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fiendsgf · 3 days ago

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Soulbound

III. Echoes

sylus x reader, rafayel x reader

Summary: Time drips slow in the N109 Zone. As you settle into life inside Onychinus’s base, isolation begins to wear you thin. Sylus remains distant but watchful, and when your paths cross again, truths start to unravel. Memories don’t match. Training begins. And in the shadows of a corrupted city, something stirs...

content: non!mc reader, angst if you squint, isekai, love triangle(ish) coming! shady raf (soon)

pt. 1 pt. 2

You wake slowly.

No buzzing alarm. No city sounds outside your window. No phone light blinking with texts you don’t want to answer.

Just silence. Deep and unbroken.

Your body registers warmth before your mind fully stirs. Expensive sheets. Egyptian cotton, maybe. The bed underneath you is impossibly soft, and for a moment you forget where you are.

Then it all comes rushing back.

You sit up too fast, a wave of dizziness catching you off guard. The guest room Sylus gave you is dark, but not cold. Midnight velvet walls and dim golden fixtures glow softly, casting amber light across the room. A decanter sits untouched on a low table beside you. The carpet feels like crushed velvet under your feet. The place is silent, decadent.

You pad quietly across the floor, trying to orient yourself.

No sun. No sky. Just N109’s endless darkness pressing in through floor to ceiling windows.

Right. I’m still here.

Still inside the game.

You crack the door open and step into the hallway. The opulence continues outside, a long corridor lit with warm sconces and art that feels alive. You can’t help but study a portrait in passing, a striking oil piece of a crow with too many eyes. You don’t recognize it from any game asset.

Was this always here?

Your feet lead you to an open space at the far end of the floor. A kitchen, or something like it. Sleek black marble counters, gold fixtures, crystal glasses that look like they belong behind museum glass.

And then there’s him.

Sylus.

Leaning casually against the island, arms crossed, dressed in black like the hour. His silver hair is swept back loosely, and in the dim underlighting of the kitchen, the crimson of his eyes glows faintly as he watches you approach.

“Sleep well?” he asks, voice dry.

You freeze for a second, then nod. “Yeah. Alright, I guess.”

“I wanted to speak with you. Come here.” His tone is easy, but there’s always something careful about him. Like every word’s been weighed before it leaves his mouth.

You step forward. Your heart thuds. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you now. A stray? A threat? Something between?

He gestures toward one of the tall stools at the island and waits for you to sit before continuing.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. The ‘game.’ The world.” His gaze sharpens. “I’d like you to explain what that actually entails.”

You nod, folding your hands. “Right.”

You swallow, trying to untangle your thoughts. “So… it’s like a visual novel with some animation. But it’s also gacha-based. We collect Memories. Like… interactive cards with story. And the main story plays out in chapters.”

“And this ‘main story,’” he says slowly, “involves… who?”

You hesitate, not out of secrecy, but out of awkwardness. “You play as the character you create, and you follow her story. You’re also introduced to the love interests, and learn about your connection to them.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“She’s connected to all of them, in different ways. You each have your own arc, your own backstory, and your own romantic plotline. You don’t really pick anyone in the main story.”

Sylus’s brow raises at that. “So you… entertain five men at once?”

You flush. “Not exactly…” You pause. “The main story kind of introduces your characters while unraveling the truth behind her existence. There’s moments where you’re… affectionate, but I wouldn’t say it’s all romantic. The romance is moreso in the Memories.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but there’s a flicker of something unreadable behind his gaze.

“And what about these memories?” he asks.

“So, that’s the gacha aspect. There’s always events where we can pull for cards, sometimes for just one guy or all five. Each card is tied to one of you. You, Rafayel, Zayne, Caleb, Xavier.” you explain.

“They all have different concepts, like there’s the one where you get turned into her cat butler.” You mention the strangest card you can think of, hoping to lighten the mood.

Sylus blinks. “That never happened.”

You pause. “Oh. Well, I don’t have that card, maybe thats why…”

“There’s one where you hide in a closet with her. Do you remember that?”

“...I don’t. None of what you’re describing has happened between us.”

You sit back, thoughtful.

“Maybe the memories haven’t happened yet? Just the main story.”

“Seems that way.”

It leaves an odd feeling in your chest. Have you glimpsed the future? Has your arrival disrupted the story? A new wave of guilt you can’t exactly place floods your system.

You glance up to find Sylus watching you carefully. His expression is unreadable, but he’s quiet. Thinking. Judging the pieces you’ve given him.

“I see,” he says at last. “Your information is… valuable.”

You exhale. “You’re taking all this better than I thought you would.”

“I’ve seen stranger things,” he murmurs. Then adds, more lightly, “I’ve been stranger things.”

You laugh, soft and startled, and to your surprise, it nearly draws a real smile from him. Not just the half-smirks he wears like armor, but something close to genuine.

“About that…” you start, shifting a little closer in tone. “There’s also the myths. They show past or future versions of you. All of you have them.”

Sylus hums, low in his throat. Thoughtful. “So that’s how you know what I am.”

“You knew?”

“I saw it, with my eye.”

Your mind flashes back to the rooftop. The first time you saw that flicker of red.

“Oh. Right.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. His gaze drops for a moment, and when he looks back at you, there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the usual restraint. Melancholy, maybe. Something older than the man standing in front of you.

“You’re not… scared of me,” he says. It isn’t a question. Just a quiet observation.

“No.” You meet his gaze, steady. “I don’t see a reason to be.”

Sylus doesn’t answer. But his eyes linger on you, and the corners of his mouth tug upward. Not quite a smile, but something near its shadow.

The moment passes. The kitchen lights buzz faintly above you. Somewhere deep in the base, Mephisto lets out a faint metallic caw.

You’re still not sure where you are. Or why. But at least now you know this: The memories you know don’t exist here.

You’re inside the main story.

You think.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Time in the N109 Zone doesn’t pass. It drips.

There’s no sun to track across the sky, no birdsong or wind to hint at morning or night. The base is always dim, lit by candlelight and the low ambient hum of violet screens, but never bright.

At first, you try to keep your Earth schedule. Wake up when you assume it’s day. Go to sleep before you feel delirious. But that quickly unravels. Days blend together. Time starts to lose meaning, like the faint buzz of a lamp you inevitably tune out.

Some mornings, or nights, you’re not sure, you find yourself staring out of the window in your room, hoping for even a crack of natural light. But there’s only the glow of holograms and the faraway flicker of surveillance drones buzzing over the skyline.

You miss light. You miss time. You miss people.

The twins, Luke and Kieran, are the closest thing you’ve had to consistent company.

They’re kind, in their own strange way. Luke teaches you how to recalibrate your datapad and once gives you an old Onychinus bomber jacket that nearly drowns you. Kieran likes to hover while you read in the lounge, pretending not to care about the plot of whatever book you’ve pulled from the base archives, only to throw out offhand critiques an hour later.

“Why are you even reading this? That scientist character’s gonna die.” “What?! No he’s not!" “Too moral. He’s toast.”

They make it easier. You laugh more around them than you expected to. Still, you know they’re busy. You try not to be a burden.

Sylus, on the other hand…

You’ve seen him more than you expected to, but only in passing. Sometimes at odd hours when he emerges from meetings or missions, silent and sharp-eyed. He’ll pause near you, offer a nod or a comment. Once, he handed you a slice of black sesame cake from an auction he returned from. You didn’t even ask.

But he hasn’t mentioned progress. Not on the tunnel. Not on your return. Not on anything.

You tell yourself it hasn’t been that long. That you just need to be patient. That this place is not your home. Not yet, not ever – and he knows that.

But some nights, lying in that velvet-wrapped room with the city’s constant mechanical hum clawing at your ears, you wonder if anyone is still looking for you back in your world. Or if they ever even noticed you were gone.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You don’t plan to go to the rooftop. Not really. But after another sleepless stretch of not-quite-day, the walls feel like they’re closing in. So you wander.

The elevator doors open with a soft hiss, revealing the familiar scent of wilted daturas and something more ancient; crushed leaves, wet iron, faint ash. The rooftop garden is just as it was the night you arrived: eerie, surreal, beautiful in a way that doesn’t comfort so much as haunt.

You’re halfway across the gravel path when you see him.

Sylus.

Leaning on the iron railing that rings the rooftop’s edge, looking out over the glittering ruin of the N109 Zone, a pack of cigarettes by his side. His profile is sharp against the void, silver hair tousled by wind, eyes half-lidded, jaw tight with thought. He doesn’t turn when you approach.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he says quietly.

“I don’t even know when ‘by now’ is anymore.”

That earns a faint huff. “Fair.”

You hesitate at first, but after a second, he gestures for you to join him. You step up beside him, resting your arms on the railing. The wind is cold. You can’t see the stars.

“I owe you an apology,” he says after a moment.

You blink. “For what?”

“I haven’t found anything. No data spike. No tunnel breach. No quantum fault signatures. Nothing.” His voice is low, unreadable, but sincere. “You’ve been here for weeks. And I’ve offered you nothing but theories.”

You glance sideways at him. His eyes stay fixed on the skyline, but his fingers tap absently against the iron rail.

“I wasn’t expecting this to be easy,” you say softly.

“No. But I think you were expecting not to be… forgotten.”

That stings. Not because it’s cruel, but because it’s close to true.

You exhale, your breath curling into the cold.

“I’ve never felt so… out of place.” Your voice is quieter now. “Like I’m just wandering in someone else’s life. Watching people I thought I knew treat me like a stranger. Trying to stay out of the way so I don’t ruin anything.”

Sylus finally turns to look at you. His gaze is steady. “You haven’t ruined anything.”

“I feel like I’m one step away from it. Like if the others see me… if she sees me–”

“They won’t,” he says firmly.

You nod, grateful, but something still twists in your chest.

“I just feel so… disconnected,” you admit. “This base is beautiful, but it doesn’t feel like I live here. The twins have been kind, but they’re not really my friends. And you…” You falter. You weren’t planning to say that part.

Sylus raises an eyebrow.

“…Well. It’s…strange.” you say with a slight smile.

There’s a beat of silence. Wind stirs the flowers beside you. Sylus’s voice is softer when he replies.

“You’re not a threat,” he says. “You’re not a burden. And whatever brought you here… it didn’t choose randomly.”

You meet his gaze. Red, steady, honest. And for a moment, something eases.

“…Thanks,” you murmur.

He shrugs lightly, tossing his crooked grin your way.

You smile. And that’s when it happens.

A flicker. A shadow behind his eyes.

He watches you, just for a second longer than needed – and something unplaceable crosses his expression. Familiarity.

Not memory. Not recognition. Just a flash of something half-remembered.

But it’s gone before it fully lands, and Sylus turns back toward the horizon.

“Get some rest,” he says. “You’ll need your strength.”

You glance over. “For what?”

A faint smirk curls at his lips. “Training.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Tomorrow, we’ll spar.”

And just like that, he steps away, disappearing down the stairs with his usual liquid grace.

You remain a moment longer in the dark, the night heavy on your shoulders. The rooftop garden hums faintly behind you.

For the first time in days, something loosens in your chest.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The next day in the base passes like the rest. Too slow, too quiet, too dim to tell what time it actually is. You pace your room more than once, flip through channels with static, and stare at Mephisto for a full five minutes before he caws and flies off, deeply unimpressed.

So when there’s a knock at your door, you practically jump.

Sylus stands on the other side, backlit by the hallway’s low lighting. He’s shed his blazer, rolled up sleeves exposing the thick leather wraps on his forearms. You clock the usual glint in his eye, half amusement, half unreadable calculation.

“I’m heading to the training deck,” he says. “You’re coming with me.”

You blink. “I am?”

“Unless you plan to keep biting your nails to bone.”

Your gaze falters in embarrassment. “You noticed that?”

He gives you a pointed once-over. “I notice everything.”

You narrow your eyes, but follow him.

The space is massive. Metal-lined walls, neon strips running the length of the ceiling, a rubber sparring floor in the center. A few training dummies rest against the wall, all in varying stages of having been violently dismembered.

Sylus tosses you a towel and a bottle of water. You catch them with a small fumble, already suspicious.

“I’ve never like… seriously sparred before, just so you know.” you say, eyeing the gear in the corner like it might bite.

“I figured,” he says, stretching his shoulders back. “Thought I’d see what kind of instincts you do have.”

“I mean, my reaction time is pretty good in games, at least. If that counts.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

The first round, you barely last thirty seconds. He steps in, fast and fluid, and you’re stumbling before you can process the way his weight shifts.

But by the second round, something strange happens.

Your body adjusts. Faster than it should.

You start to read his movements. Not clearly, not perfectly, but like your limbs know something your brain hasn’t caught up to. You block a jab before you even register he’s thrown it.

Sylus pauses, expression flickering briefly. Not surprise. Something quieter. Recognition.

You grin, chest rising with uneven breath. “That one almost landed.”

He circles you slowly. “You’ve done this before.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t lying! Don’t act like my fumbling is convincing!”

There’s something like amusement in his eyes.

Another move, a lunge, and you pivot just in time to avoid it. You’re still breathing hard, still clumsy in places, but your body reacts with more fluidity than it should.

You finish a final round, hands on your knees, catching your breath.

“You learn fast,” Sylus says, reaching for a towel.

You huff. “You went easy on me.”

He throws the towel at your face.

After a short break, he leads you down the hall to a smaller, locked area. Inside is a clean, echoing chamber lined with targets and tech you don’t dare touch without guidance.

“Ever fired a gun?” Sylus asks, already knowing the answer.

You give him a look. “Just plastic ones at an arcade.”

He hands you a sidearm.

“Cool,” you say, holding it like it might be cursed. “I feel like I’ll shoot myself if I breathe wrong…”

“I can tell you’ve never held one.” he says dryly.

You point the barrel vaguely downrange. “Oh really? It’s that obvious?” You shoot him a little glare.

He snorts. An actual sound of amusement, low and sharp. “Keep your stance square. Don’t lock your elbows. And please, don’t close your eyes.”

“No promises.”

You exhale, steady your hands, and fire.

The recoil jerks your arms back, but the bullet hits just shy of the target’s center.

You blink. Then smile.

Sylus’s brow lifts slightly, but he says nothing.

The last bullet echoes through the range before falling into silence. The target downrange is peppered with shots, most clustered near center mass. You lower the pistol and glance back, breath slightly heavy, face flushed with pride.

Sylus stands a few feet behind, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You raise an eyebrow. “Guess my time at the arcade was well spent?”

You try to lean into sarcasm. Internally, you have no idea what’s possessed you today.

He says nothing at first. Just watches. His eyes flick to your stance, the gun, the steady rise and fall of your chest.

“You shouldn’t be that good,” he says flatly.

You huff. “Gee, thanks.”

“I’m not insulting you.” His eyes narrow, voice calm. “I’ve taught Onychinus recruits who’ve trained for months and didn’t learn that fast. Same with combat. You don’t just adapt to recoil like that. Or pick up movement timing mid-spar.”

You pause, the breath catching slightly in your throat. “I guess… I’ve always been a quick learner?”

His jaw tightens faintly. Not from frustration, more like discomfort with the unknown.

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe there’s more going on.”

You look at him for a moment, but don’t press it. The weight of his stare makes your skin itch.

Then he shifts, tone turning businesslike.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “you’re coming with me on a hunt.”

Your brain short-circuits. “Sorry– what?”

“Wanderer. Controlled environment. I’ll pick the location.” He uncrosses his arms and starts walking. “Consider it… practical education.”

“Wait, hold on–”

He stops and turns halfway back. “If you're going to survive here, you need to learn how to handle yourself when things bite back.”

He says it with a cool finality that tells you it’s not up for debate. But when you catch the faint twitch of a smirk, you can’t help but smile.

“Just because I’m a good shot doesn’t mean I’m ready to fight some monster!” You half-laugh. Half amusement, half disbelief.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “I won’t let anything happen. It’s better you learn soon… We aren’t sure how long you’ll be here.”

Your mood drops at the reminder. He’s right, and you know it. Being in this world means you’ll have to face your new reality eventually. You feel grateful, all things considered.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The city feels different outside the base. You're deeper in the Zone now. Narrow alleys, flickering neon, haze rising from cracked vents in the ground. The buildings here lean like tired giants, stitched together with steel scaffolding and electric cable.

You shiver in the still air.

Sylus walks beside you in silence, sharp eyes scanning the perimeter. A comms device blinks faintly at his hip.

“You’re quiet,” he notes.

“Just preparing to get mauled.”

“You won’t,” he says, almost casually. “That’s what I’m here for.”

You flash him a look. “Mm… comforting.”

His eyes glint.

A low distortion hums through the street, like the air’s gone out of tune. You turn toward the alley up ahead, your body tensing instinctively.

Then you see it.

The Wanderer.

Spindly. Wrong. Its joints move like they were screwed in backward, eyes glowing faint and unnatural.

You step back. Sylus doesn’t.

His hand lifts, and without warning – snap – a red glow unfurls from beneath his skin.

From his hand, crimson tendrils of energy lash outward like coiled lightning. One cracks through the air, wrapping around the wanderer, dragging it closer.

In a blink Sylus disappears from your sight. You gasp as he reappears in a flash just beside the creature, tendrils cracking through the air like whips.

It screeches and swipes, but he’s faster.

“Stay sharp,” he shouts. “It’s coming your way!”

You spin just in time to duck the blow aimed for your head. You roll to the side, grip tightening on your gun, and fire a shot. It clips the creature’s leg. It stumbles, just enough for Sylus to grab it with a glowing red tether and yank it off its feet.

“Nice shot,” he mutters.

“I was aiming for the head.” You breathe out.

It charges again, and this time, you move together. You don’t know how, but your body syncs to his rhythm like a second nature. He pulls, you duck. He blinks behind it, you land a shot to its protocore shield.

No talking. No planning.

Just instinct. Coordination. Like choreography you've never rehearsed, but still know by heart.

The last hit lands as Sylus’s tendrils spear through the creature’s core. A final shriek echoes, and it collapses in a smolder of static and ash.

Silence settles.

You’re breathing hard, eyes wide.

“That was… insane,” you mutter, adrenaline pounding in your ears.

Sylus turns to look at you. Sweat on his brow, but expression calm.

“You moved like you’ve done this before.”

You shake your head, still catching your breath. “I haven’t.”

Neither of you speaks for a moment.

Then Sylus says, quieter: “That’s what worries me.”

The sky in the N109 Zone never changes. Still dark. Always dark.

But something about the air tonight feels different. Sharper, almost.

Sylus stands beside the remains of the downed Wanderer, watching its corrupted body dissolve into dust and flickering static. The faint red glow of his Evol flickers along his fingertips, then fades, absorbed back beneath his skin like smoke returning to fire.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

Behind him, he can hear your footsteps crunching glass and gravel, your breath still a little uneven.

You shouldn’t have moved like that.

You shouldn't have been able to.

He replays it in his head, the way you synced with him mid-fight, no hesitation, no second-guessing. A split-second dance of timing, spacing, instinct. That’s not something people just learn, not without years. And definitely not the first time they face something that wants them dead.

But you kept pace. Matched his rhythm like you’d always known it.

Like muscle memory.

His jaw tightens as he flicks a glance over his shoulder at you. You’re wiping sweat from your brow, flexing your fingers. Your expression is still bright. Exhilarated, surprised, young.

You looked like you belonged out there.

And that unsettles him more than it should.

He turns back to the ashes at his feet.

It’s not just your skill. It’s the way you responded to his Evol without flinching. Without fear. People don’t look at those tendrils and stay calm, especially not if they know what he is.

You did.

And in the middle of the fight – your smile. Just a flicker, when he tossed you a dry joke between swings. But that expression…

He closes his eyes for a second.

That smile…

There it is again. That pulse in his skull. A flicker of something from a long time ago. Like a thread yanked loose in the fabric of memory. He can’t place it, not yet, but the echo lingers.

A face.

A voice.

He shakes his head once, sharply, like it might scatter the thought.

“Something wrong?” you call, stepping up beside him.

He doesn’t answer right away. His expression slips back into the cool confidence he always wears.

“Just thinking,” he replies simply.

“Dangerous habit,” you tease, nudging him with your elbow.

He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh.

You look at him, sincerity in your eyes.

“Thank you… for teaching me how to survive while I’m here.”

“Don’t mention it.” His voice is soft. “I know being here is… strange. I hope I can make it easier for you.”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest at his words, but you quickly stifle the feeling.

“I appreciate it.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The ride back to the base is quiet.

Not tense, just calm. The silence hums between you and Sylus. Your body still buzzes from the fight, your heart beating out a steady rhythm, the adrenaline lingering like static in your veins.

You lean back against your seat, trying to make sense of what just happened. It had been your first time facing a Wanderer; and yet, something in your body had known exactly how to move. How to breathe. How to fight.

Maybe it’s muscle memory from all the hours spent playing the game? Somehow, your brain managed to transfer its knowledge to your limbs?

The thought feels flimsy, but it’s the only thread of logic you have. Everything else, the world, the people, even your own reflection, is still too much to process. It’s like trying to solve a puzzle while blindfolded.

Your arrival back at the base is welcomed by Luke and Kieran, running up to you to examine for any scratches or bruises.

“You owe me twenty bucks Luke!”

“Come on!” Luke groans. “Hey! Miss not-hunter! Did boss save you? Or did you take the thing out yourself?”

You can’t help but laugh. Their energy is chaotic in the best way, and after the rush of danger, it’s a relief.

“I landed some shots, I swear! I probably would’ve died without the boss-man though.” You giggle, shooting Sylus a quick glance over your shoulder.

Kieran crosses his arms smugly. “I told you she’d survive.”

You turn to Luke, mock offense written all over your face. “You bet twenty bucks on my life!?”

He raises his hands like a man facing down a firing squad. “Hey! I’m a gambling addict! Don’t take me seriously! Stop! What are you–”

You swat his arm and take off running, chasing him down the corridor.

Laughter fades as your footsteps echo down the hallway. Sylus watches the scene in silence, the corners of his mouth tugging, not quite a smile, but close.

“She’s adapting,” Kieran says quietly beside him. “Better than I expected.”

Sylus doesn’t look at him. “She is.”

A beat of silence passes.

“She didn’t hesitate today,” Sylus says. “Some of the rookies freeze the first time they see a Wanderer. She didn’t.”

Sylus’s gaze lingers on the corridor where you disappeared, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes.

Kieran looks at him.

“Interesting.”

a/n: i hope this isn’t dragging omg. i feel like there’s so much to set up before i get to the exciting stuff. however, i am locked in and rafayel WILL be in the next part. who’s excited for the fishie <3 also where are my sylus smoker truthers…

as always, comment if you’d like to be added to the taglist! make sure you’re able to be tagged in settings!

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aroseforyounme · 4 months ago

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I've been reading all these non MC!reader fics and they're all so delicious in their own ways. They really make think about like what would it be like to be the person that's yearning so very desperately even if they believe that it's hopeless. What would it be like to watch the greatest love story to ever unfold live and in color right in front of their eyes while their own world breaks to pieces in the sidelines? what does that pain feel like? That resignation?

How do you go against something that they fought for over and over and over again? That they believe to be written in their stars? They'll choose MC. They'll always choose MC.

And who is the reader? All they can ever hope to be is a friend-a footnote in their grand story. Maybe they'll get a sliver, a fraction of warmth that he'll show MC but it won't ever be what the reader wants. They're second best, at most a distraction. And can they live with the pain of constantly being looked over-of constantly being brushed aside.

Maybe at first they suck it up. They tell themselves that it's better to be in his life than to face a future without him in it in some fashion. They try their best to ignore the yawning pit in their stomach, the way their chest aches, the hallowing of their entire being each time he looks over at MC and his gaze softens. Becomes loving.

It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

And maybe they stay that way-stubbornly rooted in place, determined to rot. Maybe they stay to laugh with them (because at this point MC has become a friend, without their permission and even real understanding), only to go home and sob what's left of their heart out. It's in those darkest moments that they even attempt to acknowledge the pain within them. Maybe they keep doing this until it all sort of numbs over. And despite all that they love him and so they wake up to do it all over again.

It's okay.

Until maybe it isn't.

Until maybe something vital cracks and splinters and all they can do is push back, get away. Until maybe they finally catch a glance of themselves in the mirror and the haze lifts long enough for them to finally see.

Blood shot eyes, swollen and itchy. Skin leeched of any and all color, leaving only a sickly tinge. Hallowed cheeks. Cracked, dry lips. Exhaustion given form, given substance. Defeat and misery lovingly woven into every stitch of clothing.

That's reader-this new version of them anyhow. And it's in that moment, in the dim lighting of their room, staring at themselves through their dirty, grease stained mirror, that they really and truly see themselves. See the version of them that broke apart to keep a love alive that had no purpose being birthed in the first place.

And maybe that's when they finally, truly understand. Maybe that's when they can let go.

----------------------------------------------------

And something that's so incredibly delicious to me is when we switch gears in this moment. In the moment where the reader is finally, slowly, painfully, getting themselves together, that's when he starts waking up for real.

Maybe he loved reader all along and was too stubborn to look away from what he's already decided is his forever. Maybe he loved reader but he refused to even acknowledge that because if he does??? If he does acknowledge those feelings-if he opens that specific box and lets himself love the reader, then what was the point?

How can he stand to look himself in the eye? Is his love really that fickle? Can he truly look away from the one he'd been obsessing over for years just because of the reader?

How dare they.

How dare they come into his life and show him a love so very different than the one he'd shared with MC but beautiful in its own right? How dare they come into his life and upend the plans he'd made, the future he'd envisioned?

And he struggles with this-struggles with the love he has for the reader, the slowly burgeoning one, cultivated over years of camaraderie, with the love he has for MC, beautiful and cosmic and with decades of shared history.

A budding sunflower forced to grow through concrete, a tough thing that refuses to go unacknowledged. The reader had been there, time after time after time. A smile reserved only for him resting on their face. And he'd grown complacent-reliant on their easy affection when things had become difficult with MC.

(And isn't that telling).

Until that sunflower was gone, plucked by greedy fingers and left to wither away against the burning concrete.

He'd try to save it. Try to reestablish a connection that's already broken no matter how many times he tries to replant that flower.

Reader leaves and he's left holding the remains of their love, the petals having long since fallen off.

Misunderstandings. A love that was just right but wrong in all the ways it could ever be. Maybe non mc!reader is better off. Maybe they're not. Idk but I find any and all fics with a non mc!reader to be delicious all the same.

#non mc!reader #lads #lads sylus x reader #lads caleb x reader #lads xavier x reader #lads rafayel x reader #lads zayne x reader #if you guys wanna send me some that would be great because I need them lol

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nighttidee · 20 hours ago

Text

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐄

Lad's men asking you out on a date (continuation of this fic.)

ft Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb

wc: 3181 (approx 700 for each)

warnings: allusions to Mthys (nothing specific), inaccurate depiction of jobs, Caleb's one is a bit obsessive, but that is his whole character lmao

notes: Part two! Im already invisioning part three so let me know if that's wanted, even though I'll probs do it anyway lmao.

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

Xavier was one to watch, to wait until he was certain of his choice. He was good at that, knowing when to act and when to stay, and yet now he couldn't decide what to do. You were plaguing him, you and your smile tormented his mind, invaded his sleep, and yet he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it.

He felt like he was standing on a ledge, a ledge that Jeremiah was laughing at. Xaier shot a glare at his friend as he was pushed further and further into the shop, where he knew you were; he could hear you humming again.

"My favourite assistant!" Jeremiah called out.

"I'm your only assistant!" You laughed as you rounded the corner, flashing a grin that made Xavier's heart stutter in its rhythm.

"Tomato, tomatoe," The brunette man laughed, "My friend needs help picking out some flowers, but I've got a client to call, so could you help him?"

It took everything in Xavier's willpower not to summon his Lightblade and run his friend through. Picking out some flowers?! What was the idiot thinking? He didn't know the first thing about them!

"Sure," You chirped, you turned to Xavier, those stunning eyes of yours glittering, "You're in safe hands, mister..."

"Xavier," He murmured, subtly pulling the strands of silver hair from his eyes.

You nodded and told him your name in return, and he memorised it. He'd spent many sleepless nights trying to figure it out. Jeremiah had only snickered when he'd asked, so he'd been left to his imagination. Now, all of his ideas seemed foolish compared to your answer.

"So..." You spoke softly, "What's the occasion? Celebration? Birthday? Romance? Friendship?"

Xavier opened his mouth, shut it again and considered. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jeremiah with a phone in his hand, grinning at him as he winked encouragingly.

Xavier swallowed, "The third..."

You nodded, "Got it! For an anniversary, I would recommend Red Tulips because they signify true and long-lasting love. Sunflowers are good for portraying the joy they bring you, though!"

"What about for dates?" Xavier inquired softly, "As in, asking someone out on one."

He didn't know why he was saying, well, he did, he just didn't know why he was saying it now. This was only his second time meeting you. He'd only just learned your name. Why was his control over his tongue suddenly slipping?

You hummed thoughtfully, "There isn't a specific flower for asking someone out, but if you know their favourite flower, that would be the best course of action. If not, you can never go wrong with a rose bouquet; they're the flower of love for a reason! Though, personally I'm partial to just one."

He watched as your fingers glided over a rose, its petals unfurling softly.

"Just one?" Breathed Xavier, he had to decide now. Back away from the ledge and into security, or jump off it and see what comes next?

"Yeah. I just find it more intimate, if that makes sense." You laughed gently, "There's something special about knowing someone looked through loads of flowers to find the perfect one just for you."

Xavier swallowed again. He'd spent so long waiting for nothing to ever happen. Why couldn't he be impatient now? Why couldn't he let himself go and pursue something new, something that he wanted?

If he didn't act now, he never would.

"Then," He murmured, reaching for the single rose you'd touched earlier, "I'd like this."

You blinked, brows furrowing as he pressed it towards you, "Um, you're meant to keep the rose until you give it to the person you're trying to ask out."

Xavier felt his lips twitch upwards, "I know."

"Then..." You began.

He leaned forward, ignoring the pulse in his heart, and tucked a few stray strands behind your ear, "A flower for a flower."

Your cheeks flushed with warmth, he could help on his knuckles as he slowly pulled away, waiting for your reaction. He was trying to memorise your features in case this was the last time he saw you.

You smiled, "Where are you going to take me, sunshine?"

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

Sylus had a mission tonight, one he would do anything to complete. Mephisto cawed overhead, guiding him forward to the desire that haunted him. He could hear Luke and Kerian even now, their confused voices as they inquired about his distracted state of mind. He'd been thinking of you ever since you drove away from him, one of the few brave enough to turn their back on him.

He wanted to know you, to caress the cracks in your coyness and find what lurked beneath that chaotic gleam in your eyes. He wanted to peel the layers of your existence off one by one until he found the core of who you were.

And to do that, he needed to find you again. It'd been weeks, but now, with Mephisto's view, he'd finally found you. This wasn't an opportunity he was going to let pass him by. No, he wanted what he wanted, and he wanted it now - you.

His motorbike came to a rumbling halt before another bike, settled against the road, a familiar cat-eared helmet sat snugly on its rider, you. You turned your head and pulled off said helmet, a playful, unreadable expression on your face, "Long time no see."

Sylus leaned forward, flipping his visor up, "To Elysium."

"Trying to buy my information?" You laughed, "I'm scandalised, Sylus."

He blinked. You already knew his name. Something in his stomach twisted, only it wasn't a feeling of fear, but one of fire. It coursed through his body as he hummed, "I don't need to buy your information, sweetie. I'll find that all out soon enough, and don't worry, your name is at the top of my list."

Your eyes narrowed slightly as you studied him, "Then why 'to Elysium'?"

"The winner gets to make one request of the loser." Sylus answered.

Something in your expression shifted, a slyness taking over your features, "A request?"

"Within reason, of course," Sylus chuckled, leaning close, voice dropping to a whisper, "Scared?"

You clicked your tongue and lifted your helmet, "To Elysium."

And you were gone. Both of you bolting through the streets under the eternal night of the N109 Zone, eagerly racing one another for a price Sylus was determined to win. Slyus had a mission tonight, and this was it: he would win, no matter what. It wasn't in his nature to lose.

He could barely see you, the two of you jerking wildly through cars, losing sight of each other as you raced through the roads. The wind burst against Sylus' chest as he pressed down on the accelerator. He saw the blurry form of Mephstio dart into an alley and smirked, cheating was perfectly fine in his books.

He followed his faithful companion and, within minutes, found himself in front of Elysium with a smug grin on his face. When you finally arrived, you took off your helmet, gaze flickering to the mechanical bird that cawed loudly and laughed, "Sneaky."

"I prefer resourceful," Sylus shrugged.

You hummed, tilting your head curiously, "So, what is that you want?"

"Dinner," He grinned.

"Dinner." You said flatly.

"You, me. Dinner," Slyus explained, studying you with great curiosity, wondering what you looked like beneath your biker jacket, "What do you say?"

You pulled out your phone, "I say, add your number. We've got a dinner date to plan."

Slyus' fingers brushed against yours as he grasped your device. He couldn't wait to learn everything he could about you.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

Rafayel's new art collection had taken the world by storm. Thomas had told him that again and again and again. Auction after auction, commission attempt after commission attempt, invitation after invitation. He was being driven to the brink of madness by the humans around him, who grasped and groped for the opportunity to see inside his mind and find out just what made him the best.

He wouldn't tell them. He never would. And it was easy not to; they believed every little lie and fell for every tiny trick. They weren't interesting at all. Not like you. He'd gone back to the same spot on the beach, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, only to find a ghost of you instead.

You haunted him so viciously that every single painting in his new collection was inspired by you. The paintings of stormy seas, of sweet seas, of seductary seas, were all made in honour of you. And yet they weren't enough, the hints of you in each of them, the shading of the colour of your hair, the highlights, the colour of your eyes, the underpainting the colour of your skin, none of them were enough.

He thought you'd haunt him forever.

And yet, there you stood, staring at one of the paintings still up for auction. The one centred around the seagull reaching for the ocean like his hand wanted to reach for yours.

He left the conversation he was in without a word.

"Miss Marine Biologist," He spoke in greeting. He wondered if he could get your name today. He wanted it.

"Mr Painter," You smiled in surprise, "Or should I say super famous painter Rafayel?"

"Now that's hardly fair!" Rafayel hummed, leaning down slightly, "You know my name, but I don't have a clue about yours, beautiful."

To everyone else, it would've looked like he was leaning down to hear you better, but he wasn't. Lemurian hearing was far superior to humans'; he just liked seeing you flush from his proximity. The hue on your cheeks was the perfect shade, and he itched to match his paints to it, and if he couldn't, he'd make new ones.

You laughed softly, avoiding his eyes as you murmured your name to him. He was already to find ways to encode it into his artwork, maybe he'd use an anagram of your name to title his pieces, maybe he'd match each letter of your name to one of his paints and use that as his palette, maybe he'd secretly spell your name on his painting.

"What do you think?" He asked, slyly sneaking a hand on your back as he guided you closer to his paintings. He delighted in the warmth that bled into his fingertips and palm.

"I think they're...Beyond words," You murmured, eyes dancing across the artistry before your eyes. Rafayel's burning heart flushed, softening with the gentle wave of your earnest response.

"And here I was trying to flatter you, precious," Rafayel chuckled, "You're secretly a charmer, huh."

"No..." You shook your head, trying to turn away, only to find Rafayel's head close to yours, caging you, refusing to let you refusing to meet his gaze. Every inch of him seared with an intensity that demanded your attention.

"No...?" He tilted his head, slipping his tongue over his lower lip briefly.

"No..." Your eyes flickered to the side. "People are looking."

"Then let's leave," Rafayel responded.

You blinked in bewilderment, "What?"

"Let me show you my studio," Rafayel breathed, pulling you closer when he saw you hesitate, "Come on, precious. Don't you want to see how similar my work is to the sea?"

You considered it, "I think your work is as complex as the sea. Just like its maker."

A grin split over Rafayel's lips, "You think I'm as...what was it you said....beautiful and brutal as the sea?"

"Yes," You answered firmly.

He smirked and slipped his hand to your wrist, thumb caressing the pulse point that lay there, "Only one way to find out."

And then, the two of you escaped, ignoring the calls of Thomas the whole way.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

"This Colonel Xia, status report," Caleb hummed in his private office on his ship. He'd spent the last hour doing checks with all the ships in his fleet to ensure everything was in order - they were only a few hours away from returning to Skyhaven, after all.

He was dudicious, concise and ruthless, that's what made him the best colonel in the entire Farspace Fleet. He would not have his crew doubt him now, no matter how tiresome it was to check on all of his pilots. He leaned backwards in his chair and waited patiently for his crews response.

"All systems are fine, Colonel, we're ready to go," A familiar voice called over comms.

Something in Caleb sparked to life at the words. He knew that voice, it replayed over and over again in his head since he'd heard it. He clutched the armrests on his chair tightly. Just how many times had he passed you in HQ's halls, managing only a few words here and there? He'd tried every method to form some relationship with you that went beyond Colonel and Crew Member.

And now, away from prying eyes, he finally had the chance.

"How are you doing, rookie?" He hummed, readjusting his cuff links.

"Great," Came your soft response, "I never thought Deepspace could be more beautiful."

Caleb blinked, "You think it's beautiful?"

"Don't you?" You inquired over the comms, and he wondered what you looked like. Were you fiddling with your uniform like him? Did you have your hat off? Were you completely relaxed?

Caleb considered his answer before landing on, "It's dangerous."

"All beautiful things are," You rebutted, and he heard your gentle laugh, "Poisonous flowers, the sea, the snow, the sun, they're all beautiful and all of them could kill you. The Deepspace Tunnel is no different, Colonel."

"Caleb."

"...Huh?"

"If we're going to have a deep discussion I feel like we should leave titles behind," Caleb answered, loosing his tie to escape the heat creeping up his neck. Wasn't space meant to be cold?

"Alright, Caleb. You've already got my name," You responded slowly, as if savouring the taste of his name on your tongue. Caleb shivered.

"Indeed I do," He'd obsessed over your name, it became his favourite alcohol to get drunk off, "What is it that you find so beautiful about Deepspace?"

You hummed, considering, "It's new. I don't want to spend the rest of my life comforted by the known, I want confront the unknown and space is just that. Stars millions of light years away, planets hidden by shadows, the secret of the Deepspace Tunnel, I want to see them all. I'm happy to spend my life trying to."

Something in your words hit Caleb harder than it meant to. He was a a boy again, holding his plane toy as he stared up at the glow-in-the-dark stars Josephine had stuck to his ceiling. Maybe he could look at Deepspace like that again. Maybe he could ignore all the problems waiting for him at Skyhaven just a little longer. Maybe he could indulge in your presence more.

"I understand that," Caleb murmured, barely above a whisper, "More than you know."

There was a moment of silence, weighted with confession.

He could almost see you smile, "Being out here for so long makes me hungry for actual food, though."

Caleb almost laughed, "I understand that, too."

"I don't know what I'm craving, though. In the academy, my diet consisted of cup noodles and whatever sweets I could find!" You giggled and it echoed in his mind.

"I could take you to some of my favourite spots?" Caleb inquired carefully. Cautious. He wasn't about to cross a line you didn't want him to. He could stop himself from becoming to wrapped up in you, or so he hoped.

"It's a date!" You beamed.

And maybe you simply said it because it was an expression, but that didn't matter, not to Caleb. Because he was going to use every possible advantage he had to make sure he was the only one your were going on dates with.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

He was on a bench again. It was the one he always went to at Asko, it was as famialr to him as his home was. He leaned back against the cold wood, staring out into the night. He was done for the day and yet he couldn't not find it in himself to move. The thought of driving only made the ahce in his body worse. Every inch of him begged for sleep and yet his mind marched on, restless.

Twenty hours.

That's how long he had until his next shift. Twenty hours to get home, shower, eat, sleep, wake up, eat, shower, dress, clean and get to work. His mind went rampant, trying to figure out how quickly to do things, and he knew sitting on the bench wouldn't help him, yet he could not move.

He felt like ripping his hair out. Ice crawled up his neck, and he was thankful for his scarf.

"Zayne..." That voice. How many times had he heard it over the phone over the last couple of weeks?

He looked to the side and found you standing there, only a few short feet from him, a soft, concerned look on your face. He hadn't seen you since he'd left your hospital after the boy he'd done the heart surgery on was discharged. But he'd spoken to you, for professional reasons, he told himself again and again every time his thumb hovered over your contact.

He sucked in a harsh breath and steadied himself, "...What are you doing here?"

You toyed with your lip between your teeth, "Remember that job opportunity I told you about?"

Realisation coursed through Zayne as he sat straighter, "It's at Asko."

"Mhm," You smiled, "They just told me I got it, so you'll be seeing a lot more of me!"

The ice on Zayne's neck thawed slightly, the thorns of frost receding as he stared at you. Seeing you more often, he found he didn't recoil at the thought as he so often did when it came to the closeness of others.

He swallowed, speaking softly, "Congratulations. We've gained a wonderful Doctor."

He watched as you flushed like a flower blooming and sighed deeply. You furrowed your brows, and as you leaned close, he could smell your perfume. "Are you okay?"

Zayne looked at you and found himself softening, his words spilling from his tongue before he could free them, "I'm trying to feel real again."

You nodded, deep understanding stretched across your face, "Do you need anything?"

He hummed thoughtfully, "D...Do you have any...sweets?"

Your face crumpled, "No. I ran out earlier, and I don't know where the good ones are in Linkon. I don't know where the best dessert places are either! It's the worst part of moving to a new place."

A dry chuckle left Zayne's lips before he could stop it. "Not knowing where you can sate your sweet tooth is worse than knowing nothing and no one in Linkon?"

"Yes, it is!" You huffed, puffing out your cheeks, and Zayne found he wanted to squish them. "Besides, I know you!"

A feeling crawled up Zayne's neck again, but instead of frost, it was flush. He resisted the urge to loosen his tie and run his hand through his hair; he couldn't remove his professional facade just yet. He didn't know you well enough, he didn't understand you fully, he couldn't feel your intentions in their entirety.

But how would he ever know those things if he never took a step towards the sun?

"You do know me," Zayne hesitated, licking his lips absent-mindedly, "And I could show you where I know the best desserts are?"

You grinned widely, and grasped his hand, pulling him upwards, "Well, come on, then!"

Why had he spent all that time trying to make a plan so he could have as much time as possible, again? He certainly wasn't going to use it.

#love and deepspace fic #lads x non!mc reader #love and deepsace x reader #love and deepsace #lads sylus #lads xavier #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads caleb #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #sylus x reader #rafayel x reader #xavier x reader #zayne x reader

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quietplace26 · 3 days ago

Note

Can we combine the twin furina mc and non mc au for a bit because it is my firm belief that furina will be the better sister that non mc deserves (after focalors is gone ofc) and I kinda wanna see furina go off on lads mc for her poor treatment of non mc, at least in furinas case she was forced to ignore non mc by a goddess but got she better once said goddess was gone

Ok... So let me see if I got this straight.

This is based off the lads crossover idea AND the Twin Siblings au. So non MC was originally Lads's MC sister, but got reincarnated as Canon Furina's sister... ok, yeah, this is a cool idea!

Canon Furina would be so tear into the boys for their behavior, and then act all smug at the Lads's MC cause non Mc was HER sister now, not hers-

Also, she might rub it in that HER sister found a way better man than all 5 lads boys combined... and compared to her, he wasn't going to be as nice when he meets them all.

Tagging: @platinumrosetail, @arn9tails, @bloodytea, @esthelily, @uniquecutie-puffs

#anon #ask #genshin impact #love and deepspace #crossover #twin siblings au #non mc reader

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dissociativewriter · 1 day ago

Text

Knelt At Her Altar

based off this idea by @leighsartworks216 <3 (i sat down tonight like oh ill work on the next part of unnatural affinity and some of the requests in my inbox but then i saw this post and it was like alright. i guess im writing this now). not too sure if i like this, but its too late for me to care at this point tbh (im posting this right after i finished writing it)

fem reader (you can probably guess which greek goddess shes based on) & written from sylus’s pov (except for the very last bit)

not proofread (its late yall, i usually reread these once but damn its 3 am); 2.8k words

Not many wandered near the mountain home to the last dragon.

His cave was high, hidden in the rocky terrain, surrounding trees and grass marking the territory. Still, the mortals liked to keep their distance.

A welcome distance, the dragon supposed.

That was why the noise had grabbed his attention so suddenly.

It was faint, far away from his shining hoard, but noticeable nonetheless. The dragon took off immediately, wondering if the mortals had finally had enough his presence so close to their civilization.

He descended quietly, watching as the men laid the stone foundation into the side of the mountain. They worked for months, unaware of their silent observer, until finally the structure was complete. The sun had nearly set by the time the final stone was laid and the unlit candles were arranged, the light on the mountainside almost completely dimmed.

The dragon landed before the structure once all the men had retreated back to their villages. He sat outside the structure for a while, scanning over the intricate carvings in the stone.

It was beautiful, the dragon noted, the artistry rivaling anything he’d seen before. However, that only made its location all the more confusing.

The structure was at least a day’s journey from any of the neighboring villages, too far for any frequent use, he thought. So why waste such an elegant structure for a herd of deer?

A warm flash of yellow came from the structure’s interior, and the dragon departed without a second thought.

Weeks pass before the dragon returns.

He’s hesitant, careful, as he approaches.

The sun is high when he first descends, flocks of men, women, children pour into the structure, bearing fruits and meats and jewels. They kneel before an altar within, prayers falling from their lips like their very utterance would wash away the blood staining their hands.

The dragon had never been one to subscribe to a faith.

Any creator that would make one such as himself only to leave him alone earned no reverence from the dragon.

Perhaps that lack of faith was what caused the dragon to hide in waiting in front of what he now knew was a temple, waiting until dusk to collect the offerings.

He may not have been one for gods, but he was never one to let such offerings go to waste.

The dragon waited for the shadows to overtake the mountainside valley, for the mortals to return to their homes with lightened loads and hearts. An hour passed with only the shuffling of birds in their nests before the dragon ascended the steps of the temple.

Scents of incense vaguely lingered and the stone held the warmth of the dying candles beneath his feet. At the very end of the temple, upon its altar where dozens of people had knelt just hours ago, were piles of fish, apples, gems, and so much more, just for the taking.

And the dragon intended to take.

His heavy steps were halted, however, by a soft jingling.

The dragon moved quickly, hiding behind a nearby column. The temple was empty before he entered, he made sure of it, so who was this being? He risked a peek from behind the pillar.

Met with the view of a young woman, the dragon was taken aback. This young woman, full and smiling, was clad in clothing the likes of which he’d never seen before. Fabric draped over her shoulders, hung from her neck to connect down to her wrists, another scrap tied around her waist.

Jewels decorated her, hung from her neck, wrists, ankles, jingling every time she moved. She sparkled against the shining stone, giving her an almost ethereal glow.

A song spilled from her lips, as full and jovial as the rest of her, and though the foreign words were lost on him, the effects were not. The dragon felt himself growing weary as he watched her gather fruits into her basket, his unease growing with it.

The temple seemed warmed, protected, as the woman moved around it, her movements resembling something of a dance.

The dragon may not know how to dance, but he knew beauty when he saw it.

“Are you hungry?” the woman asked, voice soft and full and holding a reprieve from the cold the dragon had known all his life.

He stilled against the stone tiles. Scales rising and wings flaring, he forced himself to remain hidden behind the pillars. It wasn’t worth risking a confrontation with this being, he figured, if they had evaded his observation so easily. The dragon was silent, a skill of his, impossible to find unless he willed it.

So how had this woman seen him, made him feel as if he were laid bare on the altar before her?

A pomegranate rolls along the floor, hitting his foot with a soft thud.

The voice spoke again. “Let my temple be a sanctuary to you as it is to others. I will not force you out if you do not wish it so. I am not one to force things. I will leave you food, and offer my temple as a hiding place.” Quieter now. “You will not be turned away, never by me.”

The dragon’s heart beats rapidly in his chest, a rhythm as unknown to him as the song the woman had hummed. The jingling stopped abruptly, but the dragon waited several minutes before moving.

The temple was empty now, the stone cold and the comforting feelings of secrecy in hiding were fading away. All the was left were burned candles, the pomegranate at his foot, and the basket still on the altar.

The basket was worn, stray straw poking out in certain places. It was filled with meats and fruits, nearly a quarter of the entirety of the offerings. The basket itself looked as if it were taken out of a common home, lovingly crafted and holding life in its weavings.

The dragon took the pomegranate before his departure.

The dragon did not return to the temple for weeks.

He busies himself with his hoard, with hunting, with dealing with those few who think it’s a good idea to challenge the last dragon.

He perches out in front of the temple early in the morning, before the sun rose. The rays of light took longer to reach this small valley, the mountain range hiding the sunrise itself, keeping the temple plunged in shadow for an hour longer.

Followers entered the temple in a steady stream, and the dragon observes each of them carefully, bright vermillion eyes glittering in the light.

None match the being he had seen that night.

The dragon is confident as he stands before the temple doors that it is empty, and yet the familiar jingling and song fill his ears.

He does not shy away this time, entering the temple with wings folded behind him. He thinks he sees a small smile warm her cheeks from afar, but the woman says nothing.

In her hands are two baskets, one more obviously weighed down with fish and fruit alike. His eyes snap to the very thing the woman examines. A ruby necklace, the delicate silver chain slipping between her fingers.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? It suits you, I think. I’ll leave it for you.” She grins as she carefully lays it into the overflowing basket.

“Why?” the dragon growls. His body is tense, distrusting of such a strange being before him. His voice is hoarse, as if it had been unused for decades.

It had.

No one wants to speak to a dragon.

The woman’s smile never fades despite his hostility. “It matches your eyes, don’t you think?”

The dragon finds himself stiffening again, this woman always catching him off guard. She has never had the opportunity to see his eyes, he knows.

None had.

She drops the heavy basket on the altar, leaving through the side of the temple with the lighter hanging in the crook of her elbow. The dragon chases after her, though there is no one to be seen, no jingling to be heard.

The woman is not lying in ambush, waiting to strike against the dragon as so many had before. Even her scent, the epitome of a comforting home that was foreign to the dragon like the songs she sang, had escaped him.

Cursing himself for missing her warmth, the dragon left the temple.

This time, he took the basket.

The ice of winter made its way through the mountain range and its surrounding villages in a matter of days. It overtook everything, animals retreating to their dens and villagers hiding in the warmth of their cottages.

The dragon himself settled within his own lair, hibernating through the season in a state of daze. Barely conscious, much like the other predators of the mountain.

Hibernation season ended before the snow had left the land, however, and the dragon set out to observe his territory. He caught sight of the villagers, only counting three, as they entered the temple bearing just a handful of offerings.

As the stars rise in the sky, the dragon descends.

The woman is there in the temple, as he expected, though she is not the same as he remembers.

Her fingers tremble as she reaches for the clumsily woven shawls on the altar. She wraps them around her frail figure, the natural warmth of her not enough to overpower the cruel ice.

The temple seems empty without her song.

The dragon enters the temple freely, for the first time.

This being cannot hurt him, after all, not in this state.

She smiles when she notices him there. It’s later than she usually does, but the dragon thinks he’s just imagining things. “Long winter, hm? Harsher than even I’d expected.”

The woman drops onto the floor, pulling her body into herself. Most of her bracelets are missing. “You can have the food,” she whispers, eyes fluttering shut.

The dragon looks at the altar. Only a handful of fruits, a couple of scarves. No jewelry.

“Too meager,” he sneers.

The woman chuckles, though the dragon struggles to find any humor in it. “Winter is tough for everyone,” she explains simply. “People give what they can. I cannot hold such a thing against them.”

The dragon is silent. He turns away from the woman, feeling something akin to shame as her eyes close again. “I can get better,” he finally mutters.

She hums in response.

If she realizes it was an offer, she says nothing.

Instead her breathing evens out and her shoulders relax. The dragon watches her sleeping form, reveling in the warmth that spreads from her despite the chill.

He leaves her like that, clutching a ruby necklace around his hand.

The dragon returns after a week of spring ceremonies. He’d watch the villagers bring new offerings, watched as more of them came.

The woman was fuller now, much to his relief. She grinned upon seeing that he did not hide away this time.

“You are the goddess this temple is devoted to,” he said gruffly. It was a statement, not a question.

She clasped her hands, beaming with pride at him. “Yes! Goddess of the hearth, at your service!” She gives a small, mock curtsy. “What is your name, if I may ask, brave dragon?”

He stiffens again. It comes out rough, underused. A nearly broken, “Stayrus” escapes his lips.

“It’s nice to meet you, Stayrus.” She smiles, taking a few small steps towards him.

“What is a goddess of the hearth?” he asks abruptly.

“Well, I’m a goddess of the home. I make sure people can feel safe and comforted, even in new places with new people.” she explains softly.

“I’ve never been good at adapting to new places and new people,” Stayrus mutters.

“Well,” the goddess smiled. “Consider this my blessing to you. May you always be able to find a home.” She handed him a pomegranate.

Stayrus took it with the reverence of a vow.

He remained with her for much after that. Some centuries passed, the dragon visiting his goddess as the stars twinkled in the night.

Stayrus always kept an eye on the villagers. He watched as they prayed to her, fixed the cracks in her temple’s stone, lit the candles at her altar. She was kind to them. Benevolent. She was how the gods should be, Stayrus thought, instead of how they are.

Perhaps that was why it was such a shock when the visitors began to dwindle.

“It’s been a few centuries,” the goddess told him. “They’ve placed their faith in me for a while. It’s just that they’ve found someone else now.”

“You will always have my faith, goddess,” Stayrus said quickly.

She only nodded, hands trebling against her fraying cloths.

That night, he brought a deer to her altar. “An offering.” he said stiffly.

She laughed, frail and pained. “It doesn’t work like that,” she murmured. “You’re not a mortal.”

Stayrus watched in silence as the goddess grew weaker and weaker before him. She no longer jingled when she walked, no bracelets or necklaces to adorn her. She didn’t sing anymore, the strength of the song lost as the followers left.

When her temple was empty for weeks and the cracks were begin to set in, Stayru grew desperate. “Is there nothing I can do?” he asked.

The goddess shook, looking more sickly than divine. “I shall return to the beyond soon. Nothing but stardust with no mortals to put their faith in me.” She turned to Stayrus again, eyes lightening with the fire of the hearth as she found the crimson. “Stayrus,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen the sunrise…”

Stayrus nodded, and without a word, lifted her into his arms. She melted into him, as if this was where she had belonged all along. Stayrus flew, with her safely tucked away, to the other side of the mountain range.

He sat with her still cradled against him as pinks and oranges painted the sky.

“It’s beautiful…” she breathed. The goddess turned to Stayrus, putting a trembling hand against his face. “You’re beautiful, too, Stayrus. I hope you know that. No matter what they say.”

Light littered over her body, little flecks of star covering her skin.

“No, goddess, you cannot leave me!” Stayrus cried. His voice shook and broke. “You cannot deprive me of the only home I’ve ever had.”

“You will find another,” the goddess replied softly. A weak smile grew as tears tinged her eyes. “I promise it. You will find another home.”

In the heart of the N109 Zone, Sylus was a king.

He had all the riches he could desire, all the power he could ask for, and yet something was missing.

His base, modern and sleek and luxurious, was so cold.

He had never found that warmth that he had as a dragon with his goddess.

Sylus had cursed the woman for her broken promises, but he only ever ended up begging for her forgiveness as tears streaked down his face.

He wished she was here with him, to wipe the tears away from his cheeks or to punish him for his insolence. He would take either, he thought, just to feel her warmth against his skin again, just one more time.

But Sylus didn’t have that warmth, only the responsibility of his territory.

As he sifted through the rubble far within the reaches of the N109 Zone, he stiffened as he came across a familiar face.

A bust of his goddess, fully intact despite the carnage surrounding him, and still as beautiful as ever.

Sylus took out a delicate ruby necklace, aged and almost crumbling, if not for the extreme care it had been handled with. Clasping it around the neck of the goddess, Sylus muttered a quiet thank you.

“Perhaps I should take you into my home,” he whispered. “Since you so willingly took me into yours.”

A quiet jingling reached his ears, and Sylus found himself hiding before he could even think of what he was doing.

“Why do you insist on going through all this rubble?” you asked, laughing with your friend as you stumbled through the broken stone.

“Because you never know what treasures you’ll find!” your friend replied. They stopped in the tracks. “Hey, come look at this. Doesn’t this statue look just like you?”

You gasped. “It really does!”

“That’s crazy,” your friend mumbled as they walked away. “How come I can never find my historical doppelgänger?”

You stood before the bust, unable to tear yourself away. “Such a beautiful necklace,” you breathed. “Familiar, somehow…” Your eyes snapped to a nearby pillar, but you didn’t see anything.

A smile grew on Sylus’s face. “Just as you promised,” he said. “I’ve found you again, goddess. I’ve found home.”

i cried writing this. i never do that. so i had to give it a happier ending.

comments and reblogs appreciated and asks open!

masterlist

taglist (8/50): @dolledbunnytail @sleepykittyenergy @orbitraiden @coffeedragonhobbyist @plzdonutpercieveme @sylusgworl @angelkazusstuff @lamogliedizayne

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whenstarsundress · 1 month ago

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you flirt back for the first time:

sylus

you say something like, “you keep looking at me like that, sylus… you’re gonna have to do something about it,” with a shy little smile.

he completely malfunctions. his eyes grow wide, he swallows hard, his heart visibly skipping a beat.

sylus stares at you like he’s trying to determine if you’re possessed. then, quietly, with his voice a little huskier than usual, “that’s new.”

he recovers fast, though. steps closer and gently brushes your hair behind your ear. “is this your way of telling me you want me to kiss you? because i’m listening.”

bonus:

… sylus.exe has crashed.

his lips part and his eyes darken. he stares for a moment, like he’s trying to decide between kissing you soft or ruining your life. eventually, he just breathes, “say that again. i dare you.”

zayne

you casually murmur, “if you’re gonna keep biting your lip like that, at least let me do it for you,” while scrolling your phone.

dead silent. zayne stops breathing. his jaw flexes, his pupils dilate.

“…excuse me?” his voice drops an octave and he looks at you like you just kicked open the doors to a side of you he definitely wants to explore.

he walks over real slow, tilts your chin up and says, “say that again. no, no—i need it word for word, baby. because if i heard what i think i heard…”

bonus:

zayne chokes on air. his head snaps around so fast, his whole brain reboots. “wait. what? you never—?!” he chuckles lowly. “okay, okay. who are you and what did you do with my sweet, shy angel?”

caleb

you’re teasing him during one of his gym sessions and say, “keep showing off like that and i might have to reward you. privately.”

caleb drops the dumbbell. literal pause. he stares at you with wide eyes, mouth slightly open like a golden retriever who just got called a bad boy.

“wait. wait. wait, back up. say that again?” he starts laughing, but it’s nervous, like he doesn’t know how to process it.

he immediately gets 10x more flirty and tries to re-assert dominance with a grin. “okay, but only if you’re the reward too.”

bonus:

his jaw clenches, breath catches and you can feel the tension shift. like something in him just snapped. he leans back, clears his throat and gives a tiny smirk. “you’re playing with fire, and i’m not the type to pull away when i get burned.”

xavier

you’re both deep into a high-risk deepspace operation. he’s focused, assessing potential threats, guns calibrated, his hud flickering with tactical readouts. you, cool as ever, lean in behind him and murmur through the comms. “you look sexy when you’re in control like this. makes me want to follow your every order… after hours.”

immediate system crash. xavier stops walking, literally halts mid-movement in zero gravity like his whole code just corrupted.

“…repeat that,” he says into the comm, voice a little rough, a lot lower than usual. he doesn’t turn to face you. he’s trying to regain composure while actively calculating threat levels.

he doesn’t miss a beat on the mission afterward, but the tight grip on his weapon and the way he refuses to look at you say everything: you broke him.

bonus:

he stammers, short-circuits, then just covers his face and laughs into his hands quietly. “okay. that’s unfair. you can’t just… out-flirt me like that.”

rafayel

you’re watching him get dressed and casually comment, “if you’re going to tease me with that shirt unbuttoned, the least you can do is let me take it off for you.”

rafayel blinks, twice. “what did you just say?” not offended, not teasing. he’s actually stunned.

a slow, devilish smile starts to curl on his lips as he puts down whatever he was holding. he steps toward you and murmurs, “are you seducing me? because i have to warn you… i’m very easy to seduce.”

bonus:

rafayel freezes. for one glorious second there’s silence. then he smiles a bit mischievously. “oh? okay, i see you. someone’s been hiding from me the whole time.” he never lets it go, but he wants more of your flirty side. “you gonna flirt like that again, or was i just blessed once?”

author’s note: sometimes i can’t decide in which direction i want to go with a headcanon, so, i went with a little bonus 😊

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syluspeach · 12 days ago

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Caleb breaks the headboard…+18(mdni)

Caleb was careful when it came to you.

Unlike the average male, his body harbored enhanced strength that came with having a metal arm. As large as he was compared to you, for the most part, he was able to control himself during moments of intimacy. He was always worried that he’d squeeze you tight enough to leave marks on your skin.

Today was no exception, but he couldn’t help it. His restraint had been slipping with each thrust.

You were just too sweet to ignore. Too good for him.

His dark blue sheets made your sweaty, heated skin stand out. Situated on his knees behind you, his eyes took in the curve of your spine and the jiggle of your ass as it made contact with his hips. Sticky and wet, your skin met each other’s with a nasty smack.

“Fucking hell, honey…so pretty f’me.”

As an erotic moan fell from your swollen lips, the sheets doing the best they could to muffle the high-pitched sound, Caleb felt his metal fingers twitch. The fat of your hip protruded in between his fingers at the sudden shift in his grasp, leading to him curving himself against your back, his right arm coming to rest beside your head.

“Can feel-oh god, right there-feel s’deep, colonel.”

That fucking nickname was his kryptonite and now wasn’t the time for you to be calling him that.

His hand clenched, tugging at the sheets without mercy. He tried to ground himself, tucking his face against your neck and inhaling your scent. That wasn’t working.

“Please…gonna make me cum.” You squeaked out, your hand reaching for the one beside your head. “Gonna cum so hard on your cock, colonel.”

You cried out, feeling rejected as he pulled his hand out from your hold. He unfurled himself from your back and settled with gripping the wooden headboard with his metal arm.

“No, honey…Don’t wanna hurt you-can’t hurt you like that. Too precious to me.”

“But I wanna feel you against me. Need your warmth, Caleb…feel safe with you.”

Pushing yourself onto your knees and reaching behind to curl your arm around his neck, your back met his chest.

His flesh hand remained on your hip, holding you in place as he fucked you open. This new position had your eyes closing as your head fell back. Your moans were music to his ears and they were enough to make his resolve crack.

Tightening his hold on the headboard, his lips found yours, his tongue sneaking its way into your mouth. He slid his hand from your hip to your pelvis, fingers reaching for the swollen bundle of nerves. Your hips twitched from the overwhelming sensation brewing deep in your belly.

“Fuck, Caleb…I’m gonna-m’gonna cum-please, d-don’t stop.”

Your vision blurred as you came, cunt tensing up as you called out his name. At the same time, Caleb’s abdomen flexed tightly as he spilled his seed into you, groans falling from parted lips.

“S’good for me, honey. Always take my dick so well.”

He remained sheathed between your warm, spasming walls, his release staining your insides. He busied himself with littering your neck with kisses as you came to.

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head at the state of the headboard.

“Uh, Caleb?”

He pulled away from you, eyes following the direction you were looking at.

There were indents from his metal fingers and a large crack splitting the once-polished wood. As he released his hold on the lumber, little wooden flakes fell from his palm and onto the drool-stained pillows.

He sighed at the sight.

“Well, shit.”

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kissandtellus · 1 month ago

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‘Into the Slick of It’ LADS Omegaverse

Synopsis: The LI’s are deep into their Ruts. Oh no! Whatever shall our brave MC do to satiate their hunger?

Warnings: Omegaverse, Whining, Submissive Sylus and Caleb, Slight pew pew play, Lemurian’s are double slinging in this, Drooling, Slobbering, Caleb’s mechanical arm malfunctions in the best way, its dirty ya’ll fair warning.

Authors Note: I’m going to try and make full-length versions for each! Rafayel’s can be found here! Zayne’s can be found here! You can also find the ‘Heat’ version HERE.

⋆˚🐾˖° Xavier

Xavier was usually a dignified Alpha. He held open doors for you, bought you anything under the sun, even left his much needed naps (hibernation) to spend time with you.

But when his rut hit him like a freight train, you tried to ignore the scent of him literally leaking from his apartment above. He had locked his doors, curled up in his bedroom with only his fist and one of your sweatshirts.

He’d forgotten to lock his balcony door.

You managed to pull yourself to the railing and slide open the door. His scent enveloped you, as if seeping into your very pores.

The sight the greeted you when you managed to shimmy the lock out of his bedroom door was nearly pathetic.

He was fucking his fist, face flush and balls drawn up so tight to his body in need, they looked like they were aching. Your scent hit him before the sight of you did.

He had no more fight in him.

His pre-cum had completely soaked his fingers. When he pulled his hand away, long, sticky strings of cum connected his palm to his cock.

“M-mm fuck-fuck I can’t stop it. Please,” he was fast, nimble. He was upon you in a second, face buried into your pulse point. From behind his back as he nipped and lapped on your covered scent gland, you spotted the rabbit plush you sprayed perfume on for him.

It was absolutely soaked in his pre-cum. The once pristine black pearl eyes coated his drooling cum.

“Xavier-!”

“M-mm sorry, so sorry, couldn’t help it.” His fingers tear off the scent patches and his nearly busts right against your clothes stomach.

“Just a taste baby, please.”

That taste turned into his rutting into you in the meanest mating press known to man. He was so careful not to let his knot slip inside. Even lacking the few inches of his knot, his nearly purple cockhead drilled into the wall of your cervix like a prayer.

“Haa-X-Xava-ahhhh!” You drooled his name out like a curse. Your hair was splayed everywhere like a halo. You were the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

“Good Omega, good girl-take it-take it! I know you can. Gonna give you this knot. Gonna have you begging for more,” he growled, his canines graving your pulse point.

“Accept this gift from your Alpha.”

⋆˚🐾˖° Rafayel (Full Version)

You ran a washcloth down Rafayel chest. The one pale, milky skin covered with scales. Lemurian rut was different than that of humans. It was more primal, more unhinged. His long tail hung out over the edge of his massive bathtub still.

A fan was sat on high intensity, blowing back his purple locks and the gills behind his ears. “Cutie, can’t I just have a nibble? You are killing me here.” His multi-chrome eyes flashed with a hunger that sent a shiver up your spine.

“That’s the Rut talking Raf, you told me not to listen to you when you’re like this.” The statement was true, but your resistance was wavering.

He was like a pretty siren luring you to your death. He couldn’t control his shifting, nor the way his tail splashed water out of the tub and into the floor.

An hour ago, the slit in his tail had separated, a gush of liquid making way for not his one-but two cocks. The length on top was longer, thicker, angrier.

Rafayel reached with a clawed, webbed hand and locked eyes with you as you tried to cool his off with the water. “My Muse, let me take care of you. I’ll take you back to Lemuria, make you my Queen. You’ll give us so many strong children. I want them to have your eyes.”

It was as if he was dirty talking himself. Whimpers of need spilled from those soft pink lips.

Perhaps Rafayel was the siren from those sailor tales.

Because why else would you have been dragged into the water, fully clothed? Why else would you have let him rip clear through your shorts with his claws?

Why else would you let him not only imaple you with one length, but let him try to coherse you into taking his second one?

“Just once baby-c’mon Pretty, you can take it.” He hushes your blubbering about being way too full. His cocks felt like they could impale your lungs at any second. “I know her so well. She’s strong, just like-oh, ah, fuck!”

Your tight walls gave way just enough for his second cock to snugly stretch out your organs. The rock of his thrust sent the bath water flooding the bathroom floor. His tail nearly had a mind of its own, flopping like a fish out of water while he used you as a means of breeding.

“F-fuck! Rafayel I-I can’t-“

“You can, how else will you be a powerful ruler, if you cannot worship your God correctly?”

⋆˚🐾˖° Zayne

Zayne took all of the necessary precautions to keep his interest during his rut. So much lube, suppressants and less than flattering toys. He always kept this locked away in a trunks. You didn’t need to worry your pretty head about such things.

He bought you an extended stay hotel room until his Rut had passed but you were stubborn. So stubborn that you used the passcode for his house gate and welcomed yourself in.

When you entered, the normally pristine state of his house was destroyed. Your dirty clothes were thrown everywhere, there were scratch marks on corners of the wall as if something-or someone-had to basically drag themselves to the bedroom.

When you finally gained the courage to investigate the feral sounds from the bedroom, your knees went weak.

Zayne had his tie stuffed in his mouth, his button up shirt had been torn open and the shreds hung around his bulging biceps.

The poor toy-oh god, it was molded after your insides, was completely destroyed. The gooey silicone was barely holding together. His thick cock has literally torn the toy into nothing but mush.

Plap. Plap. Plap.

“Are you going to stand there, or are you going to help me?” He growled through the black tie, his eyes never tearing away from the toy disintegrating in his hand.

Zayne promised himself he’d patch you up as soon as his Rut passed, as soon as he finished pummeling your ruined pussy over the back of his couch.

He had defiled every corner of his home with his cum and your slick.

You had tried to crawl away from the mean ‘ole doctor twice now, but each time he just pounced, keeping you pinned beneath his body weight, chasing you like a mutt who couldn’t get his fill.

“Are you refusing your Doctor? Are you refusing the best medicine I can give you, my seed?”

Your vision danced with black spots. He was insatiable. You never quite realized how massive he was, how easily he manipulated you with both his words and his strong grip. He finally gave a warning growl, pinning your hands to the small of your back.

“You wanted to play Doctor so bad, wanted to heal me of my woes. So take it.”

⋆˚🐾˖°Sylus

Sylus was a dragon at the end of the day. A great beast who hoarded his treasure.

That hadn’t changed when he was trapped in the body of a man.

It hadn’t changed how during his Rut’s, he ordered the Twins to keep you away as he hoarded everything precious to him in his room for the next few days.

But unfortunately the two goofballs were not the best at keeping you away. Not that you think they actually tried. Kieran had locked eyes with you when you tiptoed around the corner, before winking and going back to his card game with his twin.

When you pushed open the double doors or his chambers, he was meticulously cleaning the muzzle of one of his guns. But what caught your eye was his cock, flagging and twitching to leave a sticky mess over his belly button.

His eyes snapped up and a low growl escaped his throat before he tried to reign himself in. “Kitten, I told you to stay away.”

He stood from the bed with a grace not befitting his size, his swinging cock, nor the gun still in his hand. He tipped your chin back with the point of hiss and gave your face a deep whiff.

You swear you felt him spurt just the tiniest bit of precum on your sweater.

“Maybe I should let you help me. Let you realize what happens when Prey tempts the Predator.”

But oh-ho, it did not turn out his Sylus had expected.

You were straddling his massive length, his knot resting just outside of your stretched entrance. But his gun was now pressed against his parted, whimper filled lips by yours truly. You were a mean Mistress, watching him beg to pop his knot in.

“Gods above woman, I’ll do anything I-i just-“

You squeezed your fluttering walls around his cock like a vice. “What did I say, big boy?” Your voice was so sweet he might bust at just the thought.

The white haired man bowed his back so beautifully it appeared he might snap in half. His nature was screaming at him to bend this disobedient Omega over and use her like a dirty flashlight. But not her, never her.

Sylus gritted his teeth, that suddenly looked a lot sharper. But his fearsome look was interrupted by his pathetic groveling.

“My Love, My Heart, My Cruel Temptress,” he mumbled, red eyes rolled back to his skull. “Give me the grace of knotting you and I’ll give you any Empire you desire. Just for the chance at breeding this treasure of a cunt.”

⋆˚🐾˖° Caleb

Caleb threw the empty bottle of suppressants so hard against the wall, the flimsy bottle had made an indention in his apartment.

This couldn’t be happening, he could be hitting his Rut on the day you were visiting Skyhaven. His mechanical arm whirred, a loud noise that broke him from his contemplating.

Yeah, of course this thing would act up when his hormones were bouncing all over the place.

When you rang his doorbell three times without an answer, you decided letting yourself in was the best option.

Caleb now regretted giving you a key to his apartment, but not really.

His left hand, the cold one connected to his arm, had short circuited. To the point he could control it. He had growled, tried to push the piece of junk away from his throbbing cock but to no avail.

It was trained to protect him, to relieve any stress or danger he might be in. In that moment it had decided his aching cock and swollen knot were his enemy.

When he looked up at you from the couch, man-spread with his hand pumping his cock, his eyes were filled with tears.

“Pips, Pips don’t look, please-a-ah oh F-“ his but his lips to stifle the noise as a third orgasm ripped through him. The dark gray mechanical hand was coated with white cum, his thighs twitching and knot throbbing with unspent need.

“Oh Caleb-“ you took a step forward, and that was the only permission Caleb needed. His Alpha instincts were in a full rage. He had you pinned down to the living room floor by his fangs digging into the back of your neck. His mechabical bicep was cold against your throat as he drilled into you.

The wet noises were a symphony of just how much he needed you. “Here comes the knot baby-no-no, be a Good Girl. Open her up for me, don’t fight it, oh yeah-oh Good-Good fuckin’ Girl!” His praises sounded jumbled when his knot popped through.

Nothing could beat the way his knot stretched you to the point of tears.

“T-Too big Caleb! Take it-take it outttt!” He would stop in a split second if he knew it wasn’t just your instincts pleading with you to at least give this Alpha a run for his money. He hushed your over-sensitive cries and bottomed out in your warm and very welcoming pussy.

“Nu uh, Sweetpea. You were born to take my cock. Go on, take it baby! Oh, Good Girllll, That’s My Girl!”

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orphicmeliora · 3 months ago

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LETTERS UNSENT

SUMMARY: You have shared too much with Caleb— your childhood in middle school, your restless teenage years in high school, and the sleepless nights that came with training at the DAA. Through every phase of your life, you’ve loved him. Quietly. Desperately. While he loved someone else.

So you learned to endure it.

You swallowed your feelings and tucked them away in secret letters never meant to be read—letters inked with heartbreak, feverish longing, and fantasies too raw to speak aloud. From crooked handwriting to elegant script, each page was a confession of the love you hated to carry, the ache you never outgrew. And when Caleb vanished from your life after graduation without a word, you buried those letters in a box, and the box deep within yourself.

Years later, fate intervenes.

Caleb returns—broader, bolder, devastatingly handsome. And strangely focused on you. His touches linger too long, his eyes see too much, and his smile says he knows exactly what you’ve been hiding. He looks at you like you’re the one he’s been waiting for—and you can’t tell if it terrifies you or tempts you more.

You try to pull away. You’ve spent too many years surviving without him to fall now.

But Caleb doesn’t let go.

Because now that he’s seen the truth—every broken sentence, every filthy fantasy, every whispered ‘I love you’ you never dared say out loud—he’s not just here to catch up.

He’s here to chase you down.

And he won’t stop until you’re his.

WORD COUNT: 11.1k

NOTES: Takes place after the Main story supposedly ends. This happens far in the future. Caleb is older here, 28–29 maybe. Reader is NOT mc, keep that in mind. In this scenario mc is with another LI.

You used to love love.

Not just the idea of it—but the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.

You believed in love the way children believe in magic.

But you grew up.

And love? It grew fangs.

Now, you love to hate it.

You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping he’d look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didn’t. He never did. Caleb’s heart was always spoken for.

So you buried your own.

You’ve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. You’re not heartless—you’re just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.

You fill your time with things that don’t require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimes—not out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.

And still…

Despite it all…

Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.

To be wanted so much it’s terrifying. To be chosen first.

You don’t dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.

Because if love ever finds you again…

You’re not sure if you’ll run away from it—

Or straight into its arms.

You hear his voice before you see him.

Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward it—pulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters you’ll never admit you still read.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Caleb.

Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyes—still storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.

A beat passes.

“...It’s been a while,” he says, and God—he smiles.

That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But there’s something different now. Less boyish charm, more… reverence. Like he’s looking at a relic he thought lost forever and can’t quite believe is real.

You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. A while.”

There’s so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

Caleb steps forward—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.

He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.

“You look…” His gaze softens. “You look like trouble.”

You scoff—too sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. “And you still talk like you’re trying to land a date in a bar.”

His grin flashes wider. “Would it work if I was?”

God, he’s flirting.

Like you weren’t just background noise to him once. Like you didn’t spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you here, Caleb?”

He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice drops—lower, rougher.

“Because I missed you.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyes—part hungry, part haunted, all real.

And just like that, the careful walls you’ve built start to shake.

You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. “You look... different.”

You don’t turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.

“Yeah, well. Years pass. People change.”

“Some people stay exactly the same,” he murmurs. “You still lean to the left when you’re uncomfortable.”

You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.

God. He’s unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potent—less boyish charm, more devastating man.

You cross your arms. “You’re observant now. That’s new.”

He chuckles. “I’ve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.”

Touché.

He walks closer—too close—and you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.

“How long has it been?” he asks softly.

“Since you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?”

His jaw tenses. “I deserved that.”

“You did.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things you’re too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.

You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit across—but no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What about Emcee?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “You two live happily ever after or what?”

His brow furrows. “Emcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.”

Your heart skips. “Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Lie. “Just surprised.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. “Because I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here for you.”

Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. “Wow, Caleb. You’ve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?”

He grins. “I could still use one, if you’re nostalgic. But I figured you’ve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.”

“Smart of you.”

And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isn’t helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.

You’re not sure what’s worse—that he’s this charming now, or that it’s working.

Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to “see you soon” and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.

Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.

The letters.

Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.

Especially not Caleb.

But fate, of course, doesn’t care what you want.

The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.

Caleb just laughs, leaning in. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.

—

The second time, you’re at your favorite café, the one with the uneven chairs and the cinnamon drinks he used to gag over. You’d brought him there as a joke, once. Now he takes you there seriously.

He’s seated too close, his thigh pressed against yours like a quiet claim.

“So,” he says, turning his head toward you. “No boyfriend? Fiancé? Star-crossed lover waiting in the wings?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a no, then,” he says smugly, sipping his drink.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Just making sure I’m not stepping on any toes,” he murmurs, then adds, “when I kiss you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “You’re not kissing me.”

“Not today, maybe,” he says easily. “But eventually.”

You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.

—

The third time is worse.

You’ve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. He’s on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.

He watches you over the rim of his glass. “Why do you keep flinching when I touch you?”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do. Like you’re scared I’m not real.”

You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. “I’m just trying to figure out what you want.”

His voice goes quiet. “You.”

The word hits you like a punch.

“You wanted Emcee for years.”

“I was stupid for years.”

You meet his eyes. They’re clearer than they’ve ever been—focused, almost painfully sincere.

“That’s convenient,” you say coldly.

He sets his glass down, leans in. “No. It’s fate finally letting me try again.”

His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wanted—but you don’t trust it. Not yet.

You turn your head. Just barely.

Caleb’s jaw clenches, his hand falling away.

He sits back without a word.

—

The fourth time, it’s raining.

He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.

“You didn’t have to walk in this weather,” you mutter, taking the drink anyway.

“I wanted to.” His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “You’re still not letting me in.”

“Would you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?”

His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. “I wouldn’t. But I’d want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charm—a bent paper star you made him in high school.

“I didn’t forget you,” he says, voice low. “I tried to.”

That might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you weren’t the only one suffering in silence.

Because it means he’s telling the truth.

You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.

He doesn’t follow.

But he waits.

He always waits now.

And that’s more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.

You agree to go with him to the observatory.

Big mistake.

It’s late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.

You don’t take it.

So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like you’re his.

“It looks better on you,” he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.

“Don’t start,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Start what?” His smirk is all mischief. “Being nice? Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like you’re the constellation he’s been chasing all his life.

“I used to come here when I missed you,” you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.

“When you missed me?” His voice is different now—serious. Dangerous. “How often did that happen?”

You laugh, tight and brittle. “Only every time I breathed.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then: “Say that again.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it against me.”

He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Do you really think I’d take something that precious and weaponize it?”

“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”

“Then let me show you,” he says, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.

“I dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.”

Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. “Because I was stupid. And I thought you didn’t feel the same.”

You snort. “Well. You were wrong.”

“I know,” he growls. “I know that now. And you’re still keeping me at arm’s length.”

“Damn right I am.”

His smile is tight, hungry. “Fine. You want to make me work for it? I’ll work.”

“I want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.”

He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.

“Then run, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.”

You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.

And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.

It’s late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.

The old piano room is still your secret solace—dusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.

Except for one person.

You don't hear him at first. You’re too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. It’s the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.

I didn't opt in to be your odd man out

I founded the club she's heard great things about

I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath

Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.

I stopped CPR, after all it's no use

The spirit was gone, we would never come to

And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free

Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Then—

“You always did sound beautiful when you were sad.”

You jump.

Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You blink. “You heard that?”

“I always do.”

Of course he did.

You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. “That song… it’s new?”

You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. “Just something I was playing around with.”

He hums. “Right. Totally not about anyone in particular.”

You bristle. “Did I say that?”

“Nope. But you don’t have to. You forget—I know your voice. I know when it’s for fun. And when it’s ripping you open.”

You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. “You're being dramatic.”

He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, he’s too close again. Always too close.

“You used to do this all the time,” he murmurs. “Sneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didn’t know I followed.”

Your heart stutters. “You never said anything.”

“Why would I ruin it?” His gaze darkens. “Hearing you like that—it was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.”

“I didn’t sing those songs for you,” you lie.

Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Then why are your cheeks red?”

You shove away from the piano, muttering, “You're insufferable.”

He follows, not missing a beat. “You’re blushing, songbird.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You stop. He almost slams into you.

You glare up at him. “You think you’re so clever.”

He leans in, smirking. “No. I think I’ve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that I’m here, I’m not backing off.”

The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.

But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.

“You heard the song,” you say, voice low. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. He’s not smiling anymore.

“No,” Caleb whispers. “It’s not.”

You should have locked the damn drawer.

You don’t even know what made you check—but something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Caleb’s hands, your heart stops cold.

No. No.

His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.

And your world implodes.

He’s seated on your couch like he’s carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.

He’s holding your soul in his hands.

The letters—dozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and grief—you recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.

Your breath catches. Your throat closes.

“I—That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.

Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.

“I read every single one,” he says softly.

“Put them away,” you whisper, voice hollow. “Please, just… put them away.”

“I can’t.”

You turn to bolt, pure instinct.

And that’s when gravity betrays you.

A weight presses against your body—not crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol.

Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but you’re floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.

“Caleb—!”

“I need you to hear me,” he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

Your back hits the wall.

He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like he’s starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.

“I didn’t know,” he says, his voice ragged. “I never knew.”

You shake your head. “You weren’t supposed to.”

His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. “I’ve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped… You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.”

Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. “Caleb—don’t—”

“And I was in love with you,” he breathes. “All this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.”

You look away. “You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You chose her.”

“I didn’t choose anyone,” he growls. “I was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were destroying me.”

The look in his eyes breaks something in you.

“I memorized your words,” he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “Every line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.”

You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believe—but terrified to let yourself fall.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.

“I’m not asking you to,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you don’t move.

His mouth brushes against your temple.

“I just want to earn you. All of you. Like I should’ve from the start.”

You don’t kiss him.

But you don’t pull away either.

You can’t.

Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.

You’re burning.

He stays.

Even when you tell him to leave—quietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warning—Caleb stays.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“I should’ve been here years ago,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get it? I’m not leaving again.”

You shove him.

He barely budges.

You shove him again.

This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firm—calm.

You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.

“Let me go,” you say, breathless.

“No.”

Your breath hitches.

“No?” you echo.

His voice drops. “Not until you stop pretending you don’t want me to stay.”

You glare up at him, furious. “You think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?”

“No,” he says again. “But I’ll keep proving myself until they do.”

You twist out of his grip—nearly—before he suddenly pulls you in.

And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like they’ve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.

His eyes search yours.

And then, Caleb whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

So he kisses you.

Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.

It’s a claiming.

It’s all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. It’s every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's him—finally, truly, desperately—here.

Your fingers fist in his shirt like you’re angry, like you’re clinging to something you swore you’d never need again.

And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you say—

“I hate you.”

He smiles, soft and ruined. “I know.”

“I hate how much I wanted that.”

“I hope you did.”

“I’m still not making this easy.”

Caleb’s lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. “You’ve never made anything easy, sweetheart. That’s why you’re worth everything.”

And still—

Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.

“You’ll have to fight for this,” you warn him.

His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. “Then prepare to be relentlessly pursued.”

You never agreed to date him.

But apparently, Caleb’s taking “relentless pursuit” as a blood oath.

He shows up at your place the next morning with coffee—your actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesn’t say how he remembers. You don’t ask.

That night, he texts you at 2am.

Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but that’s not important (it is).

You throw your phone across the bed.

The next day, he’s waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think he’s here for some kind of mission.

Nope.

Just here to take you to lunch.

“Don’t say this is a date,” you grumble.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, offering his hand. “But hold on tight anyway.”

You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.

—

Caleb doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.

He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I love your voice. Especially when you don’t realize you’re humming.”

“You roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. It’s kind of adorable.”

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.”

He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hold strong—for a while.

Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.

You try to nudge him awake.

You fail.

Hard.

He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like it’s a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.

You don’t sleep.

Your body is screaming.

But your heart?

It’s terrified.

—

When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.

You freeze in the doorway.

He sees you.

And smiles.

Like you’re not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like he’s not here to crack it wide open.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Caleb says softly. “Stay.”

You almost do.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.

You’re not.

Because Caleb is everywhere now.

He’s in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. He’s draped across your couch like it’s his favorite place in the world. He’s in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You keep your walls up.

But he keeps coming.

Like he knows you’re lying every time you act unaffected.

—

One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.

You open the door.

He doesn’t say a word—just walks past you, breath ragged.

You follow him into your living room. “Caleb?”

“I thought I lost you again,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

He turns to face you, and it’s like the air shifts. Thickens.

“I heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.”

You cross your arms. “I made it out fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” he snaps. “And for a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

You exhale. “I’m used to people not checking in.”

“I’m not people.”

He stalks closer.

You step back.

He follows.

“I don’t care how many times you push me away. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you throw back. “Pretend like none of this hurts? Like I didn’t bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracks. “Because I can’t let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.”

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just certain.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

So he tips your chin up with two fingers.

His eyes are burning.

“I am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. I’ll still be right here.”

“Why?” you whisper, eyes glossy. “Why now?”

“Because I’ve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,” he breathes. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want every single part of you.”

His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.

Your breath hitches.

You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.

The heat between you is unbearable.

One tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him again.

You want to.

God, you ache to.

But instead, you whisper, “This changes nothing.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Wrong,” Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “It changes everything.”

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not this time.

He lets you go.

And it’s infuriating—because now you want him even more.

The first thing you notice is the light—soft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.

The second thing you notice is the heat.

Not the weather. Not the blanket.

Him.

Your breath stills.

Because Caleb’s wrapped around you like he owns you.

Which—he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t.

And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasn’t loosened even in sleep.

You remember falling asleep with your back to him.

You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.

Then there's his thigh—wedged between your legs like it lives there.

Your cheeks burn.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Time to get out before you completely lose your mind.”

You try to slip away quietly.

You wiggle.

No movement.

You nudge his hand.

His grip tightens.

You try prying his fingers from your waist. It’s like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.

You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll away—but the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightly—

And then he nibbles.

You whimper.

It betrays you instantly.

That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.

Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.

And then—

“Mm... morning,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.

You go still.

“Caleb,” you say, your voice a warning.

His lips find your pulse point. “You smell good,” he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.

His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.

You squeak.

His arms tighten like steel bands.

He’s caging you in.

“C-Caleb, get off—this is—this is not appropriate!”

Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. “You’re so warm.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re dreaming,” you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. “This is a dream. You’re dreaming. Let me go.”

He chuckles—chuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. “If I’m dreaming, I’m never waking up.”

Then his hips shift. Just barely.

But enough.

“Caleb!”

His eyes snap open.

You expect guilt.

What you get is heat.

Raw, focused, and dangerous.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then—

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.

“I was trying to be good,” Caleb murmurs. “You have no idea how hard it’s been.”

You do, actually.

Because it’s been hell for you, too.

You’re seconds from giving in—completely, helplessly—when you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.

You’re standing, heart racing, cheeks flushed, breathless.

Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. “What? You gonna pretend you didn’t enjoy that?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

“Out,” you snap.

He catches it effortlessly. “No breakfast first?”

You march to the door.

“Fine, fine. But next time?” He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. “You’ll beg me to stay.”

You slam the door in his face.

It doesn’t stop your knees from buckling.

It happens fast.

Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls you’ve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.

One moment you’re arguing—again. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. You’re trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensive—

And then Caleb moves.

He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.

You gasp.

His eyes meet yours.

They are ravenous.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to devour you.”

Your breath catches.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Not sweet. Not tentative.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming what was always his.

Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist free—not to escape, but because it’s too much, all-consuming, desperate.

He doesn’t let you go.

He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.

You break away for air—just for a second—and he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.

“Caleb—” you manage, but it comes out a whimper.

His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.

“Oh god—”

“That’s it,” he groans against your skin. “That sound. I’ve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.”

His hands leave your wrists—only to slide down your arms, your sides, until they’re clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.

But your body?

Your body is already his.

“Tell me to stop,” Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

You don’t.

You can’t.

There’s no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.

Because the truth is—he touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.

His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.

His self-control shatters.

And you let it.

Because there’s no going back now.

There’s a moment—barely a breath—after that kiss.

His forehead presses to yours, both of you trembling, not just from adrenaline but from something deeper. Something that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff after running your whole life just to avoid the fall.

He whispers your name like a secret, like a vow. It breaks you a little, how he says it. Like he’s tasting the weight of it for the first time.

Then he moves.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thought—instinct meeting inevitability. You're holding on to the only thing in the room that feels real. He lifts you as if he was made to, the heat between you palpable, a pulse that beats beneath your skin, echoing every missed chance and quiet longing.

The kiss deepens. Desperate, molten, tasting of years swallowed down and swallowed whole. His hands are everywhere—anchoring, memorizing, shaking just slightly from how hard he’s holding back.

He carries you through the house like a man possessed. Not with lust, but with ache. The bedroom door shuts with a thud behind you, and suddenly the air is full of promises, unspoken but heavy. When your back meets the mattress, he follows—solid and unyielding. Not crushing, but overwhelming in the way only someone you've loved for too long can be.

His weight is warmth, his gaze all hunger and reverence. His hands slide beneath your clothes, not to strip, but to feel. His palm over your heart. His fingers brushing your ribs like counting the years apart. Every touch says: I missed this. I missed you.

“You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?” he murmurs, his voice low, scraping over the tenderest parts of you.

You try to breathe out a laugh, but it catches on something in your throat—emotion, maybe. Want, definitely.

His mouth presses to your skin in a trail that’s less possession and more devotion. His touch follows, mapping you slowly, like he's rediscovering a land he once called home. You feel yourself arch into him, answer him without words, because words were never big enough for this.

He whispers things you’ll remember later—soft confessions and raw need laced with regret for every year wasted. You shiver when his breath touches your skin, when his fingers slide across bare inches you didn't mean to offer but couldn't deny.

And then... silence. Not because the moment ends. But because it begins.

Everything else fades.

There are no sharp lines, only sensation—heat and trembling limbs, quiet gasps, and the way your fingers fist into his shirt like you’ll fall apart without him there to catch you.

You lose time in the haze of it. In the rhythm of closeness, of skin against skin, of hearts beating so loud they drown out thought. You feel unraveled. Revered. Completely undone. Not by action, but by intent.

After, when the quiet stretches between you and your breath finally slows, he doesn’t let go. He stays draped over you, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he opens his eyes.

“This isn’t over,” he says. His voice is hoarse, a whisper etched with everything he’s never said aloud. “I’m not letting you go. Not this time.”

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

Not because of what just happened.

But because of everything that didn’t need to.

You lost track of how long ago the sun set.

The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. You’re boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.

And Caleb?

Caleb is still going.

He hovers above you, eyes dark with something starved—like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and now that he has you, he doesn’t know how to stop. His hands roam as if relearning the shape of you again and again, like the memory alone will never be enough.

“We’re not done,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your damp forehead. “Not yet.”

You try to protest, but all that leaves you is a soft, aching sound.

He smiles—soft, wicked, reverent.

And leans in to kiss you like it’s the first time all over again.

You're floating.

Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Caleb’s body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.

Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and you're so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.

And yet—even now, even after hours—he won’t stop touching.

Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now it’s worship.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs things—some unintelligible, some far too intimate.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your skin.

“I missed you.”

“I’ll never let you go again.”

You’re too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.

Eventually, he gets up—only to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.

When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.

But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.

He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. You’re exhausted, wrecked—and he’s still hard beneath you.

You give him a look that’s half horror, half disbelief.

He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. “I told you, I’m not finished.”

“Caleb—”

“I owe you,” he says, voice dipping low. “For every year I didn’t touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I should’ve read sooner.”

Your breath hitches.

And then his lips descend again—slow, tender, reverent. As if he’s trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.

Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.

And just when you think he’s finally done—

He shifts again.

Rolls you beneath him.

“You’re not going to let me sleep?” you rasp.

His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.

“No,” he breathes against your ear. “You’re not sleeping until I’ve claimed every inch of you. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”

You should tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.

And now?

He’s going to make sure you never forget it.

The morning after feels… dangerous.

Not because you’re in any real peril—but because it’s blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.

You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?

Oh, you want to punch him.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

“You’re up,” he says, voice as smug as the day is long.

“I tried to stay asleep,” you deadpan. “But someone kept me up all night.”

He chuckles—low and wicked—and sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.

“Consider it payback.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.

“For every letter you wrote and never gave me.”

Your stomach drops.

The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.

You’d almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.

And yet, here he is—utterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didn’t spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.

“You read them all,” you say, not quite a question.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Memorized. Studied. Jerk—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Caleb.”

He only grins wider.

You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like you’re not reliving every desperate, depraved word he’s now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But he’s already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.

“There's one you missed,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

He freezes.

Slowly, slowly, he turns. “Where?”

You bite your lip.

“The drawer by my bed. Bottom one.”

He’s gone before you even blink.

Your heart is pounding.

By the time you stumble after him, he’s already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. It’s the last one. The one you wrote when you thought you’d never see him again. It was raw, feral—filled with longing so thick it could drown you.

He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adam’s apple bobs hard.

When he finishes, he just looks at you.

You’re not sure what you expect.

But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.

“I’m going to ruin you again,” he says, voice low. “And this time, it won’t stop until you beg me to believe you’re mine.”

Your knees buckle.

But he’s already crossing the room.

Already crowding you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your back hits wood and your legs wrap around him like muscle memory.

“Caleb—” you gasp, but he silences you with a kiss that’s pure possession.

“No more running. No more letters.” He grinds against you, voice rasping. “You want to scream my name? Do it now. Right here. Where I can answer every word.”

And you do.

God help you, you do.

—

You don't know how you made it through round... whatever number that was. Your body's a puddle, your skin still humming, but Caleb is finally calm. Sated, for now. The hunger in his eyes has simmered down into something deeper—something dangerous in its quiet intensity.

He’s seated now, bare chest gleaming faintly in the afternoon light, legs spread with an unmistakable air of ownership. You’re half-draped across his torso, wearing one of his shirts that swallows you whole. He holds you with one arm looped securely around your waist, the other hand delicately unfolding that last letter. The most intimate one. The one you never meant anyone—especially him—to see.

You try not to squirm as he reads it again, slowly, as if committing every line to memory.

You can feel his eyes on the page—but his attention is on you.

“You wrote this two years ago,” he says softly, thumb brushing idle circles against your inner thigh. “I was at the edge of the solar belt. Couldn’t sleep that night. I felt… off. Like I was missing something.”

You glance down, ashamed. “Don’t romanticize it.”

“I’m not,” he replies simply. “I’m aligning timelines.”

Your heart stutters. His hand stills.

“Do you want me to stop reading?” he asks, genuine this time.

You consider it. Swallow. Then shake your head.

He nods, kisses your temple.

Another beat of silence. The room smells of skin and paper and sunlight.

Then, quietly, with a low chuckle, he murmurs:

“I should have known,” he mutters, “you liked being chased. You always did, even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?”

You remember.

And you remember how he’d always let you win—just enough—before pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.

You squirm, face heating. “That’s different.”

“It was always you,” he says softly. “Even when I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d follow you through fields, parks, school halls. You’d run, I’d chase. Every time.”

His voice dips, husky but no longer carnal. “You were never hiding from me. You were waiting for me to catch up.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I did.” He sets the letter aside. “Finally.”

The intensity softens into something almost unbearably tender. His fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your face up.

“No more letters,” he murmurs. “If there’s something you want… tell me. If you need something… I’ll listen. If you feel too much—good. So do I.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you.

“You’ve already stripped yourself bare,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “Now let me carry the weight.”

And just like that, your defenses crumble—slowly, quietly, like a dam leaking at the seams.

You rest your forehead against his. His lips ghost over yours. There’s no urgency. No fire.

Just heat. Banked and waiting.

And when he pulls you closer, tucks you against his chest, and lets out a slow breath—you swear you can feel his heartbeat echo your own.

The world outside is quiet, but inside your home, chaos reigns.

“Hey! Give that back!” you shout, laughing breathlessly as you chase after Caleb, who’s casually sauntering around your kitchen—your kitchen—holding your favorite coffee mug high above his head like a trophy.

Bastard.

“This?” Caleb grins, the morning light making his messy hair look unfairly golden, like he just strolled out of a dream. “You mean our mug now. Community property.”

“That’s not how this works!” You make a wild grab for it, but he just shifts it higher, smirking like he’s enjoying this a little too much.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s only in a loose pair of joggers, the drawstring barely tied, his chest bare and warm and still a little damp from his earlier shower. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth teasing, worth chasing. Whatever it is, your heart flutters violently in your chest.

“Caleb, I swear—” you lunge for him again.

He catches you effortlessly, laughing as he spins you around until your back is pressed against his chest, trapping you in his arms. The mug dangles in front of you tauntingly. His scent envelops you—fresh soap, coffee, and something that’s just him.

“Say please,” he whispers into your ear, his breath warm, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

You wriggle in his arms, only managing to grind yourself back against his hips in the most scandalous way. Caleb’s arms tighten, his low groan rumbling against your back.

You freeze, heat flooding your cheeks. Damn him.

Caleb chuckles, feeling the way you stiffen. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire this early in the morning.”

“You started it,” you mutter, glaring over your shoulder.

He grins lazily, shameless. “I’ll finish it, too.”

Before you can retort, he finally, finally relinquishes the mug, setting it gently on the counter. You think you’re safe—until he sweeps you off your feet in one effortless move, carrying you bridal style toward the couch.

“Caleb! Put me down!” you yelp, pounding your fists against his chest, but he’s unbothered, humming a tune under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Shhh. We’re doing Sunday properly,” he says, plopping down onto the couch and settling you firmly on his lap, caging you in with his arms. “Coffee. Couch. Cuddles. Mandatory.”

You open your mouth to protest, but his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you to rest against his shoulder. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost reverent.

You can feel the tension humming between you—thick, electric—but somehow, it doesn’t feel urgent. It feels… safe. Warm. Like you could fall asleep right here and Caleb would keep the whole world away from you.

You sigh, feeling your body relax against him despite yourself.

“This isn’t fair,” you grumble.

“What’s not fair?” he asks, voice low and teasing as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You being so… so…” You gesture vaguely, words failing you. How do you describe this? Caleb being infuriating and sweet and annoyingly perfect, all wrapped up in one stupidly handsome package?

“So what?” he presses, feigning innocence. His hand strokes lazily up and down your spine, his touch feather-light.

You groan into his chest. “Everything.”

He laughs—really laughs—and the sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against you. You can’t help the small smile that creeps across your face. You hate how easy it is to be soft with him. How easy it is to fall harder when you promised yourself you’d be careful.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart,” Caleb says, dropping his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with something raw and unspoken. “Might as well get used to it.”

Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, and for once, you don’t have a snarky reply. Just this—this impossible, chaotic, beautiful morning. His arms around you. His laugh in your ears. His heartbeat steady beneath your hand.

Maybe you are stuck with him.

Maybe you want to be.

And when Caleb presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—tender, warm, unbearably sweet—you know you’re completely, hopelessly, irreversibly his.

And judging by the way he smiles against your mouth, he's known it all along.

Your lunch is burning.

You know it is—because you can smell the faint scent of charred vegetables—and yet, you can’t do anything about it.

Because Caleb.

Because Caleb, who has one arm lazily wrapped around your waist, caging you against the counter, a spatula abandoned nearby. Because Caleb, who keeps murmuring absolutely mortifying things against your ear in that deep, smug voice of his, his lips brushing your skin with every word.

Because Caleb, who somehow—somehow—has memorized every single humiliating word you ever wrote to him.

You try not to die of embarrassment right there.

“You know,” Caleb drawls, his voice a slow purr against your ear, “you were really dramatic back in middle school. I believe it went something like—” he clears his throat exaggeratedly, clearly having way too much fun, “‘Dear Caleb, I hate you so much I hope you trip and fall into a mud puddle in front of the entire school. Maybe then you’ll stop being so full of yourself.’”

You groan, shoving your sleeves over your face, mortified. “Stopppp.” You’re basically trying to melt into the counter at this point.

But Caleb’s laughing, warm and delighted, peeling your sleeves down to expose your burning face. He lives for this now, clearly. Every time you squirm, he looks like he’s won the lottery.

“And then—then,” he continues gleefully, ignoring your protests, “in high school, when I got a little popular… You wrote, ‘Congratulations, Prince Charming. Maybe one day you’ll notice the loyal commoner you left in the dust. But no worries. I’m totally fine. Totally. Absolutely fine. Not like I ever cared anyway.’”

He recites it with dramatic flair, clutching his chest like a wounded lover. You are dying inside.

“Oh my God, Caleb,” you hiss, trying to hide your face again. “Shut up! I was, like, fifteen! I didn’t know anything about anything!”

He laughs again, low and fond, his chest vibrating against your back. “You knew enough to break my heart, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you feel the serious undercurrent beneath all the teasing—the raw affection.

You twist in his grip, attempting to shove him away, but he just effortlessly manhandles you into his lap instead. One strong arm loops around your waist, the other sneaks into your hair, stroking it slowly, tangling his fingers through the strands.

You pout at him, cheeks still on fire. “You’re so annoying.”

His grin softens into something devastatingly tender. His eyes burn bright and molten as he stares at you, like you’re the only thing in the entire world.

“Not done yet,” he murmurs.

Your stomach drops.

You already know what's coming. The worst part.

Caleb leans down, nuzzles against your temple, and in a low, sinful voice, whispers, “And then there were the ones where you couldn’t stop thinking about me at night.”

You jerk, mortified, but he tightens his hold on you, trapping you snug against him. His lips graze your ear.

“You had so many thoughts about me,” he says, voice dropping impossibly lower. “About what you wanted me to do to you. About what you wanted to do to me.” He chuckles darkly when you squeak and try to wriggle away.

“I can quote those too, if you want,” he teases mercilessly. “Maybe I should start with the one where you described me tying you up with my DAA-issued tactical belt—”

“CALEB!!” you shriek, smacking his chest as he throws his head back laughing.

You bury your face in his shoulder, absolutely vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, whimpering, “I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your temple, over and over again until your trembling subsides into quiet giggles. His arms are warm and unrelenting around you.

You risk peeking up at him—and freeze.

He’s staring down at you with a look so filled with adoration it physically steals the air from your lungs. His hand cups your jaw so gently it makes your heart ache.

“You’re my life,” Caleb says, voice rough with feeling. “You’ve always been my life. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You blink up at him, stunned, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

Slowly, shyly, you rest your forehead against his, your hands sliding up to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms.

Caleb exhales shakily, as if the moment is too big even for him.

The smell of burnt food lingers, the sun pours golden light across the kitchen, and you sit there, tangled up in him, the most chaotic, beautiful, utterly yours thing you’ve ever had.

“Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?” you whisper, a teasing glint in your eye.

Caleb’s smile turns crooked, boyish.

“Forever, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you, slow and deep and soft, like a promise he’s waited a lifetime to keep.

—

Later that night, you're curled up on the couch together, tangled in a heap of limbs and fluffy throw blankets, a low movie playing in the background.

You’re half-dozing, feeling deliciously warm and safe against Caleb’s chest, his heartbeat lulling you into a haze. His hand strokes lazily through your hair, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns against your scalp.

You’re just about to slip under completely when—

"Sweetheart?" Caleb’s voice, deceptively casual.

You hum in response, not even bothering to open your eyes.

"What's this? Another letter?"

You tense immediately.

No.

No no no.

Your eyes snap open in horror just in time to see Caleb, that absolute devil, pulling out one of the more battered, worn pieces of paper from somewhere.

You gasp, trying to grab for it, but he holds it way above your head, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.

"Caleb!" you shriek, flailing. "Put it away! You can't—!"

He just laughs and pins you down easily with one hand on your waist, straddling your thighs to trap you in place.

“I think the people deserve to hear this one,” he teases, that wicked glint in his eye. “Specifically, me.”

He clears his throat dramatically while you writhe helplessly beneath him.

"‘It’s not fair,’" Caleb reads aloud, smirking as he drags his gaze down your squirming body. "‘It’s not fair how he fills out his uniform. How his gloves tighten around his fingers. How I can’t stop thinking about what those hands would feel like on my skin. How I dream about him tying my wrists, whispering filthy promises against my neck—’"

"CALEB!!" you wail, smacking your hands against his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him. Your face is boiling hot.

But Caleb, the menace, the absolute menace, just grins wider, loving every second of your humiliation.

"And it goes on," he says gleefully, ignoring your mortified whimper. "‘How I'd let him do anything to me. How I'd beg him to lose control. How much I crave him, every breath, every heartbeat, like I'm dying of thirst in a desert and he's the only water I'll ever want.’"

Your soul tries to physically leave your body.

You slap your hands over your face, wishing for death.

"Please," you moan into your palms, "Caleb, please stop—"

But he just chuckles darkly, leaning down until his nose brushes yours, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur.

“You really should have mailed this one, sweetheart,” he says, eyes smoldering. "Would’ve saved us a lot of time."

You whimper, still hiding your face. He peels your hands away from your burning cheeks gently but firmly, making you meet his gaze.

Caleb’s smile turns unbearably tender as he cradles your flushed face between his palms, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

"I memorized every word," he says softly. "Every single one. They're engraved into me now. Just like you."

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

You can't look away from him—those devastating sunset eyes drinking you in like you hung the stars.

He dips his head lower, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent.

“You’re mine,” Caleb murmurs, voice rough with possessiveness and love. “You always were.”

You melt completely, boneless in his hold, helpless against him—as you’ve always been.

"Caleb..." you whisper, voice trembling.

He smiles that slow, infuriating, dangerous smile—and promptly starts tickling you, laughing when you shriek and try to wriggle free, your earlier mortification forgotten in a burst of chaotic laughter and flailing limbs.

You scream his name, half furious, half in love.

Caleb just laughs like it’s the happiest sound in the world.

It’s late.

Not the deep velvet of midnight, but that quiet hour when the world seems suspended in hush. The city hums softly beyond the windows, and the room is awash in the muted amber of a bedside lamp. You're tangled together beneath the sheets—not in passion this time, but in something far more dangerous.

Vulnerability.

Caleb lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that look again—the one that's too tender, too knowing. His fingers trail lazily across your arm, like he can’t stop touching you even now. Like he’s making sure you’re still here.

“I should’ve reached out sooner,” he says.

You stay quiet. Not because you're angry. Because you're afraid of what might come next.

“I didn’t date her,” he adds, so casually it nearly slips by.

You blink.

“What?”

“She wasn’t mine,” he says. “Never was. I thought…” He hesitates. “I thought she might be the only person who could understand what I was becoming. The training. The pressure. But it was never romantic. Not even close.”

Your throat feels tight. You shift, pulling the blanket up like armor.

“Then why didn’t you call? Or message? Or—anything, Caleb? You just vanished.”

He exhales, slow and jagged.

“I was afraid,” he admits.

You glance up, surprised.

He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “Not of the missions. Not of the fleet. I was afraid that if I talked to you, really talked to you, I’d drop everything just to be near you. I was already teetering. One video call and I would’ve been done for.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You idiot,” you whisper. “I would’ve taken you. In any form.”

“I didn’t want you to take less of me.” He looks at you then, eyes bare, voice rough. “I wanted to be worthy of what you wrote in those letters. Of the way you looked at me when we were kids.”

You want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe just bury your face in his chest until the years melt away.

“You were worthy, Caleb. You just… didn’t believe it.”

A silence settles. Not heavy. Just real.

He pulls you closer. One hand cradling your head to his chest, the other tangled in your fingers beneath the sheets. You listen to his heartbeat again.

Stronger now.

Steady.

“For the record,” he murmurs, “when I read the one about the lake—when we were sixteen—I nearly lost it. I remember that night. I didn’t know what to do with the way I felt back then.”

You squeeze his hand. “You pushed me into the water.”

“You screamed my name so loud, half the neighborhood heard.”

You smile despite yourself.

Then softer, quieter:

“I used to dream about that moment, you know? If you ever found the letters. If you ever came back.”

“And now that I have?”

Your smile fades. You tilt your head up and find him waiting. Bare. Present.

“I don’t want dreams anymore,” you whisper.

“Good,” Caleb says, leaning down until his lips barely brush yours. “Because I’m not leaving this time. And I don’t need letters. I have you.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not a claim.

It’s a promise.

The shuttle touches down with a soft hiss, and before the hatch even fully opens, you're hit with the scent of your hometown—familiar, grounding, sweetened by nostalgia. The air is different here. Softer. Like time slows down just enough to let you breathe.

Caleb steps out behind you, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes sweep over the old landing port, the cracked pavement, the overgrown grass curling at the edges of fences long forgotten. He doesn't say anything for a moment.

Then, quietly: “It’s smaller than I remember.”

You huff a laugh. “Because we’re bigger now.”

He looks at you—really looks. “You are.”

There’s a weight to those words you don’t touch yet. Not here. Not now.

The town unfolds before you like a photograph—faded but warm. You walk the familiar streets side by side, shoulders brushing, passing your old school, the corner store where you used to pool pocket change for sweets, the park where you’d play tag until dusk.

“I remember this tree,” Caleb murmurs, stopping beneath the one with the warped trunk. “You used to climb it like a gremlin.”

“You fell out of it once,” you remind him. “Cried for hours.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you didn’t leave my side.”

A beat of silence.

“You always stayed,” he says.

You glance at him, the late afternoon sun haloing his profile. “You just didn’t always notice.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushes yours. Then lingers. Then takes it fully.

You don’t let go.

The path takes you past your childhood home. Your heart kicks up. The windows are still the same. The porch swing still crooked. You half expect to hear your mother calling you in for dinner. Caleb pauses beside you.

“I remember sneaking out through your window,” he says with a crooked grin. “You made me carry that squeaky chair so we wouldn’t get caught.”

“You always stepped on the wrong floorboard anyway,” you mutter. “We always got caught.”

“Worth it,” he murmurs. “Every single time.”

You don’t speak again until you're standing at the edge of the lake—the one you wrote about. The one where you screamed his name across the water. It looks just like it did then.

The sun dips low, painting the surface gold.

You watch the light scatter across the waves, lost in thought.

“I didn’t know you loved me then,” he says, voice quiet. “But I felt it. In every laugh. Every fight. Every stupid dare. I felt it. I just didn’t have the words.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t either,” you say. “So I wrote them instead.”

He turns to you slowly. “No more letters,” he whispers.

Then, gently, reverently, Caleb cups your face.

You close your eyes.

The kiss is soft this time. Not a promise or a possession. Just a memory, coming full circle.

Just two people who finally stopped running.

NOTES: guys I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe I posted the unedited version!!! I didn't like how instead of talking through their issues these two went to bang instead, AHHH this is so embarrassing!!!

#meliora writes #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #lads caleb #caleb x you #reader is not mc #non mc reader #lads fluff #lads fanfic #xia yizhou #xia yizhou x you #yearning hours #lads smut #xia yizhou smut #love and deepspace caleb #lads angst #fic: letters unsent

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sharieb · 3 days ago

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Hello 👋 I had a funny idea for non mc and lads bc I'm a suckered for jealous men. Okay so let's say this is pre relationship and non mc thinks the lads boys like mc so she's flirting with others and going in dates trying to forget the boys. Meanwhile, the boys are giving signs that they like you and are livid by this news. And MC just slaps them on the head and is like "you're dumbahh better confess instead of waiting then!!". And who knows maybe the boys do grow a pair and confess and the mc and I get married and have a happy lesbain marriage blah blah

That's all I got ✋️🙃

Keep up the amazing work 👏

Stay Jealous or Get a Ring, Your Choice, Dammit.

Setup: You thought they liked MC. So you try to move on, triggering five separate, very uncasual meltdowns and a tired MC, who's sick and tired of watching her emotionally constipated friends spiral into disaster.

Pairing: LADs x Non-MC reader

Genre: Crack, Fluff

Writer's note: The moment I saw this request, my mind went straight to doing a crack fanfic (sorry to the request if that's not what you wanted). I've been cracking for who knows how long. I left a little bonus for the MC lovers here, I made her section non-gen so more of you lovelies can enjoy it. Content warning: characters ooc, implied attempted murder

The dramatic artist who believes no one deserves you.

Rafayel tried everything.

He painted you into morning skies and painted you out of every conversation with another man. He started hanging around the edge of your gallery visits, always just nearby, just waiting for you to ask what he was working on. He left you anonymous compliments on your pottery pieces, wrote you poetry disguised as art notes, and even installed a light fixture above your favourite sculpture so it glimmered just right.

You thought he was just being theatrical, as usual, and figured he must be trying to charm MC.

Until you mentioned you had a date that evening.

He smiled. Then didn’t blink for a full thirty seconds.

That same night, your date spotted Rafayel watching you from across the restaurant window. In full tux. Drinking wine. Alone.

Soon, Rafayel walked in with a five-foot oil painting titled: “The Delusion of Men Who Think They’re Enough for You.”

Your date chokes on his kombucha. You hide your face. And Rafayel? He takes a bow.

You leave, dragging your dignity behind you. As soon as you're out of earshot, MC pops up behind a curtain, hands on hips.

MC: “Rafayel, what in all the painted heavens are you doing? Did you just publicly roast her date with a painting?” Rafayel: “It was a conceptual piece.” MC: “It was a visual war crime.”

She drags him backstage and throws glitter at him like a baptism.

MC: “I swear, if you don’t confess, I will confess for you. With interpretive dance. In full Lemurian formal wear. Then I’ll march over to her, hand her a bouquet of your secret fanart, and say: ‘This man wants to marry you and adopt six cats.’ I will.”

Rafayel groans, throws a hand over his forehead like a fallen prince.

Rafayel: “FINE. I’ll go, I’ll go.”

Later... You find a velvet-wrapped box on your pottery shelf. Inside? A charm bracelet made of hand-painted ceramic beads, each one modelled after a stupid little moment he thought you’d forgotten.

There’s a tag: "Wear this if you’d like to go on an actual date, with someone who knows how to admire a masterpiece."

He’s lingering by the doorway, pretending to look at a plant.

You: “Subtle.” Rafayel grinning: “I’m an artist, darling. Not an assassin.” You, holding up the bracelet: “So, this means I’m your muse now?” Rafayel: “You always were. I just finally grew the guts to say it.”

The sulking surgeon with an MD in jealousy.

Zayne showed it the only way he knew how, quietly.

He made sure your bloodwork was always processed first. He left energy bars in your locker with hand-written nutritional stats.

He cross-checked your chart for signs of overwork and rerouted your breaks so you'd have time to breathe.

You assumed it was part of his job. Or maybe because MC worked the same schedule and he was looking out for her.

Then he found out you were going on a date.

Your date? Sweet, maybe a bit boring, but he knew what medflowers were and walked you to the medbay like a gentleman.

Unfortunately, Zayne took that as a declaration of war.

Your date: “So, sprained wrist?”

Zayne, smiling like a serial killer: “Possibly a fractured ulna. I should check his reflexes, too.”

Then he proceeds to drop a clipboard labeled "Do Not Resuscitate" directly in the poor man’s hands.

You: “ZAYNE.”

Zayne: “What? It’s a common form.”

You stormed off right when the appointment ended. The moment your footsteps fade, MC emerges from behind a curtain like a surgical horror.

MC: “You want to explain why you're committing emotional malpractice?” Zayne: “I'm not-” MC: “You just threw a beaker at his foot.” Zayne: “I was testing his reflexes.” MC: “You labelled it ‘containment hazard. '" Zayne: “Emotional containment. He failed.” MC: “You really like looming over the poor man like a judgmental gargoyle!”

He clenches his jaw. Zayne: “She shouldn’t waste her time on people who wouldn’t know how to handle her properly.” MC: “Oh my STARS, Zayne. I’m this close to printing out your stupid mood logs and hand-delivering them to her. CONFESS, you tuxedo-clad dumbass!”

Zayne exhales through his nose like he’s being asked to perform unnecessary surgery.

MC: “I’m not kidding. If you don’t tell her how you feel, I will. I'll even add your notes: Patient: You. Diagnosis: Irresistible. Treatment: CONFESSION, you emotionally-repressed gurney goblin.”

He nods once, faint blush on his cheeks, and picks up his tea like it’s a shield.

Zayne: “I’ll handle it. But if you laugh at me-” MC: “I’ll personally prescribe you courage. Now go.”

Later... You find a sticky note on your locker. It reads:

"If you’re not busy after work, I’d like to take you for tea. Preferably somewhere with no diagnostic equipment. —Zayne."

You catch him rounding the corner. He pauses, clearly didn’t expect to get caught mid-flee.

You: “Is this your version of asking me out?” Zayne, flatly: “Would it work?” You, smiling: “Only if you’re planning to glare at everyone else in the café.” Zayne: “That was already the plan.”

The shy, sleepy alien boy who becomes unhinged when you touch grass with another man.

Xavier was trying. And glitching.

He wrote you custom code to predict weather patterns near your commute. He tuned the observatory AI to greet you by name. He added calming frequencies to your music algorithm, then deleted the logs so you wouldn’t know he noticed you get nervous before meetings.

You thought he was just being sweet for MC’s sake, surely Xavier’s little upgrades were to help the team, right? Or worse… to make MC smile.

Until you casually mentioned you had stargazing plans with someone else.

Your observatory date starts perfectly. Stars, warm blanket, you pointing out constellations.

Until the projector shuts down mid-sentence. The whole dome powers off.

You: “Maybe it’s solar interference?” Your date: “Maybe that guy on the roof hot-wired it?”

You squint. Yep. Xavier. Standing alone. On the roof. In a hoodie. Typing directly into a satellite control panel like he was God himself.

After you leave, clearly annoyed, MC literally rappels down from a side ladder like a silent assassin.

MC: “You sabotaged her date because you couldn’t handle her laughing at someone else’s Pluto joke?” Xavier: “…It wasn’t funny.” MC: “You activated a lockdown protocol. Over Pluto.”

She drags him into the maintenance bay with her toolkit. MC: “Fix your wiring, and your feelings. Or I’m hacking your AI assistant to confess for you in the middle of a team briefing.” He sighs but nods his head.

Later...

You walk into your room, and the smart panel lights up with a voice message. It’s him.

“I’ve set coordinates for the meteor shower. If you come, I’ll bring your favourite blanket. And, if you let me... I’ll hold your hand.”

You find him across the garden dome, nervously adjusting the telescope.

You: “You know you already had the stars on your side, right?” Xavier, softly: “I was hoping for a constellation-level miracle.” You: “Turns out, you just had to ask.”

The underworld menace who thinks murder is a love language.

Sylus doesn’t do soft. But he tried.

He upgraded your scanner with a hidden security shield. He intercepted every report that mentioned your name. He left you coded messages in encrypted graffiti.

You figured it was to protect MC. To support her missions.

Your date never even arrives. His bike “malfunctions,” he ends up in the medbay with soot in his eyebrows, and somehow a video surfaces of Sylus standing next to a sparking hover core with the caption: “oopsie.”

You march into his office, furious.

You: “Did you sabotage my date’s car?” Sylus: “Define sabotage.” You: “The engine exploded.” Sylus: “Define exploded.”

You storm off, muttering about hit lists and overprotective warlords.

MC waits a full two minutes before grabbing Sylus by the collar and hauling him into a back corridor like a crime scene.

MC: “You lit a man’s ride on fire, Sylus.” Sylus: “He called her ‘cute.’ It was self-defence.” MC: “You’re emotionally constipated and it’s a threat to public safety.”

She slams him into a chair.

MC: “You either tell her that you like her or I do. And when I do, I’ll include the audio file of you, where you practised confessing to a mirror and calling her your ‘chaotic muse and sweetheart of the storm.’” He groaned in annoyance but agreed... not without using his evol to handcuff MC and then yeet her off him and across the room

Later... There’s a file on your encrypted tablet titled: "Operation: Us."

Inside: sarcastic bullet points and a dinner date invite labeled: “NOT AN INTERROGATION (PROBABLY).”

You find him leaning against the hallway wall.

You: “This is your version of romance?” Sylus, smirking: “You haven’t even seen dessert yet.” You: “Sweet or explosive?” Sylus: “Yes.”

The military-grade menace with Colonel-sized delusions.

Caleb kept it together... until he didn’t.

He cleared flight paths to make sure you always had a smooth ride. He added you to every mission briefing worth hearing. He rerouted shuttles so you wouldn’t get stuck next to people who annoyed you.

You thought it was efficiency. You thought it was maybe for MC.

Then you told him you were seeing someone new.

Your date is supposed to be a quiet stroll around the Skyhaven hangars. Instead, he’s stopped by emergency protocol and pulled into a no-fly debrief. You get an apologetic text… and a second one from Caleb that says: “Hangar’s clear now. Coincidence.”

You: “Why did my date get pulled in for emergency training?” Caleb: “Safety protocol.” You: “He’s a pastry chef.” Caleb: “Pastry burns are real.”

When you leave the hangar, fuming, MC’s waiting behind a control tower, arms crossed.

MC: “You rerouted a civilian for a date-block.” Caleb: “He didn’t even check the air traffic pattern.” MC: “You’re weaponising airspace for emotional sabotage!”

She drags him behind a parked shuttle and jabs her finger into his chest plate.

MC: “You either tell her, you like her or I will, and I’ll do it by submitting an HR report titled ‘Unresolved Feelings: A PowerPoint Presentation,’ with photos of the flight logs, the dossier, and that doodle of you two as jet pilots you keep in your journal.”

He sighs. And finally goes to confess.

Later... There’s a sleek envelope tucked under your door. Inside: two flight passes. On the back: "I figured we’ve been circling this long enough. Come fly with me, partner."

He’s outside, pretending to inspect air traffic patterns.

You: “That's a grand gesture or a flight plan?” Caleb, softly: “Depends, did it work?” You: smiling, nudging him,

“Only if you stop background checking café staff.” Caleb: “…No promises.”

BONUS

A quiet moment. One pot of tea. Two agents of chaos.

You and MC are seated in the quietest corner of a Linkon rooftop café, steaming teacups between you. The air smells like chamomile and judgment.

You swirl your cup, eyeing her curiously.

You: “So… your fiancé. What’s their deal? They must be some kind of unshakeable saint if you’re willingly giving up your chaos-for-two lifestyle.”

MC smirks over the rim of her cup.

MC: “Oh, my babybear's worse than me. I used to plot strategy in my sleep. They dream in legal loopholes and high-stakes tea parties.”

You snort. “And here I thought I was the menace magnet.”

MC leans in, eyes twinkling.

MC: “You are. But my buttercup’s the only person I’ve met who could beat Sylus in a staring contest, out-code Xavier, and survive being Caleb’s co-pilot on a ten-hour flight. All while giving Zayne nutritional advice.”

You stare. “...Is your fiancé even human?”

MC shrugs. “Not sure. I fell in love before I asked.”

You smile behind your teacup.

You: “Sounds like you two deserve each other.”

You both cackle, and the rooftop air feels just a little bit lighter.

#love and deepspace #lad x non mc #lads x non mc #zayne love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #zayne x non mc! reader #caleb x non mc! reader #xavier x non mc! reader #rafayel x non mc! reader #sylus x non mc! reader #non mc reader #lads crack #lads fluff

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kira-loves0905 · 4 months ago

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everybody gangsta on non!mc x lads men fics because it gives us the sense of satisfaction because against all odds, he choses you over MC.

but no one's really ready, or no one has actually written much in the perspective of MC herself.

how heartbreaking it must've been to lose the one you love when they're right in your grasp. she felt it, the tension and budding love was already there. heck, unbeknowst to her, she has timelines worth of relationships with lads men- so that's something. only to get that love snipped out when suddenly another woman appears in his life. the one who he felt was really the right one.

its satisfying to ponder cause, who really wins in this love triangle and who exactly lost when placed in a one-shot? do you win when you defy fate (non!mc x lads) or do you win when you triumph against the temptation on breaking fate (og mc! x lads, those fics where he still doesnt chose you? yum).

idk man i might not make much sense cuz its midnight yapping but ykwim?

#kira.rants!#more like kira.yaps!#lads #love and deepspace #lads x reader #lads zayne #zayne love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #lads x you #non mc!reader #zayne x mc #sylus x reader #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #xavier x reader #caleb lads

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fiendsgf · 2 days ago

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Soulbound

IV. Unspoken

sylus x reader, rafayel x reader

Summary: An invitation. A new role. A gala that doesn’t go as planned. As the lines start to blur between you and Sylus, you find yourself drifting. Away from what you thought you had under control, and toward something comforting. A sea breeze brings a new (old) face. Cracks in a carefully built foundation start to form.

content: non!mc reader, angst if you squint, isekai, love triangle(ish) coming! shady raf (he’s here!)

pt. 1 pt.2 pt.3

The knock on your door is soft, deliberate – just enough to pull you from your thoughts.

You open it to find Sylus standing there, a quiet urgency in his gaze.

“Come with me,” he says, voice low and direct.

You follow him through the dim corridors of the base, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet. He leads you to his study, a room lined with dark wood shelves, scattered gadgets humming faintly beneath the warm glow of a desk lamp.

He closes the door behind you, gesturing toward the leather chair across from his desk.

You sit. He remains standing, arms crossed, eyes fixed on yours.

“You’ve been here long enough to know this base isn’t a place for idling,” he says. You nod slowly, unsure where he’s headed.

“I want to give you something to do.”

You blink. “I’m not sure I’m exactly qualified…”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We work well together. That fight with the Wanderer-”

“Was luck,” you interject, too quickly.

“No,” he says simply. “You reacted faster than I expected.”

You lower your gaze, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“I’m offering something more than training,” Sylus continues. “You’d accompany me on business.”

You pause. “Business? Like Onychinus business?”

“For now,” he replies. “I know being stuck here isn’t what you asked for. But sitting around waiting for something to change must be… taxing.”

You stay quiet, heart beating faster.

“No pressure,” he adds. “But I thought I’d give you the choice.”

You hesitate. “Wouldn’t that make me a target? I thought the idea was to lay low?”

“We’ll keep things contained,” Sylus says. “Onychinus has its methods. You won’t be exposed more than you already are. I’ll make sure of it.”

That doesn’t fully settle your nerves, but it does something.

He steps forward, his voice quieter now.

“It’s also smart to keep you close.”

Your eyes meet his. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says. “But your appearance here still doesn’t make sense. And if someone is targeting you, it’s better we control the circumstances.”

You chew on that, the weight of it settling in your chest. You’re not entirely sure you believe it’s about protection.

But you nod. “Okay. That makes sense.”

A subtle exhale leaves him. “Good.”

You don’t say it, but part of you is relieved. You’re tired of watching the world from the sidelines.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The days blur together after that conversation. Long hours of training, missions in simulation rooms, instructions barked through comms, drills that leave your muscles aching. It’s a welcome kind of exhaustion. The kind that leaves no room for overthinking.

He gives you a comms device. Then a phone.

Your contact list is small: Sylus, Luke, Kieran. The twins send you memes you don’t fully understand, but you laugh anyway. Sylus messages you sporadically; updates on his location, what the chef’s making for dinner, the occasional reminder not to skip meals.

Something in your chest begins to settle. You’re not home. But you’re no longer floating.

One evening, you curl up on the lounge’s chaise with a book, half-lost in a chapter, when Sylus steps in.

“There’s a negotiation happening soon,” he says. “An arms deal. I want you to come.”

You lower your book. “Should I expect trouble?”

He tilts his head. “You should always expect trouble here. But it should go smoothly. This one’s mostly for you to observe.”

You nod. “Okay. I’ll go.”

“A seamstress will come by tomorrow. It’ll be held in a hotel, under the guise of a formal gala. You’ll need to look the part.”

He leaves before you can ask more. But your pulse skips anyway.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The night arrives faster than expected.

You sit at your vanity, adjusting your earrings, your reflection split between nervous anticipation and quiet resolve. The dress, delivered just hours ago, is almost too beautiful. Smoky silk drapes around your form, dark and iridescent – not black, not gray, but something ghostlike in between. A ripple of shadow made real.

You slip on your heels and step into the hallway, nerves humming under your skin.

Sylus waits for you in the common room, leaning against the wall with the quiet poise of someone who doesn’t need to say a word to command a room. His suit is sharp, gray with subtle pinstripes and a burgundy tie that draws your eye to his collarbone before you force yourself to look away.

He glances up – and lingers.

A second passes. Then another.

“You’ll blend in well,” he says, and there’s something clipped in his voice, something he doesn’t elaborate on.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Good.”

He looks away, but not before you catch the flicker in his expression. Approval? Restraint?

Whatever it is, you feel the weight of it as you walk beside him toward the elevator, toward the unknown.

Something flutters in your chest. You clip its wings before it fully takes off.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The hotel hosting the gala is nestled deep within a pocket of Linkon you hadn’t seen before. Opulent, polished, humming with old money and quiet danger. As you and Sylus step out of the sleek, nondescript car, your heels click softly against the marble entryway. You're immediately hit by the chilled air of the lobby, scented with faint citrus and something more artificial. Clean, but too clean. Like a cover-up.

Sylus offers his arm without a word.

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t want to take it, but because you’re hyperaware of the hundreds of tiny eyes in this place. Both mechanical and human.

Still, you slip your hand into the crook of his elbow. His suit is warm against your skin, and despite your practiced posture, your heartbeat betrays you with its speed.

He glances at you, brief and unreadable. His voice is low enough to be mistaken for nothing but a murmur.

“Relax. Tension draws attention.”

You press your lips together and nod once. You match his stride, walking through the lobby’s grand doors into a ballroom drenched in gold lighting and soft jazz. Crystal chandeliers hang low, glittering like cages. The room is full – men and women in extravagant attire, murmuring behind champagne glasses and false smiles.

You can’t tell who’s rich and who’s dangerous. Maybe they’re all both.

The walk from the door to the reserved meeting room feels longer than it should. You keep your head high. Eyes soft. Every movement deliberate, like Sylus taught you.

At the edge of the room, Sylus finally steers you toward a more private area, where the music fades and the air turns heavier.

You enter a smaller, curtained chamber just past the main hall. A private suite. Plush seating. A long, polished table. The kind of place where deals are signed. Or where people go missing.

The man waiting already reeks of money and malice. His suit fits too well. His smile is too tight.

Sylus releases your arm and steps forward with casual confidence. You follow, quieter, slipping into the role he carved out for you.

“Mr. S,” the man drawls. “Fashionably late.”

Sylus doesn’t flinch. “You’re lucky I showed up at all.”

The man chuckles and gestures for you both to sit. You take the seat just beside Sylus, letting him take the lead.

A briefcase is set on the table. Two men in black flank the dealer like shadows.

“You have the Protocore?” Sylus asks, his tone crisp but unbothered.

The man nods toward his assistant, who places a sleek, rectangular case on the table and unlatches it. Inside, a glowing crystal – humming faintly, lit with a cold blue pulse.

It looks right.

But something about the way the man’s fingers tap on the briefcase makes your stomach knot.

Sylus doesn’t blink. “You tested it?”

“Of course,” the man says smoothly. “You’re welcome to run diagnostics yourself, but let’s not pretend we’re strangers to one another. This is my best piece.”

“Funny,” Sylus says, leaning back. “I’ve heard you say that before. The last one shattered in a week.”

The tension tightens like a rope around your chest.

You don’t move. You don't speak. You focus on your breathing. Count the seconds between Sylus’s words. Watch the guards for any twitch of impatience.

The man’s smile thins. “And yet you came back.”

“Maybe I’m feeling generous,” Sylus replies. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you'd try screwing me over a second time.”

A flicker of something cold flashes in the dealer’s eyes.

The room stills.

Then–he laughs. Loud, unconvincing.

“Let’s not turn this into a pissing contest, Sylus. You brought the money?”

Sylus glances at you.

You slide the compact tablet from your clutch. Encrypted, activated with his biometric code. He brushes his thumb across it and slides it across the table.

“Transfer will initiate when I confirm it’s real.”

The dealer gestures again. One of the guards steps forward with a device and starts running a scan on the Protocore. Blue lights flicker across the surface. Sylus watches with a hawk’s patience.

You feel it before you hear it – the subtle click of a safety being released.

Your eyes dart. One of the guards shifts, hand on his belt. Sylus doesn’t move, but his voice drops.

“Don’t,” he warns.

But it’s too late.

The room explodes into motion.

The first shot doesn’t come from Sylus.

It comes from the man on the right, the one who’d been pretending to check the Protocore.

You duck instinctively as the guard draws, the gun leaving its holster in one smooth, practiced motion. Sylus is already moving.

In the blur of motion, he kicks the chair back and slams the table up as a makeshift barrier, knocking the briefcase clean to the floor. The gunfire rips through the air just above your head. You cover your ears, heart pounding.

“Down!” Sylus orders, dragging you behind the heavy sideboard.

You barely register it as the second guard lunges forward – only for Sylus to meet him with a clean, brutal elbow to the throat. The man crumples against the wall.

You scramble to steady your breathing, hands flying to the holster at your thigh.

Sylus fires once, sharp, clean, and one of the attackers drops.

But more are coming.

The dealer himself is gone. Vanished behind the curtains, like a magician at the end of a failed trick.

“Of course he ran,” Sylus mutters.

You press your back to the wall, eyes wide, trying to orient yourself. “How many more?”

“Hard to say. Four. Maybe six.” He checks the clip. “More if they were smart enough to set up backup.”

Your hand shakes slightly as you pull your gun. He notices, of course he does, but doesn’t comment.

Instead, he reaches into his coat and passes you an extra clip.

“Eyes open,” he murmurs, gaze flicking toward the far door. “We’ll push through together.”

You nod. “Got it.”

The next few minutes feel like a blur.

You move with Sylus through the chaos. You cover each other in short bursts. He draws fire; you return it. He barks sharp commands. You follow without hesitation. Somewhere in the mess, you clip one of the attackers in the shoulder – a clean shot. Your ears are ringing, adrenaline surging.

But then it happens.

One of the guards, you hadn’t seen him, lunges from the side. You don’t have time to aim.

His elbow slams into your ribs, and you crumple back, gasping as the wind is knocked out of you. Your shoulder hits the wall hard, pain flaring sharp.

The gun slips from your hand and skitters across the floor.

A boot rises, aiming for your side.

And then he’s gone.

Sylus barrels into him with a ferocity you haven’t seen before. No words, no quips. Just a sharp, punishing blow to the jaw followed by a twist of the wrist that sends the guard crashing to the ground, limp.

He’s kneeling beside you in the next breath.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Where are you hit?”

You shake your head, trying to catch your breath. “I’m fine. Just winded.”

His eyes sweep over you anyway, quick and clinical, hands hovering like he isn’t sure where to touch.

“Your side–”

“Just bruised. I’ll live.” You force a tight smile. “Still breathing.”

His jaw tenses.

For a second, just a second, he looks furious.

Not at you.

At himself.

You shift, trying to sit up, but Sylus stops you with a hand against your shoulder. His voice drops.

“You don’t move until I say. Got it?”

There’s something in his expression that halts you. Something unguarded. Almost too raw.

You nod.

He exhales slowly, then stands and retrieves your gun, returning it to your hand without a word. When you rise this time, he doesn’t stop you, but he keeps close. Closer than before.

The fight is almost over. Backup from Onychinus is sweeping in through the back hall. You move with them, clearing the final rooms. The dealer, of course, is gone. So is the Protocore.

But you’re both alive.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The soft click of the study door echoes louder than it should.

You slip inside first, the weight of the evening still clinging to your shoulders. Sylus follows behind, closing the door with a quiet thud before flicking the lock. He doesn't say anything at first–just walks past you to the desk and begins peeling off his blazer, movements methodical.

You hover near the window, arms crossed, trying to slow the rapid beat of your heart.

"You're hurt," Sylus says without looking at you. His voice is steady again, not like in the chaos of the fight, but there’s a quiet strain underneath. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.” Your response is automatic. Too quick.

He glances at you, unconvinced. “You were grazed.”

You lower yourself into the armchair by the fireplace. Your hands rest on your lap, fingers laced tightly. “It barely nicked me. I didn’t even notice until it was over.”

Sylus moves to a cabinet and pulls out a slim medical kit. “That’s the problem,” he mutters. “You don’t notice until it’s too late.”

You don’t reply. You just watch him as he kneels in front of you, placing the kit beside your chair. He doesn’t ask for permission, just reaches out and takes your arm gently. You flinch, not from pain, but from how careful his touch is.

It startles you more than the fight did.

He’s silent while he cleans the wound. It’s shallow, just a clean slice from debris. Still, he handles it like it matters.

You look down at him. Really look. The set of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. His hands are steady but his eyes are distant, somewhere far away from this room. The fire crackles behind him, casting a warm glow across his skin, softening the edges of someone you’ve only seen as sharp.

A flicker moves through your chest–something small and dangerous. You look away.

“It’s really not a big deal,” you say quietly. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Sylus says. His voice is lower now. “You shook when you reloaded your gun.”

You blink. “I was nervous. It’s different when you’re not in a simulation.” You look away. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“I notice everything.”

That silences you.

He tapes the bandage down and stands, putting distance between you again. “I should apologize.”

“For what?”

He sighs. “I told you things would go smoothly. The situation got out of hand, now you’re hurt. For that, I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in his tone steals the words from your throat. You can’t do anything but stare at him.

Sylus picks up the first-aid kit, placing it back in the cabinet. His back is to you, but his shoulders are tense. Too tense.

He shouldn’t care this much. He knows that.

You're not her.

But you look at him like she used to. Before things got complicated.

Before fate placed two flowers who bloom together in separate gardens.

He breathes out slowly, keeping his voice even.

“You did well tonight.”

The compliment catches you off guard. You stand to face him, unsure what to say. There’s something thick in the air now–something heavier than adrenaline or gunpowder.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Your eyes meet. You expect him to look away, but he doesn’t.

Neither of you speaks.

You think about what it would mean to cross the distance between you. Just one step.

Don’t.

You already know how that ends. Feelings don’t belong here. Not when your presence in this world is borrowed, fragile. Not when it could all collapse the second you stop being careful.

“I should go rest,” you say abruptly, retreating a step.

Sylus doesn't stop you. Just watches.

He tells himself it’s because you're so alike, you and her. That’s all. That’s why he feels this… shift. He’d do the same for her. He would’ve protected her just as fiercely.

It’s not different.

It can’t be different.

But he’s still standing there long after the door clicks shut behind you.

And for the first time in years, he feels something ancient crawl up his spine.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You’ve kept to yourself since the night of the gala.

Not coldly. You answer messages, show up to training, eat your meals. But you’ve become practiced at slipping out of rooms before Sylus enters them, or lingering just long enough to be polite, then vanishing before conversation starts.

If he notices, he doesn’t mention it.

Until tonight.

You’re tucked into a corner of the lounge, fiddling with the screen of your comms device, pretending to read. You don’t hear him approach — just the quiet rustle of fabric and the faint smell of smoke and spice that always lingers around him.

“...You’ve been quiet,” Sylus says, stopping a few feet from your chair.

You glance up. “I’ve just been tired.”

He watches you for a moment. “That’s not it.”

You look back at your screen. “You and your noticing,” You huff.

“I pay attention.” His voice is mild, but direct. “Is that a crime?” He cracks a slight smile.

You sigh, then close the screen and set it down. “I’m fine, Sylus. Really.”

A pause. Then, quietly: “Lying isn’t your strong suit.”

That almost makes you laugh.

Almost.

You tilt your head back, looking toward the ceiling, eyes tracing the wood beams and dim lighting strips.

“There’s no sunlight here,” you murmur. “No stars. No real sky. I didn’t think it would get to me, but it has.”

Sylus doesn’t respond at first. You hear him shift slightly, like he’s leaning against the wall nearby.

You press your thumb to your lip. “In my world, it was summer when I left. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss the sun. Or the sound of waves. I just want to sit by the ocean…” You trail off. “Is that stupid?”

“Not stupid.” He murmurs.

“I have a safehouse in a coastal town,” he says, casually. “Not much. Quiet, secluded. Luke and Kieran could take you.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He nods. “You’d have privacy. And sunlight. You’d like it.”

You study his face, the nonchalance in his voice doesn’t quite mask the thought behind the offer. It feels deliberate, even if he’s pretending otherwise.

“That’s... kind,” you say carefully. “Thank you.”

His gaze holds yours for a moment, unreadable.

Then, lightly, “You could use a break.”

You smile faintly. “You too.”

He pushes off the wall and straightens. “I’ll let the twins know.”

You watch him leave, and for once, you don’t look away when he glances back at you over his shoulder.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The ride starts off quiet, the hum of the cruiser and the occasional turn signal clicking beneath the low bass of music playing from Kieran’s phone.

“You always sit in the back like that?” he asks, glancing at you over the seat. “Knees up, arms crossed, like a cryptid?”

You lift an eyebrow. “I’m comfortable.”

“You look like you’re bracing for a crash.”

“With you driving,” you say, “maybe I am.”

Luke chuckles from the passenger's seat. “She packed like we’re dropping her behind enemy lines.”

“Hey,” Kieran grins, “I like it. Brings balance to the team. Luke forgets his socks half the time.”

“False,” Luke says mildly. “I forget one sock. Very different.”

You huff a small laugh and rest your cheek against the cool window. The city thins out as the cruiser climbs the highway, shadows giving way to hazy sunlight. The deeper into the journey you go, the more the air seems to breathe – cleaner, less metallic. For the first time in what feels like forever, you catch a glimpse of blue overhead.

You smile a little to yourself.

Luke twists around, passing you a bottle of water and a small bag of dried fruit. “Here. Rations.”

You blink. “Thanks?”

“You’ll thank me later when Kieran refuses to stop for food.”

“I never said I wouldn’t stop,” Kieran replies. “I said the last time we stopped for street noodles, someone got food poisoning.”

“One time!” Luke throws his hands up. “And you always bring it up!”

“You’re a liability,” Kieran says flatly.

You stifle a laugh behind your water bottle. “I feel very safe in this car.”

Kieran hums playfully. “You’re on thin ice.”

The cruiser curves around a bend, and then you feel it, salt in the air, distant and familiar. You glance up just as the ocean comes into view. The coastline stretches along the horizon, glittering in the mid-morning light.

Kieran lets out a whistle. “Man… Whitesand Bay. Haven’t been here in ages.”

“Feels weird seeing it again,” Luke murmurs. “Used to be our regular drop zone.”

Your heart jolts.

You keep your expression steady, but your pulse stutters.

Whitesand Bay.

Of course it’s here. Of course.

Of course it’s where he is.

You shift slightly in your seat, fingers curling around the fabric of your pants. They don’t notice – they’re still caught in the nostalgia, trading half-remembered stories about nearly botching deliveries and hiding from local security.

You tune them out for a moment, focusing on breathing slowly.

It’s fine. He stays in his studio.

It's on a private island. I won’t see him.

You press your knuckles gently against your lips.

You’ve been careful. You’ve stayed quiet. You’ve stayed hidden.

You have to believe that’s enough.

Kieran yawns and stretches in the passenger seat. “Man, I’m hitting the beach the second we get a free hour. Think we still have that hammock in the safehouse?”

Luke’s mouth twitches into a smile. “If the raccoons haven’t taken it over.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

You manage a faint laugh and look back toward the coastline.

The sea glitters, endless and open – and somewhere in the back of your mind, something ancient stirs.

You tell yourself not to listen.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You arrive at the safe house with the twins in tow, duffle bags slung over your shoulders and snacks tucked under your arms. Luke and Kieran immediately launch into a “grand tour,” flinging open doors and pointing things out like real estate agents on fast-forward.

Sylus’s words echo in your mind.

‘Not much’

You suppose that’s one way to put it.

The place is sparse, sure. White walls, high ceilings, clean lines – but there’s a quiet elegance in the way it's put together. Even stripped of excess, it still feels expensive. Like someone who wears plain clothes, but only the kind you’d need to take out a loan to afford.

You pick one of the guest rooms and start unpacking. It’s got big windows, a soft bed, and a faint scent of salt in the air.

Not long after, Luke and Kieran tumble in like overexcited kids.

“Hey, miss! We’re heading to the beach!” Luke grins, already halfway out of his shirt.

“You coming with?” Kieran adds, holding up a pair of mismatched flip-flops like they’re weapons.

You pause, halfway through setting your beach bag down. “It’s close by, right? I might explore a bit first and meet you there.”

It’s probably not the best plan, considering your whole “lay low and don’t attract attention” lifestyle, but the thought of wandering through a touristy beach town, just for a little while, is too tempting to ignore. You want normal. Just for a day. Maybe a seashell or a fridge magnet to pretend this was a real vacation.

Luke gives a dramatic salute. “Bring back something shiny!”

“I want a shark tooth,” Kieran says solemnly, like he’s placing an order at a deli.

You laugh as they disappear down the hall, already bickering about who packed the better sunscreen. Their masks stay on even in their swim trunks, a sight that would be absurd if it weren’t so completely them.

You grab your phone and sling your bag over your shoulder, heart a little lighter. The sunlight filters through the curtains, warm and golden.

You step out into the coastal breeze, ready to lose yourself in tiny shops and meaningless souvenirs.

Ready to pretend, just for a little while, that you belong.

The air in Whitesand Bay is bright with salt and citrus, the kind of place that smells like postcards. Sunlight pours like syrup over stone streets, reflecting off turquoise waters and bleached rooftops. You meander through the market strip, alone.

For the first time since arriving in this world, you feel almost… human again. The warmth on your skin, the sound of gulls overhead, the bustle of life without danger at every corner.

Still, you keep your head down.

You’re hyper-aware of who you might run into.

The thought of seeing him makes your stomach knot, but this place is busy. He rarely leaves his studio. You can blend in.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You round a corner and find yourself in front of a tucked-away shop. The kind that sells old trinkets and strange antiques, painted in pastel flaking paint with a curved glass window displaying everything from jewelry to jars of sand. The bell above the door jingles softly when you enter.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

From a shadowed balcony overlooking the winding streets of Whitesand Bay, someone watches.

The sunlight spills across the city like liquid gold, but his eyes stay locked on the figure weaving through the crowd below. She moves cautiously, blending in, but never enough to escape his notice.

A slow smile spreads across his lips. After all this time, finally... she’s here.

Her steps falter as she nears a small shop nestled between a worn bookstore and a café with cracked umbrellas.

She hesitates briefly before stepping inside.

His fingers tighten on the railing, a flicker of anticipation flashing in his gaze.

Soon, he thinks, you won’t be able to avoid me.

He steps back into the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to make his move.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You step into the quaint shop, the scent of old wood and sea salt wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Shelves creak under the weight of curiosities–tiny glass bottles filled with shimmering sands, seashells polished smooth, delicate trinkets you don’t quite understand but somehow want to hold.

Lost in the quiet charm, you don’t notice the man moving quickly down the narrow aisle until he collides softly into you.

“Miss Bodyguard,” he says with a teasing smirk, though his eyes flicker with something more, something electric. “Careful where you wander.”

Shit.

Your heart skips. You find yourself looking up into eyes like twilight waves, a pull you didn’t expect, catching you off guard.

“Oh! Sorry,” you stammer, trying to steady yourself and your racing thoughts. “I…uh…I was just looking around.”

Dusky violet hair falls perfectly around his face, framing his eyes like a masterpiece. He’s dressed like he wandered in from a daydream: loose cream shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open, a pair of thin gold rings on his fingers catching the sun.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to Whitesand,”

He smiles like it’s a secret.

“Did you miss me that badly?” he adds, stepping closer.

You fumble for words, mind racing. He’s calling you “Miss Bodyguard” —so he thinks you’re her. You can work with that. Probably.

“…It’s been a while,” you manage, voice higher than usual. “I didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew.”

He tilts his head. “So this was a solo trip? Not like you.”

You force a soft laugh. “Yeah, well… I wanted some air.”

He hums as he picks up a glass pendant from the counter, inspecting it idly. “Still no calls, though. Tsk. I was starting to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

Before you can come up with another half-truth, you try redirecting.

“Have you been painting lately?” you ask, hoping he’ll take the bait.

“I live in paint,” he murmurs with a grin. “But none of it’s as captivating as this sudden, silent ghost haunting Whitesand.”

Your breath catches as he glances at the phone in your hand, which you’d reflexively pulled out in your nerves.

Rafayel’s expression shifts slightly. A click behind his eyes. But the smile never fades.

“Oh?” he says. “You got a new phone? Is that why you haven’t been calling me, Miss Bodyguard?”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “Right. New number.”

“Let me fix that.”

Before you can object, he takes the phone smoothly from your hand, his fingers brushing yours like it was always meant to happen. He types in his number and sends a quick message to himself.

"There. Now I’ll know when you’re thinking of me."

You open your mouth–maybe to argue, maybe to explain–but he’s already stepping back, tucking his hands into his pockets.

He starts toward the door, the bell chiming behind him. But before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder, his grin wicked and soft at once.

“Remember to call me, cutie.”

Then he’s gone, the shop door shutting quietly behind him.

You stand there a moment longer, heart thudding.

You're not sure what just happened. He was flirtatious, sharp, like you remember from the game, but something about the way he looked at you. The way he didn’t react to your nervous fumbling.

It didn’t feel like meeting someone new.

It felt like being studied.

Does he really think I’m her?

Sylus noticed right away, there’s no way you’ve grown that convincing in your time here. You don’t even know what she’s really like, beyond the constraints of the game.

You shake your head.

He doesn’t sleep a lot, maybe he was too tired to notice the fine details.

Your eyes snap back to your phone, and your mind presses the most urgent matter.

He just got your number.

It’s only a matter of time before he finds out.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Back at the base, Sylus sits alone in his office, the glow from his holopad casting long shadows on the wall. He opens a photo Luke sent a few hours ago. You and the twins, seated on sun-warmed rocks, colorful seashells piled high in your hands.

The twins are beaming behind their masks. You’re smiling too. But your eyes... your eyes look distant.

His fingers hover over the image. He knows that look. You’re somewhere else entirely – a world away, even when your feet are in the sand.

He feels it, a tug in his chest.

Is the trip not helping?

You said you missed the ocean. Missed the warmth of the sun. And yet, the waves couldn’t quiet whatever’s still echoing inside you.

He leans back in his chair, uncertain whether the ache he feels is frustration or concern.

A sharp buzz cuts through the quiet. He glances at the caller ID.

Kitten.

A wry smile touches his lips before he answers.

“Miss Hunter. What a rare surprise,” he drawls.

“Sylus,” her voice is brisk. “I’ve just been assigned a mission in Charon. A gang’s been smuggling Protocores. I need intel.”

Straight to the point.

He thinks back to the Zoion Hunt, to the fleeting moments when it felt like she was starting to look at him differently. Trust him, maybe.

It’s always like this. One step forward, two steps back.

Still, he says lightly, “Of course I can, sweetie. Send me the details.”

She hangs up after a quick “Thanks, Sylus.”

Nothing more.

He stares at the empty screen a beat longer than he means to.

A few minutes later, the mission file pings in. He scans it. The gang’s familiar, slippery but arrogant. He sends her a location.

“Meet me at their HQ in an hour.”

He closes the file and stands, slipping his holsters back on.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The two of them stand just beyond the crumbling exterior, silhouettes haloed in red light from a nearby neon sign that flickers with tired electricity.

Sylus glances sideways at her – sharp-eyed, focused, already drawing out a small scanner to detect Protocore signatures.

"Four heat signatures. Two posted near the crates," she murmurs.

He nods, Evol already humming under his skin like a fuse waiting for flame. But even as it stirs, something feels… dulled. The usual clarity he gets when she’s beside him, the intuitive flicker of her intentions before she even moves, isn’t quite there.

He tries to brush it off. Focus.

She gives the signal. They breach together.

The first few seconds go clean. She takes the left, sweeping low, quick shots disabling the nearest thug. Sylus vaults over a metal divider and disables the next.

But then the rhythm begins to stutter.

She shifts right too early – he’s a step behind. A warning flares in his mind too late, and she narrowly ducks a strike from a bat-wielding smuggler.

“Watch out,” he calls, more sharply than intended.

“I’ve got it,” she huffs, already retaliating.

He hurls an energy burst toward the rear crates, but it spreads wider than he anticipated. She slips around it just in time. He curses under his breath.

His energy usually wraps around her like instinct – bending with her presence, adapting to her movements. But right now, it moves like it’s guessing. Uncertain.

It happens again when she aims for the lead smuggler – he calls to her – ready to resonate. They do. But it’s weaker than usual.

Their abilities grind against each other instead of harmonizing.

This is supposed to be effortless.

Still, they push through. A few hits exchanged. One thug takes a grazing bullet to the leg, another is knocked unconscious by a joint strike — her elbow, his energy.

But it takes longer than it should. Too many near-misses. Coordination sloppy.

The final enemy flees. Sylus doesn’t chase. He lowers his fists, eyes scanning her as she wipes sweat from her brow.

“You alright?” he asks, more than just casually.

She nods. “Yeah. You?”

“Fine.” He holsters the gun. “But we were off.”

That earns him a glance. “We finished the job.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His voice is quiet now. “Your Evol – it wasn’t syncing with mine. Not like before.”

A pause. She doesn’t respond.

He studies her for a moment longer. The warehouse glows faintly behind them. Heat still clings to the air.

What changed?

Is it her?

Or is it him?

He doesn’t press the question. Instead, he hands off the case of recovered protocores and signals their exit.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The base is dead quiet at this hour. Just the faint hum of old ductwork and the occasional creak of settling metal. Shadows stretch long across the walls, and the bar lights cast everything in warm, smoky hues.

Sylus sits alone at the corner of the base’s modest bar. One elbow rests against the counter, his fingers loose around a short tumbler of something amber and sharp. He hasn’t taken a sip in minutes.

The ice inside clinks softly as it melts.

He stares straight ahead, but his mind is somewhere else entirely.

Not the mission. Not the target. Not even the fight – though that part should’ve bothered him more.

It’s her.

Again.

He sighs once through his nose, sets the glass down with a soft tap, and folds his hands, thumb grazing the condensation off the rim.

Something was off.

He could feel it the moment they stepped into the warehouse.

Their movements were still sharp. She still had his back. But when he reached out with his Evol, reflexively, instinctively, there was static. Like trying to tune into a frequency that no longer responded.

Like it was rejecting him.

His jaw tightens slightly.

It reminded him too much of that first encounter.

Back when she landed in his world – confused, cornered, angry, defiant. The moment he tried to reach her, even with a flicker of power, she flinched. Not just physically. Deeply. Like something in her soul pulled back.

Back then, he told himself that she didn’t remember yet. But she would.

But now?

She still doesn’t remember. But she knows enough. She’s fought beside him. Laughed with him. Let him in – just a little.

And still…

He tips the glass to his lips and takes a slow sip. It burns. He lets it.

Was she pulling away again?

Why?

Nothing in her face had changed. She smiled, when she remembered to. She spoke gently. She still listened when he gave orders, still moved in rhythm with his steps.

But her Evol, the part of her that was finally starting to match his without hesitation, was colder. Fainter. Like it didn't trust him. Or no longer wanted to.

Sylus swirls the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid spiral.

He doesn’t want to ask the question, but it circles anyway.

Is she starting to see me the way she did at the beginning?

A threat. A monster.

Disgusting.

A man who dragged her into shadows she never asked to walk through.

He closes his eyes for a moment.

It shouldn’t get under his skin. It might not mean anything. Just an off day.

She doesn’t owe him anything – not her trust, not her warmth, not even her presence. That was never part of the deal.

It’s her choice. Always hers.

But that doesn’t make it sting any less.

a/n: he’s hereeeeee! was gonna end it at raf as a little cliffhanger but then the story possessed me and started writing itself. i hope this chapter doesn’t spoil what’s going on here but i’m sure some of u can guess🤫 anyways! thank u guys for the sweet comments, i’m so glad people are enjoying this! i hope i can do this concept justice

#soulbound series #lads #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds #love and deepspace x reader #lads non mc #lads rafayel #non mc reader #non mc x sylus #sylus #rafayel x you #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds sylus

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