In The Cauldron Boil And Bake
in the cauldron boil and bake
prompt: pretty little witch who lives in a cottage in the forest who sometimes eats wayward travellers but Ghost has some kind of magic repulsion aura that doesn’t allow her to use her powers on him. (ON AO3) tags: very nsfw, implied/lightly described violence, dubcon/noncon, noncon spanking, implied cannibalism (just in general, not with the pairing lol); 5.5k
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He moves at a pace too slow for you to make out with the naked eye, but you feel it creeping through you.
The vision of him appears in a dream first, a premonition. A hulking figure trekking through the woods. You snuggle deeper under the covers and scrunch up your nose in your sleep. In the morning, you go outside to harvest the holly leaves and buttercup and return home dreaming of tender, slow cooked meat. It’s been awhile since you last had a proper meal. When you hang up the laundry to dry, you chew on peppermint cuttings and try not to salivate.
In the centuries you’ve lived in these woods, travellers have come and gone. You don’t eat every single one that happens to pass by—that would be a surefire way to get your forest branded as bedevilled and a longer route established circumnavigating your grove. You might be hungry, but you’re prudent, careful. Not like some other witches these days, greedy for any morsel that happens to pass in front of them.
No; you take care of your woods. You have to, if you plan on remaining here for the centuries to come. If a few travellers happen to disappear here and there, that’s simply life. Not everyone can make treacherous journeys.
You always have a sense of when a traveller is nearby. It’s as though your being is embedded within the forest itself, privy to those who dwell within it. You feel him along the outer regions of the forest, a lone traveller hauling not more than himself and a rucksack filled with the bare essentials. He appears to you in flashes in your dreams, not the full image of him but piecemeal, a shadow obscuring his full face from you. You see only tendons and meat on his bones, a rough hewn strength to his limbs, touch muscle and fat wrapped around his middle.
It makes you giddy to think of him circling ever closer to your spider’s web at the centre of the forest. After him, you won’t be hungry for years.
Your restless leg acts up the day you know that he’s close enough to approach. All morning, you sit at the little table in your kitchen and rip lavender buds from the stems, black shoes tap-tapping away at the floor. The broom sweeps by itself in the corner, sweeping the dust into a neat pile. When you snap your fingers, it’s brusque, impatient. The broom halts in midair and then clatters against the floorboards. The chair scrapes against the floor as you rise to your feet.
“Come, come, Asphodel,” you whisper to the black cat curled up on the windowsill, which barely lifts her head enough to blink at you. “No more dallying. Mommy’s hungry.”
In a show of great defiance and disrespect, Asphodel merely meows at you and lays her head back down. Insipid little familiar.
You go off on your own then, keen to see the travellers with your own eyes. Jowls growing tighter. Robe cinched tight around you and hair pinned back by a thin strand of velvet. The days have just begun to shorten, just begun to exhale frost and rot. The leaves however, by agreement, do not crunch under your feet and give you away. You are a phantom amidst the trees as you flank the lone traveller, following the breadth of him as he traverses past your homestead.
It’s fortunate that you are not beholden to physics because he is formidable. Broad as a man might be, no less sizable than in your dreams, but much more menacing in the flesh. He too moves quietly in the brush, with a care and precision that you have not seen many humans employ.
He conceals the lower half of his face with a black piece of fabric, which you had mistaken for shadows. Not so. It is a deliberate concealment, meant to unnerve. Without magic, you might not have approached.
His size alone isn’t enough to frighten you though. You are two hundred years old and you have eaten men twice his size when you were naught but a babe.
You step out into the clearing just a few paces from him, halting the man in his tracks.
“Hello,” you call out tentatively, raising a hand to shield your eyes. “C-can you help me? I think I’ve lost my way.”
At this point in your career, it takes a bit to hide the smile that threatens to break. You are like the spider posing as a fly. The show is half the fun though.
The man doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem shocked at your presence, arms loose by his sides. It makes your stomach clench, the script flipped a bit. It should be you, loose and limber, and the wayward traveller tense and nonplussed, then eager to help the lost girl. You wait a moment longer for him to respond, but he remains silent, blue eyes unblinking.
“Can you help me?” you repeat, taking a step closer. The tendrils of your magic slither out of you, snaking across the forest floor towards him. “I’m lost. Can you help me find my way out?”
Your magic finds his boots in the dirt like mycelium threads, the pulse of him rich and earthen. It makes the saliva pool in your mouth, hunger gnawing at your guts. He will taste so good. Meaty and huge, enough to last you the winter. You take another step closer despite his continued silence, a tad too eager. You only need a moment though, long enough for your magic to take root, to render him febrile and inert. When he collapses to the ground, you will float his body back and rend him limb from limb by your hearth.
Another step brings you closer to him when your magic suddenly recoils, unwinds from him. You frown. You try sending it back, but your magic shrinks away, an atavistic fear blooming up in you. It does not want near this man.
A cold sweat breaks out on your neck. The hairs on your neck and arms stand on end.
The masked man staring back at you tilts his head, the skin under his eyes crinkling with a smile that you cannot see. Suddenly eldritch, blood-curdling.
“Now, what are you?” he asks with a rumbling voice, rough from disuse, and takes a step towards you.
You trip over your feet scrambling back. Branches from a nearby tree scoop towards you, catching you before you tumble down into the soft dirt. He advances quickly on you, big hand finding now the hatchet strapped to his side and pulling it out, the thing dwarfed in his massive paw.
“Stay back—stay back—” you hiss, the branches listening to your fear and dragging you away from the man. “Leave—I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Do what?” he asks, taunting. Just a twinge of it, as if he can’t help that he has a predilection to mock.
He catches up to you fast enough, the strides of his long legs enough to eat up the distance. When you whip the branches towards him, they stop mere inches from him, giving him ample time to bat them away. The ones that get close enough meet his hatchet, a single cleave enough to sever them from the tree. You don’t feel the tree’s pain, but where his blade meets your magic—a thin coating along the branches, like extended, ghost limbs of your own—it stings.
“Stay back!” you shriek, heart pumping away ferociously. Your voice comes out like a caterwaul. He’s too close now though, towering over you, the bitter smell of old sweat and musk. Up close, he does not smell like anything you know. He smells sun bleached, the rust of old blood like the blades in your shed after a long season’s hunt.
“What sort of girl—” he starts, hand fisting in your hair and wrenching your head back, “—ambushes strange men in forests? Do you have a death wish?”
To have him touch you is singularly terrifying. You haven’t been touched in a hundred years, certainly not by a human. His touch sends you skittering back, but he has you trapped in place. Your shoes dig into the dirt when you try to push yourself away, hands pressed against his chest much to your distress.
“Men can’t kill me,” you hiss, fingers clawing at the hand holding you in place, scratching at him with the little nails that you never bothered to grow out.
You can’t see the whole of his face, but his expression is undoubtedly unimpressed. “I could kill you easily, girl.”
“I’m not a girl—I’m a witch.”
“A witch is a girl.”
“I eat girls,” you snap, so angry now that spittle drips from your mouth. You shrink back when he wipes it away with a gloved hand. “I eat men like you too. If you are a man.”
You say that because the way your magic curls away from him has you on edge. Humans may not scare you, but eldritch, ancient monsters do and they hunt little witches like you. Usually not in your own woods, but stranger things have happened.
“‘Course I’m a man. Look at me.”
He presses the whole length of his body against yours, dragging you so close to him by your hair that you almost rise up onto your toes. He’s solid all the way through, only a bit of give around his middle. There’s something distinctly hard pressing against your low belly. It leaves you flustered, hot under your collar. An unfamiliar heat in your core, legs clenching on nothing. You give in to the instinctive urge to look down, but pressed so close to him, there’s little to see beyond the wideness of his chest, covered by a brown tunic laced up the front.
“Means nothing. Plenty of things look like other things. I look like a girl but I am not,” you stutter.
“Were you trying to eat me then, witch girl?” he breathes, amused. You yelp when he gives you a little shake by the hair.
You flash your teeth at that, hoping he takes that as a threat. You have chewed off flesh far tougher than his. “Still might, human. If you don’t let me go.”
He stares down at you, eyes giving nothing away. “It’s not every day that a little girl threatens to eat me. Not very nice, you know. I’ve cut down men twice your size for less.”
“You like bloodshed?”
“I trade in bounties; it’s part of the job. But, yes, girl. I like bloodshed.”
It’s not reassuring to hear that when his hands are fast on you. You wish now you hadn’t dreamed of this strange man immune to your magic and left him to his wandering. There are bears in these woods that could have dealt with him for you.
“I’m—I’m not going to anymore,” you say, quieter now, hands falling back to his chest, trying to shove yourself just the slightest bit away. You don’t move an inch. “I’ll…I can find something else to eat. Just let me go.”
The man widens his stance, feet bracketing yours. In two hundred years, you haven’t felt small. You’ve felt tremendous, expansive, big as the whole forest; monstrous some days even. The most ferocious predator in the woods, the haunting lurching her way through the trees, belly hungry for iron blood and the ripe taste of fear.
You feel that fear now in your mouth for the first time, sour.
He smiles behind the mask again. “Maybe later. Need to teach you a lesson.”
“A lesson?” Maybe the fear hasn’t sunk in all the way because you ask that when he lets go of his hold on your hair and drops his hands to your waist, getting a tight hold there. Twisting you around while he walks you back.
“You all alone in the forest?” he asks instead of answering you. “Is there a house that I missed? Been here for months and haven’t seen one.”
“Of course, I—I live here.” You don’t want to say more than though, lest you reveal too much about yourself. You’re still wondering whether surviving this ordeal will be as simple as getting away. There’s something savage in his gaze now, the mealy taste in your mouth translating that look like the hunter looking upon the hunted.
There’s a tree stump that he guides you to, shaded under the canopy. When he tips you over the stump, the breath rushes out of you. The edge is rough against your stomach. You don’t even notice him pulling up the back of your dress until a few seconds later.
“Wait, hold on—that’s my indoor dress!” you cry out, the front of your dress scraping against the stump and sure to tear. “Let me go—stop it!”
Your drawers are next, slid down your hips while you squirm and wail, feet kicking out behind you.
“Behave.” It’s punctuated by the sudden sting on your cheek, bottom flaming red by his hand. Pain is such a foreign concept to you that it initially leaves you speechless.
He props you against the stump with little care for how your knees drag in the dirt and whether your underwear gets dirt on them. He keeps you pinned there with a big hand on the centre of your back. Your shimmying gets you nowhere, only planted farther into the dirt; it only scuffs up your knees and pulls wretched little noises from your throat.
The terror comes when you’re bare to him and he draws his hand back. You gasp at the first smack, shocked; it’s a broken, stupid sound. At the next smack, you react properly, going into a frenzy, twisting left and right to get away, but helpless under just a fraction of his strength. Your magic does no good for once in your long life either. You feel it sit on the periphery, unsure of what to do because it cannot come close to this strange man for some reason.
You yelp every time his hand comes down on your bottom. Red fills your vision. Tears do as well.
“I am going to—” you break off on a yowl, back arching, “—I am going to eat the flesh off your bones for this! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
His chuckle is bone-chilling, ices you right over. “You oughta at least know the name of the man you’re going to eat. They call me Ghost.”
“I’ll call you—” The caustic name you were about to call him is ripped from your lips by another well-placed smack on your ass.
You shriek so loud that the birds flee from their perches within the trees.
The worst part is the way your thighs flex together with every smack. Belly clenching. You can feel slick gathering where it shouldn’t, a high blush splotched across your cheeks as you pray that he doesn’t notice. It doesn’t happen often, only in the week following your cycle when you feel ravenous and flushed, skin prickly and raw until you go outdoors and roll around in the dirt under the moonlight. Always by yourself, of course, naturally.
Little panting breaths hiccup out of you, your cheeks overflowing with frustrated tears. After the first minute, you simply go limp. There’s nothing else you can do. Even trying to levitate does you no good, it only props your butt up higher into the air since Ghost’s hand on your upper back keeps your chest pressed to the stump. It only seems to amuse him, judging by the hoarse chuckle he lets out.
Without your broom, the little bit of levitation is more of a party trick than anything—and you haven’t even been to a party in fifty years, not since your coven’s last autumnal gathering. Not that it matters at a time like this. His hand comes down on your butt again and you wail, shoes digging into the ground and kicking up dirt. Your mind goes blank again, thoughts replaced by the looping ow, ow, ow that also falls from your lips.
“Does it hurt, lovie?” Ghost asks, hand coming to rest on your livid cheek. It makes you hiss, turning your head until your cheek is pressed to the stump’s inner rings. His voice is gentle, but mocking, like the voice you use when hacking into a screaming man, asking him if he’d like his hand back while you dangle it in front of him.
“It’s going to hurt so much worse when I dice you into little pieces,” you hiss. He gives a mocking pat to your butt, making you flinch.
“Learned your lesson yet?”
You keep your gaze stubbornly off to the side. Somehow, it would be worse to look over your shoulder and make eye contact with the strange beast at your back. “If you leave now, I won't sever your limbs from your body and roast your organs from the inside.”
“I take it you haven’t,” he says, another chuckle rumbling out of him.
His hand comes off your naked rear. Your ears perk up when you hear the sound of fabric over fabric, wondering if maybe he’s pulling your underwear back up, but you don’t feel anything. What you feel instead is the sudden heaviness pushed between your thighs, nestled right up against your wet core, so unfamiliar that it makes you jump. You stay put though, held down still by his hand.
“Put that back,” you say severely.
He holds it against your sex with his free hand and presses forward, coating himself with your slick. “You’re not in a position to make demands, girl.”
“I’m going to slice every bit of skin off your bones.” Your mouth salivates at the thought, thinking of all the thick, iron-rich blood from someone Ghost’s size.
Those thoughts disperse again like smoke when he ruts forward, the thick length between his legs gliding through your wetness. It makes you break out into a sweat, keen catching between your teeth, just narrowly bitten back. Ghost makes no effort to suppress his groans. They’re loud, a lustful, masculine pleasure that you’ve heard far off in your woods before—unfortunate couples come to copulate before meeting their end at your hands—but never so close. Never right up in your ear.
“It’s not fair,” you sob, emotional suddenly. “You’re just going to—to do that and then kill me.”
He leans his full weight over you, the rough texture of his shirt catching on the back of your dress. You’re sweating so hard now that the lace embroidery around your collar is thoroughly soaked, clinging to your skin.
“‘M not gonna kill you. What would I do something like that for?”
You sniff. “It’s what I would do.”
He chuckles again, the sound reverberating through you with him all pressed up against you. It would almost be pleasant if it weren’t for the cock pumping between your thighs. That brings you right back down to earth, mind torn away from the ravens perched in the branches of the tree looming over you, watching you from above. If you were able to pay them any close attention, you’d probably hear them chattering about the position their little witch has found herself in.
“C’mon now,” Ghost grunts in your ear, hips shifting back. “Be a good little witch and say a little spell—don’t wanna knock you up on the first try.”
You open your mouth to reply and squeal when he rocks back forward, the bulbous tip pressing into you this time. Your toes flex in your shoes, thighs spreading without any prompting from him. You don’t even notice the hand on your upper back travelling to your waist, both of his big hands gripping you there now to hold you in place. There’s no thought of trying to get away, just breathing around the immense stretch from his shaft driving up into you.
“Ooh, no, no—it’s too much,” you squeak, fingers digging into the sides of the stump, the wood cutting into your soft skin.
It is too much. It doesn’t even feel entirely possible. Even with the wetness leaking from you, his cock only manages to fit a couple inches in you before you’re too tight.
“You’re doing fine, lovie,” he rasps into your ear, drawing his hips back and then plunging back into you, deeper than before. “See? Not so bad, is it? Gonna take a little more for me, a’right?”
“No—no more,” you slur, tongue heavy in your mouth. “Can you just—just keep it right there?”
“Yeah? That enough for you?”
Your fingers unlatch from the bark of the tree, trembling when you reach down to wipe them off on your dress before dragging the palm of your hand over your clit. It makes you jump and whine. The skin of your palm is a bit textured from gripping onto the stump, but the friction makes your brain leak right out of your ear. Especially when you push your hips back just a little bit, nervously fucking yourself on his cock.
Ghost laughs and lets go of your hip to bat your hand away, then reaches back around to fit a big hand around your jaw.
He holds your jaw in a single hand, palm supporting your chin. “You ever going to do this again, girl? Go up to strange men in the woods?”
You almost don’t hear him over the blood in your ears. A thick cock spears into you for the first time in your life and the man rutting into you expects coherence? Maybe you babble something into the palm of his hand, but it’s lost to the world when he pulls your knee out to make more room for himself and tips your ass up.
He gives your cheek a solid pat. “C’mon, focus on me, lovie. Tell me what you’re gonna do from now on.”
Your breathing picks up, heavier. When you don’t respond again, he abruptly pulls out and stands up, hauling you up to your feet with him. All of the blood rushes from your head, pooling around your pretty black shoes. Leaves crunch under your feet when he turns the two of you around and sits down on the stump where you’d just been spread over. The hands on your waist turn you to face him and that’s when an inkling of struggle works its way back into your veins.
You hiss and snarl when he lifts you to straddle his thighs, particularly when you see the brutish, ruddy cock jutting out from his trousers. Ghost seems more amused than anything at your little attempts to escape, clutching you closer to him until your chests are pressed tight together, making it all the more intimate. All the more real.
“Quit fussing.” You jump at the sharp slap he delivers to your ass.
“Going to curse your whole lineage—” you grit out, wincing when he draws you back down over his length, cunt fluttering at the stretch. You can’t help dropping your forehead to his chest, shoulder hitched with a frustrated cry.
His groan makes you seize up, a hot flash darting through you. “Don’t be like that, lovie. Might be yours too.”
A haze passes over you when firm hands lift you up off his cock and plop you back down, emptying you of any thoughts like you’d tipped your head and all the water had poured out.
The worst is the way your body betrays you. Each time he shoves his fat cock into your cunt, a whine rattles out of you, snatched from your chest. Robbed from you. The nearby leaves rustle and swirl up into the air with an artificial wind, magic singing their edges. He reaches so much deeper inside of you like this, splayed on his lap, hands gripping onto his shoulders for dear life because it takes every bit of energy in your body to merely take his cock into you.
Your knees scrape against the uneven wood every time he drags you back down. They’ll probably be scraped raw by the end of it; you’ll need to tearfully smooth on ointment and wrap thick bandages around them when you get back to the cottage.
“There we go. Fuckin’ take it—come on,” Ghost grunts, dragging you down onto his length, just using your body how he likes.
The thick head grinds up against a spot deep inside of you, spongy and sensitive. You feel it all the way up in your throat. Every time his cock rubs against that spot, your nails dig into his shoulders. A violent shudder rips through you because this position also lets him grind your clit down against the root of his cock.
“Ghost—”
He ducks his covered mouth into the side of your neck. Even through the fabric, you can feel his lips press a firm, closed-mouth kiss there. “Bit more, bit more, love. Better than you thought it’d be, huh? Fuck. Only thing magic about you is this wet pussy. Fuck hiding this from me—gonna ride it twice a day from now on.”
“Never doing this ever again, you beast—”
Ghost bites you through the mask, the pressure dull but real. It says, try keeping it from me.
When you come, it’s sudden and sharp, painful like a cramp in your belly and then a wave of bone-deep pleasure. Ghost wrangles it from you with a thumb on your clit, pumping up into your pussy at the same time. He wrenches it from you like it’s his, like you have no choice but to come for him because he wants it. You press your whole body against him when you come, arms wrapping around his neck like you need him close. Heat unfolding and leaving you limp. No cauldron has ever boiled as hot as your flesh does now.
He pulls out of you before coming. You watch helplessly as he settles you close enough to keep the heat of your pussy on him and then wraps a firm hand around himself, giving it a few good tugs before a white rope of come spurts from his cock. Right onto your exposed pussy, spilling across your folds. Your mouth drops open on a soft whine as it stripes across your inner thighs and the front of your dress, painting it white.
His harsh pants ebb into something softer as his cock goes flacid against his thigh. You feel boneless, drained of all your energy. Even your magic only gives a pathetic twitch, the tendrils of it curling back up inside of you where it’s nice and warm.
Your cunt feels tender, puffy when you reach down and touch it. You flinch when his fingers graze against yours, also feeling around your swollen lips. Ghost knuckles your fingers out of the way and scoops up the mess he left between your thighs, pushing two fingers just past your entrance. You don’t even have the energy to yelp, only wince and mewl.
He shushes you. “Didn’t even come inside. Quit whining.”
His words are belied by the way he scoops more of his come up into you.
You really don’t like that he follows you home. The march back to your cozy cottage nestled in the middle of the forest feels like a death march, one you might have witnessed in the hundreds of years that you’ve lived here. Worse still because your legs are still wobbly, your sex achy and raw. Still, whenever you pause for a moment or lean against a tree, he nudges you forward with a hand on your back.
“This is unfair,” you snivel, eyes tearing up. “You can’t—this is my forest.”
“The woods don’t belong to anyone, girl,” Ghost counters.
“Yes, they do. I’ve been…it’s been mine for two hundred years.”
“Of course, lovie.” You can almost hear the roll of his eyes. It makes you grit your teeth. You can’t wait to bury him in the backyard with all the bone mandalas.
It doesn’t take long for him to settle in, making himself nice and comfortable on your plush couch with the intricate doilies knitted by your grandmother draped along the back. Your poor couch almost collapses under his weight.
Your cottage is far too small for someone of his size; you built it to accommodate someone of your size, not the behemoth that’s taken up residence in your house. You know that Ghost is more of a man of action than words, but he’s plenty happy to grumble about needing to redo the door to make it big enough for him to come inside without having to duck his head.
“You aren’t going to touch a single brick of my house.”
“I’ll take apart the whole damned thing if I want.”
You keep trying to lift him up with your magic but it does nothing to him and only tires you out because using magic is exhausting. You’re sweating and panting at the end of your efforts while Ghost just stands in front of you with his arms crossed over his chest and a single eyebrow raised. It’s humiliating. You used to be a powerful witch. You still are.
He lets you yell at him until you’re red in the face and then drags you down for a rough fuck. Arguments with Ghost often end that way—you, sore and satiated in your bed, the window opened to let some fresh air in. Him, spread out next to you and dragging you close, playing absentmindedly with a nipple until you pinch his side. That always gets you a meaner pinch, one that leaves you teary-eyed and hot all over again.
Magic might not work on him, but he’s still mortal, so you try to work with that. Bear traps by the windows and doors. Hemlock in the soap. Poison in his stew. He’s stealthier than you anticipate though and seems to have a sixth sense for death.
It’s demeaning and humiliating to be punished for your ‘bad behaviour’ but that’s what he calls it when he passes by the kitchen and catches the stew burping out the telltale skull shaped steam. You’re taken off kitchen duty after that, but the worst part is being trapped under him on the bed with your hands pinned over your head, bottom exposed to him yet again. He laughs a little later on when you squirm around on your hard kitchen chairs because you refuse to sit on his lap.
Sometimes when he has you trapped under him when you’re sleeping—because, of course, he commandeers your bed like it was built for someone his size when truthfully he should be in a bed twice as large—he wakes up to you gnawing at his shoulder and he has to hold you jaw in his hand and rumble out “No biting” before going back to sleep. You stare over his shoulder petulantly, not even bothering to fight the pout. The kettle whispers in the kitchen, fueled by your frustration.
Ghost only lets out a dry, husky laugh. It sends a shiver down your spine.
Asphodel takes to him like a new favourite thing, winding around his legs while you glare from the other room. Damned familiar.
You only start to lighten up when your senses tingle one day when you’re out picking berries in the woods and you come back to find him ruthlessly butchering a band of raiders that had been trampling through your woods. He slaughters them methodically, almost bored. Almost like he does this every day.
You can’t help the way it makes your pussy ache.
He catches the look in your eye. You’ve been alone for far too long in the woods; everything you feel is laid bare, open for anyone to see. Ghost is just always looking.
He grins under the mask, blood splattered across the front of his shirt. “Go on, lovie. I’ll be inside in just a few.”
Molten slickness drips from between your thighs. You bite your lip before you slip away, blood growing feverish when you glance back down at the mangled bodies bleeding out in the red-orange leaves. There’s a severed eye that’s rolled off to the side and your stomach gurgles.
You lick your lip and look up at him from under your eyelashes. “Save me some for supper?”
Ghost’s eyes soften, a sharp contrast from the gore and viscera piled around him. “‘Course, lovie.”
The world seems different with the arrival of him. Cranberries beneath the sycamore, the russet moon on harvest's day, the scent of soldering iron, the laughter woven between your many faces. With him, you feel like the cynosure of all eyes.
In the twilight hours, he presses a hand to your forehead and laves your belly with his tongue like he might push something back in there. The curtains draw shut and the lights flicker off.
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THIS MEANS WAR VI
Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd
divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 2.7k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: I'm finally home!! For some reason tumblr was blocked on my laptop there, which was why I wasn't that active but I hope you all enjoyed the other scheduled posts. I wanted to get this one out to y'all as soon as I could, so I hope my jet lagged brain managed to proof read it fine...if not oops. Also, I think the last chapter of this was scheduled so people were missed on the taglist, i should've fixed that for this chapter but let me know if you were missed! I'm sorry about that! Also did anyone catch that supernatural reference?
MILO'S APARTMENT
You were fucking panicking.
The second you saw that text on your phone, you were out the door and en route to Milo and Anthony’s apartment like it was a goddamn emergency—and to you, it was. You didn’t even say hello. Just beelined straight for their wine rack and uncorked a bottle like your life depended on it.
Halfway through chugging it, Milo snatched it from your grip.
“Talk or no more wine,” he said flatly. “What the fuck is going on with you?”
You groaned, dragging both hands down your face before collapsing onto the couch. “I fucked up.”
“Okay, well, you better start talking, because I swear to God—was it the match? You never told me how it went. Was he an asshole?”
“No,” you said, sitting up. “No. Dick was great.”
“Okay…” Milo said slowly.
“And so is Jason.”
He blinked. “Who the fuck is Jason?”
You explained. Everything. From the amazing date with Dick to the equally amazing time with Jason—each moment fresh in your mind and impossible to ignore—to the absolute mess you’d found yourself tangled in now.
“And now they both want to go out with me again,” you finished, looking like you might actually pass out from sheer stress. “And I don’t know what to do.”
Milo stared at you.
“I fail to see the problem here.”
You gawked at him. “I can’t date two guys at the same time!”
“Why the fuck not?” he demanded. “You’re hot. You’re single. And you’re exploring your romantic portfolio.”
You hesitated, then exhaled. “I feel bad.”
Milo narrowed his eyes at you like you’d just confessed to murdering someone’s puppy. “You feel bad?”
“Yes!” you groaned, collapsing against the couch cushions like the weight of your sins had finally taken you down. “I went out with Jason. After my date with Dick. Who, by the way, I also really like. And now I’m just… spiralling.”
Anthony, who’d been eavesdropping, finally emerged from the kitchen, casually sipping from his own glass of wine like this was better than anything Netflix could offer. He leaned against the doorway, perfectly at ease.
“So let me get this straight,” he said, one brow raised. “You went on a date with one hot guy, then met another hot guy who you also went on a date with, and now both of them want more?”
You glared at him, deadpan. “Yes.”
He took another sip. “Girl, if that’s not the universe begging you to experiment, I don’t know what is.”
Milo jabbed a finger in your direction. “Exactly! You’re not cheating. You’re single. You’re exploring. Gathering data.”
“I’m not running a clinical trial,” you snapped, though a laugh escaped despite yourself.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Anthony muttered into his wine. “You’re treating this like a double-blind study with ethical guidelines.”
You covered your face with both hands. “This is a nightmare.”
“No,” Milo corrected, setting down his glass. “A nightmare is getting ghosted by someone who still watches all your stories and likes your dog pics. This? This is a champagne problem.”
You peeked at Milo through your fingers. “So… what do I do?”
“Date both,” he said without missing a beat.
“No.”
“Date. Both,” he repeated, completely undeterred. “No commitment. No promises. Just casual. See who actually fits into your life. Who listens. Who remembers your coffee order. Who quotes Austen and doesn’t flinch when you spiral into a lecture about neurotoxins.”
“Dick could keep up when I went full brainiac mode,” you murmured. “And Jason… Jason quoted Austen. Unprompted.”
Milo clutched his chest like you’d personally wounded him. “Be still my heart.”
“And they’re both so… different and amazing in their own ways,” you added, softer now, more to yourself than to them. “Dick is light. Safe. He makes me feel seen. And Jason is—”
“A walking red flag with a Shakespeare soul and hidden depth,” Anthony chimed in, deadpan.
You laughed despite yourself. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Milo gave you a pointed look. “Babe. You’re not choosing between a villain and a hero. You’re choosing between two men who see you. Who want to know you. If they’re both worth your time… then take the damn time to find out who you want and get to know them.”
You hesitated. “And if it blows up in my face?”
Milo didn’t blink. Just reached for the wine and refilled your glass. “Then we’ll be right here. With a playlist, ice cream, and a very detailed hit list.”
“Color-coded,” Anthony added with a sage nod. “Naturally.”
You exhaled, dragging a hand through your hair. “I hate how much sense you two make.”
“We’re gay. It’s our burden to carry,” Milo said solemnly, raising his glass. “To emotional clarity and romantic chaos.”
Anthony nodded, raising his own. “And may the best man win.”
You stared at them both like they’d sprouted wings or grown extra heads. “This is still ridiculous.”
“This,” Milo countered, pouring more wine into your glass, “is the golden age of options. You’re allowed to figure it out without pledging your undying love to the first man who makes you laugh.”
“I kissed Jason,” you muttered into your glass.
“And?” Anthony sipped. “Did you enjoy it?”
You hesitated. Then nodded. “Too much.”
“Exactly.” Milo held his glass up. “Right now, you just don’t know what you’re allowed to feel.”
You looked at them—these two chaotic bastards who somehow made emotional turmoil sound like a well-curated spa retreat—and let out a long breath.
“…I know I still feel bad.”
Milo rolled his eyes. “That’s because you’re a good person. You can feel bad and also let two hot guys take you out. Both things can be true.”
Anthony raised his glass. “To moral ambiguity and excellent taste in men.”
You clinked yours against theirs, muttering, “I’m going to hell.”
Milo grinned. “Then take both of them with you, babe.”
BATCAVE
Meanwhile, Jason was still riding the high from earlier. The night air was cool against his skin, the streets quiet beneath the hum of his bike. He was halfway to his apartment when the notification came through.
A case update.
He didn’t hesitate. One hard turn of the throttle, and he was veering off course, heading straight for the manor.
Inside the Batcave, the mood was noticeably different. Dick and Bruce were already suited up, arms crossed in near-identical stances, while Tim was anchored to the console, eyes scanning a rapid stream of data across multiple monitors.
“Took your time,” Dick said lightly, though the usual ease in his voice was dulled.
“I was busy,” Jason shot back, tugging off his gloves. “What’ve we got?”
Bruce turned toward the central screen, the glow casting shadows across his jaw. “We found a breakthrough.”
Jason’s easy mood evaporated.
Tim tapped a key, bringing up a profile. “To cut to the chase—we know who our ghost is.”
“Well, that’s great. Let’s track the son of a bitch down,” Jason said, his voice clipped with impatience as he stepped closer to the screen.
“It’s not that simple,” Tim replied, already typing something in. “There’s been no physical sightings in over four years. No residence, no digital footprint, no bank activity. Nothing directly traceable. We only got a name because of a flagged experiment—an old one that matches his signature. It was buried in an ethics report filed by his only known connection.”
Tim tapped another key.
“B/N L/N,” he said. “And the only person who might be able to help us find him—his younger sister.”
With a soft beep, the next slide loaded on screen.
A profile image appeared.
Jason froze. So did Dick.
“Dr. Y/N L/N,” Tim continued, unfazed. “Lecturer. Neuroscientist. Gotham University. She’s the one who blew the whistle on his unethical research, which caused the rift between them. Records show he’s made multiple attempts to contact her over the years. If he’s on the run from Joker… she might be the only person he trusts enough to go to. Or the only one who knows how he thinks.”
“She’s one of the youngest in her field,” he added, “with two PHDs—”
“Three,” Jason and Dick said at the same time before pausing.
Both men turned slowly, brows raised, staring at each other across the space between.
“How did you know that?” Dick asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
Jason’s gaze snapped to him. “How did you know that?”
Tim looked between them, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Okay… do I even want to know what’s happening here?”
Bruce didn’t so much as blink. “Where can we find her?”
Tim cleared his throat, grateful for the shift back to business. “She’s scheduled to appear at the Gotham Futures Gala this weekend. It’s a high-profile event at the Fairmont. She’s a guest speaker. The event’s raising funds for youth science education and mentorship programs—STEM access, early outreach, that kind of thing.”
Bruce nodded, calculating. “Alright. I can go and see if I can—”
“No!” The word rang out in unison. Both Jason and Dick spoke at once, their voices overlapping in sudden urgency.
Bruce’s gaze flicked between them, unimpressed. “No?”
“I’ll go,” Dick said, his voice smooth and easy—too easy. The kind of voice he usually used to charm the high society. “You’re stretched thin with the Joker situation. Let me take this one.”
“Or I can go.” Jason stated.
“You don’t even like gala’s.” Dick scoffed.
“And you do?” Jason raised a brow. “You spend half the night dodging donors and sneaking champagne behind the curtains.”
“At least I clean up well.”
Jason crossed his arms. “You need to get back to Blüdhaven.”
“I’m on leave.” Dick snipped back.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose like he was already nursing a headache.
“Enough,” he said, tone edged with steel. “I don’t care which one of you goes. Just make contact with her. Find out what she knows.”
And with that, the ever-exhausted father of far too many turned on his heel and left the cave.
The second Bruce left the cave, the tension snapped like a rubber band. Both Jason and Dick turned in perfect sync, glaring at each other with the intensity of a pending brawl.
“I’m going,” they declared at the same time.
Jason scoffed, folding his arms. “How do you even know her?”
“She was my date!” Dick snapped, voice pitching upward as his patience immediately vanished.
Jason blinked. “Wait—the one from that dating app?”
“You signed up for a dating app?!” Tim choked, spinning around so fast in his chair he nearly tipped over. His eyes were wide, scandalized. “You?!”
Dick didn’t even spare him a glance. “Yes. And we hit it off.” he said, sharp and pointed. “Now, how do you know her?”
“She’s the civilian I pulled out of that alley last week,” he said coolly, voice dipping into something just shy of smug. He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Should’ve walked her home, dickhead.”
Dick’s jaw clenched.
Jason smirked. “We grabbed coffee today.”
Dead silence.
And then—because he never knew when to shut up—Jason kept going. “She even kissed me.”
Dick’s expression shifted like someone had just pulled the rug out from under him. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing with something sharp and disbelieving.
“You’re lying.”
Jason raised a brow. “Am I? You really think I’d lie about something like that?”
“I think you’d do whatever it takes to piss me off.”
Jason shrugged, unbothered. “That too.”
Tim opened his mouth, then closed it. Slowly wheeled himself back in his chair like he was watching a bomb about to go off.
Dick took a step forward. “She wouldn’t—”
“She did,” Jason cut in. “Not that it’s any of your business now.”
“That’s exactly what makes it my business,” Dick snapped.
“Funny. She didn’t seem to think so.”
“Alright,” Tim said quickly, raising both hands. “Before someone gets thrown into a wall—can we maybe, I don’t know, not have a turf war over a girl who clearly doesn’t belong to either of you?”
Neither of them looked at him.
Dick’s eyes narrowed into slits. “That’s it. I’m going to the gala.”
“Like hell you are!”
Tim raised a hand like a kid in class. “How about… rock, paper, scissors?”
Two sets of eyes pinned him to his seat. He shrank back a little. Then, after a beat, both brothers turned to each other.
There was a long pause.
Then, without a word, they stepped forward, hands balling into fists, resting on their open palms.
“On shoot,” Jason muttered.
“Obviously,” Dick snapped.
And they went.
“Rock, paper, scissors—shoot.”
Scissors. Paper.
Jason cursed under his breath.
“Always with the scissors,” Dick said smugly, shaking his head like an older brother who’d won this game a hundred times before. “You never learn.”
Jason’s glare could’ve peeled paint. But Dick was already sauntering off, throwing over his shoulder, “Better luck next time, Little Wing.”
“Best two out of three!” Jason called, stepping after him.
Dick scoffed. “I won fair and square. No one likes a sore loser.”
Jason grumbled something under his breath—low, unintelligible—but Tim was pretty sure it included cheater, rigged, and next time I’m bringing a taser.
“Fine!” Jason snapped, crossing his arms with a tight huff. “But I want ground rules.”
Dick paused and turned around. He arched a curious brow, arms folded across his chest, then gave a slow nod, signalling Jason to continue. “Go on.”
“First—we don’t tell her we know each other.”
Dick nodded without hesitation. “Agreed.”
Jason took a step forward, the tension between them tightening like a wire. “We stay out of each other’s way. And I don’t think either of us should sleep with her—not until she makes her decision. Things’ll get messy.”
Behind them, Tim mock-gagged. “Ugh. Can we not?” he muttered. He didn’t even want to think about his brothers in that context. He didn’t care that they were adopted—they were still his brothers, and thinking about them doing that was just gross on every possible level.
Dick held Jason’s gaze, steady and unflinching. “Fine.”
Jason’s tone shifted, quieter now—less about pride, more about principle. “And if this starts to mess with the case, or with us, we end it. Doesn’t matter where we’re at.”
Dick’s posture shifted slightly, his jaw tightening. But he nodded. “Done.”
They stared at each other for a beat.
“Whoever she chooses,” Dick said, calm and clear, “the other backs off. No hard feelings.”
Jason’s fingers curled at his sides. A long pause.
Then, he nodded. “May the best man win.”
Dick’s gaze didn’t waver. “For her. The best man for her.”
Meanwhile, Tim watched the entire exchange unfold like a tennis match—head swivelling between brothers, eyes wide. He looked personally offended that no one had handed him popcorn.
“I’ve got to tell the others,” he muttered under his breath, already planning the group chat text.
Dick left for patrol not long after, slipping his domino mask into place with the smug confidence of a man who thought he’d just secured a win.
Jason, who didn’t need to suit up for another hour, turned to Tim with a groan and a scowl. “Alright, nerd. How did you even know where to look for that flagged experiment?”
Tim blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. Uh—it was actually Damian.”
Jason’s eye twitched.
“He said the doctor might be a potential lead. Once we ran her name, we found the connection to her brother and his research. Looked solid.”
Jason exhaled slowly through his nose. Of course it was Damian. The demon spawn never let anything go. And this was exactly what he got for digging into her file on Batcave servers of all places. He might as well have slapped a neon sign across the screen that read I’m hiding something, please investigate. The one girl he was actually interested in—and she was tangled up in one of their ugliest cases to date.
Jason turned to Tim, narrowing his eyes like a man about to drag someone else into his personal war.
“You’re gonna help me.”
Tim blinked. “With… what exactly?”
“Reconning Dick.”
Tim frowned. “Didn’t you two literally just agree not to interfere?”
“I’m not interfering,” Jason said, far too quickly. “I’m making sure he sticks to the rules.”
Tim gave him a long, deadpan look. “Uh-huh.”
Jason just stared.
Tim sighed, resigned. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Nope.”
Another sigh. Tim rolled his chair back from the console like it was a death march. “I need a vacation. Or a therapist.”
Jason clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a real one, Replacement.”
“Don’t call me that.”
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For the prompts (I’m probably super late I’m sorry OTL) “it’s not my fault, it’s 4am and you’re fucking yelling at me!” For Kakuzu please! Also your writing is amazing and I hope your muse returns pronto! Good vibes from me to you ✨
💰 kakuzu x reader 💰 supernatural (ish) AU part one | part two | part three | part four warnings: brief mentions of past abusive relationship. finger sucking and minimal sexy thread times. also - this is a special guest episode, as a treat. special message to the anon who requested this literally 72 business years ago: i am so sorry. i hope this was worth it. ily.
this is part four of my kakuzu prompt series. i recommend reading parts one, two, & three (linked above) before indulging.
The next day you’re distracted. Very distracted. You were typically pretty well put together but you felt as if your head was stuck in a permanent fog. Last night played on a loop in your mind, and you know ... you know Kakuzu had almost kissed you.
I broke my rules for you.
The apple you’re looking at slips from your grip and you blink back to reality. Embarrassment curls up your spine as you glance around to see if anyone saw. When you’re sure no one noticed, you bend to pick up the fruit and add it to your basket. You were doing some light grocery shopping, but so far you’d bumped into two different people, walked down the wrong aisle multiple times, and now you were dropping things.
God, you were like a teenager all over again. Just a silly little girl with a crush. You honestly hated the word, it didn’t seem to adequately describe your situation or your feelings. An infatuation? You were definitely attracted to him. You liked talking to him. You wanted to know more about him. And most importantly of all, he made you feel safe.
Next time, girl.
The shame curling in your gut from being clumsy was slowly being replaced by a simmering, now familiar heat. What did he mean, next time? Did that mean when he saw you again, he’d ... what? Kiss you? Explain? Kill you?
You know the latter is completely untrue, but for some reason it was much easier to imagine Kakuzu taking your life. You can picture Kakuzu killing, you know he’s done it before, and his aura alone was stifling and intimidating. But … kissing? Being intimate? Your imagination stops there but it doesn’t keep you from wondering. From wanting.
You never thought you would fall for a mountain of a man after spending a good portion of your life afraid of men, but here you were. Falling for a monster. Your monster. Who, by all accounts, should scare the absolute living hell out of you.
But he didn’t.
You’re able to check out without issue and start your walk home with two small grocery bags. It’s a nice day and fall was coming, leaving a nice breeze in the air to help clear your mind. You switch your bags to one hand and hold your sweater a little closer, managing to nod and smile at a gentleman walking by. Every day your confidence grew around strangers, and every day you’re thankful for Kakuzu. For your deal. Your spine felt harder, straighter. You rarely had panic attacks anymore, and found yourself leaving your apartment without constantly looking over your shoulder. You were stronger, self-assured, and self-reliant. You felt good.
A low whistle catches your attention and just like that, your courage fizzles to nothing. It was a catcall whistle, something meant to be derogatory, and it reminded you of your ex-husband.
“Wow.”
There’s a very male voice coming from behind and you stiffen, heart jumping to your throat. You don’t want to turn around but you stop walking, listening intently as footsteps approach you.
“I think I get it now.”
You blink, now confused and nervous, and turn your head to see who’s talking to you. Maybe they weren’t even speaking to you, maybe you misheard. Your rampant paranoia was still present and maybe —
Nope. He’s looking directly at you.
You’re visibly shocked by him, mouth parting muted awe. He looked … not like any man you’ve ever seen. Vibrant lavender eyes hold your own with an intensity you’re not used to receiving from a stranger, and his mouth is twisted into a cocksure grin that showed teeth. Silver hair was slicked back with a few strays curling slightly on his forehead, and the open jacket he wore revealed way more chest than you wanted to see. Your eyes immediately flick down to watch his hands and your anxiety kicks up a notch when you see them stuffed into his jacket pockets.
Hidden hands meant trouble. Your ex was proof of that.
It’s the first time in awhile you’ve felt trapped; cornered like some animal. The stranger’s posture was relaxed but the look on his face was anything but. You tried to keep your breathing calm, but your gut instinct was telling you something was off about this guy. He didn’t seem totally crazy, he just seemed … abnormal. Intense. Unpredictable.
“You checkin’ me out, girl?”
Your back stiffens and you snap your gaze back up to his face. Girl. Kakuzu called you that and it never bothered you, but coming from this man? It felt like an insult. Like you were beneath him.
Still … the way he said it. The tone reminded you of your monster. Something about how he said it. Like you were different from him, like you were in a category of your own.
“Do you need something?” you ask, attempting to keep your tone level. Not quite friendly but not quite scared. You were extremely aware of the fragility of the male ego and didn’t want to set this guy off, but you wouldn’t cower. Your question seems to ignite something in him and you frown as he throws his head back and laughs. It’s loud, boyish; and when he snaps his head back up his eyes find yours immediately. The wicked gleam there has you fighting off the urge to bolt, but somehow you know running would make things worse.
“Nah I’m just,” he pauses, taking another step toward you; to which you respond by taking a step back, “curious.”
“About?”
Something about you must amuse this guy a great deal. He’s grinning at you now, assessing you like you were an exhibit he didn’t quite understand. You glance to your right, only to inhale nervously when you realize you’re completely alone. You could have sworn there were other people on the sidewalk with you, and the street you were on was typically a busy one. But there wasn’t a soul in sight, just you and this man.
You suddenly wish Kakuzu would appear.
“Couldn’t fuckin’ believe it when I heard. Had to make a trip back just to see …” he trails off, taking a step to the right to start circling you. It reminded you of a wild animal, circling their prey.
“I don’t understand.” You breathe, body twisting to keep him in your sight. Lavender eyes once again meet yours.
“Don’t suppose you would.” His tone is light, and you can tell he’s having fun. You’re thrown back to being in elementary school, watching other kids participate in game you didn’t know how to play.
“What do you want?” You ask, some of the carefully hidden irritation making it’s way into your tone. Amusement falls from the stranger’s face and you blink when he’s suddenly in front of you. You could have sworn he was just standing behind you, how did he -
“As much as I’d love to ruin that bastard’s day, a deal’s a deal.”
You hold your breath and fight to not visibly shake. The playful demeanor he held was now lined with something dangerous and the air around you seems thicker. He bends his head towards you and your spine stiffens when his next words are whispered directly into your ear.
“Tell the old man Hidan says hi.”
Your mouth parts, more questions forming on your tongue, but just like that he’s gone. A gust of wind hits you and you jump, the sound of cars and people bustling on the street hitting you all at once. The once still and silent street was now full of noise and life; and you blink helplessly as it all washes over you. Where had everyone gone? You were sure the street was just empty.
You tighten your grip on your groceries and decide to just book it back to your apartment. You felt breathless and a little dizzy, no doubt due to some of the leftover fear and adrenaline in your system. You start moving, keeping your head down as you make your way back to your apartment.
Just get home, you chant to yourself. You purposefully move the command around your brain, even going so far as to silently mouth the words to keep from thinking about what just happened.
Just get home.
Soon you’re back in your apartment and quickly putting your groceries away. The next thing you do is check to make sure all of your doors and windows are locked, and then you check again. You're shaken to your core and now that you’re back in your home, in a space you consider safe, your mind is reeling.
Who was that?
You immediately start listing off people you knew, to try and figure out who he was talking about. He said the old man, you didn’t know any old men -
Except your ex.
Was he - did that guy know your ex-husband? Was he sent to you, as some sort of sick joke? You didn’t know anything about your ex-husband’s whereabouts, you just knew he was alive, and that was enough for your panic riddled brain to latch onto.
The anxiety you feel is building and you move to your bedroom while trying to do the breathing exercises your therapist had taught you. Inhale for four seconds, hold for four seconds, exhale for four seconds. Before you know it, you’re in your bed, back against the headboard - trying to just breathe.
Inhale for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
Exhale for four seconds.
It calms you, after awhile, and you swallow against the dryness in your throat. You feel heavy, emotionally drained, and you just want to sleep. You move slowly, changing into shorts and an oversized shirt that's warm but comfortable. Your bed welcomes you back and soon you’re under your blankets, mind still doing a slow tumble through your day. You can still hear the stranger’s laugh, a loud cackle that sends a shiver down your spine. You shut your eyes tight and try to think of something else.
Someone else.
Lavender eyes and silver slicked back hair are replaced with green and black. You think about Kakuzu, about what happened last night, and soon you’re drifting off; thoughts of inky black thread and unfinished promises sending you into slumber.
You wake with a gasp and sit up, throat sore and wetness pooling in the corners of your eyes. You had been with your ex, he’d cornered you, he’d been drinking and had come home and -
It takes you a moment to realize it was a nightmare and the next breath you take is ragged. You were home. You were home and that was years ago, you were safe now, you made a deal with -
“Calm yourself girl.”
Your head snaps up and stiffens when you see Kakuzu standing in the corner of your bedroom. The streetlights from outside along with your blinds shine an interesting pattern on him, and you’re surprised to see that he’s uncovered. Black hair hangs freely around his face and his arms are crossed across his chest, his stitches straining against his muscles. Swallowing thickly, your hands fist in your sheets and you frown when they start to move underneath you.
When you glance down, you’re surprised at the black threads that are tangling around your fingers. There’s so much of them and you carefully turn your hand over, watching intently as inky strands continue to dance across your palm. More investigation reveals that his thread is covering both of your hands and moving carefully up your arms, stroking back and forth carefully like a caress. It clicks suddenly, and you bring your head back up to look at him.
“You woke me up.” You murmur, throat still dry, and Kakuzu’s eyes narrow, confirming your suspicion. You look away to glance at your clock and frown when you see it reads 3:47am.
“Thank you.” You whisper and Kakuzu shifts his shoulders, his arms unfolding and resting at his sides. His thread starts to pull back and you turn to watch as they slide away from you, off the edge of your bed, and disappear into the darkness that cloaks him.
“Anything to cease your endless whimpering.” His confession is sneered at you and you have to drop your chin to your chest to hide a fond smile. Ever so grouchy and grumpy.
You lift a hand and rub at your eyes, fighting back a tired yawn. Kakuzu steps closer and you still your movements when he speaks again.
“You met a man today.”
Your head snaps up, tiredness forgotten, and frown. Inhuman eyes hold your own, and there’s an edge to his tone, to him that you’ve never seen before.
“H-how did you - ”
“Did he touch you?”
What?
You blink once and then twice before opening and closing your mouth. You were trying to find the right words to respond, trying and failing to come up with something to say. Your brain, poor thing, was still lagging from being woken so suddenly, leaving you somewhat slack jawed and intelligible.
Kakuzu snarls in response to your silence and leans over, hands coming to rest at the foot of your bed as he looms over you.
“Answer me, girl. Did he touch you?”
Your brow furrows in response.
“How did you know I met a man today?”
Judging by the incandescent glare you receive, you answered wrong. Even so, you feel none of the fear you felt earlier, none of the anxiety or panic. Distantly you register that the protective streak you’re witnessing is causing molten heat to stir in your belly, but you’re tired and agitated from your nightmare and being abruptly woken up.
“I won’t ask again.” He snaps and you swallow, eyebrows pinching together in frustration.
“No, he didn’t. How did you know?” You snip back and Kakuzu pushes himself off the bed.
“That is none of your concern.”
You bristle in response.
“None of my - how is it none of my concern?”
Green cat-like eyes stare at you impassively and you’re hit with the childish urge to throw something at him. If you weren’t so disorientated you might have.
And then -
“Wait, is he like you?”
Tell the old man Hidan says hi.
You feel the sudden urge to move and start to slowly uncurl your legs from your blankets. Kakuzu doesn’t answer but it doesn’t deter you.
“He told me to tell the old man hi. Are you who he was talking about?”
Your feet meet the carpet and you stand, fingers drumming against your bare thighs. Details from your encounter start to resurface and everything slowly clicks into place.
“He ... he made everyone on the street disappear. Told me he was curious, wanted to see for himself. He’s like you, right?”
Kakuzu’s mouth twists into a snarl.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Your hands tighten into fists.
“I wouldn’t have to if you just told me the truth.”
You watch as what you can only describe as irritation flashes across his face. He moves towards you and you dig your heels into the carpet, ready to stand your ground.
“I don’t have to answer to you, human.”
Something visceral burns through you.
“Why are you mad at me? I didn’t do anything, it was your friend who just showed up —” A low rumble similar to a growl warns you to stop but you keep going, your hands emphasizing your frustration as your voice rises, “it’s you who’s snapping at me, I don’t even know what’s going on —”
“You are the one who cannot answer a simple question. Idiot girl.” Kakuzu’s sneering at you, now close enough to bend his head to look down at you. You throw your hands in the air and let out a humorless laugh before going to shove him back.
“It’s not my fault, it’s four in the morning and you’re fucking yelling at me!”
You don’t expect him to so much as budge when your palms meet his chest, but it feels good to make contact with something. With him. You know it wouldn’t hurt, you know he’s probably laughing cruelly at you, but you couldn’t take him standing there looking down at you when he had all the answers and you had none.
What you don’t expect is for him to grab onto your wrists and pull you closer. You immediate reaction is to flinch, to protect your face by ducking down, and the breath in your lungs stills. You wait for something, for him to yell, to shove you off, but nothing happens. The weight of his hands is heavy, and your brow furrows in confusion when you feel him lift and turn your wrist. You chance a glance upwards and watch as his eyes skim up and down your hand, your arm. When his inspection is complete, he turns to the other one, once again lifting your hand away from his chest. When he speaks, his tone is deeper, and the heat that you’ve come to associate with him once again makes it way through your chest.
“There is no one like me. Hidan is merely an immortal who uses blood magic. He would just need a drop ...” His sentence trails off as he finishes inspecting your arms, only to lightly push you away to cast his gaze down at your legs. Your toes curl in your carpet under his scrutiny and when he drops your wrists you tangle your hands together.
“I’m fine.” You try but Kakuzu cuts you off immediately.
“You wouldn’t know.”
You bristle again, still buzzing with frustration, but the gravel in his tone digs up under your chest and starts to break it up.
“It presents differently, in humans. You wouldn’t even have felt it, if he pricked you.”
Oh. You exhale through your nose.
“So ... he’s like a vampire?”
Kakuzu snaps his head up to meet your eyes and lets out a snort. You blink at the foreign noise.
Did your monster just laugh?
“Idiot.” He scoffs, straightening to his full height. You narrow your eyes and fight a smile.
“What? Demons and immortals are real. You’re real. But vampires, that’s stupid?”
You’re rewarded with an arched brow and finally feel all the anxiety and frustration from earlier fizzle into nothing. The warmth in your tummy starts to kindle and you glance around your room as memories from the previous night start to hit you.
I broke my rules for you.
“He will not bother you again.”
You nod and turn back to look at him, meeting his stare head on. You had other questions about your encounter with Hidan but you knew the answers he’d give you would do nothing to satiate your curiosity. You're not sure how much times passes, all you do know is neither of you are making any sort of move to leave. It makes you bolder, knowing that something kept him here. That he wanted to be there.
Next time, girl.
So instead -
“So, is this the next time you were referring to, or ... ?”
The air around you changes and a thrill shoots through at the way Kakuzu tenses. Like a coil, almost. His eyes somehow burn brighter and he takes a step towards you again, large hands flexing at his sides. Your chest heaves with effort and the smirk that curls across his face is anything but friendly. Dangerous.
It's consuming, how much you want him.
"You know not what you ask, girl."
You tilt your chin up to hold his gaze as he looms over you. His hair falls from his shoulders, surrounding you, and you feel the telltale trickle of his thread around your ankles.
"Just a stupid human girl." You murmur, and those green eyes narrow at your tone. You feel thread in your hair and let your head be pulled back, baring your throat to your monster who seemed to be wrestling with something as he looked at you. His gaze trailed from your neck, to your eyes, to your mouth; as if he were looking for something. Waiting for something. You don't move, you don't speak and finally he stills his movements completely, eyes boring into yours as if to burn you in place.
"You understand what you're asking of me?" He hisses and you blink. He waits for your answer and you swallow before finding your voice.
"Yes."
"You understand that I am not like them." He sneers the last word in disgust, as if even needing to state the fact that he wasn't human was beneath him.
"Yes." You breathe, the warmth from your tummy spreading. You were beginning to feel light headed and your hands twitch with the need to touch him.
He pauses, taking you in, and then you feel it. Strands and strands of inky black thread coiling around your thighs, your waist, your neck. You close your eyes and part your lips with a gasp at the way his thread move across your body. They're under your shirt and skirt the edge of your shorts, feather light strokes becoming bolder and bolder with each touch.
Your eyes fly open when you feel his hand curl around your chin and stutter a breath as thread moves just under your breasts. His thumb strokes your bottom lip and wetness begins to pool between your thighs. Your heart beats a furious rhythm under your chest and Kakuzu inhales at the sound of it.
"Open." He commands, voice deep and unwavering. Your mouth parts slowly, and you shudder as the tip of your tongue meets the pad of his thumb. The thread around you tightens upon the contact, flexing against your thighs and pushing up against your breasts. He presses down, holding you in place, while simultaneously tilting your face up. He's so close now, hair tickling the sides of your face, and you swear you see a triumphant glitter in his eyes.
"So pliant." Kakuzu taunts, nose nearly brushing yours. Your eyes narrow and before you can think better of it you close your mouth around him and suck.
Your reward is a snarl and the wall meeting your back.
He's quick about manhandling you, large firm thigh slotted between your legs, thread tightening enough to keep you still without hurting. He presses his thumb further into your mouth, eyes now transfixed on how it disappears, and you glide your tongue along the ridges of his knuckles before sucking him in deeper. He hasn't actually touched you anywhere else, hasn't even kissed you like you wanted him to, but that doesn't stop your body from reacting to everything. To him.
The whimper you let out is pathetic and needy.
He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to degrade you or boss you around even more, but something on his face changes. You pinch your brow in confusion as his head turns sharply, eyes unfocusing as if he's thinking. When he cocks his head ever so slightly you realize he's listening and you strain to hear what he heard.
Only there's nothing.
Kakuzu pulls away from you sharply, taking his thread with him, and you hear him growl in a language you'd never heard before. You take a step forward to regain your balance, only to be once again manhandled to look up at him. You can still feel your saliva on his thumb as he grips your chin, and you're taken aback by the intensity you receive.
"We are not done here."
He spits the words at you, eyes narrowing until you nod in agreement. His gaze flicks down to your overly wet mouth and you're once again introduced to a language you don't understand. He sounded angry, strained, and he meets your eyes once more before taking a step back and disappearing completely, once again leaving you alone.
serenade
synopsis: when top music critic sylus qin gives your new album a scathing review, you plan a performance to make him pay.
tags: celebrity au, porn with plot, enemies to lovers (reader hates him, sylus is generally a bastard but just doing his job), mirror sex, p in v, light choking, moderate biting, size difference, dramatic reader, reader does some light internet stalking, brief angst only bc sylus’s review was mean, he does something nice at the end to make up for it, inspired by dandelion by ariana grande pairing: music critic!sylus x pop star!fem reader word count: 7.2k
a/n: writing this was a traumatic experience i literally decided i was going to finish and upload today 12 hours ago because i cannot have this in my drafts any longer
I. THE RATING
“A fucking 4.7?!” you screech, hurling your phone across the bed in horror.
It must be a mistake. A typo, or maybe your eyesight has gotten worse since your last checkup. Paparazzi cameras can do that, your optometrist had told you once. Yes. You’re sure that’s the case.
Taking a moment to breathe—hyperventilate, more like—you snatch the device back up and double-check with wild eyes.
And sure enough, in big bold letters: Four. Point. Seven.
There was no way. No fucking way that that hard-ass snobby bastard Sylus Qin had given your new album—the record you’d poured your heart and soul into—a 4.7/10 rating.
You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise.
You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell.
Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame.
Sylus Qin.
The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe.
The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive.
No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk.
No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota.
And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.
As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon.
You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked.
***
Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection.
But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong.
Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase.
As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase.
Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery.
But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder.
“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room.
“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth.
You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact.
“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.”
“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.”
“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?”
At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.”
Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale.
“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”
And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place.
“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.”
“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post.
Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice.
“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.”
“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face.
“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.”
Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name.
Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is.
II. THE INTERVIEW
After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over.
It was time to stare Death in the face.
With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably.
3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair.
And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates.
The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve.
A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen.
Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin!
Your heart stops.
“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.
And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera.
Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet.
Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives.
And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome.
“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.”
It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway.
“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.”
“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…”
***
As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked.
You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage.
Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise.
Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.
“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”
And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny.
“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.”
He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down.
“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more.
Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.
That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it—cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country.
Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy.
When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again.
“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.”
Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot.
You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience.
As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge.
This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours.
Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.
Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period.
Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.
III. THE PLAN
Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door.
But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go.
After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires.
But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history.
You’d started simple: his social media.
There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.
His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck.
But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face.
And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse?
That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history.
But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too.
You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned.
But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate.
Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.
***
After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter.
Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read.
104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer.
He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him.
“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him.
But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:
You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him.
You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo.
You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point.
And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done.
You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin.
There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism.
Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :)
The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered.
His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.
Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them.
“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”
Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind.
A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words.
IV. THE PREP
You’d always loved awards shows.
The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in.
After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)
Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair.
Your body goes rigid.
But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do.
Sylus Qin is here.
Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh.
Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know.
Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—
It’s like he heard you. Felt you.
Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you.
When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.
So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over.
When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show.
“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.”
You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little.
But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan.
“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls.
At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in.
As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided.
“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.”
“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm.
“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore.
“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”
His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification.
“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile.
He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.”
That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance.
Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not.
Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week.
***
In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime.
As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do.
Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain.
Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe.
It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life.
V. THE SHOW
The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.
The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights.
In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme.
Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television.
The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair.
Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.
Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips.
A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about.
So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit.
Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you.
The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man.
As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips.
The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair.
The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.
You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show.
Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.
Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography.
With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine.
Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.
But Sylus Qin is gone.
VI. THE AFTERMATH
The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you.
Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.
But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all.
Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left.
You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room.
And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late.
Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place.
Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.
Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you.
“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear.
Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”
You receive a soft hum in response.
As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches.
Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs.
“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”
Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.
“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit.
“I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.”
Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon.
“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”
Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder.
“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.”
As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely.
“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”
“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss.
“I wanted you, too.”
As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight.
“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.”
For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.
Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”
And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body.
He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls.
Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing.
“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.”
As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal.
“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment.
Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give.
With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”
The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you.
“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”
As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.
“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan.
Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.
With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight.
You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room.
Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”
Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”
VII. THE EPILOGUE
You can’t feel your limbs the next morning.
You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily.
With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker.
“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off.
“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”
“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.
“Fine, just give me a—”
Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.
Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.
And right there, where that dreaded 4.7 had stared you down, is a giant, boldface 8.
Man.... This is so... Perfect 😭👌
the sillies
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