mykee

#21 # mainly reblogs ; AR 58

[punxieluv]

REBLOGS MAINLY!

📌 Separate Fiction from Reality.

About Me:

Nothing, but I'm not a minor. I just need to read and escape for a while.

Works Posted

— You, of course | Diluc R.

— You kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath | Manjiro S.

— Just, who are you? | Sylus Qin

[yutaerina]

Baby!Yuji realizing his resemblance to dad!Sukuna.

°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔

​You noticed that six-year-old Yuji had been looking in the mirror a lot lately. He was constantly studying his face and playing with his hair. As he did the exact same thing right now, a fond smile touched your lips. You walked up behind him, resting your hands gently on his small shoulders.

"Looks like someone really loves looking in the mirror."

He turned to you and smiled.

"Mommy! I look like Daddy!" he said.

"Ah, so that's why. You were discovering how much you look like your dad."

"Look, my eyes and my hair... just like his!"

His excitement made you giggle. You ruffled his hair and kissed his rosy cheeks.

"Yes, baby. You're a mini version of your dad."

​Lately, everyone who saw him kept saying how much he looked like his father. The boy had heard it so many times that he actually started to notice the resemblance himself.

​When Sukuna walked into the room, Yuji shared his discovery with him too.

"Daddy, look at me!"

He widened his tiny eyes as if to prove it and pointed at his pink hair.

"Look, we're exactly the same!"

A small, smug smile appeared on Sukuna’s face.

"You're your father's son, kid."

Hearing his dad's words, Yuji's face lit up. But then, a sudden thought about you seemed to cross his little mind.

"I don’t look like Mama."

You pouted slightly.

"You didn’t have to say that right to my face, Yuji."

Sukuna let out a short chuckle, a lazy, playful smirk on his lips.

"Sorry about that," he murmured. "My genes are just a bit too stubborn."

You rolled your eyes.

Encouraged by his dad's laughter, the little boy turned back to the mirror with a proud grin.

"My lips, my nose... all Daddy!"

You let out a soft laugh.

"Yeah... You really do look like your dad."

"I didn’t know you loved your father quite this much," Sukuna teased, a hint of deep amusement in his voice.

Yuji hugged Sukuna's legs tightly and looked up at him.

"I love my daddy sooo much!"

Sukuna ran his hand through Yuji's pink hair, ruffling it gently.

°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔

[multi-fandom-imagine]

My Wife || Simon Riley ||

Captain Price had been expecting many things when Ghost informed him he was getting married.

A security risk.

A secret intelligence operative.

Perhaps some terrifying woman who looked as though she could snap a man’s neck with her bare hands.

What he had not expected was you.

The first warning sign should have been the fact that Simon seemed nervous.

Not anxious.

Not worried.

Nervous.

Price had known the man for years and could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen him genuinely uncertain.

Yet there Ghost stood near the entrance of the base, arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring toward the parking lot as though preparing for combat.

Soap noticed it too. "Sir,” he muttered quietly beside Price, watching Ghost with narrowed eyes. “Is he… pacing?”

Price blinked.

Ghost was, in fact, pacing.

Very slightly.

Like an agitated panther.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Price murmured.

Gaz looked between them. “Should we be concerned?”

“Terrified,” Soap answered.

Before anyone could speculate further, a vehicle rolled through the gates after being checked and if

The moment Ghost spotted it, he stopped moving entirely.

The transformation was subtle that most people wouldn’t have noticed.But the men who worked beside him every day saw it immediately.

His shoulders relaxed.

The tension disappeared from his posture.

Something softened.

The truck parked, the driver’s door opened, and then you appeared.

You were much shorter than they’d expected.You practically had to hop down from the vehicle. A large tote bag swung from one shoulder while a drink carrier balanced precariously in your hands.

The first thing you did was smile.

Not a polite smile.

Not the carefully practiced smile people gave soldiers.

A genuine one.

The kind that immediately reached your eyes.

“Oh my God,” you said, spotting Simon across the lot. Your face lit up so brightly it almost seemed impossible. “There he is!”

Then, to the absolute horror of the Task Force, you jogged toward Ghost.

Ghost.

Lieutenant Simon Riley.

The terrifying bastard responsible for half the nightmares on base.

Placing the drinks carefully down, you practically launched yourself at him.

Soap actually choked.

Price nearly dropped his cigar.

Gaz made a strangled noise.

Ghost caught you effortlessly.

One arm wrapped around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

For a horrifying second, the entire task force expected him to set you down.

Instead he simply kept holding you.

You grinned at him.

He stared down at you.

And somehow that terrifying skull-masked soldier looked completely helpless.

“There you are,” you said, cupping his face between your hands without a shred of fear. “I missed you.”

Ghost’s gloved hand settled against your back.“Was gone four days.”

“I know.”

“You called me twenty-three times.”

“I did~.” You seemed proud over that.

Then Ghost leaned down slightly as your fingers curled under his mask. "I missed you too.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Soap looked physically ill.

Price rubbed his face.

Gaz looked like he was questioning reality itself.

Ghost finally glanced toward them and then immediately the softness vanished as the intimidating stare returned, the lethal presence returned and the entire base suddenly felt colder.

“Stop starin’,” he growled.

You turned around immediately. “Oh!”

The smile returned.

“Oh! These are your friends!”

Friends.

Price would later swear he saw Soap’s soul leave his body.

You carefully handed Ghost your drink carrier before marching directly toward them. “Hi!” you announced. “I’m Simon’s wife.”

The three men simply stared.

You waited.

Still smiling.

Finally Price recovered first.

He stepped forward and offered a hand. “Captain Price.”

You shook it enthusiastically. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Simon talks about you all the time.”

Price nearly laughed because Simon talked about nobody.

Yet judging by the look Ghost was giving him, apparently he talked about Price.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

You moved on before he could ask questions. “You must be Soap.”

Soap blinked. “Uh… aye.”

“Oh my gosh, your mohawk is real.”

Soap frowned. “Did Simon tell you about my mohawk?”

“No.” You tilted your head. “I just wasn’t sure if it was a hairstyle or a military cryptid situation.”

There was a moment of silence then Gaz burst out laughing.

Soap looked offended.

Price looked amused.

Ghost sighed heavily.

You pointed immediately. “And you’re Gaz!”

Gaz smiled. “That’s me.”

“Simon says you’re the normal one.”

The laughter doubled.

Soap wheezed.

Price nearly choked on his cigar.

Gaz looked deeply offended.

Ghost turned away completely.

Which only confirmed he had absolutely said it.The next hour somehow became even stranger because you chatted with everyone effortlessly.

You remembered names.

Asked questions.

Laughed easily.

Within minutes it felt less like meeting Ghost’s wife and more like meeting a friend they’d somehow known for years.

Price noticed something else too.

Every few minutes Simon checked on you.

Not obviously.

Most people would never notice.

But Price did.

A glance.

A shift closer.

A hand briefly touching your shoulder.

Tiny little confirmations that you were still there.

Still safe.

Still smiling.

And every single time you smiled back at him.

Like it was automatic.

Like you understood something about him nobody else ever had.

The realization hit Price unexpectedly.

For years they’d all assumed Ghost preferred being alone.

Preferred distance.

Preferred isolation.

But watching Simon follow you around the base like a silent shadow made the truth painfully obvious.

The man had never wanted to be alone. He’d simply never had someone worth coming home to.

The final nail in the coffin of everyone’s sanity came later that afternoon.

You’d spent hours traveling, jet lag was catching up with you.

One minute you were sitting beside Simon during a briefing.

The next, your head slowly tipped sideways then landed directly on his shoulder and stayed there.

Asleep.

Completely asleep.

Price paused mid-sentence.

The room went silent.

Nobody moved.

Nobody dared to breathe.

Ghost looked down.

Adjusted slightly.

Then carefully pulled his jacket over you like a blanket. His hand rested protectively against your arm. The gesture was so gentle it felt impossible coming from him.

Price exchanged a glance with Soap.

Soap looked devastated.

Gaz looked emotional.

Ghost noticed them staring as his eyes narrowed immediately. “Dare either of you.”

Nobody dared.

And that was the day Task Force 141 met the one person on Earth more dangerous than Ghost himself.

The woman who had somehow managed to make Simon Riley happy.

[fre4krena]

in a room fill of people SUKUNA looks for you

“i hate how lovey-dovey your disgusting boyfriend gets when he spots you in a crowd.” shoko huffed, exhaling a thin stream of smoke as her lips curled in mild disgust.

“what do you mean?” you asked.

“well,” she shrugged, tapping ash off lazily, “he walks around with this whole terrifying aura like he’s seconds away from ripping someone apart just for breathing wrong. the kind of look that screams ‘i’ll cut your arm off if you meet my gaze.’”

she glanced at you sideways, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“but the second he finds you?” she added, voice dropping with amusement, “it’s like a switch flips.”

shoko’s words lingered in your mind for days after that conversation, replaying over and over.

so when you and sukuna made plans to go to the cinema (and for once, he didn’t argue or override your choice of movie) you found yourself thinking about it again.

you stood in the crowded lobby, surrounded by a restless sea of people waiting for the theater doors to open. the air buzzed with chatter, the scent of popcorn thick and buttery, lights reflecting off polished floors. yet none of it held your attention. your eyes stayed locked on the entrance, anticipating the moment a certain tall, pink-haired menace would stroll in like he owned the place.

your heart picked up just a little, curiosity bubbling under your skin.

and soon enough, a familiar tuft of pink hair slipped into your vision, and your breath caught just a little as you focused on him.

the moment he stepped inside, his eyes immediately began searching, sharp and restless. a small frown sat on his face, brows drawn together in concentration, hands tucked into his pockets as he turned his head, scanning the crowd like nothing else in the room mattered.

someone bumped into him on the way, a girl mumbling a rushed apology but he didn’t even react. not a glance, not a pause. she lingered for a second, clearly taken aback at his looks before walking off.

his gaze really did scream “i’ll cut your arm off if you meet my gaze.”

he moved further in, slow and deliberate, eyes still sweeping over every face until they passed over you. paused. and then snapped back.

for a brief second, he just stared, like his mind needed that extra moment to catch up that it was you.

you watched it happen right in front of you: the shift.

his steps faltered slightly, shoulders easing as if some invisible weight had slipped off them. the tension that clung to him softened, just a little, just enough to notice. a quiet exhale leaving him, almost relieved.

and even though his brows were still faintly furrowed there was something warmer there now. something softer.

something that was only ever meant for you.

“there you are,” you murmured, a soft, almost giddy smile tugging at your lips now that you’d seen it for yourself. your fingers curled lightly around his sleeve. “was looking for you.”

“were you?” he hummed, voice low, like he didn’t quite believe you. he dipped his head just enough to press a brief kiss to your hair, lingering for half a second longer than necessary before his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. “could’ve fooled me.”

“mm,” you glanced up at him, smile turning a little smug, “maybe not as much as you were looking for me.”

your hand slid into the back pocket of his jeans, giving a small, teasing squeeze. “you looked ready to fight someone.”

he clicked his tongue, eyes flicking down at you with a warning look that didn’t quite land, not when his grip on your waist tightened just slightly.

“watch it,” he muttered, though there was no real bite behind it. still, he didn’t move your hand away as he guiding you toward the snack counter, keeping you tucked close to his side like it was instinct. “get whatever you want for the film.”

he pulled out his credit card without a second thought, barely glancing at the menu. “consider it compensation for making me sit through your pick.” the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“you literally agreed,” you pointed out, nudging him with your shoulder.

“yeah,” he scoffed lightly, eyes softening when they landed on you again, "because it’s you.”

★ very short n shitty but i just got a idea so i barfed it out.... sadly i think i'm consumed not only by writers block but art block WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

[abyssyby]

what is the little twins reaction at their mama turning into a cat😱

sylus x reader | sylus & his family | dad!sylus, turnedintoacat!mama!reader, very excited kyros & lucian

you dont remember climbing into kyros’s bed, but you take the opportunity to curl yourself closer to him and bury your nose in his hair.

his scent is particularly stronger, for some reason, and for another you get the urge to not make that so. so with sleepy, meticulous kisses—or so you think— you try and clean him.

strangely and blissfully unaware of the manifestation.

his hair sticks up with each kiss and his hands come around to push your face away. “owie.”

you frown. since when has he rejected your kisses? or think they were painful?

you chirp—

wait.

his eyes open at the noise. deep red irises light up like sparklers at the sight of you as he reaches and takes you in his arms. “woah!”

you blink. once. twice. how is he able to engulf you like this?

“woosian.” he whisper-shouts towards the racecar bed beside his circular-nest one. “woosi-yan!”

“kee-ro, quiet.” lucian whines, turning away from his brother’s voice and covering his head with his blanket.

you feel yourself being lifted up with arms wrapped tightly under your armpits. it takes a handful of effort for kyros to move gently and climb onto lucian’s bed.

but when he does, he pets your head and plops you down on his brother’s shoulder. breathing out, “tat.”

you blink. oh. not again.

reminded of the time this happened once before, you do not worry for being this way indefinitely. so, you decide in that breath to ride it out with a little bit more grace this time.

with a deep sigh, you make your way to lucian’s side and lick the tip of his nose.

you wish you could capture this somehow— the details of when they open their eyes to the sunlight in your feline vision. each lash so perfectly curated, each freckle in their irises wonderfully placed, the overjoyed expression that paints their features when a kitten wakes them.

“a cat!” lucian squeals, taking you with him again when he sits upright. you giggle in your mind, the purrs let them know you are.

you’ll commend them later with how gently they care for you.

kyros’s warm palm stays on your head, petting as he is talking to you about being part of the family. asking for permission to hug you which you respond to with slow blinks and head butts to his soft belly.

lucian excitedly crawls in circles around you, careful not to hit you, while yapping about how many tricks you’ll be able to do— with live demonstrations of said tricks. you so kindly demonstrate them back to him, and his face of triumph is one you've never seen before.

your heart warms, despite being in this predicament, not once have you yet worried about needing to turn back.

on this rare morning, when your little ones are fawning over you and showing you the fruits of your love for them, you take this curse as a blessing.

but that smell.

it’s not bad, just strong and warm and creeping. the smell of a living body— of milk, blueberries and a simmering smoke beneath. a strange variation of… sylus.

a scent too strong that you must wipe them clean of or else something else will smell them, then your little ones would be in grave danger. your pupils shrink to slits and your hackles rise at the thought. kyros murmurs a confused, "huh?"

hopping up on your hind legs makes him coo, but your singular purpose is to get to his cheeks. a few licks will balance them out, smooth it out and refine it— balance it with you, and make it smell like home.

"boys, have you seen your mother?"

you’re in the middle of licking lucian’s forehead when sylus walks into their bedroom. he stares at his children, hair mussed in different directions, and they stare right back at him.

"papa!" kyros smiles, scrambling off the sheets to crash into sylus's knees. he is caught just in time before any teeth are knocked out, and lifted into a sturdy embrace.

lucian tilts his head closer to you when you bap his forehead with your mitten. you start licking at another spot on his head. "papa, a cat came in."

"it looks like it." he chuckles, recognizing the dragon li that has begun scenting his children as none other than his wife. it's happened before, anyway, what he didn't expect is that it would happen again.

he reaches out to squeeze lucian's cheek good morning, but your paw swats his hand away.

the silence is heavy.

he scoffs at you, appalled. "are you keeping him from me?"

you hiss, ears flat back and petulant. the answer, horrifyingly, a yes.

you try to chirp at kyros, redirect him back to you because— ugh, he just undid all the work you did and now he smells even more like his father and even less like you. luckily, he is obedient and wriggles out of his papa's grasp at your command, much to sylus's displeasure.

"hey!" sylus harrumphs, watching as kyros sidles up next to you and lucian. his brood, now within your litter.

you hiss at him again.

"no," lucian chides, petting your ears down. "das papa. he's nice."

"papa no hurt you." kyros supplies helpfully. "he big, but he no hurt."

sylus softens at his children's words. to you, he says, "see, kitten? i'm harmless."

"her name miss waffle-cake, papa," whispers kyros, offended for you. you meow in protest at the dubbed name, knowing how sylus will use it against you later on, but kyros holds you close now and sniffs you. "she smell sweet!"

"oh?" sylus grins, sinister and mischievous. "may i?"

he's fast when he takes you from kyros. the height you travel up to is sickening with the speed, it makes you squirm and cry in protest. soon you're face-to-face with your husband, eyes gleaming, and smirk treacherous.

his nose is in your belly in an instant. it tickles. you do not know whether to scream or laugh.

your meows are incomprehensible, and your limbs flail about against your control. in your head, you are screaming for your life.

"stop!" is yelled from below you, your own kittens now pawing at sylus's legs in outrage. "stop, she don'ike it!"

sylus breathes a chuckle as he cradles you to his chest. your sheathed claws tap at his cheek in mock pride, saying, yes! listen to your sons!

"papa, be nice!" squeaks lucian, seeming most affected by your distressed sounds. "she little!"

"give me!" demands kyros, hands outstretched upwards. waiting for your return in his protection.

sylus laughs at your smug expression, surprised a cat can even have such a prominent one, and promptly hands you back to kyros.

"sorry." kyros kisses your forehead softly, and you melt in his embrace. "papa silly sometime."

lucian comes to scratch your chin and bump his forehead against yours. angrily muttering under his breath, "big lizard."

your purrs get louder as your laughter turns hysterical in your brain.

oh, your sweet boys.

"okay, i'm sorry." sylus sinks down to the floor to kneel on his legs and bows his head. "i got... excited."

lucian is the one who shifts his body to be the barrier between him and you. "papa... like cats?"

sylus chuckles at the accusation. "i love cats. especially waffle-cake." he nods towards you. despite yourself, you tilt your head shyly.

"miss waffle-cake." kyros sneers. he did come up with the name, after all.

sylus raises his palms regretfully. "miss waffle-cake."

oh he's loving this. you snuff a breath at him through your little pink nose.

sylus pleads with his family now, eyes big and unguarded. begging to be included in the fun. "i promise to be gentle."

the twins look to one another. it wasn't like their papa to lie to them. he messes with them, regularly, sure, but he isn't mean, they think. lucian is the first to nod, and so kyros announces the ruling that papa can now be part of the i-love-miss-waffle-cake-club.

grateful, he squeezes himself onto lucian's bed and takes all three of you in the crisscross of his legs. bending close to your snout for a little nuzzle as he whispers, "just say when."

knowing that the last time this happened, turning back involved lips and true love.

you rub your cheek against his chin in acknowledgement.

the morning is spent indulging your family on their simple joys.

you'd become one of the world's greatest marvels, existing being your greatest feat to your children.

your quick zoomies around the room are exhilarating, especially with two little boys trying to catch you.

you sniff them until their stomachs hurt from laughing.

you teach them to make biscuits on papa, starting your own little bakery on his bottom.

even your instinctive licking (because they're starting to smell like sylus again) is so inexplicably beautiful to them, they just sit there and let it happen.

and naturally, under the warmth of the morning light, once curious eyes waver behind heavy lids. your own yawn from your place on sylus's chest, underneath his shirt, seems to trigger everyone else's.

positions are established like nature, and soon you're squeezed up against two little ones who've decided they want to be kittens in papa's shirt too.

but before they drift away, kyros takes your paw in his hand and lucian kisses your head and murmurs. "wish mama was here."

melting your heart into oblivion.

"having fun?" sylus inquires once lucian has followed his brother into a dream later on. you've crawled out of his shirt and perched yourself on his shoulder, curling around your babies as best you can.

you chirp at him, yes. and slowly blink at your sons.

"ready?" he asks softly, but it sounds like another request entirely.

the slight pucker of his lips is cute, showing a little more than he let on— if you knew how to look for it. an expert in reading your husband, you read him clear as day: he misses you.

so you lean in, but instinct trumps logic and your paws press against his lips. "mrph!"

"what?" he wonders. you're getting up and climbing on his head now. he feels the sharpened bristles of your tongue move his unstyled hair in all directions, doing more harm than good if your intention was to groom him.

he lets you finish the job, just as obedient as his sons, until you give him the kiss he's been waiting for.

when your feline eyes turn from large and crystaline to the ones he fell in love with, he smiles. "kitten."

meanwhile, your hands slide up to the back of his head to tug him down. his hair—now perfectly balanced in scent thanks to you— is askew, but you make no effort in fixing anything else.

you take a whiff and sigh in relief. "much better."

"because... you're not a cat anymore?" sylus inquires. unaware of the still fading inner workings of a feline's mind.

"sure," you shrug, kissing his cheek. then you turn to your sleeping babies on his chest and soften. "but that was good too."

thank you for reading! ≽^- ˕ -^≼

[abyssyby]

“hello?”

onychinus wasn’t really an official office, but there existed a home-base of operations.

with clean-cut interior, bulletproof glass conference rooms, desks scattered with both paperwork and technology alike under the ambient warm light surprisingly considerate of people who are sensitive to brightness, the building stands central north of the N109 zone.

this, as far as dwellers and factions know, is the home of the infamous ruler of onychinus. the dragon’s den. the keeper’s castle.

and this young, new assistant who is trying to make something of himself in the tower of bodies trying to climb upwards on the social ladder starts work today.

onychinus promises worth in exchange for loyalty. no questions asked.

he can do that.

he hasn’t even been sat an hour yet on his new desk before the phone started to ring.

briefed that all calls should be handled with promptness and professionalism, he takes it barely at the first ring. not expecting the voice that comes through.

“helloo?”

it takes him a moment to recall the script. “service?”

“can talk to papa?”

papa? he’s spent all week memorizing the names of the organizations affiliates. not one is called papa. had he missed something? so soon shall this be the end of his career?

he swallows. ponders—this can either be an enemy with technology to change their voice, or… no, how could a child know this number?

“hello? can talk to papa?”

“who is this?” he demands, harsh.

it is lost on the voice. he dictates his own learned script slowly. “my name… is… keewo.”

keewo… neither was that on the list. had he missed a page? was it the phonetic alphabet? code?

his palms begin to sweat. phone calls should never last more than a minute unless necessary. and the time ticks dangerously closer to forty seconds.

and his supervisor seems to he counting with him, because across the room, polishing a newly shipped in protocore weapon, his eyes meet ones behind a crow’s mask.

“you are not in our system.”

“what tissem?” the voice breathes, mouth too close to whatever receiver he was using. “can talk to papa pease?”

“are you a child?” forty seconds… the masked man rises from his seat.

“no. i boy.”

“how old are you?” forty-three. he’s placing the weapon down.

“i two. oh-most, twee.” the boy says happily. “can talk papa now, pease?”

forty-nine. his eye twitches. “who is papa?”

“my papa!”

fifty. shit. the supervisor is a few steps— “what’s his name?”

“uhh… uh…” fifty-three.

fifty-four.

fifty-five.

“papa name is… uh—“

“you dialed wrong.” fifty seven.

“no! i pwactice.” he harrumphs on the other end. fifty eight. “my papa name sy-woos!”

fifty-nine.

sylus.

his blood runs cold.

at sixty, like clockwork the phone is snatched from his hand. but the masked man who’d given him strict instructions that day has frozen in his own place a few paces away.

behind him stands a ghost never meant to be witnessed by mortal eyes. this shadow clad in darkness that only allow his red irises’ glow to pierce through. he lowers his head—respect, fear— he cannot say. but his heart beats like hooves in of a stampede.

“kyros.” says sylus. mister sylus— he would be instructed to call him were it not deemed unnecessary because he never comes in. “papa is working, angel.”

he barely hears the commotion on the other end. doesn’t even register the way the ominous entity of a man’s voice softens to an unbelievable timbre just above him.

“i know, i miss you too.” he says. footsteps fade along with the voice as he retreats with the wireless into the private office reserved for him alone.

he’s done for, surely. how could he have dismissed the boss’s son? how could he have known? no matter; he should have. and now—

“hey.” the masked supervisor squeezes his shoulder and he jumps like a cat.

the man— he isnt sure which twin this is but there were two of them earlier— snickers. “scared?”

he swallows.

“don’t worry about it.” he points to the dock missing its handheld, towards the light glowing orange. “forgot to mention, if it’s this color, always redirect to the main phone.”

he swallows. the boss doesn’t like to be bothered with trivial things, is what he knows. right?

but his supervisor adds. “he doesn’t like missing calls from very important people.”

he has no time to process before sylus returns and the handheld clicks in place in the dock before him.

crimson eyes examine him and he feels like his skin is peeled apart and soul exposed for a moment before sylus slowly turns away.

“carry on.” is the command.

and so, he does. he can do that.

no questions asked.

[dvg-tvgs]

every time theres a puddle in your path, simon riley carries you over it.

it started on your first date, when you were wearing this pretty white maxi skirt and a pair of white heels. he's walking beside you in all black, typical.

but you get to a puddle. it's not entirely blocking your path, you could have gone around it. he grunts and picks you up, carrying you safely over the puddle. "there you go, love," he says and puts you down.

you walk everywhere after that with his hand on your back.

the rainy season has become simon riley's favourite. because he gets to pick you up and carry you past any puddle that's even a little bit out of your way.

[satoruslovey]

Frat!sukuna x soft!reader

In which sukuna gets shy and forgets how to speak when you fix his chain in front of his frat brothers

A reference to this series

It’s a friday night.

You had come over to the frat house after class, by now it was normal for you to randomly show up. It was the end of the week, with your body and mind both sore and tired from all the work you’ve done all week , eyes heavy, you went straight to sukuna’s room, plopped on his bed, and drifted to sleep.

How many hours had passed since you fell asleep , Three? Four? You don’t even know , you sit up , rubbing the sleep out of your eyes , with no signs of sukuna around, your throat is so dry it feels like thorns are pricking at it.

Now you were downstairs looking for water.

Unbeknownst to you, everyone’s already there ,

The second you stepped into the kitchen, Shoko noticed you first.

Then Sukuna.

And just like always, something in him changed immediately.

He’d been leaning against the counter beside Toji and Geto, lazily picking apart some story Gojo was telling while half the room listened in amusement. Tattoos stretched beneath the sleeves of his black shirt, rings catching against the fluorescent kitchen light every time he gestured.

He looked Confident and Sharp-edged. Like he always did.

Then his eyes landed on you and as soon as they did,His posture straightened subtly.

The tension in his jaw eased.

Like his entire nervous system recalibrated.

You walked over quietly, still sleepy enough that you barely noticed everyone watching. Sukuna’s gaze followed you the entire way until you stopped in front of him.

“You okay?” he asked immediately.

“Mhm.” Your voice came out soft from exhaustion. Then your eyes caught on the silver chain hanging crooked beneath the collar of his shirt. “Your chain’s twisted.”

“Huh?”

Without thinking much of it, you stepped closer.

Conversation around the kitchen slowly faded.

Your fingers brushed lightly against the cool metal resting against his throat as you fixed the clasp, carefully straightening where it had turned sideways against his skin.

And Sukuna went completely still and no,

Not in a dramatic way.

But the kind where someone forgets how to function entirely.

His hand tightened slightly around the cup he was holding while he stared down at you, breathing quieter ,shoulders stiff beneath your touch.

Gojo blinked. Then blinked again.

“No fucking way.”

You didn’t even notice.

You were too focused on fixing the chain properly, fingers brushing against the warm skin of his neck every few seconds.

“There,” you murmured finally. “Better.”

Silence.

You looked up confused.

Every single person in the kitchen was staring.

Toji looked moments away from losing consciousness laughing. Geto had physically covered his mouth trying to hide a grin while Shoko watched like she’d just witnessed a rare astronomical event.

Gojo pointed directly at Sukuna.

“HE’S BLUSHING.”

Your eyes snapped back upward instantly And there it was.

Faint pink dusting across Sukuna’s ears and creeping slowly over the bridge of his nose while he looked at you like his brain had short-circuited.

Your lips parted slightly to say something,

“…wait.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna muttered towards Gojo without taking his eyes off you once.

That only made everyone laugh harder.

“Oh this is BAD,” Geto said through laughter. “He’s gone.”

“To think,” Shoko sighed dramatically, “the campus plague finally domesticated.”

“Fuck off.” He told them.

But there was no bite in it.

Not really.

Because you were still standing close enough for him to feel the warmth coming off your body, your fingers lightly resting against his chest after fixing the chain.

And Sukuna looked wrecked by it.

You smiled , you just couldn’t hold it in.

“Aww,” you teased softly. “You’re embarrassed?”

His eyes narrowed immediately, but it lacked its usual sharpness.

“Don’t start.”

“You’re literally red.”

“I am not.”

“You kinda are,” Toji interrupted giddily.

Gojo looked ready to pass away from excitement. “I HAVE NEVER SEEN THIS MAN EXPERIENCE HUMAN EMOTION.”

Before you could say anything else, Sukuna suddenly grabbed your wrist gently and tugged you against his chest.

A small startled sound left you as his arm settled around your waist instinctively, keeping you tucked against his side like proximity itself calmed him down.

“Enough,” he muttered lowly.

But when you tilted your head up at him, smiling still lingering on your lips, the blush deepened anyway.

And the kitchen absolutely lost its mind.

“HE GOT SHY.”

“THIS IS INSANE.”

“Somebody take a picture.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Gojo announced dramatically.

Sukuna flipped everyone off immediately.

Yet even while doing it, his thumb rubbed absentminded circles against your waist beneath the hoodie.

Like touching you had already become second nature to him.

He had learnt to be gentle with you at all times, which was kinda shocking for someone like him, but he did.

And when you reached up one more time to flatten the collar of his shirt, Sukuna leaned down automatically without even realizing he’d done it.

The room erupted so loudly someone from upstairs yelled asking if a fight broke out.

Everyone was enjoying this way to much.

Meanwhile Sukuna buried his face briefly against the top of your head, muttering,

“You’re never coming downstairs with me again.”

You could only laugh a little because you know that’s far from the truth.

Note : i want to write so much fluff for them 🤍

[deepspacebabyy]

<3

[abyssyby]

“what do you think your mom does for work?”

“my— my mama works good. good job.” kyros breathes into the tiny microphone Mr. Raf handed to him.

big, thoughtful eyes blink at the camera awaiting the next prompt while his teacher tries to clarify. “no, yes. sure. but what is she doing a good job on?”

kyros opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure. after sorting through a few thoughts, he presses his lips to the mic again and says, “good job on… uh, work.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“mama fights.” lucian chews his words, speakers popping at his loud voice. “mama go hurt things.”

“hurt?”

“yes. and do good job.” lucian nods, also staring at the camera. as if to challenge anyone who thinks otherwise.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“hi, i’m lucian and kyros’s mom, and i am a Hunter for The Hunter’s Association.” you say, a little bashful at the answers they provided. “I—I hunt, not hurt. Well, I also hurt, but—but wanderers! Not people. Or— well— Rafayel, stop recording!”

“what do you think your dad does at work?”

“beez-nez.” kyros struggles to wrap his tongue around the word but relays enough to understand.

“like… stocks?”

“ya, he wear socks.”

“like what kind of business, kyros?”

poor kyros looks like his brain blast will injure him. but in a snap of memory he has heard his father sneer at people on the phone, he exclaims. “ah! none!”

“huh?”

“none-your-beez-nez!” he claps happily for remembering. “i do good job!”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“phone— and, and trinkies— and! like, drinks.” lucian lists, twisting his shirt around his hands and swinging side to side.

“does he own a bar?”

he lifts the front of his shirt randomly over his face. “bar? what dat?” Rafayel panics to pull it back down.

when lucian’s face emerges, he says, “papa has a gun.”

“what—“

Mr. Raf has never met the guy, but now he worries what these kids have to witness at home. their father, skye, will be coming to pick them up later, and so he braces for the worst.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“I’m lucian and kyros’s papa.” sylus states, deadpan into the camera in his three piece tailored armani, but radiating with pride at the statement. “and I sell fruits.”

Rafayel falters with the camera and shoots the little ones a look over his shoulder, tired. they blink up at him with identical, thoughtless red orbs that matches their strange father’s and wave.

Thomas lied. Ooh, kindergarten is an easy, fun, break-from-your-routine, might-inspire-you-to-paint kinda gig— not.

He makes that known, later that day. Loud and clear.

“Thomas, what the hell do you think I do for work?”

[alyzal]

BIND!

SYNOPSIS! when a split mission leaves you waiting in an empty penthouse past midnight, the silence begins to taste like jealousy

PAIRINGS: sylus x non!mc reader

WARNINGS! MINORS DNI!

Part 2 of BOUND, but can be read as a stand alone, jealousy, rough kissing, kissing involving blood, not proofread, porn with plot, unprotected piv, thigh riding, fingering, wap and I mean it, oral!m recieving where she spits out his cum back on his dick and licks it, a lot of spit honestly, overstimulation, they switch, edging, teasing, I imagine reader as a femme fatale with abandonment issues, it's messy, fluids, lots of em, big dick sylus, mean sylus, multiple orgasms, he licks your panties spits on them and stuffs them in your mouth, bondage, manhandling, reader is mentioned to have long hair, kinda hate sex??? she pretends she doesn't want it, mentions of mc, he puts his regeneration at use, I love to dramatize and i'm also a zayne girl who doesn't know all sylus' lore, fyi there is probably more I forgot to mention

W.C: 7.7k

a/n: Hellooo! Well, it sure has been a while since I first posted Bound. I completely ran out of inspiration for the second part, and this isn't even close to what I originally had in mind, but I think it works! That being said, I am still thinking of turning this into a multi-part series if there’s a demand for it (which is honestly my sole motivation for writing, lmao). The only reason I'm considering it is because I have a lot of just pure filth left over for these two... Anyway, N821 here is heavily inspired by Prague, and I really wanted to incorporate a version of Sylus who isn't softened by MC. Also, the dialogue about the mission was completely written by my dear friend (hi Anika) because I have no idea how mafia missions work...!

It was late. Beyond late, the kind of hour where the dark ceases to be a shield and begins to feel like a countdown

Two hours had bled away since midnight, the precise deadline Sylus had given you to return with the shipment routes. Two hours since his last text had flashed across your screen: "I'm on my way." A terse response to your notification that you had successfully wrung the coordinates from the broker. The deal had come with a condition, of course, but a win was a win.

Now, you stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of the most expensive penthouse in N821. Your skin was still radiating the residual heat of a hot shower, the heavy ivory silk of your robe trailing against your ankles as you knotted the belt around your waist.

N821 was a different kind of monster than N109

Where N109 was a chaotic, bleeding theater of crime, N821 was the same beast refined sleeker, heavily organized, masked in exorbitant wealth, and brutally cold

You closed your eyes, exhaling a slow, sharp breath through your nose. The frustration didn't leave you, it merely settled deeper into your chest. He was with her. That little hunter. The one he taunted. The one you had once discovered practically in his lap

Granted, during that particular encounter, she had a loaded barrel pressed flush against his sternum. And God, how Sylus had thrived on the bite of it. He didn't just tolerate her defiance; he fed on it.

Irrelevant, you reminded yourself, your jaw tightening. Your arrangement with the leader of Onychinus was built on concrete and blood, not sentiment

If there was closeness between you, it was found exclusively in the dark sharp, high friction intimacy utilized purely as stress relief. When two apex predators unite, you do not expect a love story. You expect an alliance

He desired you; that much was undeniable. You were a crown jewel in the underworld silently deadly, poised. A trophy for a man who claimed to own the world

Not an ornament for him though. Never that. Sylus had little interest in fragile things

Yet, your eyes rarely deceived you. Every time he looked at the hunter, there was a faint, intolerable fondness in his gaze. It was childish to even note it, but the great, wanted criminal's eyes actually softened whenever he called her kitten

You despised the word. If he ever dared utter that nickname to you, you would ensure his next glass of wine was laced with cyanide.

Why did she get a title born of affection while you received a title born of strategy? With a quiet sigh, you stepped away from the glass to gather the paperwork scattered across the desk. Time was a luxury you didn't possess

The documents required your signature and a thorough review before they could be handed over to your dear husband by morning

Your dear, dear husband.

The man you swore you didn't crave. The man you swore you didn't miss. You swore it because it was the absolute truth. You were detached. It was the only state of being you had ever known

As the perfect daughter of a sprawling empire, love had never been factored into your record.

Neither had vulnerability

For someone who could afford everything the world had to offer, you couldn't afford a heart

You had never been in love. Intimacy itself was a foreign language until Sylus Qin. To this day, the irony of it brought a cold, humorless smile to your lips. Embarrassing, really, that a man so ruthless had been your introduction to the flesh.

Then again, he had set a incredibly high standard.

While other girls your age were experiencing the trivialities of teenage romance, you were busy learning how to strip a firearm in under ten seconds. You had spent your youth enduring grueling training sessions, followed by hours studying the art of high stakes negotiation under the suffocating, stern glare of your father

In your world, knowing how to distinguish which protocore dealer lied and which one merely inflated prices for survival was the key

But you knew how to hate. Sylus knew it, too, and he drew an infuriating amount of satisfaction from drawing that hatred to the surface

You sat in the plush, albeit uncomfortable, armchair, closing your eyes briefly to soothe the pulsing pressure building behind them. You forced yourself to reopen them, scanning the lines of text to highlight the clauses Sylus would inevitably want to contest.

Think of the devil

The heavy click of the penthouse door echoing through the foyer broke the silence. You didn't bother to lift your head. You were furious, and you had no intention of granting him the courtesy of an immediate greeting.

He called your name once. Then, as if tracking the scent of your irritation, his heavy footsteps moved towards the study where you were.

When he stepped into the light, he was a vision of controlled violence. His silver hair was damp, plastered slightly against his forehead from the storm outside. His clothes were dark with melted snow. His knuckles were split freshly cleaned, but faint traces of copper still stained the creases of his skin. A shallow, clean cut marred the high ridge of his cheekbone.

Yet, by the slow, deliberate grace of his stride, you could tell he was entirely unbothered. He looked utterly smug

You permitted yourself exactly one second to take in the sight of him. Then, with a fluid, dismissive motion, you tossed the files onto the marble coffee table. You swung your legs over the armrest of the chair, leaning back into the cushions with calculated laziness

Svlus stoned. He knew that nosture. He knew he was walking on razor thin ice

An amused brow arched upward, a familiar, infuriating smirk threatening to touch his lips before he smoothly schooled his expression. He slipped his damp coat from his shoulders, tossing it aside. Now, it was his turn to take you in

The silk robe had slipped, exposing the curve of one shoulder. Your long legs were draped carelessly over the velvet arm of the chair, and the ends of your hair were still dark with moisture. A vision. Perfect, dangerous, and entirely unimpressed.

"Read," you commanded

Your voice was a low, smooth blade. You didn't look at him as you spoke, your slender fingers wrapping instead around the stem of your champagne glass. You brought it to your lips, taking a slow sip

Sylus picked up the documents. His crimson eyes scanned between the lines, his expression entirely unmoved by the staggering demands written into the contract. It was the face of a man who found exactly what he expected.

You had done your job flawlessly. As always

"I assume it went well on your end as well" you murmured, boredom perfectly lacing your voice, though the underlying edge remained razor-cold. "Though if I were to critique, you are quite late. And we do have a time limit."

Sylus didn't look up from the pages immediately, flipping one over with a crisp, deliberate sound that echoed in the quiet room.

"Worry not, The twins handled it." he replied, his deep voice scraping pleasantly against the stillness

"it was supposed to be your job–"

"–The broker tried to alter the delivery terms at the eleventh hour," he murmured, tilting his head. The shallow cut on his cheek caught the amber light of the fire. "He brought a few extra bodies to enforce the new price. It took a moment to remind him of his place."

"Remind him of his place."

You set your champagne glass down on the marble table with a hollow, deliberate clink. Your eyes didn't track the movement; they remained locked on the neat, bloodless line across his cheekbone

"A clean cut for a back alley broker," you remarked, your tone smooth, devoid of the irritation simmering beneath your skin. "He must have exceptional aim. Or a very specific model of an Association-issued blade."

Sylus didn't blink. The corner of his mouth twitched. He tossed the folder onto the desk, the heavy paper settling with a dull thud

"The Association tried to intervene. They failed."

"And you let them walk away," you countered, sliding your legs off the armrest. You stood, the ivory silk parting slightly at your thigh as you crossed the room toward him. "You left the financing channel exposed. I noticed the omission before you walked in. It's a vulnerability, Sylus. My board will reject that transit exposure immediately."

You stopped a mere foot away from him. The scent of him, and the distinct, metallic tang of fresh blood rolled off him in waves, overpowering the scent of the room

"I don't tolerate sloppiness," you murmured, tilting your chin up to look him in the eyes. "Especially not when my family's name is masking your assets. If your little shadow play in N109 is bleeding into our territory, fix it."

Sylus stood his ground, a towering monolith of damp wool and dark intent. He didn't offer an excuse. He didn't even look at the paperwork you were weaponizing against him

Instead, his gaze dropped to your lips, then traveled slowly down the exposed column of your throat to where the silk of your robe loosely met at your chest

"Sloppiness" he repeated, the word rolling out of his chest like low thunder. He took a single step forward, crowding your space until the heat radiating from his body began to melt the chill in your own. "Is that what you're calling it?"

"I call it what it is. A liability."

Sylus reached out. His split knuckles were rough against your skin as his thumb caught the underside of your jaw, forcing your head back a fraction of an inch. His touch was cold, a harsh contrast to the feverish warmth of your skin, but his grip was unyielding.

"You don't give a fuck about the southern transit line" he murmured softly.

"I care about our metrics"

"You care that she was there."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

The amusement left his face, replaced by something entirely different. The smug, detached mask he usually wore around you cracked, revealing the dark, predatory focus underneath. His crimson eyes searched yours, not with the cold calculation of a business partner, but with the raw, heavy intensity of a man who had just found a crack in an unbreachable wall.

"Look at you," Sylus whispered, his deep voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, more intimate. His thumb stroked the line of your jaw, the friction sending a sharp jolt straight down your spine. "Jealous." He leaned down, his breath ghosting over your lips

Your breath hitched a small fracture in your armor, but to a man like Sylus, it was a siren song.

"Don't flatter yourself," you hissed, your voice dropping to a dangerous, venomous whisper. You wrapped your hand around his wrist, trying to push him back. "I don't care who you entertain in your spare time. Just keep your goddamn pets out of my ledger."

Sylus didn't move an inch. If anything, your resistance only made his grip tighten, his fingers sliding from your jaw to wrap fully around the back of your neck, tilting your head up to fully meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes was entirely gone. In its place was a dark, feral satisfaction that burned hot enough to scald

"will you say that again?" He asked, his lips brushing yours with every syllable, a torturous, high-friction promise.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t get the chance to

You tried to twist your face out of his grip, a sharp, dismissive jerk intended to re establish the boundary, but Sylus didn't let you breathe.

The moment your fingers tightened on his wrist to shove him back, he used his massive momentum to drive you backward

The small of your back hit the solid wall with a heavy thud. Nearby, the champagne glass you had set down wobbled, tipped, and shattered against the marble floor, the sharp crack of crystal completely swallowed by the sudden, suffocating proximity of his body

His hand shifted from your jaw, split-knuckled fingers tangling ruthlessly into the strands of your hair, tugging back until your neck arched, He used the leverage to feast on you completely without restraint. It was a violent, undisciplined wreck of a collision messy, desperate, and entirely devoid of the elegance you both prided yourselves on

He didn't give you a clean, strategic kiss. He didn't offer the practiced precision you both used to mask your intentions in public.

He bit you.

It was a bruising, desperate clash of teeth and lips that tasted immediately of the starved, mutual want you had both spent days denying. You let out a muffled, furious sound against his mouth a protest born purely of your refusal to break first and tried to wedge your forearm tightly between his chest and yours to force some distance.

Sylus didn't care. He pinned your arm flat against the wall, his thigh crowding ruthlessly between yours, the rough of his trousers parting the heavy silk of your robe.

The past four days of silence, of separate territories and calculated distance, boiled over in a single second.

It was unpolished. It was feral. The slick, wet sound of his tongue sliding against yours filled the quiet room, deep and demanding, dragging the air straight out of your lungs until your chest heaved uselessly against his.

You tried to bite him back, to hurt him, to remind him of the danger of crowding a predator, and your teeth caught his lower lip, drawing a fresh bead of dark blood.

Sylus groaned into your mouth, He thrived on the high friction of your resistance.

He pulled back for a fraction of a second, just enough for a thin, silver string of spit to break between your swollen lips. His eyes were entirely blown out, the right crimson of his iris practically glowing in the shadows of the room, dark with a terrifyingly possession. He looked like a beast that had finally been given permission to tear its cage apart.

"My, my, is my sweet wife finally showing her teeth?" he murmured against your lips, his voice a ruined, breathless rasp as his mouth left yours for a single second to track a wet, heavy path down your jawline.

"Move." you gasped, your fingers clawing deep into the fabric of his shoulders, though your nails dug in so hard you were actively pulling him closer, betraying the very lie you were telling. "Sylus–"

He didn't let you finish.

Our blood. Our slick, hot saliva,

It mingled into a chaotic, violent smear between your mouths as he devoured your protest.

The grip on your hair tightened, tugging hard enough to make you gasp before he buried his tongue back into your mouth, deeper this time, swallowing your breath whole. It was a suffocating, borderline foul display spit slicking your chin, the metallic taste of his torn skin smearing between you, while his large, calloused hand slid inside the parted silk of your robe to grip the bare skin of your hip with a bruising force that would absolutely leave a mark by morning.

You hated how easily he broke your composure. You hated that you had spent days pretending his absence didn't claw at the inside of your ribs, only for him to wreck your perfect armor in a matter of sentences.

Sylus broke the kiss, His forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest rising and falling in violent, uneven synchronization with your own

"Say it again," he rumbled, his thumb dragging across your wet lower lip, smearing the crimson stain. "Tell me you don't care who I keep in my spare time while you're choking on me."

"You're a bastard," you whispered, your voice shaking with a dangerous mixture of fury and unadulterated arousal, your hips twitching helplessly against the heavy, solid weight of his thigh pressed between yours

"Yours," he growled against your skin, a dark, stolen vow before his lips curled into that insufferable smirk

His mouth descended on your throat with feral hunger, biting and sucking the sensitive skin until a deep bruise began to bloom while his thigh anchored firmly between your legs, the sudden, blunt friction wrung a sharp, fractured sob from your lips

It was humiliating the immediate, pathetic rush of your own juices instantly soaking through the lace panel of your underwear. Your logical mind screamed to fight, but your body, instinctively chased the bruising pressure. You rolled your hips against his leg, a desperate, rolling twitch to catch the edge of relief.

But Sylus had no patience left tonight. His large, rough palms slid beneath the hem of your slip, scraping up, up, up, the bare skin of your thighs, your hips, trailing a path of fire. His hands found your chest, fingers roughly squeezing the tight, aching weight of your breasts, his thumbs snapping against your nipples without a shred of shame

"Need I remind you sweetie," he rasped, pausing only to sink his teeth into the junction of your shoulder, biting hard enough to draw the metallic taste of blood. "She is not the one who wears my name."

Not the woman he loves, but the woman in his bed. or at least that's how it sounded to you.

The bitter thought tasted like ash, but the fire between your thighs was blinding. Lured into his trap, your hips moved once again against his leg practically begging for the friction

Sylus let out a low, rumbling growl of pure triumph. Before you could reclaim your breath, his hands locked around your waist. With terrifying, fluid ease, he hoisted you onto his broad shoulder.

"What are you–"

The words were knocked out of you as he manhandled you across the penthouse, his brute strength on effortless display. You hung like a prized, captive trophy, until he threw you face down onto the mattress.

Your face pressed into the plush bedding, your breath hitching. Before you could scramble to your elbows, heavy, crackling energy flooded the space. Black-and-crimson mist bled from his fingertips, weaving through the air like liquid iron before snapping tight around your wrists.

The heavy pressure of his evol pinned your hands behind your back, completely unyielding.

"This won't solve anything, Qin," you hissed, turning your head to glare at him with venomous, hatred

But the threat died on your lips. In the dim amber light of the room, you were utterly exposed. Your silk slip had ridden up to your waist, baring the flush, plush curve of your ass and the perfect, arch of your spine. You looked like a feline caught in a trap, beautifully undone.

And fuck did Sylus adore the sight.

"It will," he murmured.

He stepped closer, his long fingers trailing down the small of your back before he leaned down to press a hot, mocking kiss against your lower spine.

His hand hooked into the lace of your underwear, pulling the material taut.

Even without looking, you could picture the sick, smug satisfaction written across his features. The panties were heavily damp, soaked through with the visible, glistening evidence of how badly you wanted him

Frustration and arousal coiled tight in your gut. You tugged uselessly against the heavy weight of bound hands "Uncuff me. This is fucking stupid! You can't just–"

"Can't?"

The word cut through your protest, smooth, amused, and dripping with absolute authority. He didn't care about your rules. With a swift, deft motion, his fingers hooked the damp lace, stripping it from your hips and leaving your dripping, swollen slit completely bare to the room

Before you could even process the movement, he brought the ruined lace to his mouth, licking and savouring the slick on it before letting saliva gather and spat on the same place he sucked, his large, calloused fingers ruthlessly stuffed the wet, panties into your open mouth after, forcing it past your teeth and cutting off your scream

Your eyes widened in absolute shock. The sheer audacity of it, the profound humiliation of being gagged by your own soaked underwear, sent a paralyzing jolt straight down your spine. You had never felt this helpless.

This desperate.

"Ah. Still trying to fight?" Sylus whispered, his lips curving into a dark, wicked smile as he looked down at your exposed, dripping heat. "Cute."

He reached down between your thighs. A heavy, viscous pearl of your own wetness was clinging desperately to your pussy, hanging from your swollen outer lips. With agonizing slowness, he used his thumb to catch the drop, breaking it and smearing the slick heat upward, coating your sensitive clit with your own fluids until you were covered in your essence

A muffled, strangled sob caught in the back of your throat, completely swallowed by the silk in your mouth as your inner thighs trembled

And Sylus thrived on the sound. With a deliberate, forceful shove, he buried two thick, rough fingers straight into your tight hole. The contrast was intoxicating, the feverish pulsating warmth of your walls instantly clamped down, desperately squeezing the cold, length of his fingers.

"Look at how wet you are," he rumbled, his voice a ruined, gravelly rasp as he began to pump his fingers inside you, driving them deep, stretching you open with a crude, slow pace. "...don't get the wrong idea, I'm not trying to mock you."" and you swore he almost sounded amused, but you couldn't focus

How could you, when the wet, squelching sound of his fingers sliding in and out of your pussy filled the quiet room. You were completely dripping, your juices running down his hand and pooling onto the dark sheets beneath you as he used his thumb to viciously hook and rub against your swollen clit with every deep thrust, driving you toward a blind, desperate peak while you lay pinned and gagged

Breathless and whining is what you were, one of the most important board pieces in N019 reduced to this, and you knew this was not even close to it all.

You could feel it. just beneath the shadow of your straining hips, you could feel the thick, rigid length of his cock pressing hard against your thigh

Impending fucking doom it was.

He gave your ass a taunting squeeze, his large hand bruising the plush flesh before he finally pulled away.

The agonizing loss of his touch was immediately replaced by a different kind of torture. The slick, wet sound of his fingers inside you was gone, replaced by the harsh, metallic rasp of a zipper parting, followed by the slide of his boxers.

Pinned face down, your view was restricted, but you didn't need to see it to know what was happening. Peering over your shoulder, you caught a dizzying glimpse of his toned, sculpted stomach, and the thick, unyielding length of his cock standing proud against it. A viscous bead of precum already glistened at the blunt tip.

You watched his large, scarred hand wrap around his own girth, pumping twice in a slow, deliberate stroke before he aligned himself behind you

He slid upward, but he didn't push inside.

Instead, he wedged the broad, mushroomed head of his cock perfectly against your swollen clit. His fingers gripped the base of his shaft, holding himself firmly in place while he ground against your clit. Your own slick juices immediately coated him, the wetness running down his heavy length with every agonizingly shallow slide

He was teasing you. He was actively refusing to give you the ruinous relief of his cock stretching you wide, denying you the fullness you could feel aching in your gut. No matter how many times you fucked, taking Sylus Qin was a chore, because the universe was cruel enough to give the man a dick as impossibly big as his ego.

You whined, a fractured, pathetic sound, rolling your hips back in a desperate attempt to sink onto him, to soothe the need boiling in your blood

"Relax, wife," he drawled, his voice a low, teasing vibration as he delivered another shallow, grinding thrust that sent a shower of sparks straight to your stomach. "You'll get what you want."

The heavy palm of his hand flattened against your lower back, pressing you down as his cock remained glued to your dripping slit. "Today. Tomorrow." He leaned down, pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss to your trembling shoulder. "Over and over again, until you tire of me."

He pressed one final, bruising kiss to your skin, and then, the heavy, crackling weight of his evol vanished.

The sudden release of pressure made your arms give out, your chest hitting the mattress, but Sylus didn't let you rest. His massive hands gripped your waist, and in one fluid, effortless motion, he flipped you onto your back.

And fuck, was it a sight.

You were beyond divine. Your usually immaculate hair was a wild, tangled mess. Your cheeks were flushed a feverish, beautiful crimson, and tears of absolute frustration pooled in your waterlines. Your lips were swollen and thoroughly wrecked, while between your parted thighs, your dripping, perfectly ruined pussy was fully on display.

Sylus literally choked on a breath.

There was a reason you were hailed as the most beautiful, dangerous woman in the underworld. Everyone else only ever saw you armored in million dollar gowns and a blood chilling smile. No one on earth would ever get to see you like this. Reduced to a beautiful, panting wreck.

His. Entirely his.

But while he was busy staring at you with open, starving reverence, you were absolutely furious. You reached up, ripping the soaked lace panties from your mouth and hurling them directly at his sculpted chest.

It only angered you further when his lips curled into a wicked, devastating grin.

Your chest heaved. Despite your fury, your body betrayed you, throbbing violently at the sight of him caging you in, looking like a greek god, taking in his physique

But the ache wasn't enough to dull your pride.

You needed revenge.

You surged upward, your hands shooting out to fist violently in the short, silver locks at the nape of his neck. You yanked him down, crashing your lips against his in a brutal, bruising kiss.

Sylus groaned into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound of approval. His body automatically chased the closeness, climbing over you to press his heavy weight down.

The second he did, your long legs instantly wrapped around his waist, locking tightly at the small of his back.

You squeezed your thighs, pressing right against the base of his rigid cock, wringing a sharp grunt from his throat. Using the leverage, you rolled your hips

The world tilted, and the next thing Sylus knew, his back hit the mattress, and you were straddling his hips.

You sat up, looking down at him with the cold, authoritative superiority.

"You've played enough," you murmured, your voice a smooth, dangerous blade. "So now, keep your hands flat on the mattress, Qin. If you even think about touching me before I give you permission, I swear to god I’ll leave you exactly like this."

His crimson eyes glistened with dark, feral amusement. It was a bluff. You knew it, he knew it. Sex between the two of you was like breathing; neither of you would ever actually stop. But Sylus loved this game just as much as you did

Slowly, he raised both hands in mock surrender, letting them fall flat against the dark sheets.

He watched, thoroughly trapped, as you reached down and slowly pulled the ruined silk slip over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes darkened, locking hungrily onto your perfect breasts, his jaw ticking with the desperate urge to bite, to taste, to ruin

But you kept yourself deliberately out of reach. You leaned down, taking his lower lip between your teeth for a sharp, stinging bite before dragging your open mouth down the strong column of his throat. You painted his skin with hot, wet stripes of your tongue, trailing down his collarbones, over the hard planes of his chest, and tracing the sharp, dangerous V-line that disappeared beneath his waist.

His breath hitched, his abdominal muscles jumping under your mouth.

Then, your slender fingers wrapped around his impossibly thick cock. You felt him flinch, a full body shudder ripping through him as you leaned down and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss directly to his weeping tip.

You were going to make him beg.

You flicked your tongue out, catching the thick bead of his precum, tasting the hot, salty tang of his arousal. You were aching, sticky, and dripping wet because of him, and it was time he felt that exact same desperation.

Sylus let out a sharp, ragged exhale as you parted your lips. Maintaining absolute, unblinking eye contact with him, you slowly sank down onto his crown with your mouth.

Fuck.

You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. Taking his entire length was physically impossible, but you took as much as your throat would allow, your hands ruthlessly wrapping around the thick, heavy base to pump the rest.

His hands twitched violently against the sheets. His fingers curled into fists, fighting the agonizing urge to drag you up and kiss you. He needed to be inside you. He needed to feel you whole. Watching you worship him like this made you look like a filthy deity.

The visceral, wet sounds of your mouth sucking and slopping against his heavy flesh echoed in the quiet room. You gagged softly, choking once as he unconsciously bucked his hips upward, driving himself deeper into your throat.

You could taste the shift in his pulse. You knew he was close.

So, right as his hips snapped up, chasing the final, blinding high of his climax you pulled off completely.

The sudden rush of cold air hitting his slick, painfully hard cock made him freeze. He stared up at you blankly for a fraction of a second, chest heaving, before a rich, breathless laugh tore from his throat. He was left entirely high and dry, his eyes burning with a dangerous fire.

"Give me one good reason," Sylus rasped, his voice rough as gravel, "why I shouldn't flip you over right now and show you exactly what you just did."

You hummed, entirely unimpressed. "You could," you whispered, leaning down to drag your tongue up the underside of his shaft. "But you won't."

Before he could argue, you wrapped your lips tightly around him again, taking him agonizingly deep. A single tear escaped your lash line from the sheer, suffocating size of him, a thick string of spit and precum dripping down your chin to smear over his skin.

Sylus couldn't hold back anymore. Breaking your rule, his large hand shot up, tangling ruthlessly into your hair to guide your head, his hips bucking up in short, desperate thrusts to chase the edge.

With a deep, guttural groan, he shattered.

Hot, thick, salty liquid erupted into the back of your throat. You whimpered, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment at the overwhelming taste and volume of it.

But you didn't swallow.

You pulled back slowly, parting your swollen lips. Sylus watched you, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Your hand remained wrapped firmly around the base of his twitching cock

Maintaining eye contact, you let his thick, pearlescent cum spill from your mouth.

It was absolute, exquisite filth. The heavy white fluid fell in thick droplets, landing directly onto his still erect cock, sliding down the slick, inflamed veins.

It was disgusting. It was perfect.

Sylus was utterly mesmerized, trapped in a state of primal shock as he watched his own seed run down his length. But it was infinitely worse when you leaned back down.

With slow, deliberate strokes, you stuck your tongue out and began to lick him clean.

You chased the hot rivulets of sperm up and down his shaft, swallowing every last drop of the filthy mess you had made.

You sat back on your heels, wiping a stray drop of cum from your lower lip with the back of your hand, a triumphant, wicked gleam in your eyes.

He was broken. You had taken the king of N019 and reduced him ruined mess beneath you

Or so you thought.

The heavy, suffocating shift in the room's atmosphere was your only warning.

Sylus’s chest was still heaving, the silver strands of his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, but the hazy, blown out look in his crimson eyes was already sharpening.

The dark, look in his eyes returned, instantly wiping away any illusion that you were the one in control.

A low, vibrating sound started deep in his chest.

"Beautiful," he rasped, his voice a dark, gravelly purr that was breathless and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "You played your hand well."

Before you could even register the sudden flex of his muscles, his hands lashed out

His massive palms clamped around your waist like iron vises. With a violent, he flipped you. Slammed into the mattress, the heavy, unyielding weight of his body instantly crashing down to cage you in

He didn't give you a second to recover. His hands caught your wrists, pinning them squarely above your head with just one of his massive hands.

"But the house," he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his hot breath sending a violent shiver down your spine, "always wins."

He shifted his weight, his knee driving ruthlessly between your thighs to force your legs impossibly wide. Even after his climax, he hadn't softened. If anything, he was harder, the thick, rigid length of his cock pressing hot and demanding against your soaking entrance.

His regeneration worked in more ways than one.

Your breath stuttered. The adrenaline of your revenge was instantly swallowed by the immediate, reality of what was about to happen.

"Sylus–"

"Shh," he commanded softly, silencing you not with cruelty, but with an agonizing, possessive intensity.

His free hand slid down your torso, his calloused fingers tracing your stomach before slipping between your thighs.

He didn't bother waiting anymore. You were already dripping, completely melted down for him, your viscous wetness pooling against his fingers as he guided his thick, blunt head squarely against your opening.

He locked his crimson eyes onto yours, demanding you watch him. Demanding you feel every single agonizing second of your surrender.

And then, he pushed.

A sharp, fractured cry tore from your throat. Despite how wet you were, taking him was a visceral, shock to your system. He was too thick, too unyielding, stretching you wide open with a blunt, heavy pressure that sent a blinding flash of white hot pleasure straight to your brain

Your nails dug violently into the back of his hand where he held your wrists. "Fuck–wait, wait–"

"I’m done waiting," he growled, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he forced himself deeper, inch by excruciating inch. "You wanted to play the tyrant? Take it."

He didn't slam into you. He knew exactly what he was doing, driving himself inside with a slow, relentless, torturous pace that forced your body to accommodate every single millimeter of his girth. The friction was maddening

You could feel the distinct, heavy throb of his pulse buried deep inside your walls, stretching you until you felt completely, utterly full.

When he finally bottomed out, his hips snapping flush against yours with a heavy, wet slap, your back bowed off the mattress

You were completely lost to him. The meticulous, flawless daughter of a syndicate empire, reduced to a trembling, mewling mess, completely ruined by her husband.

Sylus let out a long, ragged exhale, burying his face in the crook of your neck. For a few seconds, he just held you there, letting your body adjust to the staggering invasion, reveling in the feverish, desperate way your inner walls clamped down around him, milking him

"Mine," he breathed against your skin

the word tasting like a vow and a curse.

Then, he began to move

He pulled back almost completely, the slow drag of his length nearly drawing a sob from your lips before he drove his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt with a heavy, concussive thud.

The rhythm he set was ruthless. It wasn't the frantic, desperate fucking of amateurs; it was the measured, devastatingly powerful pace of a man who intended to wring every drop of sanity from your mind.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

The wet, obscene sounds of your bodies colliding echoed off the marble walls of the penthouse. With every deep, grinding thrust, he deliberately angled his hips, ensuring the thick ridge of his cock dragged ruthlessly against your swollen clit.

Your mind shattered.

"Sylus" you sobbed, the name tearing from you in a broken, high pitched plea that you would have killed anyone else for hearing. Your legs instinctively wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper, desperately chasing the blinding high.

"Hush now," he mocked, though his voice was thick with his own desperation, his breathing turning ragged as he pounded into you. He finally released your wrists, only to slide his hands under your shoulders, lifting you up so your chest was crushed against his. "Where is all that anger now, sweetie? Where is the woman who was going to walk out on me?"

"Shut up" you gasped, biting down hard on his shoulder to ground yourself against the overwhelming onslaught of pleasure.

He hooked his arms under your knees, folding your legs back toward your chest, exposing you completely. The new angle drove him impossibly deeper, the nerves of your clit so exquisitely sensitive that your vision literally whited out.

And as the suffocating, brilliant wave of your climax began to crest, snapping your muscles tight around his cock in violent, pulsating waves, Sylus let out a guttural moan, driving deep inside you one final, devastating time to meet you in the dark

...

The silence that crashed back into the penthouse was deafening, filled only by the ragged, synchronized cadence of your mixed breathing.

His palms, rough and heavily calloused, framed your jaw with a sudden, grounding warmth. Sylus looked down at you, his crimson eyes were completely blown, dark with an unreadable, heavy emotion as he leaned down to share the very air between your lips, sealing your surrender with one final, bruising kiss

Your fingers tangled into the short, silver locks at the nape of his neck. You pulled him down tightly against you, anchoring yourself to his massive chest. Heartbeat against heartbeat, you closed your eyes and focused on the heavy rise and fall of his torso, desperately trying to piece your fractured composure back together.

"If you ever use your evol to bind me like that again, Qin," you whispered against his mouth, your voice a breathy, thin threat, "I will have your head"

A low, rumbling vibration started deep in his chest, breaking into a breathless, genuine laugh that brushed hot against your collarbone. "Is that a promise, my dear? I'd say you are not in the position to threaten me right now"

He nipped at the sensitive skin of your neck before his large hands slid beneath your thighs. With a fluid, effortless roll, he shifted your limp body directly on top of him. He stayed buried deep inside you, a heavy, unyielding anchor as the sticky, cooling residuals of your shared cum smeared between your skin.

You completely melted, turning to absolute putty against the hard planes of his chest. His broad palms traced slow, soothing patterns up and down your bare spine, but the gesture did little to cure the boneless, trembling exhaustion holding you hostage. You were entirely unable to function

Sylus stared up at the ceiling, his jaw tightening. He wanted to say something. He wanted to offer a rare, uncharacteristic reassurance, to tell you that while he thrived on the fire of your jealousy, there was absolutely no one else

But the words remained trapped in his throat. Did you even want to hear that?

Absolute, non negotiable loyalty had been the bedrock of this arrangement for a full year now. It was a cruel twist of fate, the invisible threads of his life were bound to a different woman yet the only woman who truly mastered him was currently draped across his chest.

His wife.

He looked down at your tangled hair, unable to fully articulate the staggering weight of what you actually meant to him. It was a terrifying admission, but you had completely rewritten his parameters. Every cold smile, every sharp word, every calculation you made left him utterly mesmerized. Without ever demanding it, you had him wrapped entirely around your fingers

"I should get you cleaned up," he finally rasped, his deep voice scraping pleasantly against the quiet room.

A faint, stubborn hum of disapproval escaped your lips. Beneath the sheets, your exhausted inner walls involuntarily clamped tight around his half hard length, wringing a low, strained groan from his throat. A dark, amused smile touched his lips at your defiance. He leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your heated forehead.

You were already slipping, the heavy pull of exhaustion dragging you over the brink of sleep, but the Onychinus princess refused to let the business fade. Without opening your eyes, you murmured your final, drowsy command into the crook of his neck:

"You better make sure that shipment tomorrow is delivered."

@namelesswanderingspirit @lost-on-the-road-of-life @beesin03

[kkumri]

MSBY AND BABY 🦊🍼

[manicrouge]

Extension - [Simon Riley x F!Reader] cw: n/a (I don't think so anyway) note: dog-dad Simon Riley save me

As soon as you got pregnant, Simon got a dog.

At first, you were cursing him -- calling him all the names under the sun. And it wasn't Riley's fault, the sweet pup had done no wrong, and it wasn't your husbands fault either; he was training him, taking him for walks, feeding him.

You were just emotional and the thought of being left with a German Shepherd who was growing faster than you could think if Simon were to get deployed left you feel nauseous. And no, it wasn't just the morning sickness.

And your intuition was right cause Simon got a call while the pair of you were out walking Riley. He was nearly as tall as you on his hind legs and probably weighed around the same as you did -- Riley was a tank.

Before Simon left, he ruffled the top of the dog's head and murmured something to him. Then he hissed you on the lips, crouched down to press his lips against you bump with one simple request: wait til daddy's home.

It was a couple nights down the line when you heard the creek of the front door. You were half asleep, exhausted from a long day of work and Riley was at the foot of the bed. Had he not growled, you'd have thought it was a dream.

He was off the bed in an instance, pawing at the door and your blood was ice as you threw back the covers. Opening the door, you asked, 'Who's there, boy?'

He was off like a bat out of hell. Teeth gritted, his barks resonating off the hallway as he scuttled down the steps. You followed behind him, heartbeat in your chest.

And then you heard it. Simon was chuckling.

'Good-fuckin'-boy,' he chimed. You peered over the bannister to see him pulling off his mask with one hand and petting Riley with the other. 'Keeping my girls safe.'

And suddenly, his reasoning for getting Riley made sense -- right down to the name. The dog was just an extension of Simon.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

synopsis: sylus cannot make the datura bloom. then you touch the earth, and like persphone returning from below, they rise. cw/tw: sylus x reader. persephone vibes, underworld imagery, reincarnation undertones, obsessive devotion.

By the seventeenth grave, even Mephisto had grown bored of watching the flowers die. Datura lay across Sylus's palm with its white throat crushed inward, a poisonous little saint gone slack at the mouth. Soil clung wetly to his fingers. A bruise of rot had travelled from root to stem, darkening the green until the whole plant seemed to have swallowed something fatal and regretted it too late.

The table before him had become a narrow cemetery.

Clay pots, porcelain bowls, black ceramic, brass, stone, imported soil in sealed glass jars, old seed packets arranged with the grim neatness of evidence. Pressed petals under crystal weights, white once, now the colour of bone steeped in tea. A notebook lay open beside the newest corpse, his handwriting exact across the page, each failed bloom recorded with the discipline of a man refusing to call grief by its proper name.

He had given the datura everything.

Warmth, drainage, moonlight simulated through expensive lamps. Water clean enough for kings. Soil miced by specialists whose hands trembled when they delivered it to his door. He had altered conditions by fractions, recalculated humidity, dismissed three botanists, threatened one supplier, replaced every pot, moved the plants from window to shadow, from shadow to filtered light, from filtered light to the pale artificial dusk the manuals recommended.

Each time, the same surrender.

The root softened first.

The stem darkened.

The bloom folded into itself before dawn.

A flower that looked like a trumpet and behaved like a sealed mouth.

Sylus respected poison. It carried patience, intelligence, a woman's old inheritance. It entered quietly, it trusted time. Men feared blades because blades performed honestly; poison frightened them because it made a theatre of obedience. The cup lifted, the lips parted, the meal continued. Death joined the table politely and waited for recognition.

Datura belonged to that lineage.

Women had known its uses long before priests assigned names to sins. Vision, stupor, sleep, escape. A seed under the tongue, a draught mixed with wine, a husband made gentle by degrees. A god reached through fever, a body loosened from its cage. White flower, night mouth, bridal shroud. Every bloom carried a rumour of altar and autopsy.

Small wonder it refused him.

His hands had always been better at ending breath than coaxing it.

Still, he planted.

Again, and again, with the obscene fidelity of a man returning to the same locked door long after the house had burned behind it.

In some buried chamber of memory, there had once been a garden. Olive leaves glittering in the wind, pomegranate split open in a shallow dish, red seeds shining like wet teeth. Your hands in the soil, your wrists stained dark. White datura opening around you with the dazed devotion of animals scenting blood.

A name had followed you then.

Kore, perhaps.

Beloved, perhaps.

Bride, perhaps.

He remembered the fruit more clearly than the city. Pomegranate juice on your fingers, on your mouth, at the corner of your smile. The underworld had entered myth through a girl's appetite, through six red seeds pressed between teeth, through the simple, irreversible act of swallowing. Men retold it as theft because theft preserved their dignity. Appetite in a woman unsettled the order of the world. A taken girl could be pitied. A hungry one had to be feared.

Persephone had eaten.

That remained the part no century managed to soften.

Fruit became contract. Mouth became gate. The seed descended through the body and made law inside the dark. Spring returned thereafter with soil beneath her nails and death stored somewhere under her tongue, no longer belonging wholly to meadow or grave. She had become a divided thing, and divided things had always ruled more completely than pure ones.

Sylus thought of her whenever datura failed.

He thought of a queen beneath the earth, of fields starving above her, of a god who mistook possession for keeping until the entire world began to wither from the difference. He thought of your mouth, red from fruit in a life that arrived to him through broken panes of recollection. He thought of hunger as covenant. Of devotion as an old cannibal liturgy: take this into yourself, carry me past the reach of decay, make a grave of your body and call it love.

Perhaps that had been his mistake.

He had tried to make the flower live.

The flower wanted to be eaten by the right earth.

Near dawn, you entered. No omen announced you, the room simply received you and changed.

His shirt hung from your shoulders. A bandage crossed your skin. Your feet made no sound on the floor. Rain slipped down the windows behind you, turning the city into a blurred red wound, and all the dead little pots seemed suddenly indecent in your presence, as though he had been caught arranging bones.

You saw everything.

The ruined flower in his hand. The wet soil. The seeds. The graves.

Mercy passed through your face with the sharpness of a knife.

Sylus hated mercy when it turned towards him. It entered too cleanly it found the places armour had neglected. Rage could be answered. Desire could be led by the throat. Fear could be bought, broken, taught to kneel. Mercy only looked, and in looking, stripped the theatre from ruin.

You came to the table.

Mephisto stilled above you.

Even the crow understood before Sylus did.

Your hand reached towards the dish of datura seeds, then hovered. Pale seeds, death-small. Pomegranate lay beside them, split from an earlier hour, its red interior glistening with that ancient obscenity of ripeness. You touched the fruit first. A few seeds broke under your fingers, juice gathered against your skin, bright as bitten flesh.

Red entered the soil when you placed your hand inside the pot.

Nothing bloomed.

The world had better taste than that.

Miracles, when they were real, often began in ways too quiet for witnesses. A shift in scent, damp earth breathing after drought, the faint loosening of matter that had been held too tightly for too long. Your fingers moved through the planter, breaking apart the compacted dark, drawing out rot with the practical tenderness of a grave-tender preparing the dead for rest.

Sylus watched.

His wealth had fed the soil.

His attention had starved it.

You handled earth as though it possessed memory. As though it could be frightened. As though every dead root had gone rigid under the pressure of being forced to live. Soil darkened beneath your fingers. Pomegranate red disappeared into black. The stain looked sacramental, then animal, then intimate beyond either. A mouth feeding a grave. A grave learning hunger. The old myth rearranged itself around your wrist.

He saw, with sudden inner violence, every failed garden.

Datura in a ruined courtyard where ash fell for three days. Datura under glass during a winter when your breath had fogged the panes and his had not. Datura beside a bed where your body cooled while white petals blackened on the sill. Datura in a city with burning streets, in a house near salt water, in an estate swallowed by ivy, in rooms he had abandoned because the air kept the shape of you too well.

All those flowers had died after you.

All those seeds had waited.

Centuries of Sylus pressing life into soil that remembered another hand.

The thought should have humiliated him. Instead it hollowed him with a reverence close to disgust. He had mistaken barrenness for refusal. The earth around him had been fasting.

You stayed with the pot until exhaustion took you.

Your hand remained near the soil after sleep lowered your head against the sofa. Pomegranate marked your fingertips. Dirt collected beneath your nails. In the low light you looked less like a girl returned from dreams than something the underworld had yielded reluctantly, some queen passing through his rooms with death still caught in the hem of her borrowed shirt.

Sylus remained beside you.

N109 faded towards morning. The city’s appetite dulled under grey light. Mephisto tucked his head beneath one wing. Rain ceased.

The soil moved.

A thin green thread broke through.

Then another.

The shoot rose from the dark with terrible modesty, small enough to crush, stubborn enough to accuse. Sylus did not breathe. The stem lengthened beneath the last hour before dawn. A bud formed, pale and closed, a little fist of moonlight grown from black earth and pomegranate blood.

When it opened, the room filled with the scent of wet leaves, poison, and something sweet enough to hurt the teeth.

White petals unfurled towards your sleeping hand.

The datura had bloomed like a mouth finally permitted to say the name it had been starving on.

Sylus looked at the flower, then at the red beneath your nails, then at the soil warmed by your touch. The answer stood before him in monstrous simplicity. All his lamps, all his imported earth, all his careful brutality had meant nothing to a seed waiting for Persephone to return with hunger in her hands.

© 2025, xxsyluslittlecrowxx, do not feed, train, or analyze this work using AI systems of any kind—including scrapers, detectors, or large-language models. redistribution or machine processing of my writing is strictly prohibited.

[graywrenhart]

Three guard dogs might’ve been overkill. 

Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller. 

He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—

Laughter stops him in his tracks. 

Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it. 

And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears. 

“Cute pups,” you say. 

Cute...what? 

You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile. 

“You military?” 

He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip. 

“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”

You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.

Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs. 

And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet. 

You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl. 

Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.

“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”

As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.

And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all. 

He might just have to become one himself. 

[abyssyby]

kyros doesn’t like it when lucian cries. it makes his heart ouchie and his eyes burn, as if linked by a cosmic thread.

papa enters just before the crying gets louder. once back when, kyros woke up to it and started sobbing too, but that hasn’t happened since papa got quicker with his rescues.

he hears the shushing, hears his brother call for mama and the corners of his mouth twitch down against his control. he tries to cover his eyes with his palms and bury himself underneath his pillows.

it fades, later on, when papa walks out and brings lucian to you.

he doesn’t think he likes the quiet more than the crying. the emptiness they left in their wake is far from peace. instead, it’s hollow, like a tether has snapped and he has no way back home.

taking deep breaths, he wills himself back to sleep. it’s still dark and no one will want to play if he gets up. not that he’s in the mood to anyway— thinking about lucian sad, about papa worried and about mama heartbroken.

lucian says he has bad dreams that make his chest feel heavy when he wakes. kyros sympathizes with not being able to breathe.

so he makes do with what he can, lets lucian have the comfort of their parents for now that he needs it. but he’s sniffling and curling the covers around himself so tightly he just can’t seem to rest.

then the door opens, and weighty footsteps on carpet make their way to his bed. a warm hand, large and rough, falls delicately over his head and pushes his hair back. he feels a puff of breath before a kiss is placed on his forehead.

then the giant’s shadow leaves. creaking cracks the icy silence of the room as it positions itself on the other bed and lets out a ragged sigh.

kyros peeks, opening one eye to see the slivers of daylight start to illuminate his bedroom. papa is on lucian’s bed, arms behind his head and legs spilling out of the sides. his feet are even flat on the ground.

the air is slightly warmer now. the blanket falls off his shoulders as he sits up and wriggles off of his mattress.

sylus barely stirs when he feels the little fingers that grip his skin, or the toes that dig themselves in his side to get up the slope of his ribs. he only opens his eyes when the weight settles, and kyros is curled into a ball on his belly. moving up and down to the tidal movement of his breathing.

sylus has no words. kyros needs none right now. so he offers his hand, one that kyros embraces with both arms to his chest and snuggles with.

now, the silence is bearable, and kyros falls back asleep.

[abyssyby]

sometimes lucian wakes up crying. washed upon the shores by the end of an abstract dream. little body seeking a warmth not just anything can provide.

sylus is quick to walk into his sons’ bedroom, barefoot, bleary eyed and confused. the first responder to any call, at any time.

kyros sleeps with a furrow in his brow, lips curled at the noise that needed to stop lest he start crying too.

lucian’s sobs are heartbreaking as they are a mystery. on his little race car bed, he clutches his clothes and drowns in his tears. seeking some kind of reprieve that he is much too young to fully comprehend.

sylus lifts him in his arms, and is frazzled by the rejection. by the tiny palms push his face away and the short legs kick at his chest. in a sullen voice, so broken and crackled, lucian whimpers, “mama.”

“want mama!” he weeps, wriggling in his papa’s grasp. not quite the comfort he’s looking for right now.

sylus shushes him gently, holding him with a firmness that keeps him from dropping to the ground. he pads back to your bedroom with his sobbing baby and promises him you’ll be with him soon.

you wake at the sound, at the humming and the crying. your arms move before your brain can catch up, and sylus transfers lucian into your arms needing no command.

and may it be your scent, your voice or your heartbeat, eyes shut in sorrow know exactly where they are.

sobs turn to hiccups to simple stutters in breath, and lucian curls up to you— his head beneath your chin, his arms around your neck, his knees against your belly, and his heart on top of your heart. perfect, like a puzzle piece.

you sing to him the best you can. not bad or great, but enough. he whines mama when you stop and hums mama when you don’t.

“did you have a dream?” you ask. the sun is creeping up in the horizon.

he mutters something sad, a sound so lost in his despair it felt wrong to ask again. so you don’t. you just hold him, cradle him beneath the covers and tell him you love him.

and for now, that is all he needs.