#ruinous-archives

Luuk [INFJ]

Age: 30+ (Looks younger cuz of Ichor)

Nicknames: Dawn, Starlight, Dear, Sweetheart, Princess (Established relationship)

"My precious, my heartbeat. My salvation."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Reader [INTP leaning]

Age: Preferred

"He's like a puzzle, so intriguing yet so complex."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

–LUUK, WHO TRIES to push down the loneliness from bearing expectations too heavy, all alone... Now all he feels is emptiness.

–Luuk, who's adopted only to be used as an experiment subject for an incurable chronic illness.

–Luuk, who's "Gods chosen one", the only person who to survive "Ichor", Novialle Group's greatest achievement.

–Luuk, who's left to deal with his father's mess after he goes missing, leaving behind an enraged public over inhuman medical experiments.

–And Luuk... Whose beloved younger brother succumbs to the same disease that once ran through his veins, now replaced by Ichor.

–He inherits the company as the sole successor, working up his way to establish Novialle as a rank 1 pharmaceutical company.

–Several betrayal from members of the board and close confidants breeds high level of trust issues. He locks his heart away in a Pandora's box, swearing to never open it again.

–In Novialle, everyone's goto doctor when there's a medical emergency, is the CEO–aka Luuk Herssen. He's singlehandedly juggling two jobs. This man can't catch a break.

–He has a mental datasheet on each employee's health and other problems, surprising people by randomly asking them personal questions about their lives.

"The CEO... Noticed that?"

–Randomly hands out candies when employees visit his office.

–Has a way of making people feel seen, considered. His genuine appreciation keeps employee morale high.

–Sighs Here comes prince charming. Half of the office is ovulating whenever he's there. All the women, and some men, too. Except you.

–You don't get it. What's so special about a blonde guy? Okay, okay, red eyes might be rare, but, what else?

–Attractive, multi-talented, humble. An extraordinary gentleman he is, undoubtedly. But beneath the polished facade, you see a tired man, weighted down by countless responsibilities and pointless expectations.

–Always leaves the office late, drowning in papers regarding corporate matters (or investigations).

–You stayed in late one night, walking back with a freshly brewed coffee when light coming from under his door piqued your interest.

"He's still working? That's depressing."

So, like any rational human being, you knocked on your boss's door, walked in without his response, put down the coffee on his table and left without a word.

–He felt confused. Confused yet amused. Regardless, the coffee did much to calm his nerves, the warm liquid melting away his worries and concerns, even if for a fleeting moment.

–When his assistant disappears mysteriously, he sends you a proposal asking you to be his next personal assistant. You agree for the much better pay, of course.

You look at its outstretched hand–a round candy in pink, glossy wrapper.

"No, thanks," you politely rejected.

He looks at you amused, leaning back again on his chair, "Relax, it's not poisoned."

"That- is not the reason..."

A hearty chuckle rings across the room. "Alright, alright. So, about the position..."

"I accept."

–Working long nights by his side becomes frequent. You learn about his preference for tea over coffee, his home back in New Federation, and... hints of shady business happening behind the curtains of the company's perfect little show.

–You discover an old wound on his palm. A tattoo of 5 conjoined stars sat over the disfigured skin, stretching across his wrist.

Your hands trailed over it absent-mindedly, a mere curiosity. You pulled away twice as fast once you realized what you were doing. He let out a light-hearted chuckle, reassuring you that it's fine.

"A side effect of the Ichor."

A side effect he says... Such a horrendous side effect.

Do all the side effects have such negative impacts on his body and health?

That's concerning.

You shifted your attention to ignore the blush coating your cheeks, fingers tracing along the edge of a file organizer. You pretended to fix the non-existent mess.

He caught your hands, bringing them back to their previous position, near his tattooed one.

"I don't mind you touching them. Not if it's you."

Your breath stills.

Neither of you point out the subtle shift in tension, the air morphing gradually into static between you over the past few weeks.

Through the mess of your hair, you look into his crimson eyes–a flicker of emotion words fail to express–and he stares right back.

–On a stormy night, you casually left your boss a cup of tea like it's not your favorite part of the day. You pinpointed another tattoo during that quick tour to his office.

Shirt half unbuttoned, sweat glistening on a chest carved like Greek Gods, and the sharp contrast of ink on fair skin–the Rod of Asclepius.

'Hm... how befitting.' Symbol of healing and medication.

You didn't ask about it this time. He sat with messy and and sunken eyes, preoccupied by his thoughts–matters you most likely can't resolve. Not wanting to bother him any further, you slip out quietly, leaving him to his duties.

–Luuk starts acting strange. You come to the conclusion he's purposefully avoiding you–keeps you busy with tasks that requires leaving the building and staying away from him for hours. When you finally get a free day to linger in the office, he strains a smile–

"You wouldn't mind returning to your desk, would you? I need a moment."

His moment never fucking ends. You don't make his tea that day. Clocking out earlier than ever, you leave with a heavy heart.

–After weeks of distant, reserved attitude and avoiding you not-so-subtly, he quits the company with zero notice, leaving your world in shambles.

–Depression hangs over your mind like a neverending storm clouds. He could've left a note, sent a text... But no, he deleted all his socials, and his number is dead.

You really thought you had something with the CEO? How naive...

But, you can't help but wonder, what happened? Something happened. But, you trust Luuk, you believe he has good reasons behind everything he does. You remember his words–

"The Fractsidus has their eyes on this company–the Ichor. They're not going to stop at anything to get their hands on it."

A terrible feeling gnaws at your stomach.

'Where are you, Luuk?'

–You find a few files in your drawer. Moderately thick, filled with newspaper clips, research papers and notes–regarding the previous owner of the company, his father. The human experiments. The company's connection with the Fractsidus–the largest and formidable underworld criminal organization with a terrifying reach of network.

Your sense of reality, certainty and safety is shattered once again.

Did Luuk you leave these intentionally? What's he trying to tell you?

What do you even do with them?

–Before you can figure it out, you're ambushed by the Fractsidus on your way home with the files (Turns out a certain sassy pink haired co-worker saw them and snitched on you).

–A familiar figure, dressed in Lollo Logistics deliverer uniform, jumps into the alley between you and the enemy, swiftly taking them down with a knife.

"We meet again, my stargirl."

You stare, wide-eyed, at the crimson liquid dripping down his face, hands and torso. It has the same shade as his eyes.

"Luuk."

–You feel your grasp on reality slipping through your fingers once again as you stare at his blood smudged palm, stretched toward you.

"Shall we?"

–Luuk, who realizes the first person to ever care enough to peel the layers of his heart and peer inside inside was you.

–Luuk, who promises to never leave your side again, protecting you from harm's way forever and ever.

–Luuk, who survived, becoming humanity’s greatest miracle, yet finds himself fatally weak to the sound of your voice and the warmth of your touch.

–Luuk, who tells himself this isn’t obsession as he memorizes the rhythm of your breathing beside him at night.

–And Luuk, who keeps thinking, and thinking, and thinking about you till every fiber of his being chants your name; he can't stop.

He can't let you go again, so he'll lock you away inside the same box, inside his heart.

Heels clicked against the pristine floor as your legs carried you closer, and closer, to none other than your mentor.

Fenrico.

Imperator’s chosen one, divinity’s messenger.

The embodiment of temptation.

He, who had rescued you, given you shelter. He–who was your blessing and your curse, your savior–was a devil in disguise.

To fall from grace as an acolyte demanded a price too steep for you to pay. You knew exactly what would happen if you refused the Enlightened One.

In return for his selfless generosity, he had but one simple request.

Meet the Primus in the evening, after all acolytes had retired to their quarters.

So there you were, walking into the Primus’s private chambers, deep within the cathedral, which most acolytes had never glimpsed during their lifetime.

“Primus.”

Dark lashes fluttered open, revealing a pair of contrasting, pale blues. A sharp gaze, honed by years of experience—bonds and betrayals, calamities and outbreaks. Reverence and disdain.

He was loathed by many, but revered by many more.

“You came.”

Abiding by his orders, as always. A good, obedient little acolyte.

He didn’t stand. His left hand extended toward you—an invitation—one you didn’t refuse, couldn’t refuse, hadn’t refused in the past few weeks.

As much as you hated to admit it, pushing the lingering guilt aside, you enjoyed it—every second of your nightly rendezvous—his hands exploring your curves settling beneath the fabric, lips trailing kisses from your neck down to your chest, heavy breaths marking desire upon your skin.

The golden hem of your robe swept across the floor as you approached, walking closer Further into his room, deeper into the shadows. Moonlight spilled through the windows, mingling with the curtains, the autumn wind blowing in an icy delight. Yet, your body only grew warmer.

He stared at you, gaze unwavering, waiting. He knew you couldn’t run. You had no escape, no luxury to refuse and break this arrangement, for death would be your only way out—a humiliating one at that, through a pilgrimage sail.

Your limbs refused to move, frozen like a deer in headlights. Helplessness, guilt, desire– swirled into a sweet and savory cocktail inside your mind, leaving a confusing aftertaste behind. You inhaled, breath trembling. Then, you stumbled forward, unlike the graceful walk you were planning.

Once you stepped within his reach, gloved fingers clasped around your smaller ones, pulling you closer. Fenrico sat up straight. With a gentle tug, he urged you to straddle his lap, right hand caressing your thighs.

Your breaths slowed down, so did time in this sanctuary– where two souls intertwined in a devil's tango.

You felt large, slender fingers splayed across your back. Not control, not possession, no.

Admiration is a word for it. But another dangled at the tip of your tongue, never braving to take the leap, nagging at the back of your mind for some reason– worship.

He slipped off your cloak. Piece by piece, your robes came undone, lying a pool of silk at his feet. His eyes raked across your moonlit, bare body–shivering in cold, and perhaps, excitement–in his arms.

So fragile, and soft, and utterly precious.

If you'd paid attention, you'd have caught the faintest, quietest sigh he lets on every time while unravelling you, like unveiling a sacred relic. But your mind remained elsewhere. It was evident by your lack of response and the glossy, unfocused look in your eyes. He didn't like it.

He almost felt hurt, upset at the feelings of negligence and carelessness. Was he not worthy of the least bit of your attention?

"Look at me."

You did, attention lazily gliding over his broad, squared shoulders as they relaxed at your acknowledgement.

'Pathetic', you thought.

You wondered who'd come out on top if you were to compare between you and him based on pitifulness.

A deep, low hum of approval vibrated through his chest, a reward for your compliance. He lifted a hand to your cheek, cupping your face as the other one laced itself around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

A sigh escaped your lips at the feeling of his hard panes against your softer curves. The foam dipped underneath your combined weight as he leaned back on the plush sofa holding you. Laboured breaths mingled together. Your gaze locked on his lips.

A long, painful minute passed by. He was taking his sweet time, building up the pressure, eyes dragging over your face like a lover's farewell. Every night, it only seemed to get longer, as if your encounters grew into something meaningful, something deeper; intimate, even.

It scared you, more than the early times when you were fucked senseless by a lust-crazed lunatic, a man of the cloth falling from his high throne of vows and values.

It was safer that way.

This? This was dangerous, an absolute threat to your mind and soul.

His lips pressed into yours. Slow. Tantalizing. With such tenderness you'd only expect from the devout of a goddess.

As the night draped the cathedral in shadows, he whispered your name like a silent prayer.

It confused you. He confused you–when he prolonged your meetings, not just the nightly rendezvous; what he's done to save your skin in both trivial and crucial matters; how he himself knocked on your door when you hadn't showed up for a meal once-

Why, you never dared to ask. Not him, nor yourself. The possibilities of a particular answer–the possibility of deeper feelings, perhaps, love, had crossed your mind countless of times, leaving you terrified.

And so, you buried the questions deep underneath your desires, letting lust take over each time when fear and doubt plagued your mind.

The devil wasn't a silly, red man with a tail and a pitchfork. He was a handsome man– an achingly, devastatingly handsome man–with keen eyes and a gentle smile.