#young master

The air in the Ashworth manor was always still, thick with the dust of old money and unspoken rules. You moved through it like a ghost, a silent figure in a black-and-white uniform, polishing silver that already gleamed and straightening portraits that were already perfectly aligned. It was a coveted position, serving the most powerful family in the city, and you were determined to keep it, to send money home, to be the good, diligent daughter.

Even if it meant enduring him.

Young Master Lysander Ashworth. The sole heir. A young man carved from marble and moonlight, with eyes the colour of a winter storm and a smile that never quite reached them. He was beautiful in the way a stained-glass window is beautiful—dazzling from a distance, but casting fractured, coloured shadows.

It began subtly. A brush of his fingers against yours when you handed him his tea. The way he’d be in a hallway you just cleaned, forcing you to press yourself against the wall as he passed, his chest barely an inch from yours, his scent of sandalwood and expensive cologne flooding your senses.

“Pardon me,” he’d murmur, his voice a low, silken threat. His eyes would rake over you, from the modest collar of your dress to the nervous tremble in your hands. “You’re always in my way, little maid.”

You’d bow your head, your heart hammering against your ribs. “My apologies, Young Master.”

You told yourself it was nothing. That you were imagining the heat in his gaze, the deliberate nature of his "accidents." But the incidents escalated.

You were on your knees, scrubbing the mosaic tiles at the entrance of the grand library. The afternoon sun streamed through the high windows, painting the floor in gold. You didn't hear him approach; you only felt his shadow fall over you, cool and immense.

“Such dedication,” Lysander’s voice purred from above. “The floor hasn’t been this clean since it was laid.”

You froze, the bristles of your brush digging into the grout. “Thank you, Young Master. I’ll be done shortly.”

Instead of moving on, he knelt behind you. Your body went rigid. You could feel the heat of him, the presence of him surrounding you. His hand, long-fingered and elegant, came to rest not on your shoulder, but on the small of your back.

“You’re straining yourself,” he said, and his voice had dropped to an intimate, possessive whisper meant only for you. His fingers began to move in a slow, circular motion, pressing through the rough fabric of your dress. It wasn’t a massage. It was a claim. A branding.

“Young Master, please…” you whispered, your voice trembling, shame and fear coiling hot in your stomach.

“Please what?” he asked, his tone feigning innocence even as his hand slid lower, cupping the curve of your hip. His breath ghosted against your ear. “Please continue? You’re so tense. All this work… it’s too much for you. You should be upstairs. In my wing. The work is… lighter there.”

His meaning was terrifyingly clear. You tried to shift away, to stand, but his other hand came down on your other hip, anchoring you on your knees before him. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, his lips almost touching your ear.

“I watch you, you know,” he confessed, his voice husky. “I watch you bend over to dust the low shelves. I watch the way you bite your lip in concentration when you arrange the flowers. You move through this house like a quiet little dream, and it’s a dream I want to keep forever.”

Tears of humiliation pricked your eyes. “Please, let me go. I have work to do.”

“This is more important,” he insisted, one hand leaving your hip to trail up your spine, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He fisted a hand in the neat bun at the nape of your neck, not pulling, just holding. Possessing. “You belong to this house. And everything in this house… belongs to me.”

His words were a cage. You were trapped there, on your knees, with the heir to the Ashworth fortune mapping the territory of your body with a casual, terrifying ownership. You were just a maid, a piece of the scenery. But to him, you were a prized doll he had decided to play with.

Suddenly, he released you. He stood up as smoothly as he had knelt, adjusting his cufflinks as if nothing had happened. You remained on the floor, shaking, unable to look up.

“The tiles are looking excellent,” he said, his voice once again that of the bored, aristocratic young master. “When you’re finished here, come to my chambers. The windows need a thorough cleaning. Inside and out.”

He walked away, his footsteps echoing in the vast hall. You finally dared to look up, only to see him pause at the doorway. He glanced back over his shoulder, and this time, his winter-storm eyes held a glint of something dark and utterly possessive. A smile, genuine and chilling, touched his lips.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

P/s there is more

Behind locked door masterlist

young master illuga :3 (based off of ciel)

i love flins and illuga’s dynamic :3333

Jiang Yan, the father figure you are.

Content: NMW, WoH, WoH x NMW (quanshu), MT x VS (lizui), wwm oc, my young master