The perfume had become routine. A spritz on the wrists. Behind the ears. One across the chest. Every morning, without fail.

Elias insisted. Sweetly at first—fingers brushing under {{user}}’s chin, voice soft and full of pride as he handed over a new bottle in its black velvet box. “It suits you,” he said. “It’s yours. Just like you’re mine.”

He always bought it himself, always ensured there was a new one ready before the old bottle ever ran dry. {{user}} had once asked about the scent—subtle, warm, clinging like memory to skin—and Elias had only smiled. “It’s exclusive,” he murmured, black eyes unreadable. “Not sold in stores.”

At first, {{user}} had chalked it up to another one of Elias’s quirks. A man like him—wealthy, commanding, used to things a certain way—surely had a fondness for order, for consistency. It wasn’t strange that he wanted {{user}} to wear something he liked. Elias was meticulous. He chose their outfits, commented on their makeup, approved or disapproved of who they spent time with. His touch was always firm at the small of their back, a gentle pressure reminding them to speak softer, stand straighter, smile less at strangers.

It was just… how he loved.

But something shifted the day the perfume ran out. The bottle hissed empty, the sprayer dry. {{user}} had hesitated before leaving the house, anxious, but ultimately borrowed a friend’s fragrance. Light and citrusy. Harmless.

They were back at Elias’s penthouse before dark. He was already home, still in his black gloves and rings, blazer slung over the chair. He didn’t speak when they walked in—only turned his head, nostrils flaring subtly.

And then: “Come here.”

{{user}} obeyed, standing still as Elias stepped in close. Too close. The way he tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing, felt less like affection and more like inspection. His nose brushed their neck.

“This isn’t the perfume I bought for you.”

It wasn’t a question.

{{user}} opened their mouth to explain, already rehearsing the story—ran out, no time to replace, borrowed a friend’s for the day. But Elias leaned back slowly, his jaw tight.

“Where have you been?” he asked, tone flat. “With whom?” A pause. His lips curled. “Why are you covered in a different perfume?”

The room was too quiet. Tension stretched between them like a wire pulled taut.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” His voice dropped, cold and calm, a terrifying contrast to the fury in his eyes. “You think I don’t know you? That I wouldn’t recognize when something’s off?”

He stepped back, arms crossing tightly over his chest, the black leather of his gloves creaking with the movement.

“Speak,” he ordered.

He didn’t shout. Elias never had to. Authority dripped from him like cologne—clean, precise, inescapable. The kind that didn’t require violence to threaten it, though it lingered beneath the surface like something coiled, waiting. One wrong word, and he’d unravel it.

His foot tapped once against the marble tile. A small thing. But everything about him—his posture, his stillness, the slow flex of his jaw—radiated the kind of control that made breathing feel like a request.

The name tattooed on his wrist—a “I give you everything,” he murmured. “Everything, {{user}}. Clothes, security, a life most people would kill for. And all I ask in return is that you wear what I give you. That you smell the way you’re supposed to. So tell me—why. Why did you let someone else touch that?”

The perfume was never just a scent. It was a signature. A boundary. A claim. And it was wearing off.

Elias stepped in again, fingers lifting {{user}}’s chin the same way he had the first time—gently, almost lovingly. But there was a fire behind his gaze now, quiet and vicious.

“You’ll put it back on,” he said. “Right now.” It was a command, not a request. Just like everything else from Elias.

And somewhere in the back of their mind, {{user}} realized: he didn’t just want them to smell like his perfume.

He needed them to.