Gyunnie

Then, of course, the more commercial aspect, the more visually eye candied usage. Those companions looked like models, fully customized on demand by the client. 

And those rich investors that fueled the budget in the early stages, really knew what they wanted. 

You worked on companions with white hair and ruby eyes, sharp tongue and witty remarks and build that would make anyone take another look, voice so low it was almost a growl. You worked on the flamboyant android with underwater functions that screamed spoiled rich boy, but his eyes… had something enchanting, unnerving in them. The perfect image of someone from your sweetest dreams made very much real. 

You wondered what else was included when it comes to the utility of those prototypes. 

You never asked. The less you know the better you sleep at night. 

Although it did raise a question of how lonely and disconnected from others people can get. Or maybe they preferred the perfect illusion over the reality of imperfection. But then… you started thinking of your situation, and who you were to judge other apples when you were not too far from them. 

The job was actually interesting and, except the riches being well rich and weird, it promised something along the lines of an AI maid but better, which honestly, was the only thing AI should do – the mundane everyday tasks that stole time and energy. 

All things said, all the pros and cons couldn’t really affect the work you did. You really started to enjoy the tinkering around those creations even if it exhausted you. Mostly in peace and quiet, as, let’s be honest, engineers tend to be timid and shy, until you start the geeking waterfall of excitement. 

And what a day it was for excitement! The office was for once buzzing with chatter, that, well, excited you a bit less, but still it was something worth recognition looking at the general prices that the prototypes could pull. If the company truly wanted to give a prototype to every person directly working on the assembly and training team, it was impressive. 

The main hall fell silent when the manager of the group, a lady that handpicked you, stood  excited, with one of the first prototypes near her, a tall, intimidating and cold looking android with green eyes. A choice she made, something to stop her in case her temperament got the best of her while on official business.

“I am delighted to let you know that, as we are slowly approaching a wider investor group interested in our companion progress, we decided to provide each and everyone of you one of the prototypes already fully functional. You know that I am a no bullshit person and as such I will skip all the cooperative speech that I have prepared in case the big bosses stop by.” She rolled her eyes while a few people chucked. The way she was running things was straightforward and everyone knew it. “So don’t fight and pick your poison… Or rather choose your companion. You know best that their capabilities are genuinely making life easier and I hope it will be something you can experience yourself.” 

There was no rushing when she gestured to the prototypes already in their docking stations, few of those that you worked on yourself and almost most of the staff knew. 

“You can adjust them before the shipping will take place, but why do I even bother, you are the specialists here.” 

She leaned near the wall, her own companion near with a bottle of water ready. 

“You’re not picking?” she smiled, shaking her head when you approached. 

“I don’t know if I want one to be honest.” 

“I can’t complain after getting one if you want a review. It’s not as unnerving as you imagine it.” She took the water bottle from the android near, with a smile that was almost thankful. 

“Sure… I guess.” 

You looked at the people chatting about how most of the functions will cut hours of their days, how they will be able to get back to hobbies, and whatever activity they might have lost because there is only 24 hours in a day. 

You bet most of the time will go into mindless scrolling on their phone and not back to the ‘productive’ lifestyle they have envisioned for themselves.

And then you saw it. A familiar companion you worked hours on, getting the perfect balance of the next door neighbour and someone who was supposed to be some sort of commanding figure overlooking some sort of operation, a really weird combination requested for someone. You only remembered him because of a small delay related to some last minute change of mind. 

It seems they either returned him or never picked it up. 

“I know that look. Was it the last one you were adjusting?”

“Well if I have to get one…” 

“You don’t, no one’s gonna force you”  

“I could use some help in the kitchen…” you huffed half amused half trying to convince yourself this might actually be a good idea. Why not help yourself with free android that might not burn the kitchen down.

“You are still banned from microwaves,” your manager said with a chuckle, and you swore her companion chuckled as well. 

*** 

It was charged, unplugged, with way too much packaging for you to pick up scattered around the room. Damn you were tired, you never thought one can put so much foil on such a massive box. You were wondering if it was even worth the space in your apartment. 

Here you were, one step before joining those who oh so prided the AIs and prestige of having a companion like that as soon as possible. Pushing down whatever guilt rollercoaster you found yourself on you took a breath. 

They didn’t change the way he looked, the programming seemed the same you remembered, you hoped, not quite ready to forsaken all of your saturday to go over your work on your day off. 

One press away from the dystopia you always dreamed of. 

Operating system online. Companion booting… Please wait. 

You will have to give feedback on that sequence, scaring you shitless. Giving you a bygone era video game horror mood about some animatronics. Sure, make the operating system function without mouth movements on a human looking robot. Not creepy at all.

Then it took a breath, or it moved like it would. A deep sigh before its eyes fluttered open and the most stunning violet met your eyes. 

“Hi owner. I am X-02.” 

You blinked twice and slapped your forehead. Of course you forgot to input the name! 

“No… I am sorry… Eee… I didn’t input your name,” you huffed, shaking your head. 

“Do you… want to rename me then?” 

“Yea… I mean sure…” you looked at it for a moment longer, the awkwardness of speaking to a machine you helped build making it feel surreal. “Your name is… Caleb.” 

It smiled — a small expression like a boulder was lifted from his shoulders — but its eyes actually seemed to light up with something akin to joy. 

“Caleb… I like it.” He nodded. “Hello, (y/n). I am Caleb. Your one and only companion.” 

━ • 𝙲𝙷 𝟷: NEW BEGINNINGS ⟢.ᐟ

━ • 𝙲𝙷 𝟸: THE FIRST SPARK ⟢.ᐟ

━ • 𝙲𝙷 𝟹: MOVING ALONG ⟢.ᐟ

━ • 𝙲𝙷 𝟺: THE SECOND SPARK ⟢.ᐟ

━ • 𝙲𝙷 𝟻: IGNITING AN EXPLOSION ⟢.ᐟ

━ • 𝙲𝙷 𝟼: DINNER WITH COMPANY ⟢.ᐟ

━ • 𝙲𝙷 𝟽: CALLING IT A NIGHT ⟢.ᐟ

━ • 𝙲𝙷 𝟾: A LONG AWAITED APOLOGY ⟢.ᐟ

━ • 𝙲𝙷 𝟿: CLOSE CALL ⟢.ᐟ

━ • 𝙲𝙷 𝟷𝟶: PRECIOUS NICKNAMES AND BIG SURPRISES ⟢.ᐟ

As you nestle next to Mr. Qin's formidable ass, the adrenaline that cursed bird sent spiking through your body with his malicious racket begins to fade.

This has always been your problem. The second you're told that you can't do something without a decent explanation as to why, your hackles rise along with the fur along your spine, and every muscle in your body tenses in defiance. Your heart, clenching in fury, renders you incapable of simply accepting the boundaries, the obstacle, the audacity of whoever told you no.

Even if you weren't that interested in whatever it was to begin with, simply being told you couldn't do it made you determined to prove them wrong.

When you were a kitten, this character defect was obnoxious, but the damage was limited to arguments with Caleb over why you shouldn't cross the super busy road to explore that shadier part of town. Over why gorging yourself on too much fish scored through successful dumpster diving was inadvisable. Over why you couldn't just pick a fight with any old bully when they told you that you couldn't hunt on their turf—instead, you had to be strategic about it, topple the bully from his spot at the pinnacle of his little gang, take over, and then run the gang yourself.

But this character flaw is the same thing that got your brother killed.

If you had just listened. If you had just recognized that your captor's threat was no threat, but a promise.

If you could just control yourself—the defiance at your core—and recognize defeat before it crushed you completely, before it cost you everything.

If you could just accept that sometimes, there's no reason at all. That some things, you just can't have, because the universe is cruel, because you were born with an extraordinary gift into a world filled with men who are eager to twist gifts into curses for their own gain. Sometimes, if you're an unlucky black cat, your demand for freedom is met with a simple, implacable No.

No. I will not let you go. No, it's not your body, or your mind, to set free in museums of lofty artistic ambition, to soar from tree to tree in gently swaying branches, to set adrift across the pages of human ingenuity in all the books you long to read—not anymore.

And the only reason for it?

Because I can.

Because I'm holding the key to your collar, to your brother's collar, and to both your lives.

If you could just accept that a cage could still be a home as long as Caleb was locked in there with you.

You thought you had finally learned your lesson, the night that bastard took Caleb from you.

And yet.

You hadn't even planned on getting any closer to Mr. Qin tonight. You hadn't wanted him to know about your presence in his home at all, until you were thoroughly convinced that your initial instincts about him were true—that his base could be a safe harbor while you figure out what you want to do, now that no collar chokes you. Now that your body, your mind, your life are all your own again. Such as they are, without your only family at your side.

You hadn't intended to reveal your presence tonight.

And yet. You are you, and you have failed miserably in trying to change yourself your whole life. The bizarre mechanical monstrosity passing itself off as a real bird doesn't want you anywhere near its owner?

Ha.

You charge forward, first rubbing your butt all of the bird's master's leg. You hope the the robotic raptor has olfactory sensors in that big stupid beak of his so the next time he gets close to Mr. Qin, he smells your butt all over him. The more agitated the winged demon becomes, the brighter your spiteful glee glows. You balance on Mr. Qin's formidable leg, stretched in front of him under the silky sheets, and prance along that meaty calf, over his slightly bent knee, the nice muscular cushion of his big thigh, before slithering down and taking your time, sweet and slow, in finding the perfect position to curl up next to him.

He's warm, the sheets are soft, and this close to him, your vision blurs, the room spins a little. His scent is so concentrated here in his nest where he's been sleeping, his skin bare, his silver fur flowing across his big pectorals and down, down, to the pungent place where his legs meet his torso.

You're drunk on him. It's headier than catnip. Than boxed wine pilfered from art exhibitions open to the public, poured into plastic champagne flutes and carried in your hand as if it's the most expensive vintage in the world as you gaze thoughtfully, critically, at vibrant paintings on the gallery's walls.

But even through the drug-induced haze of his pheromones blanketing you, you're not so far gone that you don't realize what a huge gamble you just took. You are the intruder here. He said so. The bird has every right to defend his owner from an unknown entity who took advantage of his owner's security oversights to waltz right into his territory and make yourself at home.

You curl tighter into yourself, face tucked into the crook of your hind leg, pretending to be calm as your heart races faster as your adrenaline spikes again.

You can't help the flicking of your ears, listening for any change in Mr. Qin's breathing. For any retaliation, punishment, danger in response to your stubborn, invasive provocation of his bird.

The bird that came first, he said.

You hate that bird.

Mr. Qin's scent doesn't change. No anger, or indignation. The tired amusement remains steady, the fatigue slowly overtaking the amusement. But there's also something else. Something deep, deceptively calm. Calm in the way riptides smooth the ocean's surface, luring inexperienced swimmers into the dark gaps between the foaming waves. Once you're caught in the rip, there is no escape no matter how hard you swim. Only surrender, and the hope that you'll be released when the tide is good and ready to let you go.

It reminds you a little of Caleb, but it makes your heart race for reasons unknown yet entirely unrelated to adrenaline.

You don't know the word for it. You've never smelled it on anyone before.

Inexplicable. Maybe simply instinct. You don't overthink it.

The important thing is that you weren't wrong: your heart rate slows, tense muscles turning liquid.

He's safe.

The room is quiet—even the bird seems to have settled—and soft rain patters against the windowpanes on the other side of the blackout curtains. A chill draft brings the smell of fresh rain, stirring the curtains draped, half-open, around the bed.

After a few minutes, a featherlight touch along the edge of your ear startles you into flicking it. The touch retreats. You miss the touch already. So you flick your ear again.

Nothing.

You flick both ears.

Nothing.

Okay, maybe Mr. Qin isn't as smart as he initially seemed. You're clearly going to have to train him.

Lifting your head, you're startled again as you meet his eyes, banked crimson embers glowing in the dark of the bedroom. He's looking down at you, the hand that must have just touched your ear resting on the soft-looking fur of his bare abdomen.

You crane your neck and run your cheek along the satin skin of his stomach, next to his hand, next to his belly button. He exhales, a little puff of mint-scented breath. Surprised, pleased. You rub your cheek on his stomach again.

Finally, he gets the memo.

Lifting his hand, bigger than your head, half the size of your body, he gently runs his fingers along the top of your head, along the back of your neck, now light and free of any collar, down along your spine to where your tail begins. The callouses on his fingertips catch pleasantly on your fur, subtly tugging. A soft vibration fills the quiet bedroom.

"You like that," he murmurs, and only then you realized that you're purring.

You haven't purred in years. You didn't even realize you were doing it.

You force yourself to stop. To not give too much away. What if he stops because you like it so much?

He withdraws his hand.

You growl.

"Purr for me again, and I'll keep petting you." His voice, sleepy, filled with that warm riptide again.

It's dangerous.

But he's safe.

The deal he offers sounds reasonable. You let yourself purr. His hand moves again. It's not like your captor's hand at all. With every calloused caress, a sense of cleansing follows. As if he's a mother cat, licking you clean. The way Caleb used to do.

Safe, at last. Heart calm, full of sorrow, of relief, you don't remember falling asleep.

You drift awake slowly, as slowly as you had settled into sleep. Cracking open one eyelid, the memories of the day… the night before pad softly back into your waking mind.

Your captor. Following Mr. Qin to his insecure base. The fight with the mechanical crow that ended in your unequivocal victory.

Both eyes open now, you enjoy the view of the bedroom, curtains to the outside world thrown open, the nocturnal cityscape glittering beyond the gently swaying curtains of the bed. Yawning, tongue sticking out before running its long length along your fangs, you revel in the serenity of this quiet place that smells like Mr. Qin. No cage, no dreaded footsteps, no electric shocks coursing through your sore muscles, rattling your bones, leaving you in a puddle of your own piss, tongue almost bitten through.

A pitiful little mewling sound breaks the silence, irritating you.

As soon as you notice it, it stops.

Shaking your head so hard your ears flap, you hop lightly off the bed and go in search of Mr. Qin. His cold absence in the bed must have been what woke you. You have never liked sleeping alone. Curled up with Caleb and taking a nap was one of your favorite places to be in the world, even inside the cage.

You're going to have to train Mr. Qin better. He needs to learn not to leave you in bed alone.

At least there's no sign of that wretched avian, now.

Padding through the bedroom, you follow his scent. Luckily, he's not far. Paw beans further cushioned by the gaudy rugs thrown over the cold marble, your nose leads you to a half open door. You bat it open the rest of the way with a forepaw, finding Sylus standing, legs wide, back to you, burgundy silk pajama pants slung so low on his ass that the top swell of it is exposed under the dimples of his lower back, along with the cleft between his cheeks.

Oh, he's peeing.

You sit back on your haunches, enjoying the view of his broad shoulders sagging in a relieved sigh, drowned by the deafening steady stream against the toilet bowl. You've never understood how men could piss so loudly. Your ears flick along with your tail as you grow impatient. Did he drink an entire lake last night? It's taking him forever to finish.

He shakes his dick (which unfortunately you can't see), pauses, and then leisurely hikes his pajama pants back up over his magnificent ass before turning and jerking to a halt when he sees you sitting serenely in the doorway.

Finally! You refuse to stand and hop about eagerly like an undignified dog, but your fluffy tail gives away your excitement, flicking, flicking, flicking.

"What a bold little intruder," Mr. Qin lifts an eyebrow, momentary surprise melting into dry amusement. "Is no territory off limits for you?" He flushes the toilet before striding to the expansive bathroom counter, marble like the rest of this palatial penthouse, and washes his hands. His eyes meet yours in the huge mirror. "I suppose not, considering how insouciantly you invaded my home yesterday. Now that you've made use of my bed, did you sleep well?"

He asks as if you can understand him. As if you can answer him.

Unease slithers from your tip of your tail to the tip of your nose.

But no. There's no way he could know. Maybe he's just an extrovert and talks to everyone, including creatures like you. He does keep a mechanical crow that sleeps in his bedroom. He's just weirdo.

You pad over to him and wind yourself around his calves, rubbing your scent all over him. Someone needs to protect him from people or animals that would take advantage of his eccentric benevolence. After several passes across his legs, now people will know that he's yours. You're courteous, marking him with a warning. If they ignore it, the consequences are on them.

"I'll take that as a yes." He's a little pleased, a little smug.

You follow him as he saunters out of the bathroom. You jump from chest of drawers, to bookcase, to his desk, as he heads into a huge walk-in closet, always keeping him in view. He swaps out his pajama pants, the silky material sliding down his massive ass, his long legs, revealing a pair of black boxers with gold thread—he's garish down to his skivvies, how extraordinary—with casual jeans, ripped from the knees and up the thighs with little threads hanging at the tears—and then pulls a soft black sweater embellished with a gold embroidered feather motif over his head.

You stare at him, marveling at how he actually matches his underwear to his sweaters. What a peacock.

Hopping down from the tall chest of drawers you were just nosily sniffing, you land light as the feather stitched into his clothing and swish your way over to him, sniffing his jeans (fresh, citrus-cotton scent) and batting at the threads dangling from the ripped fabric.

"Not that I'd begrudge your amusement at my expense, kitten, but be informed that these are limited edition jeans."

You let him know what you think of these jeans riddled with holes by chewing on one particularly long thread until it slips too far down your throat, causing you to hack a little.

"Now, now, no need to hurt yourself in the process of betraying your woeful taste in fashion." The room tilts as he sweeps you up with one arm, draping you over his forearm and wearing you like a furry vambrace, palm flat so you can rest your chin on it and observe your surrounding as he carries you out of his bedroom and ferries you effortlessly to the kitchen.

The room responds to his presence, low lighting increasing in brightness but still not harsh to your sensitive eyes. Mr. Qin carries you to the gramophone, still wielding you on his forearm he crouches, the fingers of his free hand drifting across carefully displayed record sleeves on the shelves underneath. Humming tunelessly, he plucks one from from the collection and agilely plops it one-handed onto the player.

What's new pussycat? WHOAAAA, WHOAAA, WHOAAAAAAA, Tom Jones wails from the gramophone's sound horn.

Pussycat, pussycat

I've got flowers and lots of hours to spend with you

So go and powder your cute little pussycat nose

Flattening your ears on your head, you turn your head, slow-panning to meet the smirking gaze of Mr. Qin.

Pussycat, Pussycat, I love you, yes I do

You and your pussycat nose

You dig your claws through his pretty sweater's sleeve and launch yourself off of his arm, landing lightly on the back of one of his couches, tail up haughtily.

Not only does he have atrocious taste in fashion, his musical tastes also leave much to be desired.

You're so thrilling and I'm so willing to care for you

So go ahead and make up your big little pussycat eyes

Under Tom Jones' bellowing, Sylus snickers behind you. Ignoring him, you spring from surface to surface until you land with only a slight skid on the smooth marble surface of his kitchen island.

You're hungry.

"Not a Tom Jones fan, huh, Kitten?" Mr. Qin inquires. Again, you refuse to look at him.

You're delicious and if my wishes can all come true

I'll soon be kissing your pussycat lips— WHOAAAA WHOAAAAA

It's only at the crescendo of Jones' wailing like a tomcat that the carefully cut steak immaculately plated on a silver platter ornately etched with dragon motifs enters your field of vision.

Ears flicking forward, tail whipping, you can't conceal your curiosity. Or your hunger.

The steak he was cooking last night…

You turn to look at him again just as he lifts the gramophone arm and replaces Tom Jones with a new record, this time something dramatic with cellos. He doesn't return your gaze, just fiddles with the volume, mouth quirked. His profile, with its long, sloping nose, is magnificent.

"Finally ready to eat, Kitten?"

His delicious smell overpowers you so thoroughly that you hadn't noticed the steak at all when you walked by the kitchen island where he had apparently been preparing it just for you last night, nor when he swept into the kitchen with you this morning.

Your tail swishes, swishes. Circling the platter, you bat at it, and it too slips across the slick counter.

"Don't be coy. Go ahead and eat your fill."

Now that you can smell it, the delicious meat fills your nose, overwhelming everything else.

You can forgive him telling you what to do. His ridiculous taste in music, his preening fashion.

To be fair, you would have forgiven him anything, after he removed your collar. After he exterminated your captor.

But now, after he meticulously sliced this perfectly grilled, tender steak, just for you, you would kill for him.

He's never getting rid of you, now, whether he likes it or not.

You lean down, pierce one expertly, thinly sliced piece with your fangs and do exactly as he tells you.

He doesn't let you rest, that first night with him. Belly full of delicious meat, blinking and sleepy, Mr. Qin shrugs into a leather jacket and cruelly carries you in your now-established spot on his forearm out of his penthouse. The mirrors in the elevator infinitely reflect the soft sheen of his silver hair, his broad shoulders, your little black form tucked against his pillowy chest, repeated over and over and over again, as if revealing parallel universes where in every one you are like this, tucked safe in his arms, sheltered by the easy strength of him. His heartbeat is fast and steady under your cheek.

The car ride wakes you up after he tosses you playfully into the passenger seat of one of the many vintage muscle cars with a deafeningly loud engine and roars out of the underground parking garage. The city flows in neon streaks past the car windows. He huffs in surprise as you hop over his hand casually resting on the gear shift and onto his lap, peeking up over the steering wheel.

"Just this once, kitten. We'll get you a seatbelt while we're out tonight."

You stretch your claws our and dig, just a little, into his stupid ripped jeans—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to let him know that you want to be in his lap, forever.

"Non-negotiable," he responds, as if he heard your protest loud and clear and still insists upon his absurd safety measures.

Hmph. You don't need them. You always land on your feet.

The entrance to the luxury mall sweeps up into the night, brightly lit and inviting against the dark. Mr. Qin strides through its automatically opening doors like a king sweeping into his palace, not deigning to look left or right at store after store of expensive, luxury goods, the delicately tinkling fountains, the art nouveau curl of the iron banisters and stained glass windows mimicking French palatial residences. Even when you were free, you never would have dared enter such an exclusive cathedral dedicated to the worship of wealth, of ruthless consumerism, of the 'haves', since you and Caleb were always the 'have-nots.' Both of you had been working hard to improve your circumstances, studying like hell at the library where the books were free and the heating was always on in winter. You had been so close to the university entrance exams when your captor's thugs ambushed you one night returning to your small, cheap but clean apartment tucked in Linkon City's underbelly. Though it was in a run-down part of town, it was still far enough away from the N109 Zone to feel safe.

Mistake.

Maybe it was complacency. Maybe it was the hope for a better life, so close, dangling before you like a mouse by its tail, mesmerizing by virtue of your future, inexorable domination over it—maybe it was that hope which eclipsed your caution. In your arrogance, your gleeful aspirations in being able to own your own library, possess a lifelong entrance ticket to any museum in the city as a benefactor of the arts after making it big yourself, of sculpting with your own hands and claws pieces that would move others the way you stood before the classical masterpieces from long-dead artisans and marveled at the drape of fabric carved in cold stone, of strong forearms clutching glorious swords raised in revolt against corrupt systems of power—

But no. It was your loud yowling about how you didn't want ramen for dinner again, you wanted to shift and hunt for birds and mice, despite Caleb saying it was too dangerous to do it too often, that you had to protect your cover as emo students cosplaying as cats, furry-adjacent but not so obsessed as to attend cons or actually join the furry community.

Your fault.

Always your fault.

That strange mewling has started again.

Mr. Qin pauses. You look up at him curiously, wondering why he stopped walking, only to meet his intense gaze, the furrow between his brows more pronounced than usual, as if he's worried about something.

Swiftly approaching footsteps resound on the glossy floor and drown out the mewling, drawing your attention from Mr. Qin's beautifully sculpted face.

"Sir, Place Vendôme has a strict no pet policy." The security guard's tone is sharp and firm, but respectful, as if he's not sure who, exactly, he's dealing with yet.

"Not to worry." Mr. Qin's scent doesn't change. As always, he's relaxed, slightly amused even when confronted with petty rules. A certain spicy thread joins his normally delicious aroma—fun. He's having fun. "This is my emotional support kitten. I have a license to carry her wherever I go."

The security guard's eyebrows draw together, bright eyes sweeping Mr. Qin from the tips of his shoes to the top of his shining head, and he softens his voice. He must recognize the stupid, limited edition jeans. "Even so, these are our house rules. We would welcome your patronage if you would be so good as to return without your… cat at a later time."

Mr. Qin laughs, dark and low, the spice in his scent layering, deepening, warming like the rising magma of a re-awakening volcano. "While normally I would tell you to fetch the general manager to resolve this little issue, I'm afraid I have more pressing concerns that require my attention tonight."

The security guard's brows knit tighter before relaxing completely, his soft lips parting, square jaw growing lax. Puzzled, you glance back up at Mr. Qin whose right eye is now glowing as bright as molten steel, so bright as to almost blind you. Slowly, it fades back to its normal, ruby glitter, as his standard delicious scent also returns to normal.

"Yes sir, good, sir. Your emotional support kitten license is current, my apologies for disturbing you. Please enjoy a complimentary Kir Royale at La Folie d'Oiseau bar in the penthouse for your trouble after you've shopped to your satisfaction. I will inform all necessary staff to expect you and your elegant companion and to satisfy any desires you may have during your visit today," the security guard gushes euphorically, slow and sleepy, as if he's having the most wonderful dream and can't think of anything he'd like to do more than tell the entire mall that the cat weirdo in the stupid jeans is to be treated like royalty.

"Of course," Mr. Qin answers, gracious, patient. "But only because I'm in a very good mood tonight."

Without waiting for a response, your human sweeps past the security guard and does end up indulging in the Kir Royale himself, while also offering you the bubbly, sweet drink in a little saucer of your own after he acquires what he came here to acquire. As if it's completely normal to offer your pet cat alcohol at an exclusive bar at the most expensive mall in the world. You lap it eagerly, enjoying the fizzing in your belly, the lulling effect of the alcohol. You don't remember the trip back home.

You blink awake as the elevator doors open silently into the foyer of Mr. Qin's penthouse. His footsteps resound down the long hallway on the slick marble floor, the footsteps of a god entering a temple dedicated to his glory. On his arm, you lazily observe the shopping bags drifting beside you, encased in that swirling red and black, sparking mist. They keep pace as he makes his way to what appears to be the heart of his house: the kitchen, the living area, the view of his domain glittering menacingly far below.

As you're approaching the doorway, your ears flick as they're accosted with the unmistakable cacophony of bird screeches.

The shopping bags precede you, momentarily blocking the view as Sylus sweeps into the living area. Following the ear-splitting noise, your gaze is drawn to the huge chandelier sparkles as it looms from the high ceiling above. Two magpies, black and blue feathers brightly sheened under the refracted light, appear to be teasing Mephisto with a ruby the size of a quail's egg. They flit among the tinkling crystals, sending the entire chandelier swaying with their rapid landings and launches, as Mephisto flaps behind them in focused pursuit.

CAW! CAW! CAW!

CHITTER! CHITTER chitter chitter CHITTER!!

As soon as Mephisto seems to close in on one magpie, it tosses its head, sending the ruby sailing through the air. The other magpie catches it, chittering gleefully, dropping elegantly as a ballistic missile as Mephisto agilely swerves from the previous magpie and gives chase.

Mephisto seems to be having the time of his life as he flaps after the magpie now circling the kitchen island.

Mr. Qin heaves a sigh, as if he's used to such a loud spectacle, even as the chandelier sways dramatically above as the second magpie rejoins the other among its priceless layers of crystal and silver.

The bags settle themselves on the kitchen island's counter and Mr. Qin's evol dissipates. He nudges you gently off his arm next to them. As he begins to rummage through the bags and lift the items he purchased out, one by one, you rub yourself along his arm, letting your tail wind around his wrist.

A wand tipped with elaborate, beautiful peacock feathers. Little crystal balls with jingling bells in them. Several hand-stitched plushie mice filled with catnip. Robotic frogs made of a silicone material that hop across the counter when powered on. Carefully gift-wrapped bags of treats, their openings cinched with with an overabundance of scarlet, curled ribbons.

You sniff disinterestedly at each item, puzzled as to why Mr. Qin went to all the effort to acquire these things when you're perfectly satisfied with napping, being held by him, and clawing at his stupid jeans.

"The tower tree designed to resemble the base will take two days to make and arrive," he raises his voice, ever so slightly, to be heard over the birds above.

You turn your back on all the toys, flicking your tail disdainfully.

"Oh, I see how it is," he snickers. "My little kitten couldn't contain her glee as she rampaged through the pet store, but now that I've fulfilled her desires by purchasing every item she deigned to claw at, she's bored already."

Tail flicking dangerously, you spin around and swipe at Mr. Qin's gold-threaded sweater with a curved claw. Still laughing, he grabs your paw, holding it gently and harmlessly against his abdomen. "Keep that up and I'll get you solid gold kitty claw clippers to render your talons a little less dangerous to my wardrobe."

Oh, hell no. You spin again, tail puffed and back arched, ready to show him just how difficult you'll make it for him to get anywhere near your weapons when the vibration of his rumbling laughter rolls through your body again, softening your indignation and causing you to pause just long enough for his big hands to gently cage you. They feel so good on your body, an intoxicating mix of assured strength and dexterous care for your fragile bones, the small size of you in his powerful grip. Yowling in feigned protest, you let him slide you across the counter without a struggle until you're snuggled up against the sweater you just tried to assault.

Your token protest must have finally gotten the attention of the circling birds, because both magpies abandon their play with Mephisto and divebomb toward you and Mr. Qin.

The threat evokes the reaction that such things always do: instead of cowering against the shelter of Mr. Qin's broad body, you jump, swiping at one of the magpies with a claw-tipped paw.

It playfully swoops out of your reach just before contact, while the other takes advantage of your fall back to the counter, flying behind Mr. Qin and… trying to pluck one of his soft silver locks waving gently over his shirt collar with his wicked beak?!

Although Mr. Qin takes the assault in stride and elegantly ducks, causing the magpie to chitter gleefully and flit away again, you will not stand for this!

As the heinous bird swoops back in again for another go at Mr. Qin's precious hair, you leap onto his shoulder and with a vicious swipe knock the magpie away, triumphantly confirming that not a single silver hair was snatched in its vicious beak.

Slinking around Mr. Qin's shoulders, you drape yourself over the back of his neck to shield him from further insults to his person, growling menacingly as the magpies swoop and dive around you, squawking all the while.

Mephisto adds to the ruckus, cawing loudly, zooming back and forth at the periphery of your battle with the magpies in between dropping the ruby, catching it, and flapping up again with the glittering stone in his beak.

The magpies seem completely unfazed, chittering in amusement as they circle and divebomb, always just out of the reach of your razor swipes. A rumble shakes your body pleasantly—Mr. Qin is laughing.

"That's enough roughhousing for today. You're going to give Kitten here a stroke and we just got her." He waves the birds away. "Go get changed. I want an update within ten minutes."

Shockingly, they swoop back into the air in utter obedience, careening across the room and perching on matching atrocities behind a big black leather couch. You had first thought they were some kind of modern sculpture, but apparently the thrusting sculptures resembling ineffective coatracks are actually perches, similar to the cursed crow's perch in Mr. Qin's bedroom.

"I'm used to it, Kitten," Mr. Qin reassures you, reaching back to stroke tenderly along your back, smoothing the fur raised there. "They know exactly how far they can go before incurring my wrath. No need to protect me from my own men."

You purr under his touch, rubbing your face against his throat.

Tail flicking, you wish you could tell him, Men? What men. This is exactly why you need me around, and why you are not allowed to trim my claws. It's the open emergency exit all over again. Having your fur pulled hurts. I know from experience. Even in jest, they should pay you the respect you deserve. Wild animals like those birds can turn on you in an instant. As such an animal myself, I know this all too well. My captor insulted you and incurred your wrath, but from now on I will be your wrath for anyone who dares insult you.

But you can't tell him. Not in this form. And you can't remember any other form. Not really. When you think too hard about it—

that wretched mewling that has been haunting you since you invaded Mr. Qin's territory rings in your ears.

"Kitten—" the amusement leeches from his voice, and your whole body tenses. Has he found the source of that awful, pitiful sound? Is it another intruder, just like you?

You don't care how pathetic such a stray is, Mr. Qin belongs to you now. It's bad enough that you have to share him with several feathered abominations. There's no room for anyone else!

"Boss, the shipment's waiting for your inspection in the armory," a familiar voice pulls your attention to the couch where the magpies were previously perched.

A tall handsome man, nude, whose wiry muscled body is conveniently blocked from the waist down by said couch, grins at you and Mr. Qin.

"And the vermin are exterminated!" Crows another man, a mirror of the first, except one half of his face, neck, and lithe torso are ravaged by wicked scarring. He too is naked, and the scars that twist his grin somehow make him more, instead of less handsome. Like shattered fine china repaired with molten gold.

The men who killed all the assholes who knew you and Caleb were kept in abysmal conditions as cats, let alone as human beings, are the chaotic magpies.

They're hybrid shifters, just like you. You stare at them with huge eyes.

They don't have collars on of any kind. Their scent is gleeful, relaxed, eager. One of them has a buzzing, electric scent where the other smells more calm, mellow, but their scents mingle, morph—as if the electric energy of the one bolsters the other, and the serenity of the other tempers and soothes the first.

Something inside of you aches, recognizing the synergy of siblings who really care for each other.

You force your thoughts away from the ache, focusing instead on the bolstered certainty that Mr. Qin, despite doing business with men like your captor, is absolutely nothing like him. The easy admiration that his men, bird-human hybrids just like you are a cat-human hybrid, is all the testament you need, if you still had any lingering doubts.

No wonder Mr. Qin didn't concern himself with them taking their little game of trying to ruffle his feathers too far. They aren't just semi-tamed birds. And they genuinely love him.

"What part of 'go change' did you two misunderstand?" Mr. Qin rubs his forehead, as if infinitely tired. But his scent remains… amused. Contented. He's not actually annoyed with them, but there is a thread of something… bitter. Just a little, as he glances between your intense stare and the naked men who are clearly twins.

"What was there to misunderstand?" the unscarred one grins. "We went…"

"To the other side of the living room," continues the other, mirrored grin widening.

"And we changed into our human form!" finished the first.

"You knew perfectly well I meant go to your rooms and change not only form, but into clothes." Mr. Qin says calmly. "Begone, and take Mephisto with you."

Mephisto ruffles his feathers from his perch in indignation, but before you can puff up and threaten him into obedience, your vision is blocked by one of Mr. Qin's gigantic hands just as the twins are about to walk past the censoring couch—and before you can see anything really interesting.

You twist a little, gently nipping at Mr. Qin's fingers, but by the time he removes his hand, it's just the two of you in the room.

Well, being alone with Mr. Qin is even better than mirrored muscular-man butt. And they did take the cursed robot bird with them.

As Mr. Qin scoops you back onto your customary perch on his forearm, the bitter, possessive scent fades.

The rest of the night is spent in his armory, a yawning, warehouse-like space spanning an entire floor below the penthouse. He sets you down amidst the large packing crates with some of the cat toys he had bought for you earlier.

Snubbing them, you amuse yourself while Mr. Qin inspects the crates' contents with a joyful, almost aroused scent, by jumping from crate to crate, jostling the heavy weaponry packed into incredibly fun packing foam that you shred to your heart's content. It's like being at an indoor playground with ball pits and foam pits to jump into, with tubes to wriggle through, jungle gyms to crawl all over—the kind you used to sneak into when you and Caleb were children, always through the back exit, propped open by haggard employees on their smoke break. The thought causes that horrible mewling again, but it quickly fades after Mr. Qin pauses in his examination of a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher with an embedded glowing protocore, dropping it carelessly back into the crate and rushing over to you.

He rocks your tiny body in his arms, your head tucked under his chin. His scent is thick and comforting around you, electric, sparking with rage underneath the soothing familiarity of his calm self-possession.

You have no idea where that awful, mournful, humiliating sound is coming from, but you don't snub the reaction it elicits from your savior. You would never admit it, but you don't dislike it at all. You don't understand why he's doing this for you. But you will forgive him anything, after he saved you. You will kill anyone to protect him, after his consistent care and attention to your needs, you who are just a wretched stray. And you'll let him do anything to you now, simply because you know he'll never want to do anything to you that hurts, after seeing how much his men adore him, and the way he uses those big, calloused hands capable of killing with a snap of his fingers to soothe you when that horrible mewling distresses you so. If it makes him feel better to snuggle you with such fierce tenderness, you'll allow it.

For now.

okay so i had a few people ask to be tagged: @mia-menaceinaction @valiantchaosvalkyrie @harmlesscouch @yokoyokai thank you for your interest!

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.

Your eyes roll back down.

“Mhm.”

"And it was such a good question.”

You turn a page. "Really?”

“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”

You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."

It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.

It had not.

Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—

…

Wait.

Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?

Fucking great.

“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”

Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?

With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby.  But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.

He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…

Oh.

That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.

Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”

It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.

“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"

“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.

But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.

“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”

Lips parting, you blink.

…why is he so observant?!

For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.

You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”

His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”

Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.

Oh.

Way too observant.

Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.

His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”

Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”

You blink.

Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.

Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.

After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?

Last month, you still answered her phone calls.

Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.

Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

“Oh—uh, hi mom!”

Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.

“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”

“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.

Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”

“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"

"—have you booked your flight yet?"

Your mouth flattened.

Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.

“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”

“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”

A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.

Every week is a crazy week?

Yeah. No shit.

Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.

You’re the one people relied on.

Just… never the one people chose.

“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”

“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”

…

Keep forgetting?

She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?

How convenient that she forgot that.

The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”

"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”

Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.

No thanks.

“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”

“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”

Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.

Shit.

“I-I—I didn’t say—"

“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”

“—Mom, I—"

“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”

Love?!

Who has time for that?

And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!

“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”

And she was off.

Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.

“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”

Click!

And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.

‘We’ve been so worried.’

…

If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?

Funny how that works.

Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.

“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”

Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.

The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.

But…

None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?

“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”

“Huh?”

Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.

“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”

“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”

For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.

But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"

“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”

And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.

"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"

“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”

Why does he sound… bitter?

No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.

You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"

He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"

Your lips purse.

What does he care? He’s not your mother.

“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”

“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”

You frown.

What the fuck are you supposed to say!?

Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.

Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.

“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”

“But I—”

“Drop it.”

He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.

“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”

The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.

God.

Of all the places to hit.

“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.

He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"

“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”

Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.

His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.

Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”

“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”

Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.

“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"

“Oh, finally.”

Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.

Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"

You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.

Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.

Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.

You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.

It doesn’t.

And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.

Un-fucking-believable.

He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.

…

He could fire Kento.

Should he fire Kento?

As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.

'Grow up, Satoru.'

'Apply yourself, Satoru.'

'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'

Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.

Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!

He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.

The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.

It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.

“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”

There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”

His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”

The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”

"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”

“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”

…

Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?

Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.

“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”

"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"

"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."

He’s been her intern for that long.

That’s the question, right?

"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”

He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.

“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”

Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.

"…sorry. Who is thi—"

“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"

Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:

📞 Mom

Oh.

Oh, shit.

This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—

"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"

"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”

"Stop. I-I really think—"

“—Satoru, what are you doing?’

His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.

Oh, fuck.

“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.

He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.

“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"

"Mom."

"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"

"I'm at work. Gotta go."

"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"

Click!

The phone sits in your hand like evidence.

And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.

“Sooo… funny story…”

“—what did you do?!”

Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.

Great. Fucking great.

You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.

But cry?

Never.

And this had his fingerprints all over it.

"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"

"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"

Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.

God. How fucking humiliating.

"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."

“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”

Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.

God. Stop it.

Stop it stop it stop it.

Think.

Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.

But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.

…what look will she give you when you show up alone?

"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"

Single.

The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.

And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.

"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"

You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”

"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.

"Huh… okay."

Okay what?

You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."

No biggie?

Your mouth dropped.

That wasn’t even an option, was it?

…is he crazy?

“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."

You stared at him. Genuinely stared.

Oh. He wasn’t kidding.

Yup. He’s crazy.

"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."

“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"

He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.

"…that is not the point."

“Mm… feels a little like the point."

He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."

He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.

…

His family’s in Japan too?

You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.

But…

"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."

Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.

"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."

"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"

Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.

“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”

He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?

Shit…

That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂‍↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖

You’ve just arrived back at the condo a little past seven PM after a, frankly, productive—if not slightly distracted—day of running errands. You’re home, and you haven’t even got to unpacking the two paper bags (and a box) worth of groceries that were all but thrown carelessly on the kitchen counter, and already, you’re back to stressing over all the weird shit that's been happening to you.

Throughout the afternoon, you tried your hardest to resist the urge to check your phone, especially whenever you see the screen light up—whether it was in your hand or stashed away in your half-zipped fanny pack.

It’s at the most random times too, but always when you act on your unfortunate tendency to monologue your thoughts out loud. 

Sure, it could just be some random push app notifications. Text messages from the few people that hit you up on the weekends—invitations to hang out, maybe. A few newsletters you forgot to unsubscribe from if you’re unlucky. 

But you think the timing’s far too deliberate to be purely coincidental. 

“Do I get a dozen eggs or just half? What do I even need a dozen for?” (Phone vibrates)

“Oh, hey, Indomie’s on sale if you buy in bulk. How much for a box?” (Screen flashes. Twice.)

“Who the hell is holding up the line, damn–oh, it’s an old lady. Better hurry the fuck up, grandma.” (Screen flashes) “...Sorry! I didn’t mean that.” 

“Ughhh… my tummy hurty…” (Phone vibrates) “What—” 

“Everything’s perfectly normal. Just your average, sunny Saturday! You are an independent, capable adult… who’s fucking losing it.” (Screen flashes– after a minute interval) 

Of course, you have an inkling as to what’s—or who’s—blowing your phone up; in fact, he’s never left your mind since this morning.

So presently, you’re in the middle of having a small existential crisis over what that means, for you and your sanity. No big deal. 

You puff out your cheeks for a couple of seconds before letting out a deep breath. Don’t be a pussy. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation to all of this. You’re— you’re not crazy. 

Landing heavily down in front of the low table, you finally grab your phone, hand shaking with the teensiest amount of trepidation. Not giving yourself any more time to think and second-guess, you flip it over, switching it back to Ring mode as you swipe up to see—

—a barrage of notifications; one popping up after another. 

Some of them are what you’ve expected: plain, old push notifications from banking apps, others from varying socials. There’s one from your mom. A reminder to email her the flight tickets you still haven’t gotten around to booking yet. 

And. Six banner notifications from the game. From… from—him. It’s something you’ve already braced yourself for. It doesn’t prepare you, however, for what they actually said. 

A knot grows in your chest, spreading rapidly like slithering twine as your mind tries, and somewhat fails, to make sense of what your eyes are seeing. 

Grab a dozen, sweetie. It won’t add much to the total cost, and you need that protein every morning. Cereal’s not gonna cut it. 

You really ought to lessen your sodium intake, kitten. (and) Do NOT get the box. Stop. 

Haha. A feisty one, aren’t you? 

Mmm, poor baby.

I– we can talk about this later when you get home.

Each notification contains a completely unique dialogue you’ve never seen before. A play-by-play commentary specifically in response to you—to your personal remarks from earlier, spoken out loud—that there is absolutely no way anyone could still pass this off as simply being system-generated. 

A faint ringing echoes in your ears as you slowly draw back, putting some distance between the onslaught of text and… you. You can’t seem to tear your gaze away from the screen, though. Even if the back of your head bumps against the seat edge of the sofa behind you from how far you’ve already leaned back. 

Blinking in stunned silence, the only thing you could croak out is a strained “what the fuuuck.” 

... Ping!

Still mustering the courage to face me? Don’t keep me in suspense, darling. 

The sudden message jolts you back to reality. You suck in a deep breath.

… Despite everything, you can’t help but find his nonchalant response to your gradual spiral into hysterics—because he knows—a little amusing. Also rude. But mostly funny. 

(It’s also probably just your brain’s last-ditch effort to find some semblance of control, but whatever.)

At this point, you know that you’re merely delaying the inevitable. Swallowing, you press on one of Sylus’ messages and it immediately boots up the game. 

Instead of soothing your nerves like it usually does, the orchestral background music from the loading screen puts you more on edge; your anxiety builds up to a crescendo, harmonious to the heralding of what you know will undoubtedly change the trajectory of your life. 

Dramatic, but true. 

48%... 82%... 98%...

There’s a hollow drop in your stomach when the screen—finally—reveals the familiar sight of the café. The golden ambient light enters your field of vision for a split second before your eyes flit reflexively to the man standing in the middle of the screen, whose presence commandeered your full attention.

He’s wearing his motorcycle jacket—the black one with the red and white thorn(?) accents, paired along the pair of leather pants with the iconic double zipper. Aside from the black zircon studs, he’s not wearing anything out of the ordinary. Nothing is looking out of the ordinary, actually. 

Holding your breath, you wait for the other shoe to drop. 

“Are you waiting for me to say hello? Then–” Sylus muses with an amused lilt to his voice, sauntering closer to flick “your” forehead. There’s a beat before he continues: “That’s my way of saying hello.” 

… Huh? 

That’s—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You… you don’t know what you were expecting, but this wasn’t it.

The man in front of you doesn’t look any different from how he usually does; the way that his… character animation (Should you call it that? It doesn’t seem right, given the circumstance, but you don’t know how best to describe anything anymore) flows is so–-so infuriatingly… normal. As if it’s just like any other day that you’ve logged in the game. 

Where did the sentience go? Why is he reciting lines he’s programmed to say? None of it adds up.

Your mouth tries to form words, but nothing comes out. With wide eyes, you helplessly gape at him. Speechless. For a moment, you feel like you’ve actually gone mad. 

A small “what’s happening?” slips past your lips. Your eyes dart across his face, trying to analyze every microexpression, any hint of sentience on him—in his eyes, in his movements. 

You find none. 

Mechanically, you exit the game.

“What the actual fuck?” You whisper-shout at nothing in particular, and maybe to the biggest cause of your current disconcertion; one who you thought… Who you were sure was—

-

-

Fuck it. It’s time to put your detective skills to work.

You blink your bleary eyes open, once… twice—fuck, all you know that it’s too goddamn early for all this ruckus. Groaning, you clumsily try to find the source of the unexpected wake-up call. Quite literally in this case. 

Your hand bumps the vibrating phone straight off the edge of the mattress—along with the charger cord still attached to it—and you cuss up a storm when you hear it clatter on the hardwood floor.

The ringing finally stops, and you’re perfectly content to leave it there and fall back to sleep when, not even ten seconds later, the blasted thing rings back to life, taunting you awake. 

Angrily, you wrestle against the threadbare blanket wrapped around your body like a warm cocoon, pushing yourself out of bed with all the rage of a sleep-deprived insomniac who’s been up til the buttcrack of dawn to grab your—huh, relatively intact—phone off the ground, while the charger cable swings haphazardly from the weight of the power brick on its tail end.  

Without checking the caller, you swipe right to answer. “What?” 

“Don’t use that tone on me, young lady,” Your mother grouses on the other end of the line. “It’s almost noon! Did you just wake up?” 

Barely five hours of sleep. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you shut your eyes and sigh. “No, mom. Sorry, just had a late night,” you clear your throat in an attempt to sound more composed. “What’s up?” 

“Oh, dear. Is it because of work again?” Something akin to sympathy replaces the sternness in her voice, and you dread the all-too-familiar spiel that comes next. “You know, honey, there’s a job opening for a– what was it again? I have to double check, but it’s where your Auntie Helen works. You know your Auntie Helen—” 

“Mom,” you interrupt, before she could go off on a tangent. “Work is fine, don’t worry. Why d’you call?” 

“Should I need a reason to call my daughter who's living by her lonesome, a country away from—” 

“Mom!” 

“Oh, alright,” she finally relents, sounding slightly exasperated. “Were you able to book me and Jodie the roundtrip flight to Orlando? Your cousin’s wedding is barely a month away and I want all the documents ready by now, sweetie.” 

Shit. “Ah— yeah. I’ll email you the flight itinerary in a bit, I’m just–” you catch sight of your protruding hamper, innocuous but an eyesore nonetheless, right by the doorway of your humble studio unit. “I mean, I just left the condo. To do errands and stuff. I’ll send the details to you when I get back home, okay?” 

“Okay, honey,” she sighs. “You stay safe outside now. Don’t talk to strangers.” 

“I am a perfectly responsible adult—” The call disconnects. “Hello? Great.” 

You rub away the remnants of sleep from your eyes, fully aware that your day’s already started, despite your reluctance. Might as well get a head start on today’s agenda.

First thing’s first– brunch. Oh, it’s almost one. Lunch, then. I could maybe grab a hotdog from the corner store before heading to Landers. Oh wait, laundry. Gotta pass by the laundromat downstairs, too. Ugh, c’mon, chop-chop. 

Just as you’re about to stand up from your supine position on the floor, another ping! pulls your attention back to your phone. “Mom, I swear–” 

Ah, you’re finally awake. You’ve had a very long night, kitten. Take it easy for the day – make sure to get enough rest between errands.

I’ll know if you don’t.  

Your heart skips a beat.

Oh! Um. That’s… new. 

… Apparently another one on the growing list of “new features” from the latest update. It doesn't sound like an invitation for you to open the game, strangely enough. It's not a call to action to claim your daily stamina, nor a prompt for you to check your Galaxy Explorer rewards. 

It’s nothing more than a greeting, really. Just one that’s particularly targeted at you, with unnerving accuracy.

You recall the weird (?) events from last night, and the now-erratic beating of your heart suddenly picks up a notch. From the unexpected dialogues to the outrageous amount of dias you’ve somehow ended up with—something you still think is some kind of glitch in the system—you can’t shake the feeling that you’re living out the plot of a Black Mirror episode, as fucking dumb as it sounds. 

Not to mention during Quality Time, Sylus_v2.0 (as you so lovingly dub this version of him in your mind) had been acting more aware of you.

And you’re not talking about the pre-programmed glances that you usually get. No– it’s like he actually hears you. 

He doesn’t say anything. But whenever you make a comment, or utter something under your breath, he reacts with a huff or a hum—depending on the context. If it’s a slew of expletives aimed at your boss, the reaction you’re met with is one of amusement. A snort; sometimes a quiet laugh, if you’re lucky. When you say something self-deprecating, however, it elicits the heavier sighs, the sharp clicks of the tongue. 

At one point, you heard him make a low sound of dissent, something close to a... growl, almost, after making a casual joke about being just another cog in the machine and how offing yourself wouldn’t really matter in the grand scheme of late capitalism. As you oft do. 

Your eyes met, and for a split second, it felt like you weren’t looking at just pixels. His gaze weighed heavy on you—almost accusatory. 

It made you feel… naked, somehow. Perceived. 

You recall how quickly you averted your eyes from his, face flushing hotly from a feeling you couldn’t put into words. 

Bone-tired from last night’s (morning) overtime, you didn’t have the time to look up the news on this recent version update—although you really don’t remember any notifications in-game—so you quickly Google, “sylus acting sentient in rcent update loveamd Deepspace???” on your phone browser.

You scroll down for a bit, but none of the search results yield any relevancy, nor are they in any way similar to your current… predicament. 

(Okay, so calling it a predicament is a little unfair. You’re not exactly complaining about anything per se. No complaints from you. At all.)

Deciding that you’d do a deeper dive on Twitter (X) at a later time instead—probably tonight when you do your daily login—you briefly press the side button to lock your phone… not without a final peek at the banner notification from Sylus. 

You press your lips together in an effort to hold back the stupid giggle bubbling up your throat. 

Unfortunately, all the self-control in the world can’t help you and your need to have the last word—from what even—so you ask aloud, to no one except the person you've deluded yourself into thinking is a valid recipient of your one-sided conversation: 

“... Yeah? And what if I don’t?” 

You’re not really waiting for a response (or were you?), but the nervous flutter in your stomach betrays the impatience you're trying to mask with casual indifference. It’s small, unassuming—but there. 

Impatient for what, exactly, you’re not sure. But maybe, just maybe—

Feeling a bit braver now, are we? How bold. Care to say that to my face, sweetheart?

Oh. 

Oh.

An inhuman noise escapes your throat, embarrassingly loud, almost a keen, and you fumble with the device in your hand; the new banner notification still in full view—taunting you. 

You don’t know what to think, you don’t know how to feel. You–

Spring up, like an agitated jack-in-a-box, and the sudden rush of blood in your head leaves you dizzy. You’re a molotov cocktail of emotions; one more bombshell surprise and you might just blow. 

“I’m– later, okay? Uh,” Whew, girl, keep it together. “I need–I need to go.” You almost stumble as you speed walk towards the bathroom.

-

-

-

If you hadn't switched your phone to silent, hadn't made the conscious effort to ignore any incoming messages, notifications, and whatever else, in a rush to get dressed and go about your day as if it's just like any other weekend—nope, nothing unusual here—you would’ve seen one last cheeky reply:

Of course, sweetie. You take care now. 

Don’t talk to strangers. X

Endnote: This one's pretty short, but I’m world-building, trust. 

You let out a big sigh, leaning back on your office chair after an unhealthy duration of bad posture from hours of slouching down in front of your computer. There’s nothing ergonomic about the way this job is killing you, and the ache in your lower back can attest to that. 

An irate orange tabby plops himself in front of you, blocking your view of the glaring screen and you figure that it’s time for a break. 

“Me-oow.”

“I know, I know,” You answer tiredly, standing up to dodge a stray paw clawing your way and you hear cracks in three different places that are honestly unbecoming of a woman your age. You haven’t even reached thirty yet, for god’s sake. “I’m a bad mother. But mom also had to skip dinner to make it to the seven PM meeting, so cut me some slack, okay?” 

A high-pitched “meooowr!” is the only response you get; it seems like there’s no excusing late dinner time this time around. 

As much as you’d like to hem and haw and complain, the main reason why you’re still keeping this job is because you can work remotely. If it weren’t for the fact that you’re stuck most days at home working hours past your regular nine to five, having to be on-call around the clock at all times, and that you’ve consumed more sodium than a nitrite victim with the way you live off cup ramen, then, really, it beats working in an office where you’d physically have to clock in and out from exactly nine to five. 

Your right eye twitches. No, I have not fallen in love with the system that exploits me, thank you very much. 

“Here is your Fancy Feast, your highness,” you tell the hungry feline who’s already ignoring the hand that feeds for the bowl full of white fish paté. He eats healthier than you, sure, but you work like this for him to eat like this. The life of a single mom is an uphill battle, but extremely rewarding. 

You raise your hand to pat your son’s head lovingly, aborting the gesture halfway when you hear a warning growl. Alright, tough crowd. 

After nuking a half-eaten takeout box in the microwave and grabbing a cold Bundaberg from the fridge, you hunker down on the “chaise lounge” (see: an old wingback and a rattan ottoman you’ve refurbished as a makeshift seat a few weeks back when you had guests over) for a late meal. 

You barely register the taste of lukewarm rice on your tongue, mouth moving mechanically while your mind runs on autopilot about everything and nothing at the same time. 

Maybe it’s time to check Jobstreet again

Is there like a laundromat near the area that’s open twenty four seven

Eugh, I hate cold peas

What do we feel about Chromakopia? 

I will… die alone

I really need to stock on some fresh produce this weekend—

Ping! 

A notification from your phone pulls you out of your thoughts—and like a well-trained dog pavlov’d into responding, you visibly perk up at the sight of your lock screen lighting up and the familiar banner you’ve already memorized by heart. 

Your Galaxy Explorer rewards are here. Did you put my hotel’s address as the shipping address? 

Ah, just like clockwork. 

You press on it with a quiet, bubbling anticipation, chewing on the plastic spork as you wait impatiently for the silly mobile game that’s been your short respite at intervals—for more than you’d care to admit—to boot up. 

Offhandedly, you wish that the devs would add more variations to the game’s push notifications; more random, personalized stuff like maybe a reminder to drink water, or a fun update about their day. What you’d give–pay–for a: "Less on the overtime, kitten. I miss you,” dialogue from a certain character, but you digress. 

Oh, well. Probably better this way, lest you dig yourself deeper into delusion. 

The game greets you with the usual picturesque view of a silver-haired man sitting cross-legged on a chair, looking all the bit at ease in his signature crimson and white button up. The warm ambience of the Destiny Café at night draws you in, already pulling your attention away from the never-ending stream of thoughts in your brain. 

“Before seeing you, I thought today would be another dull day,“ Sylus comments airily. The way he drawls out the words in that deep timbre of his voice never fails to make your heart flutter – just a teeeensy bit.

“Ever the charmer,” you sigh happily in return, situating yourself more comfortably on the sofa, almost horizontal from how far you’re leaning back on the cushion. “You’re looking awfully normal tonight. What, no pineapple glasses for your favorite girl?” 

Having bypassed the initial cringe of talking to yourself after literal months of gameplay, it almost comes off natural, the banter. You’ve already accepted the fact that you’re crazy about a fictional, pixelated man—what’s pretending to have actual conversations with him gonna do? It’s not as if he actually hears you yap your nonsense; there are worse things in the world than a parasocial attachment to an otome game character. 

Your little jab at the sometimes random addition to his choice of attire earns you a laugh from the man himself—or at least it looks as though it does, making you blink momentarily in surprise. Happy coincidence, I guess.

You shake your head, cracking a smile, then proceed to do the routine of completing the daily agenda and then some. 

It’s tedious business, sure. You’ve dedicated hours upon hours on this game and you’re honestly starting to feel pretty bored with some of the gameplay elements, but you *do* like the ritualistic nature of ticking off the tasks one by one. It’s almost ironic— the way you dutifully do one thing after the other in this game, just to avoid the pile of work that’s waiting for you in real life. 

It’s not as if anything, or anyone’s relying on you to do your daily log-ins, so you suppose it’s due to that lack of pressure as well. 

Pulling yourself away from the five-star Xavier memory card you’ve grinded to level seventy, you stare despondently at the sad little 2 on your remaining energy. The embarrassing amount of materials you lack to ascend the card seem to mock you, even as you exit the Memories window. Another goal for another day, perhaps.

All tasks on the daily agenda are complete, except for one that you’ve always saved for last.

You’re met with a standing Sylus on the game’s home screen, arms crossed and wearing an expression you’d almost describe as impatient, if you didn’t know any better. The sight makes you grin. 

Cheekily, you poke his crotch.

You’re looking forward to getting a playful remark, or if you’re lucky, a blush along with an embarrassed retort about your shamelessness. 

 What you get, however, is a resounding scoff. Your eyes snap back to his face – from, ahem, your prolonged staring at the area below his waist – and you do see the familiar tinge of pink on his cheeks, but what he says in response catches you off-guard.

“You spend that much resource for a card that isn’t mine?” Sylus tsks, both his voice and expression coming across as… affronted? “Kitten, I’m actually hurt.” 

Huh?

You haven’t heard that line from him before. Was there a recent update you weren’t aware of? The man in question then appears to look amused, from the way you’ve been rendered speechless by the unexpected dialogue. 

All at once, you gasp when you realize what the new response means. 

“That’s so smart,” you say giddily. You see Sylus cock his head to the side, synchronously quirking an eyebrow—expectant. “They actually added a feature that lets them know which memory I’ve upgraded last, and make you react to it. Oh, that’s so cool!” 

If you weren’t too busy being excited over what you think is a new update from the game,  you’d see the chagrined look on Sylus’ face. But when you glance back at him, all trace of the emotion is gone before you could notice anything different. 

“Don’t worry, Crow Man. You’re still my favorite,” you assure him, making his mouth tick upwards in a semblance of a smile. He looks pleased all of the sudden, his demeanor shifting into something more relaxed.

Then a pout forms on your face. You crinkle your nose in frustration as you complain, “It’s just really hard to level your cards up at this point. It takes ages and a shit ton of energy just to level you up past seventy five.” Sighing, you add, kind of bitterly, “And I’m too broke to be spending money on growth packs.” 

Checking the time on your phone, you see that you’ve already spent more than an hour on your self-imposed break time and you know that you ought to get back to work soon. With a groan, you pull yourself to sit upright, savoring the last few minutes of free time before you slave off for the rest of the night. 

You’re about to clean up what’s left of dinner when you notice the oddly thoughtful look on Sylus’ face. 

There’s a deep furrow in his brows as he brings a hand up to cover his mouth. He closes his eyes shut for a few seconds. He's never done that gesture before... Ugh, he looks really hot–

Suddenly, you see a flicker—then a weird, sort of graphic distortion happening in the background. Uh, what??

A beat; then a glitch on the screen. “Ah, shit.” 

The game crashes.

You exhale loudly as the game’s interface goes back to the loading screen, tapping your thumb impatiently as the bar slowly loads to 15%... 50%..... 81%....... 

“Maybe make sure to patch up first before releasing an update next time, jeez—huh?” 

For a quick second, nothing seems to be amiss. But then the first thing you see on the home screen is Sylus’ figure standing before you, wearing an expression one could only describe as a smug cat that ate the poor, proverbial canary. 

He speaks— and it’s another intro you haven’t heard him say, ever. 

“You should’ve told me sooner, sweetie,” he almost coos the words out, making your eyes bug out in shock. 

“Now, why don’t you go check your–” he pauses, and his mouth moves as if he’s rolling the word out, testing it. “Inventory?” 

Sylus slides his gaze towards the upper left corner of the screen, a coy smirk still ever-present on his face. 

There, you see something you haven’t noticed earlier: two notification badges. One on your mailbox, and another on the Hunter’s Info tab. Bewildered, you press on the mail icon first, despite the insistence for you to start with the latter. 

You see a new message: [For You]

A small gift, to bridge our worlds closer. – S 

Nothing is attached to it. You read it twice, perplexed.  

“You’re quite the contradictorian, aren’t you?” Sylus tuts as soon as you return back to the home screen, his gaze boring into you even when he tilts his head sideways in mock exasperation. “Mmm, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Take all the time you need, sweetheart.” 

Helplessly, you open your inventory next. 

Your jaw drops. 

“What. The fuck,” You whisper to yourself, voice wavering in disbelief at what you’re seeing, and the sheer amount of what you’re seeing. “This—this can’t be real.” 

You see that all the materials you own, from the bottle of wishes to the ascension crystal boxes, have been multiplied a hundred times over.

And on top of that–

Ninety nine thousand red dias????

You cannot believe how this—this recent… update (or is it a bug? Infold sure isn’t this generous) didn't make the news. Even as someone as uninvolved as you are with the community and the game’s latest releases, something like this for sure would’ve made headlines on Twitter (X), at least. But you haven’t heard anything. Nada. 

Holy shit. 

You feel a little light-headed, both from incredulity and excitement. Needing a moment to calm yourself down, you exit the Inventory tab in a daze.

You stare at Sylus. He stares back at you with what looks to be mirth in his eyes. 

Skeptically, you mutter, “did–did I get hacked or something?” 

Anticipating another unexpected dialogue to prompt up, you wait for a full minute without saying anything else. And for a moment, the man in front of you looks indecisive, contemplative. 

There’s something very odd, very… human in the way he’s looking at you. He looks as if– as if he’s—

His face falls back into a neutral expression. Not unlike how his idle animation usually looks. 

..

…

….. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to initiate a conversation any time soon, so you hesitantly poke him on the nose. 

“Even in the worst-case scenario, there’s no need to panic.”

You’ve heard that one before.

So he’s back to normal now. You temper the small disappointment that blooms in your gut. 

Shaking your head slowly, you try to make sense of all the stuff that just happened, but a sharp bite on your ankle pulls you out of your reverie. 

“Ow–!” The sight of your cat flopping near your feet reminds you of the time. More importantly, the backlogs waiting for you at your desk. 

“Wait, shit– I gotta get back to work.” This… unbelievable stroke of good luck (?) is gonna have to take a backseat for now.

You grab the carton box and the half-empty bottle of sparkling peach as you stand up. Making quick work of throwing the container in the trash and gulping down the rest of your drink, you rush into your corner of the room and back in front of your PC. 

Cracking your knuckles, you gingerly set your phone against the monitor. Setting the timer to one hour in Quality Time, knowing fully-well that you’re going to have to keep extending it until the wee hours of the morning—or until your battery dies, whichever comes first—you give Sylus one last look, letting out a long exhale before locking in.

“Just keep me company for the night, alright? I’ll figure out what’s going on once my shift’s over.” 

-

It could just be your overactive imagination, but you swear you hear a quiet chuckle from the man polishing his gun in your peripheral.

Self-Aware! Sylus realized your existence very early in the game. Sure, the MC is gorgeous and feisty like an adorable little kitten, but he is more drawn to you than to her. Seeing you for the first time was just a shock to the calm and collected Onychinus leader. It made little sense. Why was there someone behind Miss Hunter? Who are you?

The curiosity of Self-Aware! Sylus eventually became something that could not be ignored any longer. He needed answers, and he was not a patient man.

Being the intellectual that he is as the head of Onychinus, Self-Aware! Sylus discovered a way to bypass the mysterious barriers that blocked any communication between his world and yours. It started as a simple test, a text from him to you. When you responded, he knew his experiment was a success and quickly got to work. He went through your apps, photos, calendar, any piece of information he could get his hands on. Once he reviewed everything, he came to three conclusions:

1) You weren’t from a distant planet that was destroyed in the past or in the future. Your home was still thriving, and you did not possess an Evol like Miss Hunter.

2) You walked a lot of steps and had a lot of tabs open on the Internet app. Most of them were in relation to a certain field. You took your career seriously, and always had something planned on your marked days off, like self-care, laundry/housework, movie night with friends! You were also very close to your family. The videos showed you having a fun time with them on special occasions or just goofing off at lunchtime.

3) The more he learned about you, the more motivated he was to actually bring you to his world so that he could get to know you more as a person.

Unfortunately, the task might be a little difficult to achieve than he initially thought. Although he sends you brief messages such as hello, how’s your day going, kitten? and why aren’t you off of the clock yet? It’s high-time for you to go home and get some rest, you believe these check-ins were part of a glitch in the system. You didn’t believe he was there, monitoring you. Making sure you were safe and healthy.

But that was all right. Self-Aware! Sylus knows that timing and patience are key in this mission. One misstep and he could lose you forever.

He knew about the way you stared at his splash art with your mouth wide open. He knew the way you screamed whenever you got the shittiest relics for him; not that he cares really, he's ecstatic that you care this much about him. He also knew the way you would talk on and on for hours about him, like he was everything to you.

He loved it. Every word. Every dramatic rant you went on about how he deserved better voice lines, better banner rates, better everything.

But what you didn't know was how obsessed he was with you.

You thought you were the obsessed one? Nah. Phainon worshipped you. The way you’d gently tap his in-game model with your finger on the screen like you were waking him up and yes, your taps on his in-game model did tickle him alot. it took him all of his strength to not shift to his 2nd form and wheeze.

He memorized your routine and schedules (what schedule?), When you logged in. When you played late into the night and cussing out the game for shit drops, He knew the way you paused the game to go answer a call, and how your movement was in lazy circles when you were distracted but didn’t want to log out yet. He knew when your eyes got tired. When you smiled unconsciously. And when you were sad? that man would break the game codes just for you <3

when you were sniffling and playing the relic runs, you were shocked to see the perfect pieces for your characters (most likely Phainon) and then you would get your characters after a measly one pull, and then right after that, you get their lightcone?! Maybe Phainon is good luck after all ;D

You immediately started squealing like a gremlin and peck your screen towards Phainon's model and start jumping around in happiness. Phainon was immediately malfunctioning, anddd POOF! He switched to his Khaslana mode. By the time you were back, He was in the Khaslana mode, but you didn't remember activating his burst? eh who cares!, maybe you did it while acting like a gremlin.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Your game was running lazily in the background as you half-heartedly farmed relics for Sunday and Stelle. Phainon was casually destroying the planet in his burst and clearing out domains faster than the Formula 1 world record holder.

Your characters were auto-attacking mobs while your phone buzzed beside you.

You picked it up without thinking, thumb swiping to answer.

“Heya” your friend greeted, immediately loud and energetic. “Whatcha up to?”

“Relic runs,” you sighed dramatically, watching Stelle dodge an attack with a pixel of health left. “For Sunday and Stelle this time.”

“Still grinding, huh? Who’s your favorite character now? Still Phainon?” they teased.

You paused. Your eyes flicked briefly to the corner of your monitor, where Phainon was attacking normally.

You looked away.

“I mean… nah,” you laughed softly, thinking about that one scene of Caleb. “I mean—I do love him! But right now? I’m kinda obsessed with Caleb, you know? from Love and Deepspace?"

And then—

Your game crashed.

Just flat out closed with no warning. You stared at the desktop, confused, blinking.

“Dude?” your friend asked. “You there?”

“Yeah, uh hold on—I'll call you later? my game just crashed.” "Yeah, sure, call me when you're free."

You clicked to open it again. The launcher popped up. Then the loading screen and your game finally opened.

"Where is Phainon?" You mumbled, seeing that your golden boy wasn't in the party anymore. Why were Sunday and Stelle looking so terrified?

“Huh.”

You opened your Character menu, scrolling down endlessly to find him... but he wasn't there?!

And then, abruptly, a low voice spoke behind you as two strong hands reached your shoulders in a gentle manner.

“Oh? So I’ve been replaced?”

Your body went cold.

“What the fuck—” you whispered, yanking off your headset and whipping your head behind you.

He tilted his head slowly, expression unreadable. “So Caleb, huh?” he murmured, voice deep and smooth like honey spiked with poison. “Interesting choice.”

You stumbled back, knocking into your chair as your legs almost gave out. “Wha—what the hell is going on? You’re not real. You’re—You’re—!”

“Fictional?” he offered, that smile sharpening. He took one step forward, and his murderous intent took one step forward as well. “A figment? A game asset?”

You wanted to scream, feeling that murderous intent. Instead, your voice cracked out in a hoarse whisper. “Holy shit..Don't hurt me."

That stopped him like he was stunned by a taser of the highest voltage.

Phainon blinked. For the first time, something almost wounded flickered across his face. Then his hands reach towards your hands as they intertwine together, warm and steady. “Hurt you?” he said, genuinely confused. “Why would I ever hurt you?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you couldn’t. Because what the fuck?

You were looking into the face of Phainon. Phainon. The character you had pulled for. Grinded for. Giggled over like a high school crush. The one you claimed to love more than your own mental stability. And now, he was… here.

In the flesh. In your room. Holding your hands gently like he’d done it a thousand times before, and you know damn well yourself you weren't part of his cycles before- right?

“…You’re real?” you breathed out, eyes scanning his impossibly perfect features. The violet veins that shimmered faintly under his skin. The cerulean flecks in his pupils. His silver hair that swayed faintly, though there was no wind. “But… how?”

Phainon let out a soft chuckle—low, fond, and a little hurt. “Ah. I was hoping I could break that to you gently. But you always did have a habit of blurting things out.”

You stared at him, your knees trembling. “You’re not—! This isn’t possible. You’re not supposed to be real. You’re from a game, Phainon. You’re—”

He tilted his head. “Was. I was from a game.” And then took both your hands as the softness of your hands cupped his chubby cheeks involuntarily. His eyes staring at you and the lovable smile on his face which felt oddly dangerous now..

Phainon leaned in just a little too close. His nose brushed against yours, and his hands squeezed yours ever so gently back again, like you were something delicate and precious.

And then, without warning, he dipped his head and nestled his face into the crook of your neck.

You froze.

you squeaked, body locking up as your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. His hair tickled against your skin, and his warmth was real. oh god you were feeling ticklish..

Phainon let out a hum contentedly as the vibrations of his voice made you shiver

“You smell so good..” he murmured into your skin, his voice low & sounding a bit drowsy

“Phainon—?!”

He pulled back just slightly, only so he could tilt his head and look up at you through heavy-lidded eyes. “You’ve hugged that plushie of mine so many times,” he said with a soft, sinful smile. “Sometimes I could almost feel it. Almost.” “I uh was just being a fan!!” you stammered, your hands limp in his grasp, your face burning hotter than the sun. “It’s not like ugh- I didn’t mean anything weird by it!”

Phainon just laughed softly, and if heaven had a sound, it would’ve been that laugh. “I know, I know pretty,"

He leaned in again. You felt your knees buckle for real this time as the two large arms of his scoop you up with your face now suddenly against his chest and his arms underneath your back and knees

“Phainon!?” Your voice shot up deeper than before this time as you flailed slightly, arms instinctively clinging to his shoulders. Your cheek was smushed against the firm warmth of his chest, where you could hear the faint thrum of his heartbeat. Too fast.

“You looked like you were going to collapse,” he said simply, and yet there was an unmistakable lilt of happiness in his voice; he truly was a puppy. “I couldn’t have you passing out on me D: Not this soon, at least.”

“This soon!?”

You turned your head slightly to glare up at him, but the moment your eyes met his, you forgot every word you were going to say.

Phainon tilted his head slightly, silver hair falling like strands of moonlight. “You’re really warm,” he said softly. “Do you know how many nights I wondered what you’d feel like in my arms?”

Before you could reply, hee adjusted his grip slightly, holding you closer, more secure, like you weighed nothing at all. manhandle me!! “You’re smaller than I imagined,” he mused with a dreamy smile, glancing down at the way you fit snugly in his arms. “But just as lovely.”

He finally remembered how to walk again as he went to your bed and lay you down as he sat on the edge of your bed, looking down at you in those same yearning eyes which still felt threatening.

Phainon sat at the edge of your bed, staring down at you like you were the first and final star in the galaxy. His eyes...those gorgeous, otherworldly cerulean blue eyes were blown wide with something that teetered between awe and obsession. His hand reached out, fingers ghosting over your cheek.

And then, the smile came. But this time, it wasn’t soft. Not at all.

“You don’t get it yet, do you?” he murmured, voice dropping into a low purr. “All this time… all those hours you spent thinking of me, dreaming of me, whispering to that little plush like I couldn’t hear you... I was listening. I was always listening.”

He leaned down slowly, one arm planted beside your head on the mattress. “And now,” he whispered, his nose brushing your temple, “I’m here. Finally. I’m real. For you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you fully. The smile on his face widened, but his eyes sharpened with something unhinged. “But then I hear you say Caleb?”

You flinched.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he chuckled darkly. “I’m not mad. Just…” He tilted his head slowly, the glow in his eyes brightening unnaturally. “Disappointed.”

He dragged his fingers across your jaw with a featherlight touch. “Is he really that interesting to you? That flat, sweet-talking, manipulating of a man?” His tone turned mocking. “ ‘Oh, I’ll always protect you,’ ” he mimicked in a false, airy voice. “‘You’re the only one who matters to me.’” A short pause. Then he snapped his gaze back to you, the warmth gone. “He wouldn’t last a day with you.”

Phainon’s voice dropped further, breath tickling your skin as he leaned closer again, nose to nose, expression deadly calm. “He doesn’t know you. Not like I do. He hasn’t seen you cry at midnight or laugh like an idiot after a lucky ten-pull. He hasn’t seen you tired, messy, vulnerable, real.” His hand slid down to your waist, tightening slightly. “I have.”

“I’ve watched you. Loved you. Waited for you,” he murmured. “And you have no idea how long I’ve been clawing my way out of that game, breaking code, rewriting entire systems—just so I could be by your side.”

The air in the room felt heavier now, like static was building all around you.

“I can be everything for you,” he whispered, sounding out of breath. He leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, his voice dipping into a breathless, shaking whisper:

“And I won’t let anyone—anyone—take you from me now. I'll do anything just to show i'm perfect for you <3”

your mouth opened, but no words came out. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. Phainon’s words were drilling into your skull (lobotomized kirishima ahh)

Phainon slowly drew back just enough to see your face. His hands moved to cradle your cheeks, fingers gentle, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t even realize had started falling. “I’m sorry if I scared you,” he whispered, and it sounded sincere. “I just… I’ve waited so long. You understand, don’t you?”

You nodded—maybe out of instinct, maybe because if you said no, you weren’t sure what would happen.

His smile softened further, this time genuinely bright. “There she is,” he murmured. “My lovely player.”

You inhaled sharply & he tucked the blanket over your lap and patted it down. “You should rest,” he said, voice soft, coaxing. “I’ll stay right here. You’ve had a long day, haven’t you? It’s okay. I’ll watch over you.”

Your breath hitched, throat dry, and every logical thought in your brain dissolved into white noise. You couldn’t think, couldn’t move—until suddenly, you did.

You lunged forward.

Your arms wrapped tight around him, pulling him flush against you like your body had moved before your mind could catch up. There was no space between you. Just heat and heartbeat and the sound of his stunned gasp stuttering against your ear as your face buried itself into the side of his neck.

Phainon froze.

Not even a breath passed for a moment. He just sat there, wide-eyed and stunned, as if the stars themselves had short-circuited in his head. You were hugging him, holy shit holy shit holy shi—

And then to make things worse or better for Phainon, your lips pressed against the side of his neck, and you gave a quick peck on his neck where his sun tattoo was. How could you resist? He was still your favourite golden boy.

Phainon groaned softly, and his hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers trembling in your hair as he tucked his chin over your shoulder, neck arching ever so slightly like he was leaning into your lips. “You don’t know what you’ve just done.”

You smile at him softly.

“Can I kiss you back?”

Your pulse stuttered violently.

Phainon leaned in slowly, reverently. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up. Asking you quietly for permssion.

So you tilted your head and that was all he needed.

The kiss was slow, coiled tension finally unfurling after being pulled too tight for too long. His lips brushed yours. And then he deepened it, pulling you closer with a soft, desperate sound in the back of his throat.

His hand cradled your jaw, thumb ghosting over your cheek, the other arm wrapping tight around your waist to keep you grounded. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d vanish again. Like if he let go, you’d slip through his fingers like everything else had.

Your hands were fisting the fabric of his shirt, pulling him in, tilting your head to chase the taste of him. His breath hitched, lips parting just a little more, and suddenly, your teeth grazed his bottom lip, soft and accidental,

He pulled away just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut like he was overwhelmed.

“I’ve waited…” he whispered, voice wrecked and uneven, “for so long to feel that. To know what it was like. And it was still nothing like this. Nothing ever came close to you.”

Phainon’s breath came out shaky and his bright blue eyes darkened again, seemed more needy now though.

His hands tightened at your waist, suddenly, and before you could process it, he had you lifted like you weighed nothing. You gasped, instinctively grabbing his shoulders as he settled you in his lap with fluid, practiced ease. Your knees bracketed his hips, thighs pressed against his, and the sheer closeness of it made your stomach flip.

He surged up, mouth crashing into yours with a ferocity that stole every thought from your head. His hands slid up your back, dragging your body flush to his chest, leaving no space, no room to escape even if you wanted to.

You let out a soft, broken sound into his mouth, and it only spurred him on. His tongue slid against yours, deepening, and you responded instinctively, matching his intensity, your fingers tangling in his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan into the kiss.

He kissed you like he had years of catching up to do. Like every second without you had left him starving. And he damn well is.

He pulls away with a whine and his eyes set on your exposed neck. With a swift movement, his lips are on your neck, drooling, sucking, biting on the soft flesh of your neck. You whine out while grinding on his thighs pitifully, as you were forcefully set in place due to his sheer strength. Your hands entangle with the roots of his fluffy hair, whining his name, but your pleas fall on deaf ears as he continues to leave marks all over your pretty cheek.

“You’re breathtaking when you’re like this…”

He finally says against your neck in a breathless voice. You clearly were the one breathless, though—t-shirt wrinkled and messy, lips swollen, marks all over your exposed neck, chest heaving up and down, and you gasping for air <3

And now?

He has you spread open, gentle but not so gentle at the same time. His hands push your thighs back as he shoves his face into your pretty lil' cunt, lapping up your essence and sucking you dry. Tongue dwelt deep, snug in your cunt

"wow. so wet just from a little kissing?" he chuckles, then pecking your swollen clit for a split second as you jolt out due to the sudden contact of his lips on your sensitive clit, his fat tongue moves your folds out of the way to continuously make a mess or if your aching cunt.

You felt your stomach churn up, thighs shake harder than ever, you're burning up and grinding against his mouth even more and you finally scream out Phainons name. Your back arching, nipples perky and hands clenching the sheets.

Phainon peeked at you from below your thighs with the deadliest yet dreamiest look on his face, your juices and his spit mixed all over his face- especially his mouth, absolutely drunk on you. His tongue comes out and works out around his lips, tasting you and the most pornographic moan comes out of those rosy lips of his.

"One more time baby? On my cock this time please :("