The Horny Sideblog

His younger self would've had your husband skinned in the back of his butcher shop the first night he saw you. He still remembers it now, the way you peered at him with wide eyes. A hummingbird heartbeat in your chest because you were afraid of finding another man other than your husband attractive.

Those first words too— 'I have a husband.'

Like it ever mattered to a man like Simon Riley. He might've even called that whole ordeal a meet-cute if he hadn't immediately decided your husband and your fate that exact moment.

Truthfully, he expected you to shy away, create space between the two of you, but then you showed up with a bowl of food for him. It was quite the bold move on your part, and then you went on to tell him you cooked it for your husband. And that ugly beast in his chest perked up at that. How could it not?

Your husband hadn't been deserving enough of that meal, so you thought to bring it to him. That was all the confirmation he needed that you were something worth pursuing and Simon always takes his pursuits seriously.

He was bold for you after that. Dirty thumbs and all. He didn't think you would say yes, but he did anyway because he wanted to see how you would squirm, eyes dilating to hide the lie you muttered to him.

He waited. Patience has been built into a man like him. Another routine he faced until you built enough courage to face him again. He'd wait forever for you; he knew you'd come.

And then you did, his pretty bird built up the courage to walk into his shop, burying the overwhelming thoughts of your husband somewhere deep. That was an issue he'd deal with another day, for now, the only thing that mattered was rewarding your bravery. What better way was that than to make you forget your husband's name on his fingers and tongue?

You were so pretty on his butcher block too. A sweet lamb, tangled into the arms of two men who were probably too corrupt for you. It made you taste better; the sweet sap right from the core, tinged with bravery and courage.

You were too naive. Why wouldn't you trust him to drop you off at home? Except now he's got your address and there's no way the beast in his chest could control the obsession he had with you. He watched you through the window, sad eyes in the morning when your husband left for work.

And your husband? The sorry loser had no idea that another man was watching the both of you, that there was another man between your legs most nights. No idea that you came to him all by yourself with a drooling mouth to taste the skin of his cock.

Simon plotted after that, mulling over how he would finally do it.

You surprised him again, then. You beat him to the punch and maybe that's why he chose you.

You had looked at him with so much fear, and the beast inside of him roared. You came to him for protection?

This was the easiest part. Simon's a practiced man in blood and flesh.

Even then, his main concern was always you. Staring with tears down your cheeks that clump your lashes together. And maybe the feeling in his chest is wrong, foul. He's sure of that because he shouldn't be jealous of the fact that he wasn't the one to make those tears collect at your collarbones. Shouldn't make his dick twitch in his jeans.

Your husband is an issue for a later moment. Right now, he's got you clinging to him for support, and he's never really been someone's safe space. He shouldn't be yours, but you're a bit too naive to realize that. Too used to the mistreatment from your husband that you don't see the sick and twisted thoughts swimming in his brain.

He takes you to his, of course, makes you at home. And maybe he should stay, make you the priority right now, but he leaves you in his kitchen with a kiss to your forehead and a promise of being back in an hour.

Business is what he calls it.

You're in the shower when he comes back and you don't even react when he joins you. His shower isn't built for two people, especially of his size, but he forces himself in. You can't move much, not like you had plans other than standing in the water and letting the water wash away the stains of your husband's fingertips. The waters hot, like it could scald the sins right off your tainted skin.

Simon replaces them then, hands probably more rugged than your husband's, who's had more blood on their fingertips, but you let him because at least it isn't his. And the sick and twisted version of your chest likes it because at least it's not your blood.

His calloused hands feel nice on your skin and it helps you forget. Forget everything your husbands ever said to you. Unworthy. Harlot. Going to hell. Forget the way his hands felt around your neck trying to drain the life out of you. How his hands felt on your body at night when all you could imagine was Simon.

Marriage is a funny thing, isn't it? Something sacred, meant to twine two souls together for eternity. It's not a fragile thing. Your husband managed to taint it all. Push you into the arms of a man who you're sure doesn't deserve it either, but he's put you first and that's more than your husband's ever done.

You don't think God intended this for you. Didn't put Simon in your life because he was your soulmate and he doesn't act like he's the son of God. Your mother would hate him, take one look at his gangly teeth and scarred lips and shun the both of you. You don't really care, how could you when she's played a part in the abuse you've faced from your husband for years?

You chose you when you chose Simon.

Maybe you shouldn't; you don't know much about the man. Like how he got all those scars decorating his body. That's why marriage is a funny thing, how can a man you know nothing about treat you better than your husband?

You do know that he lets you act on your desire. That he practically controls those desires in the palm of his hand. That his chapped lips on your neck, nipping at the bruises left by your husband, feel better than anything God has ever promised you. That his fingers, trailing down your stomach and slipping between your thighs, make your core tighten in a way you've never felt.

The both of you don't even think about waiting, let you gather your emotions from the night you just had. You'd rather have him fuck your mind blank, and the slick he's greeted with is enough proof of that. Truthfully, there's this part of you that likes it even more, that it's wrong, that your husband's lying on the shed floor while you've got another man's fingers curling into your waiting cunt.

You can't find it in yourself to really care.

Simon likes it more too. You barely know him outside of the way he makes you cum, but you're not entirely ignorant despite the way your husband promises you are. You know the type of man he is, one who likes corruption a little too much.

He's not a saint. He's no angel.

Not with fingers like this or a mouth like that.

You're fine with that, you'll do anything he asks as long as he keeps your mind foggy and a little melted.

"Not here." He speaks for the first time since he's joined you and it makes you jump. "The bed."

You hadn't even realized you were grinding your ass against him, his cock pressed between the clefts of your ass.

It doesn't have to be anything sweet. You're not losing your virginity and Simon hardly knows how to be gentle, but that's not what you need. Not right now. You want it to hurt, to feel any sense of guilt for what you’re about to do.

You're impatient when he lays you out on his bed and takes his time like he hadn't taken you apart layer by layer more times than you can count on his butcher block. Like he hadn't had his tongue pressed against your clit for hours or mapped out the spot that makes your toes curl and back arch.

He laughs when you push at his head with a whine, "Just want you already."

He remembers when you first denied him, when you held on to your dignity and told him you weren't hungry. That dignity was lost somewhere in between all this. Now it's got you impatient and demanding.

Simon obliges, of course. He'll deny you another time, make you beg and twitch with overstimulation when it doesn't feel this urgent. When you aren't shaking in the palms of his hands because the memory of your husband is still at the corners of your eyes.

He'll make you forget.

You don't even know what he's done. That he's got your husband's blood under his nails and slabs of meat in the back of his freezer. What will you think of him when you find out? Will you thank him for finishing the job for you? Or will you look at him with fear?

He glides his length along your slit, dragging down until his head notches at your entrance. He keeps it there, for a second too long, to watch the way you part so prettily for him, slick pouring out over the sides of his tip. You squirm, hips shimmying in annoyance because he's still dragging it out too long for your liking.

Finally, finally, when he breaks the barrier and pops through your walls it's worth it all. You fist the sheets, tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth, throat tense to stop the way you want to drop it in bliss. And when he bottoms out, you swear you see this God everyone's been telling you about since you were a little girl. Maybe it's because you died then and there, split in half by the massive girth of Simon and you're face to face with judgement.

You think you did, or maybe you just held your breath for so long that everything around you started to get blurry, white specks falling before your irises. But then, Simon's there, gangly face invading your space, tapping your cheek with his knuckle.

"Jesus—bird." It's through gritted teeth. "Bloody breathe."

It's not enough, not until he presses his palm on your chest and pushes down. It makes you stutter, the breath stuck in your throat finally escaping. You gasp; it's loud and burns, but it brings you too.

Simon's there and he's real, and he's got his cock pressed so far inside of you that you feel his heavy balls pressed at the base of your cunt. Your fingers clammer to his shoulders in a panic and he thinks you're regretting this but your next words are rushed.

"Move, Simon, move-- please, god hurry."

You know you haven't died when his hips move, slow and languid, sliding just far enough to give him room to thrust forward again. He's so big it hurts at first, tears welling in your lashes and maybe you should've let him finger you for longer. You don't regret it though, not when the pain from your marriage, from your husband, melts away to this.

A tangible pain.

A pain worth feeling for once.

It makes the thought of your bloody hands, the poor bunny, the years of pretending for other people finally fade away. All that's left is Simon. His weight pressed to your chest, almost suffocating you with his scent. Larger frame curling over you like a prey, shoulders so wide you can barely see over them, blocked by his chest and collarbones, and thick neck, and all the scars that litter his body. Fat cock kissing your cervix with each thrust, bullying his length into you so harshly that you think you'll be ruined forever.

That's what he wants isn't it? To ruin you for anyone else. Leave you with nowhere to go but back to him. You can't even find it in yourself to care, not when his thumb finds your clit and his filthy mouth finds your ears and presses words into your skull you've never even imagined. They're possessive, growled into your skin like you're his territory, an angry indicator over the fact that your husband didn't appreciate you enough. That your husband even had you at all.

But that's why he likes you, isn't it? Damaged goods is what your mother would refer to you as. A divorcee and a sinner. Simon doesn't mind. He likes you that way. He's a stray too after all.

A particularly harsh thrust does it for you. Teeth in your neck, thumb on your clit, and cock pressed against the sweet spot in your cunt. Your toes curl, your voice escapes you, jaw slack.

"There ya go," Simon groans, voice tight.

He's putting up a front you can't even recognize because you're much too far gone to realize anything but the way the sweet honey in your core has turned fire hot, burning and scalding your skin. It makes it sticky, hot honey molding the pleasure into the exact shape you need.

Everything goes white after that. Everything is forgotten and all that matters is that you can feel Simon. Urging you on, praise on his lips and the tip of his tongue.

He lasts much longer than you, fucking into you even when you go limp, muscles loose, and morphed into the mattress under you. You don't mind, not when the drawl of his hips keeps you in that fuzzy state where the only thing in your human brain is the primal urges of release.

When the morning comes and you've got his cock snug in your cunt again, you ask, breathlessly,

"How do you like your eggs?"

He laughs, "Over easy."

"Coffee?"

"Tea."

──────────────

“About?”

“You want the truth or should be beat around the bush all night?”

He’s got you there, with a huff, you turn on your heal, “‘Ve had a shit night, as you can see.”

“A little scuffle?”

“Little considering how quickly it ended. Not the reason.”

“And that being?”

It might as well been an interrogation, you could be police for all you knew and what do you look like running from police at a time like this in the middle of fuck ass no where. But tonight, just for tonight, less than 30 minutes you’ll let this beared stranger be your therapist.

You cross your arms over your chest, letting out a dry laugh, “About money. It’s always about money around these parts though right?”

“I’m really not a hard girl to pay, really. I can be sweet if someone wants me sweet, or mean if they want me mean. But that son of a bitch— why do you gotta be such an asshat and a stingy fuck for a pinky sized dick?! Makes no fuckin sense! And then fight me about it? Fight fuckin lady about paying?!”

You didn’t realize how loud you were getting, your voice booming with anger, resentment you’d been holding on for so long. Working constantly for a living, to get the fuck out this shitty town in no man’s land. But you’re stuck. In a sink hole, how many other girls have disappeared from your line of sight out here and never to be seen again, how many street walkers end up on drugs out here.

This wasn’t even you plan, to be living like this, day to day. You were supposed to be in Hollywood— lights the cameras, writing some tv show. Or some fucking intern for a shitty pay— not- not like this.

You sniffle, hold yourself tighter, “I- I’m talking too fuckin much, I gotta get home. Call it a night.”

John hates it, the thought of it, of you going. Of you goin back to that life. Even if he’s only known you for less than a couple hours, he’s got tattoos and beard hairs older than you. But it’s something about you, that’s him dead set on you. The way you’re talking to him, your walls, rightfully, miles and miles high.

If he knew what was best for him, he’d be casual. Leave you alone. Knows better than to get too deep.

“Don’t you wanna get outta here?”

You look back at him, confused, but shake your head, “I wouldn’t even know how if I tried. Where would I even go?”

And there’s a silence from the man, still but strong look on his face, one that has you wanting more answers to unrealistic questions. “With you?”

“It’s an option better than being stuck here.” He starts, watching you scuff and walk towards the motel. Heals clicking against the pavement, with John hot on your tail, the flickering sign buzzing as you get closer, crickets singing.

“Don’t follow me.”

“Give me a ‘no’ and I will.”

You let out a frustrated noise, squeezing your eyes shut, “Sir, I really will do better without the hopeful shit you and everyone else who comes through here thinks I’m willin to fuckin buy!”

“I’m not sellin you shit for fucks sake, ‘m givin you a chance.” Price griped, jaw tightening, “You come for a day, even a fuckin hour and you if you like it, we’ll go. Give yourself a chance to think about what you wanna do. You hate it, I’ll get you on the first flight back to this shit hole, you hear me?”

You look around, the near silence of this cool summer. Music coming from someone’s room, cars passing by, blue ocean eyes glued to you. In a dry desert, he was a drop of rain.

You rock on your heels, biting your lip, you stare at your feet, “Where are you goin?”

“North.”

He’s a liar.

This man you’ve just met is a god damn liar.

And you’re aiming to get yourself killed.

“Do you wanna get outta here, or not?”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Trucker!Johns semi truck is nice.

Much nicer than you expected it to be.

Tattered and worn books stacked in crates, his clothes stored in drawers of the small bed, bed neatly made, rustic, plaids and brown bedding, cross dangling from the sun visor. John takes your duffle bags and puts them in the overhead.

“You can sit upfront or go to sleep, ‘s your pick.”

You meekly take a seat in the passages side, watching as John ignites the truck to life, lettting a hand wipe down his beard with a incoherent grumble, checking his mirrors.

You’re already down the road by the time you’re able to say anything, the sign of the motel getting smaller and smaller as you drive away. Your heart threatening to leap out of your chest. Everything you’ve known for the last couple of years suddenly now gone. And your alone.

In a truck.

With a Mr. John Price who you just do not know other than he drives this truck and that he’s getting you out of the country for a change of scenery.

“How am I gonna pay you back?”

It catches the older man off guard for a moment, it never crossed his mind. All he knew was that he wanted you. Call it naive for his age. John leans back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, takes a glance over at you, “Didn’t ask you to luv, think of this as my good deeds to the world. Helpin an angel out.”

An Angel? You want to roll your eyes but you don’t, biting the inside of your lip, “but I don’t have enough money to give anything to you, unless you want my stash— I- how can I be useful to you Price?”

“Sit there and be pretty.”

“But-“

“—You’re a stubborn little thing, aren’t you that doll?” He interjects, ends of his lips curving upward. Handsome face going in and out of the glow of the highways few lights.

John puts out his hand for you to take. You hesitate but slip yout hand in his. Letting his thumb go over your knuckles, he sighs, “Not expecting much ‘f you. But you do what you want, ‘s your trip too. All I ask if you keep the place clean, just as you see it. And don’t ask what’s in the back.”

Should be simple of enough. No- it is simple enough. You’re good at not asking questions that can lead to bad answers.

You’re free living, easy living.

For the first time in years.

It’s early in the morning when John wakes you up to go to bed with him. You’d shoo’ed him away the first couple of times he tried to get you to go to bed alone. Made sure his warm calloused hand was rested on your thigh, yours atop of his like it was instinct.

It’s what you really liked about Price so far, how warm he ran with small touches. How he made you feel like you didn’t always have to be on edge.

The old man tried to be good, really he did.

Instructed you to sleep on the inside and John would basically sleep on the edge of the cramped bed. But you slipped you hand onto the plush roundness of his torso, fingers tiptoeing up his chest to cup his face, you straddled his hips, beard hair prickling your hand. “Can I- lemme repay you, Price.” His voice so hushed, sultry, your manicured thumb going over his bottom lip, “please.”

Trucker!John is bigger than any man you’ve ever been with. To the point it shows on your face, lips full lips slightly parted, it’s fat and girthy, large and slapping against your stomach when you pull it out. Crown of his length leaking down every vein.

“Not too late to back our love.” He lets out low rumble of laughter.

You gulp down, shaking your head, “Can handle it, just- hah- just need a second.”

Right? All you needed to do was stretch yourself out for it!

And that would be the perfect thing to say after the old man lazily finger fucked you, lips brushing against each other every time the both of your fingers, all messy in your juices, fucked into your heat. Had your lower half shaking just from three of his thick digits paired with a slow kiss, wrapping your tongue around yours, swapping saliva till you came and hard.

But even with some fingering, it only made you dizzy just from the way his tip was stretching you out. The sweet burn that had you choking up as you eased yourself down on him, your jaw slack, and head thrown back. Covering your mouth to try to hide the scream you so desperately want to let out.

“Eaasssy luv, you’ve got it. Can take it for me.” John croons, large hands firm on your hips. Guiding them up just enough so you slowly rock more and more of him inside.

Your pussy so throbs, mewling at his words, your mind already hazy, “I- can- shit- I can take it. Aaangh! god its so good. Feels so gooood Price.”

His blushing cockhead is probing your insides, only reaching higher and higher as your thighs smack against his with every thrust. Your hands lay flat on his hairy chest, bouncing yourself up till just the tip is in, and down, hiccuping on a moan, “Fuck- wanna move f-faster. Wanna make you feel good.”

John lets out a low grunt, loving just how warm and soaking you are even through the thin condom that’s just barely fitting him. Threatening to break with every sleazy drop of your hips onto him. “No baby, gotta let you feel every bit of my cock, get your cunt nice ‘nd used to me. Doin so good fuckin me slow.”

John must be a miracle worker, getting you all worked up, hushed moans as his hands travel down to your supple ass, spreading them apart and squeezing the globes of your ass while you gyrate your hips on him. So hipnotic, sensual, desperate to meet every sledgehammer of his member up into you. His Pubic hairs damp with your slick with every squealch of your greedy and tight pussy brushing against your g-spot. The little bed is creaking, unsure if the truck itself is moving along with it.

Price’s hand wraps around the back of your neck, bringing you down closer to him, your nipples hard and brushing against him through your shirt, “Bloody good at this aren’t you hun, atta girl.”

You whimper as rolls your hips, lashes flirting shut, “Wanna hear you Price, nngh- please, need it.”

“‘F course you do baby, wanna hear juuust how gorgeous you look all fucked out on me. How you tremble and pull me away when you feel too good. Hck- How good you make me feel, How your cunt chokes me out every time i press, right here,” he thrusts up with a heavy thwack, pushing against your sweet spot that makes you keen out in pleasure. “Desperate fuckin thing, wanna hear how I could stay deep inside you all day. Wrapped up this all fuckin day-“

“Yes!” You gasp, head falling against his shoulder, clawing at his broad shoulder. Your fingers going through his greying brunette locks, lips weaving together is a wet and steamy French kiss, his beard tickling your face. Hushed groans and moans filling up the space. Meeting each other half way with each grind of your hips till you’re feeling every shockwave rush through you to the tips of your finger tips.

“Good work lovie.” He coos, slipping his cock out after filling the condom with his cum, it’s heavy and creamy. Price kisses your forehead, both of you exhausted from the long day, his hands patting you back to soothe you in his beefy arms, “We’ll make perfect partners from now on won’t we sweetheart?”

And… you've been working at his mansion ever since.

Tasked with reversing whatever spell you supposedly casted on him. Despite all your protests, swearing up and down that you never did anything.

He doesn't believe you.

He won't believe you.

Because how else do you explain what he felt when he walked into your shop? That made his sword hand waver and his heart stutter, and his threats turn into something softer?

Obviously, you’ve cursed him. There was no need to investigate this any further, nor did he feel the need to tell you about all these symptoms.

So now you're stuck in a massive estate with a madman who thinks you cursed him, brewing antidote after antidote, watching nothing work.

You could only curse that woman, muttering bitter insults under your breath.

The one who bought the potion and slipped it to him. The one who left you with this mess and then promptly left this world, if the blood on his sword was any indication.

Damn her.

What the hell did she see in this man anyway?

Because here's the thing you're learning, piece by piece. The duke? He's not just some nobleman. He's the nobleman. The one everyone whispers about, who keeps a dungeon beneath the east wing and a graveyard in the west garden. (Allegedly.)

The madman of high society.

If only you'd known he was the target that woman was after, you would've never sold her that potion. Never agreed to the commission or opened your stupid mouth about the satisfaction guarantee!!

But you didn't know.

And now you're stuck with the aftermath…

At first, the madman kept you confined to a workspace somewhere within the mansion.

Close enough to monitor. Far enough to ignore.

Then, he started calling for you more often. Checking on your progress. Standing just a little too close while you worked. Watching you with scrutinizing red eyes.

And then, he started sticking around you 24/7, following you from room to room like some clingy puppy who couldn't bear for you to leave his sight.

Even that wasn’t enough. At some point, you stopped being assigned a room at all.

Wherever he was… that became your workspace.

You’d turn around and he’d be there.

In the doorway. Behind you. Leaning against the wall like he’d been there the whole time.

Like he had nowhere else to be. Don’t dukes have better things to do? Go tend to your paperwork or something!!

Through it all, he's never kind. Still angry, demanding, and barking orders about reversing the damn spell.

But he never hurts you.

His threats are loud. And his hands are rough, just like his voice that could shatter glass.

But you've started to notice something.

He always stops. It’s all bark but no bite…

And it becomes a routine.

You work. He watches. You brew. He hovers. You try to leave. He blocks the door.

At some point, he has you working in his bedroom.

No, like, actually. He stooped to this level of stupidity, needing allowing you to stay in his chambers at night.

He's sleeping on the bed and you have to sit beside him. On the floor. With your books and your herbs and your constantly dying patience.

You don't know when this became normal.

You hate that it feels normal.

Tonight, you try to get up.

His hand immediately shoots out to grab your wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?"

You don't flinch anymore. The first few times, you did. Now? You just sigh.

"I'm trying to study for a reverse spell. Or a cure. For you, remember?"

"Stay."

His voice is flat. Unreasonable. Like he's not even considering the possibility of you leaving.

"I can't work if I'm stuck by your side, Your Grace."

"Leave and I'll rip your throat out."

You've heard this before. It had you frozen and crying the first few times, but then you realized…

He never follows through.

Not with you.

"Your Grace," you say, calm as anything, "you can't do that. Who will reverse your spell if not the caster?"

His jaw tightens, though the grip on your wrist doesn't loosen.

But he knows you're right.

He's quiet for a long moment, thinking. And you can see the exact second he shifts tactics.

"Then I'll slit the throats of all the guards outside who allow you to leave this room."

"…I'm sat."

You sit back down on the floor. Head leaning against the bed where his hand lingers limbly. Sometimes brushing your hair unconsciously, like it was to make sure you were still there.

And you work on the spell in his chambers all night long. Barely getting a blink of sleep.

He, on the other hand?

Dead to the world.

The madman who threatened to rip your throat out twenty minutes ago is now curled up on his ridiculous silk sheets, snoring softly.

His face is slack and peaceful. Innocent in a way that makes you want to throw a pillow at his head.

You've noticed this before. The way his eyes get heavy when you're nearby, how his shoulders drop when you enter the room. And the way his threats get lazier the longer you stay.

At first, you thought it was the potion's side effects.

Now you're starting to think he just… can't sleep without you.

Which is not your problem. You didn't sign up to be a nobleman's sleeping charm. You're a witch. A busy one! One who is currently being held against her will in a mansion that smells too much like old money and fresh blood.

And yet… Here you are, watching him sleep.

Because if you move, he wakes up. And if he wakes up, he gets grumpy. And if he gets grumpy, he threatens to kill someone.

Usually the guards.

You've started to feel kind of bad for the guards.

"I hope you wake up with a stiff neck," you mutter, dipping your quill in ink. "I hope you stub your toes when you wake up. I hope your breakfast is cold and your tea is bitter and your horse steps on your foot."

His lips curl up softly. Like you're singing him a lullaby.

Your quill scratches to a halt.

"…I hope you dream about spiders," you try, weaker this time.

His smile deepens.

He doesn't wake up. He just… rests. Still peaceful and content. Like your curses are the sweetest words he's ever heard.

You stare at him.

Then you look down at your notes, page full of failed antidotes and useless counter-spells. A truth you’ve been avoiding for a while manifests to the surface of your mind once again.

Nothing is wrong with him.

The potion didn't work.

He's just like this.

You set down the quill to press your palms to your eyes.

And wonder, for the thousandth time, what in the hell you did to deserve this.

Maybe its time you suggest a psychiatrist.

Little did both of you know.

The potion didn't work on him.

It never could have. Years of assassination attempts had made his body resistant to poisons, potions, drugs… Basically anything ingested.

The drink that woman slipped him? It passed through his system like water. Barely a flicker of discomfort, a vague pulling in his chest that he dismissed as irritation.

He came to your shop that day ready to kill the witch who made it.

Not because the potion had affected him. But because he was annoyed.

Someone had tried to enchant him. Someone had failed. And he wanted to make an example of the person responsible.

Until he saw you.

And something in his chest pulled again.

Not the potion, that was already gone.

Something else he didn’t have a name for.

He still doesn't have a name for it. He calls it a curse. A spell. Your fault.

…

It's not.

He was just love-struck at first sight.

And he's been falling harder and harder with each day that passes.

Deep in his sleep, one thought surfaces in his mind.

His answer came immediately, simple and clear. His face not changing one bit.

You stared at him dumbfounded. Somehow, he’d managed to call you pretty while making it sound like an insult at the same time.

You worried all the antidotes he’d been drinking were giving him such strange side effects.

Or, the other possibility is that someone must’ve hit him on the head. You wouldn’t be surprised if he’d angered anyone by now with his prickly demeanor. Actually, you pray someone hits him just to satisfy your own desire.

His hand continued playing with your hair, while his eyes watched you languidly without shame. You hoped he could see the tick mark appearing at your forehead from anger, because you were this close to actually causing him brain damage if no one else does it before you!

Just one comment, I dare you! You glared at him. And he caught it, eyes widening for a bit.

“Even your eyes are weird.” He leaned closer, examining your eyes and pointing out their color like it’s something unnatural. But he doesn’t stop there, gaze dropping down to your hands now.

He wrapped two fingers around your wrist, frowning.

“And what kind of wrist is this small? You’re so weak it’s alarming— ACK.”

His comment was cut off by a hard bonk to the head from you, making him bite down his tongue. 

“GET DOWN!”

The servants standing aside immediately duck on instinct, waiting for the splash of red to paint the room.

…

A few seconds of silence passed before they finally dared to peek open their eyes. To see you were still… intact? And without a single scratch even.

Instead, they find it was the duke who looked harmed, rubbing his head with a sulky expression.

“Why do you look so angry? You’re supposed to be smiling like what the books said…” The duke looked down glumly, and the servants couldn’t believe their eyes. Was the duke pouting? 

You, however, didn’t look fazed by the sight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about but you should know better than to talk about a woman’s appearance like this!”

The duke stared back at you, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Look, I don’t understand why you’re even here but—“

He stood up straight, making you pause your words to crane your neck back up at him. His height even more intimidating with you still sitting down in front of him.

“You… You are a violent woman. I can work with that.” He muttered the last part to himself, hand going under his chin to contemplate something.

Another vein popped up at your forehead. “The only one trying to work is me! MEEEE!”

In return, he’d also frown at your words. A vein matching your own popping up his forehead.

“Work, work, work. All you do is work, maybe that’s why you’re so prickly, woman!” He pointed accusingly.

Your lips parted in disbelief. “YOU brought me here to work, why are you getting irritated? And who are you calling prickly!” 

Cue another banter followed between you and the duke, while the servants standing by watched you both bemused.

Two maids shared looks between each other, blinking a few times. 

“Do we… Do we stop them? Or her at least?” 

“No… Just, leave them be.” The older maid sighed, shaking her head at the image of the most feared duke currently acting like an idiot. “I’ve seen this happen four times already yet still cannot get used to it.”

When will the duke finally realize why he’s being so clingy?

It’s been four months.

Four months since you were brought to this mansion, working day and night to reverse whatever spell he’s convinced you have on him. 

You don’t care anymore if his claims are true or not, just working to figure out whatever the hell he was complaining about and cure him.

And you were sure that at some point, he’d realize that you weren’t behind anything. Maybe grow tired of you and have an ounce of mercy to let you go eventually. Or by a silver of luck, you might finally find a working antidote that will do the job instead.

But no. The man’s very stubborn, and he was adamant on keeping you chained to his mansion. 

And luck wasn’t on your side either, no antidote working so far in curing this mental illness of his.

“How much longer…” You sniffled, curling up your knees to your chest. 

Rarely did you have any time to yourself without the duke by your side. Though, whenever you did, you’d quietly curse him (not literally) to empty some of your frustration. 

Other times you’d cry from loneliness. Just like right now, heart swelling in longing.

It’s been months since the last time you’ve been outside. Oh how you miss the strolls you’d take in forests, collecting herbs for your potions, talking with other fellow witches, and most importantly…

“Money!”

When was the last time you’ve smelled the sweet unmistakable scent of gold coins? Four months!!!

This heartless duke’s been keeping you under his thumb without any compensation or proper employment. You’ve been basically working underneath him for free, all labor and no reward.

“Damn you, duke…!” You mumbled, burying your face further between your arms.

“Witch!” An annoying voice echoed in the hallway, halting your sniffs. Followed by the undeniable footsteps you’ve grown accustomed to, belonging to no one else but the duke.

Dang it, he finished sword training early today. You scramble off the floor quickly to find a new hiding place further from here.

Maybe the servant’s kitchen area will work—

Slam, the door opened. Revealing the duke at the doorway, water still clinging to his hair from the rushed shower he’d taken. All to find you quicker.

“Witch, I’ve been looking for you everywhere—“ His words die out once your eyes meet his own, still glossy and with cheeks tear-stained.

A sniff escaped you before you could even greet him, confirming the man’s dread that you were indeed crying.

“You… What happened to you?” He crossed the room in seconds, leaning to take a closer look at you.

“What? Nothing!” You looked away, realizing the mess your face must look like right now. You’d rather die than ever show this man a vulnerable sight, though you’ve showed that sight to him a few times at the start… 

“Nothing?” He frowned, stepping closer with a stomp. “Your eyes are puffy and red from crying yet you still dare lie to my face?” 

You still didn’t face him, his lips drawing a firm line at the avoidance of your gaze. 

“Duke, you should go dry your hair first. Or you’ll catch a cold.” You gritted out, the last part more of a threat than a worry for his wellbeing, the urge to curse him for real this time emerged.

“Are you changing the subject? Do not test my patience and explain.” His words seemed desperate, angry and frustrated for a reason you did not care enough to understand.

“It’s none of your concern, Your Highness.” 

Can he not get a hint? You just really wanted to be alone right now, from him especially.

“…”

The man did not budge, though his gaze lowered a little in contemplation. 

Your words had irked him, none of his concern? How ridiculous. 

You lived under his roof, ate the food he provided, and spent every waking hour in his manor… Whose concern would it be if not his?

“It does concern me, actually. Now tell me, what… caused this?” He pointed awkwardly, unsure of how to address the state he found you in. And comfort was a subject he was not familiar with at all.

“I said, nothing.” You repeated, but it did nothing to convince him.

“…Was it someone?” He frowned, changing the question into a “‘who’ did this” instead. That earned a scoff from you, giving him the wrong impression.

“Someone from the staff? One of the guards who harmed you? Give me names, now.” He ordered, hands crossed in front of him as he awaited a hit-list to be given. If only he knew the first name on that list was his own…

“No, and no. They did nothing wrong, don’t accuse innocent people!”

“Then was it the gardeners? Just tell me which bastard was it, I’ll have their heads rolling in minutes—“ 

“AGH! It’s no one, okay?” You covered your ears at the violent words he was spewing, enough to draw a disturbingly graphic image in your mind that had you feeling queasy.

Still getting no answer from you, the man’s lips turned into a straight line again.

“…You’re my employee, so I have the right to know what has you slacking off work.”

You broke whatever personal rule of not showing him your face, turning around with a whiplash at his words.

Because this was exactly what you’ve been tearing about earlier. How dare he bring that up so naturally without any shame!

“Employee? Me? Since WHEN?” You threw your arms open in outrage, utterly offended by his words.

He just stood there confused. His crossed arms falling limply to the side.

You were sad, terribly. And he was just twisting the knife at the wound that had you down. “I am an undocumented slave at your hands! And slavery was banned years ago, you stupid Duke!”

He raised a finger to speak, lips parting to get a word out, but you weren’t done yet.

“Listen, we’re in a modern society now. There’s nothing wrong with seeking a therapist! Mental health is important, ya know?”

It’s been on your mind for a while, a suggestion you were about to bring up naturally had he not forced you into this conversation.

Seriously, the ‘love potion’ you brewed months ago must’ve already passed his system. And with little to no information about his symptoms, you had no idea what to do anymore.

You sighed pitifully, the man getting more confused by the second.

“I mean, like… Maybe you should seek a different method of treatment, yeah?”

He did not answer, pushing you into speaking further.

“I think it’s about time you let me go—“

Your words don’t even get to finish before two rough hands latched onto your shoulders, making you wince.

“No. You… What kind of suggestion is that?” His voice wavered, before he gruffly voiced the very thing he hated to presume you were saying. “You dare try to leave?” 

The way he said that had you glance up at him in confusion. His eyes stared back dilated, and the hands on your shoulders gripped harder, attempting to squeeze out an answer from you. 

“You’re the one who cursed me, and you’ll stay right here till the curse gets reversed. Until then, I won’t let you go.” 

His frown twisted further, just the thought of you leaving making him sick.

…Oh. Your lips formed a small circle, parted helplessly without any words to respond back.

You’d been too comfortable lately. Too confident in the fact that he’d never try to hurt you, and you’d completely forgotten about his true image as a feared duke.

But now you weren’t sure anymore, that confidence you had which allowed you to speak freely weighed down on you belated.

Damn it, and you’d just called him a stupid duke earlier. 

It reminded you once again that you were only here because of a misunderstanding—breathing and alive because the man genuinely thinks you’ve cursed him. 

You didn’t dare break eye contact, his red eyes never allowing you a glance away, and it had your fear skyrocket at once. All that sass you’ve shown so far swallowed deep in your throat.

But then you felt it. Beneath your own shaking shoulders were the tremors of someone else. Him.

The fingertips of his hands—still gripped uncomfortably on your shoulders—were trembling. 

“…”

What was he afraid of…? You dared not voice out your question, continuing to stare back at him in a frozen state.

The excruciatingly long silence finally broke when the duke spoke first.

“…So it’s just about the employment? Is that why you’re upset?” His voice came out softer than before, the frown on his lips easing a bit into a straight line.

You slowly nodded, no use in denying it with him holding you hostage between his arms. 

Though you weren’t sure who was the hostage anymore. The way he looked at you wasn’t that of a man holding someone captive, but one who had become captive himself.

“…Very well.” His answer came after another pause. “I’ll have a proper employment contract drafted in no time.”

You blinked up at him a few times. This easily?

“Really?” 

“Mhm.” He nodded, the grip on your shoulders relaxing at the glint in your eyes.

“And… I’ll get paid?” You asked, just to double check. 

“Obviously.”

You squint at him for a long moment, trying to see what was the catch.

“…You’re actually agreeing?”

His brows furrowed, lips pulling down a bit at your distrust. 

“You’ve only made one request so far. Continue.” He nodded curtly for more.

Permission was all you needed, not waiting any longer to ask.

“Then I want weekends off.”

“Granted.” His hands left to cross in front of him, satisfied at your compliance.

“…With paid leave.” 

“Done.” Suddenly, a steward stood beside him noting down everything with a flick from the duke’s finger. (…Since when had there been a steward in here?)

“…Lunch breaks.”

“Alright.” He nodded with his chin, the steward working double to keep up everything.

“Plus monthly bonuses!” You pointed with a finger enthusiastically.

“If your performance is satisfactory.”

Your jaw nearly hit the floor, but one last request still needed to be made.

“Oh! And—“ You cleared your throat, hiding a smirk behind your hand.

His foot tapped impatiently. “What else?”

You couldn’t forget the most important one of all.

“I want my own bedroom.” 

A moment of silence from everyone in the room took place.

One maid quietly covered another servant’s mouth before he could laugh.

Even the steward stopped writing.

The guards suddenly found the opposite wall incredibly interesting.

Simultaneously, they all finally remembered you never had a proper bedroom assigned to you. Usually staying up all night working in the duke’s bedroom or sleeping in the servant’s quarters.

“…Done. Guards?”

Everyone relaxed at the duke’s words, you especially.

The agreement brought you great relief, placing a hand over your chest to sigh. Finally, all problems solved—

Until he casually turned to the guards, one hand raised up for the closest to approach him.

“Move the finest bed in the manor beside mine.”

The guard bowed immediately. “At once, Your Grace—“

“NO!” You yelled, pausing the duke in his place to stare confused.

“I said my own bedroom! Bed. Room.” You repeated twice, but the duke only looked back annoyed.

“You will have one, as I just said.” One of his brows raised up, still not getting your point. 

“Uhh, yeah? One with four walls and a roof, all to myself!” Your hands moved to draw a box shape midair.

“…”

The duke was quiet then, a hand came up his chin to contemplate something. 

“…Three walls and no more.” He held up three fingers, and you stared back at them blankly.

“…A what now?”

“Compromise.” 

Haaah, after thirty minutes of negotiating, you ended up being granted everything but the last request. 

You mumbled a few incoherent phrases as you signed the employee contract, one that was quickly whipped up and waiting in the hand of the steward.

True to his words, the duke builds a room for you with three walls.

…Located in the corner of his own bedroom. 

You were basically roommating with the man, and he dared look satisfied about it.

An infuriating smirk played on his lips as he exited the bathroom, dressed in a silk nightgown heading to his bed.

You face the wall to hide your scowl, listening unintentionally to how the bed rustled from his movement.

He made himself comfortable under the blankets first before finally addressing you out, rather cheerfully.

“I’m going to sleep.” He peeked an eye at your figure, back facing him.

“Congratulations.” You uttered dryly. The flat response visibly irked him, as he called out a moment later to ask.

“…Was that sarcasm?”

You didn’t acknowledge him with more than a hum, annoying him further.

“…Turn off the lights.” He ordered, a frown you couldn’t see was pulling his lips down.

You still don’t reply, just getting up to extinguish the lamp as instructed. Not the response he was awaiting.

“Tch… Don’t you dare leave the room. Got that?”

“Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep now!” You waved him off, kicking the blankets annoyed.

“Good.” He huffed, sounding oddly satisfied despite having run out of excuses to talk.

Silence engulfed the room, the only noise coming from the hooting owls outside and rustling leaves. 

You laid on the bed facing the wall, never turning around to see if the duke was doing the same or not.

And just as you were about to fall asleep, a hushed voice called out softly.

“…Good night.” He murmured, never awaiting for you to say it back. Already succumbing to sleep with the soft snores that followed after.

You stilled in this new bed, the frown on your face easing a bit at the awkward gesture. 

Though the anger in you still didn’t subside completely, you did feel a toll of it leave you in a sigh.

“…Well,” you pulled the blanket over your head. “At least I’m getting paid to deal with him now.”

You then followed him into dreamland. No other thought lingering in your money-crazed head. 

Zzzzzz.

.

..

…

Hmm… But wait, aren’t you forgetting something?

Likeeee reading the employee contract twice before signing? 

Or, hey, did you even receive a signed copy of the contract? 

Who knows what you just signed away. Maybe you should’ve thought twice about calling yourself ‘a slave’ in this man’s presence. 

…

Might’ve just given him ideas.