to the absolute limit made his vision white out into sparks.
Stanley’s heavy balls pressed hard against M!Y/n’s perineum, his cock throbbing violently inside the tight, clamping walls of the younger man’s body.
"Shit— so fucking tight," Stanley groaned, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles bunched in his cheeks. His hands dug into the flesh of M!Y/n’s hips, his fingers sinking deep enough into the skin to ensure bruises would form by morning.
He held M!Y/n still for just a second, letting their bodies acclimate to the connection, before he began to move. He pulled back, sliding nearly all the way out until just the head of his cock was catching on M!Y/n’s entrance, before slamming forward again, driving his weight home with a heavy, wet slap of skin against skin.
The military cot slammed rhythmically against the concrete wall with every thrust. Thud. Thud. Thud. Stanley fucked him like an operative possessed, using his legs and hips to drive a savage, relentless pace. He didn't give M!Y/n time to recover between strokes; each thrust was designed to conquer, dragging out low, broken cries from the younger man's throat. M!Y/n's uncontained cock bounced wildly against his own abdomen, leaking more fluid with every hit.
Stanley leaned down further, folding M!Y/n’s legs back until his knees were nearly touching his ears, deepening the angle of penetration to an unbearable degree. He captured M!Y/n’s mouth again, shifting the kiss into something messy, spit-slick and wild, their breaths mingling as Stanley pounded into his core.
"Mine," Stanley growled against his wet lips, his hips snapping harder, faster, driving deeper into the slick, overheated channel. "This hole is fucking mine. Every inch of you belongs me. Say it, Lieutenant."
"Y-yours— ah, fuck, Stan— it’s yours! I'm yours!" M!Y/n cried out, his voice cracking as his nails raked down Stanley’s broad and heavily scarred back, leaving long, red tracks across the old bullet wounds and shrapnel marks. "Take it— fuck me harder, Stan, please!"
The desperate plea broke whatever microscopic sliver of restraint Stanley had left. He wrapped his right hand around M!Y/n’s throat again, pinning him flat against the mattress to steady him, while his left hand reached down between their bellies. He grabbed M!Y/n’s hard, leaking cock in a tight, friction-heavy grip, sliding his palm up and down the shaft in sync with his own brutal thrusts. His thumb pressed down hard over the sensitive slit of M!Y/n's head with every heavy slam of his pelvis.
The pleasure was too much, too concentrated, too long denied. M!Y/n’s internal muscles began to spasm, clenching around Stanley’s shaft like a frantic vice.
"Stan— I'm going— I'm gonna—"
"Do it," Stanley commanded, railing him with three more blinding, deep thrusts that hit his prostate dead-on. "Come for me. Let me feel it."
M!Y/n came first with a shattered, high-pitched scream that echoed off the steel walls of the bunker. His body seized entirely, his spine arching off the cot as thick, hot ropes of cum shot violently across his own chest, his stomach and up onto his collarbone, a few drops hitting his own chin. His hole went into a frenzy of violent, involuntary contractions, milking Stanley’s cock with an incredible, desperate intensity.
Stanley snarled like a man possessed, his eyes blowing out into total darkness. The internal clamping triggered his own release. He rammed his hips forward one final time, burying himself to the absolute hilt, grinding his pelvic bone against M!Y/n's ass as his own orgasm ripped through him.
Hot, heavy, thick spurts of semen flooded deep inside M!Y/n’s rectum, pulse after pulse of burning fluid filling him up until the excess began to leak out around the thick base of Stanley's shaft, dripping down onto the rumpled sheets below. Stanley convulsed against him, his chest heaving, his forehead dropping down into the crook of M!Y/n’s neck as he let out a ragged, low moan.
They stayed locked together for a long time, both of them panting heavily, their skin slick with sweat, cum and spilled lubricant. The room smelled heavily of sex, tobacco and the ozone of the bunker. Stanley’s cock gave one final, weak twitch inside M!Y/n’s core before he slowly, carefully pulled out. He watched with a dark, intensely satisfied expression as a heavy, thick mixture of cum and lube trickled slowly out of M!Y/n’s wrecked and puffy hole, staining the dark fabric of the military bedding.
Stanley collapsed down onto his side on the narrow mattress, his long legs tangling with M!Y/n's. He reached up, his hand still trembling slightly from the adrenaline, and dragged his fingers through M!Y/n’s damp hair, pulling the younger man’s face toward his own.
"Welcome home, Lieutenant," Stanley murmured against his swollen, bitten lips, his voice rough with exhaustion and infused with a dangerous, quiet heat that was the closest the Colonel would ever get to tenderness.
Later, when the frantic heat of their reunion had slowly simmered down into a heavy, exhausting warmth, the bunker room grew quiet again. The sweat on their skin began to cool in the drafty air of the quarters, the ventilation system hummed its monotonous, low-frequency tune overhead.
Stanley moved with a slow, uncharacteristic gentleness as he adjusted his position, a low, discontented whine escaping the younger man at the loss of the immediate contact. Without a word, Stanley reached down to the floor, grabbed the coarse military-issue wool blanket that had fallen off during their frenzy and pulled it up over both of their shoulders, sealing them away from the rest of the world, from the brass, and from the impending deployments.
He lay down on his side, his arm reaching out to pull M!Y/n tightly against his chest. He locked his heavy forearm around M!Y/n’s waist like a piece of reinforced plate armor, clamping him close until there wasn't a single inch of space between them. Skin on skin.
Stanley’s breathing was deep and regular, but his eyes remained wide open, staring out into the dark geometry of the room, tracking the blinking green lights of the equipment. He reached down with his free hand, fished a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand, and lit it with his Zippo. The tiny, glowing ember illuminated the sharp, severe lines of his face for a brief second — the high cheekbones, the slight curve of his mouth — before fading back to shadow.
"I never looked away," Stanley said into the dead silence of the room. His voice was a low, rough murmur, stripped of all rank, all pride, all the armor he wore during the day. "Not once. Even when I signed those reassignment papers and swore to the brass I’d forgotten your name."
M!Y/n shifted slightly within the tight embrace, turning his head back just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss against Stanley’s shoulder. He closed his eyes, his limbs feeling incredibly heavy and yet entirely anchored for the first time in four long years of combat.
"I know," M!Y/n murmured, his voice fading into the onset of an exhausted, deep sleep. "I felt it, Stan. Every single time I was lying in a ditch with shrapnel in my leg, thinking I wasn't going to make it to sunrise... I felt you watching."
Stanley let out a low, rough, slightly broken sound from the back of his throat that might have been a laugh if he were any other man. He took one final, deep pull of his cigarette, the tip flaring bright orange, before crushing the ember out in the metal tray on the floor. He pulled M!Y/n even tighter against his ribs, burying his face into the young man's damp hair, inhaling the scent of him.
And there, in the secure heart of the military machine, surrounded by maps of impending destruction and the ghosts of their past, the two soldiers finally slept. There was no war in the dark. There were no ghosts rattling chains. There was only the heavy, saving weight of what they had been, and the violent, beautiful certainty of what they were now.
Sano Shinichiro x Male!reader
Hello everyone! First time (not really..?) writer here... this is just a wip of a story I'll hopefully write in the future, so eat up the crumbs if you like it ahahah. It'll probably be uploaded on Ao3, but for now i don't know if I have time to continue this...
Just a heads up, English is not my first language so beware of any grammatical or sentence errors! Still, I hope you'll enjoy it :)
Warnings: slow burn, fluff, angst, mild violence, slightly spicy in some scenes..?
"speech", 'thoughts', normal.
Words: 6.498
You first met Shinichiro when you were ten years old.
One sunny afternoon, you were at the park, completely absorbed in building a sandcastle in the pit, your hands working tirelessly as you shaped towers and walls. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a ball came flying toward you, hitting you squarely on the head and sending you crashing face-first into the sand. (Rest in peace, dignity 😔)
"Oh! Sorry about that! Are you okay?" A voice called out, breaking through the haze of embarrassment.
You looked up to see a boy standing there, his hand outstretched toward you. 'Wow, he's pretty,' you thought to yourself as you took in his features. He had messy black hair that framed his face, and his eyes sparkled with a bright, almost mischievous glint. He wasn’t tall—probably just because of his age—but his presence was enough to make him stand out.
"Yeah... I'm fine," you mumbled, though you were definitely not fine. Your head was throbbing, and your nose felt funny.
Despite your bruised pride, you grabbed his hand. He helped you up with surprising gentleness, and then, without missing a beat, he offered you a handkerchief.
"The ball must’ve hit you really hard," he said, his eyes scanning your face with concern. "Your nose is bleeding."
You blinked, finally realizing the blood trickling down your nose. You’d been so distracted by him that you hadn’t even noticed.
"Oh, uh, thank you..." You fumbled for words, still a little dazed by the situation. "Wait, did you say your name? I don't think I caught it."
He smiled, a wide and genuine grin that made his eyes twinkle. "I'm Shinichiro! And you are?"
"M/n," you replied with a smile of your own, feeling strangely flustered. "Nice to meet you, Shinichiro-san."
Just as Shinichiro was about to say something else, your mom’s voice rang out from the other side of the playground, calling you to come home.
"Aww, man," Shinichiro groaned, his shoulders slumping slightly. "You have to go already?"
"It seems so," you said with a small chuckle, brushing the sand off your hands. "But I'll probably be back tomorrow evening. Wanna play with the ball together?"
"Really?!" His face lit up, and without another word, he was already running off. "I’ll see you tomorrow! Bye-bye!"
"Bye..." you muttered softly, watching him go.
And then you realized—he had left the ball behind.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
Shinichiro was really stupid. Cute, but stupid.
He was always getting into fights, even though he was terrible at them. Every time, he'd come back with new bruises, complaining about how he had gotten hurt. It became a kind of routine, and you couldn't help but shake your head every time he showed up, banged up and grinning like he had just won a battle.
A few years passed, and you two became inseparable—best friends. Shinichiro introduced you to his friend Takeomi and his family, and in turn, you introduced him to yours. It didn’t take long for your parents to hit it off, which made it easier for you two to spend more time together.
You were there with him when his little brother was born, witnessing the joy in his eyes. And you were there, too, when his mother passed away—a blow that hit you just as hard as it did him, because she had always treated you like her own son. It was a loss that never really healed, and it left a mark on both of you.
Now, in high school, Shinichiro had decided that he was going to create his own gang. He talked about it like it was his big plan for the future—something to change the lives of delinquents and give them a sense of purpose.
"You're really serious about this, huh, Shin?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course I am!" He was practically bouncing with excitement. "You know that when I set my mind to something, I always do everything I can to make it happen."
You sighed, trying to process the absurdity of it all. "I know. But if you want to start a gang, I’ll help, but you do know you're terrible at fighting, right?"
He threw his head back and laughed, that familiar, carefree laugh that always made you smile. "Don't worry about it! After all, I have you by my side! You can take down anyone with just a punch."
You deadpanned. ‘I only do that because I want to protect you’. He grinned at you, oblivious to your frustration. "Idiot."
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
You were out shopping for your mother when you spotted Shinichiro. He had his back turned to you, so you couldn’t really see what he was up to, but it seemed like he was talking to someone. Curiosity got the better of you, and you walked toward him, eager to find out who he was chatting with.
When you finally got a clear view of the people he was with, your entire body froze in shock.
Keizo Arashi. Wakasa Imaushi.
The two damn leaders of Ragnarok and Kodo Rengo. What the actual fuck...?
"Shin... what the hell are you doing with them?" you demanded, your voice a mix of confusion and disbelief.
Shinichiro spun around, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. "Oh, M/n! Ehm... you see... they're joining the gang. :D"
You blinked, your mind struggling to process what he’d just said. "THEY'RE WHAT?!"
.
.
.
Black Dragon leader: Sano Shinichiro Vice-leader 1: M/n Vice-leader 2: Akashi Takeomi Guard unit captain: Keizo Arashi Special Attack Unit captain: Wakasa Imaushi
Why Shinichiro didn’t tell you he was planning to recruit those two into the gang was still a mystery. You'd always been a part of his plans—hell, you were vice-leader. But Keizo and Wakasa? That was a whole other level of trouble.
As long as they didn’t cause problems, though, you figured it was fine. Still, you couldn’t shake the unease you felt about them. You were cautious at first—hell, you were ready to keep a close eye on them—but over time, as you spent more time together, something unexpected happened.
You started to get along with them. Slowly, the tension faded, and they became more like... friends.
Keizo’s sarcastic humor and laid-back attitude somehow grew on you, and Wakasa’s strange mix of calm and intensity wasn’t as off-putting as it once was. They weren’t that bad, you supposed.
But still, you had to remind yourself—don’t let your guard down just yet.
Although, spending more time together meant that the others started to pick up on certain things. Like how you and Shinichiro always greeted each other first, no matter who else was around. Or how, during meetings, your eyes would always flicker toward him, and vice versa.
At first, they didn't think much of it. After all, you two had known each other for ages. It made sense, right? But as time passed, they couldn’t help but notice the little things—the way you both seemed to gravitate toward each other, the subtle touches, the way your proximity was always just a bit too intimate for mere friends.
Then came the skinship. At first, it was just a casual touch on the arm, or a hand resting on the other’s back. But as it progressed, those touches became more frequent, more familiar.
And that’s when the doubts started to creep in.
"They’re definitely gay," Keizo said casually, nodding as he watched the two of you play a game together.
"Yep." Wakasa chimed in, his usual bored expression barely changing.
"Huh huh." Takeomi added, leaning against the wall, his tone flat, but still amused by the whole thing.
You and Shinichiro were sitting on the bed, completely absorbed in the game. You were sitting at the end of the bed with Shinichiro positioned between your legs, his back to you. Your arms were resting on his head, and your head was lazily placed on top of them. You were so focused on the game that you didn’t even notice the three of them whispering behind you.
"You think they’ve realized yet how everyone seems to be third-wheeling when they’re together?" Wakasa muttered, sounding almost uninterested, but there was a trace of curiosity behind his words. He didn’t particularly want to be there at the moment.
"Probably not," Takeomi responded, exhaling a puff of smoke from the cigarette he had lit. "But I don’t think they’d care if they knew."
"This is really frustrating to watch," Keizo complained, crossing his arms and looking at the two of you. "When are they getting together?"
Wakasa raised an eyebrow. "I hope soon. I can’t stand seeing them so obviously in love with each other and still acting clueless."
"Agreed," Takeomi muttered, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the scene in front of him. "It’s like they both want it, but they’re too dumb to admit it."
"We can set 'em up to speed up the process," Wakasa said with a sly grin, pulling out his phone. He turned the screen around to show the others a poster for a local festival.
The three exchanged knowing looks, their smirks widening as the plan clicked into place.
It was going to work. And no one—especially you two—would see it coming.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
You and Shinichiro stood waiting at the meeting spot Keizo, Wakasa, and Takeomi had told you about. The only problem? They were nowhere to be found. Minutes ticked by, but still, no sign of them.
"You think they forgot?" you asked, glancing around.
"No, that's not possible," Shinichiro replied, shaking his head. "They don’t forget stuff like this."
As you two continued talking, your phone buzzed. You checked the message that had just come through: 'Have fun ;)'.
At that moment, realization hit you like a ton of bricks. You couldn’t help but feel a warm flush spreading across your cheeks. So, this was their plan?
You weren’t as oblivious about your feelings for Shinichiro as they thought. Sure, you were good at hiding them, or at least you thought you were. But maybe you’d been a little too obvious. And now, here was your chance—an opportunity to make a move.
"Was that one of the guys? What did they say?" Shinichiro asked, looking at you curiously.
You cleared your throat, trying to act casual. "Ah… they said something came up, and they can’t make it. Really a pity." You maybe said it a bit too eagerly, but Shinichiro didn’t seem to notice. "Do you want to look around since we're already here?"
"Too bad they can't come," Shinichiro said with a shrug. "We would've had fun. Whatever, we can still have fun just us two." ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips as you both began to walk around the festival. You stopped at food stalls, played games, and laughed at how Shinichiro tried to win at everything, only to fail miserably. But you didn’t mind—it gave you a chance to step in and win him the prizes he wanted. A little practice for when you were in a relationship, right?
As the night went on, you overheard talk of fireworks being launched at the end of the festival. What a perfect time to confess, you thought. You were certain it would be magical.
That was, until it started to rain.
Why rain? Why do this to me? You couldn’t help but pout, feeling the weight of your disappointment. You were now back at your house, which was the closest place to hide from the downpour.
"Hey, can I stay here tonight?" Shinichiro asked, looking out the window at the rain. "I came with my bike, and it doesn’t seem like it’s going to stop anytime soon."
Maybe... I can still try. Hope began to spark in your chest.
"Yeah, no problem," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "I’ll lend you some clothes."
"Thanks!" Shinichiro said with a smile that made your heart skip a beat. Was he… happy about staying here tonight? You couldn’t help but think how pretty he looked when he smiled.
Before you could stop yourself, the words just spilled out.
"Hey, Shin... I have to tell you something."
"Hm? What is it?"
You took a deep breath, gathering all the courage you could muster. "I actually like you. I have for some time. I don’t know if you feel the same or if you even like the same sex since you’ve always tried to hit on girls, but I hope that even with this confession we can still be friends. I just… had to get it off my chest. I’ve been trying to give you many signs over the years, but I don’t think you’ve noticed them. If you don’t feel the same way, I understand. But I’d really like it if you could give me a chance."
There. You said it. And now you were shaking from anxiety, feeling like the silence between you was deafening. Why isn’t he saying anything? I knew it. I shouldn’t have said it. I ruined everything, didn’t I?
Then, without warning, you felt arms wrap around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. You gasped, feeling a shaky breath against your ear.
"You really had me worried there," Shinichiro chuckled. "I thought you didn’t want to be around me anymore."
You could feel his smile against your skin. "I’m happy to hear that my feelings are returned," he continued, his voice a mix of relief and happiness. "Those girls—" He paused, his grip tightening around you. "I only did that to try and make you jealous. I wanted to see if I was the only one with these feelings, and with the way you reacted, I almost thought it was one-sided."
You could feel his heart beat steadily against yours. "I’m really, really glad to hear that’s not true. I was prepared to bury these feelings, but you came just in time."
He pulled back slightly, his hands gently resting on your shoulders. You found yourself looking up into his eyes—those black eyes that now shimmered with the same love you felt.
His nose and cheeks were flushed, and his lips, slightly parted as he spoke, were so close you could almost taste the words.
Then, without another thought, you both closed the distance, your lips meeting in a kiss that felt like everything you had ever hoped for. The spark from your touch was nothing compared to the emotions that surged through both of you. Happiness. Love. Anxiety. And, above all, relief.
Relief that you were finally together, that you could love him openly instead of from a distance.
As you pulled apart, you both stared at each other, unable to stop the giggles that bubbled up. Neither of you knew why you were laughing, but in that moment, all that mattered was that you were together.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
A group of young boys was riding through the streets on their bikes, each of them wearing a black uniform with the words 'Tokyo Manji Gang' printed across it. They were clearly in high spirits, but still had their fair share of complaints.
"Oi Mikey, where are you taking us?" asked a boy with violet hair, trying to sound annoyed but unable to hide the curiosity in his voice.
"Yeah, we've been riding for at least fifteen minutes. I'm getting hungry," added a boy with short black hair, looking a bit tired.
"Some days ago, I found a shrine," Mikey said with a grin, "and I thought it could become our new meeting spot."
"Isn't the one we have now good enough?" questioned a boy with a dragon tattoo, clearly exhausted from the unexpected trip. "It's closer, and I was in the middle of a game before you dragged me out of my house."
"Nah, this one’s cooler. Plus, it's big, so when our gang grows, it'll have plenty of space for everyone!" Mikey responded with a look of excitement.
"If you say so..." came the reluctant reply.
After some time, they finally arrived at the shrine, and it was indeed large and impressive.
"You weren’t lying about the size, Mikey," a boy with fangs said, seemingly in awe. Was he a vampire? Who knows.
"Duh, I never lie," Mikey replied confidently, earning a few side-eyes from the others. "Alright, let’s explore. Baji, you go with Kazutora; Mitsuya, go with Pah; and Ken-chin, you're with me. If you find anything, come find us."
And so their grand adventure began… even though, in reality, there was nothing at the shrine to explore. But let’s pretend they fought a dragon or something.
Eventually, they returned, defeated, having found nothing of interest.
"I actually saw a shop near here selling some charms," Mikey suggested, trying to salvage the day. "You guys want to buy one to commemorate this place?"
The group agreed and made their way to the shop. Once they arrived, they started counting their money, only to realize they didn’t have enough to buy the charms. They were, after all, really poor.
"Hey, Manjiro, Baji! What’re you doing here?" you suddenly appeared, catching them off guard. When did you become so silent?
Mikey and Baji’s faces lit up when they saw you. "M/n!" they both shouted in unison. The rest of the group looked at each other, confused.
‘Who is he?’ was the question that rang in their minds.
As if sensing their confusion, you smiled and introduced yourself. "Ah, hello there. I'm M/n. You must be Manjiro’s friends."
"M/n-nii! What are you doing here?" Baji asked eagerly, his excitement clearly evident.
You raised an eyebrow at him. "I’m going to Shin’s shop. But anyway, I asked first."
"We were going to buy a charm to commemorate our new meeting spot, but we don’t have enough money," Mikey said, looking like a kicked puppy.
The cuteness really runs in their genes, you thought to yourself, chuckling internally.
"In that case, I can buy you one," you said, smiling. "Is that okay?"
"Really? You’re the best, M/n!" Baji exclaimed with gratitude.
The others exchanged confused looks before they all introduced themselves and thanked you.
"Ah, no problem at all," you replied, waving off their thanks casually.
After buying the charms, you said goodbye to the boys, heading toward Shin’s shop.
"So, how do you know that guy?" Kazutora asked curiously.
Mikey, who seemed to be in the know, responded with a proud grin. "Oh, right! You don’t know. He’s my brother’s boyfriend."
The group fell silent. A beat passed, then another.
Finally, someone spoke up, their voice dripping with disbelief. "Shinichiro can actually pull bitches?"
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
"Hey M/n, I'm going to see Izana. You wanna come?" Shinichiro's voice broke through your thoughts as you were sorting through some random stuff in your room.
"Ohh, Izana! I haven’t seen him in so long. You think he still remembers me?" you replied, your voice filled with playful curiosity. A grin spread across your face at the thought of seeing him again.
Shinichiro, however, just stared at you, his expression completely blank. 'He saw him last month, what the hell?' he thought to himself, his patience thinning. He decided not to dignify your comment with a response and instead turned around to grab his bike. You were, without a doubt, his favorite idiot.
The two of you rode through the streets in comfortable silence. But as the wind rushed past, an idea suddenly popped into your head, sparking a mischievous glint in your eye.
"Why don’t we grab some food?" you asked, the suggestion almost too casual. "I saw this cute little café the other day, and I really wanna try it. I mean... I think they would really like the food! Yeah, it's totally for them..." you trailed off, realizing how ridiculous that sounded even to yourself.
Shinichiro's lips twitched into a tiny smirk, but he didn’t say anything. ‘Really convincing, M/n, really convincing,’ you could almost hear him think as he rolled his eyes. Still, he pulled over to the café, the idea of food too tempting to resist.
The café was quaint, decorated in soft pastel colors and smelled like heaven—freshly baked pastries and rich coffee. You dragged Shinichiro inside, practically salivating at the display of desserts. After buying a small mountain of sweets—because why would you settle for less?—Shinichiro sighed, already knowing what was going to happen.
"Alright, time to go," he grumbled as you reluctantly dragged yourself out of the café, still clutching your loot like it was treasure.
The ride to Izana’s was quick, but you couldn't contain your excitement. When you finally spotted him from a distance, your heart raced. Without hesitation, you jumped off the bike mid-motion, your shoes slapping against the pavement as you started sprinting toward him.
"Izanaaaaaa~" you shouted joyfully, your arms open wide for a bear hug.
Izana, who was minding his own business, clearly wasn’t prepared for the sudden attack. You collided with him full-force, and the two of you tumbled to the ground in a heap, much to his surprise. You were always prone to faceplanting, after all.
"M/n-nii, get off. You're too heavy. Have you been eating too many sweets?" Izana grumbled, trying to push you off, but you weren’t letting go.
"HEY! I’m not that heavy!" you protested, sticking out your tongue. "And FYI, I’m on a diet, right Shin?!" you called out over your shoulder, fully expecting a little backup.
Shinichiro, who had been walking behind you, barely glanced up. "Yeah, a diet based on sweets. M/n, if you continue like this, you’ll get diabetes," he replied flatly.
THE DISRESPECT—how dare he? You were done.
"You little shits!" you yelled, suddenly finding your second wind. "HEY, COME BACK HERE! DON'T TRY TO RUN AWAY!" you chased after both Shinichiro and Izana, who, predictably, started sprinting away in a vain attempt to escape your wrath.
What followed was chaos. You tackled them both in a fit of laughter and tickled them mercilessly. Despite their attempts to fight back, they were no match for your relentless giggling assault. You weren't just tickling them for fun, though—this was revenge. For the disrespect you had just endured.
And, of course, in the middle of all the chaos, you somehow managed to finish off every single sweet you had bought earlier. You couldn't just let them go stale, after all. It would’ve been a crime. The sugar high was real, but at least you were content.
As the three of you lay on the ground, exhausted from your "battle," Shinichiro shot you a sideways glance, half-smiling despite himself. "You’re lucky you’re cute, M/n."
Izana, still out of breath, shot you a look, his usual smug demeanor softened by a rare, amused smile. "You’re impossible, but I guess that’s why we like you."
You grinned, rolling onto your back to look up at the sky. "Yeah, I know. I’m a handful."
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
"What do you think I should get Manjiro for his birthday?"
"Meh, probably some food. He eats a lot now, just like you."
You threw him the stinky eye before focusing back on the journal you were reading, hearing a chuckle from him.
You had been enjoying the quiet closeness, with the two of you lounging together in the room. Shinichiro had been tinkering with some of the smaller parts of a bike, while you sat nearby, half-watching him, half-distracted by the soft glow of the shop’s lights. The air was thick with the hum of machinery and the smell of oil and metal, a scent that had come to comfort you in these moments.
The conversation had shifted to Mikey’s birthday the next day. You’d both been planning to surprise him with a special gift, and Shinichiro had been working late on a custom bike, something Mikey would never expect. The idea had been his—he’d poured all his energy into creating something special for Mikey, as a way to show how much he cared. And, of course, you were there to support him, offering moral support and keeping him company as he worked.
But then, a shift occurred. As you sat on the couch, you began to feel a different kind of tension build between you and Shinichiro. His movements had become slower, his gaze on you growing more intense. You could feel the space between you closing, the connection between you two undeniable. With a slight smirk, he stood, wiping his hands with a rag, before walking over to where you sat. The way he moved—confident, yet somehow teasing—had your heart racing.
“What are you reading?” Shinichiro asked, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.
You’d been so focused on your journal that you hadn’t noticed him getting so close. The journal, innocently open to an article on bodybuilding, seemed almost out of place in the atmosphere. You had to fight back a laugh at the absurdity of it.
His eyes scanned the pages, and you saw his gaze narrow, his brows furrowing. Then, a chuckle. “Didn’t think you were into this.”
His words caught you off guard, and you turned to face him, noticing the playful pout on his lips. You laughed, brushing it off. "Pfft, don’t worry, Shin. I still prefer your slim figure over all of this."
At that, you felt him come even closer, his presence almost overwhelming. He leaned in, his breath soft against your ear as he whispered, "Really?"
You couldn’t resist. His closeness was too much, the warmth of his body intoxicating. “I also prefer your short black hair, your eyes, your smell, your hands… your lips. Everything about you,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper.
In that instant, the world seemed to fade away as he leaned in closer, almost closing the gap between your lips. The anticipation was palpable, your heart hammering in your chest. Everything was perfect. Until...
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed from the front of the shop, followed by the creak of the door.
Before either of you could move, the voices cut through the moment. "Ew, why every time I enter this fucking shop?" Takeomi's voice rang out, followed by Wakasa's deadpan remark, "Might as well turn this into a porn set."
You froze, feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment. Shinichiro groaned in frustration, clearly annoyed at being interrupted once again.
You pulled away from Shinichiro, your heart still racing. "Hey, guys. What a surprise to see you all here,” you said with an awkward laugh, trying to recover from the moment that was just shattered.
“Why is it that you stop us every time?” Shinichiro said, his voice now tinged with irritation.
Wakasa shot Shinichiro an incredulous look. “Maybe because you should be doing this shit at home? If we knew you two were gonna try to fuck every time we walked in, we wouldn’t have even bothered trying to help you get together."
You could feel the awkward tension hanging in the air, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. At this point, you were more embarrassed than anything.
While the others bickered, you shifted your attention to Seishu, who had been quietly standing at the back of the group. He caught your eye and came over with a nervous smile.
"Hi, M/n-san. Sorry to disturb you," Seishu said, bowing slightly.
You couldn’t help but smile at his politeness. "Don’t worry about it, kid. I’ve told you before, you can just call me ‘nii.’ Everyone else does."
"Sorry... M/n-nii," Seishu replied, the apology still lingering on his tongue as you ruffled his hair, surprised by how soft it felt between your fingers.
"Anyways, what’s up? You guys need something?" you asked, glancing back at the rest of the group.
"We came to pick up some parts," Wakasa said, his tone still tinged with annoyance but his usual calmness returning. "Takeomi’s bike needs a new tire, and I need some tweaks done to mine."
Takeomi grunted in agreement, though his eyes were still rolling from the earlier exchange. "Yeah, yeah, we don’t need to see that again. Can you finish up quickly? I have somewhere to be."
Shinichiro sighed, clearly used to the dynamic. "I’m almost done. Just give me a minute to wrap things up with the bike parts." He turned back to his work, ignoring the teasing glances and comments from his friends.
You looked at Seishu, whose wide eyes were still filled with curiosity as he scanned the shop. "You sure you’re not just here to avoid them?" you joked, nudging him lightly.
He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. "Well... they’re kind of hard to deal with when they’re like this."
"Tell me about it," you muttered under your breath, giving him a knowing glance.
Wakasa walked over to one of the shelves, running his fingers along some bike parts, his sharp eyes still on you and Shinichiro. "So, how's everything going with you two? Not to pry, but we haven't really heard much lately... since you’re so busy with each other," he teased, his voice playful but with a hint of curiosity.
Shinichiro, who had been focused on tightening a bolt, shot him a glare. "You’re the ones who keep barging in, so don’t act like it’s our fault."
"Yeah, yeah," Wakasa waved him off, clearly unfazed by the retort. "You know you’re like a walking PDA now, right? It’s getting hard to ignore."
You crossed your arms, leaning against the counter with a smirk. "Shin’s right. If you didn’t barge in every time, maybe we’d actually get some time to ourselves."
Takeomi chuckled, walking over to the window. "Is that how it is now? So desperate for privacy?" He raised an eyebrow. "How cute."
"Shut up," you shot back, playfully rolling your eyes. "We’re not that bad."
Seishu, ever the innocent one, piped up. "I think it’s nice. You two seem really happy together." He smiled softly, his youthful enthusiasm bringing some lightness to the atmosphere.
You smiled back at him, ruffling his hair again. "Thanks, kid. You’re sweet."
Wakasa let out a low chuckle as he took a seat nearby. "Well, as long as you're both happy, I guess we can't complain." He exchanged a glance with Takeomi, and the two of them shared a silent, knowing look.
You caught the glance and raised an eyebrow. "What’s going on now?"
Takeomi shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing, just thinking. You're both lucky, you know. Not many people get to find someone they click with this well. Don’t mess it up."
The sudden seriousness of his words made you pause, and for a moment, you and Shinichiro shared a brief look—one that carried more weight than any teasing or banter. It was a moment of understanding, of silent acknowledgment of what you both had, something real and solid.
"We won’t," you replied softly, your voice genuine. "I promise."
Wakasa, sensing the shift in tone, stood up and clapped his hands together. "Alright, enough sappy stuff. We’re here for the parts, remember?" He gestured toward the counter. "Are you almost done, Shin?"
Shinichiro gave him a thumbs up. "Just about. Stop distracting me."
The atmosphere lightened again as Shinichiro finished the final adjustments on the bikes. You stood by the counter, your mind still lingering on the conversation, but you could feel the warmth of his presence beside you, comforting and grounding you.
As the last of the bikes were ready, Takeomi and Wakasa grabbed the parts they needed, exchanging some final banter with Shinichiro before heading toward the door.
Seishu waved to you as he followed them out. "Take care, M/n-nii! And Shin!" he called over his shoulder.
"Take care, kid," you replied with a grin.
He gave a sheepish smile, nodding before disappearing out the door with the others.
Shinichiro let out a sigh of relief and turned to you, the playful edge to his voice returning. "Finally, some peace and quiet."
You laughed, walking over to him. "Yeah, you’re right. But I’m still glad they came by." You reached up to adjust the collar of his shirt, feeling the soft fabric beneath your fingers.
He grinned at you, his eyes filled with warmth. "I know. It’s just... they have a way of showing up at the worst times." He gently rests his hands on your waist, tugging you closer to his body.
You leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against his cheek. "Well, I’m just glad I have you."
Shinichiro smiled, his expression softening. "And I’m glad I have you, too."
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
The night before Mikey's birthday, you and Shinichiro had decided to spend it in his shop. The small, dimly lit room had always been a cozy spot for the two of you, away from the chaos of everyday life. The night was supposed to be a peaceful one, but as always, things never went according to plan.
The room felt impossibly small once the door clicked shut behind you, but neither of you noticed as the lantern’s golden glow grew warmer, dancing across Shinichiro’s lean frame. The only sound was the soft drip of oil from the lamp, punctuated by your own racing heartbeat.
You kicked off your shoes, and Shinichiro followed suit, each discarded item a small punctuation in the quiet. He shed his jacket next, revealing the pale sweep of his collarbone, and you found your gaze lingering there a moment too long. Your jacket slipped from your shoulders, the cool air of the room sending a tiny shiver down your spine—one that the nearness of Shinichiro quickly chased away.
You both sank onto the thin futon pushed into the corner, the rough fibers creaking beneath you. He sat close, so close that you could feel the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt. Your knee brushed his calf; he caught your eye and offered a slow, teasing smile.
Reaching out, you let your fingers trail along the curve of his arm, memorizing the faint strength there. Shinichiro’s breath hitched, and you leaned in, brushing your lips against his neck. He leaned his head back, exposing the soft hollow at the base, and you pressed a gentle kiss there, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your lips.
A low exhale escaped him—half laughter, half surprise—and he tilted his head so you could meet his gaze. His dark eyes glimmered in the lantern light, full of something you’d never dared hope to see so clearly. You traced your thumb along his jawline, each subtle touch sending a spark of warmth through your chest.
He closed the distance, not rushing, but with intent, pressing his lips to yours. The first brush was featherlight, tentative; then, as you wrapped an arm around his neck, it deepened, soft and insistent. Your other hand slipped to the small of his back, pulling him flush against you. You could feel the subtle press of his body—flat planes and gentle curves—meld against your own.
Your breath mingled, quick and shallow, and your lips parted to welcome his tongue in the softest of explorations. Shinichiro’s hand slid from your back to your hair, threading through the strands as if anchoring himself to the moment. You trembled against him, a delicious tension coiling in your belly as your bodies fit together so naturally, so perfectly.
He broke the kiss, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed. The world beyond those four walls—bikes, tools, the late hour—fell away until only the two of you remained, wrapped in the lantern’s glow. Every inhale brought his scent: faint sandalwood, a hint of engine oil, and something uniquely, achingly him.
You let out a soft laugh of contentment, and he smiled against your lips, pressing a tender kiss there. The space between you was charged, quiet but alive with unspoken promises. Outside, in the shop below, a loose floorboard creaked—an ordinary sound that jolted you both back to reality. Shinichiro’s grip on your hand tightened, and you exchanged a look full of equal parts exhilaration and alertness.
He sat up, already reaching for his jeans. You followed suit, quickly tugging your shirt back on and slipping on your shoes. Neither of you said a word as you grabbed the closest tools—a wrench each—and made your way quietly downstairs, footsteps barely creaking over the old wooden floor.
From the shadows of the back hallway, you both peered into the shop.
Two figures moved under the low lighting—Kazutora and Baji. They were trying to stay quiet as they rolled a sleek black CB250T across the floor. You blinked in disbelief. That was the bike. The one Shinichiro had spent the last month fixing up, repainting, and tuning. The one he was going to give Mikey for his birthday tomorrow.
Your blood ran cold.
“What the hell are they doing?” you whispered, heart pounding.
Shinichiro didn’t answer. He stepped out from the shadows, wrench hanging loosely from his hand.
“What do you think you're doing?” he said, voice firm, calm.
Kazutora straightened, brows furrowing. “We’re taking this for Mikey. It’s his birthday tomorrow.”
Shinichiro’s grip on the wrench tightened. “You don’t even know what you’re doing… That bike was my gift for him.”
“Then he’ll still get it,” Kazutora said, smile stretched unnaturally on his face. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that you’re stealing from me, Kazutora.”
You stepped closer beside Shinichiro, wrench raised just in case. “This is wrong. You both need to leave.”
Baji hesitated, clearly nervous, glancing between the two of you and the bike. “Kazutora, let’s just go. We didn’t know—”
“We can’t go back now!” Kazutora barked, sudden rage twisting his features. “If we leave now, this all means nothing!”
He snapped. You didn’t see it coming.
In one swift movement, Kazutora grabbed a heavy iron pipe from the floor nearby and lunged forward. The first blow came fast—metal cracking against Shinichiro’s skull. You screamed.
“Shin!” You dropped down beside him as he collapsed to the floor, wrench slipping from his fingers. His body hit with a sickening thud. Blood was already staining the floorboards.
You barely had time to process what had just happened when Kazutora turned to you, pipe still raised.
“Don’t!” you shouted, trying to raise your own wrench—
But you were too slow.
The pipe connected with the side of your head. Blinding pain surged through your skull before your vision blurred, your legs giving out beneath you.
The last thing you heard before darkness swallowed you was Baji’s horrified voice:
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you accompany your best friend and her sexy older brother on their family vacation
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: ayato kamisato x afab!reader
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut/modern au (minors + ageless blogs dni!! you’ll be blocked)
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dom!ayato, masturbation, groping, oral f!receiving, cum swallowing, pet names (darling, princess), praise, vaginal sex, overstimulation, implied breeding kink, creampie
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.7k+
𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐓𝐒. ayaka was constantly taking you on shopping sprees and to the hottest clubs, everything paid for by her. you’d think that all of the above were your favourite parts about hanging out with ayaka but it wasn’t. what was even better than the money was getting to be near your best friend’s hot older brother.
ayato was the most gorgeous man you’ve ever laid eyes on. on top of being sexy he was obviously loaded like his sister. even more so because he had inherited the kamisato’s company. you’d give anything just to have an excuse to be around him. so when ayaka invited you to join them on a family vacation you jumped at the opportunity.
“want something to drink?” ayaka hums, standing up from the pool chair next to yours. raising your sunglasses from where you’re tanning, you give her a little nod. “‘kay, be right back,” the girls hums, slipping away in her cute baby blue bikini.
you watch her go until she disappears off to the bar. eventually your eyes trail back to the scenery around you. this resort was beautiful. you couldn’t even imagine how much the siblings paid so you could all stay here. as beautiful as the hotel was… the most interesting sight was in the water.
ayato sits in the pool a couple feet away from you. it should be a crime how effortlessly pretty he is with the sun shining against his pale skin. you don’t even realize you’re staring until his eyes meet yours and he sends you a smile.
feeling hot in the face, you give him a wave in return. there’s no way he’s teasing you on purpose. ayato’s far too polite and well mannered to actually try and get you riled up but you swear sometimes… it feels like torture. he’s barely given you any sort of attention and your hearts pounding and your thighs are subconsciously rubbing together.
“hey babe! got you a martini!” ayaka suddenly announces her return, making you jump.
you bite your lip a little before abruptly climbing to your feet. “i um, i think i’m actually going to head back to my room. think i might have gotten too much sun” you fib. nevertheless ayaka buys it. giving you a sympathetic look, your friend tells you to call her if you need anything before you scamper away from the pool.
you feel like you’re unable to breathe until you finally reach your hotel room and shut the door behind you. shit, that was embarrassing. a single look from ayato had you feeling so hot that you had to run away. it was unlikely that he’d figure out that was the reason why you over but it was humiliating nonetheless.
sighing, you flip down on your cushy bed still in your swimsuit. this little crush of yours was getting out of hand. you could barely control yourself at this point. you were so unable to keep your urges in check that you found yourself slipping your fingers into your swim bottoms after laying there for a few minutes.
ayato plagues your thoughts as your fingers rub circles over your clit. how did a ceo find time to work out to have a body like THAT? you swear you almost fainted when he came out in nothing but swim trunks. god, and when he came out of the pool for a moment to talk to his sister dripping wet… well that was enough to have you dripping wet too.
soft moans slip past your lips as you eventually slip two fingers inside your pussy. you wished they were his fingers. they were so much longer than yours. even better. you wished it was ayato’s cock stuffing you full.
just as you’re creating an image in your head of him on top of you, shoving his dick inside of you, there’s a knock on the door. the sudden noise makes you jump. you’re even more mortified when his voice echoes through the walls. “[y/n], i came to check to see if you were alright”.
scrambling to readjust your swim bottoms, you jump up to answer the door. “i-i um hi?” you greet, opening the door to be met with ayato on the other side. as you spoke, you prayed there was no sign as to what you were just up to.
ayato smiles softly back at you, making you feel a little safe. “hi, how are you feeling? you disappeared all of a sudden”. trying your best to mirror his grin, you assure him you just needed to lay down for a bit. “that so? anything i can do to help?”.
immediately you shake your head. “n-no, i’m fine. thank you though”.
honestly you expected him to excuse himself then but he doesn’t. in fact, ayato takes the liberty of stepping inside your room and shutting the door behind himself. “really? because based on what i heard while i was outside… you could use some assistance” ayato continues, backing you up against the bed until you’re tripping back on to the mattress.
your lips part to speak but before you can he’s kicking your legs apart and running a finger along your clothed slit. “did you really leave the pool because you needed to touch yourself?” ayato chuckles as he earns a soft moan from you from rubbing circles over your clit. “should have invited me along”.
“a-ayato” you stammer say he pulls your swim bottoms down your legs. this is all so much to process. sure, it was like your dreams were to coming true but this was still your best friend’s older brother. this was completely different from just fantasizing about him.
any protests you might have had are put to rest by ayato. interrupting you a second time, one of his hands reaches to grope your tits through your bikini top. “i’m not naive, [y/n]. know you want this as bad as i do” he coos. “let go, let me make you feel good”.
he’s far too persuasive. that was probably why he was so successful. any reservations you may have had are quickly forgotten about as you nod up at him. “p-please, fuck me. need it so bad”.
ayato’s lips curl up victoriously before he gets down on to his knees. tugging you to the end of the bed by your legs, he immediately places a kiss on your clit. “very good. you’re in good hands, darling”.
next thing you know he’s lapping up your folds. “already so wet. could probably sink right into you” ayato hums before sucking on your sensitive nub. “but i still wanna taste you first. bet you taste so sweet”.
the only reply you can offer his a moan as he enjoys his meal. eventually your fingers find sanctuary in his light blue hair. every occasional lick you give his licks a tug, earning a groan from the man slurping up your juices.
you already knew you wouldn’t last long after you’ve already been teasing yourself but when ayato puts his fingers to use it’s over. the moment he shoves a couple inside and curls them against your walls you’re cumming with a loud whine.
“perfect” ayato murmurs, drinking up all your release before raising his head. “i was right, as always” he remarks, tongue swirling around his fingers that are decorated with your cream. “you’re delicious”.
your face heats up with embarrassment but that doesn’t stop you from wanting more. you need to feel him. you need him to stretch you out and, as if he could read your mind, ayato indulges you.
tugging his cock out of his swim trunks, ayato gives his rock hard member a few pumps before aiming it at your entrance. “can’t be too long, princess. otherwise ayaka is going to wonder where we both went” he says, pushing his head inside. “oh god, you’re still so tight”.
his moans are even prettier than you imagined. they echo in your ears as ayato slides his entire length inside. you almost feel bad for cutting his noises off with your own when he reaches deep inside you. ayato doesn’t seem to mind as he rests his forehead against yours.
“feel amazing. like you were made for me” he says, pulling out a little only to thrust back into you. “knew i was right to tell ayaka to invite you on this trip. been wanting this for so long”.
you mewl as he sets a steady pace. it amazes you how quickly he locates that special spot inside. ayato ensures you hit that spot with every single rut of his hips. every single time he does so your moans grow louder but he’s quick to swallow them by pressing his lips against yours.
“so pretty, so good f’me” ayato groans as his tongue dances against your own. “made a mess in my mouth but i want you to do that around my cock this time. think you can do that, princess?”.
when he breaks the kiss, you nod quickly. you intend on keeping that promise too. you can already feel yourself growing close. with a choked moan you let the man above know that you’re almost at your breaking point. this seems to please ayato as he licks the skin of your neck.
“that’s good. can cum whenever you’re ready. go ahead. cum for me my sweet princess”.
as he talks he picks up his speed. with one last sharp snap of his hips you clamp down on his dick. when he pulls out there’s a white ring decorating his base. that spurs ayato on. he knows you're sensitive but he can’t stop until he reaches his high too. thankfully you want that just as much.
letting him use your pussy until his movements start to stutter, at some point you feel hot ropes of his seed shoot into your cunt. that alone causes you to moan. you’re so full. this becomes especially true when ayato almost reflexively fucks his cum deeper inside.
“you did amazing” ayato hums, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. “𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎 𝐖𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐇𝐌𝐌?”.
request from @the-misterious-vampire: For context the reader is a matra as well and they go on a night stroll to see if scholar are doing illegal stuff and things got to a point where Cyno Fuck reader against a King Deshret temple (no anal tho that's nasty 🫣) if it's okay with you also Cyno brainrot is strong 🤭
CW: NSFW, inappropriate use of vision (u get fucked by his possessed spirit kinda?), is this considered monster fucking idk, public smut(?), unprotected sex (WRAP IT), reader can be seen as afab or amab (no descriptions of anal but if you’re amab then yes), top!cyno, bottom!reader, creampies, no established relationship, reader has a dendro vision, happens BEFORE sumeru’s archon quest and before cyno leaves
being the general’s right hand had its perks. you had it all. respect, power, and a hot boss, what more could you want? honestly, you wanted him, but at this point, it was not in the picture. work was the most important thing to cyno, and he did very little to risk his position. so you would just have to keep your little thoughts to yourself.
however, being able to watch the night sky with cyno was something you’d never get tired of. while hunting scholars was written in the job description, being able to journey throughout the desert and see the thousands of galaxies and stars in the night sky was probably one of the best parts of your job.
you shuddered a bit as a cool breeze ran up your spine. you looked at the general’s back, who was walking slightly in front of you. he wore less than you and yet he didn’t look bothered by the conditions. must be from years of work. it kind of inspired you to do your best to keep up with him.
“how are you doing?” he looks over his shoulder to look at your form, slightly being caught staring. i mean he has strangely enhanced senses so it didn’t surprise you he could tell you were staring.
“i’m fine. how are you doing though? you barely have any clothing on and it’s freezing out here,” you question as he huffs a chuckle. smiling as he faces forward again.
“many years of hunting scholars in the desert forces your body to adapt. while i still feel cold, i’ve learned to force the feeling down in case i need to chase in pursuit,” he answers as you click your tongue and nod. you scan the desert to your sides, looking at the giant pyramids in the distance and the enclosing camp that held the scholars you were after. his tracking skills were incredible, even with no footprints or signs of movement, he was able to find anyone within a couple of hours.
he stops suddenly and puts out a hand to stop you as well. you summon your sword silently, readying yourself as he quietly flashes you hand signs. "fatui present. go to formation b" it says as you understand and he instantly disappears. you push your mask over your jaw and rush to the opposite side of the camp that he was headed to. this is what you tended to do with him. while one of you approaches the camp for them to see, the other hides in the shadows to provide ambush assistance. or in this case, you deal with the scholars while he deals with the bigger threats.
you watch as cyno approaches the fatui and scholars, summoning his polearm and swinging it to warm up his muscles. you watch him crack his neck before the fatui are standing up in response to his presence.
“it’s the general!” one yells as the scholars look as if they’re about to shit themselves. they rush to their tents, hoping to gather what they have researched before running away.
you didn’t allow that to happen, sneaking into the camp and into the tents to knock out and bind the scholars down. you did this before hearing a “judgement is upon you!”
‘oh damn they messed up now’ you internally chuckle to yourself as you drag out the bound scholars to see cyno’s possessed self fighting the fatui. you made sure the scholars couldn’t escape before summoning your weapon to aid him.
with your supportive kit and his aggressive approach, you’ve defeated the fatui in record time. watching as they disappear before your eyes. you look over at cyno’s form. you had always thought this look was so… interesting. while it wasn’t too different from his normal look, the giant claws and headdress he wore just made him look so badass. it kind of turned you on, wondering how it would feel to get fucked when he’s like that. plus with his panting and sweat glistening in the light of the torches, he looked so good.
“are the scholars ready to be returned?” he asks and it breaks your trance of thought. you cough and scolded yourself for thinking of something so lewd. you turn your head away from him, trying to hide the heat that rose to your cheeks. cyno approaches the knocked out and bound scholars. checking over your crafty work.
“y-yes. i was able to tie them up before they could escape. they should be picked up by our forces within the evening,” you say as you press your finger to your ear, turning on your akasha to inform your subordinates.
“perfect. let’s head to our clean-up route and then head back to aaru village for the night,” he says as he finishes his inspection of the scholars before getting up and turning back to you. you nod and follow him outside of the camp.
you’re back to watching the stars above, trying to name each constellation you know and trying to determine your position. cyno looks over his shoulder at you, smiling as you look like you have no care in the world. he always appreciated your presence. it wasn’t hostile, but could be intimidating if need be. plus you didn't seem to be afraid of him. nervous at times, but for cyno that was normal. you treated him as a general but also a friend. he couldn't deny that he was in awe of you. you were talented and beautiful, which he couldn’t deny. it just seemed you had a hard time staying focused or maintaining eye contact with him.
he wasn’t stupid, he knew of your feelings for him. while he felt the same, he wasn’t the most experienced in the romance field and didn’t know how it would pass with his work. it was also quite entertaining watching you try to deny staring at him.
“where are we,” it wasn’t a question, more of a test of your knowledge as he grinned. you look back at him before humming in contemplation.
“we’re about forty paces south of the camp we just exited, about ten paces north-west from the edge of the mausoleum of king deshret, and four thousand and seventeen paces approximately from aaru village,” you said as he nodded and hummed.
“very good. i’m glad that i can trust your judgment,” he smiles at you and you feel your heart skip a beat. you gulp and rub the back of your neck.
“hah- i bet it’s no where near as good as yours sir!” you nervously say as his eyes narrow and a smirk appears on his face. gods you were just too cute to not tease.
“don’t doubt yourself ____, doubt will lead to your downfall. trust yourself and your commanding officer alright?” he says as your eyes sparkled with the moonlight.
“y-yes sir!” you declared as cyno’s eyes softened. he slows down to a pace, and you realize how close to the pyramid you are, looking up at the marvelous structure.
you don’t realize he has stopped moving before you almost bump into him. he puts out an arm to stop you once again and you think he spots a threat but relax when you see the look on his face. his eyes are soft as he looks at you, head tilted slightly to the side and he studies your face before speaking.
“you seem distracted. in fact, you’ve seemed distracted for the past couple of hours. something on your mind?” oh he knows, but you don’t know that he knows. he hides his smirk just in case it’s not what he’s actually thinking. that would almost perverted of him if his initial thoughts were incorrect.
you gulp and blink a few times before rubbing the back of your neck, something he noticed you do when you're nervous or embarrassed. but you really only did it when you were talking with him.
“it’s nothing, sir. i apologize for being distracted. i’ll be more vigilant from now on,” you nod your head at him to show your sincerity, but he narrows his eyes at you.
“are you sure? you’ve been staring at me quite an awful lot tonight. almost like you have something to hide. you wouldn’t hide anything from your commanding officer now would you?” he slowly walks you back, your back hitting the pyramid wall as you feel cornered. you’re trying to keep the blush down, but your cheeks feel hot against the cold desert night’s air.
“s-sir this seems rather inappropriate… s-shouldn’t we get back to our—mpmh!!” you don’t get to finish your sentence before a hand is grabbing your chin and lips are pressed against your own. you hesitate for a moment before relaxing and leaning into the kiss.
he presses you further into the pyramid’s sides and your hands fall back onto the sandy material to help steady yourself. you whimper into his mouth silently as he bites on your bottom lip. he leans back and almost groans at the site. your leaning against the pyramid, cheeks blossomed with heat and you’re slightly panting.
you blink up at him, eyes innocently tracing his features. your knees already felt weak as he readjusts his grip on your jaw and strokes your cheek, a grin coming on his face.
“want to tell me what’s been distracting you now?” he says and you swear his eyes are glowing red. he's drinking in your quivering form as you try to look away but his hand on your jaw doesn’t allow you to. “don’t try to look away. tell me what it is,”
“i… your possessed spirit… sir…” you close your eyes, not wanting to see his response. cyno’s eyes widened for just a second, being caught off guard.
“what about it?” he asked, you peaked one eye open to see he didn’t have an angry expression. one more of curiosity than anything.
“i-i thought of you… fucking me while in that state…” your voice is barely above a whisper. it’s ironic is it not? one of the captains of the matra, the most powerful legion in sumeru, being submissive and shy due to their commanding officer. it didn’t feel real, but the embarrassment you felt did. shame penetrating every nerve in your body.
he doesn’t answer for a moment, and you close your eyes to prepare for punishment, degradation, a smack to the face. but it never comes. all you hear is a small chuckle and the hand on your jaw is removed. you open your eyes again to see him holding his vision in his hand.
“you really aren’t the innocent person i thought you were. i thought you were just thinking of kissing me. not fucking me while i dawn my possession. naughty thing aren't you?” he says as he leans over you, lips inches away from your own. you hadn't realized how your knees had buckled and allowed him to seem much taller than before. “but i do suppose you did well with that camp back there. perhaps i should give you a reward for your efforts,”
you can’t help that your eyes sparkle in excitement as he licks his lips and presses them against your own. eating up all the small noises that escape your mouth. his cock is starting to harden as he places his vision back in its place. his hands start to undo your uniform, exposing your bare skin to the cool desert night air as he never breaks the kiss. your hands cup his cheeks as you deepen the kiss. you have to breathe through your nose just so he won't stop.
you moan into his mouth as his hands come to your hips and readjust you on the ledge of the pyramid. you wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls away to look at you. you're panting and your eyes looked so desperate for him to do anything. he can't deny that his eyes may reflect the same emotion.
"you're so cute like this," he grips your chin and you shudder in anticipation... and also from the small breeze that brushes against your chest. he smiles and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. "let's get you prepped, this is an interesting turn of events for sure,"
he grips the waistband of your pants and slowly pulls them down. you lift up your hips to help him wiggle it down to your ankles as your underwear is the only thing left. a small stain of precum lingers on them as he chuckles. he places a finger against your warm sex. you sigh and grip his hair slightly. he playfully bites your cheek before finally pulling down your underwear. he feels his own cock twitch in his pants at the site in front of him.
you're panting, covering your mouth with your forearm in embarrassment. your sex is leaking and he can't help how he licks his lips. he kneels to the ground and grasps your legs, pulling them closer and placing kisses along your inner thighs. he starts to bite down on the skin and narrows his eyes in amusement as you jolt a bit. he blows gently onto your sex and you quiver. he laughs again and presses the softest kiss to where you really need him. your hips jut forward to try to get any kind of pressure applied to them, but he's already pulling away.
"please sir... stop teasing so much," you beg and his eyes almost glow in the dim light. he nods and hums in agreement as he latches his mouth onto your sex finally, giving a simple suck to test your reaction. you squeak out and bite onto your forearm. he finally begins to pleasure you fully as his tongue swirls and licks up all the precum you leak. his pace is slow at first, building a steady pace and taking short breaks to let his mouth detach from your sex with a 'pop.' your hand tangles into his hair and pulls as his hands squeeze your thighs in pleasure. he can feel his cock begging to be touched, but cyno is disciplined, so he ignores it.
"hah- cyno- sir... it feels so good," your head falls back when he slurps at you. his tongue slowly slides to your hole, tongue prodding it as you whine. he brings his fingers up to your mouth before saying "suck."
you do as he says with no hesitance. his tongue never stops swirling as he brings his now-slicked hands down to your hole. he slowly enters one finger into you as your back arches. you moan louder as he continues to suck you and finger you. his eyes are on you the entire time, studying how you react to every little thing you do. you're still gripping onto his headdress as your other arm stables your body on the pyramid. your hips are bucking into cyno's mouth as you feel the knot in your stomach bubble up.
he can tell from your expression that the pleasure is overwhelming. your mewls become louder as he speeds up his pace. he adds another into you, you gasp his name at the stretch and bite onto your lip. he begins to scissor you, trying to prep you the best he can and soon his fingers brush against a certain spot deep within you and you gasp again, your body now arching over cyno and both hands come to grasp onto his head. "r-right there! please!" you pled as he smirks. he continues to abuse the spot over and over while sucking gently still. he watches as sinful sounds bless his ears. thankfully you two were far away from people, so he did not stop you in your chase of pleasure or your delightful noises. you let yourself be consumed by the fireworks of pleasure sparking in your stomach.
cyno watches as your orgasm crashes over you. sweeping you away as your hips jerk before his hand and mouth become soaked in your cum. your voice spikes and your head falls back as you cry out cyno's name, chanting it. cyno helps you ride out your orgasm. slurping away any cum that escapes you. you're gritting your teeth as possibly the most overwhelming orgasm slowly dwindles out.
when you finally come down from your high, you slump back against the pyramid. cyno laughs and stands before you. "i hope you're not too exhausted for the main portion?" he says as his eyes flicker to his own cock and then back to your eyes. you gulp and shake your head.
"no sir," you simply state, still catching your breath as he grins and pushes his pants down just enough to free his cock. he takes a deep breath before you see the electro swirl around him. his headdress and arms glow as wraps surround his arms. large claws emerge from the wraps as a growl howls from his new form. cyno's eyes are now both covered as he looks in your direction.
"cyno?" you ask as he smiles, his large claws pick you up with little to no effort as the erotic scene in front of you fuels the heat in your stomach once again.
"are you ready?" he asks, removing one hand for a moment just to move his cock in place. you nod as you whimper when the tip of his cock presses against your hole. he slowly edges himself inside as the uncomfortable stretch of his cock hurts. "tell me when i can move..." cyno's voice is surprisingly soft. while cyno can be a mean lover, it's only a cover-up. cyno is soft and compassionate, and your pleasure means more to him than his own.
you wrap your arms around his neck again as you slowly sink further onto his cock. your whimpers only turn him on more as he kisses your lips to try to distract you. his lips are soft against your own, slow and sentimental. his claws hold you steady as you finally bottom out. he hisses as he can feel you clamping down on him.
"breathe," he says as you shakily let out a breath and he can feel you ease up on his cock. he kisses your cheek as you finally nod. "move please..."
his thrusts start out slow, so as to not hurt or overwhelm you. however, the drag of his cock in you makes your mind go blank. you scratch at his back as he picks up the pace. you moan loudly at a particular thrust that makes your eyes open wide. your eyes are met with his glowing purple headdress. he feels you clamp around him again as he meets your eyes and grunts. they reflect his own lust, and both of you know just how lewd this interaction is. the thought just fueling your drives to continue. he kisses you once again, swallowing your cries and whimpers.
"you feel so good... we- should have done this sooner..." he grunts against you, hiding in your neck as you nod. he kisses and bites along your neck, hearing the almost pornographic sounds of his cock ramming into you is all the both of you can hear. you both become wrapped up in the sensations of it all that you're almost disappointed when you feel your orgasm coming up. you didn't want this to end.
"getting... close..." you say as he nods. he keeps the same pace, however, also wanting to drag it out as long as possible. however, when you feel him brush against the spot from earlier, you cant help but whine. "wanna cum..."
"then cum, no one's stopping you, captain," he says as he finally picks up the pace a little more. the title makes you shudder as he chases his own orgasm while you continue to claw at his back. your lips are near his ear as you whimper his name mixing in his own title. the pleads and begs send heat right to cyno's cock as he gulps and bites onto your exposed shoulder. "cum... cum right now..." his voice is raspy and dominant. he almost sounded like he growled at you.
you reach in between you and cyno and touch your sex to help you, and it finally brings you over the edge as you most likely draw blood on cyno's back. cries of his name are loud as he helps you through your orgasm once again, his own exploding during the middle of yours. his cum stuffs you, filling you to the brim as you both hold onto each other.
the moments after are silent. the only thing you can hear is the ringing in your ears and the panting coming from both you and cyno. you can't believe you just did that. neither can cyno, however there isn't an ounce of regret from either of you.
once both of you come down, you watch as the wraps and glowing aura dissipate. he sets you down on the pyramid as he leans over you. you both are trying to catch your breath before you do anything else.
"was that... good enough?" he huffs as you nod, bringing his mouth to yours and kissing it. his hand comes up to cup your cheek as you smile against him.
"it was more than good enough. i didn't want to stop," you chuckle as he smiles. his hair is messy and his back definitely hurts with the wind brushing small grains of sand along the stretch marks. he looks to the sky and realizes that there's a storm brewing. he can't even enjoy this moment for a little bit longer, can he? he sighs before looking back at you.
"let's get out of here, there's a storm coming and I don't want to have to deal with camping in ruins," he says as he helps you dress. there wasn't much to clean either of you up, so you would just have to worry about that later.
as you both finally reach aaru village and the house you were both temporarily stationed in. cyno helps you finally clean yourself both off properly. he places kisses along your knuckles and faces as you drag him to the couch to let you tend to his wounds (aka the scratch marks left by you). the rest of the night fades on as you settle into each other's arms, finally able to relish in each other's feelings without any hesitation.
author’s note;
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AHHHHH I LOVE THIS SMMMMMMM. fantasies fulfilled. he's so hot i want to just leave hickies all over him.
