You chuckled, admittedly impressed with the number. “And does that win me anything?”

“Hmm… not quite.” He slightly shook his head with little energy, a telltale sign that he was exhausted. “It does earn you a temporary slot in my memory, though.” He took the cash from your hand. “As the first person to order something other than matcha today.” You found him uncharacteristically cracking the tiniest smile your way, and had you been a second too late you would have missed it.

“A double shot ice shaken for y/n!” You went to grab your cup, thanked the barista with a smile and a nod, and went out making your way back home. However, his eyes that lingered on you a moment too long weren’t unnoticed, and a weird sense of familiarity struck within you.

By the time you had gotten home, the coffee was drunk to the last drop. Even the ice cubes weren’t spared as you crunched on them as you made your way towards your apartment.

Rattling keys twisted to allow entry, and you found yourself dropping everything to the floor and sprawling on your lone green couch. Eager hands reached for your laptop, its sleep state long gone as you were already on your browser typing away.

Onlyfans.com

The subtle taste of white mocha still lingered on your tongue as you logged in and went to check the only account on your feed.

thelumierefiles.

A masked man whom you found yourself falling deeper for with every post.

There he was, in yet another cosplay outfit, albeit revealing, very impressive.

Pale skin fell in contrast against dark fabric, and piercing blue eyes never failed to steal the show.

His posts were always the teasing kind. Not too revealing, yet always enough to leave you wanting more, needing more.

Needing him.

It was pointless to deny that what drew you to the man was lust, the kind of attraction one could only describe as unholy.

It was pointless to deny the sinful nature of what had you so mesmerized, so caught up with the mystery of the unknown man on screen. His confidence was tame but present, and his teasing antics profound in their subtlety.

Yet it was also clear to you that the more your eyes took him in, the more all of you wanted to take him in, your heart no exception.

Yes, Lumiere was pretty to look at. But it never stopped there for you.

You knew Lumiere would be infinitely soft to the touch.

You knew Lumiere’s voice would be the softest melody to the ear, the type that would fill the silence instead of breaking it.

You knew Lumiere would be warm to lie down next to, skin to skin no barrier in between.

But most of all, you were aware that there is more to Lumiere… than Lumiere. You could tell by the mario figurines in the background of his posts, and the random physics memes that were scattered on his walls.

You could tell because what was behind his eyes is even deeper than their blue, and this is exactly what made you grow attached, obsessed even, to the masked man; the fact that you saw Lumiere as what was actually beyond Lumiere, and not Lumiere, the adult content creator.

Alas, the man in front of you, whether you were drawn to what was beyond his online persona or not, was impossibly sensual to look at.

Dark maroon leather pants rose low on his hips, his lower abs leading to the covered yet defined bulge in his pants. A matching vest on top was open, revealing snow skin begging to be kissed.

Plump lips were parted in a way you could hear a muted moan just by looking at the picture, and a carefully placed hand sat right at the hem of his tight pants, the other tightening around a thrown back neck.

You logged off after appreciating the man for an hour too long, and decided it was time for you to be a responsible adult once again and get on with your chores.

Oh how you wished Lumiere was one of them.

The next day was a copy of its predecessor minus the sudden rainstorm that cued once you set your foot in the cafe as you came back from work.

Walking up to Xavier, you could see a faint smile he was trying to swallow back.

“No umbrella I see.” He pursed his lips like it was his fault the weather suddenly changed.

“I’ll just hang around here until the rain calms down.” You shrugged it off with a smile. Spending time in the cafe was actually a lovely idea, you thought.

A break from life for a little while.

A break from your dirty obsession for a while.

“Double shot ice shaken with a pump of white mocha?” A soft voice snapped you back to reality, the silver haired man tapping away at the screen in front of him.

“Wait no-“ you narrowed your eyes for a second in contemplation. “Make it a pump of hazelnut. And add a cinnamon roll to the order please. The rain looks like it’ll take a while to calm down, might as well eat something.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, and informed you that your order would be ready in a few.

“Y/n! A double shot ice sha-“

“Shaken with a pump of hazelnut and a cinnamon roll for y/n!” You continued, humoring him as you got up to grab your order.

“You impress me, really.” He chuckled quietly at your antics, and you stared at him wide eyed.

“I impress myself as well, honestly. Was that a chuckle, Xavier?” You couldn’t help but comment. “I’ve known you for 6 months and this is the first time i’ve seen anything remotely close to a laugh from you.”

“You got the premium subscription. It usually takes 7 months.” He nodded to himself, proud of his dry humor.

It was 10:51 pm already, and you found yourself leaning at the counter as the barista was cleaning up, ready for the end of his shift when your phone suddenly went off, and the mario theme song resonated in the empty cafe.

“Oh, sorry. That was loud.” You furrowed your brows at your phone, muting the call.

“I’m less intrigued by how loud your phone is and more interested in the fact that someone in 2025 does not have their phone on silent mode.” He shook his head, the slightest amusement betraying his usually emotionless voice.

Before you had the chance to defend yourself, he continued. “Not complaining, though. Mario is not bad.” He murmured as he took his apron off.

The words followed you out the door as he locked up behind you.

Mario is not bad.

Mario…

The thought forced your feet to a stop as you two were leaving the cafe. The abrupt motion caused the man locking the door to turn around and look at you, and it was then you caught it.

The reflection in his eyes that you knew all too well, the silver hair catching the dim moonlight.

It couldn’t be him, no.

As uncommon as silver-haired, blue eyed people were, there was not only one man with said traits.

They were not exclusive to Lumiere. No.

You brushed the thought off. You forced it away. So far in the back of your head it almost felt like a lie.

Xavier was too innocent for any of what Lumiere was, and part of you felt guilty for thinking he could be the masked man, even for the fleetest moment.

“Are you okay?” A small worried whisper dragged you of your guilt spiral, and your heart sank even further.

You fiddled with your bag, trying to reach for something as the quiet man eyed you attentively.

You perked up as you felt the object with your hand, fishing it out and placing it midway between both of your faces.

“A yoshi figurine?” The light in his eyes suddenly put that of the moon to shame, and his little smile tugged at your heart as it did his lips.

“Well, I happened to buy it today. I thought it was cute. And you just said you like mario so-“

“I said it’s not bad.” He interrupted, holding the small figurine up with both hands in appreciation.

He might have considered the gesture that of friendliness, but to you, it was much more.

It was an unspoken apology for tainting his image in your head.

The way home was longer than usual. It felt like you walking through your thoughts instead of the road, and time paused every time you allowed yourself near that one thought.

The thought that Xavier was Lumiere. Yes his hair colored checked. His eye color too. Even his skin tone and the tilt of pink lips. But then again, Xavier was tame, and Lumiere wasn’t. Xavier was a sweet, quiet, shy guy, and Lumiere wasn’t.

It couldn’t be, right?

It couldn’t be.

Your days all repeated themselves as yet again you found yourself sitting on your couch in warm pajamas, logging into the unholy account after a quick shower.

thelumierefiles, 5 minutes ago.

You were just on time.

Lumiere was fresh out of the shower too, or so his caption claimed. This time around, his face out of frame, and you just knew he had his mask off.

You found yourself filling in the image of his absent face in your head, only to catch your thoughts drifting to the man at the cafe.

Your eyes veered to the damp body on the screen, water droplets like morning dew on the softest leaf. A white towel hung on a bulge, and pale thighs were left on full display.

And a new figurine onto his shelf was up.

A new figurine… a new Yoshi figurine. No. Your Yoshi figurine was up on the shelf.

Your world paused for a second. Your breathing stopped, and the fingers hovering over your mouse shook in revelation.

What if you were wrong? What if it had always been there? What if it seemed this way to you because you couldn’t shove the face of a quiet barista out your head?

You quickly scrolled to yesterday’s post. It wasn’t there. Your memory of his figurine shelf hadn’t fooled you, it wasn’t there.

But tonight it was.

You closed your laptop shut, hugging it to your chest. It felt like you were abrading someone’s privacy.

Like you were seeing things you shouldn’t be.

… Like you knew things you shouldn’t.

Xavier was Lumiere- no.

You startle as your somewhat delirious mind finally takes notice of the figure seated in front of you. There's a pitcher of water with two expensive-looking glasses set on a table behind him, as well as a bowl of fresh fruit. He's slumped over in a luxurious armchair, his head resting on his knuckles as he breathes deeply, fast asleep. That's- no way, this can't be right.

You check your hands — five fingers on both, no abnormalities. You're wearing your usual pajamas, and the details are all there, down to the smallest stain. This is too clear to be a dream. This hurts too much to be a dream. So what, a psychotic break? Are you going insane?

Intense pain blooms deep in your skull, and you cover your face, holding back a shuddering sob. Chills and shivers wrack your body, and it takes everything you have to keep yourself from crying out and waking the stranger in front of you. The stranger, because there's no way that's who you think it is. He's not real. You must be going insane; it hurts so badly. You bite down on your palm to keep yourself quiet, tasting iron as your unease builds even further.

You have to get out of here. You have to get out of here. Dizzy and delirious, you climb out of bed, nearly collapsing to the floor just from trying to stay standing. You unsteadily stumble forward on legs shaking from the effort of holding up your own body weight, singularly focused on moving forward. You've never felt this weak before.

With a great amount of effort, you reach the door to the bedroom, and luckily, the door's hinges don't squeak as you push it open. You're relieved to have something to lean on, bracing your shoulder against the wall as you force yourself to keep moving forward.

You're unsure of your goal as you mindlessly limp down the hallway, peeking past the open doors in hopes of finding something, anything. No luck. Not even a promising-looking potential hiding place. Acid bubbles up in your throat, and you choke on a cough, just barely swallowing it back down. Your throat burns as the liquid retreats, but you know it likely won't be gone for long.

A bathroom. You need a bathroom. Shivering as another wave of chills rolls through you, you keep moving forward. There would have likely been one attached to the bedroom you woke up in, but you're not going to risk heading back in there, not when there's some sort of doppelganger at your bedside.

A wave of pain originating from your heart forces you to your knees, and you gasp, your vision blurring with tears. You struggle back up to your feet, and you think you catch a glimpse of red, beady eyes glowing in your direction from a vantage point up above. But when you try for a second glance, they're gone.

The nausea in the back of your throat is rapidly worsening, and it's looking like you won't get to a bathroom in time. You stumble into a random room, looking for a garbage can, but there's none in your limited field of vision. Acting on instinct, you crawl under a table in the corner like a defeated dog, curling up as you try to hold back the inevitable.

The ringing in your ears grows louder as tears drip down your nose, hand pressed to your mouth. You're too drained to flinch when you feel cool fingers brushing your neck as they carefully gather up your hair, holding it out of the way as another hand gently pries yours from your mouth, nearly engulfing it as a thumb rubs slow circles on the back.

"It's alright. Just let it out, sweetheart. I've got you."

You sob, a hiccup quickly followed by a cough, then a violent retch as your body expels a thick, viscous, black goo onto the ground in front of you. You don't even have enough time to be horrified before more quickly follows, this time mixed with the contents of your stomach.

It tastes awful, leaving a lingering burn in your throat and your mouth, and the taste of what you can only imagine as rotten flesh. You cough up a few more mouthfuls before slumping forward, easily caught by the large hands that have handled you so delicately.

Your vision is spotty as your body is pulled forward, retrieving you from your hiding spot with the utmost care. Your mouth is carefully wiped with a silk handkerchief before you feel the figure lifting you with incredible ease, guiding your chest to lean against his own as he stands up. He must be very tall, you muse, as you're quite far off the ground.

He walks slowly, one arm beneath your thighs and the other rubbing circles into your back to keep you steady and attempt to mitigate the effects of motion sickness. You appreciate his efforts to keep you comfortable. Your throat still burns; you think it got into your sinuses, too. You sob softly into his shoulder. You can't stop shaking.

You lose focus for a little while, almost dozing off, but you're brought back by the soothing sensation of a warm washcloth gently cleaning your face, wiping away your dried tears and the leftover black residue around your lips and nose. You're sitting on the edge of a cold bathtub, with the man's hand still pressed to your back to keep you from toppling over.

A plastic cup is tapped to your mouth, accompanied by a soft command.

"Swish."

You do as he says, opening up for the liquid and swishing it around in your mouth. Once you're done, he guides you to lean over and spit it out into the tub, bringing you back to wipe your lips again. How did he know your favorite mouthwash…? Lucky guess?

You're lifted again, and you lean into the man, burying your face in his chest for comfort. He smells nice; a small but very welcome distraction from your poor condition. You don't think you've ever felt closer to death than you do now. The deep, burning agony in your heart has begun to spread slowly through your veins, and your muscles now protest with a throbbing pain left from overexertion.

You're pulled from the grounding warmth of his chest yet again and delicately placed in the bed where you woke up, back in the embrace of its silken sheets, now soothingly cool against your feverish skin. You're propped up like a doll against slanted pillows, and the man sits in front of you, dipping the mattress. His hands press another cup to your lips, this one made of glass.

"Drink."

You doubt you could gather enough energy to raise your arms to grip his wrist, so you thoughtlessly comply, the water feeling heavenly against your irritated throat, clearing much of the remnants of black goop still clinging to the inside. You drain the whole glass in no time, and after he refills it, you drain another. You're about to ask for a third, but the man places the cup aside, opting to press the back of his hand to your forehead instead.

"You have an incredibly high fever…" He murmurs, concern laced in his tone. "We need to see how that water settles first, then I can give you some more."

You turn away from him, your gaze fixing instead on your hands. Your skin looks much greyer than it should. But you can't bring yourself to care as exhaustion begins to tug insistently at your mind, urging you to relinquish your feeble grip on consciousness. You almost do, but you're interrupted again by the man's voice.

"Do you remember who I am?"

You blink a few times, forcing your eyes to focus in order to make contact with the stranger's ruby-red ones. There's a hint of desperation and vulnerability in them that you hadn't spotted before.

"… Sylus?" you rasp, your throat feeling like it's filled with shards of broken glass. Though, the pain is worth it when you get to catch the surprised relief on the man's face. Maybe it is really him.

Instead of confirming or denying your assumption, he gently lifts one of your hands, leaning down and pressing his lips to your knuckles. There's a new tenderness when he speaks now, as if your existence itself is as fragile as glass and he's afraid to shatter reality.

"Rest. I'll be by your side until you wake."

Some part of you deep inside feels comforted by that, so you let go, falling into the cavernous abyss of sleep.

. . . . .

The night is chilly, but you don't feel it. Your fur is thick, its downy softness insulating against the early spring night. Not that the seasons are that noticeable in the N109 Zone, where nothing grows, where perpetual gloom reigns. It's no place for a wild animal whose heart longs for the scent of green, growing things, for the safety of thick foliage, cover to hide in from the worst predators in existence: human men.

No, you don't feel a thing, here in this concrete jungle where the safest place you can be is locked behind the bars of your cage.

You don't get locked in your cage nearly enough, as far as you're concerned.

At least in your cage, you go unnoticed and untouched. It's harder to hurt you in there. You can shrink yourself, huddled against the back corner, just out of reach.

It's a small act of rebellion, forcing him to reach for the cattle prod in order to get to you. You take what you can get.

But tonight, you carefully feel nothing at all, inside on a chilly spring night, curled in the lap of the man you hate the most. The room is dim, dark-wood paneled. Heavy leather furniture and sound-proofed walls, the faded reek of cigar hanging heavy in the air and making it hard to breathe through your sensitive nose. A gentleman's club VIP room, not cozy or small, not expansive. Big enough to fit an insecure man good at feigning confidence, his overinflated ego, and enough lackeys to make him feel safe.

Tonight, his hands are deceptively tender as he runs his palm along your back, over and over. As he curls your tail around his finger, pulling gently, just shy of pain. A nervous tick, a self-soothing tell. The only one he gives, with his perfected poker face and preternatural stillness during high-stakes negotiations. Your soft fur, your forced compliance, in his lap every time he must make a deal—as your heart races, his calms.

One of the many reasons he keeps you.

Curled in his lap, you keep your eyes on the man sitting across from you and your owner.

Long legs crossed elegantly, huge body leaning back against the brown leather couch, arms spread wide against the backrest—he's the epitome of relaxed nonchalance. And unlike your owner, he's not faking a thing. You can smell it. His genuine ease in the face of the men looming behind your owner, hands folded at their backs at false parade rest. False, as they keep their firearms tucked into their back waistbands and you know from experience that each one already has the pistol grip already fisted, ready to draw and fire.

The man smells… good. Like an oncoming storm. Exciting, powerful.

He smells like the safety of a burrow to shelter in once the storm hits.

You flare your nostrils delicately, trying to subtly inhale as much of him as you can.

You flick your ears. It's strange—he smells like ease, but his heart gallops as fast as yours. As if it naturally beats faster than a normal person's.

You suppress a shudder as his ruby eyes flick to yours, as if he can read your thoughts, your confusion, your fascination.

He's not a normal person.

His eyes not leaving yours, he lifts a thick, silver eyebrow. "Five mil was not the deal."

His voice, deep and bored, ripples down your spine. Its calm, dark notes eclipse the hand on your back, makes the hand bearable.

Your owner's hand presses a little harder as it sweeps along your spine, even as his voice remains calm. "It can't be helped. The Association has been sniffing around, exponentially increasing our logistics costs. It's a miracle that this shipment arrived on time, as promised. It's already a deal for you, considering the rarity of some of the items."

"I'm not interested in your shipping troubles." The man finally flicks his gaze back to your owner, but instead of being a relief, it feels like a loss. "Your failure to adequately plan for predictable complications is none of my business."

"If I accept anything less than five million, I will go under and you will lose your only reliable shipper through the strait. That is your business. Paying a fair price is part of any good business relationship." Your owner still sounds calm, as self-possessed as ever, but the building frustration wafts off of him in nauseating waves.

"You might be the last person I'd take relationship advice from," the red-eyed man drawls, shifting his gaze to you again before losing all interest in the conversation. He begins to examine his nails.

Your owner's frustration morphs into rage, with a curious thread of terror. You've never seen him so shaken before. It's like the more bored the other man gets, the more upset your owner gets. Clearing his throat, tightening his grip on your back, he struggles to maintain his serene facade. "No need for personal attacks."

The man snorts, the nostrils of his long, magnificent nose flaring in resigned amusement. "I find your reneging on our deal to be a personal attack. Two million, or I walk."

"We're both reasonable men," your owner coaxes. "I know for a fact that five million is a drop in the bucket for you while it is everything to me. It's a small premium to ensure our continued mutually beneficial relationship. We both walk away satisfied." His voice, and his hand on you, hardens. "If you walk, I go under. Do not mistake my patience with your diva behavior up to this point as weakness—I will only tolerate it up to a point."

The man on the white couch, his sterling hair shining like polished silver under the soft lighting of the cigar lounge, goes very still before rolling his head leisurely, gaze drifting from your owner's face to yours. "The irony of being called a diva by a man stroking a cat like a B-movie film villain would be funny if it weren't so boring."

Your owner's hand stops. You tense. You know from experience that things are about to get ugly.

"This is your last chance, Mr. Qin. Look around. No matter how powerful of a man you are, you still chose to walk in here, unarmed and alone, while I have my the best members of my security force at my back. The deal is on: five million, last chance."

You stare at the man… Mr. Qin. He remains still, utterly at ease, a slight, disdainful smile lifting one corner of his full mouth. His scent remains the same—electric. It just… intensifies. The lights flicker, faintly. You don't want him to die. But you've seen this scene so many times before.

They always die.

It has been a long, long time since you tried to defy your owner. Nothing seemed to matter, after he killed your littermate. Your only family. Your last link to humanity. He had threatened to do it, and you called his bluff, thinking that your brother was too valuable, just like you, to simply dispose of.

You paid dearly for that gamble. In fact, it cost you everything. You and Caleb were caught by his lackeys, weakened from malnutrition and the evol-suppressing collars. That night, your owner dragged Caleb out of your cage by the tail and you never saw him again.

But something about the man on the white couch, with his lava-molten eyes, regal nose, and machine-gun heartbeat. You feel concerned about another person for the first time in years. Inexplicably—or maybe as simple as instinct—the idea of him being hurt fills you with the same terror that used to overcome you when your owner would punish Caleb for your defiance.

Mr. Qin grunts, derisive, and your racing heart sinks. "Two million, you throw in the cat as compensation for wasting my time, and then you've got a deal." Waiting a beat, he lets the provocation sink in. Then, mockingly, he echoes, "Last chance."

As always, a sense of desolate helplessness fills you. But for the first time in years, you can't just sit back and do nothing. You know what it will cost you. But maybe you can buy this strange, magnetic man enough time to do… something. Even if it's hopeless, maybe the grief will be bearable this time, because at least you tried to stop it, instead of running headfirst into it.

Keeping your eyes open, you deliberately dig your claws into your owner's thigh, as deep as you can, and then drag them through his flesh.

He screams, not used to being the one receiving pain. Reflexively gripping you by the scruff of your neck, he flings your small body off of his lap.

The lights go out.

Gunfire explodes, so many fireworks deafening and blinding you, forcing you to lay your ears flat on on your head, to blink in pain.

You land on your feet, as you always do, but something dark and sparking, something slithering, electric—something inexorable drags you to the couch at Mr. Qin's feet and keeps you pinned to the ground behind his legs. A swishing, wooshing roar competes with the gunfire, muffling the painful blasts in your delicate eardrums.

Sheltered in the swirling embrace of the inky force keeping you pinned, you feel safer than you have in years.

You lift your head, gazing up between Mr. Qin's long legs, no longer crossed but spread leisurely, as if the occasion no longer requires the decorum of his previous posture.

The gunfire illuminates him, strobelights revealing how calmly he remains seated. As he lifts one hand, palm facing forward. As bullets plink to the ground before they reach him, a curtain of leaded rain. Blinding light, pitch black, blinding light, as he lifts his other hand, snapping his long fingers.

You swing your head just in time to see your owner explode in a fine mist of blood, flesh, and ash.

The lights flicker back on, just in time for you to see the guns in the hands of the men behind him disassemble themselves and float in the air, nothing more now than gun schematics rendered in 3d.

"This is the power of Onychinus," a mischievous, mocking voice rings from over Mr. Qin's right shoulder. You look back and up again. A masked man whom you didn't sense at all drapes himself over the back of the couch.

"Surrender and maybe you'll survive tonight," a matching voice, over Mr. Qin's left shoulder, drawls. The owner of the voice wears an identical mask, its beak wickedly curved as if to personify the dark glee in its owner's proclamation. "Keep resisting…"

"And join your boss," his twin finishes.

Each and every former employee of your owner lifts his hands into the air.

Mr. Qin gazes down at you, still crouched between his legs even though the force that was pinning you, now clearly visible in all of its scarlet and ink glory, slowly dissipates. "No. No mercy," he murmurs thoughtfully.

"Boss?" The man on his right sounds surprised.

Mr. Qin leans down and runs one long, elegant finger along the evol-suppressing shock collar around your neck. "They knew, and they did nothing."

"Yes, boss," the other man says, a grin clear in his voice.

Mr. Qin, with a tenderness that surprises you, calls forth that swirling mist again. As its electric current caresses your fur, causing it to stand on end, the weight of your shock collar fades into nothing.

Your neck is naked for the first time in years.

You can't tear your eyes from him, even though you're free, for the first time in years.

He stares down at you and his eyes glow like the sun through a glass of red wine. "Go on, kitten," he coaxes gently.

Ignoring his gentle order, you sit back on your haunches, waiting to see what he'll do.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs and then rises gracefully to his feet. "Exterminate the vermin, secure the goods, and report back to the base when it's done."

"Yes, boss," the two men chirp in unison.

Mr. Qin hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his dark tailored suit and saunters out of the room without looking back.

The twins duck, mirrored images as they lean behind the couch and each retrieve a bazooka.

You turn, tail high in the air, and scurry after the man who just left, not waiting to see the mirrored men heft the weapons onto their shoulders, nor hear the explosions and screams of agony that follow.

His scent is so strong. It hangs in the air, long after he's revved his motorcycle and disappeared into the night in a roar of growling engine and motor oil.

You follow it easily, winding your way agilely through the dark city, across its rain-slicked payment, through its neon-soaked streets. You stick to the sides of buildings, to shortcuts through alleyways, your nose guiding you unfailingly through the garbage and perfume, exhaust from vehicles, cigarette and weed smoke, concrete and despair.

It's been years, since you've been free. Your heart beats wildly with the exhilaration of it. With the grief of it.

Your littermate deserved this too.

Finally, you find the scent's destination. A towering skyscraper in the heart of the N109 Zone. Sleek, windows an impenetrable black as they soar into the sky and come to a vicious peak, hardly visible through the fog from where you are on the ground. You follow the delicious smell to an underground garage, slip underneath the boom gate, slink between the fleet of expensive vehicles, a mix of high octane modern sports models and antique muscle cars. You lose count of how many motorcycles there are. Finally, you find an elevator next to an emergency exit leading to the stairwell.

In this form, you can't reach the elevator button. Shockingly, however, the emergency exit door is ajar. Propped open with a… can of tuna?

You stare at it.

It smells really good.

Tuna in olive oil, not water. Nice and fatty.

Why would the leader of a notorious criminal organization have such lax security?

It's almost like…

You twitch your whiskers.

As far as Mr. Qin knows, you're just a normal cat. Your owner guarded the truth of your and Caleb's natures as his most valuable trade secret. He was paranoid about theft. Although you had rendered yourself functionally useless to him by refusing to shift between hybrid and cat form following Caleb's death, he kept you out of twisted spite. A good luck charm to viciously pet, to smugly parade under rivals' noses who had no idea what you really were.

The power of your evol. The strength of your hybrid form and its utility in a fight. Your value to medical science, military science. The exotic, twisted fetishes your true nature could indulge, if rented out at the right price.

No, no one outside of your owner's inner circle knows what you really are. There's no way this can of tuna is for you.

Maybe Mr. Qin just likes cats, and feeds strays. Or has one of his own. He did ask for you as part of the deal. Maybe he was looking to get another pet.

That's it. He's just a cat person.

A cat person who killed the motherfucker who destroyed your life. A cat person whom you instinctively feel safe with, now that you're free, reeling, without your brother and without a cage.

Since you're in your full cat form, you don't overthink it too much. Instinct drives you forward, and you don't question it further.

You pad across the narrow threshold, ensuring that you're inside the stairwell before turning again and shoving your face into the can of tuna. You devour it, not caring that the grease now covers your mouth and nose, drips from your whiskers. You'll clean it in a minute.

But first, you bat the empty tuna can out from between the door and the doorframe into the parking garage. Only after hearing the click and then beep of the electronic lock do you turn and hop your way up the seemingly endless stairwell.

Someone's got to make sure that the security of this place is tight if the owner himself can't be bothered, no matter how strong he seems to be.

Up, up, up you go. When you get tired, you pause for a moment, licking your mouth and whiskers, running your forepaws gently over them for good measure. No need to look sloppy, even if you don't intend for him to find out that you're here anytime soon.

You continue, following his scent trail as it once again grows thicker and thicker. You're dizzy with it.

Finally, you come to the top of the stairwell and can go no further. There is simply a black door, sleek and shiny. You see your reflection in it.

Huge golden eyes. Glossy black fur. Tufts of fur at the tips of your big, swiveling ears. Your body fur is thick and short, but your tail is fluffy, a silky bottle brush sweeping behind you, betraying your excitement.

This door, too, is slightly ajar, this time propped open by a gigantic black leather biker boot. The chains around the heel are shiny. You bat at them and enjoy the satisfying clink of the links.

Ahem. You will not let yourself get distracted. What is wrong with this man??! Anyone could walk in!

You repress the deep wish that your owner had been so lax with security, less paranoid, more secure. Maybe your life would have looked very different. You appreciate that Mr. Qin killed him, but you do slightly resent the fact that he was exploded so thoroughly that there was no body for you to mutilate afterward. You'd piss on his corpse if one had been left behind.

No. Not your owner. He was never your owner.

The fucker who kept you captive for years and tried to break you. He very nearly did, taking Caleb from you.

You step delicately over the big boot, pausing only for a moment to inhale its delicious aroma. Mr. Qin's feet apparently smell as good as the rest of him.

You follow the long, wide, dark corridor. Black marble flooring with gold veining. Ornate wainscotting along the dark gray walls. Your footsteps are silent, but if you were in your human form wearing shoes, your feet would echo. Flicking your ears back and forth, you follow his intensifying scent as faint music joins the trail to where he must be.

Something soft, classical. Violins. The smell of food joins the intoxicating smell of this place's inhabitant. Cooking meat.

Finally, finally—you peek around the doorway, eyes adjusting from the dim hallway to the slightly brighter open plan kitchen that spreads out before you, a dining and living area stretching beyond until the soaring floor to ceiling windows spill over the cityscape below. The pleasant scent of burning firewood in a huge open hearth fireplace competes with the smell of Mr. Qin and the steak he's apparently grilling on his fancy ass stove.

He doesn't seem to notice you. He's grilling in the same suit that he negotiated in, without an apron or anything, just the suit jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his veined, powerful forearms. Like he's begging for stains, just like he's begging for an intruder like you in his house by leaving all the doors wide open. His forearms flex as he lifts the pan. The violins sing into the quiet room, blending with the hiss of the cooking meat, the crackling of the fireplace.

You take advantage of his focus on his task and slink around the edges of the room, sniffing as you go, noting the heavy, antique furniture, the atrocious modern art on the walls, the subtlety of the lighting in sharp-edged sconces along the walls and ornate floorlamps providing light from below. The music is coming from a record playing on an ancient-looking gramaphone. A sharp, metallic scent draws your attention to guns scattered across the hulking, ornately carved dining table, to bullets carelessly spread across the marble-topped coffee table between the sleek, black leather couches and lounge chairs of the sitting area.

There is a chaise lounge next to the windows at the far end of the room, as if the owner often reclines on it and looks down on the city below. You slip silently across the thick, ornate rugs softening the marble floors and slink underneath the chaise lounge. From this angle, you don't think you can be seen, but you have a clear view of most of the room, the fireplace, the man standing behind the kitchen island facing you, his sharp features flickering between light and shadow in the firelight.

You curl up in a little ball and watch him.

He hums along to the music as he cooks, causing your ears to flick back and forth. The vibration in his throat is more pleasant than the humming, but both manage to lull you to sleep.

When you wake up, you're still under the chaise lounge, but the gramophone is quiet, the lights are dimmed to their lowest settings, and Mr. Qin is gone. It must be sometime in the morning, although in the N109 Zone there's not too much of a difference between night and day. But the monotonous gray is paler than at night, and the gaudy, black and golden grandfather clock indicates that it's 11:00 in the morning.

You slip out from underneath the chair, sticking your tail in the air and stretching your spine as far as you can. It feels good to wiggle your toes, to let your claws come out. You then pad out of the room and follow that delicious scent that makes you drunk and lured you here to begin with.

Mr. Qin apparently sleeps with his door wide open, again as if he doesn't have a care in the world. His bedroom is huge, just like he is, just like the rest of his 'base' is, if this is the base to which he was referring when speaking to the masked men. It's lined with bookcases, more heavy leather furniture, sweeping windows now covered by blackout curtains. You stop, sniffing the books. Old paper. Old ink. A little bit of dust. The memory of his scent, from his hands on the pages as he held them. He's read them. The books in here are not for show, like the sterile, color coordinated library of your former captor. Maybe while he's gone you can finagle them off the shelves and do some reading. It's been a long, long time since you were allowed to read.

If you had lost your sense of smell during the gun battle last night, you would still know exactly where Mr. Qin is from the heavy snoring coming from the humongous, four poster, curtained bed at the far end of the room. He sounds like a chainsaw. You pad closer, closer, flattening your ears against the racket, and then jump lightly onto the end of the bed.

He's sleeping on his stomach, arms folded under his pillow. His broad, naked back expands, falls, expands with his relaxed breathing. You sit back on your haunches, flicking your tail thoughtfully.

He's beautiful. Like a sculpture. You would drag your littermate to art museums, back when you were free. Classical exhibitions were your favorite, with sweeping, carved marble sculptures depicting mythological stories. Where stone rippled like fabric under the artist's chisel. Where fingertips pressed into dimpled flesh, belying the cold marble.

This man, even at rest, looks like a god carved in stone.

A benevolent god, a brutal god. A god who, unbidden, saved you after you had stopped trying to save yourself. If you were in human form, you'd touch your throat with your hands, where your collar used to be. Instead, you just marvel at the lightness around your neck. The way your skin can breathe through your fur for the first time in years.

You're glad you're in cat form, and can't cry. If you started, you're not sure you'd ever stop. Over all the things you've lost. All the things that have been taken from you.

Intending to sniff at his feet through the sheets as a treat before slinking back into the dark, you rise to your paws and take a step forward—

when the most atrocious, unnatural-sounding screech splits the silence of Mr. Qin's bedroom.

"Caw! Caw! CAW CAW CAW!"

Sylus is dreaming. A lovely dream involving soft hands, a soft mouth, a sharp tongue, warmth and quiet, smug laughter. No images—just impressions, smears of what felft like memory, the scent of flowers, of wine, of peace dripping with warm blood.

And then he is jerking upright up, gun heavy in hand, Mephisto's alarmed cries splitting his eardrums.

"What? What? I'm wake, what?" he slurs, disoriented in the darkness of his bedroom, in being jerked painfully from a pleasant dream.

"CAW! CAW! CAW!"

Mephisto sits on his perch next to his bed, flapping his wings in indignant agitation, screeching his mechanical head off, ruby eye glowing menacingly in the dim room.

Oh. Kitten.

Sylus turns, sweeping his gaze across his bed, finding the vicious, threatening, feline intruder whom Mephisto is snitching on. Sylus, still holding the grip of the pistol, rubs his eye with his fist. He was so annoyed about the tanked deal, the lack of sleep he's been suffering from recently, the shock collar on—

In all the fuss, he forgot to program Mephisto to register that bastard's 'cat' as a non-threat before he passed out this morning.

The black cat's back is arched, her tail puffed up like a feather duster, and she's meeting each of Mephisto's screeches with a deep, menacing hiss and growl of her own, completely unintimidated by the big bird's aggressive flapping and snapping beak.

Sylus lowers his gun, tucking it back under his pillow, before leaning against the bed's headboard and watching the show in exhausted amusement.

The more Mephisto screeches, the more defiant the cat becomes. She boldly takes steps forward, moving closer to Sylus's feet, until Mephisto has lifted himself from the perch angrily and is about to shoot her with his eye lasers as he flaps in the air.

"Mephisto, stand down," Sylus orders, trying hard to suppress his laugh. Mephisto is sensitive to perceived mockery.

Squawking in protest, Mephisto reluctantly obeys, his eye powering down as he settles back on the perch. His feathers, however, remain puffed so that he looks twice his actual size.

Sylus contemplates the cat. As if to gloat about her triumph, she marches up to Sylus's foot underneath the silk sheets and plants her butt on his ankle, staring at Mephisto the whole time. It can't be comfortable for her, but she refuses to move, almost as if on principle.

"No need to rub it in, kitten," he murmurs, for Mephisto's sake. She looks at him with her bright, golden eyes and blinks once, slowly. "You're the intruder here, technically," he reminds her. She just swishes her tail, back and forth, back and forth, as if to say, And what will you do about it?

He can't help his smile. If he wanted to do anything about it, he wouldn't have left the doors open for her to begin with. Now, he simply intends to sit back and enjoy seeing what she will do. But he has a care for his bird's feelings, too. He was here first this time, after all.

She doesn't disappoint. She flicks those beautiful, amber eyes back to Mephisto and then marches up the line of Sylus's leg, stopping next to where his hip and ass meet the headboard. She turns in a circle, once, twice, three times before giving one last derisive glare at Mephisto and curling up in a tight little ball snuggled next to Sylus's ass.

Not for the first time, he regrets not killing her 'owner' much, much sooner, and much, much more slowly.

Afterall, burlesque was a form of steady income, adamantly respected by modern society, commonly sought after. 

“Your boyfriend won’t be bothered?” You prompted, crossing your leg to recline in the wooden chair. 

Xavier took a sip of his liquor, swirling the ice at the bottom in an afterthought. When his eyes darted to yours, you averted your gaze, fixating on the woman singing. Her scarf, you decided to critique, had too many feathers. 

“Rafayel and I aren’t romantically involved,” Xavier answered. 

You hummed, gloved hands plucking a walnut from the tray situated at the base of the lamp. With the grip of your gun, you smashed the husk between metal and wood. 

Munching on the snack, you jutted your chin in the direction of the bar housed in the corner of the establishment, “does he always do this?” 

Rafayel, with a cocktail shaker between his hands, sold a show, luring an audience that rivaled the performance on stage. His seduction oozed from his frame, showcased in tailored clothes and beguiled eyes, confidence commanded those open to his hypnotism. 

Dressed in dark, earthy greens, the lavender of his hair, and the violet, sapphire of his eyes were accentuated. The Masquerade mask plastered to his face was emerald, captivating even your stare. Long sleeves billowed, the over-sized top shoved into a tall, leather corset. Tan, the tight attire praised the chosen color palette. That, and it cinched his waist in a manner which advertised a man born to be admired.  

“Rafayel does well in the spotlight,” Xavier mused, perching his chin on the flat of his palm. His elbow dug into the tabletop, rocking the lampshade once more. Unlike his partner, he adorned the same attire as you, boasting your status as outlaws. 

However, similar to his partner, the slant of his hat over his hair flaunted sultry temptation. The brim shadowed those eyes, tempting you to venture into the deep, dark depths of his character. 

“If you don’t wish to wait, we can discuss the terms of our agreement without him,” Xavier grabbed a walnut, crushing it within his palm, “him and I move together.” 

“No shit,” you retorted before you could catch yourself. 

Xavier laughed, a subtle chuckle that exuded a particular sense of fondness. He pushed his glass of alcohol across the table with the tip of his finger, hogging the table with his arm and torso as he got closer. To onlookers, he appeared to be captivating you, courting you with dirty promises. 

In a whisper, he bartered with intimate information, “witches tend to stick together in these times.”

Retreating back to his chair, his legs crossed, folded hands resting atop his knee. You loathed his covert arrogance, yet was equally impressed by how well he masked such vanity. Soft in appearance, you suspected many would fall victim to his boyish charm. 

“I might make a fortune selling your identities to those who wish to purge our land,” you took a risk, grabbing his glass. You didn’t take a swig until he smirked. 

“If you truly wanted to sell us out, you’d be dead before you swallowed.” 

You held his gaze, suspended in time as the rim of the glass left your lips, and you swallowed. It was loud in your ears, the burn of the liquor blazing down your sternum, heavy in your stomach. When the bottom of the glass landed on the tabletop, you exhaled, sliding the cup into his open hand with a flick of your wrist. 

“How is your leg healing?” You removed your hat, planting it on the ledge of your elevated knee. 

Your words were a reminder, one that hinted at violence should Xavier underestimate you. While you were born without the powers that labeled one as a witch, your prowess with a gun closed a potential gap between abilities. 

“Fine,” Xavier said, “although you’re the reason Rafayel has to wear a mask tonight.” 

“Say my name and I shall be summoned.” 

You flinched, the weight of a body behind yours assaulting your instincts. His hand grappled with the backrest of your chair, the other resting flat on the tabletop, allowing his stature to lean over your side. The tip of Rafayel’s nose nudged your temple, and your were unlatching your gun from its holster. 

The barrel found the space behind the edge of his chin, and you rose from your seat, straightening to full height just as you forced him to do the same. Your hat tumbled to the floor, forgotten.

Rafayel tutted, the tip of his dagger pressing below your sternum, “so quick to violence, sweetheart.” 

“I’m tempted to take you down with me again.” 

He winked, “second time this week, huh. Just admit it, cutie, it has made your week that much better - thinking of me.” 

You pulled the hammer back with your thumb, preparing your revolver to shoot, “how you survived this long is beyond me.” 

“One of life’s greatest mysteries,” he smirked, “although you certainly are no mystery. That fire in your eyes, not many would threaten a witch.” 

“You left me no choice.” 

“Sweetheart,” he mused, “when it comes to me, you always have a choice.” 

Xavier approached, and your right hand dipped to your second sixshooter at your thigh. Brutality was no stranger in the way of life; employees were already removing valuables from the cabinets and shelves surrounding the restaurant in case one of you should be thrown. 

Gently, Xavier rested his gloved fingers over the top of your hand, asking silently for you to not draw your second weapon. 

His touch was not revolting, rather, you calmed. Towards him, at least. 

“If you would like my help, keep him in line,” you directed your conditions at Xavier, withdrawing your gun from Rafayel, decocking it before slipping it back into its holster. 

As Rafayel sheathed his dagger, his eyes held yours, “any longer, and you would have given me a new, but welcome kink, cutie.” 

Violet irises roamed down to your thighs, eyeing the weapons there. Several seconds he observed your guns, then his gaze crawled up your body, capturing your focus. 

No words had to be said, you understood his intentions. 

How crude. 

You ignored his flirtatious distraction, and took a seat, picking your hat off the floor, replacing it on your head. 

Rafayel pulled a chair from a nearby table, attempting to sit to your left, and Xavier’s right. Spinning it on its leg, he straddled the piece of furniture, resting his arms over the backrest. He removed the mask from his face, setting it on the table. His chin found the top of his forearm as he looked between you and Xavier. 

A bruise tarnished his skin, ugly against his eye. 

You took some satisfaction in the thought he couldn’t rest easy at night. However, there was a fleck of regret in your heart, and an apology almost spilled from your lips. 

“No need to apologize,” Rafayel read you, his plush lips tilting into a smirk once more, “it’s a conversation starter. Honestly, I might just be thanking you later, it could get me laid.” 

Something stunted your usual nature, and instead of a raw verbal parry, you hesitated. Disappointment flooded your chest, dampening that fire Rafayel had bragged he noticed. It was confusing, and you weren’t sure if it was his blunt sexuality, or his divergence of attention. 

“How curious,” Rafayel narrowed his eyes, inspecting you under the scope of his expertise, “if you want my courtship, all you have to do is ask.” 

Fear swelled. Memories of warmth, affection, and lust dashing past the forefront of your mind. There were evenings with sparse bundles of flowers, lit candles, and written poems. There were mornings naked in bed, patched blankets tangled in blankets, and a steaming mug of tea on your flimsy nightstand. 

Sunlight would highlight specks of desk, sparkling in front of the backdrop of electric, blue eyes. 

Touch, since then, whether intimate or shallow, was painful regardless, defiling what you longed to preserve. 

Vile, and accumulating a voice robust with poison, you pinned Rafayel with your stare, then spoke.

“Unfortunately for you, I have standards.” 

Rafayel shrugged, further provoked by your backlash. His head rolled, now resting his weight on his cheek. His stare would default in your direction. Instead of deterring him, you had done nothing but obtain more of his unwanted regard. 

“Explains why you’re so uptight,” he said, the rich detail in his voice unexpected, teasing a range that could be interpreted as serious. “You’re pent up, nothing a few orgasms can’t solve.” He dug underneath your skin, poking and prodding. It led you to cradle your left hand in your lap, the thumb and forefinger of your right massaging your ring finger. The metal band rotated beneath the leather of your gloves, distributing strength. 

“Whatever you hope to achieve with me,” you answered, “it won’t ever happen.” 

Rafayel dug further, his eyes entrapping you, blurring everything and anything around. You were in his grasp, stuck, and as much as you wanted to break free, he neared parts of you that were sensitive and bare. 

“You misunderstand, sweetheart, I was only offering my help.” Rafayel lied, retreating, far too cautious, far too early. If he had wanted, he could have made you shatter, vulnerable to his attacks. 

It was a faux departure, and you lowered your defenses, leaving you open to his final advance. 

He took it. 

“I just figured it had been a long time since you’d had any form of companionship,” he mumbled, coy, then when he had recaptured your observations, he spoke, “considering you can’t even look Xavier in the eyes.” 

The song ended on stage, routine phrases of gratitude leaving the singer’s mouth. Other customers clapped, completing the exchange of entertainment. It was all fuzzy in your ears, your hands immovable on the tops of your legs. Intuition had kept you alive this long, it would continue to do so. Although rattled, you kept your features serene. 

No one could know Rafayel had just displaced your entire world. 

“Rafayel,” Xavier warned, concern evident in his tone, “drop it.” 

Through your dissociation, you witnessed a facade dwindle, albeit slightly. You wouldn’t recognize it for what it was until later, but in that moment, anger fueled assumption, and understanding Rafayel as something more than a provocative fool, was seemingly implausible.  

“I’m protecting you,” Rafayel hissed, hushed, “you’ve always been too trusting.” 

“What will it take?” You interjected, “what do I have to do to prove I am on your side. Which makes no sense, considering you two apparently need me.” 

“You’re agreeing to work with us?” Xavier expressed surprise, the same instant Rafayel said, “glad you asked.” 

“This,” Rafayel tossed a necklace onto the table, removing it from behind the collar of his shirt. The chain was gold, the pendant housing a sizable ruby. You had seen this particular piece of jewelry before. It had once laid in your pocket, an eventual victim to the sleight of hand. 

“You never collected the bounty,” you blatantly stated. 

“Hard to when the client mysteriously disappears,” Xavier explained. Ducking his hand into his trench coat, he rummaged around, pulling a stack of folded papers from his hidden pocket. “These were left at her estate.” 

“You two certainly work fast.” 

Unfurling the papers, you spread them across the compact table. You skimmed over the bulk of words, locating key words, identifying the context of the situation. In your environment, you brought the lamp closer, requiring more light. 

You tapped the table with your finger, grabbing Rafayel’s attention, refusing to look up from the papers. 

“Bring me something easy, like a cider.” 

“Fuck,” Rafayel teased, “that’s sexy - when you order me around.” 

In the amount of time it took him to pour you a drink, you had filtered through the stack, finding two letters that would give you everything you needed. He set the pint glass down, taking his own seat to converse with Xavier. Their banter was background noise, a few more customers entering the establishment to admire the new performer. 

None of it mattered, not when you were connecting the dots, putting your mind to work. 

That silenced the grief.

“When was the last time you boys have been to the abandoned train station on the outskirts of town?” 

You sat back, finally indulging in your drink. Rafayel lunged for a piece of paper, pinching it on the edge, rotating it as if you had somehow deduced the answer from something obvious. He held it beneath the light, adorable in the way he floundered for clues. Childlike, you stared, experiencing a new dynamic. 

“What gives,” Rafayel huffed, sliding the paper in front of Xavier. He collected all the paperwork, hiding it within his trench coat, just as he had before. 

“Some of those documents are from our client herself, the others from whomever had captured her. I’d bet it was the wife of her affair,” you speculated, pausing to take another drink. You were thirsty, and as water was sparse, therefore expensive, alcohol would have to do. “The ink is different between the two, one written on wood, the other metal. No fair lady would write on metal unless she had to. The scent on our client’s letters is perfume, the other reeks of dirt. The only place I can think of that has an abundance of soil in this miserable valley is the abandoned station. Plenty of metal to write on there, too.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, Xavier’s mouth moved, opening to speak. You abruptly stood, effectively cutting him off. He’d have questions, and you’d refuse to answer. Questions bred suspicion. Suspicion bred explanation. 

You threw an influx of coins on the table and briefly met Xavier’s eyes, before looking to Rafayel. 

“Gear up,” you commanded, “we have a bounty to catch.” 

“Fuck you Sylus,” you cover your face up, grimacing, cunt just pulsing around the air at this point.

“Maybe I’m being too bold, yeah? Well, it’s just I was gonna delete these pictures, since we aren’t together. But I couldn’t help but just get so hard lookin’ at them, especially this one. You on your knees in that slutty Halloween outfit, remember?” He sighs, and you hear a soft moan. “God how you took my cock in your throat, you took all of it.”

You won’t touch yourself to Sylus. You won’t. You’ll just listen and scowl.

“Your throat felt so good, is he getting that? Well I hope he deserves that mouth, that throat, so tight and so slutty. Like your cunt, like that tight ass I was hoping to slide my cock in, I think I only got a couple fingers. Fuck I bet it feels so good, every one of your holes. Mmm…”

Is he?

He better not be.

“Touching myself?”

Fuck Sylus.

“Yeah, I am sweetie, hah – can you just tell? I’ve been stroking my cock to these pictures I have to delete, call me selfish or sadistic, maybe. How can I not get hard thinking of the best pussy I had? The prettiest girl laid out in front of me, or in this picture knelt. I had your wrists bound behind your back, remember?”

Of course you remember, and you hate him for it – for thinking of how good it felt when his cock choked you, gagged out, spit and drool pouring from the sides of your mouth, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. Sucking in through your nose and grinding your messy cunt on his fancy dress shoes.

Good girl, doin’ such a good job, kitten. That’s it, takin’ daddy’s cock like that? Like you’re made to?

Yep, you called him daddy – how do you not call Sylus daddy, when he’s cupping your face gently with one hand, pulling your hair so hard it hurts with the other? Fucking your throat right in your kitchen, chuckling the way he does, whimpering when his tip glides against your uvula.

“I remember you’d suck me off so good I’d whine out, like pathetic you made me…” He sighs louder, you hear it then, a messy wet stroke. “Even spit doesn’t compare, not when I had that wet throat around me. Suckin’ me like you had something to prove, mmm, fuck…”

“You ass…” You’re not touching yourself, you’re gonna stop this voicemail.

Right?

“Listen, just need to cum to you once more, fuck just once, I don’t think I’ll ever even get hard again for someone, not now that I had you. Fuck and I didn’t tell you, how much I loved it, cumming in your throat, kissing you after, tasting myself. You were such a good little fuck toy for me, hmm? Yeah, you were.”

Sylus is stroking his cock faster, you can hear it – the fwap fwap fwap, the little moans, your nipples are so hard your piercings are just poking through your sleep top, the untouched ones your date barely caressed. Not Sylus though, he’d tongue those little nipple rings until you came just from that, cup them, spit on them.

“I know you’re wet, you’re probably dripping through your shorts, slutty girl barely wears panties, huh? Well, I’ll admit… you’re missing a couple pairs.”

“Freak.”

“You’re probably calling me a freak,” you hate, hate, hate him. “But I bet you get off on it, huh? Knowing how desperate I am for you, knowing I lick them just to remember your taste. I’m gonna be so sad when your scent is gone, f-fuck…”

He’s stroking faster, you hear his hitch of breath, burying your face in your pillow, trying your best not to give in.

“Oh, kitten, the way your pussy tastes, so sweet, fuck I hope he licks you every single day, every time he’s near you. I did, but I’d do it even more if I ever could again, have your squirt gushing down my face, your thighs squeezing my head. The way you fucked my face, I’d do anything just to feel that again, to drink you up, slurp your cunt until you’re pulsing.”

Your fingers slip down your tummy, you’re soaked, ridiculously uncomfortably soaking wet and sticky. You pull back, trying your best not to give in, but him and that velvety voice continue, his moans soft and rushing into your ears. You can’t keep listening, not to this.

Yet you don’t stop the voicemail.

“How you’d grip my tongue, fuck is any pussy that tight? Even after you’d cum three or four times and I slid my cock in, the way she’d clamp down on him – hah – fuck I wanna be inside that pussy right now. I meant for this to go better, sweetie, I really did, but this picture? Of my cum leaking from your hole, your ass littered with handprints?”

He moans, stroking faster.

“I wanna lick my cum right out of it, I know I used to finger it back in, you’d push it out like the messy girl you are. But I never did get to lick it, did I? Fuck, I would love to eat it out then spit it right back into your mouth, you used to love to swallow my spit… mnhh… oh I’m finally getting close, just thinking of that. I bet you’d kiss me with all my cum swapping between us hmm?”

Fuck it.

Who will know if you touch yourself?

Your fingers slip down to your needy clit, it twitches underneath your touch, making you whimper as he moans, running little circles on your sticky, messy cunt, listening to the man who fucked your brains out jerk it to you.

“I know you’re touching yourself, you can’t lie to me,” he chuckles, you would want to smack him if you weren’t already moaning out, gripping your sheets. “You’re such a little slut for me, I am so mad he’s getting that. Does he really deserve it? Does he make you cum till you’re such a mess you’re drooling?”

“Ngh…” Your fingers pump in and out of your messy hole now, quivering walls begging for more.

For Sylus.

“Oh fuck, just thinking of your little fingers buried in your perfect cunt?” His breath catches audibly, the sounds of him milking his cock are obscene, cunt just spasming now, hardly able to keep yourself together, taking several shaky breaths. “That’s it, keep fingering that perfect pussy, but I bet you’re missing my fingers. Do his hit like mine? Hah, I doubt it, but I hope he does.”

You’re covering your own mouth, cunt dripping down your ass, making a mess of your sheets, picturing his instead, how they hit that spot you can’t, how he’d hit your cervix with just his fingers. Your eyes roll back, heel of your hand grinding on your clit, desperately whining out and muffling it, as if his voicemail could hear.

“You deserve to come every fucking day, y’know that? Over and over, after work I should have been there between your thighs, drinking you. Should have made sure you didn’t go to work without my load dripping from you – mnh – close, so close now, but I keep stopping, looking at these pictures. My cum should be shot down your throat, in your cunt, not all over my hands.”

“F-fuck you…” You’re cussing even as you’re rolling your hips, bucking them up for friction, so wet your fingers slip.

“You’re such a good girl I know you’re listening, I wish I could hear that squelch, y’know? Your cunt is so loud, sweetie, god I can hear it from the memory, when I’d play with you at the restaurant, and you’d blush the way you do? Hah, remember you stroking my cock under the table, with all your friends? Fuck you’re slutty – but I loved it, how slutty you are. Are you close, baby? You gonna cum one more time?”

“No, no,” you’re already about to fall off the edge.

“Play with your tits too, perfect tits, remember when you fucked me with them? My dick gliding up and down them, all covered in my spit, you were suckin’ the tip - ah! - suckin’ it s’good…”

His words are slurring as he works his cock faster, these moans just ruining you, making you remember them in your ear now.

“Imagine getting to fuck you again, I’m trying so hard to be happy – but I just know he won’t be able to give you what I can. I know he won’t spend an hour fucking you with his tongue until you’re such a mess you’re babbling, know he won’t decorate every pretty inch of your body with cum like I did.”

Sex, it was just sex, and now you have a relationship, right? Sylus was just a friend you fucked – a friend who ruined your mind, who wrecked your body, who had you crying out ‘daddy’ as he pumped so much cum you could hardly take it. Now he’s jerking it to your pictures and he just had to make you wet, had to have you about to cum for him.

“This picture, you’re just so fuckin’ beautiful, kitten. You love when I call you kitten, stop lying.”

“Do not.”

“You do,” you glare but your gummy walls are quivering, cunt so wet and tummy so tense it hurts. “You love it when I call you a good girl, when I said how I wanted to breed your pussy. Remember me shoving you in a mating press, hmm? Telling you to keep all that cum inside you, folding your thighs back until I had you bent in half? Oh, sweetie, imagine being inside you again, cumming in your perfect hole.”

You gasp out, orgasm about to rush through you.

“I’d do anything to feel it again, feel her milkin’ my cock, watch it bulge in your tummy, you just took it like you were made for it, made for me. You are, aren’t you? Your cunt knows my shape, you know you don’t want him, you know you deserve all I have to give. You deserve more. I’ll give it too, fuck if you just gave me one m-more time… got me stuttering, don’t you kitten?”

Your vision darkens, thighs shaking, you hate him for this.

“Don’t forget your clit, you love my rough fingers on it, hmm? Cum for me, cum with me, remember us cumming together? Your aftershocks I’d do anything t-to feel ‘em again. That’s it, give me it, cum so hard you make those sheets a mess, I’m so desperate I’d lick your juices off them.”

His voice does get desperate, as he strokes his cock, you hear spit and vividly picture him trailing it down on that perfect pink tip, leaking all that pre you miss coating your tongue.

“I’d fuck you right now, he doesn’t even have to know. You just deserve it, deserve to cum on my cock, don’t you? You’re such a good girl, such a pretty fuck doll, you should get to squirt on me. Just once, just once, I could live off it, jerk it to you, picture you when I’m inside anyone – but I know it won’t be as tight, I know they won’t take it like you. Kitten, f-fuck… just once.”

“I hate you, mnh!” You shatter then, cunt clenching, vision going white, your thighs soaking from how much of your juices spurt out, and you can hear him cumming too. His groan is so sexy you can only imagine it in your ear – ruined, throaty, as if you’re right there getting filled to the brim by him, as if he’s painting your walls in white. 

You hate him. You hate him for this, for making you cum in time, for hearing his shaky breaths, those alone almost taking you out.

“You’re such a good girl, I know you came so hard,” you ease your fingers out, a trembling mess, looking at the slick coating them. “Fuck just once more, I didn’t get to tell you… that I fucking love you.”

You gasp now, staring at the phone.

“Listen, I know you’re with him, I just… I can’t stop missing you, fuck…” He’s wiping himself up, shaky as he talks, you can see it so vividly, his handsome face with those eyes shut. “Missing us, I should have told you I fell… I was scared as shit of what this was, I thought we had time.”

Tears spill from your eyes now, hastily cleaning yourself up, covering your face and sinking into the bed. “You don’t.”

“I do,” he murmurs, voice still broken by his little breaths. “I wish I’d asked you to be more, not just let some loser date you, touch you. You deserve everything, deserve to be in my mansion, not your apartment. Deserve to eat steak and drink the finest wine every night, not lift a finger, then have me on my knees. Don’t you, sweetie? Deserve more than I gave.”

You feel your tummy in knots, skin burning.

You loved Sylus but you didn’t say it, you knew you were just a fuck buddy to him… or so you thought.

Were you really more?

“God no one can make me cum like this,” he exhales now, you look at the time, the voicemail is finally ending, your hand shakes as you hold the phone, watching it tick by. “Just once, then I’ll leave you alone, give you my blessing.”

Sarcastic little shit.

“I’ll be home, I’ll be here waiting if you want to cum… if you want to be bred by me, if you want me to make you squirt until you pass out. Want me to suck on your nipple rings the way you like, brush your hair back and call you a good girl, worship your pussy. If you wanna choke on my cock, want me to pull your hair, wanna use me. Any part of my body, all yours to use.”

It’s quiet, he hums just a bit, in a horrible off tune – Sylus can’t sing for shit. A man can’t be rich, gorgeous, six foot four and sing, really. Your lips are trembling in a smile, despite yourself.

“I’m here at your disposal if you want it once more, or,” he trails off. “If you want to keep using me. I’ll be waiting, kitten.”

“Oh fuck you.” You throw your phone across the room, trying your best to fucking keep it together.

You’re not just gonna go over there because he jerked off on your voicemail, what’s he even thinking!? A conceited, arrogant man, so self sure, as if he just knows you’ll fold from it, from knowing you have that effect on him. Not you, you’re independent, you’re not someone to just jump and run at someone's command - no matter how commanding Sylus might naturally be.

Your phone starts ringing, you rush to grab it.

“What do you want!?”

“Um… hi baby?” You sigh now, realizing it is your very sweet boyfriend. “I came to call and tell you you’re so pretty and perfect, and I can’t stop thinking of you.”

You slide down your own door to the floor, wincing, feeling instantly guilty that you fingered yourself to Sylus’ voice. “Oh? Um, that's sweet!” Maybe you could get excited about him, instead? “How are you thinking of me?”

“I’m thinking about… how I came, and you stroked me,” you bite down on your lip, maybe this will excite you! Maybe Sylus was just loose ends that needed to be tied.

“Oh? Are you? What did you like about it, me making you cum?”

“I uh… I liked… cumming?”

Fuck.

Shit, fuck, shit actually.

Your eyes flutter shut. “Are you thinking of making me cum?”

“You didn’t?”

You glare at the phone, lips parted. “How could I, you just touched my nipple ring, that was it?”

“But you liked it, right? I um… will play with your other nipple - hah!”

You sigh loudly.

“Are you moaning, touching yourself? Thinking of me-”

“I’m sorry, I can’t date you.”

“Huh!? Sweet pretty angel - what!”

“I just… can’t,” you curse under your breath. “It’s definitely me that’s the problem, okay? You deserve someone who… cums jerking you off. I can’t.”

“Well maybe if you jerk me off more you-”

“Okay I gotta go.”

You hang up and stand then, looking in your mirror, putting your hair up, before you talk yourself out of it, you’re throwing on a hoodie, snatching up that lube Sylus loves to use, the kind that tastes sweet when you lick his cock once he pulls out of your hole. You’re trembling when you drive over to his mansion in the middle of the night, hoping he’s not there, hoping you can save face.

But no, he’s there.

*****

“Look what’s at my doorstep,” he murmurs, taking you in. God even in a big hoodie and leggings you’re the sexiest thing there is.

He was desperate leaving that long ass voicemail, jerking it and cumming to you until he was raw from it, hurting knowing not a damn thing would ever come close. Now you’re glaring, crossing your arms, bag slung over your shoulder – your cheeks are tinged with the pretty color of your blush, making his heart race as much as his cock throbs underneath his slacks.

Fuck, imagine you underneath him again? This time he’d never let you go – he’d chain you up, keep you here forever if you just give him a chance. What did you do, to make him so desperate, so needy? Him – Sylus, he could have anyone but who was anyone when they weren’t you, this angry girl on his front porch glaring daggers up at him in the dark.

You’ve been all he wants, and he can’t wait to make you cum till you faint, till you drool, till you cry out his name.

“What will your little boyfriend think, hmm? Though I won’t share your little secret,” he leans low, so tall you have to arch your head back, brushing his fingers across your cheek. “Our secret.”

“I left him,” Sylus’ heart thrums in his chest. “Not for you, but… I…”

“Well?” He crosses his arms, leaning on his doorway. “Are you going to be mine, or not kitten?”

“Dumb fucking nickname,” you tug him down then, kissing his lips, and that’s when it’s over. Tumbling into the foyer of his pretentious mansion, his huge hands all over you, lifting you with one arm like it’s nothing and carrying you. “Mnh!”

“You did miss me, didn’t you sweetie?” He purrs those words, you shake your head, but it’s a fucking lie.

“Did you mean what you said, psycho?” You breathe out, thighs on either side of his hips, his huge hands gripping your ass, pressing you against that wall.

“I meant all of it,” he sighs now, easing you down, letting you slide across his body. “Show me how much you missed me.”

“Make me.”

Sylus shoves you down on your knees now, you look up at him so obediently, so pretty. “Hands behind your back, mouth open.”

Only for Sylus have you ever submitted, but how can you not, when his ruby eyes look down at you like that, when he undoes his belt ever so slowly, leather and metal quietly clicking. Your breaths are coming faster, still in your hoodie when his cockhead brushes your lips, smearing them in precum like a gloss, coating them in a white you lick off.

“Open wider,” you open your mouth, tongue out for him, earning his moan, his huge hand gripping the hair at the nape of your neck. “That’s it, good little kitten. Gonna swallow my cock, aren’t you?”

“Mhm,” you’re moaning when you suck him, letting him fuck your throat, hands eagerly behind your back as instructed, looking up to see the mess you’re making of him.

“Perfect little throat, fuck,” he breathes out, holding your face in place to fuck into your throat, stretching it until it burns, bulging inside your neck with how thick he is. Your eyes do him in, hopelessly beautiful, filling with tears. “Love your throat, love how tight it is, f-fuck I miss you…”

You’re swallowing him down, cunt dripping, pulsing around the air as you rock back on your heels, gasping for a breath just to get suffocated by him. Spit is spilling down in gossamer strings, your hair is just a mess between his fingers when he tugs that scrunchy out, your skin flushed so pretty.

He groans, your throat squeezing around him, taking him so deep your nose is against that white hair nestled over his cock, swallowing around him to where he almost cums down your throat. He pulls back, sucking in a sharp breath, before shoving in fully, his heavy balls press into your chin, full of cum.

He grips your hair tighter, thrusting in deep, his cock twitching before he pulls fully out, leaving you gagging, tears slipping down the corners of your eyes. “Good girl, my good girl, aren’t you?”

You nod without arguing, biting your now swollen lower lip, looking up at him under your lashes, pupils blown out. “Sylus…”

“Mine,” he tugs you up now, pressing a kiss to your lips, tasting his own pre on your tongue. “My slutty little kitten.”

“You’re so fucking possessive,” you mutter against his lips, he chuckles against them when you wrap your arms around his neck.

“And you get off on it, hmm? Did you cum for me?”

“You wish,” he chuckles again, the sound far too throaty and inviting when he picks you up, carrying you up the stairs to his bedroom, you’d hardly been here, usually he was at your place. Even the blankets and sheets he tossed you on are stupidly expensive, soft underneath your skin as he climbs over you.

“Did you?”

“Shut up,” you tug him down, pressing your lips to his once more, moaning into his mouth as his hands slide under your hoodie, fingers dancing across your ribs, tracing the lace of your bra, exhaling as he feels your nipple.

“Imagining not sucking these tits again was tragic baby,” Sylus calling you baby fucks you up even more, he shoves that hoodie up now, showcasing your tits that are barely hidden by lace. “Perfect, pretty tits.”

Sylus has you tied up to his bed posts before you can process what is fully happening, completely naked aside from your soaking wet panties you wish he’d take off. He’s smacking your tits, watching them jiggle and moaning, your nipples hard and begging for his mouth.

He spits right on one nipple, slathering around that saliva, watching it perk up before he sucks it in his hungry mouth, cheeks hollowing, the metal flicking right on his tongue. “Oh, f-fuck… Sylus, please.”

“Patience, sweetie, wanna take my time,” he smirks down at you, crimson eyes black with need. “Missed this, missed your pretty body, these tits, those hips… these thighs. Oh, and this pretty cunt – but, you hurt my feelings, y’know?” You’re tugging at the restraints, moaning softly when he leans down, pulling your panties aside and spitting right on your cunt.

“You’re m-mad at me? Really, y-you… ah!” He spits again, watching that bubbly trail down your puffy folds, groaning at the sight of it trailing. “Sylus, in me, please.” 

“Mmm, not yet. Missed this too much, need to take my time,” he chuckles, tongue slipping, gathering your sweetness. He groans now, cock rutting against the mattress, only wearing a pair of red boxer briefs and nothing else. You taste so good he’s leaking more pre, hurting. “Fuck you’re sweet.”

“Want you in me, fuck I drove all the – Sylus!” He’s lavishing your clit in a mean circle, teasing, not giving you what you need.

“Shh, or do I need to gag you? I will gladly. Mmm, but then I love to hear your cute little moans, when I stuff your tiny cunt so full. Oh, need something?”

“Hate you,” you grumble, he grins, the lines of his teeth against your heated cunt. “Need to cum, please.”

“Answer me, and I’ll consider it,” you’re narrowing your eyes, but the roll back the moment his tongue fucks your quivering hole, gripping that wet muscle. His moans vibrate against your cunt, long fingers digging into your thighs. “Oh she did miss me. Now, did you cum to my message?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes, only for him to pull away.

“I did, okay!?” He chuckles again, slipping two long fingers in your hole. “Oh f-fuck yes, please…”

“You’re so sweet like this, tied up and at my mercy,” his silvery locks fall over a brow, eyes so dark all you can see are red rings around his pupils, curling his fingertips up in your gummy walls, tapping that spot that makes the pressure build. “Those sounds you make, been playin’ in my head, over and over.”

He’s fingering you faster, panties still tugged to the side, your tits rising and falling with your shaky little breaths. He moves them in and out now, scissoring ‘em with a messy squelch, dragging every movement so you feel all the callouses, the ridges of his fingers. You’re screaming out, head falling back, wrists burning from the tugging.

“Mmm, cum f’me like this, then maybe I’ll let you have my cock,” it’s too late, you’re already shattering for his mouth, when he sucks your twitchy lil clit right in his hot, eager mouth, humming off tune the way he does.

“Sylus! Nghhh!” You’re so sweet like this really, not the feisty mean little thing he’s used to, no, you’re pliant, your cunt is spasming around his fingers, clit jumping as you gush and gush, screaming out and trembling.

“So cute like this,” he whispers, pulling back and licking his lips now, grin diabolical on his face, glistening with you. He leans over now, pulling his fingers out, shoving them in your mouth. “Clean these up, made a bit of a mess, didn’t we? Did you mess up your sheets hearing me stroke my cock?”

You can’t even answer and he knows it, sucking your arousal off his thick fingers, earning a - good girl - as you bob your head up and down, eyes lidded and heavy. Your cunt is still spasming from you cumming, his thumb running little circles around your clit, pushing you even further.

“Too much, too much, in me,” he clicks his tongue just a bit, smirking as he overstimulates it even more. Your hips jerk back, pressing into the mattress, thighs trying to close and failing with the restraints he has on your ankles. “In me, fuck, s-stop teasing.”

“Oh you’re such a needy kitten,” Sylus steps off the bed, slipping down his boxers finally, his heavy cock slapping his flat abdomen, leaking milky pre, making your tummy just clench up even more. You had it in your mouth but you’re dying to have it buried inside.

“Mmm, wanna touch you,” you whisper, tugging again, he undoes your ankle restraints, leather unbuckling from your skin, but he leaves the wrists. “Meanie.”

“Am I mean? No, mean would be this,” he smacks your cunt with his heavy cock, over and over, not giving you anything else, messy wet sounds echoing in his dark room, lit only by an ostentatious chandelier.

“Who has a fucking chandalier in their room? Ah!”

“Me,” he smirks and smacks your cunt with his fingers, pulling back and lifting your thighs, over and over, making your cunt swollen, red marks lifting where his fingers leave whelps. “Ah, need more?”

“Fuck me,” he pauses then, he wants to tease but god you’re pretty, he almost busts when you arch your hips, tits jiggling with the motion, once again toying with your restraints. “Inside, fuck. Please, I said please.”

“Mmm but you were a bad girl, tsk,” he takes your panties now, covering your cunt back up.

“Sylus!”

“Mhm?” He grinds his thick cock over your slit, smirking down at the wet mess they have become. “This fabric, it’s ruined sweetie.”

“Then t-take it off,” he doesn’t listen, spitting a filthy string of bubbly saliva, rubbing over it again, pressing his cock head almost inside with the cotton in the way, torturing you. “Thought you missed my pussy?”

“Oh I do,” he yanks the panties off until they rip. “Whoops.”

“Can’t stand you.” He just grins, far too fucking attractive, you’re all talk though – you love him teasing you, edging you, making you beg for it. You love all of it.

You love his psycho ass too, not that you’d say it till you got his cum spurted up in your needy hole, though.

“Need something more? Here’s my cock,” he rubs up between your slit, gliding his entire shaft, hovering over you now. Two silver crosses dangle and brush your skin when he kisses your swollen lips, moaning into them. “Aww are you crying, kitten?”

“Fuck off,” you breathe out, mascara trailing down on your cheeks.

“So pretty like this,” he pulls back now, undoing your wrists. “Behave or I’ll put them right back.”

You just swallow and nod, they’re so numb but he’s gently rubbing them, like he’s not torturing you. He’s gliding his tip up and down, up and down, you’re so wet it keeps slipping, but he won’t put it in. He teases a tip, stretching that tight ring of muscles, only to pull right back, sucking in a breath when you clamp down.

“Ready for me, sweetie?” Your glare just makes him grin. “Fuck I love when you’re mad at me, makes your cunt even better when it wraps my cock.”

How dare he talk like that in that voice.

Sylus slips his cock in, but he bottoms the fuck out, your nails gripping his biceps and digging in, earning his muffled moan, the pain making him suck a breath. He eases back on his knees, dragging your hips so you’re taking all you can, tip pressing on your cervix.

“Look at that,” he whispers, mesmerized with how your tummy just bulges with his cock. “Oh you’re so perfect, takin’ me like this? Look at me ruining your insides, all me, just me.”

Sylus is pussy drunk on three strokes in your cute little pussy, watching his cock move in and out, groaning. His head falls forward, those dark lashes fluttering shut, moving inside of you faster, faster, until you can’t take it. He has you cumming before he even ‘lets’ you, he’s too fucked up on you to tease anymore.

You’re both so sensitive, he’s whimpering, whispering your name, railing your cunt harder and harder, making you see white. Wet, filthy sound of skin slapping skin the only thing you can hear over your own desperate cries and that ringing in your ears, just hints of him moaning your name, fucking into you harder, like he’s never gonna get enough.

"That's it, takin’ all of it, every fucking inch," his rhythm is brutal, cockhead bruising your cervix with every deep fuck in your messy hole. Fuck swollen folds moving along with every glide, tummy so full of him. “Gonna take all my cum, my perfect, pretty fuck toy, hmm?”

You can’t answer, just a nod when he overstims your little clit again, buried to the hilt. Your thighs lock up on either side of his slutty, narrow waist, cunt clamping down on him like a vise. “Mnh!”

“That’s it, milking me, huh? So fucking pretty, look how you take me,” he’s losing it at the sight of your pretty face, your black streaked cheeks and glimmery eyes, lips trembling, whispering his name. “Want it, pretty?”

“Mhm, ah!” You barely make out a word, his cock starts throbbing, thickening inside of you.

"Gonna fill this pretty pussy up with so much cum," he pants, his voice ragged. "Gonna pump you so full of me it'll be dripping out for a week. You want that? You want me to breed your pretty lil cunt, kitten?"\

You’re too fucked out to answer, you can nod eagerly, when his heavy balls just start pumping, and you feel the hot, thick spurts of his cum painting your insides, warmth flooding as he leans over you, moaning, kissing up your neck. His lips drift to your ear, feeling your aftershocks push more and more white ropes from him.

“Oh fuck, you deserve all of it,” he whispers, leaning back now to look at you. “I need a picture of this pretty pussy pushing all this cum out.”

“Mmm, psycho,” he just smirks, but your phone is ringing as he uses it, snapping pics of your cum. “Oh god, don’t answer.”

He does it anyway, devious shit that he is, smirking and spreading your pussy lips wide, watching the creamy release pour out. “Mmm, your ex-girlfriend you mean? Well, she’s spread in front of me, dripping my cum. Who’s this? Well, it’s her new boyfriend.”

“Sylus!” He parts your thighs, snapping another pic now.

“Don’t worry I won’t send them, he doesn’t deserve to see you. These are just for me to stroke myself. Oh, I’m still on the phone…” He shuts it off and you giggle until he’s got you bent over. “Arch, sweetie, we’re not even close to done tonight.”

****

hehehe tysm for this commission love!