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just-another-reader1098 · 2 months ago

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one of my favorites!!! such a great read

Impartial Hearts | Sylus - Part Two

Pairing -> Boss Sylus x Non MC Reader

Parts -> Part One | Part Two

Synopsis -> You’ve been working as Onychinus’s accountant for two years, and you’ve been carrying two heavy secrets for a third of it. You were in love with your boss, and your mother was dying.

A/N -> I'm sorry it took so long. I have been obsessing over trying to make part two perfect but I don't think I can. It's time I share my baby with you, and I really hope you enjoy it.

Tags -> Angst, fluff :)

Trigger Warnings -> Character death, heavily mentions grief. Some parts are suggestive but there is no smut.

Word Count -> 18.8K (it got kinda crazy)

Late October

It was cold, dark and gloomy; the weather a perfect pathetic fallacy to the narrative of your life. The freshly disturbed patch of grass failed to convey the significance of who laid underneath it. It was vexing, how the world continued to spin on it’s axis despite the fact that it stopped spinning for you.

It hurt to think about the events that led to your undoing. The weeks prior to the moment your mother drew her last breath. You were a cracked vase filled with wilting flowers and overflowing regret. Every breath you took consumed more energy than you could spare and yet the world just. Kept. Spinning.

“I brought you flowers. Yellow tulips, by the way.” The words felt like lead on your tongue. It was one thing to accept your mother was never coming back, it was another to try to act normal about it. “I know you never cared for them, but I didn’t think leaving a pack of cigarettes on your grave was very tasteful.” You bitterly smiled to yourself at the memories of your mom sneaking a cigarette in the backyard when she thought you were asleep. It was a nasty habit you did everything to rid her of. A fruitless attempt to protect her from the inevitable.

“I’m sorry I haven’t figured out your epitaph yet. It’s just so hard to condense your entire life into a few words. Plus, they charge by the letter, so I’m trying to be really selective.” It felt weird, speaking into empty space, but you read online that it helped with grief, so you tried anyway.

That was how you approached most things nowadays. Eating, drinking, sleeping, they all seemed meaningless. But, you knew you couldn’t survive on just antagonism and mourning, so you did it anyway.

“Zayne called again. I know you told me not to hate him and that it wasn’t his fault, but I can’t bring myself to agree.”

The moment Zayne told you that the heart that could save your mother’s life was going to someone else replayed in your mind like a scratched vinyl stuck on an aggravating note.

“I got so frustrated by his constant calls that I threw my phone into the ocean.” You let out a sad laugh. “Guess that’s the last time I bring anything with me when I’m walking along the coast.”

You paused for a moment, feeling stupid. But you had so much to say to her, it all just began spilling out.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I might lose the house. I burned through all my paid leave, and the idea of going back to work for Sylus makes me want to put my head through a wood-chipper. I know I have to, but how can I focus on work when I have nothing left to work for?” You tasted the tears before you felt them, the saltiness reminded you of your weekends at the beach with your mom. You did everything to get out of joining her, you hated the beach, but it was her favourite place to be and in a desperate attempt to cling on to whatever was left of her, you forced it to be yours too.

“I’m sorry I never got you that house you dreamed of, or the dog. I’m sure there are lots of dogs in heaven, and at least the dogs there have been screened. With my luck any dog I would’ve gotten you would’ve been evil.” You teetered around the grievance you truly wanted to apologise for.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t spend much time with you before you passed away. I was so sure you would get the transplant. I tried so hard to save for it. I should’ve been with you. If I knew—” The sobs raked through you with a force that knocked the air out of your lungs. You sat down next to her tombstone, leaning your head against the chiseled rock.

There were moments when you’d wake up, and in the haze of your muddled mind you’d forget she was dead. But then the ache in your body is deciphered by your mind, and you’re reminded of just how much you’ve lost. Maybe that’s why they called it mourning. Grief dawned on you like the rising sun.

Life had a way of being entirely unfair, and there was nowhere to hide from fate’s piercing claws. And as if to ensure you hadn’t forgotten just how cruel life could be, your head whipped around at the sound of footsteps behind you to find the last person you wanted to see.

Sylus was dressed in a long black coat hanging effortlessly off of his broad shoulders, a black dress shirt that really should’ve been buttoned up to the top, and a pair of black slacks that made his long legs look impossibly longer. He looked every bit the cunning grim reaper, and it wasn’t just because he was surrounded by graves.

“I didn’t know you were back in the N109 Zone.” The words came out harsher than you intended as your head returned to it’s position against the rock.

Sylus stopped in front of you, lowering himself to his haunches so that you would be face-to-face. It stung to look at him, so you focused on picking at the grass instead.

“I only got back a few hours ago. I heard about your mother. I’m sorry.” Having been deprived of his voice for over a month, you cursed the butterflies that coursed through you like muscle memory. Part of you wished he’d returned disfigured, but you knew it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. Ugly or devastatingly beautiful, the storm that was Sylus could not be stopped, only weathered.

“Sorry that she died or sorry that you weren’t there?” The bitterness in your tone was unfamiliar to you. Even though you knew it was unfair of you to expect him to have stayed, he left immediately after he dropped you off at the hospital and you hoped he’d have been there just a little longer. It didn’t help that you didn’t hear from him until two weeks later, and by then you were too engrossed in your battle against Akso hospital’s medical board to respond.

“You haven’t been answering my calls; they’re not even going through anymore. You haven’t blocked me, have you?” Sylus countered your question with one of his own. If you cared enough, you might’ve called him out on his diversion.

“No, my phone broke.” That was an understatement if there ever was one.

“How long ago?”

“A week.” That much was true and since you couldn’t afford a smart phone, a shitty $30 flip phone weighed down your pocket.

“And all the times I called before then?” Sylus’s eyes perused you with intensity, and you suddenly felt self-conscious. You weren’t dressed well, in a pair of black sweatpants that were too big on you and a matching hoodie. Grieving people were allowed to dress terribly without judgement, Y/N. It’s okay.

“I didn’t feel like picking up.” The grass continued to bare the brunt of your nerves as you answered. The you that wasn’t effectively an orphan would’ve made up some excuse to protect his feelings, but you were resolved to change that. Your mother was strong, independent, and she never backed down from a fight. Not against men like Sylus, and not against her illness. If you wanted to honour her memory then you had to live your life the way she’d want you to.

“Do you have a phone now?”

You reached into the pocket of your sweatpants to take out the grey flip phone. You watched as Sylus bit back a laugh.

“I’ll get you a new one.”

“I don’t need you to get me anything.” You quickly retorted.

“You’re going to need a phone from this century if you’re working for me, Y/N.” He said it so casually, as if you were put on this earth solely to serve him as his accountant.

“Right, about that…” Your determination to be confident and unapologetic began to dwindle as you wondered how to tell Sylus you needed more time.

“No. Resigning is not an option.” Twelve minutes. It took Sylus twelve minutes to return to his usual controlling self. You were impressed, truly, it was a new record after all.

“We don’t have a blood pact, Sylus. I can resign if I want to. Besides, that’s not what I was going to say. I need more time off.” You didn’t sound very convincing, but it wasn’t like you could change who you were overnight. It would take a lifetime to unlearn your bad habits.

Sylus looked conflicted, as if he didn’t know what to say. When he chose to finally open his mouth, you wished he hadn’t.

“I’ve given you a month, Y/N. That’s enough.” His statement came out so matter-of-factly, you wondered if you had imagined it. A month was not nearly enough to recover from losing your mom, but you figured a man who killed people for a living wouldn’t understand.

“It’s only been two weeks since she died. And I’m sure the temp you’ve got is perfectly competent.”

“The temp doesn’t know the company like you do and I haven’t bothered teaching him on the premise that you were returning. If you’re not back soon I can’t promise you’ll have a job to come back to.”

The tension in the air dissipated as you began to laugh. Loudly. Obnoxiously. Hysterically.

“You— You seriously think I care whether or not I have a job? I can barely will myself to eat right now—employment is not my priority.” You wiped back the tears that began to spill out. Their origin unknown, between your hysteria and sorrow, your eyes were constantly puffy.

“People die all the time, sweetheart. It’s no reason to throw your future away.” Sylus stood up straight at the end of his statement, holding his hand out to you.

The angel on your shoulder whispered that in his own peculiar way, this was his attempt at comforting you. But you stopped listening to that angel when they buried your mom under six-feet of dirt, and you couldn’t help the word vomit that escaped you like water barrelling out of a splintered dam.

You pushed away his hand, and stood up to look at him with a ferocity you didn’t know you possessed.

“I get that something really dark and twisted must have happened in your youth to make you so heartless, but most people have shitty childhoods, sweetheart. We choose not to be terrible, insufferable people because of it.” The unbridled rage you’d spend so long trying to suppress seeped out of you uncontrollably as you screamed at Sylus. You walked toward him, your anger taking hold of you as you began to push him away. A few months ago you would’ve given anything to touch him, now all you cared about was making him feel a semblance of the pain he instilled in you.

“Some of us choose to feel our emotions in their entirety, regardless of how much it hurts, because we’re not scared to love and lose. You’re a coward, Sylus and you may think that my mother dying is just an inevitable consequence of life, but my world will never be the same.” In an attempt to calm down, you took a deep breath.

“You can judge me all you want, but it won’t change the fact that when you die, no one will mourn you.” The word vomit continued, and when you saw the hurt flash briefly within his eyes, you felt the arms of regret begin to sink their claws into you.

You shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t you.

But before you could take it all back, Sylus’s phone began ringing and you figured from the urgency in which he answered it must’ve been her.

“I lost track of time, I’ll be right there.” He spoke in a low voice in what you could only assume was an attempt to mask the fact that he was leaving you for something more important, again.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Just go.” You waved him off and turned back around to face your mother’s grave, though now the tears welling up in your eyes couldn’t be entirely attributed to the grief.

Early November

You weren’t sure time could heal the gaping wound your mother’s passing left behind, but grief had settled into your life like an imposing aunt. It was in your home, touching your things, ruining your food, and never once leaving you alone. It didn’t feel so all-consuming anymore, but it clung onto you constantly like a shadow.

You were watching the third Harry Potter movie at 8am when you received the eviction notice via Email. You’d been expecting it, ultimately you were behind on rent, but the reason plastered on the paper was exponentially worse than your own incompetence.

…Selling to developers…suburban expansion project…

As if losing your childhood home wasn’t bad enough, they were planning on destroying it. Memories were bound to decay with time, that was an inevitable consequence of being human. Sooner or later you’d forget the way your mom dressed, or the smell of her perfume. Tangible things like photographs, places, they kept those memories anchored. You couldn’t lose the house, it wasn’t an option.

You spent the next hour trying to reason with your landlord over the phone, but he was committed to selling. He rejected every single one of your proposals, though even you knew they were weak at best. The developers were offering significantly more than market value, there was no way you could beat that. Stupid gentrification. But, your landlord told you he was sympathetic, and the deal hadn’t been finalised just yet. If you could match the developer’s offer by the end of the month, he’d gladly sell it to you instead.

Of course the developer’s offer was $800,000, and by the looks of your financials, you were about $796,312 short.

Desperate for a catharsis for your unending frustration, you screamed into the throw pillow on your couch until your throat felt raw. Then, you opened up your laptop to figure out a plan.

30 minutes later you had:

Sell your kidney to an organ broker and use the money to get a loan from any dodgy bank that would accept your mediocre credit score.

Dabble briefly in prostitution and use the money to get a loan from any dodgy bank that would accept your mediocre credit score.

Become a squatter and protest the demolition of your home environmental-activist style.

“Wow, Y/N. Graduated top of your class and this was all you could come up with, huh?” You muttered to yourself as you stared at the list of terrible ideas. Your mind hadn’t come up with something so horrific since the bed-in-breakfast Mother’s Day fiasco when you were 11.

The only option that didn’t end in bodily harm or a prison sentence was to work as many jobs as humanly possible for the next few weeks in hopes you could somehow manage to accumulate the deposit for a loan. You could probably sell some appliances too, and maybe revisit the kidney idea if it came to it.

Despite it being a long-shot, you had to try. You changed into a pair of flared leggings and a sweater. It was basic and borderline mismatched but traversing your explosive closet was a large undertaking you tended to avoid. You dug a copy of your old resume out from your file drawer, after all, it wasn’t like your experience as Onychinus’s accountant was going to do you any good. Further, listing Sylus as a reference would ensure you never got a job again.

You figured the easiest place to start was the central district of the N109 zone, bars and restaurants there were constantly hiring and from what you’d heard their only requirement was that you had two functioning legs and arms. But when you tried to leave through the door to begin the job search you collided with a formidable wall.

Since when was there a—

“Where you headed to, Y/N?” The familiar voice was so surprising it made you jump, the action accompanied by a shrill scream.

“What the fuck? Why are you just standing outside my door?” You rarely ever swore and you were sure that if your mother was still alive she’d throw her shoe at you for using the devil’s language. But of all the things you expected to see that morning, Sylus outside your door was not one of them.

“Is that any way to welcome your old employer?” Sylus stepped into your home without an invitation. Conclusive proof against your theory that he was secretly a vampire.

“What are you doing here?” You asked again, still staring at Sylus like he sprouted a second head. You couldn’t think of a single reason why he’d show up at your place of residence, he never did while you were still his employee.

“I need you to come back.” You choked back a laugh at his ridiculous request. Was he insane?

“Go to hell.” Your vicious response didn’t sway Sylus.

“I’ve fired an accountant every week since you left. The accounts are in complete disarray, half my businesses are behind on their bills, the other half have been paying the wrong amounts to the wrong companies. My investors are unhappy, my debtors are one week away from assuming I’ve gone bankrupt and I haven’t slept in weeks. Come. Back.” While it stroked your ego to hear that the organisation was suffering in your absence, you couldn’t just forget the terrible way he’d treated you in and out of the workplace.

“You insisted I was especially replaceable and now you’re saying you can’t replace me?” You chose to remind him of just how horrid of an employer he was, an action he didn’t appreciate.

“If you’re going to dwell on the semantics I’d rather just cut to the chase. What’s it going to take to get you back?” Sylus’s tone suggested he was truly trying to negotiate with you. Of course a man like him didn’t know how to take no for an answer.

“Pigs to fly.” You quipped, opening your door in hopes he’d get the hint and leave.

“Y/N, I’m serious. We can’t survive without you.” His desperation went straight to your head, but you stood your ground.

“Then die.” You tried to shove him out of your doorway, but he was about as easy to move as a truck.

“Everyone has something they desire, sweetheart. Name your price.” While you were ready to fire up a quick retort, his suggestion reminded you of the very reason you were about to leave the house.

Perhaps this was a sign; you could swallow your pride if it meant you got to keep your home.

You pretended to give it thought, sighing loudly in contemplation. “Fine. I want a sign-on bonus. Or in this case, a re-sign-on bonus, I guess…” You trailed off, unsure if he would agree.

“Alright, how much?” He was quick to accept your terms, and you decided to test the waters of just how desperate he was for your return.

“A million dollars.”

“Done.”

Dammit, you should’ve asked for more.

“I want a personal driver too, I’m sick of biking to work.” You would’ve been okay with just the bonus, after all, it was insanely generous. But you’d be a fool not to milk this opportunity for what it was worth.

“Anything else, princess?” The condescending nickname only added fuel to the fire as you fired off more requests.

“I don’t want to share my office with the twins anymore, they’re loud and annoying and they have no respect for the sanctity of my monthly budgets.”

“Okay.”

You masked your shock at his sudden magnanimity. “One last thing. Since you’ve come to the realisation that I am, in fact, a valuable asset to your organisation, you’re not allowed to be a dick to me anymore.”

“Elaborate.”

“No more calling me stupid or other degrading insults, threatening my job security, threatening my life — just no more threats in general — and if you’re going to assign me extra work that is beyond the scope of my job description, a please and thank you would be nice.”

“You’re pushing it, Y/N.” Of course treating his employees like human beings was the most difficult request.

“You just agreed to give me a million dollars and being nice to me is where you draw the line?”

Sylus sighed, deliberating in silence for a moment. When he saw that your resolve was unrelenting, he begrudgingly agreed. He wasn’t sure where your newfound confidence was coming from, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t find it the slightest bit attractive.

“Alright, you’ve made your case. I’ll agree to your conditions. Now, please fix it.”

It took every fibre of your being not to break out into song and dance at your victory. “Let me get my coat.”

______________

You stared at the horrific mess your beautiful spreadsheet had turned in to. This was a disaster. A colossal, unfathomable disaster. “How could you let it get this bad?” Your voice was dripping with fear, it was like staring a train wreck.

“It wasn’t like it happened on purpose. Besides, if you’d never—” Sylus interrupted his own sentence which you were sure contained an insult, and you could almost hear the evil chuckle resounding in your head at the sight of his obedience. This was going to be fun.

“This is going to take forever to fix.” It would actually only take the day, but you didn’t need to tell him that.

“I need it fixed by the end of the week. Please.” He looked pained as he added the nicety. Soooooo much fun.

“Add on a massage chair for my office and I’ll get it done by Wednesday.” You wondered just how far you could push his desperation.

“Deal.” He held his hand out for you to shake and when you did, you felt a strange sense of accomplishment. Now you could tell people ‘How to Tame Your Dragon’ was loosely based on your life.

“You know, Sylus, I’m liking this new dynamic.” Your shit-eating grin couldn’t be wiped off of your face no matter how hard you tried.

“Oh I can tell. Now, get to work.” Sylus made a show of pulling out your office chair for you, and when you sat in it for the first time in two months, you felt an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. And for once, the recollection of your past didn’t hurt as much as it usually did.

Mid-November

This time around, your employment under Sylus was much more pleasant. Surprisingly, he’d actually adhered to your conditions.

The twins were slightly offended that you no longer wanted to share your office with them, but their gratefulness for your return trumped any antagonism they had for you. You were kind of a celebrity in Onychinus’s executive team, their saviour, if you will.

But, the enjoyment of your newly established status could not be savoured. Undoing months of mistakes was turning out to be positively exhausting. You were an accountant; socially awkward, stuck to her Excel sheets, spent most of her free time indulging in shitty rom-coms. You were not built for briefing CEOs, Chairmen, investors, subsidiaries and of course, debtors, on your commitment to stability via video call.

Sylus insisted it had to be you, even though he usually handled the bureaucratic part of the organisation. Something about him not being able to answer their questions regarding the numbers. You told him you would tell him what to say through an ear piece like a spy movie, but he responded with a resounding no.

It was more like ‘hell will freeze over before I turn into a glorified puppet, Y/N, blah blah blah’.

Every single one-on-one conference call made you feel like you were getting hives. Not to mention the active effort it took you to refrain from making stupid jokes at every opportunity. When the last one with the representative from Onychinus’s main bank was over, you had officially smoothed over all bad blood between Onychinus and it’s stakeholders.

Giving yourself a moment to recalibrate from the sheer amount of social interaction you had been subjected to, you glared at the shared calendar event. ‘Miss Hunter’s Birthday in 13 days’.

You tried to distract yourself from that familiar sinking feeling in your gut with your work. Sylus never remembered your birthday, but it wasn’t like it mattered. You were his accountant, he was your boss. That was the extent of your relationship, even though you’d both said things to each other that would cause your HR department, if you had one, to self-emulate. But in the chaos of buying your home, going back to work and learning how to navigate life with your unwanted companion; grief, you’d forgotten all about your feelings for Sylus.

They weren’t gone but they were muted, like a voice screaming out to you while your head was underwater. Most of the time they were easy to ignore, but in times like these they were too loud to overlook.

You couldn’t dwell on your self-pity for long because there was a knock at your door. No one ever knocked on your door, people just tended to barge in.

“Come in?” Confusion dripped from your voice. When the door opened to a pair of twins with shameful smiles, you knew they were about to ask you for a favour.

“We… fucked up.” Three words you never wanted to hear coming out of either Luke or Kieran’s mouth.

“What have you done?”

“Long story short. Boss sent us to pick up a gem for Miss Hunter’s birthday. It’s really rare. The man who owns them is this older, heart of gold type old guy who refuses to sell to nefarious people because of his outdated principles. He wouldn’t give it to us, said something about us being part of Onychinus. We knew if boss didn’t get this gem today he’d have our heads displayed on mantels in his office, so we threatened the old man with a gun and then an entire arsenal of security appeared out of thin air and we were blacklisted from the property.” Kieran’s explanation left you astounded.

The twins had their fair share of asinine mistakes, but this one might have taken the cake.

“You threatened an old man with a gun…”

“Yes.” Kieran responded.

“Over a gem?” You asked in disbelief.

“A very rare gem!” Luke corrected.

“Huh. How am I supposed to help?” It was a genuine question, you didn’t really see a way out of this one.

“Can you go and convince the old man to sell the gem to you?” Kieran’s request made your eyes widen in protest.

“No way! I’ve had my fill of uncomfortable business meetings.” And wasn’t that the truth. If you had to see one more man in a business suit ask you ‘if you even knew what you were talking about’ you might throw your laptop into the first body of water you could find.

“Please, Y/N. Sylus will kill us. Do you want our deaths to hang over your conscience?”

Luke’s question was an innocent hyperbole, but at the mention of deaths hanging over your conscience, you were reminded of your mom. Your face dropped, your fingers slowly forgetting what they were supposed to type. Kieran, the more observant twin, elbowed Luke.

“Fuck, Y/N. I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“No, no, it’s fine. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me, I’m not going to burst into tears.” You weren’t sure that was true quite yet, but fake it till you make it, right?

“Will you help us? Please. We’ll owe you big time.” The line was clearly rehearsed since they said it in unison, or maybe it was some weird twin telepathy thing. Either way, it freaked you out so much you agreed.

“Fine, what’s the address?”

_____________

You knocked on the large wooden door of a beautiful home. It was classically designed, a perfect intersection between modernity and the timeless complexity of archaic house designs. It was rare to see homes like these in a society that prided itself on progress.

When you heard the sound of soft feet shuffling toward the door, you felt the guilt eat at you internally. You were tricking an old man into selling a gem to people he very reasonably did not want to sell to.

“Y/M/N?”

Did he— why did he call you by your mother’s name?

“That was my mother, I’m her daughter, Y/N.”

“Oh, thank god, I was beginning to think I’d finally lost it. Come in, come in.”

Your interest had been piqued, and you forgot all about the gem as you entered the old man’s home.

“I must say, I’m surprised you’re here. Did your mother send you?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “She passed away just over a month ago.”

“Oh god. I’m so sorry, dear. Are you alright?” The question was filled with so much warmth it made tears well up in your eyes. Your mother never had any friends, and you were estranged from your extended family. You were all alone in your grief, and hearing someone who knew your mom in some capacity ask you if you were alright felt bittersweet.

“Yeah. I’m doing okay. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you know her?”

“You don’t know? I figured that was why you were here.”

Right. The reason you were here, the gem.

“No, I’m actually here entirely coincidentally, I came to acquire a gem.”

“Which gem were you after, dear?” He asked the question as he looked around his living room for something.

“The Painite one.”

He stopped pacing and turned to you with an accusatory stare. “This wouldn’t happen to be related to those two rowdy boys who came by earlier, right?”

“Well…” You couldn’t lie to him. He looked like the old man from ‘Up’, it was entirely unfair.

“I’m afraid I can’t sell to you. I’m concerned you’ve even gotten yourself wrapped up in such a terrible organisation.” He shook his head, his disappointment evident in his tone.

“Look, I know what you’ve heard, but most of the rumours you hear about Onychinus don’t have a modicum of truth to them.”

“Then why hasn’t your boss cleared them up?” A great question.

“In this business its good to have a reputation that instills fear in others. You’ve seen what people do for Protocores and black-market items. Onychinus serves as a… regulatory body of the underworld, the only people they harm are those that harm others.” The practiced speech came from years of listening to Sylus give it to yourself and others.

“I don’t know dear, I’ve heard some horrific things about their leader, Sylus.” You were probably responsible for a few of those rumours…

“The only horrific thing about him is his sharp tongue. Seriously, he has a way of finding your worst insecurity and then using it to drag you through the dirt.” Recognising the unhelpful tangent, you digressed.

“But when it comes to business, he’s fair and when someone hurts the people he cares about, he’s merciless. He has a good heart, it’s just encased under a very thick layer of stone.” When he didn’t look convinced, you continued.

“In fact, he wants this gem for a woman. She’s special to him and its her birthday in a few days. She’s a hunter, by the way, she saves lives. So, even if you don’t want to sell to Sylus because he’s probably half demon, you should sell it to her. You know, by proxy.” The argument was a stretch but you couldn’t help your rambling.

“You are the spitting image of your mother.”

The comment caught you off-guard.

“You think so?”

“I knew your mother when she was your age. She used to sing live at a bar I frequented with my friends. It was a simpler time, before wanderers attacked. I was head over heels in love with her, and I knew she felt the same way about me. But, she got wrapped up with the wrong guy, a real bad man, and it took finding out she was pregnant with you to break it off with him.” He recounted his past as he continued to search his drawers for something, when he came back to the couch in front of yours, he handed you a photo.

It was of your mother, except she was much younger. She was on a stage performing, a part of her life she never told you about. She looked happy and was glowing with the kind of ethereal beauty that never dwindled with time. He was right, you looked a lot like her.

“Can I keep this?” You looked up at the man, and he gave you a small nod.

“Of course. You know, I offered to help her when I found out, said I’d raise the baby as my own, but she told me I was destined for more than she could give me. Said she had to do this on her own. She was stubborn but she loved boundlessly, Y/N, just like you.”

You were confused, this man hadn’t known you for very long, how could he know such a thing? “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what that Sylus man has done to deserve your adoration, but I can tell you love him. And for you to come here on his behalf to convince me to sell him the rarest gem in the world for another woman? You truly do have your mother’s heart.”

His words sprouted doubt and introspection. Why were you trying so hard to get Sylus such a romantic gift when it was meant for someone else? Were you secretly a masochist?

“If it’s alright with you Y/N, I’d love to get to know you. Your mother was my first love, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to about her.”

You gave him the sincerest smile you could come up with. “I’d like that. I don’t really have anyone to talk to about her either.”

“As for the gem, I’ll sell it to you but only if you promise to love a man who will go to these lengths for you, not someone else.”

“I promise.” You’d promise to try, at least. You told the man, who you now knew was Dr Jeffery Hunt the geologist, that you needed to get back to work. You exchanged contact information with a promise to catch up later and trade stories about your mom.

You left the house with the rarest gem in the world in one hand, and an infinitely more valuable picture of your mother in the other.

___________

You walked toward your office where Luke and Kieran should have been to find the door slightly ajar. You stopped just outside the door when you heard Sylus’s voice from inside your office.

“You sent Y/N to get the gem? Was the task too difficult for the two of you?” You tried to sympathise with the twins, but it was kind of funny to see Sylus berate someone else for once.

“The owner said he wouldn’t sell to Onychinus—” Kieran’s attempt at an explanation was shot down instantly.

“So you pick some random person off the street and send them in instead. You don’t send the girl the gem is for to go retrieve her own present. You have completely ruined the surprise.”

Wait, what?

“No, it’s fine, we sent Y/N not Miss Hunter.”

“Miss Hun— why would you assume it’s for her?” The question hung in there for an uncomfortable moment, after all you assumed the same thing.

“Her birthday’s in a few days.” Luke timidly added.

“How do you know that?”

“It’s in the shared calendar.”

“Fuck.”

With your ear plastered shamelessly against the door, you smiled to yourself. He had a bad habit of putting personal events in the shared calendar.

“The gem was for Y/N. Thanks to you imbeciles I have to figure something else out.”

Why was the gem for you? Was it poisonous? You started down at the velvet box in your hand and wondered if the gem was secretly a teeny tiny bomb.

“Is it Y/N’s birthday soon too?” Kieran’s question offended you. Your birthday was in March and both he and Luke were at your celebratory birthday dinner last year.

“No, that’s in March. It’s to celebrate her 3rd year with Onychinus. Although now I’m wondering if your time here has come to an end.” It was kind of sadistic, but it was comforting to know that Sylus threatened other people’s job security over minor inconveniences too.

“No! Please, we promise we’ll make it up to you.”

You stopped listening to the conversation as you opened the box in your hand. The gem glistened under the artificial lights as questions fired off in your brain. He wanted to give this gem to you? How did he even remember the day you started at Onychinus? And he knew your birthday?

Before you could search for the answers, the sound of footsteps approaching the door made you panic. You tried fruitlessly to escape the long hallway but Sylus stormed out before you could.

“I um, got that gem for you.” You pretended you weren’t eavesdropping and held the gem out to him, but he pushed it back toward you.

“Thanks. I was going to have it turned into a necklace, but since the cat’s out of the bag, you can decide what to do with it.” He clearly knew you’d heard everything and gave the twins a pointed glare as they scurried out of your office.

“It’s really too much. Most employers get their employees a gift card or something.” You tried to hand it back again, but he was unrelenting.

“I’m not most employers, and you definitely aren’t most employees.” The loaded compliment made you bite back a smile.

“In that case, a necklace would be nice. I have a photo of my mom when she was my age, she wore a necklace with a similar looking gem. Do you think you could find someone who can copy the design? It would mean a lot. I’d pay for it, of course.” You kept the photo in your wallet now, it quickly became one of your favourites. When you passed the photo to him, he looked at it for far longer than necessary.

“Consider it done, and your money’s no good with me. Save it for something else.” He paused for a moment, took a photo of the necklace on his phone and returned the photograph. “I see where you get your beauty from.” The comment was so nonchalant and inconsistent with Sylus’s usual dialogue that you were left speechless. Your heart battered against your ribcage as if it were trying to escape and mount itself onto him instead. Traitorous organ.

You watched him turn around and walk toward his office. The sight of him walking away from you brought back memories of that day in the graveyard and what you’d said to Sylus before he left.

“You can judge me all you want, but it won’t change the fact that when you die, no one will mourn you.”

The guilt was eating away at your conscience, and you knew you had to let him know that you didn’t mean what you said. Especially not now.

“Sylus, wait.” He stopped just as his hand reached the doorknob of his office door and looked up at you expectantly.

You raked your mind for the right thing to say, and Sylus didn’t make a sound as you prolonged the silence.

“If you died, I’d mourn you.” And you meant it. You maintained eye contact despite the urge to look away from his intense gaze in an attempt to convey your sincerity.

He shook his head with a slight chuckle in response, and walked into his office wordlessly.

You figured he hadn’t given what you said a second thought. It was foolish to think you could ever hurt the impenetrable Sylus’s feelings. You weren’t even sure he had feelings.

But, unbeknownst to you, when Sylus closed the door behind him, he felt himself let out a breath that alleviated a pressure in his chest he didn’t know he’d been carrying. What you’d said to him in the graveyard weighed on him like an uncomfortable tumour.

Sylus knew you were right, but the idea of no one caring for him never bothered him before, not until you said it. It dawned on him that the only person who’s idea of him actually affected how he thought of himself was yours.

Late-November

“Finish up, we have a reservation at six.” At the sound of your boss’s voice, you looked up from your computer screen. Your eyes were watery from staring at the ledger for hours but you still couldn’t reconcile the $15.70 that was missing. It was driving you insane.

“Was there a meeting I forgot existed?” The calendar looked empty from where it stood on your second monitor. Well, it was empty now that Sylus deleted the shared calendar event for Miss Hunter’s birthday which should’ve been yesterday.

“No, it’s just us. I’m taking you to dinner. Now hurry up.” You couldn’t help the frown on your face. There was surely an ulterior motive.

“Taking me to dinner? Are you asking me out on a date?” You were teasing; hell would freeze over before Sylus would ask anyone out on a date. Though, maybe he already had, after all he was busy yesterday…

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re celebrating your third year with Onychinus. As an employer I believe rewarding long-term employees can strengthen their loyalty to the company.” He regurgitated the words like they were toxic.

“You stole that from the last issue of Forbes magazine. I would know since I was the one who gave you the article.” It was titled ‘Ten foolproof ways to make your employees like you’ and you thought it would be funny to leave it on Sylus’s desk.

“And I’m responding to your feedback like number 4 on that list suggested. Now, do you want to go to this dinner or should I ask someone else?”

You quickly scrambled out of your seat, you couldn’t miss out on a chance to see Sylus actively try to be a regular boss. Who could say no to dinner and a show?

“No, no, I’ll go.” You grabbed your bag off of the floor and followed Sylus out of the building. You asked him a series of questions about where you were going, when you’d be back, if you were getting paid for the time you were forced to spend with him, but he answered none of them.

Sylus was driving for all of 2 minutes before you began to draft an appreciation letter to the inventor of seatbelts in your head.

“You know, you may be harder to kill than a regular person, but I will die if you crash this car.” Pleading for your life in an expensive sports car was not how you expected to go.

“It’s a little early in the night for your theatrics, Y/N.” Sylus’s deadpan tone did nothing to soothe your concerns as he turned yet another sharp corner with aggressive speed.

“It’s also a little early in my life to die.” You unhelpfully added.

“Relax, will you? I’ve never crashed before.”

Well, there’s a first time for everything. You thought as you tightly gripped the handle of the door. You found yourself suddenly missing the middle-aged man who would grouchily drive you to and from work. At least he drove like he valued his life.

_______

When you arrived to the place in one piece you felt severely under dressed. Sylus was wearing his regular attire, a suit without the tie, and you were dressed in linen pants and a turtleneck. Sylus never enforced a business dress code, though in that moment you found yourself wishing he did.

The restaurant was multi-level and sat at the top of a mountain. The exterior screamed affluence and you were sure everyone who dined there was in a different tax-bracket. Sylus reserved a table on the rooftop which unfortunately meant you had to ascend four levels in your mediocre outfit that made you stick out like a sore thumb.

When you eventually reached your table, you quickly hid in your seat. While it was unrealistic to assume anyone would pay you any attention but your embarrassment was usually irrational. Nor, did it help that Sylus naturally made heads turn wherever he went. He was freakishly tall and unnervingly handsome; next to him anyone struggled to look attractive.

“You’re in a rush. Hungry?” Sylus asked across from you as you buried your face in the menu. You didn’t feel like explaining how being out with him made you feel insecure, so you forewent a response.

The waiter quickly returned with a bottle of wine. Of course Sylus’s favourite wine was known universally. Why wouldn’t it be? He practically ruled the N109 Zone.

“Thanks, she’ll have a mojito.” Before you could tell the waiter not to bring you your favourite cocktail, he was gone.

“I’m not drinking.” Your protest fell on deaf ears. “Drinking with your boss is like number 1 on the list of things you shouldn’t do if you value your job.”

“You don’t have to worry about embarrassing yourself in front of me, Y/N. You’ve done that plenty of times sober.” Sylus smirked as he made the dry joke and you held back the urge to step on his foot under the table.

Never mind. You needed a drink pronto.

“Asshole.” You muttered under your breath.

“What was that?”

“Artichokes! I said the artichoke salad looks good.” You could tell Sylus wasn’t convinced, but he dropped the matter anyway.

“Order whatever you’d like.”

“There’s no prices on the menu.” You flipped it around every which way but not a single price appeared.

“Sweetheart, the people who can afford to dine here aren’t too concerned with prices. Don’t worry and order what you wish.”

Aw, how sweet. Sylus thought you enquired about the prices because you were concerned about overspending. As if. You knew that man’s financials inside and out, if anything, you wanted to order the most expensive things on the menu.

“Jeez, my bad Mr One-Percent.” Your joke was not well received.

“Can we have one night without your incessant sarcasm?” The plea sounded genuine, but it was denied.

“We could, but that’s no fun.”

“I find you painfully unfunny, Y/N.” You smiled to yourself at his blatant lie. Everyone found you funny.

Before you could think of a retort, Sylus pulled out a large velvet box and slid it toward you on the table.

“What’s this?”

“The necklace.”

You opened it up eagerly and the sight of it brought pure bliss to your heart. It was exactly like the one your mother wore, and it was even more beautiful in person.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” Feeling slightly remorseful for your attitude prior to the gift-exchange, you gave him a sheepish smile.

Sylus watched you lift it up to put it on, but quickly interjected. “Allow me.” He stood up, walking toward your seat. Flushed, you clumsily turned around so your back was facing him. You felt goosebumps on your skin when his cold hands bunched your hair away from your neck, the tips of his fingers leaving a trail of wired nerves in their wake.

You took your hair from his hand to hold it up, the mere feeling of your fingers brushing his gave you heart palpitations. The act was way too intimate, and despite how it good it felt to have him so close, your brain knew it was safest to pray it would be over soon.

When Sylus was done he spun you around to face him and shamelessly observed his handiwork. “It looks good.” Your brain short-circuited the moment your eyes met his, so you sat in front of him in complete silence.

The moment was rudely interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice.

“Sylus? Y/N? Fancy seeing you here!” You both turned to the source of the voice to see Miss Hunter in a beautiful baby blue gown. As if you didn’t feel bad enough about your choice in attire. You began to smile until you noticed that the arm linked with hers belonged to your mortal enemy. Dr Zayne.

You got up to greet them, despite your primal urge to push Zayne off the roof, but Sylus beat you to it. “Miss Hunter, always a pleasure.” You tried not to gag at the sight of Sylus being so gentlemanly. It became particularly hard when he kissed the top of her hand.

“I didn’t know you knew Dr Zayne.” The comment slipped out of Sylus’s tense smile with a twinge of what you thought was hostility. Was he jealous that she was with Dr Zayne? Were you jealous that he was jealous? Are you in a soap opera?

“Oh, he’s a childhood friend andmy doctor! I’m very lucky. How do you know him?” Before you could whisper to Sylus to make up some excuse, he was firing off information about your personal life to the last two people you wanted to discuss your personal life with.

“He was Y/N’s mother’s doctor.” Everyone went tense, everyone except for Miss Hunter, of course.

Your eyes followed her as she turned to you, praying she wouldn’t ask about your mother’s health. Instead, she praised your nemesis. “He’s brilliant, isn’t he?”

You wanted to scream in protest. You wanted to swing a chair into Dr Zayne’s head, and then use the broken scraps to beat him to a pulp. But you opted to force a painful smile instead.

“He’s definitely something.” You looked right at Zayne, hoping he’d understand the implications of your backhanded compliment.

“Well, we were just here to celebrate my birthday yesterday, but the hostess said it was all booked out and silly Zayne forgot to make a reservation. We just came up to the rooftop to get some pictures, but you guys should enjoy your dinner!” Miss Hunter’s polite dismissal was the perfect opportunity to end the painfully awkward interaction and move on with your night.

“Thanks.” You were about to return to your seat when Sylus decided to continue with his commitment to ruining your life.

“You guys should join us, the more the merrier, right Y/N?”

The question you had no idea how to answer only poked at the jar of pent up murderous rage you were trying to suppress. It wasn’t like you were subtle about your hatred for the Doctor, why the hell was Sylus inviting them to stay?

“Right.” You couldn’t have sounded less sincere if you tried, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You had to focus on making it out of this building without a homicide charge.

When Miss Hunter happily agreed, Sylus quickly waved down a waiter and made them transform your two-seater table into a four-seater. Unfortunately for you, the seating arrangements somehow ended up with you next to Zayne and Sylus next to Miss Hunter .

Zayne could feel the hostility radiating off of you in waves, but he was too scared to do anything about it.

“Happy birthday, by the way.” You offered Miss Hunter the nicety, since she was really the only innocent person at the table. Your unfounded hatred for her took the back-burner when Zayne was around.

“Thanks, Y/N. I love your necklace, where did you get it?” Yet another question you didn’t know how to answer. If this was how the entire night was going to be you might as well cut your losses and take your chances with jumping off the roof.

“It’s um, custom made.” You avoided Sylus’s glare.

“Well it’s beautiful.” You couldn’t help but smile at her compliment. Her sunshine-y attitude could rival yours.

“Sylus knows the guy who made it, I’m sure he could get one for you too.” You glanced at him only to see him quirk an eyebrow at your response. Was he seriously mad? You were practically the world’s greatest wingwoman.

When Miss Hunter turned to look at him, he quickly shut her down. “He retired right after making that piece, actually. Something about getting arthritis.”

He was definitely lying. You weren’t sure why he was gatekeeping this jeweller and you never got the chance to ask.

“Oh, that’s unfortunate. Hey Zayne, you’ve been awfully quiet. Say something!” Miss Hunter gave him a playful push on the shoulder as she teased him. The sight would’ve been adorable if it weren’t for satan’s incarnate sitting inches away from you.

“Yeah Zayne, how was work? Steal anymore hearts lately?” You asked the deceivingly innocuous question while breaking apart a piece of bread. The double-entendre was like a secret you both shared; though the idea of sharing anything with that waste of space made you inscrutably angry.

Sylus silently observed the interaction with curiosity. Your passive-aggressiveness was a trait he thought you only reserved for him. You were always nice, to everyone. Seeing you treat Zayne so coldly was like witnessing a beaver play the piano. It was unnatural.

“Work went as well as expected.” Zayne’s clipped reply left no room for further discussion. The conversation came to do a lull, and you took it as the opportunity to excuse yourself to the bathroom. You immediately beelined away from the table that currently situated your nightmare blunt rotation and toward the women’s bathroom that was positively Zayne-free.

The bathroom was just as extravagant as the rest of the restaurant but you didn’t get to admire it before you splashed water on your face in an attempt to cool down. There was no way you could last an entire dinner next to Zayne. Maybe you could say you were feeling sick. Probably a bad idea when he’s a doctor. Work emergency wasn’t plausible, your boss was at the table. What if you just ran away? You could live with the shame and embarrassment.

You looked up at the ceiling and silently cursed the heavens for your terrible luck. Seriously, you must’ve been a serial killer in your past life to deserve this fate. It was a never-ending series of unfortunate events, and you were desperate for a break.

When you eventually left the bathroom, Zayne was standing right outside the door. He startled you, but the moment the shock wore off your face morphed into a deadly glare.

“Look, I know you think I’m a terrible person but—”

“Monster is the term I’d use, but go on.” You rudely interrupted Zayne. He chose not to acknowledge your comment.

“I rarely get to spend time with MC and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t ruin her birthday dinner because of me.” It didn’t take long for you to realise that MC must’ve been Miss Hunter’s first name.

Zayne ruined everything he touched, he needed no help from you.

“I’m sorry, does the fact that I’m angry at you for letting my mother die put a damper in your dinner plans?”

“Yes it does, actually.” Zayne responded quickly. He either didn’t understand sarcasm or was an even bigger dick than you thought.

“Then might I suggest you take her someplace else. It’s your fault you couldn’t get a table here. Why should I have to suffer because your incompetence knows no bounds?” You couldn’t think of a time you’d insulted someone so much in such quick succession. Dr Zayne brought out the worst in you, but you could reflect on your actions later. Right now you were at war.

“We are perfectly capable of having an amicable dinner.”

You rolled your eyes at his condescending tone. “You might be, I’m not that mature.”

“Y/N. We’re both adults.” He pleaded.

“Bite me.”

Before Zayne could open his mouth again, Sylus interrupted.

“Everything all good here?” For once in your life, you were grateful for Sylus’s interruption.

“No.” You said.

“Yes.” Zayne also said, at the exact same time.

“Zayne you should head back to the table. Miss Hunter's waiting for you.” Zayne didn’t think twice before taking the out and you internally flipped off his retreating form.

Sylus grabbed you by the forearm, his grip tight as he dragged you to a secluded part of the rooftop and away from the bathrooms.

“What’s going on with you?” He asked the moment you stopped moving, his hand still gripping onto your arm like a vice.

“Can you let go? You’re hurting me.” He quickly released you, his eyes washing over with something you couldn’t recognise as you soothed the part he’d rubbed raw.

“Why are you acting so childish?” His question would've angered you had you not been angry already.

“I hate his guts.” The response did not help your case, but you weren’t very articulate when you were upset.

“What did he do to you?” Sylus’s eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a low tone that was laced with danger. You didn’t think too much of his strange reaction, Sylus acting strange was pretty much the only consistent thing in your life lately.

You gnawed on your lip, unsure of how to respond. Your grievance against the world-renowned doctor was one you’d always kept to yourself. After all, everyone had nothing but praise for the brilliant Dr Zayne.

“Y/N, if he touched you I’ll—” Your eyes quickly widened in shock at his interpretation.

“No! Nothing like that. It’s just, a few days before my mom died, a heart came in that was a match. But there was this other guy who was younger and needed it just as badly. The policy was that the hospital's medical board would vote on who got the heart and the entire board, Zayne included, unanimously agreed that the heart should go to the other guy.” They said it wasn't personal, that it had everything to do with survival rates, but there was no way to detach personhood from medicine.

You realised that when you said it out loud, your hate seemed unfounded. “I know it wasn’t entirely his fault, but he didn’t even try to give my mom a fighting chance. He didn't say anything to sway them, he just silently agreed. He was supposed to be her advocate.” The frustration began to boil over, and before you knew it there were tears welling up in your eyes.

“God, I spent every last dollar of my paycheque to make sure she got the greatest medical care money could buy. Everyone said he was the best, but when it really mattered, he did nothing for her. I was such an idiot.” There was an uncontrollable fountain of tears streaming down your face, and you were grateful for Sylus’s decision to drag you to somewhere secluded.

The familiar tendrils of an oncoming panic attack began to wash over you as you began to hyperventilate. No matter how much you wanted to blame Dr Zayne, or the universe, or your shitty luck, the only person you could really blame was yourself. You sent her to that hospital, you convinced her to hold on for a transplant, you spent her last months on this Earth slaving away in another city instead of by her side. There was no way to get that time back.

“Y/N, look at me. It’s not your fault.” Sylus’s voice was like a beacon of light that led you through the dark tunnel you were trapped in. He cradled your face in his hands, wiping away your tears as they continued to stream down your face. But when your tears showed no signs of slowing, he pulled you into his arms, his hands holding your tear-stricken face against his chest.

He ran his long fingers through your hair as he whispered everything you wanted to hear. "It’s not your fault. It’s okay to hate him. It will get easier."

You weren’t sure how long you spent with your face buried in his chest, but by the time you’d returned to reality, his white dress shirt was slightly transparent where your tears soaked through the material.

You laughed a little at the sight, and the corners of Sylus’s lips raised ever so slightly at the sound. When he saw you were okay, Sylus began to speak. “Don’t move. I’ll grab your bag and we’ll get out of here.”

Before he could leave you tugged on the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Hey, I’m sorry I ruined your dinner.” You truly were. Sylus did not deserve to be subjected to yet another one of your meltdowns, but he seemed to have a habit of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

“No it's my fault, I ruined it by inviting them to join us. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Sylus then manoeuvred through the restaurant toward the nightmare table. When he returned with your bag in one hand and the other outstretched toward you, your heart skipped a beat. Or two. He played the role of the knight-in-shining-armour quite seamlessly, and he looked every bit the handsome prince charming. You tried to remind yourself why it was so dangerous to be attracted to a force like Sylus, but when he smiled at you like you were the only two people in the room, all caution was thrown to the wind.

_____________

In the spirit of making things up to you, you made Sylus take you to a restaurant of your choosing. It was a hole-in-the-wall dumpling place that charged so little one would question if they were serving real meat. But you never found better dumplings, so you took the risk anyway.

The dynamic was completely subverted as you sat on the table that was slightly sticky with cheap cleaning chemicals. Sylus was the one who looked out of place, his suit was unarguably the most expensive thing in the room and it brought joy to your miserable night to see him out of his comfort zone.

“How did you find this place?” The question was warranted, other than you two, the only other occupants in the restaurant were a few middle-schoolers.

“I used to come here a lot with my friends in high school.”

“Did they all die from food poisoning?” Sylus seemed proud of his quick-witted joke. You gave him a pointed glare to convey just how unfunny that joke was.

“Funny, but no. We just drifted apart after we graduated.” The clipped reply shut down any further inquiry. You thought back to the fond memories you had in that restaurant. Things were different when you didn’t yet know the cost of failure; before you knew what you’d be losing. And while everyone may have moved on from this small town in the N109 Zone, you never left.

“Do you even have any friends?” You choked on your drink at the question. He was genuinely asking and the worst part was, you really didn’t.

Your constant struggle to make ends meet and maintain a high GPA for your academic scholarships made it impossible to have a social life. It didn’t help that you went to a college you couldn’t afford. It was hard to find people to relate to when everyone had grown up with silver spoons. Then after you graduated you landed at Onychinus, and it wasn’t exactly a friendly environment.

“Of course I have friends.” Your lie was a feeble attempt to preserve the last of your dignity. Sylus had seen you at your absolute worst, but there was something extremely dehumanising about letting him know you were insanely lonely.

“Really, who?” His genuine surprise only made your insecurity worse.

“You don’t have to sound so shocked. Plus, you wouldn’t know them.”

“Try me.” Of course he wouldn’t drop it. When has Sylus ever let something go?

“Well, there’s Mr Demir, and Luke and Kieran, and my newly acquired friend Dr Hunt.” In a desperate attempt to keep up your lie, you pretty much just named all the people you knew.

“Y/N, that’s the man who sells you your sandwiches, my assistants, and a geologist who sold you a gem.”

“Has anyone ever told you that no one likes a know-it-all?”

“I think you should get out more. Maybe tone down the sarcasm and you might just make a friend or two.” Your jaw-dropped in faux shock at his unsolicited advice.

“You’re one to talk, your best friend is a mechanical crow.” You snuck a dumpling off of his plate while he was distracted.

“I don’t need friends, they’re unnecessary burdens.” He took a swig of his beer. You thought he’d burst into flames if he drank anything other than red wine, but he adapted to his surroundings with little effort.

You put a hand on your heart as if in pain and jokingly gave him a solemn look.“Then why would you wish such a cruel fate onto me?”

“Because I hate seeing you this miserable, Y/N.” The amusement from your banter died a quick death at his confession. You thought you kept it together most of the time, though bawling your eyes out in the N109 Zone’s hottest restaurant probably didn’t do that facade any good. But for the most part, you handled the death of your mother relatively well.

“I’m not miserable. Not all of the time at least. Like right now, I’m only mildly annoyed!” You tried to change the topic the only way you knew how, with humour, but Sylus wasn’t budging.

“You take care of everyone but yourself and all it’s done is isolate you. There needs to be a give and take, sweetheart. People don’t like feeling useless.” He spoke to you softly, as if he was scared the timbre of his voice would cause you to shatter into a million pieces.

There was a sinking feeling in your stomach that followed his oddly specific guidance. He seemed to know more about you than you thought he did, and you were torn between feeling seen and feeling judged.

“That’s sound advice. Guess you’ve been reading more magazines.” You were grasping at straws, willing to try anything to get the unwanted spotlight off of your inadequacies.

“You also need to learn how to accept help without downplaying your problems.”

“Okay, okay. You sound like my mother. Has her soul possessed you?” There you go Y/N. Play the dead mom card, that’ll work.

He chuckled at your joke. You knew he found you funny.

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Yeah, the manufacturers didn’t include an off-switch. No refunds, sorry.” You stuffed a dumpling in your mouth as the tension subsided.

“Oh, I’m not returning you, sweetheart. They’ll have to pry you from my cold dead hands.” While you knew he was probably referring to the value you brought his company as his accountant, you couldn’t stifle the butterflies that wreaked havoc in your stomach.

You didn’t move when Sylus’s car stopped outside your house.

“Thanks for tonight, I had fun. Sorry it didn’t go to plan.” You turned to him after you unbuckled your seatbelt and the tight confines of the car felt even smaller.

“It’s fine, I liked this version of events better anyway.” His low voice reverberated through the small distance between you, nestling in your heart that was beating unhealthily fast.

“Me too. Next time you take a girl to dinner you ought to let her know if she’s supposed to dress like she’s going to the met gala.” Your advice had a bitter undertone because part of you still wished you could be the only girl he’d take to dinner.

“I usually do, but this particular girl doesn’t need a fancy dress to be the most beautiful girl in the room.” The candid compliment made the butterflies do summersaults, and while their gymnastics routine continued, you found yourself at a loss for words.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” Sylus leaned over the centre console and opened the door for you, completing the chivalrous act of opening the door for you in his own unique fashion. He was so close, all it would take was one small move and his lips could’ve been on yours.

“Goodnight.” You barely got the word out through the sudden bout of breathlessness you were experiencing. And when you were finally encased in the familiar four walls of your home, you thought about every moment you shared with Sylus and how different he seemed from the man you knew before.

The weekend passed by in a blur. The necklace that looked like a carbon copy of your mom’s was nestled on your neck. A permanent reminder that made ‘Operation Sylus: No More’ infinitely harder to achieve.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have asked him to stop being a dick, because what you thought would be an easy feat was beginning to feel like climbing a mountain with a peak you couldn’t even see.

You were staring at the list on your notes app on your brand new phone in hopes of searing it into your memory.

Operation Sylus: No More

The foolproof guide of getting rid of all feelings Sylus related by the end of November.

Step 1: avoid Sylus and all thoughts of him at all costs.

Step 2: no more funny jokes, his laugh is seriously deadly.

Step 3: force yourself to remember Miss Hunter in moments of weakness. She’s the one he really wants.

Step 4: try to find love elsewhere, like the corner shop owner, he may be in his 50s and happily married but he’s kind of a silver-fox!

Step 5: do not, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be alone with Sylus for too long.

You violated step 5 that Friday when you let him take you to dinner and you were reaping the consequences of your mistake. There was no way you could survive the free-fall if you couldn't get your heart to obey your mind. The disconnect between the two vital organs might be the thing that kills you.

When you heard something shatter in the hallway, you quickly put your phone down and went out to investigate.

The door opened to Mephisto standing on a side table where an empty vase used to sit. The vase was now on the floor in pieces in front of your feet.

“You did this on purpose.” You pointed an accusing finger at the bird, but all he did was tilt his head to the side as if he couldn’t understand you. You knew he could understand you perfectly well.

The cold war between you two started in your first week at Onychinus when he would swoop at your head spontaneously for no reason. Sylus told you he did it to everyone he didn’t trust and that he’d be over it in due time, but you were too vindictive to let it slide.

Several back-and-forth pranks later, the bird seemed to have remembered the tradition you managed to forget. “If this is your way of saying you miss me then you take an awful lot after your owner.” Your words faded as you made your way to the kitchen to find the broom. However, upon your return you saw that the floor was flawless and the door to your office was closed.

You rushed in with unparalleled speed to see your worst nightmare; Sylus leaning against your desk in his usual model-like fashion with your phone in his hand.

Panic coursed through you like never before as you remembered what had been left open on your phone when you set it down and the painful fact that you left it unlocked.

Prayers for a sinkhole to open up and consume you in that very moment went unanswered as Sylus looked up at you with a smirk on his face.

“Is my laugh really deadly?” He looked amused.

Come on sinkhole. Anytime now.

When you didn’t answer, Sylus moved toward you. When he was close enough to touch you, he leaned down to make sure your eyes were on his.

“Your deadline is fast approaching, Y/N. Care for a progress report?” The taunting question made heat rush to your face.

“It was stupid, I wrote it months ago.”

“Then why did you have it open?”

You couldn’t exactly tell him that his willingness to change his cold and cruel demeanour just to keep you as his accountant revived the feelings you thought were long dead. You definitely couldn’t tell him that the necklace that suddenly weighed down your chest made your heart skip a beat every time you touched it. And there was no way you were telling him that the dinner you shared was the happiest you’d felt in a long time.

“I was going to delete it when I heard Mephisto break something in the hallway.”

“Delete it? Guess you don’t need it anymore.”

“Nope.” You popped the P on the word for emphasis. “Can I have my phone back now?” He placed the device into your outstretched hand.

“So how do you feel about me now, sweetheart?”

You tried your best to appear unperturbed by his taunting. “Mad at your blatant violation of my privacy.”

“Forgive me. I saw my name on your phone when I went to check in on you and I was curious.”

“Mephisto told you I broke the vase, didn’t he?”

“Don’t deflect. Do you still have feelings for me?”

“No, they’re gone. Can we please drop this? It’s embarrassing.” You lied in favour of self-preservation and hoped he wouldn’t be able to see through your act.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Y/N. Many women confess their love for me every month.” You rolled your eyes at his ardent display of over-confidence and narcissism, though you knew he wasn’t exaggerating.

“Okay, brace yourself there bachelor. No one said anything about love.” It was true, you never said you loved him. Whether or not you did, well that was a secret you’d take to the grave.

“So then which feeling are we discussing?” The loaded question came out of his mouth so casually, like someone ordering a latte. A display of power that reminded you of just how little this mattered to him.

Your feet felt like they were grounded in their place by an invisible force and you were sure your cheeks were beet red. You knew your mouth was slightly agape in shock, but you couldn’t even close it. Meanwhile, Sylus was unfazed, treating your feelings like a game.

“Since when do you even care about how I feel?” The sudden outburst was accompanied by your hand running through your hair out of frustration.

Sylus’s jaw clenched and for a moment he said nothing. There was no hint of amusement left on his features.

“You think I don’t care about you?” He seemed irritated by the premise, but you couldn’t figure out why. You thought Sylus was proud of his clear disregard for other people’s emotions.

“You treated me like gum stuck to the bottom of your boot for years. What reason did you give me to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know, maybe the fact that I pay you more than my highest ranking footmen. Or that I had Mephisto tail you when you used to bike to and from work to make sure you got home safe. Hell, I invented the lunch budget when I hired you just to make sure you were eating— I even banned mushrooms from my kitchen in case you wanted to eat here. Not to mention the bullshit extra work I’d assign you just so you would stay longer.”

Choosing not to dwell on the implication of his silent acts of kindness, you interjected. “Hey, I took those tasks seriously!” The twins thought you were crazy when you asked if Sylus was making those assignments up. You knew you were right.

“Don’t interrupt me.” Your mouth clamped shut at his rather reasonable request. Sylus wasn’t a big talker, so when he monologued, it was important.

“Your kindness, your humour, it all caught me off guard. No one ever treated me like you did and I had no idea how to feel. The little doodles you sent back to me on the notes I left you delineating tasks? I kept every last one. When Mephisto complained to me about that time you put corn-starch in his water fountain and almost destroyed his wiring, all I could do was laugh. I treated you like I treated all my men because I didn’t want people to find out that you were my weakness.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, but the pressure wasn’t budging. There was so much you didn’t know about Sylus, so much you completely misunderstood. This revelation caused a series of chain reactions to go off inside your brain and the weight of what he was trying to say felt suffocating.

You dreamed of a time where Sylus would reciprocate your feelings, but the reality of it was more daunting than you realised.

“All my threats are empty with you, Y/N. You’re the only one who gets away with the attitude you give me. You tell me you crashed a car worth over half-a-million dollars and all I could think about was if you were okay. I even offered to buy your house for way more than it was worth just to get you back. Do you seriously think I don’t care?”

All sound came to a stifling halt.

“Wait, you were the ‘developer’?”

The inklings of betrayal wove their way through your skin as the pieces began to fall into place. The timing of the eviction notice, the fact that he’d shown up at your house the day you received it, the way he was so quick to agree to the ridiculous bonus.

He manipulated you like a puppet on a string and let you think you were in control the entire time.

“Don’t look at me like I’m some traitor.” His audacious demand made your blood boil.

“You are a traitor! How could you do that to me?” You yelled.

“You were going to leave me like I was nothing!” For the first time since you’d met him, Sylus raised his voice to match yours. Your entire body went cold at his vulnerability. He was afraid of being abandoned, and that was a fear you both shared.

“Not seeing you every day made my heart feel like it was being ripped out of my chest. I could barely focus, all I could think about was what you were doing, who you were with. So imagine my surprise when I come to find that while I’m being tortured every minute I’m away from you, you needed more time.

“I knew I was being selfish, I knew that your grief had nothing to do with me, but I’ve never been good at putting my feelings into words. That day in the graveyard when you wouldn’t even look at me, I thought I’d lost you for good. It ate at me like a parasite. I had to get you back and I won’t apologise for not playing fair. There isn’t a rule I wouldn’t break for you, Y/N.”

It was hard to hate him for what he did when you understood where he was coming from. You were two sides of the same coin. While you overcompensated for the lack of love in your life by becoming the ultimate people-pleaser, he avoided it at every turn, saw it as a weakness. But at the core of every human being was an innate desire to be loved and an inherent fear of being abandoned.

People couldn’t leave your life if you never let them in. That was a philosophy you saw both your mother and Sylus live by. It was lonely and difficult, and if you had the power of hindsight you would’ve tried harder to convince your mother she was worthy of love. You couldn’t make that same mistake again.

You loved Sylus, that much was ingrained into the flesh of your heart. For all his rugged edges, he had a way of making things happen that was akin to magic. His determination, his grit, it was admirable.

His intelligence was infuriating, you couldn’t get anything past him. If he received the Greeks’ horse instead of the Trojans, you were sure he’d have seen right through their ruse.

His desire to make the N109 Zone a better place stemmed from a sense of altruism you could only hope to possess. And when Sylus did things for others, he never expected anything in return.

But for all his greatest traits he had some difficult ones too. He’d hurt you more times than you could count, and even if he’d changed drastically since your mother’s death, you couldn’t quite trust that he wouldn’t hurt you again.

“You already know how I feel about you.” You confessed. It was no secret you wore your heart on your sleeve, despite your mother’s constant reminders that the world was filled with terrible people who’d take advantage of your candour. You chose to see the good in others, it boded better than the grim lifestyle that came with perpetual pessimism.

“Then why are you fighting this?” His question came out pained, and it was one you could answer.

“I’ve loved you for a long time, Sylus. I loved you even though you insulted me, ignored me, reminded me I was replaceable every chance you got.

“I told myself it was just how you were, that it wasn’t personal. But when you walked out on me in the hospital when I needed you the most, I loved you a little less.”

Sylus felt an unfamiliar twinge in his chest, like someone took a needle to his heart. He left that hospital because he wasn’t sure you’d even want him there, and it pained him to see you so distraught over a problem he couldn’t fix. When MC came to him with an important mission in Skyhaven, he saw an out, and like the coward he was he took it. If he knew that you’d lose your mother while he was away, he never would have left your side.

“When you didn’t call until weeks later, when you showed up only to tell me I was being dramatic for grieving, I loved you even less. Every time you screwed me over you made it easier to live without you.”

It hurt to remember the pain you were in back then, the immense pressure of the burdens you carried. But if there was ever a chance of you and Sylus working out, he needed to know the truth.

“I’ve only ever loved two people, Sylus, and in one month it felt like I’d lost them both. I still love you, I’m afraid I couldn’t stop if I tried, but I don’t know if I can be more than your accountant right now.” You couldn’t survive another heartbreak, that much was for sure.

Even though Sylus looked like he was going to be sick, you continued.

“I thought I was okay with you treating me like everybody else, thought I was strong enough to take it. But when I saw you with Miss Hunter and the softness with which you spoke to her, it broke me. I saw that you were capable of being gentle. You just didn’t think I was a worthy recipient of your kindness.”

He was quick to correct you. “That’s not true, sweetheart. Not at all. She has something I need, something I can’t take with force. It’s why I’ve had to adopt unusual methods. If I’d known it was causing you so much pain I would’ve explained. Fuck, Y/N, you deserve so much more than just my kindness, more than I could ever give you. I can’t even think of a person on Earth who deserves you at all.”

When Sylus saw the tears begin to slide down your cheeks, he resisted the urge to wipe them away.

“I’ll give you anything you ask for, anything but letting you go. There’s nothing so broken it can’t be fixed, Y/N. You taught me that. Let me fix this.” He tested the waters by taking your hand in his and when you let him, he pulled you into his arms.

For a moment, the room was silent. You listened to his heartbeat through his chest and it might have been even faster than yours. It felt like deja vu, reminding you of that moment in the restaurant, or that time in his hallway after Zayne’s phone call. Sylus was there to comfort you more often than not, why were you so scared of letting him in?

“I want to believe you, I just don’t know that I can.” Your voice was small, timid. As if you were afraid something you’d say would shatter the sanctity of this moment and you’d find out it was all a dream.

“I won’t stop trying until you do, sweetheart. You’re it for me, there’s no one else.” He kissed the top of your head with a softness you didn’t know he possessed and the words were like bandages wrapping around the wounds inflicted by your own envy.

In the comfortable silence, Sylus made a vow. “I don’t have regrets — you know that quite well — but I regret the way I treated you. I’ll spend every lifetime repenting for my mistakes, Y/N, and I promise I’ll never let anything hurt you again.” He squeezed you tighter and the comfort his warmth brought you was a welcome change to the cold you lived in all the time.

Desperate to diffuse the overwhelming angst of the situation, you pulled away from his embrace and clapped your hands together. “Okay then, as of today we commence ‘Operation Sylus: The Redemption'.”

His loud laugh resounded through your office, and it was a sound you’d never get tired of hearing. He grabbed your chin. “Have you always been this corny?”

“I watch a lot of movies, okay? Now, shake on it.” You shook his hand off your face and held out your hand with an invitation that he instantly accepted. With his warm hand encasing yours, you whole-heartedly hoped this operation would be a success.

Late December

You assumed the dynamic between you and Sylus would drastically change following your impromptu heart-to-heart. But the changes came in small waves.

It started with the middle-aged man who silently drove you to and from work with a permanent scowl on his face being replaced by Sylus himself.

Then there was the sticky notes he’d usually place on documents explaining the task and deadline, now with an added addendum.

— That necklace was the best decision I’ve ever made.

— Your hair looks especially nice today.

— Did you switch perfumes? I like it.

— That new lipstick suits you. Your lips are all I can think about.

You saved all of them in a drawer at your desk.

He had someone bring you your lunch every day and spent your entire lunch break with you. Somedays you talked until your tongue felt like it was going to fall off, other days you just sat and ate together in silence. And every Friday afternoon, instead of taking you straight home, he’d take you to visit your mother’s grave with a new bouquet in his hands.

You were glad he was taking things slow. His small gestures made your heart flutter without overwhelming you, but it had been a month since your confrontation, and he didn’t even try to touch you.

While your inexperience with love, lust and romance never impacted any significant aspect of your life before, it was growing increasingly difficult to wait for Sylus to make the first move. He didn’t want to scare you, that much was understandable. But you were growing angsty waiting for him the tension between you two hit a boiling point.

The glorious plan came to you while you were shopping with Luke and Kieran for Onychinus’s annual Christmas gala. It was a networking event masked under the guise of a holiday celebration where the people hiding in the shadows of the underworld could spend one night communicating on the surface.

Every year, Sylus insisted he couldn’t outsource waiters for the event because of potential security leaks, so you, the twins and a couple other of his staff were forced to fill in as the help. Sylus told you that you wouldn’t have to participate this year, but you began to look forward to the event. It was like an unorthodox Christmas tradition.

Your eyes drifted to the costume section of the party store, and when they landed on a short red Santa’s helper dress, you felt a lightbulb turn on in your head. Maybe you had to give Sylus a little nudge.

“Hey, aren't you guys kind of bored of the slacks and the dress shirts he makes us wear?” You sowed the seed of doubt into your unwilling accomplices.

“Duh. I hate dressing like a butler.” Luke’s eyes continued to scan the aisle for decorations. The hall was professionally decorated, but you added your own little details every year. It made things less drab and it gave the twins an excuse to spend hours in the party supply store.

“What if we went with Christmas themed costumes this year?” The twins turned to look at you with confusion, but they quickly warmed up to the idea when you pointed at the wall of seasonal costumes.

“I’m Rudolph!” They made their declarations in unison before breaking out into an argument in the middle of the party store.

“Just flip a coin!” You desperately suggested, taking a coin out of your wallet and placing it on your thumb, ready to flip. People were beginning to stare.

“I’m heads!” They said in unison, again.

“Kieran you’re heads, Luke you’re tails.” You assigned them the parts of the coin alphabetically and watched it flip through the air. When it landed in your hands, it displayed tails. You silently hoped they would move on from this unnecessary battle and restore peace to your shopping trip again.

“Sorry Kieran, Luke’s Rudolph.” Kieran complained for the rest of the day about how annoying being an elf was, and how, since he was an inch taller than Luke, it only made sense for Luke to be the elf instead.

They argued like the siblings you never had, and for all the pain and suffering they caused you, there was no denying you loved having them around. Besides, working for Sylus left the three of you trauma-bonded for life. There wasn’t really an out from this unconventional friendship.

_________________

You failed to remember to clear the costume idea with Sylus before the gala. He was just so busy trying to organise the event, and you were similarly swamped with ensuring all the invoices were sent out on time to the right vendors. You barely saw each other in the days leading up to the big event.

The dress was shorter on you than you anticipated. Coming up just above mid-thigh, it was nothing like anything you owned in your closet. The little hat it came with was cute though and you pinned it to your hair. The make-up you wore was the same as your everyday makeup, barring the eyeliner you’d spent way too long trying to perfect and your lipstick.

Other than the dress, you really did look the same as you did most of the time. Would Sylus even notice?

Right on cue, a knock on your door snapped you out of your train of thought, and you took a deep breath before opening it.

As you expected, Sylus looked unfazed by your choice in attire as you moved out of the doorway to let him in.

“I see we’ve foregone the uniforms this year.” His comment was a welcome distraction from your insecurities.

“Whimsy is part of the Christmas spirit, you know.”

“It’s cute. Did you get that dress from the children’s section?”

The question came so out of left-field it left you were stunned. Once the shock settled in, you suddenly felt self-conscious.

“No… Why? Does it look childish?” You couldn’t help the vulnerability in your voice.

Sylus closed the distance between you in a few long strides, his hands were on you in an instant. His palm was holding onto your waist the other tracing alone the edge of your dress.

“Quite the opposite, I’m just wondering why they’d make a dress so short for adult women.”

“Adult women can dress however they want, Sylus.” You chided.

“I know, but I’ll have my hands full if I’m trying to host this event and take care of the hoards of men that will be chasing after my girl at the same time.” He whispered the words seductively into your ear, the hand on your thigh slipping ever-so-slightly under the dress.

You ignored the warm, fuzzy feeling that bloomed through you at the sound of Sylus calling you his girl.

“There won’t be ‘hoards of men’. This will be the third time I’m working your annual gala and I’ve only ever gotten hit on like four times.” You knew from the way his eyebrows furrowed that you shouldn’t have told him that.

“Four times? Men hit on you four times while I was in the room and you didn’t tell me?” He was clearly angry, his rage unwarranted since it happened right under his nose.

“I didn’t think you’d care. Most of them were like fifty, anyway!” That was true, and every time one of them placed a hand on your shoulder or your forearm, it made you grimace.

“If men approached you in long pants and a dress shirt with a plate of refreshments in your hand what do you think they’ll do when they see you in this get up?” He walked you back until you were standing against the wall.

He had a point. Maybe it was too suggestive.

“I can change—”

“No. You never have to do that with me, baby. Just stay where I can see you, alright?”

“Okay.” You felt a blush paint your cheeks. The tension was bubbling up between you. His hand was searing into your waist, his other one moving dangerously high on your thigh. You really thought this would be the moment he kissed you. But then the warmth of his hands was abruptly gone.

“Okay. You ready to go?” He held the door open for you. That was it? Frustrated at your lack of results, you silently walked out of your house.

__________________

“Did you see Sylus’s date?”

“Of course, she’s definitely the hottest girl here.”

“I bet she’s had work done.”

“If so, I need the name of her surgeon.”

You eavesdropped on the hushed whispers of a group of women who were gossiping in a corner near the kitchen. The second you walked through the doors of the extravagant event hall, you both went your separate ways and you hadn’t seen him since. So much for not letting you out of his sight.

All you heard about the entire night was his mysterious date and her envious beauty. He never told you he was bringing one, nor did he ever ask you to fill the spot. But before you could completely spiral, you reminded yourself of Sylus’s promise. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation.

“Now what’s a pretty girl like you doing working here?” Your train of thought was interrupted by the voice of a man. You turned around, expecting to see one of the many sleazy old men who frequented these events and saw you as an easy target, but all you saw was a young, attractive guy in a three-piece suit. Huh.

“Hors d’oeuvre?” You offered the plate to him in place of a response.

“No thanks. I’ve had my fill, though I must say, the other servers aren’t quite as easy on the eyes as you.” His eyes shamelessly scanned every inch of you, head-to-toe, and you felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his gaze.

“Oh, um thanks.” The blush on your cheeks was an unwanted biological reaction, you weren’t used to attention from men within your age range. It wasn't like you thought you were ugly, you were just a bit of a hermit.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” You were about to answer his question when someone did it for you.

“Y/N.” The voice belonged to the man of the hour who seemed to have appeared out of thin air.

“Sylus, hello. Hors d’oeuvre?” Clearly you were running out of things to say if your default reaction was to offer everyone a snack, but it was hard to find the voice to speak when you saw the girl who had her arms wrapped around his.

Miss Hunter. You should’ve known. Your eyes passed over her beautiful dress and pinned up hair. She lived up to the rumours, she was definitely the prettiest girl in the room. Next to Sylus the pair reminded you of a renaissance painting. They made sense, and clearly not just aesthetically if he brought her as his date instead of you.

Sylus saw the way your eyes trailed off to MC standing next to him. He saw the self-doubt turn your eyes glassy, and all he wanted to do was whisk you away to a private room where he could show you just how badly he wanted you, and no one else.

But his enemies were in attendance tonight, it was part of the reason he didn’t want you there. Sylus’s only weakness used to be his mortality, and even that was debatable. But now his biggest weakness was tangible, and she wore an adorable Christmas themed dress that made every man in the room brim with desire. Miss Hunter may have been the focus of all the women in attendance, but all the men could talk about was the sexy server in the little red dress. It was driving him insane.

But MC was a hunter and if he endangered her, she could get out of it unscathed without his help. Their enemies were the same, which made them perfect allies, but it also made their loved ones easy targets. Sylus would never forgive himself if he let someone hurt you. So despite the excruciating pain that coursed through him at your hurt expression, he did nothing to quell your concerns.

But he couldn’t idly stand by and let this man make a pass at you either. It was clear Henry was not aware of Sylus’s newly established no-fraternising-with-the-staff policy.

“Henry, not distracting my staff, are you?” Sylus directed his attention to his business associate. Henry ran a security company which supplied a large portion of their weaponry from Onychinus. The contract they shared was a substantial source of revenue that Sylus couldn’t afford to compromise.

“I’m just wondering where you found such delectable staff.” Sylus felt his jaw clench at the way Henry undressed you with his eyes and your consequential discomfort. Fuck the contract, he was going to make that man pay. But he couldn’t inflict his revenge quite yet, so he played nice.

“Unfortunately my staff are exclusively mine. I’m sure you understand how difficult it is to find loyal help.” Well, at least he tried to play nice. The subtle jab at Henry’s recent whistleblower scandal was a low blow, but he wasn’t above kicking below the belt.

Annoyed and slightly confused by the exchange, you rolled your eyes at the testosterone-fuelled men bickering and cleared your throat.

“I think I’m needed in the kitchen. Nice meeting you, Henry.” You gave him the kindest smile you could muster and gave Sylus no smile at all. It was the least he deserved for blindsiding you with his date.

“I should check on the catering, excuse me.” Sylus followed you to the kitchen and the second he caught up to you, he pulled you into a nearby storage closet.

There was barely any room for the both of you in there, so you were pressed up against his body. You tried to create some distance between you two, but he just pulled you back in by your waist.

“What are you doing? I’m supposed to be working and you’re supposed to be socialising. We can’t do those things from here.” You berated him quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. You didn’t really need anyone from the staff discovering you in this compromising position. You’d had enough embarrassment in one night for a lifetime.

“Miss Hunter is just here with me on business.” Sylus’s statement did little to comfort the tumultuous storm in your mind.

“I don’t care.” In a sense, it was true. It seemed your mind didn’t care whether Miss Hunter was there with him on business or not, it still hurt all the same.

“Don’t lie to me, I can tell when you’re upset.” Sylus tried to caress your cheek but you pushed his hand away.

“Okay, fine. I’m upset. Now will you let me leave?” You tried to wriggle out of his grasp but to no avail. His hand squeezed your face as he forced you to face him.

“If you’re upset, talk to me about it. Don’t antagonise me by flirting with other men. It won’t end well for them.” The fire in his eyes swore retribution and you did not want to be Henry right now.

“I wasn’t flirting!” You tried to defend yourself but you knew he’d see straight through your ruse.

“That sweet smile of yours is reserved for me and me alone.” There was no way Sylus would’ve let that over-the-top smile slide and this was exactly how you expected him to react, but it only made you more upset.

“Right, but I just have to make do with sharing you with Miss Hunter.” The irony of the situation was not lost on Sylus, but he had a laundry-list of crimes, hypocrisy was the least of them.

“I’m all yours, baby. I promise it’s just business.” He sounded sincere, and you trusted him to tell you the truth. Sylus never lied unless it was out of omission, but when you asked him a direct question, he never failed to answer honestly.

“I can help you with business.” You tried to reason, your palm resting against his pounding heart.

“Not this kind, sweetheart. I’m just trying to protect you. I need you to trust me.” You trusted Sylus with your life, with your heart. Which was why you knew you wouldn’t like the answer to the question you asked next.

“Did you sleep with her?” The mere thought of it tasted like acid on your tongue. It wasn’t like you weren’t aware of Sylus’s past, but where the other women in his life came and left like the tide, Miss Hunter’s presence was persistent.

You needed to know just how far they’d gone, even if it might destroy you.

“Yes. It was one time when we first met in September. Before I realised how I felt for you.” The words pierced straight through you like bullets of radiation. Your palm slowly slipped off of his chest and you diverted your gaze to your heels. “Y/N, you know I only want you. It meant nothing to me.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the fact that they’d slept together that hurt you so deeply. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, the way she got under his skin. Sylus may love you, but what if he wasn’t attracted to you?

The thought slipped out of you before you could mull it over. “How am I supposed to believe that when you were all over in seconds and you won’t even kiss me?!”

A hint of recognition flashed through Sylus’s eyes as he realised the catalyst behind your frustration. For some odd reason that he could never figure out, you were insecure. Even though your charm bordered on lethal and your beauty was unparalleled, you still felt inadequate. It perplexed him how someone could look so divine and not be aware of it.

“I haven’t kissed you because I wanted to make sure you were ready, sweetheart. I was worried I’d scare you away, because I’m sure if I got a taste of you I wouldn’t know how to stop.” He sounded strained when he spoke, as if he was recalling his frustration at having to hold back.

You watched him intently, his words dripped with a desire you both shared. With his body so close to yours, it was hard not to wish he’d just act on his primal instincts.

“You’re entirely unaware of your affect on me. You have no idea how precarious the string holding me back from insanity has become. When I saw you in that dress, I was sure I wouldn’t be able to hold back. But then you'd look up at me with those angelic eyes and I realise I can’t risk losing you.”

Before you could even think it through, your desire became overwhelming and your lips were on his in an instant.

It was nothing like you expected, nothing like the chaste, sweet kisses you saw in your movies. It was heated, messy, desperate. His lips ravaged yours like a man on death row devoured his last meal. You felt his desire with every movement and all the doubt you had dissipated instantly. His hands were all over you, one softly held on to your neck, while the other held on to your waist like you might disappear.

His lips moved to your cheek, your jaw and eventually the sensitive skin on your collarbone. When he bit a particularly sensitive part of your neck, you let out a whine. You hoped he hadn't given you a hickey. His face came up to yours as he looked at your lips which were red from the impact and the desire running rampant in your eyes. It might’ve been the most beautiful you’d ever looked.

“Well? I’m still here.” You whispered against his lips before giving him a chaste peck.

Sylus knew you weren’t just talking about this moment. You never left, even when he gave you a million reasons why you should. He didn’t know what he did to deserve such luck, but he knew he’d never give you a reason to walk away from him ever again.

“We should get out of here.” Somehow you knew he didn’t just mean the storage closet. He shifted to lead you out but you quickly stopped him.

“You can’t leave your own party! What about your date?” As much as the idea of MC hanging off his arm made your skin crawl, it wasn’t right to just leave her alone.

“She’ll be fine. The only woman I care about is right in front of me, and I want to do so much to her than kiss her in a storage closet.” There was an underlying promise in his tone, and you felt the slightest bit of fear that you might’ve bitten off more than you could chew.

“You’ve lasted this long, what’s one more night?” Your last ditch effort to escape the dangerous situation was unsuccessful.

“Sweetheart, I can't wait another second.” He gave you a soft, gentle kiss that conveyed his fraying restraint. Your fear felt inconsequential when he was with you, you knew you could trust him wholly with every part of you.

So, when he led you out of the storage closet and all the way to his bedroom, you never once felt scared. Or insecure. Or inadequate. Sylus worshipped you like you were his salvation and he never once let you doubt yourself again.

Later that night, as you laid in his bed underneath his covers, staring over at his peaceful sleeping expression, you realised he was your salvation too.

Christmas Day

“What’s the surprise?” You asked the same question for the umpteenth time.

“Just be patient, we’re almost there.” You let Sylus lead you through what you thought was a building while you obediently kept your eyes shut. Eventually your feet came to a halt, and you were bursting with anticipation.

“Alright, open your eyes.” When you opened them you were in the living room of a charming beach house. It was so bright it took your eyes a while to adjust, but when they did you noticed that it was decorated with splashes of your favourite shade of yellow. The large balcony doors opened to the sight of a familiar beach, and you felt a range of emotions wash over you all at once. Sadness, nostalgia, yearning.

“Merry Christmas, baby.” Sylus’s voice behind you snapped you back to reality.

“What is this place?” The awe in your voice could not be concealed.

“It’s yours. I know how much you hate being on the beach, but I also know it meant a lot to your mother. From this balcony it’ll be like you’re right there without actually being there.” He sounded almost nervous while presenting his gift to you, worried you might hate it. But there wasn’t a word that could describe the pure gratitude and love you felt for the man standing in front of you.

“You bought me a house on my mother’s favourite beach?” The disbelief in your voice was almost tangible.

“Yeah.”

“Sylus, all I got you was a pocket watch!” You thought that since you were both not very big on Christmas, you would exchange small gifts. Clearly small wasn’t a word Sylus kept in his vocabulary.

“You gave me so much more than that.” The suggestion in his voice did nothing to soothe your guilt.

“This is too much.”

“Y/N, you’re more familiar with my assets than I am, if this made a significant dent in my bank account I think you would’ve noticed when I bought it a month ago.”

“You’ve had this for a month?” The shock persisted, but he was right. His expenses ranged from a box of paperclips to the purchase of a two-hundred-million dollar industrial complex.

“Yes, I bought it the first time you asked me to take you to the beach after work.”

“But what if we didn’t work out?” A month ago that seemed like a palpable possibility, but now you couldn’t imagine your life without Sylus in it.

“I’d find a way to trick you into taking it anyway.”

You all but rolled your eyes at the memory of his less-than-graceful plan to acquire your house until you ended up working for him again.

“Right, of course. You’re quite good at that I hear.”

“I’m good at many things, I’ll remind you later.” He drawled against your ear, but before you could force him to act on his promise he spoke up again. “For now, there’s one more surprise.”

You let Sylus lead you out to the balcony with his hands on your shoulders, driving you forward. He stood behind you, his chest to your back. He pointed to a hill on the left of the house where a beautiful willow tree sat atop the beach on a cliff.

“I bought that plot of land too. I don’t want to overstep, but if you’d like, we could move your mother here. Have her final resting place be at the place she loved the most.” His voice kept you anchored as memories of your mother threatened to pull you away. It still filled your chest with overwhelming sadness when you thought of her, but the thought that she could spend forever in the place that brought her the most joy filled you with relief. You didn’t get to give your mother much, but at least Sylus helped you give her this.

You couldn’t stop the tears streaming down your face if you tried.

Sylus had come a long way from that day at the graveyard, an even longer way from the day you met him. The fact that he grew to care about your mother as much as you did made your heart swell with love for him that expanded every day. Something you didn’t even think was possible.

“She would love that.” Sylus wrapped his hands around your waist, placing an ever-so-gentle kiss on your temple. “I wish you could’ve met her when she was alive, you would’ve loved her.” They were both the strongest people you knew, and it pained you that they never got to meet.

“I’m sure I would have. After all, I am a huge fan of her work.” You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you at his cheesy joke. You were rubbing off on him, that was for sure. He peppered kisses all over the side of your face at the sound of your joyful laugh and you had to squeeze out of his grasp to make him stop.

While you wished you didn’t have to lose someone so important to you to gain another, things always had a weird way of working out. Your future was still murky, but what you did know for sure was that ’Operation Sylus: No More’ could officially be declared a massive failure. And even though the physical hole in your heart still existed, the proverbial one shrunk to half it’s size; and you had the silver-haired man with the stone-encased heart of gold to thank for that.

Tag list: @blue-sky336 @sei-chuun @astolary @luna-looniesblog @rainkissedberries @syluslittlecrows @escape-your-nightmare @mangooes @bibistarx @kathypellar @stxrrielle @mansonofmadness @babygirl-panda19 @wegottastayfocus @zoezhive @futurecorpse92 @diabolichii @chocolatepalacecloudhoagie @cathuggnbear @blue-serendipity @huuvu @thisbitchreallyneedssleep @sh3sa1dwhat @justpassingdontworry @sylustoru @poptrim @mikachux3 @thargelalia @eolivy @vyntheria @dana-nite @miffysoo @babyx91 @fealy @sillyfreakfanparty @cassiesversion @serenity-loves-red @nommingonfood @sylusgirlie7 @browneyedgirl22 @silverbrain

Sorry if you were tagged but didn't get a notif, I think some of you might have your tags off because your blog wasn't coming up for me >:c

#lads sylus #a masterpiece #im in love #perfection

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just-another-reader1098 · 2 months ago

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Impartial Hearts | Sylus - Part One

Pairing -> Boss Sylus x Non MC Reader

Parts -> Part One | Part Two

A/N -> Guys this shit is just sad icl I need to lay off the sad songs... anyways, reader is not MC but MC is mentioned I called her 'Miss Hunter' or 'MC' bc I couldn't come up with a name, sorry.

EDIT: Thanks for all the love <33333 I honestly didn’t expect so many people to want a part two, I promise it’s in the works and I’ll try to get it out ASAP.

Trigger Warnings -> Death mentioned, heart issues mentioned.

Word Count -> 7.3K

“I’m sorry, what?” The question slipped out of your lips without much of an attempt from your brain to restrain it. You regretted that instantly.

“Watch your tone, Y/N.” The scarily low timbre in Sylus’s voice threatened retribution if you didn’t.

“Sorry… It’s just that— are you sure? I feel like this is a decision that requires a little bit more contemplation. Like getting a dog!” You tried to backpedal, but from the look of Sylus’s narrowing eyes, he wasn’t happy with your response.

“Are you comparing her to a dog?” There was a threat thinly encased in Sylus’s question and under the thick layers of fear, you felt the slightest pang of jealousy that the he felt so strongly about defending her honour.

What a dramatic and far-fetched conclusion. You wanted to say, but instead you bit your tongue.

“N-No! Of course not. Not at all. I’m just wondering if wiring her such a significant sum from your equity account is a good idea when you met her—” You make a show of glancing at your shabby watch “— 13 hours ago is a sound decision.”

“So you’re questioning my judgement? Is that it?”

You couldn’t blame him for being difficult, you walked right into that one.

“No! Well… yes?” One would think that after two years of working for Sylus, you’d have the ability to stand your ground against him. But there was only so far someone could push a man like Sylus before he deemed you irredeemable. The consequence of which involved a hollow point in your skull.

“Wrong answer. Wire it. Now. I’ll deal with your insubordination later.” He quickly left the room that doubled as your ‘office’; you shared it with the twins who liked to use it as their reprieve from crime. You wouldn’t have minded had they chosen less rambunctious ways of cooling-down, like reading or watching a show. Instead they’d play-fight, actually fight, play video games on the loudest volume or — the worst option of all — karaoke.

The sarcastic yes sir died on your tongue as quickly as it crossed your mind. You pissed him off far more than usual today, and he was already way more tense since her arrival.

Miss Hunter. Sylus kept her first name under lock-and-key, said it was safer that way. You barely caught a glimpse of her as Sylus dragged her out of his office, which was across from yours. From the glimpse you did catch, she was beautiful. Fair skin, jet black hair, a fit body. Her outfit, which was the Hunter’s Association standard issue uniform, had never looked so good.

From what you knew from shameless eavesdropping, she was extremely important to Sylus. She was part of some critical master plan you weren’t privy to.

You hated her.

Albeit, completely unfounded, your hatred for her stemmed from an ugly feeling you could not shake. In the two years you worked as an accountant for Onychinus, Sylus touched you once. Correction, you touched him once accidentally when you had too much to drink with the twins after work. You were taking careful steps to the bar to pour yourself another glass of a gross vodka raspberry mixture when you tripped on the edge of one of Sylus’s extremely expensive rugs. Your feet pedalled forward in an attempt to keep you upright, and you clashed right into Sylus who was innocently scrolling through his phone on the wall next to the bar.

You could recall the fear you felt vividly. You almost felt the same wedge lodged in your throat. Sylus quickly removed you from him, steadying you with his cold palms on your shoulders (an action that made you blush like a schoolgirl) before verbally deeming you cut-off from all liquor from the night.

That was the full extent of all physical contact you’d had with Sylus in two whole years, meanwhile it took Miss Hunter less than 24-hours before he was holding her hand. God, you hated her.

“Oi, Y/N, we’re using the company card for lunch today.” Luke quickly yelled out to you from the hallway, too engrossed in your self-loathing and plain old regular loathing, you forgot to remind Luke that they only had $40 left on their weekly lunch budget.

Knowing the twins, they wouldn’t have cared anyway, creating yet another problem you had to fix.

Looking at the excel sheet that contained this month’s trial balance, you shivered at the thought of having to deal with Sylus’s wrath at yet another monthly increase in expenses. So, you shifted the remaining balance on your lunch budget, a generous $255, into the twin’s joint account. It was only Thursday morning, and they’d managed to max-out their $1000 budget.

You hated them too.

You looked through your drawer in hopes you had a leftover snack that could sadly double as your lunch and felt a wave of relief at the sight of a protein bar.

It wasn’t like Sylus didn’t pay you enough to afford your own lunch, in fact he was the most generous employer you’d ever had. But the only thing bigger than his bank account was corporate greed, and the blood-sucking heathens at Akso hospital were milking you dry.

Life in the N109 Zone wasn’t easy for most people, especially your mother who raised you all on her own after your father left. She worked 3 jobs to put you through university in Linkon, so the least you could do was use every last cent you made on ensuring she had the best medical treatment money could buy.

Your mother had a bad heart ever since she was born, it was a hereditary condition that would sometimes skip a generation only to show up in the next. She had an atrial septal defect, or in another words, a hole in her heart. You were born with one too, although yours was much smaller. She’d undergone several surgeries to repair the hole, but it reopened, and now the scar tissue surrounding the surgical site was obstructing her arteries. She was now on bypass patiently awaiting a heart transplant you couldn’t quite afford, but you’d make it happen. You were sure of it.

With half the protein bar in your mouth, you began to call Dr Zayne, the cardiovascular surgeon who was overseeing your mother’s care. You called him for updates on your mother and the transplant list every day, since a train ticket to Linkon was too big an expense to justify, you’d settle for Dr Zayne’s cold recollections of your mother’s heart function.

“Ah, Miss L/N, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to call today.” The dead-pan sarcasm dripped from his tone.

“Your bedside manner needs serious work.” You bit back. You weren’t sure when or how your relationship with your mother’s doctor turned so hostile, but you figured the busy chief of surgery was annoyed by your constant calls.

“Need I remind you, Y/N, you’re not the patient.”

“There isn’t a waking second I’m not thinking about the patient, Dr Zayne.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air at your confession. You didn’t mean to make him feel guilty, in all honesty, you looked forward to the banter before the updates on your mom, it helped ease the nerves.

“Do you want to see her?”

“Of course, but I’m working a lot.”

“No, I mean right now.”

“Are you finally letting me borrow the hospital helicopter?”

“No, but I will let you borrow my phone so you can FaceTime her.”

His kind offer caught you off guard. “Really?!”

“Sure, you caught me in a rare moment where I don’t have someplace to be.”

“It must be Christmas.”

“Rarer than Christmas. Think solar eclipse.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Now give me my mother.”

Zayne kept his promise, and you spoke to your mother for your entire lunch break, and then some. You would’ve continued talking to her until the sunset if not for Sylus’s interruption.

“I don’t pay you to FaceTime your friends, Y/N.”

“Sorry, I have to go. Talk to you later. I love you!” Your mother rasped out that she loved you too before you quickly hung up the phone.

“Sorry.” Your apology fell on deaf ears as Sylus took slow, deliberate steps toward your desk.

“Do you hate this job?” Sylus’s asked this deceivingly innocuous question while sliding a finger across the mahogany tabletop.

“Um… no?” You placed your hands in your lap as you answered to hide the slight tremor.

“You sound unsure.”

“I like this job very much.” You made the declaration with as much confidence as you could muster. Your mood was already depleted from seeing your mother’s sick face for the first time in months. She wasn’t looking any healthier, and Zayne told you she’d barely moved up the list.

107. There were 107 people who’s lives were more important than the woman who raised you. You were well aware that wasn’t the way they calculated the metric, but it didn’t make the number hurt any less.

Sylus let out an sigh that suggested whatever he’d say next was a much tamer version of what he truly wanted to say. “Then I’d suggest you start acting like it. Remember, sweetheart, everyone’s replaceable. Especially you.”

His comment stung like antiseptic on an open wound, though you were sure that was his intention.

“Right. Of course. I won’t let you down.”

“For your sake, I hope not. The twins told me they went to that seafood buffet for lunch, you haven’t let them go over the budget again, have you?”

You quickly pulled up the online banking account connected to the company card. You saw the $189.95 charge for the seafood buffet and swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Nope, it’s all dandy.” You gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He noticed.

“Good. You wire that money like I asked?” The venom in his tone alleviated, and you were glad at least one thing seemed to have worked out for you that day.

But alas, your joy was short-lived.

“Yes, an hour ago, but it’s still processing until you put in your access code.” You moved away from the computer to give him room to step around and put in the code like he usually did. However, his feet never moved from their position in front of your desk.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Just like that, his voice was all venom again.

You were beginning to grow agitated with his misplaced anger constantly being taken out on you. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, he’d tear into you like a bear would a boxing bag and then act like everything was fine the next day. You never got an apology, you knew not to expect one.

But lately these fits of unbridled rage came about more often than not, and Sylus took a shovel to your mole hill of resolve every time.

“I always need your access code on transfers over $500,000. I’ve never told you before, I just assumed—”

“Are you stupid?” You didn’t bother answering the mean rhetorical question. “What about this transaction seemed usual to you? Did I not convey my urgency effectively earlier? Or are there rocks where your brain should be?” His voice never went up in volume, but you could tell he was angry. Livid even. Seething with fury at your supposed incompetence.

Your eyes welled up with tears at his outburst. Normally you could take whatever insults he’d throw at you with little outward reaction, but you were particularly sensitive from the sandwich-shaped hole in your stomach, and the maternal hole in your heart which ached every second, reminding you of the much bigger one your mother bore.

Before you could stop it, a tear rolled down your cheek, and the second you registered the sensation you quickly went to wipe it.

“Stop crying.” Sylus ordered.

“I’m not—crying.” Your voice betrayed you, a hitch in your throat interrupting the sentence. The tears began to stream down faster, so fast your hands couldn’t keep up.

You prepared yourself for a speech about how weak you were, how he wouldn’t tolerate such inane shows of infirmity. But all Sylus did was watch as you embarrassingly tried to pull yourself together.

You weren’t sure how much time passed before Sylus moved next to you, hunching down to input his code into the transaction. His eyes glanced at the second monitor, displaying the company card’s account, and he zeroed in at the twin’s charge, and your lack thereof.

“Did you have lunch?” Sylus’s voice was softer, you attributed that to the fact that he was inches away from you. The question was so out of left-field it actually caused your tears to cease.

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t use the card.” Your eyes followed his to the bank statement and you let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, I had some extra cash on me I wanted to get rid of.”

“You’re supposed to use the card, Y/N. That’s what it’s for.”

“It’s fine, I’ll have an extra big lunch tomorrow. Granted you’re not firing me?” You were only half-joking, but you could’ve sworn you saw the corners of his lips perk up in an almost-smile before he shut it straight down.

“I won’t fire you if you tell me what’s got you this upset? I’m not so proud as to assume it was me.” It was that moment you realised Sylus was capable of feeling empathy. He was aware of how hurtful he was being all those times he’d berate you over the smallest inconveniences for virtually no reason, and he simply didn’t care.

It was far worse to know that he did possess empathy, but chose not to extend it to you.

“It’s just that time of the month.” You lied, convincingly. You’d mull over your blatant betrayal to feminism later, but for now you needed a means of shutting this inquiry down and quickly. You didn’t want anyone knowing about your mom, you were sure the pity would destroy you. She wasn’t going to die, and you didn’t want people to treat you like she might.

Sylus waited for the transfer to clear before he left. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when the door closed behind him.

“Are you sure we only have $105 on our lunch budget.” Luke’s question grated on your frayed nerves.

“$105 and five cents.” Your distinction didn’t do much help.

“Come on, can’t you do your weird accounty magic and make more appear? We want steak.” Kiernan’s plea wasn’t helping either. You’d exhausted every last option, anything else would definitely cause alarms when Sylus eventually reviewed the accounts.

“I already did all I could, I gave you an extra $255!” And a fat good that did you, now you were hungry and annoyed.

“Well, we both know there’s plenty more where that came from.”

There really wasn’t, but you didn’t tell them that.

“I’m sorry, $105 is all you’ve got.”

“Fine. But we’re very unhappy with you, Y/N. Very unhappy.” Luke chastised you, but you couldn’t even pretend to care.

“Better you than Sylus, now please leave.” The twins opened their mouths with a retort, but a domineering voice interrupted them.

“You heard her. Beat it and stop bothering my accountant.”

The twins scurried at the sound of Sylus’s voice, and you wondered how much of that conversation he overheard.

“So, where did that extra $255 come from, Y/N?”

Too much of the conversation. Way too much.

“My budget.” You cut your losses and told him the truth. Any other answer would have surely pissed him off.

“I give you $300 for the whole week. Your sandwich costs $15. Either you haven’t been eating, or you've been paying out of your own pocket against my orders. Which is it?”

Well, that was a lose-lose situation if there ever was one. You didn’t want to deal with the questions about why you were skipping meals, so you lied again. You always were an exceptional liar, your mother taught you that the less people knew about you, the less they had to hurt you with.

“I made too much food for dinner so I had leftovers. It’s no biggie.” You didn’t even look up from your screen as the lie left your lips.

“What leftovers?” He asked.

“Pasta.” You answered.

“What kind?”

“Alfredo.”

“With mushrooms?”

“Yeah.”

“You hate mushrooms.”

Shit. Why did he know that?

“I had a change of heart.”

“You’re lying.”

You bit your lip in worry, wondering how you were going to get yourself out of this one.

You stalled as much as you could, pretending to be engrossed in something on your screen, until the sound of Sylus’s phone ringing broke the tension.

You internally thanked every deity that could possibly be watching over you as he took the call, and prayed to all of them that it would be something urgent.

You heard the faint sounds of a feminine voice through his phone.

“Kitten, where are you?”

Wait, who’s kitten?

“Just calm down, tell me where you are.” Sylus didn’t even give you a second glance as he quickly stormed out of your office. Leaving you to mull over the intimate pet name, knowing exactly who it was intended for.

As Sylus left the room you reflected on the cacophony your feelings created in your mind. You weren’t sure when you developed such strong feelings for Sylus — or why. His personality was the antithesis of yours. Where he would free fall off of the proverbial cliff of his life without a second thought, every risk you took was meticulously calculated. Where he was rough and respected, you were sort of a pushover. Where his deadpan sense of humour tended to elicit more fear than laughter, you had an awkward habit of cracking jokes in situations they were not appropriate.

You were polar opposites, two parallel lines that were destined never to intertwine. You figured that was why everything hurt so much around him. He wasn’t right for you, but he would be right for someone else.

The envy you’d carried for so long began to subside for the first time in years. Sylus had an array of estranged lovers that he’d bring around his mansion every once in a while, and now Miss Hunter. But for the first time the reminder of that fact didn’t hurt as much as it usually did.

It was Mid-September and you warned yourself that if you couldn’t eliminate all the romantic feelings you had for Sylus by the end of Autumn, you’d cut your losses and quit.

Of course, you’d have to find another job that paid just as well, but you were willing to cross that bridge when it came to it. There was only so much turmoil your fragile heart could take, and if you were dead, your mother would be as good as dead too.

Happy with your iron-clad plan, you opened up your notes app and began to draft ‘Operation Sylus: No More’. You could change the name later.

Operation Sylus: No More

The foolproof guide of getting rid of all feelings Sylus related by the end of November.

Step 1: avoid Sylus and all thoughts of him at all costs.

Step 2: no more funny jokes, his laugh is seriously deadly.

Step 3: force yourself to remember Miss Hunter in moments of weakness. She’s the one he really wants.

Step 4: try to find love elsewhere, like the corner shop owner, he may be in his 50s and happily married but he’s kind of a silver-fox!

Step 5: do not, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be alone with Sylus for too long.

You looked back at your list, proud of the relatively easy steps to follow. This should be a cakewalk. Whoever said you couldn’t be the master of your own feelings clearly never met you.

“Boss needs you in his office. He says bring your laptop.” Kiernan’s voice broke your focus. You were almost finished with the end of year report for this financial year, a task Sylus forced you to complete annually. It was meaningless, considering Onychinus wasn’t necessarily a legitimate business listed on the stock exchange, but you took it seriously nonetheless.

“Okay, I’ll be right there.” You felt Kiernan’s eyes bore into you as you continued to make minor edits to the report. You’d sleep so much better once this 180 page document was out of your life.

“He needs you now, Y/N. We’re both toast if you make him wait.” You sighed and couldn’t help but roll your eyes at Sylus’s lack of empathy for your large workload.

You berated your past self for being so eager for this role, completing far too many tasks far too quickly, and setting the precedent that you were some sort of accounting machine. You really should learn to stick to the bare minimum.

You walked over to the door leading to his office, and gave it a soft rap with your knuckles. The door opened by itself, or rather with the help of Sylus’s evol, to the sight of him leaning back in his chair, with Miss Hunter sitting directly in front of him on his desk.

Step 3 of your guide felt less like a friendly reminder and more like a stab in the gut. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man.

“We don’t have all day, sit down, Y/N.” Sylus’s command woke you from your trance, and you hoped your envy wasn’t as obvious as you thought it was.

This was the first time you’d seen Miss Hunter up close, and when your eyes travelled to meet hers, she gave you a warm smile. You felt like the shittiest person to exist for ever hating her.

Your eyes scanned the room for somewhere to sit. The chairs opposite his seemed like they would intrude on the intimate moment he was clearly having with Miss Hunter, so you settled on an armchair in the corner that had a coffee table in front of it.

Sylus sighed and didn’t even bother to ask you to move before he used his evol to whisk you up and deposit your body onto the chair at his table like a rag doll. You hated when he used his evol on you, it felt like the arms of a prickly cactus.

“In a few minutes, I’ll be getting a phone call from a possible investor. He’s extremely exclusive and known for running tests on his potential partners before agreeing to invest with them. My intel suggests he’s going to propose a joint project, but the numbers he’ll give me will be far off. I need to counter-propose numbers that would generate a high return and quickly, or he’ll hang up and I’ll never hear from him again. So, open up your laptop and prepare, because if you tank this for me, there will no longer be a place for you here. Understood?”

When Sylus did things like that, it made it easier to love him a little less. He could be a complete and utter dick sometimes, and while you’d learned to accept it as a human flaw, recently it seemed more like a permanent predisposition.

Perhaps Sylus was nice to you because you were entertaining, now that he had someone better to occupy his time, you were nothing more than a forgotten bygone.

“Yeah, I got it.” You opened up an excel sheet with a project analysis template. These were the types of questions you’d get in your first year accounting courses but you let Sylus think it was much harder than it actually was — just to make him sweat.

When the phone rang, Sylus’s muscles grew tense and Miss Hunter gave him a comforting squeeze on his shoulder. You bit your lip to hide the sudden scowl on your face. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man.

Your eyes bore into your excel sheet with an intensity that would’ve produced laser beams in an alternate reality. You focused entirely on the calculations, listening intently to the brassy voice of the investor on the phone.

It didn’t take you long to generate the minimum initial investment they’d need to generate some form of return, as well as the payback period. You wrote the numbers down on a notepad, and you let him do the rest.

When you heard the investor let out a humorous ‘I’m impressed’ you packed up your laptop and left the room without so much as a wave. You felt Sylus and Miss Hunter’s eyes follow you out of the room, but you didn’t bother looking back.

You felt the thin line between love and hate begin to grow blurry. Where Sylus was concerned, your feelings were as clear as the muddy water in a swamp. Maybe two and a half months was too much time. You needed these feelings gone expeditiously.

You decided to take your lunch early, and you left the extravagant mansion that doubled as HQ to find your bike. You couldn’t really afford a car, or a license, but your bright yellow bike could do everything a car could for a fraction of the price. You were in the process of strapping up your helmet when Luke walked up.

“What’s up with you lately?” His question was inevitable. You wondered how long it would take for someone to notice that you were fighting internal battles on every front. Your mother’s health, Sylus’s sudden chronic asshole syndrome flareup, your dwindling bank account.

“Nothing, I’ve just been tired.”

“Well, we’re having a few friends over tonight. Just a small group, if you’re not too tired, you should come.” Luke was the more sociable twin, and he was most likely extending this invitation to you out of pity, but you’d take anything over being trapped in your own mind.

“Will there be alcohol?” You quipped.

“Duh.” Luke’s response brought the first genuine smile to your face in weeks.

“I’ll be there.” After your agreement, you cycled away toward the corner shop for lunch.

It was a quaint bakery/deli run by a Turkish man who you knew on a first name basis. He was aged-like-fine-wine handsome. Features weathered tastefully by age, with a full head of hair that quelled your fears of your future children inheriting the early onset male pattern baldness gene.

But when you entered the store and saw Mr Demir, there were no butterflies. Your heart didn’t skip a beat. Your hands didn’t even quiver as you paid for the sandwich. In fact, they were so steady you figured you could give Dr Zayne a run for his money.

Speaking of Dr Zayne, his daily updates were growing scarcer in detail, and you were worried that something was wrong. He insisted he was just busy and since your mother had moved up to 93 on the transplant list, you let it slide.

“You know you’re allowed to try the other sandwiches, right?” Mr Demir’s handsome face contorted into a teasing smile, and if he didn’t own this shop with his beautiful wife, you might’ve asked him to marry you then and there.

“I like this one. Your family is very talented.” You smiled at him, but it seemed even he could tell that it wasn’t genuine.

“You’re getting skinnier you know, and you haven’t been coming as often. Is something wrong or are you cheating on me with a salad store?” His joke brought a giggle out of you.

You never thought that people noticed you in a way that was significant. You felt as if you were akin to a missing bird poster on a telephone pole in the middle of a busy street. People would glance at it, remember how common and undistinguishable birds are, and forget it ever existed.

Mr Demir’s concern warmed your heart, and you promised that if you ever won the lottery, you would give him half.

“I’ve just been cooking more, that’s all. Thank you Mr Demir, say hello to your wife for me!” You gave him a small wave as you exited the shop and the weight suffocating your chest was a little lighter.

Mr Demir’s family had boundless love to share, and while their shop was small, they were happy. Maybe things would work out for you and your mother after all.

The rest of the workday passed by like a fever dream. You finally managed to complete the annual report, a copy of it sitting in Sylus’s email, surely unopened. He left soon after that phone call with Miss Hunter, you didn’t bother to ask where.

The mansion was empty when you turned off the last monitor, and you thought you’d start pre-gaming early. Sylus always warned all of you that his bar was off-limits unless he stated otherwise, but the man had so much alcohol, you doubted he’d ever notice.

He only drank red wine and whiskey, and you hated wine, so you settled for an almost full bottle of whiskey. You took one sip and realised you couldn’t stand the taste either, but it was still better than the wine, so you chugged glass after glass like they were shots.

The heavy alcohol burned your throat on the way down and continued to burn in your stomach, but the feeling kept you warm so you didn’t really mind. You’d consumed half the bottle by the time the twins returned with two other men and one girl following in suit.

“Y/N! Good, you’re here. Help me set up the drinks on the table.” You nodded your head at Luke’s request, knowing your speech would likely be slurred.

You helped him line up the bottles of cheap tequila, vodka, fireball and a fear-inducing amount of absinthe. These cheap spirits were much more your speed.

“Alright, we’re starting with truth or dare. Pick your poison and sit around the coffee table.” Kiernan’s announcement had everyone scattering around the coffee table with cups in hand. You opted for the fireball, too scared to mix alcohol this early in the night.

You recognised everyone from another one of the twin’s impromptu parties. They only ever threw them when they were sure Sylus would be gone overnight. You didn’t let yourself dwell on where he was or who he was with.

The game was more entertaining than you expected, everyone had interesting questions, and when it came to dares, the twins always had something sadistic in mind.

It was your turn when they decided to up the stakes. You were already wasted, so you committed to answering whatever question they pummelled at you.

“Truth.”

“You’re so boring, you always pick truth.” Luke whined, his arm shaking yours in protest.

“That’s because I’m scared of your dares.”

Luke rolled his eyes but conceded.

“Fine. How many people have you slept with?”

All conversations came to a stifling halt as everyone’s eyes landed on you. Far too embarrassed to tell 5 people you barely knew that you were still a virgin, you changed your answer. There was nothing to be ashamed of, but you knew the twins would mercilessly make fun of you, and you didn't have the energy to explain that between the constant pressure to succeed for your mother, and her eventual illness, your love life had been placed on the back-burner.

“Dare.”

“You know the rules, if you switch options and refuse to do it, you have to finish everyone’s drinks.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hit me.” You glared at Luke with determination. You should’ve known that when everyone was this drunk, the dares could only get progressively more outrageous.

“I dare you to call Sylus and tell him you crashed his McLaren.” Luke looked proud of his dare, and the smile dropped from your face instantly.

Even Kiernan’s eyes flashed with concern before he broke out into an obnoxious laugh.

“Oh- Holy shit! That’s gold.” The words left Kieran’s mouth in-between his laughter. Everyone around the table looked at you eagerly.

You knew if you finished off everyone’s cups you’d definitely die, or worse, throw up.

“Fine.” Too drunk to realise the implications of what you were doing, you dialled Sylus. There was also the chance he just didn’t pick up, but four and a half rings later his annoyed voice resounded through the speaker of your phone.

“What is it?” From the sound of Sylus’s tone, you’d interrupted something important. You bit down the bitter feelings that threatened to spill out, and stuck to the objective.

“I have something to tell you, but you have to promise you won’t get mad.” There was no universe in which Sylus couldn’t tell you were drunk.

In all honesty, your phone call was a welcome reprieve from his mind-numbingly boring conversation with Linkon’s politicians. He’d offered to attend this event with MC with little thought as to what it would pertain. His eyes raked over her baby pink dress, and since he couldn’t get her out of it just yet, he entertained your drunk rambling.

“I don’t have to do anything.” Sylus expected you to apologise, but all he heard was a sound foreign to him. Were you laughing? Sylus heard indecipherable voices in the background, and he found himself wondering who was making you laugh.

“True. Okay well, you know that dark grey sports car you love soooooooooooo much?” Nice going, Y/N, remind him just how much he loves this car. You thought. The phone was on speaker, per the requests of the fellow attendees.

Everyone bit back laughs at the situation which was extremely unfunny to anyone with a blood alcohol level under 0.05.

“What did you do?” Sylus’s question had a deadly underpinning, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“I crashed it!” At your exclamation, the room exploded in laughter, and you muted the microphone quickly before Sylus could hear it.

“You crashed it?”

You quickly unmuted to add. “Yup! Absolutely totalled.”

“Are you okay? Where are you? I’m coming.”

The laughter immediately died down. That was not how he was supposed to react, not at all.

Luke and Kiernan gestured for you to shut it down and you quickly began to backtrack.

“No! No you don’t have to come home. I’m fine. It was just a prank.”

“Oh, so you’re at my place?” ShitShitShitShitShit.

“Yes… The twins and I had too much to drink and we thought it would be funny to prank you. I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have interrupted your night.”

You braced yourself for the angry lecture on how Sylus’s time was more valuable the rarest ruby, but it never came.

“Just you and the twins, right?”

Luke and Kiernan gestured for you to agree.

“Yes.”

“You should probably call an exorcist.” Were you drunk or did he actually just tell you to call an exorcist?

“Huh?” Everyone in the room looked just as perplexed.

“You know, since those three other people in my living room must be apparitions.”

“You didn’t rig the camera?” Kiernan’s shrill scream was definitely registered by the phone’s mic.

“Fuck! I forgot.” Luke exclaimed in response as they scrambled to pack everything up.

“Um…” With everyone frantically running around the room, you were left to deal with Sylus’s wrath alone.

“How come you never laugh when you’re with me?” And with that question you were convinced the alcohol had induced auditory hallucinations.

“You’re not very funny.” You decided to play along, after all, imaginary Sylus was much more fun than the real one.

“Hmm, I thought I was.”

“Nope. All your jokes end in someone dying, and usually that someone is me.”

“Oh, sweetheart, those aren’t jokes.” That was something real Sylus would say. Damn, these auditory hallucinations were realistic.

“I know, I really thought you were going to kill me last week.” You let out an involuntary snort at the hilarious image of your head on a pike.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I screwed up that wire transfer to Miss Hunter. You were soooo mad. You must reaaaalllyyyy like her.”

“I guess I do.” The line went quiet on both ends after that.

This auditory hallucination was no fun following his confession, so you hung up. Sylus called a few times after, but you never noticed. The room began spinning and your eyes began watering, so you curled up on the floor until your head stopped pounding, but by then you were fast asleep.

Sylus returned to his mansion the next morning to find your office empty. It was still an hour before you were due to start, but you were always early.

With an internal promise to check again in an hour, he walked toward the living room. It didn’t take long before he noticed a mop of light brown hair on his rug.

He walked toward your sleeping form with indignation, only to find every ounce of anger sucked out of him when he knelt down to find your sleeping face.

He hadn’t been that close to you in what felt like forever. Was your face always that pale? His eyes caressed your under eye bags, and your hollow cheeks. He could’ve sworn they were fuller when he hired you. What happened to you?

Before Sylus could give in to the urge to wake you up and ask, your phone made a sound from the coffee table. He picked it up and saw you were getting a call from Zayne.

Who the fuck was Zayne?

He answered the phone before he could think it through.

“Oh, Y/N, good. I’ve been trying to reach you since last night.”

“You should’ve taken the hint.” Sylus couldn’t help the bite in his tone. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry at this Zayne, but his emotions were beginning to confuse him more often than he cared to admit.

“Who’s this?”

Sylus could’ve said that he was your boss. He should’ve said that he was your boss. But what he said instead…

“Y/N’s mine.” His employee, but that distinction didn’t seem necessary in the moment.

“Well, could you tell her to call me back as soon as possible. I have urgent news about her mother.”

The comment about her mother perplexed Sylus even more.

“Who are you?”

“I’m her mother’s heart surgeon. I have to go, have her call me soon.” Sylus felt stupid for the unnecessary show of hostility, but he only had more questions following Zayne’s answer.

It seemed the conversation was enough to wake you up from your slumber, and the moment you registered your surroundings, the headache you had was amplified tenfold. Your muscles hurt from sleeping on the hard floor, and you were sure your legs had morphed into jelly.

You were never drinking again.

“Well hello, sleeping beauty.” Sylus watched as you groggily rubbed your eyes. The right side of your face had an indent matching the pattern of his rug, and your hair was dishevelled. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“Sylus. I’m so sorry.” You spoke through a yawn before cradling your head in your hands. The world needed to stop spinning.

Sylus shoved an open bottle of water in your face, and you greedily snatched the peace offering before he had time to change his mind.

“Zayne called, said he had some news about your mother.”

You shot straight up, spilling some water in the process.

“What did he say? Where’s my phone?” You glanced at large Sylus’s hand which was wrapped around said phone. If you weren’t so worried about your mother, you might’ve found the sight of Sylus holding something covered in a floral case amusing. Powering through the piercing pain in your temple, you held your hand out.

“Please give it back.”

“What’s wrong with your mother?”

“Please Sylus, I can’t do this right now.” You tried to lunge for the phone, but he was faster. Raising his hand above his head and well out of your reach.

“You’ll have this back once you answer my question.”

“She has the flu. Now give it back.” You jumped up in a feeble attempt to retrieve the phone, but he was just so goddamn tall.

“I didn’t know flu treatment protocol involved heart surgery now. Guess I need to brush up on the latest medical news.” His sardonic tone made you scoff. Only Sylus could be such a dick while your mother's life was in limbo.

Curse Dr Zayne and his blabbermouth.

If it wasn’t for the severe hangover, you might’ve been able to think of an explanation. But you were so nervous you felt sick and you needed to know the news Dr Zayne had.

“Fine. She needs a heart transplant, she’s on coronary bypass and if she doesn’t get a heart soon she’ll die. Is that good enough for you?” You continued to try to reach the phone, not bothering to check Sylus’s reaction to your confession.

He dropped the phone in your hand and you all but sprinted out of the living room to make the phone call.

The line rang once, twice, three times before Zayne picked up.

“Y/N?”

“Yes! What’s wrong? Is my mom okay? Tell me she’s okay.”

“Slow down, she’s alive, but she had a cardiac event. Not a heart attack, but it still did some damage. Her condition is worse, much worse, Y/N. I’m sorry.”

Your back slumped against the wall of the hallway and you felt your knees give in as you slid to the floor.

“How long does she have?” The tears streaming down your face fell onto your shirt, leaving uncomfortable wet spots in their wake.

“A few weeks, a month’s top. But this did move her to the top of the list. She might get a transplant in time.” Zayne must have heard the sadness in your voice if he’d offered words of encouragement. He never did that.

“Thank you. I’m going to come see her.”

“I’ll get the nurses to bring in an extra bed. I’ll see you soon, Y/N.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond so you hung up instead. The pain in your head was now but a mere memory as your heart began to splinter into a million little pieces.

There was so much you still had to do. You needed to buy your mom her first ever house, and help her plant the prettiest flowers in the garden. You had to get her the dog she always dreamed about and the outdoor swing she missed from her childhood home. She still had to walk you down the aisle and sing your future children the lullabies she sang to you. She couldn’t go. Not yet.

You didn’t even notice Sylus enter the hallway until you felt him sitting down next to you. He wove an arm behind your head, bringing your face into his chest. The intimacy of the act only made you cry harder. The last person to hold you that close was your mom, a few days before she’d collapsed.

“It hurts.” You choked on your words and they came out muffled against Sylus’s chest.

“What hurts?” He asked.

“My heart. It really hurts, Sylus.” You sobbed harder. It felt good to finally admit that you weren’t okay. To have someone hold you as your life fell apart around you.

“Tell me what to do, Y/N. Anything.”

“Can I have some time off?” You took deep breaths as you tried to slow your crying down. You could break down once you reached the other side of this tumultuous predicament.

The humble request drove Sylus insane. He’d offer you his own heart to save your mother if he wasn’t sure it was severely damaged, and all you could think to ask for was time off.

“Of course.”

“Can you give me a ride to Linkon?”

That request was a little better, but still not enough.

“I’ll take you now, come on.”

“No wait, I need to go home and pack some things. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“You know you can still get a DUI on a pedal bike, right?”

“I’m not drunk.”

“But there’s still alcohol in your system, and you’re very upset. It won’t be safe, I’ll take you home on the way. Let’s go.” He stood up, his hand outstretched toward you.

And with a heavy heart, you took Sylus’s hand.

#one of my favs #i love nonmc fics #lnds sylus

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just-another-reader1098 · 3 months ago

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genuinely one of my favorites series

And hope to die | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: A continuation of the 'wholesome apple boy' Caleb fics I started before he was released. I'm still getting the hang of his voice. You wake up from your reoccurring nightmare about Caleb dying, only to find that he's alive, but you keep having trouble trusting that this isn't all still a dream. Caleb takes care of you, through your anger and your disbelief. Your boyfriend drops by, and Caleb is on his best behavior in sending him back on his way. Caleb x mc, Caleb x f reader. This story contains: angst, fluff, a traumatized and deeply angry mc, codependent Caleb and mc, nightmares involving serious bodily injury and Caleb's death, nsfw sexual content, cheating [mc may or may not sincerely think it's just a dream, sorry nameless boyfriend, you can't help not being Caleb].

It’s always the same.

No matter the season.

You are falling.

Not flying.

You are falling.

The fall is endless.

The terror of hitting the bottom never lessens.

There is never relief, never growing numb to the sensation of plummeting, of the imminent end.

You fall through rain

You fall through snow.

You fall through cherry blossom petals.

You fall through sun drenched, blindingly blue skies.

You fall, and there is nothing, and no one, to catch you.

Until you fall into his body.

As always, it is he who catches you.

You sit up, panting, big chest heaving. You feel the strength in your arms, your powerful thighs. You smell your own sweat.

You turn, and you see yourself. You, not the Caleb you, the body you’re currently in.

You look wrong. Small, fragile, vulnerable. That’s not you. You’re indestructible. You can survive anything.

You hate that this is how he must see you, as you look at yourself through his eyes.

You turn. Look out the window. A bright, sunny day.

You’re at the dinner table, there is news on the TV. Explosions throughout the city.

You’re worried about Gran, you’re worried about Pipsqueak, her new, dangerous job.

You’re carrying secrets that even though you’re inside him, he won’t reveal to you.

The dinner continues. You watch yourself respond to your Hunter’s watch, you follow yourself out the door, concern rising, frustration that your help is being rebuffed. You send yourself into the cornerstore. You buy vinegar, condiments, what you demanded he buy to keep him busy. You return to the bright, sunny day.

You argue with yourself. You snap at him, cut off his complaints. Lie to him. You’re so frustrated with yourself, why won’t you just listen to him? Let him continue to shelter you, as he has done for the only part of his life that matters to him?

You turn, lead the way back to your childhood home. You say something cutting, sarcastic to him, trying to create more distance, keep him at arm’s length, he who is you, whose body you’re in.

Your heart hurts, beats painfully. You go in first, as you have been ordered to do by your princess.

It happens so fast, but there is still pain. So much pain. And then—

You fall into your own body. You wake up, slowly, painfully. The fire is raging, consuming the carcass of your childhood home.

You’ve been here before.

But this time, he’s outside the house. Instead of his necklace, it’s his big body tossed over the walk leading up to the house. He looks intact, whole in way that you know is impossible.

You crawl to him, hope surging, despite the impossibility. Maybe this time, it’s different.

Maybe this time, there will be a different ending.

You crawl to him—everything hurts. You push yourself up on your arms, lean over him.

He’s so beautiful. He could be sleeping. His sweet eyes, closed. His long, straight nose. His full lips slightly parted. You just need to wake him up.

Caleb.

You call to him. You call to him, softly, and then loudly, as he doesn’t respond. You reach up, caress his cheek, as you remember him caressing yours so often when you were younger.

Open your eyes, Caleb.

He doesn’t move.

You’re desperate. You’re yelling now, screaming. Your throat hurts.

Caleb. Caleb. Caleb.

You’re desperate. You let yourself do something you’ve never allowed yourself to do before.

You lean down. You lean down and press your trembling, panting lips to his.

You kiss him. A soft press, first. Then harder.

Wake up, you say against his lips. Wake up.

Wake up, you beg.

You frame his cheeks with your hands, touch him tenderly, fingertips drifting along his skin as you kiss him, over and over, untethered from gravity.

Wake up.

You kiss him for a lifetime.

Finally, he opens his eyes.

You make a noise in your throat as he opens his eyes, and he kisses you back. His lips meet yours, press for press. Soft and alive.

You stare into his pretty purple eyes, the pink shimmering in the flames of your childhood home.

You could fly, with the relief, the realization that he’s not dead. That he’s fine—he’s fine, and he’s kissing you back.

You draw your hands from his cheeks, slide your fingers into his soft, soft hair, pull him closer.

He smiles against your lips.

You can pull harder, if you want.

You grin, laughing breathlessly. You’re overcome with relief, with desire. You slide your hands further into his hair, around the sides of his head, toward the back of it, to cradle it in your palms.

Your fingers don’t meet. They meet air instead.

Empty air.

You pull back. Stare into his face. He smiles at you one last time, before closing his eyes again. Before going limp. You tenderly turn his head in your hands, reluctant to pull your gaze from his beautiful profile. But you do. You have to.

You let your eyes drift, over his soft brown hair, the curve of his precious ear. To where his hair, his bone ends.

You stare at the back of his skull, no longer intact—you stare at the gaping wound of where his mind, his brain, the core of him should still be.

But it’s empty.

You start to scream.

It’s always the same.

You wake up screaming.

It’s always the same.

Sweat-soaked. Heart broken, and yet still pounding so hard in your chest it feels like your ribs are breaking, all over again.

Again, and again, and again.

You hate falling asleep. You hate waking up.

It’s why you’ve never spent the night at your boyfriend’s.

You meet him somewhere, out. Surrounded by other people. Have nice, pleasant dinners. Take in a movie. Go back to his place. He makes love to your body with his body that doesn’t remind you of Caleb because he’s shorter, less muscular. He smells wrong.

Not bad.

He’s just not Caleb.

But he was there, in the blurry haze of the aftermath of Gran and Caleb’s deaths. A nice, inoffensive presence, across the bar.

Normally you wouldn’t have accepted his offered drink. He didn’t look enough like Caleb. Sure, he was tall, handsome. But not tall enough, not handsome in the right way. He would have done nothing for you before.

But after Caleb dies, you can’t stand to be reminded of him, when before, you tried to find him in everyone you met. Poor facsimiles, but enough for one night of fantasy in your head.

When you tried not to call the nice guy back, after the first time you went home with him, he persisted. For weeks. Sending cute, self-deprecating texts. Flowers to the reception of the Hunter’s Association. When can I see you again?

He was dogged in his pursuit of you, as you left him on read. As you accepted the flowers, gave them to Tara, to Nero, to Simone.

One day, the pain was simply unbearable. You needed a distraction, from your twisting, racing thoughts. From the same nightmare, every time you went to sleep.

You called him back.

But you still never slept at his place.

Now, you wake up from the nightmare, as you always do, with your throat raw, your heart wreckage on the ground, knowing that you are simply moving from one nightmare to the next.

The nightmare of reliving what happened to Caleb, and the nightmare of waking up to a world where he’s dead.

It’s always the same.

Except this time it’s not.

There are arms around you. Warm. Big. A scent you’d know anywhere, in any lifetime, fills your nose. You want to cry. You’ve learned not to trust these aftershocks of the nightmares. Where you’re so desperate for the world to still contain him, that you hallucinate he’s here with you, holding you tight. You can’t believe it. You squeeze your eyes shut, tight, tight, tight.

You try to roll yourself into a ball, a little shrimp, he used to call you, but the strong arms don’t let you. He holds you fast against his own body, where you’re lying… somewhere. It feels too cramped to be the bed.

“Hey, Pipsqueak. Open your eyes,” a boyish voice you’d know anywhere, in any lifetime, murmurs in your ear. Even as he grew huge, worked so hard to gain heavy muscle, his voice stayed so cute.

A cheek, rough with stubble, against your own.

You can’t. You can’t, only to find this is not real, again. This has happened to you, so many times before.

“It’s not a dream,” the voice says. “Open your eyes, let me prove it to you.”

You want to cry. But you do as he says, every time. How can you not?

You open your eyes and see Caleb looking down into your face—his expression soft, warm. Everything you remember of him.

You feel like time has stopped. You’re disoriented, on your couch. Faint, orange-tinted light pours in through the windows of your apartment. As if the sun is setting. It’s always this way, waking up from a nap, the rare times you have time to actually fall asleep during the day. As if you’re coming from another life, from such a great distance. But now it’s even more disorienting, as the dream of Caleb alive and warm underneath you feels so, so real.

“Caleb.”

It’s all you can say.

“That’s right,” he says, full lips curved in a soft smile, eyes crinkling at their edges. “It’s me.”

He’s stretched out on the couch, one arm bent behind his head. His chest is bare, as it was before you fell asleep. You’re lying on top of him, head lifted from where you’ve been resting it against his big pectoral. He runs his metal thumb languidly across your lower lip as you look up into his face, as he looks down into yours.

“You’re dead,” you say, your heart pumping, pumping, painfully in your chest. The nightmare is still with you. You’re afraid to believe him when he says he’s here, that he’s real. That the nightmare is over.

“I felt like I was, for awhile,” he says gently, letting his thumb fall away, moving his new arm across your back, his big, hard hand, clutching your hip tighter. The pressure is a little too hard. You like it. Maybe it will leave a bruise. “But I’m not dead. Check for yourself,” he invites you. His hand releases you.

You sit up, straddling him, his hips. You stare at him. Let your eyes drink him in. The healthy curve of his intact arm, leisurely bent behind his head. The soft dark hair in his exposed underarm.

“You can do more than look. Why don’t you touch me, if that’s what you need? I’m right here, and I’m real.” He sounds amused, teasing. As if the past year is something you could ever joke about.

You can feel the anger, the fury, close under your skin. But you’re not ready to release him yet. You’re not ready to punish him yet. You’re not ready to retreat again, as you have done for years now, ever since he left you stranded on the ground amidst the wreckage of his broken promises. Right now, in this orange-soaked, suspended moment in time, you can’t resist accepting his invitation. You’ll be mad at him, soon. You’ll make him suffer, soon.

You can’t help it. It’s in your nature. He should know. He’s the only one who knows.

You trusted him with everything, with all of you, and he left you, and then he let you think he was dead.

If he’s actually alive. If this all isn’t still just the cruelest nightmare you’ve ever had. You don’t think you’ll be able to survive waking up and finding him in the ground again.

You shake your head, the feelings inside of you so big, your body can hardly contain them. You can’t bring yourself to decline his invitation. You need to touch him again, to feel him. After so many years of your hands being empty, even as you were touching other people.

But you have to carve out an escape route, even as you accept his invitation.

You will never leave yourself exposed, vulnerable, like you spent years being with him, again. Only in this moment, hanging suspended, spinning lazily between the nightmare and the truth, will you let your heart finish what it starts every time you wake—you allow it to jackhammer through your ribs, crack them open and allow him to see inside.

But he needs to know that this moment is a clumsily drawn card, slipped into his pocket. Caleb’s right to a time out in a fight, valid until the end of the day of its use.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you say. “You’re a stranger to me still.”

His face falls. He looks so hurt, for such a brief moment. But then he takes a breath. His eyes soften. You recognize their indulgent affection from when you were younger, and trusted him. “Whatever you say, Pipsqueak. I’ll accept it, whatever you need to say to yourself, for however long you need to say it,” he murmurs.

You reach forward, cover his pretty, gentle eyes with your hands. “I mean it. Don’t look at me like that.”

He laughs, and it sounds infinitely sad. “I’m just lookin’ at you like I always do. I can’t help it.”

You run your fingers over his face, trace his thick, dark eyebrows. Let them drift across his forehead. You take your thumb, and smooth the frown there. He closes his eyes.

You move your hands, sending your fingers into his soft, silky hair. You let your blunt nails drag across his scalp, and you feel him shiver underneath you.

You swallow, terrified. Pause your hands in their trajectory that you know you must follow in order to reassure yourself that he’s here, that he’s okay. That the nightmare is finally over.

But you’re so, so scared.

You’ve been here before. Your hands in his hair. Moving towards the back of his skull.

“Caleb,” you plead.

He opens his eyes. The colors of a rainbow oil slick, the colors of his evol, the colors of your dreams.

You clench your teeth. You’re trying so hard not to cry in terror.

His eyes drift from your face to your neck.

He reaches up with his silver hand, slips his index finger through the silver chain around your neck. His necklace slithers from underneath your shirt as he pulls. He keeps pulling, gathering the excess length of the chain in his palm, the faint clinking of the metal necklace against his metal hand loud in the quiet room. When he has most of it fisted in his hand, he continues pulling, gently.

You don’t try to resist—you let him pull you down to him. You rest your forehead against his, your hands still clutching his hair.

His breath is warm, sweet against your lips.

You’ve had this dream before. Your heart is racing, in terror, in response to his proximity, after being so far apart for so, so long.

“Caleb, wake up.” You can’t help it. The plea comes out of you without thought, without effort, like it always does.

Your hot tears hit his cheeks, despite your clenched teeth, your effort to keep them in your eyes, where they belong. He has no right to see them. He never had any right to see them, even when you trusted him.

“I’m awake, baby,” he says against your mouth. “I’m right here. I’m right here, and I’m never going anywhere again.”

He’s promised you before. Promises you’re not sure he ever intended to keep. “You’re dead,” you whisper. “You’ve been dead for so long.”

“I’m not,” he insists, for the first time sounding a little desperate. A little impatient. As if he has any right to feel impatient. As if he has any rights at all, if he’s actually alive. If he’s actually here, under your hands, and this isn’t the same nightmare it always is, with a more bitter flavor. “I’m not dead. Touch me. Keep touching me,” he urges, softly. “Until you’ve convinced. I’m not goin’ anywhere. Take all the time you need. Just touch me.”

You let his words fill you. You let him nudge against your cheek with his nose as he asks this of you, let his breath in through your parted lips.

You clench your teeth again, brace yourself. “I’ll never forgive you, if you’re lying again.”

He laughs, breathless, eager. “But you’ll forgive me, if I’m telling the truth?”

You tighten your fingers in his hair, hear a little gasp pulled from his lips, puffing against yours. “You’re in no position to negotiate. All I said is that I’ll never forgive you if you’re fucking dead,” you bite out. “If I wake up from this, and you’re still dead, I’m going to take a bulldozer to the cemetery. I’m going to reduce your headstone to rubble. I’m going to gather the gravel in a big fucking sack, along with everything of yours I still have, every last scrap of paper, piece of fabric, your stupid little model planes, the tiny, pathetic number of things salvaged from the fire, and I’m going take my friend’s yacht to the deep ocean, and I’m going to weight the lot of what remains of you. I’m going to fucking sink it. I’m going to make sure that the last bit of you is as far as you can get from the sky as possible, forever.” You breathe. You breathe, and you whisper, “And I might have to tie it around my neck, and go down with it, if you’re fucking lying. I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He stares into your eyes, and you’re too close to tell what the rest of his face is doing. He doesn’t blink.

You take a deep breath. Let it out. You don’t care if your breath stinks from your nap. He’s probably fucking dead. And you’ve felt dead, for longer than he’s been dead. What does he care? What do you care? “So no, I won’t forgive you if you’re telling the truth. But I won’t bury you as deep as I possibly can if you are. You can fuck back off to your precious, wide open sky. In either case, you don’t get to haunt me anymore.”

In the silence that follows your promise to him, there is only your breath. His breath. Your heartbeat, and his. The city outside your window is just a quiet ocean you’d like to drown your dead brother in, the cars are waves breaking on the shore.

“You have to keep living,” he finally says, as if nothing else matters to him. “You can have everything else. But you don’t get to die.”

“You don’t get to decide what I can, or can’t do anymore, Caleb Xia,” you snarl, and your anger gives you the courage to force yourself to send your fingers further into his hair, curving around his precious head.

You let out a sob when your fingers meet each other at the back of his head, with his hair, his scalp, his skull intact underneath.

“Caleb,” you keen, and he finally moves.

He surges up, taking you with him, your hands still buried in his hair, clutching the back of his head. He wraps both of his arms around you, metal and flesh, and squeezes you so, so tightly. You bury your face in his neck, and you wail like an animal.

“This doesn’t change a fucking thing,” you sob. “You’re not dead but you’re dead to me, do you understand? I don’t give a shit where you’ve been, or what you’ve been doing. Fuck you, Caleb. You let me believe you were dead for a year.”

He holds you even tighter, absorbing all of your fury, all of your hate, all of the feelings inside you that are too big for your skin, like he has always done. “I know,” he whispers. “I know.” He lifts his left hand and holds the back of your head, gently, gently, and rubs the other along your back, up and down, up and down. He listens as you rip yourself open and let all your venom out, soaking him in it, and he holds you, and he soothes you, and he takes it all.

The daylight has drained from the world while you were exploding in his arms. The lights from the city are the only illumination in your otherwise dark apartment, as you finally slump against him, utterly exhausted.

“Feel better?” he asks, turning his head, nosing along your temple.

You refuse to answer him, even as you try to snuggle closer to him.

He just laughs softly at your mutinous silence, your traitorous body that refuses to let space come between yours and his yet.

“How about a shower? Might make you feel better.”

“Nothing will make me feel better,” you grumble. You sniff his neck, savoring his warmth, the familiar smell of him, and then deliberately rub your snot and your tears into his skin.

He just laughs, like he’s ticklish, when you know he’s not. Or like he likes your snot and your tears all over him.

“Idiot,” you say.

“Hey now, be nice.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “C’mon, Pipsqueak. A hot shower, and then a hot meal. I’ll make you whatever you want.”

You sigh. “I don’t have any food, remember?”

“A hot shower, a trip to the grocery store, and then a hot meal,” he amends the evening itinerary.

“Sounds like work,” you complain. “It’s my day off. I don’t do any work on my day off,” you lie. Because you often work on your days off. It’s another thing that bothers your boyfriend.

Shit, your boyfriend.

You remember the events from earlier today. Seeing Caleb through the crowd. Leaving your boyfriend behind. Letting Caleb take you home. Even though you have no idea how he knew where you live, how easily he got here, without looking at his navigation system while he drove. He has never been here before. You never invited him after you moved in.

You stiffen in his arms.

“I’ll do all the work” he interrupts your racing thoughts. “You don’t have to do a thing. I’ll take care of everything.”

You pull back, feeling like your face is twice its normal size, your eyes puffy and raw from all of your crying. “I promised my boyfriend I’d call him later today.”

There’s another flash of emotion on his face, there and gone again before you can decipher it. “It’s not every day you reunite with your closest friend back from the dead,” he says carefully. “He’ll understand, right?”

You stare into his eyes. He looks so earnest. He sounds so reasonable.

You don’t miss how he still refuses to refer to himself as your brother.

Closest friend.

Tara has never taken weeks to respond to your texts. Has never missed an important event for you.

Xavier has never made you think he was dead for a year.

Sylus has never broken a promise to you.

Rafayel responds to your texts immediately.

Zayne disappeared for years, but didn’t make you think he was fucking dead.

You wonder who your closest friend is, now.

You wonder who your brother is, now. What he’s been doing, the time he’s been gone.

What else he had to pay, to attain his resurrection.

You think about retrieving your phone from your coat. Calling you boyfriend. Answering his questions about Caleb that he probably has.

But you don’t want to.

You’re a liar to the world, but you’ve always had a hard time lying to yourself. You’re not quite ready to face the outside world. You want a little more time to indulge in the focal point of your inner world, so warm and solid beneath you, his arms around you, before you toss him back to the outside world and never speak to him again. He’s still dead to you, like he was before he died. Even though he’s alive.

He’s alive.

“Caleb,” you say, helplessly.

He smiles in response. “Yeah.”

Now that you’ve been emptied, for now, of all of your rage, your grief, your resentment, the relief is so big. It’s filling you, like helium. You could float away, without Caleb’s evol, you’re so full of it.

Caleb’s alive.

You don’t want to stab yourself yet, to pop the helium-bouyant balloon of your heart by tearing yourself from him, insisting that he leave, returning to the life you’ve made without him.

Is it so wrong to fly with him, for just a little longer?

Caleb’s right to a time out in the middle of a fight.

“I’m tired,” you grouse. “The bathroom’s too far.”

When he realizes you’re conceding, he makes a little helpless noise, in the back of his throat. You feel his big chest expand, contract, as he sighs, closing his eyes. Then he smiles, opens them again.

“Aaaall right, message received.” His voice takes on a customer friendly tone. “Wait one moment, please. Caleb’s personal delivery service is activating.”

You laugh as he shakes his body, and yours, while making brr brr noises, like an engine revving and shaking the chassis of a car. “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you, the motor’s too loud,” he says cheerfully, standing effortlessly with you still in his arms, your legs tucked around his waist. He carries you through your spartan apartment, to the bathroom. He nudges open the door with a foot, surveys the small space.

“You have a bathtub,” he says, lifting an eyebrow.

“And you have eyes,” you snark.

“I do have eyes, thank you for noticing, little puffer fish.” He smiles down into your face.

You scowl at him. “Puffer fish?”

“You cried so hard that you puffed up like one.”

You glare at him. You know your face and eyes are swollen from crying, but he has no right to tease you for it. “And whose fault is that?” you accuse.

He lifts one of his left arm from under your ass and runs his hand over your hair, tucks a lock behind your ear. “All mine, Pipsqueak,” he murmurs, and his voice is filled with such familiar, sorrowful affection that you immediately deflate. “How about instead of a shower, you take a bath? That would be more relaxing. I’ll give you a massage, after.”

He’s been gone for so long. He’s not dead. He’s alive. You can’t say no, right now. Not yet. You want everything from him, like when you were younger.

Before he left you in pieces on the ground.

“I want bubbles.”

He laughs, caresses your cheek with his thumb. “Then you’ll have bubbles.”

You lean into his palm before resting your head on his metal shoulder.

He looks down at you in surprise. “Why not choose the soft shoulder?”

“Hard or soft, doesn’t matter,” you mumble. “It’s you.”

Inexplicably, his face flushes. He blinks, and then shakes his head. “One bubble bath, comin’ up.”

He sets you on the closed toilet before turning to the bath, fiddling with the knobs. He paws through your bath products along the edge, and then underneath the sink. He then turns to you, hands on his hips. “You have a bathtub, but no bath bombs? You only have shampoo and shower gel, you don’t even have stuff specifically for bubble baths.”

“Already breaking another promise?” you ask, softly, before you can stop yourself.

His teasing smile fades. “No, baby. You’ll get your bubbles.” He turns, and you watch his broad back, the muscles shifting under his soft skin—he’s right here, healthy, if no longer whole in the same way as before, with his metal shoulder shining under the soft bathroom light. His cargo pants are slung low over his hips. You can see the dimples of his lower back, the meaty curve of his ass before his pants begin. You want to touch him. You want to bury your face against his ass, use him as a pillow.

Your mouth feels empty.

He bends down and grabs your shower gel. He pauses, stares at the label. As if seeing it for the first time.

You feel your cheeks become warm, but he doesn’t say anything.

He shakes his head, squeezes the bottle. The viscous liquid forms a long, slow drip into the rushing water.

Caleb’s scent fills the small room.

The bubbles build.

He turns around. His eyes are a lovely, dark indigo. His face is still serious.

He looks like the Caleb you remember. Mostly.

He was big then, but he’s even bigger now.

His arm is different, of course.

He has that same angry, hungry look you remember that he’d sometimes get before he left for the DAA.

But there’s something else now, another layer to the complicated expression on his face. He’s looking at you with intention, in a way that you never remember seeing.

He squats down before you, looks up into your face.

“You’re going to undress now,” he says, voice low.

You swallow. Your heart is racing. “Am I?”

He nods, slowly. “Yeah, you are.”

You stare into his beautiful eyes.

Part of you, the currently drained angry, abandoned, grief-filled part, wants to tell him no.

That part of you wants to tell him to fuck off. He has no right to order you around. To tell you what to do.

That part of you wants to tell him that you have a boyfriend, and that when he’d help you like this when you were younger, it was unhealthy. Codependent. Dysfunctional.

But he’s here, right now. He’s alive. After so, so long. You are filled with helium, looking into his beautiful, serious eyes. If you flicked an unlit match against the metal of his arm, you’d explode.

“Do it for me,” you order him.

He smiles, and it’s a smile you’ve never seen before. You can see his sharp canines, glinting like his arm.

He reaches forward with one big hand, and it envelops your foot. He pulls it into his lap, and he slowly, slowly peels down your sock. He sets it on the floor, and then pulls off your other sock.

He then slides both of his hands, the metal one cool, his other warm, even through the fabric of your tights, up your calves. He parts your knees, runs his hands up the inside of your thighs.

Your heart is racing, so, so fast.

You gasp, when he lifts his hands right before his thumbs would meet where your thighs do, and instead gently hooks his fingers under your waistband. “Lift,” he tells you.

You lean back, place your hands on either side of the toilet seat, and lift your ass.

He stares into your eyes as he pulls, peeling your tights, your underwear, off of you in one long slide. By necessity, you close your knees again to ease his way.

The tights pool at your feet.

He doesn’t look away from your eyes.

He lifts his left hand, slides it between your knees, parting your legs again.

He still doesn’t look down.

He stands, takes a step forward, to stand between your now open legs.

His hips are at your eye level. Your eyes widen as you see the big outline of his dick, clearly hard, beneath his cargo pants. It looks painful, trapped down his left pant leg.

Your mouth feels so empty.

He looks down at you. “Lift your shirt.”

Your mouth is dry. If you could hear anything over the gushing water of the bath’s faucet, you’d probably be able to hear it clicking as you swallow again.

But there’s only the water, your heartbeat, his command in your ears.

“Do it for me,” you counter.

His skin, beneath the soft brown fur trailing down his stomach, sweeping across his big pecs, is flushed.

He leans down, gathers the fabric of your shirt in his hands, and lifts.

You raise your arms, and he gently pulls the shirt off your torso, letting it join your tights at your feet.

There’s only your bra, now.

He doesn’t look away from your eyes. “Take off your bra,” he murmurs, and you barely hear him over the water.

You lean back on your hands. Widen your legs. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, between your legs.

“Do it for me,” you say, one last time.

His nostrils flare as he exhales. His eyes look so dark.

He leans down again, but this time, he runs his hands from your hips, up along your sides, until he’s holding you firmly along your ribs. He lifts you to himself, pressing your hips against his, your breasts against his chest.

His cool, silver arm is a steel band across your back, as he fumbles with the clasp of your bra with his other hand. You share his breath as he looks into your eyes as his hand works.

Finally, you feel the relief that only comes when you take your bra off after a long day. He gathers its fabric in his fist and gently tugs. You lean back in his arms, and he lets the straps fall from your shoulders, along your arms.

He pulls you back to him, pressing your breasts back against his chest, skin on skin. He lifts you, like a princess, turns with you in his arms, and then slowly lowers you into the steaming water of the bath. The bubbles envelop you, come up to your neck.

He turns off the faucet, and the ensuing silence leaves your ears ringing with your ever-present tinnitus. Then he stands next to the tub, looking down at you, as if from a great height.

“Soak,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m going to the store for dinner stuff. When I get back, you better still be in this bath. I’ll help you wash your hair.”

In the warmth of the bath, surrounded by the smell of Caleb’s shower gel, pinned by his intent gaze, you can only nod.

“Oh, before I go,” he says. He flicks his hand in a lovely, graceful gesture, and his necklace lifts from your neck, caught in a shimmering, rainbow haze. Your hair is caught in the same weightlessness, floating around your face, allowing the chain to drift over your head without obstacle. Once the necklace is free, your hair gently falls back down. Caleb catches the necklace in his hand.

He bends down again, offers it to you. “Put it on me,” he says, an echo of a playful order from so many years ago. This time, he sounds authoritative. Like he’s used to giving serious orders.

Time compresses. You are laughing with him on a sunny day, heartbroken that he is leaving, hopeful that you’ll see him again soon.

You are looking up into his dark, stranger’s eyes from the bathtub, heartbroken, missing him, mourning him even as he’s standing right in front of you. You’ve already lost him, all of your worst fears come true.

“Don’t you have hands?” you ask, quietly.

He snorts, softly. “Yeah, yours.”

He stares at you, waiting.

You suddenly realize you’re scared that if he walks out the door, you won’t see him again.

“If you want it, you have to come back to get it.”

“No,” he says.

You look away. Clutch the tag of the necklace in your wet hand. “Then, no,” you mirror him. As you always have.

“Look at me.” His voice is softer, now.

You refuse.

“Be a good girl, and look at me.”

You swallow again. Feel that familiar warmth in your chest, between your legs, when he calls you that.

When he used to call you that.

You obey him. Look back at his face, filled with that sad affection again. He’s so handsome, it hurts. You missed his face so, so much.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, a reward.

You want to cry, it feels so good to hear him praise you again.

“Put it on me.”

You reach up, the bubbles sliding over, down the naked skin of your arms. He leans down further, turns his face to run his nose along your cheek as you focus on closing the clasp shut at the back of his strong neck. When you’re done, you rest your palms on the sides of his neck. You feel his thumping, living heartbeat under his skin. He presses his lips softly against your cheek before standing again.

You look up at him, as he looks down at you.

“I don’t need the necklace as an excuse to come back. I’ve come back, from very, very far away, because you are enough to pull me from the dead.” His soft, silky brown hair falls over his serious, furrowed brow. “I’m going to make you believe that I will keep every promise I make, from now on.” His full lips are set in a determined line. “Starting now. I promise I’ll be back in less than half an hour, to wash your hair. Okay?”

Despite the sincerity in his words, you don’t trust him to come back. You’ve been here before. He was sincere, before. Or so you thought. You don’t want him to go. Not yet.

“Caleb,” you say.

“Yeah, Pipsqueak.” He smiles down at you, and its warmth reaches his eyes.

You stare at him. You tell yourself that you’re going to toss him back to the world soon, anyway. What does it matter, if he leaves you here again, right now, instead of you kicking him out at the end of the evening?

At least this time, if he breaks his promise and doesn’t come back, you’ll know he’s not dead.

Maybe it will be even easier this time, if he doesn’t come back. You’ll survive, if he never comes back, as long as you know he’s in the world.

“Hurry up,” you say. Instead of, Don’t go. Instead of, Don’t ever leave me again. Instead of, Kiss me before you go.

His eyes drift over your face, and he rubs his left hand thoughtfully over his chin.. “I can tell that you don’t believe me.” Before you can scoff at him, argue, lie, he continues. “I’ll just have to prove it to you. I’ll prove it to you, as many times as I have to. Until you trust me again. Be back before you know it.” He turns, and he walks out the door.

You want to scream.

You shove your hand in your mouth instead and bite down, so hard that you can feel your skin breaking.

You don’t make a sound.

You hear your front door shut.

The bathwater is hot. Your bathroom is filled with steam. You draw your knees to your chest, wrap your arms around them.

You think about the dream, and remind yourself that his head is intact. You think about your memory, and remind yourself that he survived the fire, despite everything. That he’s alive, if not entirely whole, anymore.

You want to get out of the bath. You want to crawl into your bed and pass out. You want to wake up, ten years from now. Maybe that’s enough time, to no longer miss him this much.

But he told you to stay in the bath.

So you stay.

You refill the hot water, each time the water begins to cool.

He’s still not back. You hug your knees.

Your neck feels empty, without his necklace around it.

Your mouth feels empty.

Just as you’re deciding to accept that he’s not coming back, you hear your front door opening again.

You turn so fast in the tub, the water sloshes over the side. “Caleb?”

“Still in the bath?” he calls from your hallway. You can hear him smiling.

You want to throw something at him. How dare he smile, while you sat here, terrified he wouldn’t come back?

You hear rustling in the kitchen. Your fridge door opening, closing.

And then, there he is, in the bathroom doorway, filling it like he always does. He’s so big.

“Ready to wash your hair?” he asks, eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile. He’s wearing a shirt again.

“Caleb,” you repeat.

His eyes soften. “Yeah, it’s me.”

He walks over to you, squats next to the tub.

You can’t help yourself. You throw your arms around him, soapy and wet. He makes a surprised little “Oomph” sound, but he hugs you back.

“You’re gettin’ me all wet, Pipsqueak.”

“You were gone for so long,” you whisper.

He pauses. Seems to hear what you’re really saying. “But I’m back now. And I’ll never leave you alone that long again, okay? Cross my heart, and hope to—”

“Shut up,” you choke out. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“Okay,” he says, indulgent. “Then I’ll just say, I promise.”

You’re not satisfied.

You’re so pissed.

“Is your arm waterproof?” you ask.

It takes him a second to respond. “Yeah. Why–?”

Before he can finish, you use all of your strength, all of your hunter’s training to brace your legs against the side of the bathtub for leverage, and pull.

He was already a bit off-balance, squatting awkwardly as he leaned over the tub to hug you. You successfully drag his big, stupid body into the tub with you. Water sloshes over the side.

“I want to drown you,” you huff, as you pull him down on top of you, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Well don’t drown me before we get your hair washed, or before I make dinner. That would be a waste of today’s perfectly good Caleb’s personal delivery service, wouldn’t it?” His voice has a sing-song, teasing quality to it. Its familiarity, its playfulness, makes you ache.

You clutch him to you. “That’s the only reason I haven’t done it yet,” you lie.

He laughs softly. “Sure,” he murmurs, pretending to believe you.

Eventually, the water cools again. He sits up, his sopping wet shirt clinging to his defined chest, his soaked pants outlining his big dick, still hard.

It has always been like this. His body, reacting to yours. His complete disinterest in acting on it.

He never said anything about it, so neither did you.

You used to think it was just normal for guys to constantly be hard, until you started fucking them.

He kneels above you and then strips his t-shirt, letting it hit your bathroom floor with a wet splat. He watches your face as he unzips his pants, as he shimmies out of them, water splashing over the sides of the tub again. You’re going to have to use up all your towels to clean up the mess.

Finally, he’s just in his soaking, plain black boxer briefs.

Your mouth feels empty.

He leans over you again. His necklace dangles in the air between you, dripping water. You want him to lean further down. You want to pull the tag of his necklace into your mouth with your tongue and suck.

He makes another little helpless noise, deep in his throat. Breathes through his nose. “Let’s wash your hair, Pipsqueak.”

You let him clamber out of the bath. You melt, as he runs his fingers along your scalp, as he shampoos your hair just the way he always did. You close your eyes, and just savor the feeling of his hands on you.

Instead of moaning, like you want to, you ask, “Where have you been, Caleb?”

His fingers pause. And then resume making you feel so, so good. “Skyhaven.”

It’s like a punch to your chest. He’s been so close, this whole time.

So close, and so far.

You want to cry. “This whole time?”

There is only the sound of the water, rippling against the sides of the tub. A droplet from the faucet, splashing. His smell, all around you. From his own body. From his shower gel, the shower gel you’ve been using ever since he left for the DAA.

“Yeah,” he finally answers.

“What have you been doing?” you ask, through clenched teeth. You don’t want to cry again. You want to ask him why.

But you don’t want to know why, yet.

“I got a new job. I’ve been working.”

You have a million questions. You’re too exhausted to ask them.

“Do you still get to fly?” you ask, instead of What happened to you? Why didn’t you come home? Why didn’t you tell me you were alive? Why now? Why not six months ago? A year ago?

He huffs in disbelief. “You’re worried about whether I can still fly?”

“Your only dream was being able to fly. It would make me sad, if you couldn’t anymore.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, before he takes the handheld showerhead and gently rinses the product from your hair. All you hear is the water trailing through your hair, past your ears. He sets the showerhead back in its holder. “Flying wasn’t my only dream.”

You open your eyes. He’s looking down at you, but he’s leaning over you, so his face is upside down in your field of view. “It wasn’t?”

“No, baby.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

You’re too tired to ask.

He finishes caring for your hair, like he used to. When he’s done, he wraps it gently in the type of towel you always use for your hair. He helps you out of the bathtub, but his eyes never leave your face.

He wraps you in a towel. Lifts you in his arms, like a princess, and carries you to your bedroom. He sets you on your feet.

You meet his gaze, as you let the towel fall, plop softly onto your bedroom rug. He refuses to look at your body, but he makes that noise again. Like he’s in a little bit of pain.

You turn, dive under your duvet. He tucks the edge of it under your chin. “You still use my old sweats as pajamas?”

“Yeah,” you yawn. Your stomach growls.

He laughs, heading into your closet. “I’ll start dinner before we finish your hair. Just rest while I take care of everything.” You can hear him opening drawers, searching for his sweats. After a few minutes, he emerges, wearing only the sweatpants, slung low on his hips. He’s clearly not wearing underwear anymore. You try not to stare at how big he is.

You lift your eyes back to his handsome face, trace his long, straight nose with your gaze. “Caleb,” you say.

“Yeah,” he smiles. “It’s me. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He approaches the bed. Stands over you.

Time compresses. You are a kid again, and he is watching over you, making you feel infinitely safe in a world that taught you that nothing and no one is safe.

You are a teenager, and he’s lifting you from your bed after a nightmare, he’s clutching you to his chest, tucking you into his own bed, singing you lullabies in his breaking, teenage boy voice.

You are an adult, dreaming that he’s still alive, that he’s finally come home to you. But you know that when you wake up, the nightmare will begin, all over again.

“I promise,” he says, as if he can read your mind, just from looking at your face. “Dinner’ll be ready in a jiffy,” he says, turning, walking out of your bedroom.

You lie there, listening to him in the kitchen. Cabinets opening. Burners flaring to life. The fridge opening, closing. You fall asleep to the safest sound you’ve ever known.

It doesn’t take long for Caleb to orient himself in your kitchen. You have the absolute basics. A couple of pots, pans. Mismatched plates that look thrifted. Glasses that are clearly just jam jars repurposed for drinking.

He pauses, stares at a lovely set of crystal wine glasses that is jarringly incongruent with the rest of your things.

He wonders who gave them to you.

Then his gaze catches on the world’s best hunter mug he had gifted you, after you had graduated. You had taken it with your fake smile. He was convinced at the time that you had gone home and immediately thrown it away.

He holds it in his hand, notes how its rim is chipped. It has faint rings of tea stains that are really hard to get out by just hand scrubbing.

He looks inside your other mugs. They’re all pristine.

You wash his mug by hand, and you use it a lot.

He smiles.

No matter how angry or betrayed you feel, you still use his shower gel. You were wearing his necklace. His clothes are still in your closet, even though you had never invited him to your place, after you had landed your position with the Hunter’s Association. You clearly use his mug every morning, to—he grimaces at your half-empty jar of instant coffee—to drink your tea and your shitty morning coffee.

He lets his mind drift as he measures out rice, washes it, gets it cooking in your little rice-maker. As he pulls out your one, crappy plastic cutting board and sets it on the counter. As he takes your pristinely sharpened kitchen knives, and begins chopping vegetables.

He’s secured his place as Colonel in the Far Space Fleet, as he was ordered to do. Things should be stable for him, for a while. Which is why he finally gave in to the desperate need to see you again. To weave himself back into your life, after being ripped from you a year ago. Long before a year ago, really.

Caleb Xia is a liar.

He’s not going to let you keep him out this time. He was lying when he said he’d accept anything you said you needed, including acting like he’s dead to you, except your death.

He will accept nothing less but your hand in his, and your moans against his mouth. Your genuine smile, directed at him.

He knows better than anyone how quickly circumstances change. How even on the sunniest, calmest of days, your plane can be knocked out of the sky. Each day is all you, he, anyone has, really. He’s not going to waste any more time. It’s a lesson from the book he used to read you. He had to leave his rose, for awhile. But now he’s back, and he’s going to give her everything she needs, whether she wants it or not.He should have learned this sooner. He wants to look at the world with the eyes of a child, instead of the eyes of a responsible, societally proper adult.

He has always been childishly selfish. He’s just not going to fight it anymore.

He looks around at your empty apartment, remembers the spoiled girl he used to know. But he can’t find her in this stark, deprived existence. He’s going to fix this too.

He’s a selfish child, and he’s a man with a plan.

It’s simple, really.

He’s going to prove to you, day in, and day out, that he’ll keep his promises to you. That he’ll show up, and be there for you, when you need him, and when you think you don’t.

He’s going to start with feeding you, and then a trip to the grocery story and the mall tomorrow. You need a full fridge and shit-ton of bath bombs, now that he’s back in your life.

The doorbell chimes.

He looks up, frowning.

He sets the knife on the counter. With his evol, he doesn’t need it for human threats.

He pads, barefoot, to your hallway entrance, checks the video feed next to your front door.

Ah.

The minor obstacle in his plan.

He pauses, activates the cloaking function on his arm. He looks like a normal guy again, now. Nothing mechanical about him at all, not him, nope. He opens the door.

Your boyfriend is fidgeting on the other side, focused on his nice monk-strap shoes. Nice shoes, for a nice guy who works in a nice office.

Caleb knows that you need more than nice to be happy. That you need more than nice to be safe. Protected. Satisfied. Filled.

Despite his carefully cultivated mask, Caleb is not a nice guy.

But based on everything Caleb has been able to dig up on this guy, he’s a nice guy.

He’s just not the guy for you.

The guy lifts his gaze, eyes growing wider as he takes in Caleb’s sweatpants, his naked chest. “Oh, I must have the wrong—” he starts, but then he finally meets Caleb’s eyes, and his voice dies in his throat.

Caleb smiles at him. Wide and genuine. With that little slip, this asshole has revealed that he has never even been to your place before. Incredible. Caleb hasn’t even been back a day and he already has one over on this dude. “Hey, man.”

The guy swallows. Looks like he’s been hit by a truck.

Caleb just keeeeps smiling at him, letting him squirm. He’s certainly not going to be the one to break the silence. He’s got all the time in the world, on this side of your apartment doorway. He leans against said doorway, folding his arms. He doesn’t mean to flex his big biceps in the process, really.

Your boyfriend’s eyes flicker to the necklace that Caleb has the feeling you’ve never taken off since the day he died.

It occurs to him that this guy has fucked you while you were wearing his necklace. His augmented hand forms a tight, painful fist, without his permission. Sometimes he loses control of it, when he’s upset. He forces himself to focus on the fact that now the necklace is around his neck, and your boyfriend is staring at it. His fist relaxes. The pain in his arm recedes to its normal, low hum. Like a constant, distant bruise. The pain in his heart, on the other hand, throbs.

Your boyfriend frowns, shakes his head a little. “I’ve been texting. And calling. But she hasn’t picked up. Can I come in?”

“Oh, that’s my fault. I’ve been keeping her really, really busy,” Caleb says, cheerfully. “I wore her out.” He doesn’t mean to make it sound like an innuendo, honest. “She’s in bed, asleep. I’ll tell her you dropped by though.”

Your boyfriend’s frown deepens. “We had plans tonight.”

“Did you?” Caleb asks, eyes wide, innocent. “That sucks. But it’s not every day that you reunite with the closest person in your life after being separated for a year, you know? Can you maybe cut her some slack, take a raincheck?”

Your boyfriend sighs, runs his hand over his mouth. “I just… I just want to make sure she’s okay. She’s been really messed up, since you…” he pauses, looks at Caleb strangely. “Since you allegedly died.”

Oooh, he’s pulling out his fancy legal jargon. Caleb nods. “Well, as you can see, I got better.” He chuckles. He’s just a harmless idiot, after all. A meathead soldier boy. “And she’s fine. Just tired. She’ll call you when she’s ready. I’ll tell her that you dropped by,” he lies.

Your boyfriend stares at him for a moment longer. Caleb can tell how desperately the poor asshole wants to say something about how fucking weird this whole situation is. But he’s too polite. Too nice. He still cares about social conventions, and appearances. Obviously, he cares more about these things than he cares about you.

Because if his and Caleb’s situations were reversed, Caleb would have already torn the door off its hinges and removed this guy, permanently, from his path to get to you.

But right now, Caleb is inside your home, and this idiot is outside of it. And if he just disappears this perfectly nice guy now, you’ll ask questions. You’re a Hunter now. Which means you have to uphold the law and worry about optics. You’d probably be mad at him when he inevitably tells you the truth, because he can’t resist your cute, pouting face. Or your scary, angry face.

He can’t resist you at all, really.

He just needs to show you that this guy isn’t worth keeping.

All Caleb cares about is regaining your trust, and showing you the one fundamental truth of his universe.

You are his. And he is yours.

The world can end tomorrow, for all he cares. As long as you’re in his arms, nothing else matters.

The guy you’ve been using as a distraction for the past six months is nothing, in the trajectory of your life with Caleb, his life with you. A blip on the radar, after a little turbulence.

Now, he looks doubtful about Caleb’s reassurance that he’ll tell you that your boyfriend dropped by, so Caleb smiles even wider. “I promise I’ll let her know. Cross my heart, and hope to die.”

The guy winces at the reminder that you’ve been grieving Caleb for the last year, and seems to accept that he’s the one who’s being callous in this situation, as opposed to you, for not following through on the plans you had with him tonight. Then he nods in resignation, and he leaves.

Caleb smiles with teeth, shutting the door to your place.

He pauses at your coat, fishes your phone out.

He snorts. Apparently he didn’t like the text Caleb sent saying that you’d be busy with him for the rest of the night. He sent a bunch of texts, sounding increasingly irritated about you flaking out on plans with him, and called five times. But the texts don’t directly reply to Caleb’s terse message blowing him off. The guy just comes across as unreasonably aggressive.

Caleb smiles. Leaves the messages and the calls untouched in your phone. He slips the phone back in your coat pocket, still on silent.

He whistles as he returns to the kitchen. He sautés the vegetables. Sets everything out in covered bowls, on a wooden tray he finds in the back of one of your cabinets.

Time to wake up his princess and feed her.

He grabs the massage oil he picked up at the corner store along with the food and heads back to your bedroom.

You’re out like a light. So, so pretty. He sets the tray on the floor next to your bed. He gently removes the towel from your hair, which is still damp but drying really prettily even without much effort from him.

He pulls down the duvet, and you make a soft noise of protest at the cool air hitting your naked skin. He stares down at you for a few moments, just drinking you in.

You’re so, so beautiful. He feels his body reacting, like it always does, to your proximity, your lovely skin on display for him.

He gently nudges you onto your stomach, sits down down next to you on the bed. He pours some of the oil into his hand. It smells really good—it has arnica oil in it, for your no doubt sore muscles. He knows how hard your job can be on your body.

He places his left hand on your back, and it looks so big, against your smaller frame. He slowly rubs in the oil, smoothing his hand over your muscles along either side of your spine. Between your shoulder blades. Up the line of your graceful neck.

You whimper softly, shift a little.

He loves you like this.

He loves you when you’re telling him that you want to drown him. When you’re telling him you want to bulldoze his grave.

And he loves you when you’re liquid under his hands, letting him move you however he wants.

He leans down, presses his nose into your damp hair. He presses his cheek against the back of your neck, not carrying that he’s getting oil on his face..

He keeps rubbing you with his warm, living hand, savoring your skin he can feel under his fingertips.

You wake slowly from a dream. A dream, where Caleb was alive.

You had tested it and everything. For the first time, Caleb was intact under your hands. It wasn’t his necklace on the sidewalk, or his empty skull under your fingers.

He was alive, and breathing, under you on the couch. Over you in the bath.

It was such a lovely dream. You’re so grateful for this reprieve, after an entire year of night terrors.

Your body feels so good. He’s rubbing your back, like he used to do after track practice. His big hand slide leisurely along your sore muscles.

You must still be dreaming your lovely dream.

You roll over, turning to look up at him. He makes a surprised little noise as you open your eyes, smile up at him.

“Caleb,” you sigh.

“Yup. It’s me,” he says, watching you carefully, but speaking with an upbeat note in his voice that rings false to you. “Delivering your massage, as promised.

You’re naked in the bed, the duvet only coming up to your waist. “What a lovely dream,” you say, reaching for him.

He lets you, his big body pliant under your hands as you rest your hands on his shoulders, pull him down to you.

“It’s so nice to dream about something else, for once,” you tell dream Caleb. “I always kiss you, but in the end you’re dead.”

Dream Caleb’s lovely lilac eyes widen, and he makes that cute little whimper in the back of his throat.

“Does it have to be a dream, Pipsqueak?” he asks, his lips hovering above yours, as you’ve pulled his face down to yours.

“You never kissed me in real life. It will always only be in my dreams. At least this time, you’re not fucking dead. Hurry up. Kiss me.” You’re getting impatient. Who knows when you’ll wake up, and he’ll vanish under the harsh morning sun? “My mouth feels so empty.”

He hesitates. “Do you still smoke, baby? When you’re anxious, or drinking?”

You nod. “I know you hate it. That it’s not good for me. But you never offered me anything else that I actually wanted to replace it with. And you’re fucking dead now, so you don’t get a say, anymore.” You sound mulish. Petulant. You don’t care. You’re mad at him, even in this lovely dream. He left you, over and over and over again.

“I’m not dead. I’ll prove it to you.” He leans down, runs his warm, wet tongue along your lips. “And this isn’t a dream.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” you say, laughing softly, because otherwise you’d cry.

He smiles against your lips. “You don’t have to trust me yet. I’ll prove it to you, as many times as I have to. Open your mouth.”

You part your lips obediently. He lifts his necklace with his silver hand, places the tag, the apple charm on your tongue. “Suck.”

You close your mouth, wrap your tongue around the pendants. You suck, as he tells you to.

“You fucked your boyfriend wearing my necklace,” he says, nosing along your cheek. He caresses your cheek with his warm left hand, then lets it glide along your jaw, down your chin, over your throat. Over your clavicle.

He rests his big palm between your breasts.

You nod.

“Why?” he asks.

It’s just a dream. It doesn’t matter what you say, whether it’s a lie, or the truth, because Caleb isn’t actually here to receive your answer. He hasn’t been, for a long, long time.

He gently tugs the necklace from between your lips. He puts the wet pendants in his own mouth and sucks, as if savoring your saliva.

You tell the truth. “It’s the only way I could stand for him to touch me.”

He opens his mouth, lets the necklace fall from his lips, swing into the space between his body and yours. The pendants hit the back of his hand, where it’s resting on your sternum “Why are you with him, if you can’t stand his touch?” He sounds so, so sad.

“What does it matter? You’re dead. I’ll never have who I want touching me, now. He’s nice. He cares about me. There are very few people left who do, anymore.”

You don’t want to talk about this, in the precious few moments of this lovely dream. “My mouth feels empty,” you complain. You want him to hurry up, do something. You want him to help you.

“Because you were such a good girl and answered my questions honestly, I’ll give you a choice.” He leans down again, kisses you softly. Your first kiss from him on the lips, ever. What a lovely dream. You’re full of helium. You’re surprised you’re not lifting the both of you off your bed. “You can have my thumb.”

He kisses you again. The strands of his dark hair sweep across your forehead.

“My tongue.”

His lips are so soft, as they press against yours yet again.

“Or my cock.”

You want all three. Everything. You want everything. His thumb, fingers, hand, wrist, fist, his tongue, his ear, his cock, his balls. For years, you’ve wanted everything of his. “Don’t make me choose. I don’t want to have to choose. I want you to choose for me.”

He pulls back from your lips, lilac eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth, and back again. “All right, Pipsqueak,” he says indulgently. “But first, you have to admit this isn’t a dream.”

You scowl at him.

“It is a dream,” you insist. “Because you’re fucking dead.”

He frowns in turn, brows furrowing. “I’m not dead. I know you don’t trust me not to break promises anymore. I’ll spend as long as it takes proving to you that you can trust me not to leave you again, but it’s time for you to admit that I’m not dead.” He sounds stern. Your big brother, lecturing you to stop doing things that aren’t good for you.

“This is just a dream,” you insist. He doesn’t get to tell you what’s real and what’s not, after so long. He never accepted his big brother role, anyway.

“Fine.” He looks angry, hungry. “Then you only get my tongue, until you admit this is real.”

He leans down, licks your lower lip. You glare at him. He reaches up with his left hand, slides his thumb between your lips. You taste the massage oil, bitter. He opens your jaw, gently. “I know you can’t bring yourself to continue denying me,” he says, sweetly. “Let me in,” he coaxes.

You open your mouth wider, and he licks into it. His fingers fall away from your mouth, drift down your body, to one of your breasts.

He makes that same helpless noise, as he thumbs along your sensitive skin, squeezes. As he rolls fully on top of you, chest to naked chest. He presses you into the mattress as he kisses you deeply, as his tongue fills your mouth. You suck on his tongue, curl your arms around his broad back, put your hands back in his silky hair. You shift your hips underneath his.

He’s so big and hard—the only thing between your body and his, the gray sweatpants.

He bucks his hips, once, and you moan. He pulls back, tongue leaving your mouth. You make a little noise of protest. “Caleb.”

“Pipsqueak.”

“Why’d you stop?” you demand.

He looks sheepish. “I’m gonna come really fast in my pants if we keep going.”

“Then come, dummy,” you lean up to kiss him again. You want his tongue in your mouth again.

He looks frustrated. “This is our first kiss, and our first time making out. It’s not every day that I get to kiss you for the first time. I don’t want to just come in my pants within two minutes.”

You laugh. “What, Captain Caleb doesn’t have any stamina?” You run your hands down his back.

He hangs his head. “Not when it comes to you, no,” he mumbles.

“I won’t hold it over your head forever and ever,” you tease him, reassure him. “It’s just a dream—”

He leans down, shoves his tongue in your mouth before you can finish. He pumps his hips, and his big dick presses between your legs in a way that makes you feel as empty as your mouth was feeling earlier. You whine. “Caleb,” you plead, around his tongue.

He reaches down, slips his left hand between your legs. “I’m not gonna lie, Pipsqueak, I’ve dreamt about this before, yeah. But this is real. You’re so wet. Fuck.”

He pulls his hand back, stares at it, the wetness glistening along his fingers. He snaps them.

Rainbow shimmer bursts, soaks your body and his.

You both begin to float. He leans down, kisses you again. Slips his hand back between your legs. Two big fingers slip inside you, and his thumb presses into your most sensitive spot.

“Caleb,” you whisper, moving your hips as he moves his hand. He pulls his hand from your body again, and you whine, but it’s just to flick his wrist. He fills you again.

Time slows.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, and his forearm flexes, as his fingers, his hands make you feel so good. Your pleasure builds, so slowly. His hand moves languidly inside you, his fingers in your wet, slippery places, but the pleasure doesn’t lessen. It keeps building, and building. He grasps your neck in his silver hand, squeezing just a little. Like he’s afraid of squeezing too tight, and is overcompensating by making his touch as light as a feather.

You float together, caught in a cloud of your pillows, your duvet, his shimmering evol. He slides the hand holding your neck down your back, until he has a handful of your ass, and he presses your body securely against himself, rubs himself against your thigh through the soft sweatpants.

The slow trajectory of his hand moving feels like it takes hours, as he continues to work his hand between your legs.

Hours. Days. A month.

He has slowed time using his evol, in order to make you feel as good as possible from just his hand on you, just his tongue in your mouth. You laugh a little, because you suspect that he's probably also trying to to make up for the fact that he's on a hair trigger right now just from touching you. But he seems to take your laughter as a challenge.

“Caleb,” you gasp, as his thumb presses harder, circles faster against you, as he adds a third finger inside you. You forget everything else except how good you feel, and with a graceful flick of his hand, his thumb, you come with a muffled cry, deep in your throat. The pleasure feels like it lasts a decade.

He does something with his fingers inside you, a subtle gesture that feels really, really good, an aftershock of climax, and then time speeds up again.

He jerks his hips into your thigh a few more times, his hard cock rubbing through his pants against you, and then he groans.

He pulls his fingers from inside you, lifts them to his own lips. He shoves them in his wide mouth and sucks them clean, while holding you tight.

"No fair," you complain. You grasp his shoulders, push away from him a little. He looks at you like a kicked puppy, but then furrows his brow as you gently pull him up, up, until you’re floating, face level with his big hips. You pull down the band of his sweatpants, down past his still-hard dick, sticky with his come. You lean forward, and lick him with the flat of your tongue. He smells so, so good. Like Caleb, clean sweat and clean laundry, but also bitter, salty, a secret part of him you’ve never smelled, tasted before. You lap at him, and he groans again. You take him in your hand as best as you can despite how big he is and lick him clean, like a lolly pop, as he bows over you, gently palming the back of your head with both of his hands, as you both drift in the air above your bed, caught in the shimmering net of his evol.

You pull away after the silken skin of his firm cock is clean again. He pulls you up to him again, body flush against yours, and kisses you, tongue plunging into your mouth. You taste yourself, and you taste him. He rolls your bodies in the air, until he’s under you, and then he snaps his fingers again.

You both fall back to the bed in a soft thwump of duvet and pillows. His body cushions your fall, and the mattress cushions his.

You rest your chin on his chest. Smile at him. “What a lovely dream,” you say.

He frowns at you, like he’s in pain, eyes a dark indigo. He wraps his arms around you, palms the back of your head as you rest your cheek on his chest. “It’s not a dream, Pipsqueak,” he says, but he sounds resigned.

“Promise?” you sigh, but you’re already yawning. Drifting back to sleep.

You don’t hear him say, “I promise. Cross my heart, and hope to die.”

#i wish i could go back to the first time i read this #such an amazing read #one of my favs #caleb x reader

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just-another-reader1098 · 4 months ago

Text

the stone, the water, the sand | ao3 | masterlist

A continuation of an exploration of an alternate reunion/au of mc and Caleb's childhood part 1. This part is a series of memories from the moment Gran brings you home and you meet Caleb for the first time: being children together, then teenagers, and then adults when you try to cut him free from you. This story contains: codependency, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, teasing and caretaker Caleb, slightly manipulative caleb, vomiting, mention of menstruation, unresolved sexual tension when MC and Caleb are 17/18 years old. MC refers to Caleb as her brother, Caleb consistently denies this title. MC is deeply traumatized and has no memory of what happened to her. Caleb's canon rainchecks and absences exaggerated for the sake of drama, not meant as a predictor of what we'll learn about their history in the game. Caleb x f reader, Caleb x mc.

You are the stone—your memories entombed beneath impenetrable layers, sediment upon sediment, the weather of years rounding all of your sharp edges, and yet your chipped pieces grind, grind.

He is the water, dripping—ever present, the gentle, inexorable force that carves into you, shapes you, his paths sinuous, lovely in the echoing depths of you.

The woman brings you home. You don’t remember her. What she was to you, before. You won't find out until after she’s dead, what she was to you.

What she did to you.

She tells you to call her Gran. Not grandmother. Nothing so maternal—the guilt, perhaps. You didn’t know, back then. What she did to you. What she allowed others to do to you, again and again.

She was simply there, when no one else was.

She brings you home, and suddenly there are two, when before, there was none.

A boy with downturned indigo eyes.

He smiles freely, something you don’t know how to do. You watch him take you in, his smile fading, just a little. He sees something in you that you know is there, but you want to keep hidden. You want to shrink away, or lash out. Fight or flight.

But you’re afraid of being sent back. Of the unknown. At least this woman has been kind to you, so far.

The third option, then—freeze.

The moment stretches, as he watches you, reading you—your fear, your rage, the vibration under your skin.

But his smile brightens again. He holds out his hand. Even then, bigger than yours. He pulls you in, shows you around your new home. He chatters about everything. You aren’t used to all the talking, but it soothes instead of grates.

Each day, you wake, startled at the sensation of a body without pain. You don’t know why. You don’t remember why it’s strange to be in a body without pain.

Only your heart, on occasion, limps in your chest. Gran takes you to the doctor. You swallow pills, big. You choke a little, gag, at the beginning. The boy rubs your back, hands you a new glass of water, urges you to try again. He places his palm on your throat, his touch soft, to focus on as you swallow. The pills go down more easily, with his hand on your throat.

At first, the side effects are terrible. Worse than the hitching in your heart.

The boy holds your hair, kneeling beside you at the toilet.

Where is your Gran? She still works. She has two children to support, now, after all. Her gaze, her shoulders, the weight of guilt. You don’t know it then. Just that she gets migraines, sometimes, when she’s not at work. She shuts herself away in her bedroom, lies in the dark, with ghosts only she can see.

But the boy—he’s there. He holds your hair, as you heave, as you shake and sweat. He wets a cloth, again and again, wipes your forehead, your lips. He lifts you in his arms, even then, even in his boy’s body, strong and decisive. He carries you back to your bed, until the next wave of nausea.

Gran keeps taking you to the doctor. A kind man, with sad eyes. You don’t realize that guilt is not normal, because it lives in every face that looks at you until you’re well enough to go to school.

Eventually, the medicine dosage is adjusted, the side effects lessen, become bearable.

Gran allows you time, to adjust. You wander the house, while the boy is at school. You memorize its contours, its idiosyncrasies. The stair that creaks, the burner that doesn’t work quite as well as the rest on the stove. The secret, dark places. When the house feels too big, too empty, with Gran at work, the boy at school, you tuck yourself into closets, filled with clothes. Curl yourself in the dark. You feel safer, hidden. A cave, to hold your body, reflecting your mind riddled with caves just like it.

This is the first, the only home you’ve ever known.

When the boy comes home at the end of the day, he always finds you. Instead of acting like what you’re doing is strange, instead of trying to pull you out into the light, he squeezes in next to you. Joins you in the dark. Puts his arm around your shoulders. Tells you about his day at school. His friends, the pranks pulled, his efforts in sports. He’s warm, and he smells good. You melt into him. Allow him to lift you, guide you out of the small, dark spaces.

He takes you for walks in the neighborhood, through the fields beyond your neighborhood. You didn’t know then that they would later be developed, that they would disappear, along with everything else. Along with the only home you know, the only family you know, the boy.

He takes you out, under the wide open sky. You’re disoriented—it’s so big—when the vertigo swirls in your brain, as the sun, the clouds, melt, swirl, he pulls you back down, tethers you. You’re anchored back to the ground, the dirt, the butterflies, the wildflowers, the crickets, the fireflies— your hand in his.

He doesn’t offer to help you fly, yet. He knows that, already, you need his hand in yours. That you can’t let go. Any distance already hurts too much, the long empty days while he’s gone at school, while Gran is gone at work.

He doesn’t offer to lift you with his mind, let you drift, spin—he knows you’re not ready. He’ll wait, until you are.

Sometimes you can’t sleep at night. You crawl onto the roof, look at the stars in the cold dark. You forget a coat, but you don’t want to go inside, down the stairs that creak, the floorboards groaning no matter how soft your step. You don’t want to risk waking anyone up, bothering anyone.

You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering, staring up in the night sky. It’s dizzying, terrifying. The stars feel so far away, unreachable flames. You can’t help but look, an animal frozen in fear, blinded by lights in the dark. Lost in the vastness that swallows.

You don’t know how he knows, the first time. But somehow he does. He crawls through the open window, wraps himself around your back, his long legs bracketing yours, his arm thrown over your chest.

It’s warm against his chest.

He points out constellations, speaks about his dreams of flying. Through his eyes, the sky is rendered beautiful, instead of terrifying. The stars are just pretty crystals, filtered through his eyes, dropped one by one into your open palm.

You begin to dream of flying.

One day, Gran says that you are well enough to go to school, her voice filled with relief, guilt—exhaustion in her eyes.

The boy is excited. He helps you choose your backpack, your supplies.

He is there, at home. He is there, at school. He walks beside you, through the halls filled with so many people it makes your heart hurt again, but not in the same way as before. Too much—it’s too much. You are used to echoing corridors, the clack of brisk heels, the beeping of machines. From where, you don’t know. Another missing memory in the cave system of your mind, your body.

After, you are used to the creak of a wooden stair, the moan of wooden floorboards, the quiet of a house empty of all but your huddled body in the closet. Then, at the end of the day: Gran’s footsteps. The boy’s.

But the school is full, of bodies, of throats calling to others, laughter and shrieking, teasing and so much life, it’s overwhelming.

The boy sees what’s inside you, as he has from the first moment, his indigo eyes watching, watching.

He grasps your hand, pulls you into a quiet room. He gently backs you into a wall, the smell of chalk, dust, early morning sunlight slanting through wide windows.

Look at me. Look only at me. His voice is soothing, no longer a child’s, not yet a man’s. Sometimes it breaks. He has a light lisp when his mouth, his tongue form the letter s.

The lisp becomes your lullaby. Everyone else’s s sound wrong in your ears.

You look at him. His soft, indigo eyes are all you can see.

Your heart slows, the pain fades.

When it’s too much, look for me. I’ll protect you.

So you do.

When the mass of bodies, of people, of eyes looking becomes too much, you look for him, and you see his indigo eyes looking back at you. Everything else fades away, as his smile spreads across his face, the warmth tangible, even across the distance of a classroom, a hallway, a football field, a running track, a grocery store, the living room, the bathroom. He is the compass in the geography of your life.

The map in the desert.

You are the stone, with your unsmiling face, your strange stillness that causes others to be curious and yet keep their distance.

He is the water, flowing around you, through you. You sink into him, and it’s the only place you can actually breathe.

Gently, diligently, he carves into you, your stone yields to him, his eyes, his warm smile.

Others are also drawn to his warmth, like the sun, a basket of wholesome apples. When you’re capable of sitting alone at your desk, of walking through the hallways without your heart doing that terrible, stuttering thing, you turn, find him surrounded by other people.

You keep your distance.

At the beginning, you don’t approach him. You are simply cold stone, when the river isn’t flowing over it.

But he always notices, turns his head. His indigo eyes find yours through the mass of people, his worshippers.

You try to turn away, but he parts the crowd. He stands above your desk. Takes your hand in the hallway.

Are you hungry? Let’s get something to eat. Do you need help with this homework? Let’s look at it together. Are you ready to go home? Let’s walk together.

He holds out an umbrella to you in the rain. Pulls you close to his side, shields you from the vast, heavy sky.

People admire the way he looks after you, his selflessness in looking after his strange little shadow, the generous warmth he bathes you in.

Are you his sister? Why do you walk home together all the time? What’s wrong with you?

You turn your head. What can you say? You’re not his sister, although you wish you were. Because then he could never really leave you. You’re just a cuckoo that Gran brought home one day, and he was generous enough to accept it into his nest. Who knows when he’ll finally tire of being your caretaker, your protector?

You, the echoing caves of you, layered, impenetrable stone, except under the steady force of the boy’s flowing water.

The people interrogating you look up, suddenly look anxious.

No, she’s not my sister.

It hurts. Being denied, every time. You take comfort in the fact that Gran calls him your brother. That everyone else looks at the two of you, and sees the tie between you.

Perhaps he views it as an accusation. He can’t conceive of himself being tied to you like that. Not you, with all of your empty, echoing spaces. Your strange stillness, your unsmiling mouth.

An accusation, a tie that he denies with his mouth, even as he shelters you with his body.

Being his strange shadow is never enough, for you, but you learn to endure it, through the years.

The boy takes your hand, leads you away, slips his long arm over your hunched shoulders. You’re never approached again by classmates. Not like that.

He’s there at home. He’s there at school. He teases you, calls you Pipsqueak. Shows you his big hands, opens his palm wide, pulls you by the wrist to compare sizes. His is already so big, against yours.

He beats you at races through the fields beyond Gran’s house, calling to you, as you lag behind, your shorter legs never quite enough to reach him. You want to trip him, even as you admire him, want to be him, want to beat him.

He just laughs, ahead of you, nimbly avoids your kicking foot.

He is a seawall between you and the world, as well as a steady, torturous drip of frustration.

Can’t open the pickle jar by yourself? Give it to me.

You continue to struggle, stubborn. There has to be something you can do, where you don’t need him.

He snaps his fingers, lifts the jar from your hands with his evol, the shimmer lovely and soft in contrast to you, as you’re about to bash the jar in anger and frustration against the kitchen counter.

Just let me. I can do it for you. It’s okay to need me.

Ultimately, every time, you give in. You let him, the relief coursing through you, even as the frustration sits uncomfortably in your throat. You need him. You know you need him. You hate that you need him, he who denies you at every turn.

She’s not my sister.

You soak into his waters, and you also try to resist his current.

One day, you wake up, and there is blood.

You can’t breathe.

There’s blood in the bed, bright and strange. Brighter than the skin of a shiny apple.

Strange, but familiar. Why is this so familiar, the sight of your blood staining the mattress underneath you?

You can’t breathe.

You can’t breathe, as you look for the wound. There is always a wound. There is always something that has hurt you, even though you can’t remember why, how. You just know that blood comes from where you have been sliced open, where you have been ripped apart.

You must be making noises in your throat, because suddenly the boy is there, pulling at your scrambling, scratching hands, one big hand holding your wrists away from your body, away from where they’ve been tearing at your clothes, your skin, trying to find the wound.

Look at me. Look only at me. Don’t look at the blood.

Your eyes jerk to his, your chest heaving, and all you can see are his pretty, pretty eyes. The warmth in them. The smile that reaches them.

Good girl.

Something fills you. It’s like the warmth in his eyes passes through to you, and it feels so, so good. Flowing, warm water, sloshing inside your empty spaces. You want him to say it again.

He tells you to breathe when he breathes, and you do. Eventually he lowers your wrists, holds them against his chest.

It’s your period. We’ll get you pads at the store.

You stare at him in shock. You don’t know why you didn’t think of that. You know what periods are, you’re not an idiot. You know other girls at school have already gotten theirs, from their chatter, their complaints, about it in the bathroom as you wash your hands, unsmiling, ignored, at the far sink.

Why did you think you were hurt, that there was some wound flaying you open?

What happened to you?

Gran never says.

The boy helps you strip your sheets. Start the laundry. Waits patiently for you to change your underwear, to pull on clothes, big hands in his pockets. He walks with you to the corner store, his phone in one hand, your hand in his other, as he searches for what’s best for teenage girls.

He watches you walk around your Gran’s living room, wearing a pad for the first time.

You look like a cowboy, walking bow-legged like that.

Shut up. You throw an apple at him. He lifts a hand, and although he could easily catch it, his evol encases it, the shimmer a mirage between you. He lifts it, floats it back to you.

It’s cute, Pipsqueak. Bite.

You watch him as you take a bite from the apple. As you chew it’s sweet flesh between your sharp teeth.

He smiles at you, and he looks angry, hungry, affectionate, all at once.

The years pass.

You don’t know when it happens. From one season to the next? Spring melting into summer? Or from one day to the next, one hour, one minute, one breath.

There comes a day when he is a boy, but looks like a man. It feels like you wake up one day and find a stranger standing in the bathroom mirror, as he comes up behind you, leans over you to grab his own toothbrush. As he watches your face as he brushes, his shoulders filling the mirror, his naked torso filled with muscle you didn’t notice him gaining, somehow—his eyes, his lovely eyes with their rose and indigo irises, never leaving yours.

He has always been bigger than you, yes— My hands are bigger than yours. That’s just the way it is. But he has always been attainable, somehow. He has been reachable, in his awkward, slender height, even though you never reached for him first. You couldn’t bear to reach for him first, and for him to deny you, as he denies you as his sister.

But one day, your heart speeds up, instead of slows down, when you see him in the bathroom, in the hallway, at the kitchen table.

As you watch his new big body flex on the football field, the track.

Your heart hurts, looking at how lovely he is, settled into his newfound strength.

You feel strangely empty, now, when you look at him. Some part of you knows that only him, and his big body, can fill you.

Your heart is stable. You can move around alone at school, when you must, when the boy has an activity that requires him to bend down, round his now-big shoulders, to look into your face, meet your eyes with his, ask the question he always asks.

Will you be all right without me for a little bit? I promise I’ll be back as quickly as I can.

What can you do, but poke him teasingly? Make a joke. Ooh no, gonna suffocate without you. Get outta here. Of course, dummy. Watch his broad back, his back which has grown ever broader—you watch him walk away from you, as you feel like suffocating. But he always turns before the hallway, before being swallowed by the crowd. He turns, waves, smiles at you. You can breathe again.

Wholesome as an apple. Warm as the sun.

You do your homework, let your mind drift.

As you grow more comfortable with him, in Gran’s house, as you get used to being in crowded hallways, as the years pass, as you settle into the routine, the new normal, with your black hole of a memory feeling further and further away with each sun soaked morning walking with the boy to school, the nightmares begin.

Where is Gran? The medication she takes for migraines, for the guilt-induced depression, make her impossible to wake.

But you—you wake, shivering in sweat-soaked sheets, your throat raw from noises you don’t recall making.

The boy, the boy who doesn’t feel like a boy anymore, as he stands, barely fitting in the hallway, a silhouette in the dim light from the hallway night light, left over from when you first came to this house—

You whimper, reach for him. You need to drown in him, his warm waters. You can’t remember what you dreamt. All you know is that it hurt, and you’re still afraid.

He comes, long legs bringing him quickly to your bed. He pulls you from your tangled sheets, lifts you in his arms, encourages you to wrap your legs around him.

You do, clinging to him. His hand is huge on your back, spanning its width. His other supports you under your ass, his palm warm under the tenderest part of you. His thumb strokes across your sleep shorts, soothingly, as he turns, carries you out of your bedroom. He is quiet, so quiet for the big man he has become, while you sheltered in his shadow through the years at school.

During the day, you can be normal.

Well, as normal as someone can be, with your strange stillness, your unsmiling face. The boy always smiles for you, and people now tolerate you by association with him.

As the years pass, you grow to trust his offer of safety, even outside the house you share.

When the noise, the people, the cruelty of adolescents, the strange feeling of being hunted left over from whatever you can’t remember gets to be too much for you, you go to him when you need him, no matter what he’s doing, no matter the crowd gathered around him. You go to him, say his name.

He drops whatever he is doing. The coaches don’t say anything when he leaves practice for a bit, to go calm his strange, distraught sister.

She’s not my sister.

You look into his eyes, drag his hand to your hair. Press your face into his chest.

He gives you everything. You can calm down, and go back to pretending to be normal. During the day, at school.

They don’t see how you can be at home. How, as the years pass and you grow into the safety of his sheltering presence, you are free to let the rage inside of you, and not just the terror, out.

You bottle it while at school, but at home, he is witness to your fits of fury, your throwing anything at hand against the wall, the anger inside of you so bright, so hot, it’s intolerable until you can hit, throw, kick.

When you are misunderstood. When you hear the whispers about you, even as people have learned to be discreet or risk enduring the anger of the school’s wholesome apple boy.

Strange. Off. What does he see in her? Why does he protect her? She’s not even his sister, he always says so.

He catches your thrown glasses, cups, dinner plates with his evol, shimmering like a mirage in the desert, gently sets them back on the counter with a snap of his fingers.

I wish I could create a world with just the two of us. He wraps his arms around your body, shaking with rage, your chest heaving, at the unfairness of living in a world that judges you when you can’t even remember what made you this way. You’re perfect, just the way you are, Pipsqueak.

He holds you, even when you struggle, bucking in his arms. When you kick back at his shins. When you bite his hand hard enough to leave your teeth marks in his skin.

Sometimes you catch him staring at his hand, the bite you left there. A strange, hungry, angry look on his face.

When he looks up and finds you staring at him, his wholesome apple boy expression returns, his eyes warm.

And then, something strange begins to happen.

It’s like he’s not satisfied, soothing you at school. When you come to him when you’re sad, panicked, when the people and the world become too heavy, a tsunami in contrast to his gentle waters flowing through you.

He starts to intentionally provoke you, at home.

When he knows you’re really looking forward to the last scoop of ice cream, but have to go to a doctor’s appointment. You come back, and see that he’s eaten it.

Oh, did you want the last bite?

You’re so mad at him. He’s acting innocent, when he knew how much you were looking forward to it. A treat after what you have to endure at your checkups, the cold stethoscope against your chest. The betrayal stings.

You rush at him, trying to smack him, but he just holds out his big hand, places it on your head, matches your strength so that he doesn’t push you back, but doesn’t let you advance. Oh, your arms are too short, huh Pipsqueak? That’s just the way it is. I’ll always be bigger, stronger than you. So I can protect you.

He watches as your frustration grows, as you growl and lunge over and over again, only to be gently rebuffed by his hand on your head, the span of his big arm.

Who’s gonna protect me from my big jerk of a brother who eats the last of the ice cream? You manage through your panting breath.

Something shifts in his gaze then. Anger. Frustration, mirroring yours. His teasing smile suddenly doesn’t reach his eyes.

I’m not your brother.

You jerk to a stop, feeling like he just slapped you in the face, even as you haven’t managed to smack him once.

The tears are in your eyes before you can stop them. You try to blink them away. You don’t want him to fucking see. He can see anything else. Your body bent over the toilet, vomiting from the meds. Your bloody sheets. Your panicked breath.

But there’s something in you, some prideful, twisted thing, that doesn’t want him to see your tears.

You want to step back, out of his hold.

He snaps his finger, and you’re held still in shimmering, soap bubble sheen. You can’t move, the tears now flowing, floating, drifting spheres leaving your eyes, your eyelashes in the gravity field he has you pinned in.

He steps forward, closing the distance, the rainbow oil slick of his power enveloping the both of you now. His hand moves from your hair, down, along your cheek, along your throat. He squeezes, just a little, like he used to do to help you swallow pills. He then slides it, curves it around the back of your neck, and you’re released from his evol. You collapse into his waiting arms, press your face into his broad chest.

He holds the back of your neck in his big palm, soothes his other hand down your back.

It’s okay, baby, we needed new ice cream anyway. You can have the first, freshest bite. I ate the last bit so you didn’t have to.

You want to drown in him—burrow into his stomach, take up all its space, fill him when he’s hungry like you want him to fill you. Slip him on like a coat when you get cold. Match his long stride. Share his blood.

You nod. He holds your waist, as he walks you to the corner store. As he picks out all your favorite flavors of ice cream, because he knows what you like best.

He is the wound. He is each stitch, drawing the edges back together again.

He teases you at home, like an annoying big brother, all while denying that tie to you. He winds you up, pisses you off, seems to enjoy your fits of rage, your tantrums and your claws. He absorbs your blows, dodges your thrown glasses, catches all that you launch at him in his rainbow mirage shimmer, and then he draws you in.

A treat, for each fireworks display you offer him as a result of his inexplicable instigations.

He holds you against his big body, as he watches your favorite movie with you. It’s a guilty pleasure—something romantic and stupid, a vampire holding an apple.

I’d never leave you alone like that idiot, for the literal wolves to circle. If you ever got hurt because of me, I’d just resolve to protect you harder, not abandon you.

You wonder as he talks about you, the film, as a lover would talk, imagining himself as the love interest, and you the object of his desires, and not his strange little shadow, who isn’t even a sister to him.

You burrow into his chest, relish the hand on your back, your waist, soothing over your hair, as he talks non-stop through the movie. We should go surfing someday, I think you’d really like it. If I could read peoples’ minds, I think it would be hilarious, why does this asshole have to be so edgy? I’d just say out loud what they’re thinking, make them think they’re nuts. If I could live forever, I would not be repeating fucking high school over and over, the fuck? Can’t wait till we’re done.

When you tell him to be quiet during the scene where the love interest carries the main character up into the heights of the tallest trees, he scoffs.

You wanna climb trees like that, Pipsqueak? Pfft. That’s nothing. I can make you fly.

At school, he is always poised, gentle, the model wholesome apple boy. He protects you, smiles so you don’t have to.

At home, he not only teases you to piss you off—he begins to draw your attention to his big body. As if you’re not tormented enough, already, watching him across a crowd in the school hallway, head and shoulders taller than anyone else. His thick thighs, crossing the finish line at track practice. His ass, flexing as he does deadlifts after practice.

I’m doing pushups but it’s too easy, c’mon, sit on my back to make it harder.

You stand in the doorway to his room, taking in the books scattered across his desk, a little model airplane gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the big bay window. The boy, in a man’s body, on the floor, shirtless, his basketball shorts silky around his big thighs. The elastic band of his boxers sneaks up beyond the waistband of his shorts. He’s sweating.

You almost can’t handle the delicious image in front of you—forbidden, lush fruit. Put some of your books on your back, you don’t need me.

He grunts. Nah, I do need you. Books aren't soft. And they fall off. C’mon.

Despite yourself, you want to touch him, all the time. You move into the room, perch yourself on his back.

He laughs, lifts himself into a plank so fast that you have to grasp his shoulders, his sweat sliding under your fingertips. He smells so good.

Hold on, baby.

He begins to push up, controlled, fluid, his broad back never bowing under your weight. After a meditative amount of time for you, rising and falling with him, his scent in your nose, his slick skin under your greedy hands, he lets himself drop, gently dumps you to the floor. He rolls over, facing you and smiling, his pretty dark hair sticking to his forehead. Help me get my hair out of my face?

You roll your eyes, but find yourself reaching forward, smoothing the wet strands back, let your fingers trail through his soft sweaty hair. He looks pleased at your initiative. See how much I need you?

One night he comes home after practice, wincing. You’re huddled up in the attic, reading a book. He squats down next to where you’re sitting, a little pot dangling between his long fingers.

Something happened to my shoulder, I hurt it a little. Help me put some tiger balm on it?

You don’t look up from the book, refusing to let your eyes have what they want—all of him.

Don’t you have hands?

I can’t reach the spot myself. C’mere, help me. He pinches the book between his big thumb and forefinger, gently lifts it from your hands. You look up, scowling at him.

Don’t give me that cute angry face. I’ll give you a treat, after.

You tilt your head, intrigued despite yourself.

What kind of a treat?

Help me, and I’ll tell you.

You don’t even bother arguing. You were always going to give him what he wanted, even without a treat.

You dip your fingers into the little pot, marveling at the almost immediate heat against your skin. He turns, and the muscles of his back ripple under your touch, as you rub the cream into his soft, soft skin at his direction.

You’re focusing so hard, enjoying touching him like this, the heat of the balm, the pungent scent in your nose, mixing with the scent of his skin, you don’t notice that he’s staring at you in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. That his brows are drawn, with the hungry, frustrated, affectionate look that sometimes eclipses the warmth in his eyes.

You touch him, you feel hollow, and need him to fill you, with purpose, with his big body. You wish you could be his aching muscles, that you could flex, strain for him, move him where he wants to go.

In a few months, he’ll be leaving for flight school.

Now, as you wake up from another nightmare, the screaming having echoed through the house. As he stands in the doorway, filling it with his big body. As you reach for him, and he walks quietly across the wooden floorboards, lifts you, carries you to his own bed, holding your sweaty body against his own.

Sorry, I’m gross. You have second thoughts, demanding this closeness of him, the closeness he has never denied you.

The closeness of slipping into his bed when you can’t sleep, not because of nightmares, but simply because your racing thoughts won’t allow for sleep. This closeness he has taught you to expect, to feel entitled to, to demand, as he has drawn you in, as he has asked you to put your hands on him. Every time, he opens his soft duvet, welcomes you in. You scoot close to him, rest your head on his large bicep. He runs one big hand along your waist, around to your back, letting his fingers soothe up and down your spine. Can’t sleep?

You shake your head, not wanting to talk about how your anxious mind won’t quiet. The fear of failure. Of fucking up, losing Gran’s distant, sad kindness. Of losing the boy’s sheltering tolerance, his fluid warmth, which reshapes itself around you again and again, whatever you need, he provides. The fear, the anger at the kids at school, the whispers you still hear. You no longer hide in closets, when you feel like this. You hide in the boy.

Just look at me. I’ll protect you, from whatever it is. He tells you stories, funny anecdotes from track practice that you missed because of yet another doctor’s appointment, running with a separate group. He is distance—you are a sprinter. He tells you gossip overhead in the teacher’s lounge, while he does school council work, volunteer work. Lets you in on the secret that adults don’t have it figured out any more than you do, than he does.

You soak yourself in him, as he pulls you closer to him, his body warm, safe against yours.

Whatever you need, he provides.

When you are ill, not from the heart meds, but just the flu. He holds your hair again, fisted in his big hand, running his other along your back. When you are too exhausted to move, he lifts you, lifts a glass of water to your lips.

You weakly try to turn your head, push the glass away. I don’t want it. I’ll just throw it up.

He just smiles, soft, a smile you’ve only ever seen him give you, but what do you know what he does when he is away from you, as your breath grows short with his absence, no matter how brief? Perhaps this smile is not reserved for you, but for all the weak, pitiful creatures who are drawn to him like flowers toward the sun. If you throw it up, I’ll hold your hair again. You need to hydrate.

You shake your head again. I hate you seeing me like this. It must be so gross. You hate it, but you need it. What are you, without his hand fisting your hair, without his eyes seeing all of the worst parts of you, and still reaching for you anyway? At least you’re not crying. He can see you do anything but cry.

He just leans forward, presses his forehead against your sweaty, clammy one. Nothing about you is gross. Not to me. Drink, Pipsqueak.

You do as he says, let him hold you against him, let him pull down your underwear, his long fingers gentle against your skin. He sets you gently on the toilet.

Go, then we’ll go to bed.

You do as he says, and he watches you, indigo eyes tracing you, seeing everything.

You feel like the cold stone, the echoing caves inside you are flooded with him, as he watches you, as his indigo eyes fill your vision.

He carries you to his own bed, after. Sets a bowl next to it, in case he can’t rush you to the bathroom in time, the next time you need to vomit. He pulls you back against him, and you feel the contours of him carve further into you with each breath. Your lungs, knowing to breathe because his lungs inhaled first. The clasp of his big hand spanning your stomach, holding you tightly against him, grounding you in his bed, in your Gran’s house, in the world. You are cold stone, except when you are floating in his warm waters.

At school, boys look at you across the classroom, across the track. You hate their eyes on you. You want to pull on pants over your shorts, the boy’s hoodie over your torso, if you look up and find yourself pinned in their gazes.

It’s like he always knows. He jogs across the field, across the track’s lanes. Takes your hands in his, turns you gently so that his broad back shelters you from the rest of your classmates, your teammates.

Your shoulders drop, as the world falls away, as his indigo eyes are the only eyes you can see, feel. He holds both your hands in one of his big ones, then reaches down, fiddles with the hem of your shorts. Okay, Pipsqueak?

You nod, because how can you tell him that you hate everyone looking at you, but him? That you feel naked, exposed—you want to actually be the cold stone that you always feel yourself to be, untouchable, unyielding, under the eyes of everyone else.

These are pretty short. He runs a finger underneath the hem along the side of your thigh, his finger soft against your skin. You want more. You want his whole hand, lifting, spreading, filling, covering you.

You feel restless, hungry, hollow between your legs under your short shorts.

Do you not like them? You will put on your pants, if he hates them. You’d do anything, to keep him looking at you with such fond warmth.

I didn’t say that. I just don’t want you to wear them if they make you uncomfortable. His finger leaves your skin, slips from under your shorts, and you feel cold again, feel your shoulders tense again. He tugs on the hem, pulls it down a little, but now the elastic waistband is lower, stretched around the top curve of your ass. He moves his hand, spreading it across your lower back, a few long fingers covering the newly exposed skin there. You relax. I have some compression shorts in my duffel—do you want to put them on under your shorts?

You know you have to return to practice. That you have to leave the warmth of him, his gaze, and subject yourself to everyone else’s eyes. You don’t want anyone seeing where he just touched you, as your shorts flutter in the wind, along with your speed. That place is yours now—through his touch, your body has been returned to you. You won’t let anyone else take it from you now. You nod.

He strokes his other hand down your hair, runs his big palm down the side of your face, before letting it fall further, his fingers along your arm, until he clasps your hand, pulls you along with him.

He takes you to his open duffel amongst the bleachers, hands you the compression shorts, walks you across the field and to the school building, along the empty, echoing halls.

He comes to a stop outside the girl’s locker room. Do you need me to come with you?

You stop, hesitating. He isn’t allowed in there. If anyone sees him, he could get in trouble.

Your heart hurts at the idea of walking away from him, even for just a few moments. You know this isn’t normal. You overhear classmates talking about their siblings, about their best friends—you don’t know where you’d place your indigo-eyed boy on such a spectrum, because none of the words available to you seem quite right.

You aren’t his sister. He says so, at any opportunity. You met him when you were halfway to being an adult. He isn’t your best friend, because you want to crawl inside him. You want to drown in him. You want to inhale him, carry him in your lungs. You don’t exist properly, unless his indigo eyes are watching you.

You want his big hands between your legs, where you ache, and feel so hollow, like the rest of you, unless the liquid warmth of his presence is filling you.

You shake your head in response to his question, as your chest aches, where your heart beats painfully. Of course not. I’m not a baby. You turn to go, but he holds fast to your hand.

His eyes drift from your face, to your chest, as if he can see your heart through your shirt, your skin, your meat and ribs.

Yeah, yeah, you're not a baby. You're my baby. Here. He pulls you away from the locker rooms, further into the school, until he stops at the bathrooms. At the one bathroom that is an individual room, for people who need more space, who need to be able to lock the door. He pulls you inside, flips the lock. You stare at him, his lovely eyes, the soft fall of his brown hair.

He gestures at you, coaxingly. You step back into his warmth. He squats down, face level with your shorts. Looks up at you, but he doesn’t ask a question. He already knows what your answer is, has always been, even if you protest, pretend to push him away. Trying to soothe your own pride. Your own hurt, every time he denies your tie to him. He lifts his hands, gently tugs down your shorts, pulling the slippery fabric down your thighs. As they pool around your ankles, he lifts one of your cleat-clad feet, then the other.

He pauses, a breath away from your body, staring.

Your shorts had built-in underwear. Now, you stand before him, naked from the waist down.

His calm, pretty eyes drift from between your legs, up, back to your face. He leans forward, eyes never leaving yours, and rests his cheek against your thigh. You feel him inhale, and feel the blood rush under the skin of your cheeks, at what he might be smelling, his upturned face resting right next to where your legs meet, this soft, hollow, aching part of yourself.

He closes his eyes, and it is like being cast adrift in a sky without end. You shiver, feeling his late in the day stubble scrape across the sensitive skin of your thigh.

He started needing to shave, at about the same time you noticed how big he had gotten.

Something about the tremor of your body must wake him up, because he opens his eyes again, breathes deeply, one more time, and then reaches up, taking his compression shorts from where you grip them in your shaking hand.

You want him to stay down there. You want him to move his head, to come closer, to put his mouth on you while he looks up at you with his pretty, purple eyes.

But he just looks down, his brown hair spilling, shifting, the masculine line of the back of his neck exposed to you now, and you can see where his longer hair shortens, is buzzed into a soft bur that you’ve had your hands against, in the night, under your fingertips, clutching him to you as you try to sleep, as he lets you.

He lifts one of your feet again, pulls the leg of his shorts over your cleat, repeats on the other side. He then pulls them up, up along your legs, until his fingers are dragging them over your hips, covering everything that was just revealed to him, that he had breathed in.

He then goes through the same motions as before, in reverse, pulling your short shorts up over his compression shorts. His ass is so thick, he is so much bigger than you, that even with the stretchy fabric, there’s still room around your own waist, your own ass.

You imagine his skin, instead of his shorts, pressed against you there.

This is how it always is.

He touches you with such tenderness, with such closeness that you know doesn’t exist between other siblings.

You know he’s not your brother, even if you wish he was. He’s something else. But you don’t know the word for it. You just know that it could evaporate, at any moment, because there’s actually nothing tethering you together except a piece of paper, of societal expectations.

For other adopted siblings, they are family.

But the boy has always denied you, even as he cares for you like this. Despite Gran’s insistence. Your classmates’ insistence. The world’s insistence that he’s your brother.

But even as he denies you, he won’t touch you beyond the care shown to a broken, fragile thing.

Even though he knows the strength of your arm when you throw things in a fit of rage. The strength in your legs, as you win medals in track. The strength in your swing, at the batting cages or on the golf course, as he taught you.

He walks you back to the track. He turns to you, before releasing you. I wish I could create a world, with just the two of us.

You watch as he rejoins his teammates. As they slap his back, say things you can’t hear with sly grins on their faces that make you feel uncomfortable, ashamed again, despite the boy’s shorts now covering you.

You don’t hear the boy’s response, or see the look on his face, in his eyes as he says it.

She’s not my sister. And you do not fucking look at her.

All you know is that after that day, you never feel unwelcome eyes on you at track practice again, no matter the length of your shorts, while the boy is still at school with you.

But all that’s in the past, now.

One day, he leaves you behind.

He took your gifted necklace, your lungs, yanked them right out of the box, right out of your ribs, with a snap of his fingers.

Bent down, demanded you clasp it around his neck.

Don’t you have hands?

You knew he had hands. Big hands that never touched you in quite the way you wanted. It has never stopped him from asking you to come closer, to put your hands on him, all while not putting his hands on you in the way you wanted, needed.

And then he was gone.

He was gone, and the time between responses in texts, in returned phone calls, grew longer, and longer.

He had already convinced you to become a Hunter, before he left. He trusted your strength, your resonance. Thought it would be good for you to have a clear path, to feel useful.

In your last year of high school, you walked the halls, a quiet ghost amidst all the living bodies, as you existed for each holiday, for each visit home from him.

The visits that grew less and less frequent.

With him gone, the looks from classmates grew bolder. The whispers louder.

You hid in closets again, at home, when Gran wasn’t around.

You had nightmares every single night.

You knew that you needed to make a change.

That you couldn’t continue the rest of your life like this.

You thought about how the week before he left, he lifted you in the air with his evol in the field of wildflowers beyond your Gran’s house. He promised that he’d always come home to you as he let you experience the feeling of flying for the last time. As he lifted his face to yours as the shimmering mirage of his evol held you aloft, as you looked down at him from a height as opposed to the other way around. As he ran his nose along your cheek, breathed deeply.

As he still wouldn’t kiss you, no matter how obvious your yearning must have been.

You said his name, as you flew, floated, fell, caught in the glittering sheet of his shimmering evol.

Promise me, you won’t forget about me.

He smiled, spun you gently in the air, your hair a cloud around your face.

Do I even have to say it? You know I could never forget you, Pipsqueak. I’ll be home on break before you even know it. You won’t even have time to miss me.

Your heart was heavy, at the idea of him leaving, even as your body was light as air, floating in his power.

You do have to say it. Promise me. That you won’t forget me, and you’ll come home to me again.

He had pulled you back down, then. Wrapped his arms around you. His voice low in your ear. I promise.

A week later, he was gone.

And just like that, when you weren’t even looking, the wreckage of his promises lay at your feet, stranded on the ground.

With his absence, the feeling of safety, of belonging, the thrill of flight, the memory of his soft touch, faded.

She’s not my sister.

You would call, and he wouldn’t answer.

It would take days for him to call back.

And then weeks.

You know that you relied on the boy for far too much, for far too long.

Your anger grows.

He had lured you in. Made you feel safe. Provided for you, anything, everything. Taught you to be touched, soothed, to need his touch, his soothing. Taught you to touch him in return, to reach for him, to yearn to be his blood, his muscles, to live in him. He had tamed you, like some wild thing, even as he provoked you, teased you, challenged you.

And now he is gone, like the snap of his fingers, lifting you in his oil slick gravity well, the force stretching you thin.

Waking up from yet another nightmare, sweating, shaking in the dark, turning to your phone, finding that he still hasn’t answered your question about coming to your graduation. Something inside of you breaks.

You think about the boy’s charming smile, his easy going manner, his teasing mouth, the strength in his body as he threw a ball, ran across the finish line, the proof of his cleverness in his good grades, the trust that teachers and other adults placed in him.

You were alone, before Gran brought you to this house.

You have been alone, except for the boy, through the years since.

You climb onto the roof. Look up at the glittering night sky that he could be flying in, right now.

You shiver in the dark, without his arms around you.

You think of stone, and water.

You think of the desert. Of the book the boy would read to you, when you first came to Gran’s house.

The downed pilot survived in the desert for a long time without water.

So can you.

She’s not my sister.

No. You’re not his sister, even if he is your brother.

That’s clear to you now.

“Caleb,” you say. Out loud, alone on the roof in the dark.

Of course, he doesn’t answer.

He hasn’t answered in weeks. Why would he answer now?

You begin to construct your mask.

You are the stone. He is the water. You begin to fill the echoing caves inside you, the pathways he carved in you, with sand from the dry desert.

At school, you smile. You think, what would Caleb do? What would Caleb say?

You return the looks from the boys at track practice.

It’s incredible, how quickly people forget the strange, quiet girl with the unsmiling mouth. How quickly they accept the mask, when they could never accept the authentic person underneath.

You make yourself soft, palatable for the world. But Caleb always said you were like the rose from the book he would read you. You soften yourself for the world, while retaining your thorns. You will never let anyone come close to you again.

You toss Caleb to the world.

Instead of a world where it’s just the two of you, it is just you.

All it costs is all of you.

You have your first kiss with one of the boys from track who used to watch you, before whatever Caleb said to them to get them to stop.

Don’t tell Caleb. The boy looks scared, as he asks this of you.

Caleb misses your high school graduation.

You go to the Hunter Academy.

You excel—socially, academically. Learn to channel your rage into your work. Eliminating wanderers. Putting your future colleagues down on the mats. Sharpening your knives. Cleaning your pistols.

You have a particular fondness for grenades. They remind you of yourself, somehow. Your true self, underneath the ever intricate mask.

Little bomb.

Fireworks, that you only ever showed Caleb.

When you do see him again, when he does manage to drop by Gran’s house on a rare day off from his work in the Farspace Fleet, when he manages to descend from Skyhaven to the ground where you’re stranded, you make your unsmiling mouth smile at him.

You’re good at it now. Pretending to be soft, pliant. While holding the world away from you with the knives of your thorns.

He looks angry. Frustrated. But he still smiles. Still watches you with his indigo eyes, even if the smile doesn’t reach them, anymore, when he’s looking at you.

That’s okay. You’ve learned to live without his smile, after all.

Maybe his smile no longer reaches his eyes because you don’t pick up the phone when he manages to call, anymore.

You text back politely, weeks after he texts you.

You have your first fuck, some guy whose name you can no longer remember. It gets easier, every time after. Not to imagine Caleb’s hands on you, instead of your lover’s. You pick men with big bodies, empty brains. After, you never call them again.

You graduate again.

He misses your Academy graduation as well.

There’s always a reason, even if it’s vague. An excuse. A sincere sounding apology.

When you see him again, at your Gran’s house, you politely pour him water. He smiles, pretending to be pleased, as his eyes look angry, frustrated.

You ignore your necklace around his strong neck. You ignore how you feel, thinking of him chained by something you gave him. He’s not, and never has been, someone for you to claim.

She’s not my sister.

You tell yourself that you don’t yearn for his arms to wrap around you in the dark, like they used to. That you don’t yearn for his breath on your skin, his hands on your hair, his indigo eyes watching, watching, with a warmth that’s no longer there.

You tell yourself that you don’t need him, at all, anymore.

You tell him that you don’t need him to tag along as you investigate the metaflux fluctuation.

You lie to him about being injured, are shocked at his barely controlled anger as he jerks up your arm, threatens to find “the cat” that scratched you.

You can’t stand this strange evidence of his care for you, how just these few crumbs of protective affection from him already threaten your carefully maintained mask, the mask you’ve spent years perfecting now.

He said he wanted to create a world where it was just the two of you, and then he left you stranded, alone, buried under the sand. Empty promises, empty fucking words.

The only true thing he ever said to you, about you: she’s not my sister.

You tell him you’re not his sidekick. Order him to go in first.

The door clicks shut.

Your brother dies on a bright, sunny day, right after you say something cruel to him, the last thing you ever say to him.

After, you wake up to a nightmare without end.

#this never misses #i cant stop rereading #perfection

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just-another-reader1098 · 4 months ago

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The land of tears | ao3 | masterlist

You're at Azure Square with your perfectly nice boyfriend when you see your dead adopted brother through the crowd. Caleb's back and he's not going to let you go again. This is one of several variations of the reunion scene that I want that I know Infold won't give us. caleb x f mc, caleb x you, second person pov, some caleb pov. this story contains: references to saint-exupéry's the little prince, deeply possessive caleb, codependent relationship dynamics, not healthy at all, but caleb and mc match each other's freak, mc just doesn't know it yet. we've got some mechatronic arm/hand worship and caleb being unhinged in his pov about being back, about mc being his, and the state of mc's life without him. mc refers to caleb as her brother, caleb has differing opinions about that title.

It’s a cold January day. The sun is almost too bright, high in the noonday sky over Azure Square, reflected between the mirrored highrises thrusting from the heart of the Linkon City. The sky is a blinding, cloudless blue.

You stare into it.

There are no airplanes in view.

No contrails, streaking through the blue.

It’s the weekend. The bright weather, the weekend—people have been drawn from their hibernation, so Azure Square is packed. The mass of bodies never fails to make you uncomfortable. Too much movement, too many threats, too much stimulation. You have to breathe shallowly through the discomfort, with your lonely lungs.

It’s a rare weekend where you have both days off, no missions on your agenda. Just a stretch of free time. Free time that you still struggle to enjoy. Free time that echoes hollowly like your empty apartment, your empty fridge. Your empty heart.

You need the distractions of work, of task after task, to keep yourself moving forward, footstep after footstep. Little steps. Just keep going. You can’t quit. You’ll get through this, too, like you’ve gotten through everything else, Pipsqueak.

A gentle, warm voice in your head, echoing hollowly. One you haven’t stopped hearing for a year.

You wonder if you’ll ever stop hearing it.

You want to stop hearing it. You’re afraid of the day you stop hearing it.

You hear another voice, encroaching, overtaking the memory in your head. A vine, twisting around a cherished, deeply rooted tree. You have the feeling of an invasive species, even though that’s not fair.

You turn, look at your boyfriend. He’s smiling tentatively, a little confused.

He says your name again, and you realize he’s been trying to get your attention for a few minutes now, as you stood, entranced by the terrible, bright blue sky, the sun hurting your eyes.

Your exhausted eyes.

Even after a year, you still don’t sleep.

You try to dismiss your irritation, your sense of wrongness about the handsome, sweet man standing before you—a trick of the light, a side effect of the insomnia. It’s not his fault, that he’s tall, but not ridiculously tall. That his eyes are a pretty blue, and not—and not any other color. That he doesn’t know you, not really, and likely never will. Because you can’t stand the thought of letting him in. You buried yourself in an empty casket, a year ago. What is there to know, now?

You try to smile. “Yeah, sorry.”

“You looked so far away,” he says, stepping closer to you. You let him, even though your first instinct is to always take a step back. But that’s not healthy. That’s not normal. This is your boyfriend, after all. Your patient, perfectly nice boyfriend. “What are you thinking about?”

You think of an empty casket. About how you’ve felt so far away, from everything, everyone, for so long. You can’t remember what being close feels like anymore, even though he’s standing right in front of you.

“Just that it’s very bright, for a winter day.”

He looks relieved. You’re glad he swallows your lies so easily. The one time you tried to talk to him about how you felt, about how you felt like you had buried yourself with your dead, he had said words like unhealthy. Like codependent. Dysfunctional. He had said these words, with a strange look on his face, a look that was all-too familiar to you, through your whole half-remembered life, any time you had been honest about how you felt about your family.

About your brother.

You've never known how to explain.

He was your other half.

What do most people know, about having half of themselves outside their own body? About not being able to breathe, without twinned lungs breathing with you, setting the pace? About not being able to sleep without his voice, more familiar to you than you own, saying it’s okay to close your eyes? That he’ll protect you from the nightmares.

What could anyone know about what you went through? All the things you can’t remember. The things that you can’t remember, but the not remembering never stopped from leaving their brand burned on the inside of your skin, your panting, panicked lungs, your raw throat, waking up screaming yourself hoarse in the night.

All you can remember is soft, indigo eyes. Warm, strong arms around you in the dark.

“Where are your aviators?” your boyfriend asks. “It’s not like you to forget them.”

He asks, because he doesn’t know they were your brother’s. If he knew they were your brother’s, he’d insist on buying you a new pair of sunglasses, in a different style.

You can tell that he doesn’t like it when he discovers that something you use often belongs—belonged to your dead brother.

He doesn’t say anything. That would be too confrontational. He knows it’s not a good look, to resent his partner’s dead sibling. But the look on his face: Dysfunctional. Codependent. Unhealthy.

He doesn’t know that the necklace you never take off is your brother’s. He doesn’t know that the sunglasses you wear religiously, on sunny and cloudy days, are your brother’s. Your favorite mug, your favorite oversized hoodie, your favorite oversized gray sweatpants, your phone charm, a little apple—

Your face in the mirror, because he’d run his knuckles along your cheek, tweak your nose, gently flick your forehead. The lungs behind your ribs, because you breathed when he breathed, when you couldn’t remember how. Your hair, because he used to tug on your ponytail, your braids, your bun, he’d run his fingers along where it was buzzed, when you wore a fade for a while.

All these things belonged to him, had always belonged to him.

Teasing. Smiling. Gentle, and playful.

All the things you never were, and never had to be, because he was those things for the both of you.

You shake your head. “Forecast called for snow. I didn’t expect it to be so bright. It’s okay. We’re going to a movie, anyway, right?”

You try to smile again.

He studies you.

Buys your lie.

You don’t want to take the sunglasses out of your bag. You don’t want to protect your eyes, today.

You wear his sunglasses religiously, except for the days that are unbearable. The days where you want the pain, as you stare into the bright, hollow sky, searching for airplanes, for contrails in the blue.

You wonder how much pain your brother endured, in his last few moments.

Moments that might have felt like a lifetime in the flames.

Sometimes, you need to let the sun hurt your eyes.

A burn without flames.

It’s the least you deserve.

You go in first. I’m not your sidekick.

No. You were never his sidekick. You were just his other half. Or rather, he was yours.

Your boyfriend nods, tightens his pretty scarf around his strong neck against the chill. A gift from you, when the weather turned colder. Not hand-knit, like the one you made for your brother. But lovely, expensive. “Yeah, it starts in half an hour. We better get a move on if you want snacks.”

You let him take your hand. You’re grateful for the gloves between your skin and his.

You know that’s not right. That it’s not normal.

But when have you ever been normal?

You walk through the crowds, the shifting mass of humanity. The reflection of the sun between the mirrored buildings. The scents of food, perfume, crisp winter air.

You look up at the sky, let the sun blind you, leave sunspots in your vision, and then look forward, over your boyfriend’s shoulder.

The sunspots dissipate, slowly.

There is the scent of fried food.

The sound of a woman’s laughter.

A child, shrieking about a toy.

Your gloved hand, held in your boyfriend’s, squeezed just a little too tight, as if he can sense how far away you are, how far away you have always been, from the day he met you, as he smiled shyly at you from across the bar while you were out with Tara. Who mustered the courage to introduce himself to you, asked about your job, listened attentively as you spoke, acted impressed. Who told funny, safe jokes. He asked for your number, not content with just giving you his card. He didn’t want to let you slip through his fingers, he said.

You, someone so beautiful, poised, a hero, Linkon’s finest. Someone just cold enough to present a challenge, but who smiled softly, chose a sophisticated drink, listened attentively in return.

All the things you learned from watching your brother go through life easily—smiling, charming, poised, popular, a hero.

Your boyfriend fell in love with the mask you wear now. The mask you put on, the day your brother left for the DAA and left you behind, because he could no longer smile for you, laugh politely for you, make jokes and charm people for you. A shield, between you and the rest of a demanding, draining world.

Now, in Azure Square, there is the scent of food, the sounds of life.

There is the mirrored sun.

And between your boyfriend’s shoulder and a group of tourists lifting their selfie sticks in the air, stands your dead brother.

You don’t blink.

If you blink, he might be gone when you open your eyes again.

This has happened to you before. You look across a crowd, and are convinced you see the curve of his cheek, the long line of his nose.

You see indigo eyes in strangers’ faces across the street.

You hear him calling your name, but when you turn, there’s no one there.

Each time, your feet move before you can even think. You’ve almost been hit by a car, multiple times, crossing streets where he’s not on the other side.

You startle strangers as you pull on their arm from behind, turn them toward you, search their eyes for a color that you’ve never seen anywhere but in his face.

It’s never him. Just a trick of the light. A mirage in the desert.

The devastation, afterwards, realizing it’s not him—it’s like waking up all over again, to your ears ringing. To the fire reflected in his necklace.

To being forced to lower an empty coffin into the ground.

Now, across Azure Square, his back is to you.

But you’d know him anywhere.

His broad shoulders. The sheen of his brunette hair. His indigo eyes. The inner curve of his elbow. His strong calves. His long toes.

His scent, his voice, echoing in your head.

His lungs, breathing for you, when you couldn’t breathe for yourself.

When the panic would come, and collapse your chest.

Breathe with me. Breathe with me. Look at me, look only at me, and breathe with me.

You can’t blink. Your eyes hurt before, and they hurt even more now.

He turns.

The sun pours liquid gold over his profile.

It’s him.

It can’t be him.

This is a mirage. You are a pilot, stranded in the desert, downed plane smoking behind you.

You are lost in the desert, and you are hallucinating water.

He’s dead.

You’ve been in the desert for a year now.

Even before—even before he walked into the house first, and everything changed, you had tried to live without the other half of yourself.

With each broken promise to come home, to meet. With each rain check, Sorry, Pipsqueak something came up at work, a new mission, not this time, I promise, next time.

With each day, the distance grew, straining the tether between you.

You couldn’t bear waiting until it snapped entirely, couldn’t bear waiting until the day he finally severed it first.

You couldn’t bear waiting for the day he announced that he had found someone else. When his profile picture inevitably changed to two smiling faces, instead of a silly carved apple.

Because of words like unhealthy, codependent, dysfunctional.

Because of the time stretching, longer and longer, between each answered text, each missed call.

Because of distance, between you, stranded on the earth, and him, flying high in the sky.

So you decided to carve him from you, an expert butcher, after he took your lungs, along with the necklace you gave him, and flew to Skyhaven, into the blue, blue sky.

You haven't breathed right since he left for the DAA, and you left for the Academy.

You decided to carve him from you. You were adept with blades, after all.

No one really needs two kidneys.

Two hands.

Two eyes.

People can survive with half a liver.

And you feel like he always had your entire, mangled heart, such as it is. You’ve lived without it, for as long as you can remember.

You are a skilled butcher on the battlefield, as well as in the privacy of your mind. Carving out pieces of yourself, forcing yourself to live without the other half of you, the person carrying the most important parts of you, long before he walked into the house first, drew his last breath, left you alone on the sidewalk to watch your childhood home containing the best parts of you, brightly burning.

So many people live without parts of themselves, every day.

If you couldn’t sleep without his voice, telling you it’s okay, I’ll protect you, from the world, from the nightmares?

Well. You just wouldn’t sleep.

You couldn’t afford to panic, anymore, without him there to show you how to breathe again.

You just never breathed deeply again.

You took your terror, a constant thrum under your skin ever since Gran brought you home from a place you can't remember, and swallowed it. Keep it in your stomach.

You can’t eat much, because there’s so very little room left, where food is supposed to go.

But one does what one must, living without so many parts of oneself. And the only food that you could ever stomach was food made by your brother's hands, anyway.

After your expert carving, you can laugh, run, fight, do your job, return a lover’s touch—because what does it matter, that the hands touching you are wrong, with most of yourself in the blue, blue sky, out amongst the stars, wherever his pilot’s wings took him?

You’ve been so far away from yourself, for so much longer than the moment he walked into the house first.

Now, your body wants your eyes to blink.

Seeing him through all the shifting bodies, the cold January wind pulling tears from your wide, disbelieving eyes.

But you can’t. If you blink, when you open your eyes again, he’ll vanish.

He’s dead.

You tried to kill him, kill the parts of him remaining in you, long before he actually died.

It must be a mirage.

He used to read to you, huddled together in Gran’s bay window in the attic, about a pilot who fell from the sky, crash landed in the desert. A little prince. A fox. A rose.

A little prince who tames and loves a rose, but leaves her behind to explore the stars.

Your brother always referred to you as his rose, when it was just the two of you. But how could you be something so delicate, beautiful, entitled?

You were actually the pilot, struggling under the hot sun. Downed, while the little prince flew back amongst the stars.

I did not know how to reach him, how to catch up with him... The land of tears is so mysterious.

You had learned to live without him.

So what, if you still tried to blind yourself in the sun, looking for his path through the sky?

A small price to pay, when he walked into the house first.

Now, across Azure Square, he looks so beautiful, right there, soaked in gold, in the blue blue sky.

What if it’s not a mirage?

You stop.

Your boyfriend turns. Looks at you curiously.

You can’t tear your eyes from your dead.

Is it the sun? A trick of the light? Is it really only a mirage, in the desert, the desert of your days dragging out behind you, contrails of grief from the moment the words left your lips?

I’m not your sidekick.

Your brother continues to turn. Now, he’s facing you. Through all these moving bodies, through the sunlight cascading down his shining hair, the soft downward turn of his indigo eyes, flashing in the mirrored light.

You hear your boyfriend say your name again, as if from a great distance. The distance that has always been there, because you have been so far away, for so long.

You’ve spent so long, searching the sky, for traces of him. His contrails white against the brilliant blue. Long before he died.

You’ve survived it all. His leaving the first time. Through the long years, where you pretended to live just fine without him, to not need him, his breath in your lungs, his voice in your head.

His death, his final smile, the last horrible, petty thing you said to him.

If he’s just a trick of the light, you’ll survive it.

Again.

It will hurt, but you’re used to the pain. You’ve been buried, suffocating in the dark, for so long already.

You just. You have to be sure.

You pull your hand from your boyfriend’s, begin to run.

You still haven’t blinked.

Your eyes burn.

People must sense your desperation, because they part for you, easily. You’re moving through them like a jet in flight. There is only you, and your destination.

Your mouth is moving, and it’s the first time in a year that you’re saying anything that matters.

“Caleb.”

Your voice is loud, even in the bustle of all the people filling the Square. He pauses, indigo eyes searching the crowd.

You’re running, running, through the sun-drenched square, the awful, blinding bright blue sky, and when his eyes finally meet yours, you feel like you can fly.

You don’t hesitate.

You launch yourself at him.

He catches you, just as you knew he would.

You wrap your legs around his solid waist, your arms around his neck.

You’re not thinking.

You tear your gloves from your hands with your teeth, drop them to the ground. Your hands are in his hair, fingers digging into the bur of where it’s shaved against his neck.

His eyes, his soft indigo eyes, are the only thing you can see.

His sweet breath, warm against your face, puffs white in the cold afternoon air.

“Caleb,” you say, lungs full for the first time in a year. Longer. “Caleb.”

“Hey, Pipsqueak,” he says softly, and it’s not his voice in your head, but in your ears. You watch his full lips form the words.

It feels like a dream.

A dream you’ve had so many times, only to be jerked back from the dark, to open your eyes to a world where he’s dead.

“Caleb,” you say.

He holds you, indulging you, as always, one big arm wrapped around your waist, the other tucked under your ass, supporting you even as you’re probably squeezing him with your legs to the point of pain.

He smiles at you. His blinding, lovely, soft smile. “Did you miss me?”

You devour his face with your eyes. His pretty purple eyes, turned down at the corners. His long, straight nose. His generous mouth, his warm smile.

Did you miss him?

What a stupid question.

What a stupid fucking question.

You bury your face in his warm neck. Breathe him in. Clean skin. Sun-soaked linen, hanging in the spring breeze. Caleb.

“Is this real?” you ask, helpless, desperate.

He holds you more tightly. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s real.”

You want to tell him to promise you.

But he’s promised you things before.

That you would be seeing him every day, soon.

That he’d be home soon.

You can’t help yourself.

“Promise?”

You stare into his eyes. Something moves across his face, here and gone, before you can catch it.

“Promise,” he says. Easily. Like he really means it.

You don’t want to move. You just want to stay here, in his arms, forever.

You don’t want to ask anything else. You don’t want to destroy the ecstatic relief of this moment.

You can’t stand to keep moving through the desert, only to discover that this is a mirage.

A trick of the light.

He must feel the same, because he continues to hold you, effortlessly, stroking his hand down your hair with one big gloved hand.

“Caleb,” you say.

“Yeah,” he answers you. A reassurance. A confirmation.

“Caleb.” A sigh. A question.

“Yeah Pipsqueak. It’s me.”

You hug him, and he hugs you back, as you stand in a sea of people moving around you, as the bright winter sun spills over you, drenching you in a dream that you refuse to wake up from.

The moment could have lasted for a lifetime, or just a few heartbeats.

It shatters, when your boyfriend’s voice breaks through the haze of Caleb’s soft hair under your hands, the scent of his neck in your nose.

“Who’s this, babe?”

You feel Caleb’s body tense under yours. You keep your face buried in his warm neck.

Your boyfriend wouldn’t know.

You put away Caleb’s pictures, early on, after. Seeing them had torn at all the phantom parts of you that shouldn’t have hurt anymore, because Caleb took them with him when he left. You suffered, every time you had to tear your eyes away from is photos again, knowing that the pictures were the only way of seeing him, for the rest of your fucking life.

You had stared in the mirror, more times than you could count, wishing your eyes were a pretty purple, turned down at the corners. Wishing for his soft, silken hair in his exact shade. Trying to find him in your features, an anchor, a pale reflection of what you lost.

But his blood didn’t flow through your veins, despite you spending all the life you could remember feeling like it did.

Caleb makes a fist of your hair. Tugs a little, gently. “Gonna introduce us, Pipsqueak?”

You're so happy to be in this dream, to have him in your arms, that you forget to resist. To rebel. To refuse him, his gentle, firm requests, as you had done once he left for the DAA. You let him gently guide your face away from his neck. Let him slowly lower you to your feet, your body dragging against his. You only half turn, as he keeps his arm around your waist, your body tucked into his. You can’t let him go yet. You’re not ready to let any space come between you yet. You keep one arm wrapped around his waist.

You look at your boyfriend, and it’s like looking at a stranger. You shake your head, try to clear the sense of wrong that has always been there, no matter who you tried to date, no matter who you tried to care for. “This is my—,” you begin, but Caleb cuts you off.

“I’m Caleb.”

Your boyfriend’s eyes widen.

“Caleb? Your brother, Caleb?” he asks, eyes darting between Caleb’s face and yours.

“I’m her Caleb, yeah,” Caleb’s voice sounds funny. As if he’s angry about something. “And you are?”

You shake your head. “Sorry. Sorry, Caleb, this is my boyfriend. And yeah, this is Caleb.”

“So you’re… Not dead,” your boyfriend says, strangely.

“Very much not dead.” You can hear the smile in Caleb’s voice, but when you look at him, he looks colder than you can ever remember seeing him. Something about his eyes is different, different from the little boy you knew, as he read you stories of pilots, of little princes and tamed foxes, of roses, as he stares down your boyfriend like he presents some type of threat.

It occurs to you that you should let him go. That you should step away. That needing to cling to him like this is— unhealthy. Dysfunctional.

Can you be excused, just this once, if you’ve believed that he has been dead for a year?

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with the fear that this is a dream again.

Your lungs hurt.

You turn your head. “Caleb,” you say, desperate.

He looks away from your boyfriend, gazes down into your face.

You lift your arm from his waist, up, up, clutch the back of his neck, soothing yourself with the soft buzzed hair there, as it fades into his longer, soft strands. “Caleb, is this real? This isn’t a dream?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s real. Keep looking at me.”

He leans down, and he has to come so far to come down to your level, rounding his shoulders. He rests his forehead against yours. Looks into your eyes.

All you see is indigo.

“Breathe,” he says, and he takes a big inhale.

You do as he says. Breathe in. You feel his breath against your lips, sense his chest expanding with the breath in his healthy, living lungs.

He exhales, clouds forming on his lips, drifting into the bright blue sky.

You exhale, and he inhales again, as if trying to breathe in your breath.

The ache in your lungs eases, as he does this for you, the way he used to. Before you went to the Hunter Academy. Before he went to the DAA.

You finally allow yourself to close your eyes, forehead resting against his. “Caleb,” you say.

“Yeah. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He pulls away from you, just a little, but takes one big gloved hand and tucks your face into his chest. You hear him address your boyfriend.

“Hey man, it was nice meeting you. It’s been a long time, and we have a lot to talk about. I’m gonna take her back to her place so we can catch up. She’ll call you later.”

Your boyfriend says something, but it’s lost to you, as you soak in Caleb’s warmth, as you enjoy the feeling of being able to breathe again, after so, so long.

Of feeling, not far away, but close, for the first time in a year. Longer than a year.

Of feeling like your body has been returned to you, after being buried in the earth, for a year.

Then you’re being turned, guided through the crowd.

Everything is a blur. You can’t ask any questions.

Despite his reassurance, you still don’t believe him.

He’s made so many promises before, after all.

You don’t want to wake up from this dream.

He’s holding your hand, helping you into a passenger seat. Some kind of Jeep, some muddy, functional military vehicle that stands out amidst the sleek, gleaming cars meant for urban travel.

The inside smells like him.

You stare at his profile, still limned in bright, bright sunlight, as he takes your hand, holds it in his, sheltering yours, resting your clasped hands on his big thigh as he drives one-handed, relaxed, through the weekend traffic back to your apartment.

You stare at his face in the mirrors of your elevator. He stares back, smiling softly.

Neither of you say anything.

What needs to be said, in a dream?

It’s enough, that he feels so real, his warm, big hand holding yours. He feels so alive.

His scent, the scent of home, of clean laundry, of clean skin.

His beautiful, kind eyes.

Inside your apartment, he squats, unlaces your big boots. The sound of his long fingers sliding through the laces is loud in the silence of your empty place.

You suddenly hate not having his eyes on you.

You bend down, place your hands on his cheeks, lift his face.

He pauses, looks up at you. Indulges you, as he always does.

“Caleb.”

It’s all you can say.

All you can think.

“Yeah, baby.”

You shiver.

He only ever called you that, when it was the two of you.

You always wondered what he meant.

He never looked at you like a lover. Never touched you like a lover. But why would he have to, when he is the other half of you?

He has always been so much more to you.

And yet, you know, that you have always been so much less to him.

Why else would he refuse to kiss you, touch you, take what you’ve been clearly offering, for years, before he left for the DAA?

But whatever he used to give you was enough, even if you always wanted him to touch you differently, just as he named you differently, when it was just the two of you.

Before he left for the DAA.

Before you learned not to breathe.

It will have to continue being enough now.

If this isn’t a dream.

You lost him once.

If this isn’t a dream, you’re never, ever losing him again.

“Caleb,” you say, and he smiles.

“Yeah.” He rises to his feet. He’s so much bigger than when you were children, now. He’s so much bigger even, than the last time you saw him. You admire the controlled strength of his body, its graceful movement as he shrugs out of his winter coat, hanging it on a peg on the wall. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You step out of your boots.

He moves his hands to his own combat boots, broken in but still buffed to a shine. He removes them efficiently. Lines them up neatly in your shoe rack, adds your own boots next to his.

You’re about to unzip your jacket when his big hands replace yours on the zipper, gently guiding yours out of the way. He watches your face as he unzips your coat. He’s still smiling softly, the curve of his lips more familiar to you than your own in the mirror.

“Caleb,” you say. You can’t stop yourself, each time.

“Yeah.” He answers you patiently. “I’m here.”

He slowly slides your coat from your shoulders, your arms. He hangs it on a peg next to his, then takes your hand again, leads you further into your place.

The bright sun is spilling in through the drawn up blinds.

He looks around, then turns, looks down into your face in question. “Pretty grim, Pipsqueak.”

You look away. You don’t want to talk about this now. You don’t want to wake up from the dream.

He’s here. Right here, so warm and big next to you.

Breathing.

Alive.

“Hey. Look at me.”

When you disobey him, he lifts a hand, strokes it over your hair. Makes a fist in it, gently guides you to look at him again. For the first time, you notice that he hasn’t removed his gloves. Before you can ask why, he continues. “Why the bare walls?”

You sink into his hands, let him tilt your head up, look up into his beautiful, precious, familiar face.

There’s something different about his eyes.

You can’t tell what it is.

“You know why.”

His smile fades.

“You’ve been dead for a year,” you say.

He looks away, for the first time. Then looks back at you, tilts your head back further, curving your throat, naked under his eyes.

“It's felt like that, yeah,” he says.

“Yeah.”

What else is there to say? This is a dream, right? Despite his promise that he’s here, that he’s alive. That this is real.

He lets you go, and you feel like falling to your knees.

But you haven’t fallen to your knees as a result of his absence for years now.

You manage to stay standing.

“Thirsty?” you ask, when he just stands there, looking at your face, your neck, your chest, eyes drifting down to your feet and up again. As if he’s as thirsty for your image as you are for his.

You’ve only ever been able to slake the thirst of his throat. It has always had to do, knowing that he wasn't thirsty for you.

“Very,” he says, strangely emphatic. But then he seems to return to himself. “I’ll make us something. I know what you like the best, after all.”

He turns, and you watch his broad back as he moves into your kitchen.

You realize that he’s about to see more evidence of the desolation his death has wrought in your life.

You suddenly can’t stand it.

You move forward, grab his arm.

It’s hard.

Like, really hard.

Not hard like firm muscle.

Hard like the barrel of a gun.

He turns, grabs your hand with his, gently, firmly, removes it from his bicep.

“What do you need, baby?”

His voice is gentle, but his eyes.

There’s something different about his eyes.

You’re starting to wonder if this isn’t a dream.

“Caleb?”

He sighs. “Let me get you something to drink. Then we can talk.”

But you don’t want to talk. You want to know.

You have to know.

“No, I want to see.”

His voice is harder, now. “No, you don’t. You have no idea—”

You cut him off, anger sudden, bright, painful.

One of the few things you have left to you, after he took everything else with him into the ground.

“No. No, you don’t understand. You don’t understand, what it’s been like—,” you choke, the loss, the weight of the past year suddenly overwhelming.

How dare he hide part of himself from you? How dare he disappear for a year, say nothing, let you believe he was dead? Let you suffer, suffocate, be buried in the ground in an empty coffin? You need to see him, to touch him, to feel him. It’s the least of what he owes you. After everything.

The anger ebbs, just as quickly as it came. You need this. You need him.

“Caleb.” You step forward again. Lift your hand, slowly. “Please.”

You’re not above begging. You’ve never been above begging, wheedling, pleading.

An annoying little sister.

Until he left.

Until the time between returned texts, missed calls, set you on your butcher’s path. Your limping half-life, muscling forward, agonized at every step, every milestone, alone, untethered, with most of yourself flying so far away, high in the sky.

You had never been above begging, until the day you decided never to ask him for anything, ever again.

Something strange passes over his handsome face, then. Again, it’s so quick, you can’t catch its meaning, the feeling behind it.

He sighs again.

You know this is his consent.

You move forward, place your hand back on his arm. Feel its hard planes, the inhuman hardness under your palm.

Then your hands are at the hem of his hoodie, his undershirt. Scrambling, shaking. You lift, lift, the soft fabric, the scent of clean laundry filling your nose, the smell of home wafting from his now-exposed skin, his waist, abdomen—the soft trail of dark hair leading down into his pants, the slight, soft layer of fat over the hard muscle beneath.

Caleb has always been big, hard and soft, strong. Not hydration starved, stone cut. The strength of a man who excelled at sport, at lifting weights, at eating heartily to fuel his big body. That hasn’t changed. You resist the urge to lean down, press your face into the soft hair of his belly.

You lift his shirts further, and he lets you, lifting his arms.

You pull the hoodie, the undershirt over his head, and your eyes widen as his right arm is revealed in its silver, breathtaking beauty. Your breath catches. You drop his shirts on the floor.

He must misread something in your gaze, in your hitched breath. His voice is bitter. “The price of resurrection,” he says.

You take him in. His big feet, steady on your kitchen floor. His long legs, thick thighs encased in cargo pants. The soft line of his hair on his stomach, tapered waist, the flare of his back, his huge pectorals, the dark soft hair there. His broad shoulders, heavy with muscle. His big arms, one the lovely, softly furred skin you remember against you in the middle of a panic attack, in the middle of the night when the nightmares would come. The other, gleaming under the bright sunlight streaming through your windows.

Sinuous silver metal, grooved in intricate patterns for movement, utility. Ending in a hand, still encased in a glove.

“Beautiful,” you breathe.

Until this moment, you haven’t given yourself a chance to wonder how he was here, whole, after the explosion, the fire.

You didn’t dare let yourself believe that this wasn’t a dream.

But here he is. The rise and fall of his big chest as he breathes, as he watches you, watching him.

His arm, the evidence of what he has endured.

You reach out, pause as he flinches. But he doesn’t pull away. You take his gloved, prosthetic hand in yours, lift it to your mouth.

You open, exposing your teeth. You gently bite the soft leather, clench. Pull.

The glove slides off his hand, this new hand of his, as Caleb’s chest rises and falls, faster.

As a soft pink rises up his chest, his neck, into his cheeks.

You think because of the embarrassment. Maybe misplaced shame.

As if he should ever be ashamed of having survived. Of having come home to you, finally.

You think you can forgive anything, in this moment.

You know it won’t last. You know that too much has happened.

You’ve always held terrible grudges.

But for now, you forgive him, as you take his metal hand in both of yours. As you lift it to your cheek. As you close your eyes, nuzzle into his cool, silver palm, so grateful that he’s here, whole.

You’ve never been whole. He’s always had half of you. More than half. But it doesn’t suit Caleb, not to be whole—your wholesome, better half.

You’re so grateful that even the parts he lost have been restored in such a beautiful, strength-suffused way. A living sculpture.

You don’t see him clenching his teeth.

You don’t see the tears, gathering at the edges of his soft, indigo eyes.

The heave of his chest.

Just for a moment, as he breaks a little, as he helplessly watches you, because he can’t feel you very well with this hand, as you press your face into the most inhuman part of himself.

He takes a deep breath. Steadies himself. He pulls you in with his strong, gleaming arm. Wraps his other arm around you. Tucks your head into his chest. He resists the urge to take his silver hand, squeeze your throat, his long fingers reaching the back of your strong, delicate neck.

Just enough pressure, to leave a collar of bruises, to remind you when he has to leave you again that this is real, that he's real, when you start to doubt again, to worry again.

For your boyfriend to see.

You feel the soft hair under your cheek, his warm skin, contrasting with his cold metal hand, the steady heartbeat under your ear.

This is real.

He’s alive.

Caleb is alive.

“Caleb.”

It’s all you can say.

“Yeah.”

He holds you like this, standing in your kitchen. He holds you like this for an eternity. But it will never feel as long as the year without him.

You don’t think it will ever be enough, after what you endured, during your year buried in the dark.

Finally, you realize you have to go to the bathroom. You pull away. “My kitchen is empty. You don’t understand what it has been like, since you've been gone. So don’t judge.”

He looks down into your face, smiles at you. There’s no trace of the tears in his eyes. “Oh, I’m gonna judge you, Pipsqueak,” he teases, and the familiarity of it helps you breathe. Gives you the strength to scowl at him, force yourself to pull further away.

“Be more useful than you have been for the past year and order something to eat while I’m in the bathroom,” you order him.

He snorts a laugh. Gives you a lazy salute.

You don’t see his smile fade, as he watches you move away from him, shut the door to the bathroom behind you.

You don’t see his shaky breath, the cold which leeches from his arm back into his eyes. He looks around your apartment, the empty walls, the lack of pillows, blankets on the spare furniture. As if you don’t allow yourself comforts, anymore. All of the color, the life bled out of a place that should be your safe space, your sanctuary. All the color, the life that he knows lives inside you, even if you don’t believe it yourself.

He turns, opens a cupboard.

Bare.

Opens the fridge.

A half-drunk bottle of wine. The rest, bare.

He scowls.

He’s been gone for too long. You’ve lost too much weight.

But he’s back now.

Things are going to change for you, now. Because he’s going to change them.

Your phone vibrates from your coat in the hall.

You don’t see him stride to the hall, fish it out of your pocket, unlock it. He knows your passcode, still. It’s his birthday, after all.

It’s a text from your boyfriend.

He stares down at it. All okay? Raincheck for the movie? Maybe tonight after you’ve had a chance to catch up with your brother this afternoon?

His contact picture in your phone is a picture of the two of you, him smiling brightly, you smiling slightly. A reserved, faraway smile. Caleb knows this smile.

It’s your mask.

The mask you put on, after he left for the DAA.

This smile is the only thing that will save your boyfriend from an unfortunate incident that costs him his life.

This smile tells Caleb that removing this man from your life will be a cakewalk, so no extreme measures are necessary.

If you were really happy with this guy, you would feel safe enough to not smile at all. To reveal all the hollow, empty places inside you, that only Caleb can fill.

If you had shown your true face in the photo, Caleb might have to worry.

Caleb types, briefly.

You: Not today. Still busy with Caleb. I’ll call you.

He then deletes both texts.

He turns the phone to silent. Slips it back into your coat pocket.

He slips his own phone out of one of his pockets, orders some food and drinks as you so adorably demanded.

He doesn’t bother putting his hoodie or undershirt back on.

He pours two glasses of water, since you don't even have any fucking tea in your cupboards. He takes them over and sets them on one of your sidetables next to your couch.

You emerge from the bathroom, come to him on the couch. You just stand, staring down at him. A complicated look of sorrow, of relief—anger, hesitation, yearning—on your gorgeous, cherished face, all of your emotions, plain as day, so easy for him to read. Even when you tried to hide them. Even when you tried to push him away, keep him at arm’s length.

He knows you better than you know yourself, after all.

“Why so far away?” he finally asks.

A helpless look crosses your lovely face now. He reaches out with his human hand, and you take it, let him pull you down next to him on the couch. You rest your head against his shoulder.

Neither of you speak. He just holds you, your body melting into his. His fingers, the ones he can feel the best, drift up and down your arm.

There will be time now, to speak, later.

All the time in the world.

Caleb’s back, and he’s not going anywhere. He’s going to fix what he broke.

It’s time to start making up for lost time.

He thinks about the book he used to read to you as a child. About a little prince, who loved a rose. A demanding, capricious, prickly rose. Whose upkeep took all of the little prince's time, energy. Eventually, the little prince tires of the work, and leaves his rose behind.

I was too young to know how to love her.

Unlike the little prince, Caleb never tired of his thorny, difficult, needy rose. The rose that he began taming from the moment Gran brought her, hollow-eyed and traumatized, from a terrible, terrible place.

You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose.

But Caleb did have to leave his rose behind, for much longer than he intended.

"I'm sorry, I'm so tired," you interrupt his thoughts, yawning, wide, freely.

You haven't been this pliant, this needy, with him in years. He marvels at the sensation, of you being so close to him again. Of you revealing yourself to him again, after so long, with your clinginess, your need to be close to his body, to him, your naked reliance on what he can give you with his big body, his soothing words.

Apparently his death actually had an upside.

He turns his head, looks down at you. "Then sleep, Pipsqueak."

Your beautiful face twists into an expression of dread. It breaks his heart, as it always has. "I'm afraid to fall asleep."

How often has he heard this from you, through the course of his life by your side? Your nightmares, ever present, walking on one side of you, as Caleb walked on the other, helpless, unable to reach into your mind and crush them with his telekinesis. He has always tried to be everything to you. To give you everything. But the only thing he could offer you for the dreams haunting you was treatment for the symptoms, instead of destroying the cause. His arms around you in the dark. Brushing the sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. Whispering silly stories to you, until your heart stopped racing. Resisting the urge to kiss you, to roll on top of you, fill you until you forgot everything but him.

He asks a question he thinks he already knows the answer to. He knows you better than you know yourself, after all. "Nightmares still bothering you?" He lets his human fingertips drift up to your face, thumbing across your cheek. Your skin is so soft. He wants to run his tongue where his thumb is. He has always wanted to run his tongue where his thumb is, where his fingers are. Along the delicate skin of your throat, the insides of your thighs, behind your knees, between your legs.

He hated himself for the want.

The little prince was too young when he left his rose to know how to love her properly.

In many ways, so was Caleb.

But he died. He died, and he crawled back from the grave, just to be with you again.

He's not the same boy you knew. And he's not the same boy who was too young to properly love his rose.

"Yes. But they changed, after you died." Your breath is shaky as you exhale. "But I don't want to talk about that right now. I don't want to fall asleep right now, because I'm afraid that when I wake up, this will all have been a dream."

He wants to know about how your nightmares changed. He hates the idea that there are things about you now that he doesn't know. He needs to know everything.

But now he has time. All the time in the world, to re-learn every part of you. To learn what he never allowed himself to learn, before. Your taste. You softest, most tender places.

"Sleep. I'll prove to you that this is real. I'll be here when you wake up," he promises.

And he means it. He cleared the entire weekend, as he hacked your phone, figured out where you'd be. As he made his way to intercept you in public, to gauge your reaction to seeing him for the first time, to make you feel safe by giving you the choice to come to him, instead of him suddenly confronting you with a ghost at your door.

To see how you'd react to seeing him, when you were with another man.

He knows you better than you know yourself. You reacted just as he had expected, had hoped.

He probably smiled a little too wide, as you hid your face in his neck, as you clung to him, as he told your interim boyfriend that you were otherwise occupied for the rest of the day.

Now, you look up at him, completely unaware of the intensity of his feelings for you. That'll begin to change, from now on. You nod. Whisper, "Okay."

"Good girl," he murmurs, and leans back on the couch, pulls you down with him. You rest your head on his bare chest, and he feels whole for the first time in years.

You fall asleep like the sun slipping below the desert's horizon, melting into him.

He watches you sleep, idly running his good hand along your back, tracing your spine. He's hard as fuck, but he does nothing, as he has done for years. His dick can wait.

He knows you better than you know yourself. And whatever has changed in the last year, he'll learn.

He has time. All the time in the world, now.

Suddenly, you whimper in your sleep, frowning. You're dreaming, and it's not good.

He lifts his human hand, gently presses into your lower lip with his thumb. You whimper again, open your lips. He slips his thumb in, relishing the feel of your warm, wet tongue on his skin. You wrap your lips, your tongue around his thumb as you sleep, and you settle, your body melting into his again. He's hard as fuck, but still feels so satisfied, watching as he soothes you with a part of himself.

He has time. All the time in the world, now. And this time, he's not going to resist the urge to kiss you, to stuff you with himself until all of your empty, hollow spaces are filled. Dying puts things like guilt, sin, societal expectations into perspective.

Nothing is going to stop him from getting everything he wants, this time. And in the process, he's going to give you everything he knows you want in return.

No, he's not the same kind-hearted boy from your childhood.

And he was never your fucking brother.

#a masterpiece #such an amazing read #brb crying

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just-another-reader1098 · 4 months ago

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TRADITIONS AND VALUES | THEODORE NOTT

SUMMARY: You spend Christmas Eve with your boyfriend and his family. WORD COUNT: 8715 NOTES: Just warning you all, this really is a sickeningly self-indulgent romanticised softy Theo and I make no apologies.

The Internazionale di Roma Floo Station was busier than you’d expected, even if it was the crack of dawn on Christmas Eve. People were rushing from one place to another, some with suitcases, others with stacks of presents so tall they couldn't see around them, some dragging wailing children, and others holding signs. You’d yet to even take a step off the platform itself before someone was shouldering past you, mumbling as they rushed by you in a hurry, and you sighed.

Lifting your bag back onto your shoulder, you made your way down the platform towards the collections point, nerves ricocheting higher and higher with every step you took. The floo station in Italy was warmer than London had been, and you loosened the scarf around your neck to let it hang open. The moment you cleared border checks and registration, gathering your wand on the other side and smiling at a not-so-smiley security officer, you searched for Theo.

It didn’t take long to find him, not as you searched through the crowds of people gathered with signs, leaning against a pillar, bundled in a thick coat and looking adorably sleepy. At your call of his name, his head snapped up, peering around with juxtaposing alertness and locking his gaze on you as you hurried towards him.

Perhaps it had only been a week or so since you’d last seen him, but it felt like months, as you crashed into your boyfriend’s arms and buried yourself in his embrace once again.

“Oh, bella, mi sei mancato così tanto.” He murmured, his face pressed into your hair as he kissed across to your temple.

“I missed you, Teddy.” Your words were muffled as you were crushed to his chest, holding him just as tightly as he was holding you. Blocking out the hustle and bustle of the International Floo Station around you, you took a deep breath, drawing in the smell of him and sighing happily. Letting him go after another breath, he tucked hair out of your eyes, cupping your cheeks when they were unobstructed, and leaning down to kiss you.

His mouth was warm, and he tasted like coffee and sugary pastries, a flavour you licked from his lower lip as he smiled into the kiss. You were practically melting against him, the racing of your heart calming as his lips soothed away any anxieties you’d previously been harbouring. Running your hands up his forearms slowly, you took his hands in your own, and stepped back.

“You got coffee?��

“In the car.” He smiled, eyes still closed as his head rested on your own. “Proper, Italian coffee. The best kind.”

“Tastes good already.” You teased, and he pulled back, a smirk on his face as his arm slung over your shoulders, tucking you securely into his side.

“Feel free to have another sample.” He whispered, stealing another kiss from your lips as he reached across your body with his other hand. Taking your bag from your shoulder, his eyes widened as the weight of it almost dragged him down to the ground, rattling and clinking as it went. “Merda, what do you have in here?”

“Gifts for your family! I wasn’t going to show up empty-handed!”

He peered inside, shaking his head as he stared into the darkness within. “Another extension charm? No wonder it took you so long to clear security.”

“It’s a legal one!”

“Mhm.”

“It is!” You insisted, reaching to snatch for your bag again but he only rolled his eyes, hauling it up onto his shoulder and guiding you out of the busy station. Theo gave a tired hum as he directed you towards the car, a large SUV with plush leather seats, charmed to stay warm, as you settled inside. Plucking up one of the coffees, you spun it around, noting your order on the front, and taking a sip as Theo packed your bag into the back.

The caffeine rush it gave you was the boost you needed, sending a jolt of warm energy through your body, and as Theo climbed into the driver’s seat, you twisted your head to look at him. “You got my coffee order right.”

“Of course I did.” He scoffed, like it was the simplest thing in the world, and as he started the car, you reached over and placed your hand atop his. He flipped his palm, bringing your wind-chilled fingers up to his lips to place a kiss against your knuckles. As he returned your hand to the gearstick, he settled his own over the top, and began the drive.

“So, why is it that we’re driving?” You asked, breaking the comfortable silence you’d been in for the last half an hour or so, watching the cityscape melt into frost-covered countryside.

“My family is excited to meet you, some of them are already up and crowded in the family room by the floo waiting for you. So I snuck out to the garage and thought I’d drive to come and get you so we could spend a little time together first.”

“Oh, Teddy. You’re getting soft on me.” You smiled, and he reached over, squeezing one of your thighs and smirking.

“Or, maybe, I just intend to pull over to the side of the road and fuck you stupid before we even have breakfast.”

“Don’t be so crude.” You pinched the back of his hand, which only earned you a harder squeeze to your thigh, and a cheeky laugh. “I intend to make a good first impression on your family, and showing up thoroughly-fucked would not help with that.”

“Well, at least you admit it would’ve been fantastic.” He sighed a laboured exhale, like he was pained to concede the hypothetical sex, and you rolled your eyes. “I don’t think they’d care even if you did, for the record. When I say they’re very excited to meet you, I mean it.”

“That doesn’t make me any less nervous.” Came your muttered response, and this time, he turned to look at you for a little longer.

“I don’t think you understand, bella. They already love you, because they know how much I love you. They’ve been bugging me to bring you home since last year, and I’ve already told them all about you. They don’t have any expectations of you, they just want to know the girl who makes me so happy.”

Your lips pressed together, hiding a soft sound from escaping and watching the roads disappear under the signs as you tried to process what to say, “Theo…” Was all you managed to muster in five whole minutes, and he laughed again gently.

“Amore mio, I just want you to enjoy today. I only get one day with you, so I want us to make the most of it.” Your stomach twisted at his words, keeping your response to yourself, and choosing instead to pick his hand up. You kissed his knuckles, rubbing your cheek on his hand as he smiled. “Just… do your best to enjoy it, yeah? I want to show you what Christmas in Italy is all about.”

“Okay, Teddy. I can do that.”

“That’s my girl.”

“I think you may actually have more Christmas trees than Hogwarts.” You teased as the car slowly pulled up in front of a large stately home. The driveway you’d just finished travelling up had been lined with sparkling Christmas trees, the snow decorating them and glistening in the rising sun.

Theo sighed, parking the car and shutting off the engine, staring at the largest Christmas tree yet, sitting in the centre of the forecourt. “I know. Nonna goes big on Christmas, there’s even more inside.”

“How many are there?”

“Thirty-six,” Theo rubbed a hand over his jaw, “Counted them myself.”

“Thirty-six Christmas trees?” Your jaw dropped, and he shook his head in matching disbelief. “Which one do you put your presents under?”

“Funny you should ask that.” His grimace turned to a smile, eyes going a little cloudy as he stared off across the driveway. “When I was younger, my mother used to hide one of my Christmas presents under every single one, and I got to spend all day going around to find them.”

You reached across the car, taking his hand and lacing your fingers through his. He squeezed, coming back to the present a moment later, as his mind returned from his memories. “I bet you were so cute, running around in your little festive pyjamas hunting for presents.”

“I was the cutest. My Aunt Allessandra already got the baby albums out for you.”

“Most people don’t boast about baby photos, you know that, right?”

His grin was arrogant, “Most people weren’t as adorable as I was. You know some babies are really ugly? Not me, I was—”

“Theo, you can’t call babies ugly!” You smacked his arm, shaking your head at his cackled laughter as you climbed out of the car. He followed suit, closing his door loudly and racing to the back to nudge you out of the way before you could take your bag.

“C’mon, you know it’s true. Anyways, it’s not like you have to worry about that. Your babies will be adorable, because—” You cupped a hand over his mouth, giving him a warning glare, and he only winked through smothered laughter. Slipping your hand away, he pressed a fleeting kiss to your palm as it left, and scooped up your bag from the car. “Fine. No baby talk from me. Can’t promise about the rest of the family. Nonna wants us to get married by the—”

“Ah! Meraviglioso, they’re here!” A feminine voice called from the large front doors, ones you hadn't even noticed had opened, and you stiffened as Theo’s eyes widened. Several other voices joined the other, footsteps getting closer, and his shock morphed into a small smile.

“Here we go, amore.”

Stepping aside, Theo hardly even had a chance to greet his family before hands were cupping your cheeks, warmed by the indoors and soft as they held you. “Oh, you are so beautiful! Bellisima!”

“Auntie Allie…” He scoffed, nudging her back, but it wasn’t long before other relatives of his were gathering around too. Two of his aunts and three of his cousins, all chattering between English and Italian, admiring and complimenting, you could guess, based on how pink Theo’s cheeks were going.

One of his male cousins said something that made him scowl and elbow him in the ribs, before he was reaching through the others and taking your hand. Tugging you closer to his side; an action which settled your nerves but only increased the volume of adoring coos the two of you were afforded.

“We made big plans for today.” One of his aunts —Giulia, you were sure— informed you, touching your arm lightly as Theo steered you towards the house.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that…”

“Sì, Auntie Gi, I told you not to go overboard with this!” Theo groaned, and she shushed him with a wave of her hand.

“Yes, yes, you did. But we decided otherwise. Your girl deserves a full Italian Christmas and she’s going to get one!” A blush covered your cheeks, you could feel it rage even hotter the moment you stepped over the threshold and into the warmed house. As you did, an elderly elf wearing a pink knitted hat, a floral apron and one sock appeared, holding out her hands.

“Cappotto!” She demanded, snapping her fingers, and Theo shrugged off his coat quickly and handed it to her. You followed suit, and she left with a soft huff and a pop.

“That is Miffy. She runs the rest of the elves here with an iron rod. She put on her special occasion sock for you.”

“One sock?”

“Yes, she’s very particular about it. Says wearing two socks makes her too warm.” He rolled his eyes, hefting your bag higher up on his shoulder.

“Sounds like you with your leg sticking out of the covers every night.”

“Did you just compare me to a house elf?” He gaped, and you shrugged, grinning at him over your shoulder as you followed the rest of his family further into the house. You were guided past several open rooms, before arriving in a large, open-plan sitting room.

Some of his family were already gathered around, sipping from mugs of tea and coffee, a table laid out with breakfast pastries and food piled high. A group of young children were sitting around the tree and poking at the piles of gifts stacked there. Beside them, sat an older lady, enchanted knitting needles surrounding her as she used the set in her hands to knit far slower into a more interesting design. As one little finger tugged on a bow, she raised her brow and poked the giggling toddler lightly with one of her needles.

“That’s Nonna?” You whispered as Theo came to your side, and he placed your bag down beside the closest table, nodding his head.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone else, but I want you to officially meet her first.”

His hand pressed on your lower back, guiding you across the room, and as you got close, the knitting needles, floating on command, all slowed to a stop. She lowered the ones in her hands to her lap, her gaze running over you as appraised you, and your hands locked nervously in front of your body, fiddling with your fingers.

“Nonna, this is my girlfriend.”

“Well, obviously, Theodore.” She drawled, shaking her head at him, and he bit back a smile. Her attention shifted back to you, and she smiled at you. Holding up her knitting, she proffered the half-finished square pattern. “This colour, do you like it? And no flattery, I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying.”

A laugh escaped you, and you nodded, pinching the soft fabric between two fingers. “It’s a nice shade of purple. My second favourite, even.”

“Second favourite?”

“I like a lighter purple too.” She hummed, snapping her fingers and a basket of other wools floated over to you both from the corner. She rooted through it, before producing a lavender shade, “Like this?”

“Exactly like that.”

“Good choice. I like it too.” She added it to her current pile of wool to use. “My Theodore tells me you are a smart and kind girl. He speaks very highly of you.”

She patted the chair beside her, and you sat down in it, turning to face her, “I hope he’s not set the bar too high about me.”

“No, he set it just right. He deserves someone good, my grandson. He deserves the best.”

“I know.” You whispered, and Theo scuffed his feet against the floor.

“Nonna…”

“Go, Theodore. Get breakfast, you must eat.” She waved him away, and after lingering for only a moment longer, he did as told, leaving the two of you alone. “He loves you very much.”

“I love him too.” Your words rushed from you, assuring her of as much, and she patted your hand with a fond expression.

“You’ll make sure he’s happy.”

“I promise, I’ll—”

“It was not a question. You will make him happy. You already do.” She confirmed, and your lips pressed together, chin wobbling a little as you nodded. It was a promise, all you needed to say, and she squeezed your hand reassuringly as she understood it. “He was sad for a long time, but you make him smile.”

With that, Theo was returning, perching himself on the arm of the chair you were sitting on and passing you a plate that was stacked high. On it were all of your breakfast favourites from the spread, everything you would’ve picked for yourself as well as his preferences, and he dropped a kiss on the top of your head.

“So,” He directed his raised voice to the rest of the room, glancing out across his family, “What busy schedule have you all conjured up for us, then?”

As you ate the breakfast provided, his family excitedly told you all of the plans they had for the day. You also made it through introductions, doing your best to commit the names and faces of every enthusiastic family member to your memory. You were just finishing up a conversation with his youngest uncle when Miffy appeared once again, informing you all with a bossy kind of voice that in order to stay on schedule, it was time to leave.

Several elves appeared, laden down with coats, hats and scarves as they handed them out, and the room jumped into action. Tugging you up from the chair, Theo helped you into your coat, before wrapping a spare scarf around your neck, and leaving a kiss on your cheek before bundling himself up too. The movement of the family was dizzying, and you simply opted to follow along, until you were being ushered through the large floo in the family room fireplace, hand clasped in Theo’s as his voice wrapped in perfect Italian around your first location.

A tug behind your navel, a flash of blinding green fire, and you were stepping out into the cold of a busy and bustling street.

The first stop of the day was the Italian street markets. You’d encountered similar, and at first glance, it all felt so very much like home. You’d spent many a Christmas wandering the wooden huts of the Trafalgar Square Christmas Markets back in London, and a grin crawled onto your face at the comfort of it.

Then, a loud screeching sounded just to your right, melting away into coordinated music as a walking band of bagpipe players passed you by, and Theo laughed in your ear by your side as you clutched a hand to your chest.

“It’s not funny, Nott! That scared the lights out of me!”

“It was kinda’ funny. You should’ve seen your face. You were all awestruck and starry-eyed and then you looked like that time Draco jumped out at you with those plastic Muggle fangs in his mouth on Hallows Eve.” He clutched his stomach in contrast, head tipping back with laughter, and you nudged him in the ribs, even as his amusement brought a smile to your own lips.

“I’ll implore you to remember what happened to Draco when he laughed at me.” Your threat was only met with a smirk and hooded eyes as he tipped his head back down, tempering his laughter.

“Oh, but you wouldn't hex your boyfriend at Christmas, would you?” His lips brushed yours as he tipped your chin up. “You don’t want this lovely face disfigured, do you? You’re the one who has to kiss it.”

“Cut it out.” You whispered, blushing, as he pecked the edge of your mouth, “This is a family event.”

“I’m aware.” He murmured, sealing it with a chaste kiss to your lips and wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “Alright, there’s lots I want to show you and definitely not enough time for it all. Where do you want to start?”

“You tell me.”

“Let’s go.” He beamed, guiding you after his family as the group began to move, idling to the left and in trail of the procession of bagpipe players that had gone on ahead.

You wandered from stall to stall, looking at crafts and ornaments ad freshly made goods. There was a certain kind of cheerful energy in the air that only came around at Christmastime, and you soaked up very second of festive cheer that you could.

Theo plied you with treats at every opportunity, and his pockets started to become laden down with purchases neither of you needed, until he bought a hand-stitched bag at one stall and slung it over his shoulder just to carry everything the pair of you had been purchasing.

Slowly, the group split off, members of the family forming smaller groups to go off to each of their own activities and interests. As you continued exploring, you passed by what appeared to be a nativity scene, set up full-size, behind fences with small sheep and animals wandering around inside.

“This is lovely.” You turned to Theo, and he smiled at your words.

“This is the village Presepe.”

“Presepe?” You echoed, “I thought it was a Nativity scene.”

“A Presepe is a nativity scene, really. It’s the tradition to build one in the home, it’s important, it reminds us of the Christmas story. In my family, we dedicate a whole evening to building one. Ours is in the library, we like it to be somewhere quiet where we can reflect on and admire it.” You wrapped your arms around on of his, leaning your cheek on his shoulder, and his head rested on top of yours. “But, I also used to have a small one in my dorm at Hogwarts. You’ve seen it.”

“I never knew what it was, though. I mean, I didn’t know it meant so much, I thought it was just your general Christmas decorations.”

“It is, technically—”’

“No,” You cut him off, “It’s more important than that. I’ll remember for next year.”

He smiled at that, and the pair of you took a few more minutes to admire the scene, before moving on. Hours seemed to pass by as the two of you slipped into your own little world, soaking up all of the time you had together and huddling close in the cold, wintery air.

You wouldn't trade these times for the world. As doting as Theo was, as loving and devoted, these times when the two of you were alone and you were reminded. Reminded, that he wasn’t just someone you were attracted to or loved, but that he was also your best friend in every way, someone you could confide in and trust and rely on.

He was your whole world, and spending time with him, in a place that was his whole world, meant all the more to you. Something you were sure you wouldn't be able to express with words, so you indulged his every whim instead, and committed it all to memory.

You were still stuffed up from the fresh struffoli Theo had offered to you not long ago, feeding you bites from the shared tray before he’d ordered you another one. Unlike him, who seemed to eat endlessly and always still be hungry, you didn’t possess such a talent, and you were ready for a drink to wash it down, when he turned to you with a handful of more sweet treats.

“Try this, bella.”

“Just a bite.” You sighed, unable to say no to the adorable look on his face as he brought over what looked like a piece of fruitcake.

“Just a bite? Don’t be silly. You need more than one bite to appreciate this panettone.” He lifted it to your lips, and you parted them, his eyes sparkling as he watched you take a bite. He followed soon after, crumbs dropping to the floor between you both as he finished off the slice in a single mouthful. His cheeks puffed up like a hamster, and you raised your eyebrows as you chewed slowly, savouring the delicious treat. “What? You said you just wanted a bite!”

Your lips pressed further together and your hand covered your mouth to muffle a laugh as he spat crumbs everywhere while speaking. His cheeks turned red, and he shook his head fondly as he attempted to finished the excessive amount of food in his mouth.

“Careful, you two.” His cousin Maria grinned as she passed by, clapping Theo on the back as he choked down the treat. “Don’t eat too much, or you’ll ruin your appetite for the Feast later.”

“We’ll be fine, we’re indulging.” Theo scoffed, patting his stomach. “Tanto spazio, non preoccuparti.”

Your brows furrowed as Maria tipped her head back and laughter, Theo preening with pride at amusing his cousin as he joined her. As she ambled on ahead, still chatting to Theo in Italian, you took the time to admire one of the intricate craft stalls opposite the bakery stand.

Picking up a small glass trinket, you hung the bauble from your finger, watching the glittery item twirl before you and reflect the stark winter daylight in beautiful colours. “How much?” You asked, smiling at the vendor, who rubbed his chin.

“Ti piace?”

Your lips parted but no words came out, as you realised for the first time that without Theo, you were a little lost. Tapping it with your finger, you floundered for words, feeling more than ignorant and beyond embarrassed at your inability for simple communication for the first time today. It struck you, with a startling shock, that his family had been making the effort to speak to you in English, and you’d taken it for granted.

Swallowing back the clog of emotion in your throat, you coughed lightly, putting it down and pulling out your purse. Opening it up to the Muggle notes of Italian cash that you’d converted before leaving London, you offered him a handful. The vendor chuckled, taking the money from you and counting out just two of the notes, before passing the rest back. “Inglese? English?” He prompted, and you nodded, feeling the odd urge to apologise as he counted out coins and gave you a handful of those as change too.

“Yes. Uhm, sí.” You fumbled, cursing internally for how clumsy you sounded, but the older man merely smiled at you.

“Have a good day.” He spoke slowly, and it pained you not to be able to even return the simple kindness. Instead, you pointed at him.

“E tu.” There were a few small words here and there that you’d picked up from Theo over the years, and you could only hope you’d said something that made sense. By the look on his face, you’d at least managed to do that correctly. Pocketing your purse and your change, the man handed you your carefully wrapped ornament, and cheerfully gave you a goodbye as you stepped away, searching for Theo in the crowds.

He wasn’t far ahead, talking to his Nonna but his eyes were on you, and his face broke into a smile as your eyes met. Your mood seemed to thaw again at the sight of him, your heart warming the inside of your chest and spreading the feeling out through your body as you walked back to his side.

He held out his hand, and you took it, lacing your gloved fingers through his as he tugged you closer. “Nonna was just suggesting we go to the Tombola. It’s cold out here, and we can go inside and warm up. What do you think?”

“I think that sounds fun… what is it?”

Nonna chuckled, patting your arm. “You have heard of bingo, sí?”

“Oh, yes!” You cheered, and she clicked her fingers.

“Ah, it is like bingo. You will enjoy, my dear. Come, come.” She offered you her arm, and you accepted it eagerly, letting her slowly guide the three of you through the town centre you’d been circling for the last couple of hours, to the Town Hall sitting squarely in the middle.

She was right, it was much warmer inside, and you queued up with the few members of the Nott family that had come to join to check your coats. You tucked your scarf and gloves into your pockets hastily, handing the bundle over to the woman and letting Theo do the talking as he gave his name and took his tag.

You were rubbing your cooled hands together when he took one in his own, threading your hands together and squeezing happily as you joined the crowded hall filled with people. Finding a place to sit, you all hemmed yourselves in around the table, swiping up sheets and markers before the next round began. Theo leaned over to get a peek at your card, and you pressed it to your chest, causing him to pull back, surprised.

“Let me see.”

“No! Get your own, this is my card!” You held it tighter to your chest as he tried to steal it from you, his jaw dropping.

“You want to be on separate teams? I can’t believe this.” He feigned heartbreak, head hanging, and you giggled at his dramatics. Dipping down and into his eye-line, he stuck his bottom lip out in an exaggerated put. “I can’t believe you’re abandoning me like this, and here I thought you loved me! Oh, il dolore…”

“Oh, hush your whinging. Two teams means double the chance to win prizes.”

His lip slipped back into place, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead, and then his face broke with amusement. “My cunning little snake, I’m rubbing off on you. I knew there was a reason I loved you.”

“What, just the one reason?”

“Well, I could start to list them all,” He leaned in, brushing his lips against your ear, “But I’m afraid we would run out of time.”

Taking his jaw in your hand, you smacked a kiss onto his cheek, his face scrunching up happily. “Ti amo, Theo.”

“I love you too, bella.” He reached across the table, swiping up a card and his own marker. Pulling your chair closer to his, he stretched his arm along the back of your seat and pressed you into his side.

“Hey, Theo?” You felt his responding hum against the top of your head as his fingers wove into your hair, rubbing lightly. “What’s ‘the Feast’ later?”

He pulled back enough to be able to see you, twisting strands of hair around his fingers. “Oh, the Feast of Seven Fishes. It’s a special meal at Christmas.”

“Oh, like Christmas dinner!” He dipped his chin in a nod, and you took the information on board, “You don’t do Christmas dinner, then?”

“‘Course we do.” He chuckled at you, “But, on Christmas Day. It’s Christmas Eve, so this is a Christmas Eve tradition.”

You knew inside Theo didn’t intend to make you feel at a disadvantage with the way he said it, but that didn’t stop you feeling that way. Once again, another small thing made you feel like you were inexperienced and behind the rest. At your lack of response, Theo tilted his head, his eyes searching your own. You distracted him with a kiss to his cheek, facing yourself back to the front of the room as a little old lady took the stage, bringing attention to the game that was just beginning.

Taking back your coat, Theo untangled himself from you to begin fastening one of his baby cousins into her coat. Yours was handed back to you, and you smiled appreciatively at the woman behind the desk. Taking your scarf out and wrapping it around your neck, you shrugged on your coat. Buttoning it up for warmth, at last, you patted your pockets down for your gloves as you made your way over to Theo and the group.

Both pockets came up empty, and you shoved your hands inside, rooting into the empty spaces to confirm. At some point, your gloves must’ve fallen out, but between the crowds gathering around the coatcheck desk and your lack of ability to communicate, you decided against making a bumbling effort to retrieve them. Writing them off, you left your hands curled up in your pockets as your boyfriend’s hand found your lower back, guiding you outside.

As you listened, he promised his family that the pair of you would reunite with them soon, you’d meet them at the pub floo you’d all entered through, but apparently, you had one more thing to do. At your raised brow, Theo quickly guided you towards the edges of the markets, where a small group was beginning to form, gathered around… nothing, you could see, as you got closer.

“It’s almost time to go home.” Theo offered, and you nodded, silently relieved as your freezing hands clenched inside your pockets, joints aching from the cold exposure. “Just one more thing I want us to do. Do you have your wand on you?”

Your head snapped up, noticing the smaller group you’d been assembled into on the edges of the town, and realising they all had their wands out too. “I-I don’t. I left it in my bag at yours, I didn’t know I would need it—”

“It’s okay, you can share mine.” He soothed, and he placed the smooth Hawthorn wand into your palm, his hand wrapping around your own and his back pressing to your chest. His other arm snaked around your middle, his chin propped on your shoulder. Only moments later, you were once again left steeped in confusion as he began to swirl your joined hands in the execution of a spell you didn’t know, reciting the charmed Italian with words you did not know, to cast an enchantment that you did not know.

The scene before you was breathtaking, swirls of coloured mist and sparks from all the group gathered around, bundling into a soft ball of light in the centre of the group, growing from a mere sparkling pinprick to something the size of a golfball, spinning with every addition of magic and power. When the group chanting ended, the small ball pressed itself smaller and smaller, before zooming off into the sky and disappearing into the grey clouds in a blink.

“Wow…” You murmured, turning to Theo, “What was—”

His lips pressed to yours firmly, his arms around you keeping you close as he placed a single, heavy kiss onto our mouth. “That, was an ancient tradition. Wizarding world special. Instead of mistletoe, you cast a spell with the person you love in a pledge for a happy and joyful Christmas. My mum used to bring me when I was a kid, and I… I wanted to bring you.”

“Oh, Teddy…” Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him in until your eyes could flutter closed and your forehead was pressed to his. “That is so sweet. I’ve never heard of such a tradition before.”

“I’m not surprised.” He huffed to himself bemusedly, trapped in a joke only he understood. “Come on, let's get your home, your hands are freezing. Where are your gloves?”

“Think I lost them along the way somewhere.” You deflected, and he shrugged. The rest of his family were beginning to round up too, and none too soon, you were all piling once again back into a floo to Nott Manor. Unloading your coat to another excitable but demanding house elf, you guided yourself back through to the living room where the fires were still roaring. The youngest of the children sprinted past you, and you leaned down to gather your bag in the meantime.

In the background, you could hear Theo’s family chatting away, laughter and love filling the halls in a way that was so homely and comforting, and you guided yourself over to the Christmas tree already stacked high with presents underneath, spilling out in mountains from beneath.

Sinking to your knees, you opened up your bag, diving elbow-deep into the extended insides and beginning to pull out the few, carefully wrapped presents you’d brought with you. In the dining room, you could hear glasses clinking and corks popping, as preparations for the Feast you’d only just learned about took place.

That clawing, suffocating sense of embarrassment was back as you let slip a sigh, running a finger over the wrapping paper covered in small Santa hats that you’d used to wrap the gifts for the younger children. It felt so out of place now, utterly ridiculous, as you remembered hearing so many children running around the markets talking about La Befana, before eventually needing Theo to explain. You contemplated whether it was too late to find some other kind of paper and rewrap them.

With a shake of your head, your resolve weakened, fingers trembling as you picked at the red ribbon wrapped around it. “What’s wrong, amore?”

Theo startled you from being so lost in your thoughts, and you whipped around to see him standing over you, a concerned look on his face. At your hesitation, he lowered himself down to sit crosslegged before you.

“Nothing, baby. I’m all good, just putting a few presents under your tree.”

He watched you place the final gift on the small stack you’d added, before taking your hand in his, his thumb tracing your knuckles. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve gone all quiet.” He whispered, “What’s wrong, are you homesick?”

“No, not at all. I’m having a wonderful time.” You reassured him, squeezing his hand in your own.

“But you’re sad.”

“No, I’m not—” He gave you a look, one you were familiar with after a year together, pressing you for the truth and you caved faster than you’d have liked. Your voice cracked as you spoke quietly once again, “I feel like an idiot, Theo.”

“What are you talking about, bella? Why would you feel that way, I don’t understand?”

“I should’ve been more prepared. I’ve come to spend Christmas with your family, and you’ve all been so kind all day, and spoken my language because I don’t even know yours! I have been so behind at every step with your traditions and customs, I feel so selfish because I should’ve done more research into today, so that I could share it with you properly, but I didn’t!” Your eyes stung, and you tore your gaze away from his, “I’m sorry, Teddy.”

Theo cupped your cheek, a sad sound escaping him as he pressed kisses all over the side of your face you allowed him access to, as he tried to coax you to face him once again. “Listen to me, amore. Please? I didn’t expect you to know anything at all, you were here to learn, that was the whole point! I’ve had so much fun teaching you. I got to share everything with you and relive the magic of it by re-experiencing it all with you of the first time.”

His words did their job, easing some of the discomfort you’d been feeling, and you finally gave in, looking back up to him as he smiled, bumping his nose with your own lovingly.

“As for the English, in my family, we’re taught English alongside Italian since we started learning to talk at all. We all go to Hogwarts, and some of my family spend more of the year in London or Paris or other places than here at all, meaning Italian isn’t even our main language even if it is our first. It’s not something to stress about, I swear.” He gave you a quick but reassuring kiss, rubbing his thumb across your cheek as you smiled. “But if you want to learn Italian, I’ll teach you. I’d love to, but I never wanted you to feel forced to.”

“I’d like that.” You whispered, stealing a kiss too, and a little of that light came back to his face as you did.

“You know, I didn’t really know anything about English Christmas traditions until I started Hogwarts. Don’t you remember? You all had to teach me in first year.”

You cast your mind back, trying to remember the fuzzy memories of your friends from so long ago. “You caught on quick.”

“I’m a fast learner.” Theo teased playfully. “Please don’t let yourself feel down, because this day has been perfect for me, and I want you to remember it that way too.”

Your shoulders sagged, leaning into his hug, and you tried your best to let the last of your worries slip away. Theo’s hands rubbed up and down your back, and you melted a little more into his embrace.

“Ahem.” Theo’s uncle Marco coughed dramatically, and Theo groaned in your ear as he twisted his head on your shoulder to look at him.

“What? Can’t you see we’re having a moment here? Vaffanculo.”

“Now, now, Theo. What would Nonna say if I told her what you just said?” He grinned, and Theo lifted a hand to make a gesture you didn’t allow, clasping his hand and lowering it back down. His uncle smirked, putting his hands on his hips, “Sorry to interrupt your moment, but it’s time to eat.”

He left before Theo could respond, and you clambered to your feet, brushing yourself off and offering him your hands. He took them, letting you pull him to his feet before he was checking in on you one more time, and seeing something that must’ve reassured him, taking you through to the dining room for dinner.

“Can you tell me about Snata?” One of the toddlers, Romeo, asked. He climbed up beside you and Theo on the couch, uncaring of the meal you’d just stuffed yourselves with as he climbed over Theo, stepping on his stomach before sitting himself in your lap. Looking up at you expectantly, the three-year-old frowned at your stunned expression. “Satna.” He demanded, leaning in closer.

“It’s Santa, idiota.” Another small voice chimed in.

“Hey!” Theo scooped up the other boy, Aldo, and folded him into his arms tightly, shaking his head as the young boy squirmed in the hug and pushed a sticky hand against Theo’s jaw. “That’s not nice, you don’t call people that. Do you want La Befana to bring you presents tonight?”

“Sí.” He grumbled out with added an apology to his brother, and Theo nodded, ruffling his hair as the boy turned to look at you from his perch in his cousin’s lap. He stuck his thumb into his mouth, and leaned to rest his head on Theo’s chest as he prepared to listen. Another little hand landed on you arm, and you found Adriana, their sister, has settled herself in beside you.

“You want to know about Santa too?” You asked, and she nodded her head. You twisted to Theo, “Did you set this up?”

“Nope, this is all them.” He smiled, stretching his arm out along the back of the couch. “Maybe you still have some things to teach us after all.”

So, you settled in, with three small children which soon became four, then five, as you told them all the story of Santa Claus. They were particularly fond of the reindeers, although they weren’t sold on Rudolph, insisting that he must be very, very poorly if his nose is that red. You skirted carefully around the edges of their questions, trying hard not to ruin anything for them or encroach onto territory that might get them thinking a little too deeply and unravel their belief. Instead, you kept the magic alive, by spinning a tale instead of how Santa and La Befana work together to make sure all the children across the world get presents for Christmas Day.

Regardless, the children had taken to the story with wide-eyed excitement and enthusiasm you thought couldn't be conquered. That was, until they smelled hot chocolate in the air. Immediately leaping off of the couch with a new set of interests, they no longer cared to hear about who might bring presents tomorrow, but instead, who might have a treat right now.

You followed after them, back to the dining room where the table was now laid with teapots, coffees and small treats to enjoy for dessert. In the corner, Allessandra was handing out mugs of hot chocolate to the children, and Theo pressed a kiss to the side of your head as he came back to your side. He pressed a warm mug into your hands, and the smell drifted up to your nose, making you groan happily. Looking down, your suspicions were confirmed.

“Theo, what’s all this?” You brought the glass up, sniffling the fruity concoction, and he shrugged.

“This is a little piece of home for you, bella. I want you to be one hundred percent happy here. Your happiness is important to me, don’t you know that? You should’ve told you the moment you felt down, so that I could fix it. I hate seeing you upset.”

“I’m never upset when I’m with you. I just felt a little out of place, but I’m fine now.” You promised, and he seemed to believe you this time, you could see it in his eyes as he nodded.

Lifting the mug to your face, you blew slowly onto the steam rising up from it, and then you heard a cry; “Why is my favourite wine steaming?”

“Uncle Gio, just try it!” Theo insisted, nodding his head less than subtly in your direction, assuming you couldn't see him out of the corner of your eye. “It was my idea, and it happens to be… very nice.”

“It’s something I love, from home.” You interfered, ruling out Theo’s less than convincing attempt to persuade his family. Even as your cheeks heated when several sets of eyes fell on you, you didn’t feel rejected by them, just feeling their intrigue. “It really is good, I promise! It’s just not to everybody’s tastes.”

You nudged your hip against Theo’s who smirked as his shoulders rose and fell. After a lingering moment, his uncle caved and served himself a glass, his other relatives following suit. Soon, several murmured compliments to it were passing around the room, and you grinned up at Theo who was adamantly ignoring your attention.

“Well, well, well. Would you look at that? Your family likes it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, clearly they all hate it, and—”

“Hate what?” His cousin Lucia interrupted, Aria close behind. “This is a surprisingly nice way to enjoy wine,” She offered to you, “It’s better than spiking the coffee and getting shouted at by Nonna when you want a tipsy hot drink, that’s for sure.”

Theo rolled his eyes petulantly, and she tipped her head. “You disagree, Theo?”

“Oh, Theo hates my love for mulled wine. He won’t even kiss me after I’ve had any.” You joked, clutching the glass in your hand and letting the warmth seep through the porcelain and into your cold palms.

His aunts laughed, cooing over his frown as they all clutched their own glasses, enjoying the concoction he hated so abhorrently. Theo’s arm snaked around your middle, pulling you back against him. “Now, that’s just a little lie, isn’t it?”

His family grinned at him, turning away into their own conversation as he guided you away for a little more privacy. Tucking you away with himself into an empty corridor, the two of you made your way slowly through his home, to a little porch swing on the back terrace, looking out across snowy and frost covered grounds.

You settled in, tucking yourself under a blanket and covering his lap with it too, as his arm stretched out along the back, behind your body. “Now, how about those kisses, hm?”

“Are you sure you want to? I mean, I have been drinking this mulled—” Theo scoffed, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger before sealing his mouth over your own, effectively silencing you. His tongue traced a seam underneath your lip, licking away any remnants of the mulled wine and begging entry into your mouth.

You gave way, lips parting, the sweet and fruity taste of your drink mixing with the sugars of cookies still lingering on his tongue, and you groaned softly at the taste of him. His arm slipped down from the back of the bench to slide around your shoulders, pulling you in closer. Tilting his head to the side, Theo’s other hand slipped up your cheek, holding you so tenderly, and you shivered at the feeling of his cold fingers on your skin.

He pulled away, just to dive back in, dotting a series of kisses to your lips, each one you pressed into, returned with a smile or a giggle, until you finished, with your forehead pressed to his. Eyes closed and noses bumping, Theo sighed. His hand slipped down, over your neck and shoulder, to find your hand atop the blanket, and take it in his own.

“Listen, it’s not too late, maybe you could still get in touch with your family?”

“Theo,” You murmured, words sticking in your throat as you held them back.

“We could use my floo, we can call them and ask if you could stay, or maybe compromise, or something?”

“Teddy.” You pressed your free hand to his chest, right over his heart, and he deflated a little under your touch. He’d tried already, he’d been trying for weeks now to convince you to stay with him for the whole of the holidays, and he lifted his head, eyes shining a little as he pouted. A small bubble rose inside you, made of happiness and thrill and the lingering excitement of a surprise you weren’t ready to share yet. “Let’s just enjoy this moment for now, stop thinking about when it will end and just be here with me.”

He relented to your point, letting you rest your head on his shoulder, cuddled up together under the blanket with his hand in your hair. He pressed the occasional kiss to your forehead, using his foot to rock the swing back and forth slowly, sharing the glass of mulled wine between you both despite his supposed hatred for it. When it was empty, he left the glass balanced on the small side table, and took advantage of your new freedom of hands for more clingy cuddling.

Time disappeared around you both, until the clock inside the house began to chime, it's muffled tones making their way through the walls to you both outside, and you felt him stiffen underneath you.

“Do you really have to leave, already?” Theo whispered, as the clock behind you signalled the turn of the hour. His arms tightened around you a little more, his face pressing further into you, and you cuddled him back just as tightly. “What’s it going to take to convince you to stay?”

“You could kiss me again.” You bargained, and his lips flickered at the edges as he lowered his head, catching your mouth with his own in a tender kiss.

His lips dragged across yours sadly, desperately, too reluctant to part for even a breath because it would give you time to say you were leaving now, and he shifted himself. Using his weight to press you back into the edge of the swing, he made not-so-subtle attempts to keep you trapped, to stop you from leaving too soon.

At last, when the need for air became too much, he pulled back with a dismayed breath, and nudged his nose against yours. “I wish you’d stay. I hate saying goodbye.”

Wrapping an arm around his neck, you settled your other hand on his cheek, his eyes closing as he tipped his face further into your touch. Your thumb stroked across his skin, a slow sweep that he timed his exhale with, and a smile twitched on your face. “Ask me again.”

“Please stay.” He whispered, words hollow as he spoke them, and you lifted your head to peck his lips.

“Okay, Theo.”

His eyes snapped open, a confused expression twisting his face, and you failed to bite back your smile. “What?”

“I’ll stay. If you really want me to.”

“If I really— I thought your family wanted you to stay at home?” He questioned breathlessly, sitting back to get a better look at you.

“They did.” You shrugged, smoothing down your messy hair from the cuddle session you’d been entangled in. “But you’re my family too, and you want me here, so I chose you.”

His jaw dropped, a shaky breath slipping free, and his chin wobbled as he leaned in to press a series of needy and erratic kisses to your lips. “You’re really staying with me for Christmas?” His voice cracked, and he pulled you closer to him, tightening the blanket around you both as he moved until you were practically lay against his chest.

“If you still want me to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He muttered, tapping the tip of your nose, and staring at you with sparkling eyes. “Ti amo, mia bellissima ragazza.”

“I love you too, Teddy. Happy Christmas.”

“È un contento Natale adesso.”

#this was so perfect #such an amazing read

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just-another-reader1098 · 4 months ago

Text

A Shop Apart

pairing - theodore nott x fem!reader

summary - of course, neither of you would admit the stolen glances—theo, catching moments of your infectious laughter as you chatted with customers; you, secretly admiring the precision with which he handled his craft. these thoughts remained buried, drowned out by the day-to-day chaos of running rival businesses

warnings - rival shop owners who are not so secretly into each other, teasing, theo is really type a in this, kinda whimsical!reader

wordcount - 2.9k

Diagon Alley was as alive as ever, a magical artery of commerce where enchantments hung in the air as tangibly as the smells of freshly baked pumpkin pasties and brewing potions. The cobblestone streets thrummed underfoot, lined with vibrant shopfronts that called out to the passing crowd. Among the kaleidoscope of stores, two stood shoulder to shoulder, their stark differences impossible to ignore.

To the left stood "Nott’s Enchantments and Potions," a haven of precision and order. The display windows gleamed with carefully curated items: neatly labeled potions, sleek enchanted tools, and a sign in bold, no-nonsense lettering that read: Efficiency Without Extravagance. Behind the counter, Theodore Nott presided like a general overseeing his army, his sharp eyes darting over every detail to ensure perfection. His world was structured, predictable, and above all, logical.

Next door was "Whimsy & Wonder," a riot of imagination come to life. The shop practically glittered with charm, from its ornate, swinging sign to the window displays bursting with enchanted trinkets and shimmering fairy lights. Inside, the atmosphere buzzed with unrestrained energy. Shelves overflowed with colorful potions, dancing figurines, and glittering baubles. You, the shop’s owner, swept through the space like a living embodiment of your brand—a flowing robe adorned with embroidered stars trailing behind you as you greeted customers with a radiant smile.

The contrast couldn’t have been starker. And neither could the tension.

From the moment Theo and you became neighbors, the clash of styles had been inevitable. Your first disagreement—over a garland of enchanted flowers draped across your awning—had been as small as it was explosive. Theo had accused you of obstructing his display. You’d countered with a suggestion to brighten his shop up a bit. That had only been the beginning.

“Your nonsense is distracting my customers,” Theo had declared one busy afternoon, glaring at a flock of animated butterflies that had dared to flutter into his territory.

“And your brooding is dulling the magic out of Diagon Alley,” you had shot back, arms crossed in defiance. “Honestly, it’s a miracle anyone even notices your shop.”

Thus began a rivalry that had become as much a fixture of the alley as the cobblestones. Customers, drawn to both shops for entirely different reasons, found themselves entertained by the ongoing battle of barbs. More than one shopper had walked away with their purchases and a knowing smile, whispering about the unspoken tension beneath the snipes.

Of course, neither of you would admit the stolen glances—Theo, catching moments of your infectious laughter as you chatted with customers; you, secretly admiring the precision with which he handled his craft. These thoughts remained buried, drowned out by the day-to-day chaos of running rival businesses.

.・。.・゜✭・.

It started with the smell of cinnamon buns.

Theo had barely unlocked the doors of "Nott’s Enchantments and Potions" when the rich, sugary aroma drifted in from next door. He paused, his fingers tightening around the sign he was flipping to Open.

Inside "Whimsy & Wonder," you were cheerfully setting out a tray of enchanted pastries—warm, golden buns that floated gently above their plate. A sign hanging beside them read, Cinnamon Wishes: A Treat to Sweeten Your Day! Customers gathered, drawn by the smell and the soft hum of magic that made the pastries glimmer faintly.

Theo watched from the corner of his eye as a witch with a shopping list as long as her arm stopped mid-stride, sniffed the air, and made a beeline for your shop. He scowled. Another potential customer lured away by glitter and nonsense.

He stormed to his counter, muttering under his breath as he adjusted the neatly stacked jars of ready-to-brew potion kits. By the time the third customer wandered past his door to join the growing crowd in your shop, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He strode out of his shop, his footsteps clipped and precise against the cobblestones. He appeared in your doorway, the bell jingling sharply as he entered.

“Pastries?” Theo said, his tone dry and unimpressed. “Really?”

You looked up from arranging your display of charm bracelets, a bright smile already forming on your lips as you spotted him. “Good morning to you too, Theo.”

“Cinnamon buns, enchanted glitter, butterflies—do you ever stop trying to turn this alley into a carnival?”

“Do you ever stop scowling?” you countered, leaning one hand against the counter. “Besides, I think my customers appreciate a little sweetnes with their morning shopping. You might want to try it sometime. Merlin knows your shop could use some cheering up.”

Theo’s expression darkened, but before he could retort, an elderly wizard wandered in, drawn by the smell of the pastries. He looked between the two of you, his eyes twinkling.

“Ah, young love,” the wizard said, chuckling as he picked up a pastry. “You remind me of my wife and me back in the day. Always bickering.”

Theo stiffened, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “It’s not—she’s not—”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” you said smoothly, your smile widening as you handed the wizard his pastry. “He’s just cranky before he’s had his tea.”

The wizard laughed, shuffling out of the shop as he carefully cradled the sweet treat in his hands. Theo, now thoroughly flustered, muttered something unintelligible under his breath before turning sharply on his heel.

The bell jingled as he left, but not before you caught the tiniest twitch of a smile on his lips.

.・。.・゜✭・.

The next confrontation began when Theo caught sight of your newest addition to the shop—a sign so large and flamboyant it seemed to radiate its own personality. Hung high over your entrance, the sign proclaimed in glittering, color-shifting letters: Whimsy & Wonder: Brighten Your Day, One Charm at a Time!. Each letter sparkled with enchantment, the colors shifting as they caught in sunlight. Worse yet, it played a jaunty jingle whenever someone walked by.

Theo, standing in front of his own impeccably tidy storefront, clenched his jaw as the cheerful tune reached his ears for the fifth time in as many minutes. The noise carried into his shop, muffling the sound of his steady cauldron stirrer, and he could feel his meticulously controlled world unraveling at the edges.

With a sharp inhale, he crossed the cobblestone threshold into your shop once again without hesitation. The bell above the door gave an almost delighted chime as if thrilled by his arrival. He stopped a few steps in, arms crossed tightly, his gaze sharp as a freshly whetted blade.

“What,” he began, his tone low and measured, “is that?”

You glanced up from a table near the center of the shop, where you were adjusting a display of snow globes that occasionally sang lullabies. The twinkle of mischief in your eyes told Theo you already knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Good afternoon,” you said, straightening up and brushing your hands together with a cheerful smile, as if you were greeting your favorite customer. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Theo gestured sharply toward the door. “The sign.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, you mean the fabulous sign? Isn’t it delightful? Took me ages to find just the right jingle charm to go with it.”

“‘Delightful’ isn’t the word I’d use,” Theo said, his voice edging toward exasperation. “Obnoxious, overbearing, and excessive are all closer to the mark.”

You crossed your arms, mirroring his stance but with an air of mockery that made his teeth grit. “Really? I thought it was perfectly eye-catching. Customers seem to love it.” You nodded toward the street, where a young witch was instructing her husband to snap a photograph of her under the sign.

Theo followed your gaze and then pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience wearing thinner by the second. “It’s overhanging my shop,” he said flatly. “And worse, I had three customers ask if they’d walked into the wrong place because of your ridiculous jingle.”

You laughed—a soft, musical sound that only deepened the crease in Theo’s brow. “Well, that just means you’re not doing enough to make your shop memorable. Maybe a little jingle is exactly what you need.”

“Memorable doesn’t mean gaudy,” Theo shot back. “I’ll thank you to remove it—or at the very least, silence the tune.”

“Silence it?” you repeated, pretending to be horrified. “Absolutely not. It’s part of the charm!”

Theo opened his mouth to argue further, but the conversation was interrupted by a cluster of children who scampered into your shop. They were chasing after one of your enchanted stars—a tiny glowing orb with trailing golden sparkles. It zipped through the air, weaving around Theo’s head before landing in your outstretched palm.

“There you go, darlings,” you said, handing it back to one of the children with a warm smile. They all giggled in delight and darted back out into the street.

Theo stood there, momentarily thrown off by the scene. He watched as you returned to the counter, your expression now smug and triumphant. “See? People love it here,” you said, gesturing broadly to your shop. “You might want to loosen up a little. Maybe even—dare I say it—have some fun.”

Theo scowled, but the sharp retort he’d been preparing fizzled away as he caught the way you were looking at him—bright-eyed and unapologetically challenging, like you thrived on provoking him. He tightened his arms across his chest.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, turning on his heel.

As he strode back to his shop, the cheerful jingle of your sign trailed behind him. By the time he reached his door, it was already stuck in his head.

.・。.・゜✭・.

It started innocently enough—or so Theo would later claim.

Mid-morning sunlight streamed over Diagon Alley, and a steady stream of customers bustled between the shops. Theo had spent the better part of the morning reorganizing his shelves after an unusually busy rush. His meticulous attention to detail meant every label was aligned and every potion bottle gleamed.

But the sound of delighted laughter drifting through the open door of Whimsy & Wonder grated on his nerves. You had enchanted your bell to chime a cheerful little tune whenever a customer entered, and every time it went off, Theo felt his eye twitch. Wasn’t the jingle of your sign already too much?

Enough was enough.

Theo didn’t consider himself a prankster, but he was no stranger to cleverness. He grabbed a jar from his workbench—one of his most efficient creations: Silent Snuff. The enchantment inside was harmless, designed to suppress minor magical disturbances like unruly sparks or fizzling potions.

With a flick of his wand, Theo set the jar hovering discreetly at the edge of your shop’s awning. It pulsed faintly as it activated, the glittering lights and floating charms in the vicinity dimming slightly. To Theo’s satisfaction, the jaunty music from your enchanted sign faltered, the cheerful melody turning sluggish before sputtering out entirely.

He didn’t expect the immediate effect. You appeared in your doorway not five minutes later, your hands on your hips and your eyes blazing.

“Theodore!” you called, your voice carrying over the chatter of the street. Several shoppers turned to watch the unfolding drama, eager for what they likely assumed was another spat between the famously feuding shopkeepers.

Theo stepped out of his shop, the picture of calm indifference. “Yes?” he replied, a hint of smugness lacing his tone.

“What did you do to my sign?” you demanded, gesturing toward the now dim and silent display. “Half the charms on it stopped working, and my butterflies won’t stay afloat!”

Theo shrugged. “No idea what you’re talking about. Maybe your enchantments aren’t as robust as you thought.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer until you were nearly toe-to-toe. “You’re awfully smug for someone who ‘has no idea.’”

“I’m always this smug,” he said, his voice cool. “But perhaps this is the universe’s way of telling you to tone it down. Simplicity can be... refreshing.”

“Refreshing?” you repeated, incredulous. “I’ll show you refreshing, Nott.”

Before Theo could react, you flicked your wand. A puff of bright pink smoke erupted from the nearest flowerpot outside his shop, transforming it into an enormous, glitter-covered daisy. It loomed like a whimsical sentinel, completely out of place against the austere backdrop of Nott’s Enchantments and Potions.

Theo stared at the flower, his expression blank. “Very mature,” he said dryly.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” you replied sweetly, giving him a saccharine smile.

The tension between you was palpable, drawing curious onlookers. Some whispered bets on who would win this particular round, while others simply enjoyed the spectacle. A witch passing by muttered something about how the chemistry was “so obvious, it’s painful.”

Theo caught the comment and felt his cheeks heat, but he refused to look away from your determined gaze. He tipped his head slightly, his tone deceptively casual. “Careful, or I might start to think you actually like me.”

The remark caught you off guard, your expression flickering for just a moment. But you recovered quickly, tossing your hair with a laugh that was just a bit too loud. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, turning sharply and retreating to his shop.

As he closed the door behind him, he allowed himself the faintest smirk. You, meanwhile, were left staring at the glittering daisy, already plotting your next move.

.・。.・゜✭・.

After Theo’s stunt with your sign and butterflies, you decided it was time to hit back. Subtlety was for amateurs; you wanted something with flair, something that would be impossible for him to ignore.

The plan was simple: an enchanted banner that would unfurl above Theo’s shop with a playful, mocking slogan. Something like “Efficiency: Where Fun Goes to Die.” You spent the better part of the evening crafting the perfect enchantment. The banner would hang just long enough to catch everyone’s attention before vanishing in a harmless puff of glitter.

At dawn, when Diagon Alley was still quiet, you crept outside with your wand in hand. You whispered the incantation, watching as the banner fluttered to life, rising like a mischievous phoenix. But as it reached the apex of its ascent, the enchantment wobbled. A thread of magic sparked and fizzled, and suddenly, the banner wrapped itself around you like a determined snake.

“Really?!” you groaned, struggling against the enchanted fabric. It tightened, pinning your arms and tangling around your legs until you toppled backward into a stack of flowerpots. The clatter echoed down the street, shattering the quiet morning.

From the corner of your eye, you saw the door to Theo’s shop swing open.

“What in Merlin’s name—?” His sharp voice cut through the air as he stepped outside, his eyes landing on your predicament. A slow smirk spread across his face. “Well, well. What have we here?”

You glared up at him, thoroughly ensnared in your own creation. “Don’t just stand there, Nott. Help me.”

He crossed his arms, clearly savoring the moment. “Help you? Oh, I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of this... creative experience. Seems very on-brand for Whimsy & Wonder.”

You wriggled against the banner, which only tightened further. “I swear, if you don’t—”

“Alright, alright,” he said, stepping closer. “Hold still, or this will take even longer.”

Theo knelt beside you, his wand outstretched as he murmured a counter-spell. The banner loosened its grip, but as he worked, his hands brushed against your arm, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, and surprisingly pleasant.

“Do you always get yourself into these messes?” he asked, his tone teasing but not unkind.

“Do you always enjoy watching people suffer?” you shot back, but the edge in your voice had softened.

He glanced up, and for a moment, your eyes met. The banter dissolved into silence as the proximity between you became impossible to ignore. His face was closer than you’d realized, his expression unreadable but intent.

You both stilled, the world around you fading into nothing but the sound of your breathing. His hand brushed yours as he untangled the last of the banner, and your heart stuttered in your chest.

For a second, it felt inevitable—the pull between you, the way his gaze flicked to your lips and back again. Then—

“Oi! What’s going on here?”

A vendor’s voice rang out, shattering the moment. You jerked back, breaking eye contact as Theo stood abruptly, the banner now limp in his hands.

“Nothing to see here,” he said coolly, tossing the banner onto your stoop.

You scrambled to your feet, brushing dirt off your robes and refusing to look at him. “Thanks,” you muttered, your cheeks burning.

He lingered for a second longer, his expression unreadable, before turning and walking back to his shop without another word.

As you watched him go, you couldn’t decide what burned hotter—the embarrassment of being caught or the way your pulse still raced from how close you’d been.

Masterlist

Requesting Guidelines

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just-another-reader1098 · 5 months ago

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guys turns out i don’t need a break, just more zayne

#my man #zayne #WHY IS HE SO FINE

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just-another-reader1098 · 7 months ago

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heartburn

pairing: sylus x gn! reader (not mc)

synopsis: he made you a promise he couldn't keep, all because he was distracted with someone else, because he chose someone else. so, what happens when a mission goes wrong and hes not there?

flower: black dahlia

warnings: angst, a lot of angst.

w/c: 6.8k

a/n: it is here finally, my first finished longshot! it took me 2 months to complete it cause I'm lazy af, so dont expect anything new soon lmao. apologies for any mistakes since its eng is not my first language (and me dumb).

wanna thank my girl @tarjapearce for helping me throughout the process, you're an angel <3 dividers by @rookthornesartistry and @strangergraphics-archive.

Each breath you take seems more raw than the previous one, your throat burning with each inhale after exhale. Your thoughts are as uneven as your breathing, the anxiety and fear fighting your instinct to survive.

As you reach the car, you’re finally able to open the door after countless attempts, as your blood burns through your vessels and chains you down. It seems like a blink before you’re driving away to God knows where, the only certain thing at the moment being the lump of fear in your throat.

It’s when you regain control of your mind that you reach the phone and frantically search for Sylus’ contact, looking up and down to the road in front of you. The numbness from your mind travels to your limbs, as if the only thing you can feel is the rapid heartbeat inside your head and the tight grip in your chest. Once you see it you click it almost instantly, a shuddering breath of relief leaving your lips.

‘Its okay, I’m safe now. Everything is gonna be okay.’

While waiting for the call to pick up, you try to regain your other senses and look at your surroundings as a way to figure out where your survival instincts took you. You then proceed to use the GPS on the dashboard panel, redirecting yourself back to the base.

The plan was simple: meet with the seller, receive the protocore and go back to the base, but that is if the other party didn’t take you for fools. Once you understood the ambush at place, it was almost too late. Almost.

There was always a possibility and you knew it, everyone knew it, even Sylus. That’s why the protocols existed, to make sure if things got complicated you could get out safely even if he or the twins weren’t with you.

First things first, you would always call him for help. During these missions it was established that he would always have his phone close in case of an emergency, and honestly it normally wouldn’t reach the second ring before he picked up whenever you needed. That's how careful he was, it was his promise. His deal, and he never breaks his deals.

That's why when it reached the last ring, your blood grew cold. The reassurance you’ve built until now going down the drain as if you didn’t make an effort to gather it all up.

Your breathing picked up again, all the hairs in your arm raising up in terror and fear. ‘No, nononono.’

You try again. And again.

And nothing.

The only thing you could hear were his words of promise towards your safety, a soft lullaby that normally would bring you comfort, but now just brings a new sense of dread and betrayal.

Suddenly two blinding lights appear on the retro visor, and a sense of dread falls upon you. A heavy hot feeling washes from your head to the pit of your stomach, so heavy that it almost makes you fall forward on the steering wheel. You’re being followed.

You get it together and search for Kieran’s contact, immediately pressing the call button, and when he answers you at the 5th ring, you rest against the back of your seat as some of the burdens upon you leave your body.

Kieran answered, so why didn’t he?

“Hello hello, how can i assi—“ “Kieran, it was all a trap and they are following me now.” Your voice sounds rough after biting your lip for so long, the vibrations scratching your throat as it tries to escape. You can hear him pause for a small second before calling his brother and immediately taking action.

“Where are you lil boss?” his tone is the most serious you’ve ever heard, cementing the realisation that you’re truly in trouble.

As you let out a shaky breath, you shake your head in denial as if he could see you. “I-I don’t know K, i don’t fucking know where i am a-and they right behind me—“.

Your tone is pathetic and you know it, but can anyone blame you? You’re supposed to be safe, he promised, and now everything seems so uncertain. “Take a deep breath for us yeah? I need you to do that.” His voice turns from serious to a comforting tone, bringing you back from the pit you’re already in.

You do as he says, word for word, and he makes sure to hear it before proceeding, “Thats perfect lil’ boss, now I need you to look at the dashboard and see the location you have in the GPS, can you do that?”

Once again, you nod in an attempt to communicate with him and search for an address, saying it loud enough before hearing a loud thud through the phone. They are searching for you. “Okay now you need to keep updating us on your location and direction, once you notice we’re already home yeah? Luke will keep talking to you so don’t worry, we’ve got you”

From there, everything felt like a quick blur. All you remember is being followed and then a loud crash happening behind you. Next thing you know, Luke is in the backseat with you while trying to talk to you out of it. But you’re not in the car with them right now. You’re in his office, the scent of leather filling your senses. You can feel the chair sinking beneath you and his caress on your hands, grabbing them while his red piercing stare reassures you. And he says it, he says that if anyone even tries to mess with one of his, he will be there to make sure they know who they were messing with. But you’re not there, nor is he here.

Sometimes you would help your “sister” in her… business. You grew up with her, a case of a chosen family since your parents knew each other by heart, before everything fell apart. Since then, you’ve gone through the hardships that N109 zone threw at you both, her being the brains and you being the practical side. She was always more street smart than you, taking the sisterly role at a really young age and neither playing chess or checkers, but her own game created by her own rules.

So when your aunt's shop wasn’t enough to go through difficult times, she was the first to give you an opportunity to be great, and to be great means to be powerful. The world doesn’t favour the weak, it only strengthens the strong, so why not take a shot to help the ones who really need it?

Your fascination and experience with protocores came handy in tradings and auctions, using your pair of expert eyes to look for diamonds in the dirt. And that’s how you met him.

You met Sylus through a protocore auction, a poor one may be added. The prices on it were horrendously high for such poor quality, and when you saw him pondering to buy one of them you couldn’t stop yourself from giving him some advice — Seeing such precious money being spent on waste is hard on anyone.

Your keen senses attracted him, the sense of opportunity too strong for the leader of Onychinus to ignore, so he made you deal: be his eyes and he will put you under his wings, providing anything you need.

From there you started to make appearances in his name, making business with dealers and getting better protocores and better prices. The more you interacted the closer you got with Sylus and the twins, to the point that you started to look at them more than simple coworkers, instead, more like family.

But as the bond changed so did their boss, a slight shift in his demeanour almost invisible to the naked sight. There started to be a tension clinging to the air whenever you two were together, pushing each other's buttons. Normally it would be him provoking you, but those slabs felt like tickles in comparison to what you’ve gone through, so it would be useless. Unless of course, he took a more soft and gentle approach, then it would be impossible not to bend.

It was in those moments where the knot of need would crawl to your throat, the line between danger and want blurring the more you felt his gaze on your form, and it felt exciting. After 2 years, it was impossible to not fall for Sylus’ late night talks, the intimate trust he never showed anyone else and words that would only be spoken in a whisper, to you. Although that was before she came around.

They quickly bring you to the living room to sit you on the leather sofa, making sure you’re comfortable before going on separate paths. Kieran quickly turns around and goes to search for the first aid kit, leaving Luke to search for any potential injuries you have. After sitting on his heels in front of you, he gently grabs your shoulders first as he moves you gently while checking around for any wounds while trying to bring you back from your disassociated state.

“Where is he?”

He knew the question would come earlier or later, but it still made him stop in his tracks. If he didn’t have his classic mask on, it would be pretty obvious he was sweating out of remorse and guilt, so he tries to change the subject while waiting for his brother’s return.

His mask hides the nervousness felt by the sudden question, drops of sweat pilling up out of remorse — or perhaps guilt. He tries to change the subject while waiting for his brother's return, hands retreating to his lap to nervously play with his fingers. “Before that, why don’t we wait for Ki-“

“Luke.” Nothing else moves besides your lips, a chilling silence making the poor man almost choke on his words.

You were always a light hearted person, sometimes teasing the twins and indulging their goofy pranks, pranks who would get you chanced by Onychinus leader himself. Each day that you passed together made them realise how your closed, but gentle heart was able to warm the coldest parts of someone, making them even more attached. They’ve seen you angry as well, really angry, and it's something they dread to see it again, but it’s in that moment that Kieran realises there’s something else scarier than your burning fury;

Your lifeless eyes, empty of any emotion. It’s now he realises how fucked up the situation is. You are not like them, you could’ve died.

Kieran interrupts the pregnant silence, confused about his brother’s low levelled head — as if in pain. He closes the distance between you two, sitting down right next to you with the aid kit in his lap and positioning himself towards you. Before he can open his mouth, your voice cuts their thoughts once again.

“…Where is he?” You repeat your question while looking at nothing, reflecting the void inside your heart.

Both twins look at each other, as if discussing with their eyes if the truth is the best they could give you at the moment. The thought of bringing you pain as a consequence of your request, hurts them more than any wound they have ever stitched on themselves.

Luke is the first to break eye contact. ‘I can’t do it brother’. Kieran sighs, putting the kit on the table beside him before shifting on his seat, looking ahead while supporting his elbows on both his thighs.

He hesitates, his lips parting and pressing together a few times in an attempt to organise his thoughts. After battling with his thoughts he lets out an exhale in defeat, your pain more important than any cover up.

“…He had to go to Linkon at the end of the day, he told us not to wait for him and in any emergency to call him, but —“ The man sighs and shakes his head in frustration for the man he serves. Sylus is more than he could ever ask for and done more than he could ever thank, but seeing someone like you being thrown in this makes his unconditional adoration shake for the leader.

For the first time since you’ve sat on the couch, your gaze lowers, processing the twin’s words with your mind and heart. He was with her when you needed him the most, and it seems you're not the only one who reflects on that.

The room is engulfed by the soft lights that the fireplace provides, warming up superficially but leaving a frostbite feeling in everyone's hearts, as the three of you fall into a moment of reflection. The ringtone of Luke’s phone cuts the silence short, bringing everyone out of their trance, and once he goes to pick it up, your hand comes flying in his direction and grabbing the device from his hand, throwing it to the wall in your left.

The action surprises both twins as they slightly jump on their place and look at you, shock invading their hidden features. They can see your arm frozen, still in the throwing motion as you try to regulate your breathing. You then open your lips and let the words spill through, letting their fears become reality.

Both men get up in a blink of an eye, already throwing questions and pleas for you to not make rush decisions. Their voices feel like long distant whispers in your mind, the only thing going through being the promise he made and the one he broke.

“Don’t pick his calls, not until I’m gone.”

A few months ago, Sylus started to act… differently. He started to make Mephisto work overtime, to the point you wondered when was the last time you’ve seen him pestering you for attention. Whenever you tried to spend time with him on the usual ungodly hours, he seemed distracted with reports and news of N109 Zones’ beloved sister, Linkon city.

You knew better than to be bothered by it, no matter how much affinity you had with the man he was the leader of Onychinus at the end of the day, trouble found him the same way he would find you in the middle of the night. When the city’s shadows got darker, you could see a shift in his attitude as his cold features appeared often, absent of any emotion or the usual glint of mischief.

But on the day of the Nest meeting, things changed drastically. After they got to the base and settled in one of the rooms downstairs and the gunshot was heard, all you could do was jump in place and wipe your head to the direction of the noise. You and the twins knew whatever was going on in there Sylus would not get hurt, but just the sound itself was enough to make your heartbeat fasten its pace with worry.

Once that episode was done you did give him an earful of swears, telling him off about his recklessness and manipulating tactics — i mean can’t he convince the girl with less self damaging methods?

As time went on, you could say your relationship with MC was … stable, just civil enough to promote a neutral ambience. She wasn’t really up on making new friends and you weren’t really interested in someone as unstable as her — she was part of one of your enemies after all. As time passed though, you could see her being included more into the organisation, which didn’t bother you if it wasn’t for a few peculiarities.

It seemed, bit by bit, the solo attention that was given to you by Sylus was starting to diverge towards her. Not just that, but the trust he would’ve put on you to do the job you were assign to was also being put on her, on the miss hunter that decided to buy the whole action just because she wanted to be bratty. Slowly, the confusion turned into uncertainty, and the uncertainty turned into something you didn’t feel in a long time since being at his side — insecurity. MC wasn’t just anyone; she was a professional hunter, one of the best it seemed, and not with a normal evol, no. With an aether core, just like him. Suddenly you could see why he was relying more on her than you, and how compatible they seemed even with all their bickering.

He noticed it of course, and it was the perfect opportunity to tease you about it. When he noticed it was deeper than a simple “jealousy”, that sweet voice of his sang like a lullaby in your ears.

‘No matter how important she is for our mission, she will never be as important as you are to me, little flower.’

And you trusted him, you dumbly did.

The twins are walking by each of your sides, your fast pace making them more and more nervous about the thoughts on your mind, “L-Look let's talk about it yeah? Why don’t we sit down and-and try to come to a better solution?” Luke tells you while stumbling on his words, almost matching his clumsy steps to wherever you’re going.

Kieran nods affirmatively while keeping a hand ghosting the middle of your back, as if to catch you in case another episode begins, “He’s right lil boss, making decisions in the heat of the moment never goes well. And you should be restin—“

As you make a sharp turn towards the corridor of your room, your pace is a clear answer for them two — ‘The decision is done.’ You enter your room and go to grab the travel bag beneath your bed, laying it on top of your covers and opening it completely.

Kieran calls out your name once again with an authoritarian voice, an unfamiliar tone from the twin behind you. “Please,” he begs, the desperation in his voice overpowering his need to take some sort of control, “ — talk to us, this can’t be the only way can it?”

Your hand stops in place, fingertips barely caressing the ends of the bag as your mind goes to a blank. The truth is that if you take time to think as much as a drop, you know it will overboard the ocean of emotions inside you — and you know that once it begins, it will be hard to reach an end.

So you stay quiet, get your back straight before slowly turning towards the men that anxiously wait for an answer. And even with silence falling on you three, they wince at the statement you’ve done. Kieran breathes in sharply while Luke takes a step back, both startled with your silent response that could mean a thousand words alone. Pain? Betrayal? Maybe even emotions that you promised to seal deep in your heart.And that was their answer.

Your mind covers the sands of time, as next thing you know you’re feeling the tears that the sky is letting down for you, walking by foot until — until somewhere.

You couldn’t even farewell the two people that were always there for you, the only ones that really took their word up to their promise. You stopped at the stairs from the entrance, rain engulfing you into a tight embrace before turning around to face the twins. They look at you, and you can imagine the expressions they’re making so vividly that it stabs a fourth blade into your heart. All you can do is hug them one last time and control the tremors that your body is letting out, a last effort to make this goodbye less painful. But they know, they know that the drops on your face are not made by the clouds above, but from you.

You turn around, not daring to share another word nor gaze. It would just make you weak, so instead you go forward, walking through the open gates that once opened your heart and now close along with it.

After walking for what seems like hours, a sob is hidden by the rain that shocks the floor. Another one gets out, and another one, and another, until you drop to your knees in angst. You almost died. You could still feel their hands gripping into your arm and —

You clumsily reach your phone and make one last phone call, to someone that you know will listen to your pleas and anguish.

Once you finish the call, all you can do is close your eyes and feel the gentle touch that the water provides to you, and share to her the yells of your broken heart.

That night, the skies cried with you.

The ear-piercing noise of the brakes screeching on the road can be heard inside the manor, before the air goes heavy with anticipation. A door suddenly opens, letting the chilling melody made by the rain creep in and, for just an instance, overthrow the deadly silence that consumes the house. The moment is broken by the tremor that shakes the house, caused by the smashing door.

Quick breathing and heavy steps echo through the corridors, each one more desperate than the last. When Sylus reaches the living room part of him knew, he knew something wasn’t right. He tries to catch his breath, but each inhale scratches the inside of his throat as despair replaces the oxygen in his lungs — almost as a punishment.

“What the hell happened?” The man spits out, the authoritarian tone hiding the fear in his voice. Sylus pants while looking at the twins, both sitting on the same sofa you’ve sat before — a futile way of prolonging your presence. They don’t answer, maybe didn’t even hear it, one of them keeping his face in his hands while the other simply looks down with his forearms on his knees.

“Where are they!?” His yells pierces the room as well as the brothers mind, waking them up from a protective slumber which avoided them from facing reality. Luke jumps in surprise looking at his boss in despair, and as he tries to formulate an answer, Kieran cuts him off.

“They left, boss. They quit.”

It was after the dinner party, when the faint festive mood still lingered in the air but the quiet manor expressed explicitly that the day had ended. Sylus couldn’t believe it still, he wasn’t accustomed to celebrate his birthday even with the unsuccessful tries of his twins. He needed to give you the credit, he was expecting something, but not this.

Everything in the celebration screamed ‘him’, making him participate in his favourite silly activities and helping the twins with offering their leader a new karaoke set — even if it pained you internally.

“Running away from me already, birthday boy?” You broke his wandering mind, making him stretch the smile in his face a little longer.

He chuckled before taking his forearms from the railing and straightening up his back. “Im afraid your birthday boy isn’t here, as for my understanding it's the 19th already.” Your silent cussing made him snort in amusement.

“Well, uhm — would you kind sir be mindful enough to give him a gift of mine?” You improvised, hiding the nervous tremor your hands had let out.

Sylus pretended to think for a moment, before giving up to your hopeful look — too adorable for your own good if he might add. “Hm, I guess that can be arranged. It is the least I could do to thank the host for this extravagant party.”

You swayed your hand up and down, suggesting him to stop with the compliments — accepting those were never your forte per se. You walked up next to him before resting your hands against the railing in front of you, and take a deep breath.

“Well, I had some really poetic words to tell the birthday boy, but it seems harder now that I’m sharing the message.” A sigh escaped your lips, and you wished that some of your nervousness did too.

His intrigue only grew from there, facing you with his body as to give you his full attention. “Is that hesitance I sense? What could such an important message be to make you fear its content, even after lying and hiding this big of an event from Onychinus leader himself?”

You scoffed and shook your head as a response to his question, quickly following up “Why are you saying as if I committed a crime? It's a surprise party for a reason.” You couldn't deny the success from his effort in making you feel more at ease, maybe a reminder that this isn’t a bigger deal than what you did daily.

“This past year has been, well something”, you chuckled to yourself, “but even amongst the strongest waves, there’s a serene feeling to it. A feeling I’ve been waiting to hold on to.”

His eyes scanned every move you made, even the small smile you tried to contain as memories came to bay, and he himself tried to hide how much he adored it.

“He pays me extremely well, but I find it futile to buy him anything when he can buy anything he wants and more, so —“ Your left hand trembled as you lifted it up from its support, reaching into your pocket and taking out a small velvet pouch.

“— I tried to be creative.”

You turned to him, extending the present and staying still until he picked it up, eyes looking anywhere but him.

Sylus took in your flustered state, maybe enjoying it a bit too much, before carefully picking up the present in front of him.

“Well miss, I will need to confirm the gift before delivering it to the client in question. Security measures, as you understand” He looked at you through his lashes, and even if the look could be perceived as sensual, there was a glint of reassurance behind his gaze. ‘Your thought on it is already enough’ it whispered, but falling in deaf ears as you couldn't even look at him.

“Yeah yeah just open the damn present. I'm dying of anxiety over here…” Your last mumble wasn't ignored, and made the leader of Onychinus have a laugh himself. He respected your wishes before opening the small pouch.

After gently picking up the object with his fingers, he couldn't even hide his surprise when looking at it.

“What… Is this a necklace?” He asked, his confusion obvious in his tone. He definitely wasn’t expecting getting surprised once more today,

“Yeah, I — uhm, I made it.”

Nor the words that came out of your mouth. A silence fell upon you two, and even the stars seemed to be waiting for your next move, observing your interaction from afar.

Sylus broke everyone’s expectations by laughing. Not his usual laugh though, not the sexy smug laugh that he lets out once in a while, no. He laughed as if he was a young child, free of malice or second intentions. It was so beautiful, so raw and pure that you almost cried by the melody he created so effortlessly, so beautiful that it made you stop and stare at him.

Once he calmed down, he cleaned the corner of his eyes, as if to catch the tear that dared to escape his ruby eyes. “You just keep on catching me off guard more and more, I’m not sure if I enjoy it.” But his genuine smile contradicted his statement, clearly enjoying every moment of it.

As you got to your senses, you couldn't help but be embraced by a wave of embarrassment. “… If you don’t like it it's okay, I’m not a jeweller by far, so i understand if it's not your taste —“ “Its the most beautiful thing someone has ever gifted to me.”

The sudden shift in his voice caught you completely off guard, snapping your gaze towards him instantly. Despite the seriousness of his tone, his eyes didn't lie, full with a gentleness foreign in his eyes.

“Its the first time someone has ever given me a hand-made gift like this,” he caressed the metal beads of the necklace, falling in love with it the more he looked at it, “I couldn’t ask for more, little flower”.

The manor’s floor ranges in pain as Sylus’ footsteps press against it, the pace mirroring his racing mind. The closer he gets to your bedroom, the more his heart jumps against his chest. He had to see, he had to confirm this wasn’t just a shitty prank you three pulled on him, even if in the back of his mind the truth was looking straight at him.

He races through the stairs, walking them up in groups of two, and his body just gets into autopilot. So many times he has made this same path, only this time it is filled with dread. Going forward, sharp turn to the right and walk a few feet until he reaches your door, but once he stops, he hesitates to open the door. Sylus’ hand trembles, probably for the first time in his life, in fear. He already lost so much, faced so many horrors, but it’s now he realises that losing you is the biggest one until now. The hesitance annoys him deeply, so he pushes it aside while grabbing the doorknob tightly and twisting it with force, opening a new wound he couldn’t heal.

The twins catch up on him slightly later, looking into the room and watching their leader in the middle of what used to be your room, empty of any sign that would proclaim this space as yours. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak. He just stays there, expressionless, like he was before he met you.

Seconds pass before he regains his sense of self, turning around and going back on his steps, walking straight past the brothers and towards his own office. He can’t hear Kieran's and Luke's questions, since the only thing in his mind is the way your cute chuckle slips through when you’re embarrassed, how your eyes close when you laugh so hard you’re almost wheezing, and how you look at him as if he was just another human being instead of the monster other proclaim him to be.

And then he wonders, do you believe their words now?

It truly is like two faces of the same coin, bringing the the twins into a sense of deja vu — the way he gets into a dissociated state like you do when stressful situations appear, how he doesn’t stop his tempo because they all know if he does, he falls, the same way you do.

He steps into his office and prepares Mephisto for the night shift ahead, as well as assembling himself for the round he is about to go through too. Quick and direct, Sylus doesn’t lose anymore time entertaining his brainstorm of emotions, only having one goal in mind — finding you.

Once out of the room and heading towards the stairs, he stops by the call of his name. Luke steps closer to the man while his brother stays behind, now only a few feet away from the white-haired man. With a strained voice, he speaks the words that are plead in everyone’s minds,

“Please find her Boss.”.

Sylus clenches his jaw, the tension breaking his expressionless facade as dread falls from its slits. No, he won’t let you go like this, not because of a stupid mistake of his responsibility, not because of a promise he couldn’t keep. He turns to face the younger male, and his eyes shimmer in determination and pain, cutting the heavy ambient around them.

“I will.”

He was waiting for you at the entrance, already bored to mind even before the event even started. It was a social party of a trusty source of his, and for the sake of his business relationship, Sylus had no choice but to participate. He would always bring you along to avoid “unwanted” attention to himself, since lately he hasn’t gotten the curiosity to entertain himself with a stranger.

He would normally give you full liberty to choose your own clothes, as long as it was adequate for the meetings he didn’t really care about, but in the past few months he couldn’t help but … spoil you a bit. A coat that seemed clearly your style? Or that set that would look so good on you for the auctions ahead? He couldn’t just pass by, he needed to buy it. So when he saw a suit that complemented his own iconic colours, it was a match in heaven.

He waited (im)patiently for your arrival, wondering how the outfit would look on you: Would you like it? Would you feel comfortable in it? Would you feel confident in it—

“Sorry I took so long, took a while to figure out how to wear it” You chuckled nervously as you approached him at the bottom of the stairs. He searched for the source of your voice before his gaze fell upon your figure, and Sylus got quiet.

The tight shirt already shaped your figure beautifully, but the vest on top? It was as if you were built by Astra Himself. With the black shirt a few buttons open your chest was shown just enough to tease, and the black vest with crimson strikes was adjusting your torso so perfectly he thought it was dangerous. You couldn’t help but try to hide yourself, not used to his hungry eyes, but as soon as you tried to cower your figure he was suddenly in front of you, with his hand gently grasping your wrist forbidding you from covering.

“Don’t,” he stroked your palm with his thumb, feeling the warmth of your skin, “You look too beautiful to be hidden.” You shook your head in denial and let out a nervous chuckle, not used to being complimented by the Onychinus leader himself, “You don’t need to stroke my ego now, we’re wayy past that phase.”

Sylus frowned, not enjoying the tone that accompanied your words, “Are you doubting my truth, puppy? I think we’re past that phase as well.” The hand on your wrist slipped into yours instead, interlocking your fingers in his. You looked at him shocked, not quite processing his words immediately, and once you stumbled on your words after attempting to retort, you knew you were done.

Annoyance long gone, the soft ruby eyes softened at your embarrassed expression, enjoying every minute of your visual flustered state. He must say, red does look good on you, especially on your cheeks. And it's once he noticed his own heart jumping against his chest that he knew, he was done for as well.

It’s hard to determine how much time has passed since Sylus got to the road in hopes of finding a trail of you. It pained him to think you would’ve walked the same path he’s driving drenched and cold, shaken up by a meeting that shouldn’t have happened. He thought he could find you wandering the streets since it didn’t take him much to reach home before you left, but since there was no trace of you, he could only conclude someone took you.

The thought would be enough for him to grab the steering wheel tighter, enough for his knuckles to turn white. There was no doubt in his mind that you’ve contacted someone you trust, probably your sister, but after what happened to you… he couldn’t handle the possibility of you being in danger and him not be able to save you, again.

His eyes burned, enough to leave the ruby of his eyes even more crimson, and Sylus didn’t know if it was because he refused to blink, or if it were tears that threatened to escape. Memories and flashbacks wouldn’t stop from coming in and out of his mind, leaving a little bit more of madness in his brain.

With his left leg twitching, hands slightly trembling, and breathing getting heavier by the second, Sylus could feel something new brewing inside of him, another emotion no one else has made him feel besides you: panic.

In one of those sleepless nights of yours, when memories of your past taunt you in your dreams, you’ve got used to the ruby-eyed male’s company to ease your mind. And back then, it was one of those nights.

Sylus was observing your sleeping form, your chest rose and lowered with each breath, eyes softly closed and parted lips that made you look so beautiful. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you, enjoying every minute while he could to take in all your features — it was the only way he could without seeming lovestruck (which he totally was).

He already accepted he was a lost cause, even if you were the one with the nickname it seemed he was the dog on the leash, and the one holding it was you, even if you were too dense to decipher.

The man couldn’t contain himself, and so he reached his calloused hand and rested it against the softness of your cheek, gently stroking it with the pad of his thumb. He thought and overthought, until finally surrendering to his desires and leaving a kiss on your forehead so light it felt like two petals against the skin.

As he pulled away, he opened his eyes and sighed in content, grateful to have you resting in his bed with him. Maybe one day he will be as bold as he is in his line of work to make sure you’re there for other reasons.

A loud screech cuts the silent street as Sylus turns to stop at the side of the road, his hyperventilating making him dizzy enough to shake his sight. The memories overflow him and the bother in his chest turns into pain, making his right hand abandon the wheel and grab where it hurts. He leans into his seat quite roughly, a way to shake off this awful feeling he can’t quite shake off.

Both of you were in the kitchen, you and your stubborn self trying to pull him into the middle of the “dance floor” while your favourite song plays in the background. His eyes glinted in amusement while his lips let out a breathy laugh, your excitement expanding to everything around you.

While you sang your lungs out and swayed Sylus towards every direction, he couldn’t help but stare at your goofy smile and so beautiful lips. He then slid his hands down to both sides of your waist and secured them there, while a genuine smile of his own slowly made way to his face.

You opened your eyes in surprise, but non the less delighted, and you looked at him. For some reason this caught him off guard as well, bringing you two to a stop while the melody kept on playing. It’s true what others say: in moments of intimacy with a cherished one, it’s as if the sands of time are at each other's fingertips, stopping its continuous flow.

In a sudden move, Sylus leans forward and slams both hands against the steering wheel: once, then twice, then one final blow. His breathing is erratic now, his mind — it just doesn’t stop working, it keeps replaying moments he wouldn’t even remember on an ordinary day and clinging onto him when he doesn’t even have you near anymore. Every time he remembers, a part of him gets cut and keeps on bleeding, stinging every time he notices you’re gone.

One of his hands left your waist and cradled your face, making you close your eyes and lean into the warmth of his rough palm. A melodic silence fell upon you both, but no words were needed to be said. Sylus didn’t need his Aether core to know your deepest desire at the moment, and he couldn’t lie that it mirrored his. So he leaned it, and as a good reflection you are, you did so as well.

The car door slams against the vehicle by force, the space inside being so claustrophobic that it makes the air in his lungs trapped in place. He leans against the car and lets himself be embraced by the rain above, a chilling comfort given by the skies. While his breathing slowly comes to a steady, the pressure on his heart only increases as so the burning feeling in his eyes.

He doesn’t move nor does he make a sound, only the rain drops against the concrete and metal being heard. But the same way you reflected him back then, this time he’s the one mirroring the skies this time, as only Astra himself is the only witness of his crystal drops that interline with the ones from above.

And so, the skies cried alongside him that night.

#this is so beautiful #brb crying #i love this so much

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just-another-reader1098 · 7 months ago

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everybody listen UP 🤫 girl dad 𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬. yep this has been done zillions of times before, i don’t care!! hear me out 🙏

no matter how many times you try to tell 𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 not to spoil your daughter too much, it just falls on deaf ears. and it melts your resolve, too, seeing his huge frame happily holding her tiny hand in his big one as they stroll down the street. she babbles away about this and that, and he’s listening far more intently than any groundbreaking business discussion could intrigue him. who’d think that this guy, the one who single-handedly built the biggest crime syndicate in the world from the ground up, would be such a big softie and fool for his baby daughter?

cold vermillion hues soften when he looks at you, but 𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 looks like he’s gonna explode into a massive, 6’3 ball of fluff whenever he’s playing tea parties with his little girl. he obeys her every command and puts on the tiara she hands him, politely pours tea for their other guests (her countless plushies) and always compliments her tea-brewing, saying that “it gets better each time.” and, oh, how you love the way your daughter’s face glows with pride and affirmation whenever her father praises her. he’s such a good dad.

when he scolds her, 𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 is so gentle and encouraging, and never raises his voice. even the twins gawked at you with dumbfounded expressions when they witnessed their big bad boss’s tender countenance when spending time with his little angel. you’d shrugged and smiled amusedly, feeling warm.

this guy would be the father of the century, hands down. you both could have three daughters and no sons, and he’d be perfectly content. everybody give it up for GIRL DAD SYLUS!!!

#I NEED GIRL DAD SYLUS 😭😭

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just-another-reader1098 · 7 months ago

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he's DANGEROUS in a suit

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just-another-reader1098 · 7 months ago

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Only Me

Pairing: Theo Nott x Reader

Summary: Desperate to get a persistent girl off his back, Enzo and reader kiss. But when the kiss unexpectedly turns heated, Theo loses it.

Word Count: 4184

Warnings: Jealousy, a bit of possessiveness, reader kisses both Enzo and Theo (separately), and language. Let me know if there’s anything else!

A/N 💌 This idea has been bouncing around in my head for awhile! Thank you to @moonpascal for reading and giving me pointers as always <3

The common room buzzes with the familiar hum of conversation, groups of students either buried in classwork or indulging in gossip. Outside, snow is falling, making it all the more comforting to be curled up by the fire in your favorite armchair. Your knees are tucked tightly to your chest, and your book is balanced on top, though you haven’t turned a page in what feels like forever.

Your mind keeps wandering to Theo, who sits across from you on the couch, his attention seemingly on Enzo’s animated storytelling. But despite the lively chatter around you, your focus is entirely on him. For the past hour, you’ve found yourself sneaking glances in his direction, unable to tear your thoughts away.

His laugh rings out, warm and infectious, pulling your gaze to him as if by instinct. The sound is so captivating that it seems to fill the entire room, making it impossible not to look. As his laughter fades into soft, lingering chuckles, his eyes suddenly meet yours, and your stomach flips at the unexpected eye contact, the intensity of his gaze holding you in place.

He raises his eyebrow at you, his expression a hint of curiosity mixed with amusement. He finally breaks the silence, his voice low. “You know, you don’t have to sit all the way over there.”

“And where would I sit instead?” You ask, your voice lightly tinged with amusement. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Blaise arch an amused brow at your tone, clearly picking up on the flirty undertone.

The other boys don’t seem to notice, too absorbed in their conversation. Whatever they’re discussing has them completely engrossed, their voices animated and intense. Normally, you’d eavesdrop, but today, you’re too distracted by how undeniably good Theo looks to focus on anything else.

Theo’s lips curve into a small, almost gentle smile, one that’s reserved just for you. He pats the empty space beside him on the couch, “With me, dolcezza.”

You sigh, feigning annoyance at the thought of moving, but in reality, you’re trying to suppress the flutter in your stomach as you stand and make your way over to Theo. He greets you with a grin, and you roll your eyes in response, though you can’t quite hide the smile tugging at your bottom lip, which you quickly bite down on.

You aim to sit a reasonable distance away from him, but before you can settle in, Theo surprises you by reaching out and pulling you closer, so close that you’re practically sitting on his lap. The sudden contact sends a jolt through you, catching you completely off guard.

His name slips past your lips in a breathless gasp, drawing Blaise’s attention from across the room. He looks over, his grin widening with amusement as he takes in the scene. You’re nestled closely against Theo, your body practically molded to his, with one leg draped over his lap. His arm is securely wrapped around your waist, holding you close, while his fingers lazily toy with the hem of your skirt, tracing light patterns that send shivers up your spine.

You’re so focused on steadying the nerves fluttering in your stomach that you don’t even notice the girl approaching your group. She lingers just a few feet away from Enzo, but he’s too engrossed in his conversation to see her. It isn’t until Mattheo nods in her direction with a smirk and makes a remark about the “pretty little visitor” that Enzo finally catches on.

He swivels around in his armchair, and you notice his smile falter ever so slightly before he quickly recovers, masking his reaction, “Oh, hi.” He doesn’t even bother to conceal the disappointment in his voice.

You close your eyes, wincing in disappointment as you hear Theo chuckle softly.

“I wanted to know if you wanted to read our project before I turned it in.” The bundle of parchment crinkles in her grasp, the edges slightly rumpled from handling. Enzo’s eyes drop to the papers, his expression shifting as he takes in the sight.

“I’m good. Thanks, though.” Enzo starts to turn back to the boys, his tone polite but firm, signaling the conversation’s end. But before he can fully disengage, she takes a step forward, determination in her eyes.

“That’s fine! Maybe you’d like to do something together outside of class?” Her voice is laced with hope, almost too eager, as she tries to bridge the gap between them.

Enzo hesitates, his discomfort evident. “Uh, I don’t think so,” he says, wincing as a flush creeps up his neck, his cheeks turning pink. He glances around, clearly uneasy with the situation. “Like I said last time, I’m just not interested.” His voice softens, an attempt to let her down gently, but the awkwardness hangs in the air, making the rejection all the more painful.

“It doesn’t have to be a date.” She persists, her voice tinged with a hopeful edge. You glance over at Draco and Mattheo, who are laughing to themselves, clearly amused by the unfolding scene. She doesn’t seem to notice; her focus is entirely on Enzo, and her determination is ruthless.

“You know what? Let’s just talk about this tomorrow.” Enzo sighs, trying to find an easy out. Her face lights up at the mere mention of tomorrow, a hopeful smile spreading across her lips. She eagerly agrees, practically spinning on her heel to leave. As she walks away, Enzo lets out another sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Salazar, mate! That was pathetic.” Mattheo laughs.

Draco smirks, leaning back casually, “Honestly, Enzo, you’re being too fucking nice. She’ll keep coming back if you don’t tell her to fuck off.”

“I’ve tried!” Enzo protests, sending him an exacerbated look.

“Enzo, you can just say no directly.” You chime in, your tone light but pointed.

Enzo looks over at you, shaking his head, “Sweetheart, I’ve tried.” Theo’s eyes narrow in annoyance at the pet name, but Enzo doesn’t notice.

“Grab a girl and make out in front of her. She’ll get the hint then,” Mattheo suggests nonchalantly, shrugging as if it’s the most obvious solution. He leans back in his chair, an arrogant smirk playing on his lips. “It’s worked for me plenty of times.”

“Are you hearing my problem? I don’t need another girl becoming attached.” Enzo snaps. Draco immediately scoffs at the mention of Enzo’s popularity with the girls of Hogwarts—it’s clearly always bothered him.

“Merlin, Enzo. Just ask one of the girls, then.” Draco huffs, his impatience evident in his tone. He rolls his eyes, clearly exasperated with the ongoing discussion. Sitting beside you, Theo tenses up slightly, his posture stiffening as he shifts uncomfortably.

“What the fuck, mate? Pans and I are together.” Blaise says, sending him an annoyed look. Draco just shrugs indifferently.

“She’d probably say yes.” Draco mumbles. He dismisses the glare Blaise throws his way.

Mattheo’s gaze drifts to you, and a sly, amused smile spreads across his face, carrying a hint of something darker in his eyes. “Well, love,” he drawls, his tone teasing, “looks like you’re the one who’ll be kissing Enzo.”

“No,” Theo grits out, his voice strained with protectiveness. His fingers spread out as he firmly grasps your hip, his fingertips creating dimples in your skin. His eyes lock onto Mattheo with a stern glare. “She isn’t.”

Theo's reaction doesn’t catch you off guard. He’d always been protective of you. In the beginning, you chalked it up to his feelings for you, but as the years passed without anything more, you let that theory slip away.

“Unfortunately,” Draco drawls with a smirk, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, “that isn’t really up to you, mate.”

“You don’t have to,” Enzo says, his tone soft and reassuring. “That’s a lot to ask.” His words carry a gentle understanding, and Theo visibly relaxes.

Your gaze shifts to Theo, who is watching you with a furrowed brow and a trace of irritation in his eyes. You’ve been absorbed in your feelings for Theo for so long that you’ve avoided pursuing anything with anyone else. You’ve had a few kisses here and there, but they were disappointing. Kissing Enzo wouldn’t be awful. Probably the exact opposite. You’ve heard the giggles and whispers around school about how good it is to kiss Enzo. Much more than just that, actually.

Maybe things with Theo would never work out, and you'd always just be his best friend. You could accept that. But if that’s how it was going to be, he didn’t have the right to tell you not to kiss Enzo.

“I’ll let you kiss me.” You say, your voice firm. The boys exchange stunned and uneasy glances, their eyes darting nervously toward Theo, who stares at you in wide-eyed disbelief.

The room feels charged with tension as Theo’s expression darkens, “Dolcezza—”

“It’s not up for debate, Theo. If Enzo wants to kiss me, he can,” You assert, pulling away from Theo and turning so you’re directly facing Enzo. Theo’s frown deepens, his hands clenching slightly as he struggles to suppress the urge to haul you back onto his lap. The tension is palpable as he watches you with frustration and reluctance. You glance back at Enzo, your voice softening as you add, “I don’t mind, Enz.”

“Are you sure?” Enzo asks softly, his voice barely audible. Theo shoots him a sharp, warning glare. Enzo casts an uneasy glance at Theo before turning his attention back to you.

“I trust you.” You say with a soft smile, your eyes meeting his. Enzo’s tension eases a tad as he returns the smile.

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

You arrive at your usual spot in the Great Hall well before the rest of your friends, hoping to settle in for a quiet breakfast and then head straight to class. Just as you begin to relax, Pansy slides into the seat next to you with a grin, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she catches your eye.

“I just heard the most scandalous thing.” Pansy says with a sly smile, leaning in as if sharing a secret.

“Did you?” You ask, taking a slow sip of your tea and watching her with a hint of amusement.

“I heard that Theo Nott’s girl will be making out with his best mate.” She hums thoughtfully, casting you a knowing glance as she carefully fills her plate.

“I don’t think Theo Nott has a girl.” You give her a pointed look as you speak. Pansy sighs, clearly tempted to launch into one of her usual lectures about how Theo feels the same way. But before she can say anything, the boys start to trickle in, their expressions groggy.

Theo's mood is already sour and only worsens when he narrows his eyes at you, his gaze honing in on the subtle sheen on your lips. “Are you wearing lip gloss?” he asks, suspicion lacing his tone.

You hum in confirmation, a small, carefree sound that only makes Theo’s stomach churn harder. He feels a wave of nausea rise, the thought of you putting on lipgloss to kiss someone else—especially Enzo—causing an unsettling tightness in his chest. His jaw clenches as he struggles to keep it together. Mattheo and Draco watch him closely, clearly entertained as their eyes dart back and forth between the two of you.

His food sits forgotten as he stares at you incredulously, “Why?”

“What do you mean why? If I’m kissing Enzo, I want my lips to be soft for him.” Enzo flushes a deep red, and Theo stares at you in disbelief as the rest of your friends erupt in whistles and teasing comments, reacting to what you’ve just said.

Even though it seemed a bit unnecessary, you had applied some lip product and brushed your teeth for an unusually long time. The last thing you wanted was for him to think poorly of the kiss.

“Careful, Nott. After this kiss, she might not be your girl anymore.” Draco snarks with a smirk, his voice laced with amusement. You hold your breath, anticipating Theo’s reaction, but to your disappointment, he says nothing.

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

Theo’s mood simmered down throughout the day, and you guessed it was because you hadn’t needed to kiss Enzo. You spent the entire day without catching even a glimpse of the girl Enzo was avoiding. Throughout the day’s classes, you remained on edge, ready to put on a show with Enzo if necessary.

But as the hours passed and she failed to appear, it became increasingly clear that you might not need to kiss one of your best friends today. With hardly anyone in the halls, you hadn’t anticipated crossing paths with her again.

“How about a girls’ night tonight?” You ask, throwing a pointed glance at the boys trailing behind you.“I need a break from them.”

Pansy grinned, “Even Nott?”

“Oh, fuck off,” You laugh, playfully swatting at her arm with your free hand while balancing your book in the other. “Even Nott.”

“I would. But Blaise and I are hanging out.” Her tone is suggestive, and you respond with a knowing glance.

“Make sure you—” Your words are abruptly silenced as a firm grip pulls you backward. Enzo’s arm wraps securely around your waist, hauling you against his chest. The sudden, intimate contact leaves you breathless and disoriented. Before you can fully grasp what’s happening, his lips are on yours, hot and demanding. The sheer intensity of the kiss makes your heart race wildly, and a startled moan escapes from deep within you.

Your hand, momentarily frozen, then moves with a mind of its own, sliding into his hair. Your fingers bury themselves in the soft, silky strands, feeling the slight tremor of his breaths against your skin as the kiss deepens. Enzo’s other hand finds its way to the side of your neck, his thumb brushing along your throat. The tender, intimate touch sends a jolt of desire through you, making you gasp softly. Your book slips from your grasp, thudding heavily on the floor, but you’re too absorbed in the moment to notice. With your other hand now free, it instinctively reaches up to clutch his bicep, using him to hold yourself up.

Enzo’s lips trail a heated path from the corner of your mouth, inching toward the sensitive spot just below your ear. Each kiss sends a shiver through you, leaving your body feeling as though it’s melting into his touch. The intensity of the moment is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, and you find yourself lost, feeling his lips on you.

Clearly, you hadn’t picked the right guys to kiss before.

“Theo is going to beat my ass for touching you.” Enzo’s breathy whisper grazes your ear, sending a shiver down your spine before he begins to pull back. To his surprise, you instinctively lean forward, your eyes fluttering closed as you chase after his retreating lips, your breath mingling with his in a shared moment of longing. Just as he’s about to close the gap and kiss you again, Theo’s hand shoots out, gripping the collar of Enzo’s shirt with a firm hold. He yanks Enzo away with a decisive tug, his eyes blazing.

He’s absolutely furious.

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m letting you kiss her again. She ran off the second you grabbed Y/n.” Theo snaps, his tone icy and edged with contempt.

It takes a moment for you to register that Theo is talking about Enzo’s relentless former class partner.

His gaze locks onto the lip gloss smeared across Enzo’s lips, and a dangerous glint flares in his eyes. The flicker of anger in his gaze sharpens as he takes a deliberate step forward, his posture radiating barely contained tension. His fingers twitch at his sides, visibly itching to confront his best friend, the promise of retribution clear in his stance.

Enzo remains silent, but his eyes shift to you, conveying a mixture of regret and concern. Theo’s gaze follows, landing on you. Your lips are swollen from the intensity of the kiss, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Your eyes, still wide and slightly glassy, remain fixed on Enzo.

You look wrecked, and Theo despises it.

Without a second thought, Theo takes a decisive step forward, his jaw clenched tightly and his fingers digging into his palms. The sudden movement is charged with barely contained anger, his eyes locked onto Enzo with a fierce intensity.

“Nott!” Blaise barks, clapping a hand on Theo’s shoulder. “It was just a kiss.”

“Quite the kiss, though.” Draco adds with a smirk, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Mattheo lets out a low whistle, clearly entertained. Theo responds with a withering glare, his expression darkening.

Blaise shoves Theo back forcefully, his voice cutting through the tension. “Take your girl and go cool off.” He commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Theo fixes Blaise with a scathing glare, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he shoves past him, grabs your hand with a firm grip, and pulls you down the hall toward his dorm, his movements fueled by anger and jealousy.

You protest, urging him to slow down, but he disregards your words, muttering curses in Italian under his breath. With a fierce shove, he throws open the door to his dorm. You trail after him, and as soon as you step inside, he slams the door shut behind you. As you watch, he paces the room, his hands running through his hair in frustration.

You’ve never seen him like this before—raw and seething.

He spins around to face you, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and distress, “What the fuck was that, dolcezza?’

There’s a moment of silence before you murmur, “A kiss,” as you lean against the door. Theo’s eyes follow your hand as it gently touches your swollen lips, and he sees the distant, reflective look in your eyes.

A flash of something dark and possessive ignites in his gaze. He clenches his jaw, the flicker of jealousy sharp and stinging. The sight of you lingering on the memory of Enzo’s kiss twists in his gut, fueling an intense surge of anger. He can’t stand seeing you so absorbed in someone else’s touch.

“That wasn’t just a kiss.” Theo snaps, his voice clipped.

“It was a bit much,” You reply with a resigned sigh, your gaze meeting his. “But it felt good—”

“Kissing him felt good?” Theo interrupts, his voice dropping to a strained, dangerous whisper. Each word cuts through the space between you with an intensity that makes your heart pound. He steps closer, his eyes blazing with anger and disbelief. You falter, your words catching in your throat as you watch him. “Is that really what you think I want to hear?”

“I don’t know what you want to hear.” You admit, your voice barely above a whisper. You meet his gaze with a defiant look, trying to hold your ground even as your heart races.

Theo’s eyes darken, and he takes another step closer, his face inches from yours. His breath is warm against your skin, mingling with your uneven gasps.

“I want to hear that it meant absolutely nothing to you.” Theo says.

“It didn’t.” You confirm, eyes fixed on his, your breath catching in your throat. This is the closest you've ever been, the closest you've ever allowed yourself to imagine that he might actually kiss you.

“It didn’t?” He repeats, his voice low and dangerously soft. “Because it sure looked like it did.” The intensity in his eyes is almost overwhelming, and you can almost feel the heat of frustration radiating off him.

“It was just a kiss, Theo. It wasn’t real.” You say, looking away, a slight hint of exasperation to your tone.

“Are you sure he felt that way?”

“Enzo?” Your eyes snap back to him in disbelief. Theo stares blankly at you. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” He retorts, his voice shifting from anger to something softer, almost vulnerable. “Because the girl I love is standing in front of me, talking about how kissing my best friend felt good.”

The words hang in the air, and your heart stutters as you struggle to take it all in. The anger that once fueled his every move is now mingled with something else—something that feels like hope. The intensity of his confession leaves you momentarily stunned, your mind reeling as you try to make sense of it. Theo’s eyes hold yours, a storm of anger, hurt, and vulnerability brewing just beneath the surface.

“Theo…” You begin, but your voice falters, and you struggle to formulate a sentence. All you had ever wanted was for him to confess, and now that he had, you found yourself at a loss. The moment you’d imagined so many times was finally here, yet the reality of it left you frozen, uncertain of how to respond.

He steps closer, his hand lifting to gently brush his fingers against your cheek. The space between you is almost gone now. His gaze flickers to your lips, and you can see the conflict in his eyes—the tension between the desire to hold you close and the hurt of picturing you with someone else.

"Do you have any idea how long I’ve loved you, dolcezza?" Theo’s voice drops to a whisper, thick with emotion, as he gently traces your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. The delicate touch sends a shiver down your spine, your breath hitching in response. His gaze flickers from your eyes, filled with desire and uncertainty, down to your parted lips, lingering there as if trying to memorize every curve and tremble. "Years," he breathes, the word heavy with longing, his thumb still grazing your lip as if he's afraid to let go.

The air between you feels charged, thick with emotions that have been kept buried for far too long. Theo’s confession hangs between you like a fragile thread, one that could break with a single wrong move. His thumb continues its gentle path along your lip, the contact sending a rush of warmth through your body.

“Years?” You echo, your voice wrecked as the realization sinks in. The word feels foreign on your tongue, like something you’ve never quite understood until now.

Theo nods, his eyes never leaving yours. “I tried to push it away,” he admits, his voice low and raw. “Tried to convince myself it wasn’t real, that it was just some stupid crush I’d get over. But it wasn’t. It isn’t.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His thumb stills against your lip, and his expression darkens with regret. “Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. I didn’t want to risk losing you. But now…” He trails off, his gaze dropping to your lips again, his resolve wavering. “But I can’t stand the thought of someone else touching you, kissing you, when I’ve been waiting all this time.”

“Theo…” You murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, as you reach up to cup his face. Your fingers brush against the rough stubble on his jaw, and he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.

When he opens them again, they’re filled with a desperate kind of hope, one that makes your heartache. You whisper, “Will you please just kiss me?”

He moves with an intense determination, his hand sliding up to cradle the side of your head, fingers curling possessively just beneath your ear. The raw intensity in his gaze overwhelms you, a mix of longing and vulnerability that feels both foreign and intimately familiar. The depth of emotion in his eyes constricts your chest, an unexpected surge of feeling threatening to make you tremble.

His thumb trails a fiery path along your cheek, the warmth of his touch igniting a wave of sensation. As he leans in, the air between you becomes electrified with tension. When his lips finally connect with yours, the kiss is a fierce collision of need and tenderness—a deliberate press that lingers.

Your fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by pressing you firmly against the door. The proximity makes you draw a sharp, shuddering breath, a sound that mingles with the deeper kiss as he intensifies the connection. His lips are urgent and demanding, yet tender, each movement sending a shiver down your spine. His other hand braces against the door next to your head, anchoring you both in this intimate, electrifying moment.

The space between you disappears, replaced by the searing heat of his body against yours, drawing you irresistibly into him. Breathless, you’re lost in him, more exhilarated than you’ve ever been. His lips against yours send your mind reeling, and you know that if you weren’t pinned against the door, you’d cling to him just to stay upright.

When you finally pull back, breathless and dizzy, Theo’s forehead rests against yours, his eyes still closed as he savors the moment. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

You smile softly, your heart swelling as your throat constricts with emotion. “I’ve loved you for just as long.”

please consider reblogging or leaving a comment! it keeps me motivated to write! 💌

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just-another-reader1098 · 8 months ago

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shot, shot, shot, shot!

━ .ᐟ✧ SCENARIO: what happens when the four love and deepspace men get drunk and jealous? there's only one cure and it's in between your legs!

━ ✧.˖ PAIRING: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel (separate) x female reader (afab)

━ .ᐟ✧ GENRE: smut, porn with very little plot

━ ✧.˖ TOTAL WORD COUNT: 15.7k

━ .ᐟ✧ GENERAL CONTENT WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, mentions of alcohol, recreational drinking (characters and mc), jealousy (guys + mc), drunk characters (guys + mc), use of Y/N, pet names, unprotected sex, never pulling out, fluff/crack/banter, individual content warnings below with their respective fics

━ ✧.˖ LINKS: original inspo | ao3

A/N: SURPRISE ITS HERE EARLY! oof another fic for all four guys? who is she? but actually after this i likely won’t be writing for all four guys like this again, or at least for a while. if i can somehow get better at writing fics that are 1-2k then ill start doing scenarios with all four again! i tried to keep this one short and they’re still all 3-4.3k per guy…this scenario was originally based off the one video of the drunk asian guy! see the clip above under ‘links.’

enjoy guys!! i’ll be taking a much needed break but may write slowly in my own time :) just depends how i feel, how much inspiration i have! i’ll still be on tumblr but will mostly be on my twitter <3 until next time bbs!

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 4.3k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, sylus refers to reader genitalia as ‘she,’ public sex, sex in an alley, standing/against the wall sex, finger sucking, choking, outdoor sex, voyeurism, needy sylus, drunk sylus, jealous sylus, use of pet names, mentions of guns, tiny bit of violence, cumming in coochie, panties over cummies

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: original inspo | video (how sylus kisses you in this)

Luke and Kieran watch the way Sylus’s eyes track you under the strobing lights of the nightclub. It wasn’t out of the norm for their dear boss to be obsessed with knowing a certain Hunter’s whereabouts. But this was excessive, even for him.

The way he’d already shattered two glasses with the force of his fingers, his eyes scarily unblinking as they trailed your every movement. The club manager didn’t dare kick Sylus out, apologizing to him as he’d cleaned up the glass from Sylus’s feet. But Sylus was too distracted to even notice.

The pair of troublemakers supposed it had to do with the fact that some sleezy drunk had his hands all over your bare thighs. They knew if Sylus had his way, that very man would be unconscious on the floor in half a second flat. But of course, when it came to you, Sylus was helpless as he was whipped, giving into your every desire, even if it physically pained him to do so.

And you had ordered Sylus not to intervene, not when you were undercover, trying to get classified information from the powerful men that frequented this very nightclub in the N109 zone. So he was left at the bar, quite literally fending thirsty women off left and right, watching the way you pretended to laugh amongst the unsuspecting targets. He tried to distract himself from the men who so clearly were thinking of ten different ways to fuck you.

A privilege reserved only for him.

So the twins, who had so enthusiastically begged to tag along, devised a plan to help Sylus take his mind off planning literal murder.

Really, they were trying to help!

But maybe they should’ve stopped after the fifth drink. When Sylus’s cheeks flushed the same shade of red as his eyes, ebbing all the way up to the tips of his ears.

And they definitely should’ve stopped after the tenth drink. When Sylus’s body started to move on its own accord, his Evol practically parting the crowd of drunk and sweaty clubbers to get to you.

But at that point there was no stopping the formidable man from taking what he wanted. And what he wanted, what he needed, was you.

Honestly, you nearly breathe a sigh of relief when you feel Sylus’s familiar Evol wrapping around your wrist, yanking you backward and away from the disgusting man trying to feel you up. You’re so happy to feel his strong arms around you that you don’t notice how atypically clumsy his Evol feels, like grasping for something when blindfolded.

“We’re leaving.”

Sylus’s words are dominating and commanding, ‘no’ not even a fathomable possibility. But there’s a slight waver in his gruff voice that makes you raise your eyebrow at him in question.

The idiotic man before you wraps his clammy hands around your waist, pulling you back, “Hey man. We’re in the middle of something.”

You look up to see Sylus’s crimson eyes, trained on the way the man’s fingers dig into your bare skin, burning with something dangerous, the air around him crackling with an erratic and sinister energy, and you know you have to defuse the situation as quickly as you can.

You bring your elbow to the man’s groin, digging hard. He groans pathetically, wilting to his knees. Truthfully, you didn’t have to elbow him that hard, but you’d become nauseated with how disgustingly he’d been looking at you, touching you, for the past thirty minutes.

“No, we’re really not.”

With that, you slip into Sylus’s side, his large arm wrapping possessively around your naked shoulders, your hand resting on his abdomen. Sylus’s lips quirk up, deeply satisfied with the way you can bring men twice your size to their knees before they can even blink. His girl.

As the two of you make your way out of the crowd, you start to notice the way Sylus’s movements are unusually sluggish, his feet trudging one after the other. Considering Sylus was always poised and elegant, you instantly knew something was amiss. When Luke and Kieran fall into step behind you, you turn to the two masked men.

“What happened?!” you hissed at them, “What happened to ‘Watch Sylus? Easy peasy lemon squeezy?!’” Your fingers are raised in air-quotes as you recall their confident words and uncontrollable giggles when you’d tasked them with keeping Sylus in line, knowing he’d have a hard time watching you faux flirt with other men, no matter how self assured he was.

Kieran is the first to speak, clearing his throat as the four of you exit the nightclub, the night air ruffling through your hair, “Well, you see –”

But he’s cut off when Sylus roughly grabs your chin, pulling your eyes up to his.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Your eyes flicker to his, surprised by his demanding, yet needy, words. Sylus smiles when you look up at him, his eyes, as unfocused as they were, beaming down at you.

His rough fingers caress your cheek, burying his face into your hair, inhaling your intoxicating scent, “Beautiful.”

The scent of alcohol on his breath is so strong you nearly wince. Luke and Kieran seem to notice your realization at the same time, their eyes widening as you start to yell in disbelief.

“Is he drunk?!” you demand, your arms wrapping tighter around his waist, Sylus in a world of his own as he mutters incoherent mumblings into your hair, shifting his weight onto you.

The twins grin at you sheepishly, raising their hands in surrender. Luke speaks, “Well, in our defense, boss never gets drunk –”

“Yeah! Boss is such a heavyweight –”

“So we thought, a few drinks might loosen him up –”

“You should’ve seen him! He was thiiiiiis close to commiting a crime –”

“So really, you should be thanking us!”

The twins finish rattling off, looking at you with puppy eyes.

You sigh, unable to feign anger at them, “How many drinks did you give him?”

“Umm…what was it Kieran…like…eight?” Your eyes widen as they scratch their chins.

“No…no, it was definitely closer to…like twelve?”

“Well we also gave him those cute little drinks with the umbrellas, he seemed to really like those!”

“Yeah and they had little chunks of fruit in them! Maybe that cancels out the alcohol?”

“Yeah! And the one with the olives too! Plus, boss always drinks like a bottle of wine a night!

“So we thought…a few mixed drinks…couldn’t hurt anyone!”

Your head spins as you try to keep up with their conversation, digging through your purse to find the unopened half bottle of water you’d brought. You quickly unscrew it, bringing it up to Sylus’s lips.

Sylus looks surprised when the cool plastic touches his lips, but once his hazy eyes focus on you again, he visibly relaxes. The sharp vermillion hues in his irises melt at the reflection of you, softening into the most beautiful carmine pools of red wine.

His hands come over to cup yours, holding your fingers affectionately in his as you tilt the water back so he can drink. You have to tip toe upward so you can follow his grip, his gulps greedy and eyelids shut in relief, the sensation of your hand cupping his jaw feeling like his own personal heaven.

With the plastic at his moistened lips, his eyes flutter open to look at you, his lids heavy with intoxication. Even though his eyes swim with a murky tiredness, they glow when they watch you, glimmering with a star-struck adoration. His intensity stares you down, a knowing heat piercing right through you. The very same heat that has seen both your naked body and soul.

The moment feels hot and strangely intimate. It definitely felt illegal to have Sylus looking at you like that while Luke and Kieran stood behind you.

He’s so distracted by you, eyes never leaving yours, that nearly a third of the water splashes onto his chest and the pavement floor. He drinks so enthusiastically that you almost want to giggle at how submissive he looks, drinking so obediently from your hands, eyes following your every move. Fortunately the pair of whispers behind you remind you that, even if Sylus stares at you like he’s ready to mount you right then and there, you are not alone.

When the bottle drains, he crumples it in one hand, tossing it to the nearest waste bin.

As it hits the metal trash can, you tear your eyes away from the way Sylus heatedly watches you, turning back to Luke and Kieran, “Are you two insane?!”

The twins look positively offended.

“How did you even convince him to drink so much?”

“Well, he was so distracted watching you that he just downed anything we put into his hands...”

You bite your lip, realizing how difficult it must’ve been for Sylus to sit back and just watch. But he did it, for you.

“Y/N.”

You try to ignore the way Sylus is stroking the bare skin of your shoulders, fingers coming dangerously close to your neck. His ruby eyes beg for your attention.

“Sylus might drink a lot, but he drinks wine –”

“Y/N.”

“Not hard alcohol! Look at how red he is! You guys, this was recklessly irresponsible!”

“Y/N.”

Sylus pulls you forcefully back into his arms, his head dipping into the crook of your neck, teeth nipping at your pulse. Through the darkness of the night, you pray Luke and Kieran can’t see the way Sylus whispers into your ear.

“I need you.”

You fight the shiver that threatens to unleash through your unsuspecting body, his hot breath washing against your skin, the contrast of the brisk night air making you all the more sensitive. His fingers hold you in place, his hard body pressed into your own.

You sigh, trying to brush the arousal away, “Let’s get you home, yeah? We can –”

He nips at your earlobe, eliciting a squeak from your lips as he gruffly demands, “Now.”

Before you can protest further, Sylus’s eyes direct to the twins in front of you, the pair of them snickering to themselves knowingly as he dismisses them, “We’ll meet you at home.”

–

You didn’t even make it to your car.

Far from it, you found yourself pressed into the cold brickwall of a nearby alleyway, not fifteen feet from where Luke and Kieran had left the two of you. Sylus’s lips are latched onto yours in a furiously passionate embrace, his hands alternating between grabbing torridly at your waist and threading into the back of your neck, weaving into your sweat-dampened hair.

Your arms are wrapped around his neck for support against his torridly forceful kiss, his head tilted to the side to give him full access to your mouth, your lips, your tongue.

He doesn’t even stop to breathe, opting to inhale your breath as his own. His tongue forcefully explores every inch of your open and willing mouth, and you struggle to keep up with his excitement. His fingers massage your neck, grabbing eagerly at every part of you he can reach.

Sylus has always been passionate, but this was something else. It felt as if the alcohol in his blood amplified everything tenfold, leaving his cock thicker than ever against your shivering abdomen. His hands roam down your naked back, pulling at your waist again, pressing your body harder against his erection that leaks against his underwear.

Sylus’s head tilts to the other side, your face moving opposite his to instinctively receive his unbridled passion. He cups the back of your head again, shielding you head from hitting the wall, the force of his kiss pushing you against it violently.

He pulls away briefly, panting into you, his canines grazing into the soft skin of your ear, “You’re going to be the death of me, little dove.”

You want to question him, but his lips are back on yours in an instant, consuming you once more. His fingers grip your jaw so tightly, funneling all the emotions he’d held back, while watching you on the dancefloor with other men, into the way he holds you against the wall. Into the way he devours you.

He gives you a brief second of reprieve, pressing his lips into your neck, voice coming out husky and sulky, “I don’t enjoy seeing you with other men.”

You gasp as he pushes you impossibly deeper into the wall, teeth simultaneously digging into the curve of your neck. Your fingers thread up into his hair, tugging to ground yourself as Sylus sucks your soft skin.

“M-sooorry,” you slur, as if you’re the one who’s drunk, “B-But I got the information I – nnghn – needed.”

Sylus growls into your skin, “I knew you would. You’re a force to be reckoned with.”

His thumb presses against your bottom lip, eyes glazed over with a drunken hunger, “And you always have me at your mercy.”

It isn’t long before he has your back arched into his abdomen, the front of your sweat slicked body pressed into the cold alley wall, his cock buried in your wet gummy walls. Your panties are pushed messily to the side, your skirt hiked up to your waist.

Sylus’s fingers are shoved into your mouth, claiming to try and minimize your sounds so passerbys don't hear the filthy things he was doing to you. In reality, he was just addicted to your sweet mouth wrapped around him.

His other hand holds both of your wrists, locking them against the small of your back, leaving you absolutely at the mercy of his thick cock ramming in and out of you.

“S-so damn beautiful,” Sylus is almost slurring, having gotten more drunk the longer the alcohol sat in his stomach. The acoustics of the dark alley made his body pounding against yours all the louder and more sinful.

His thrusts are sloppy, the alcohol making it harder for him to maintain control. But that only serves to arouse you more, the sight of Sylus’s hazy eyes when you crane your neck back to see him, the sweat sticking to his flushed skin.

You can only moan, the pads of his fingers pressing down into your tongue. The loud drunken giggles of people passing by make your eyes widen, but Sylus doesn’t stop, only going faster.

“Never gonna let another man touch you, ever again,” he moans into your ear, as he ruts angrily into your g spot, his fingers pressing tiny bruises into the fat of your hips. He’s ten times handsier when he’s drunk, almost as if the alcohol makes his muscles itch, your body his fixation..

He spins you around suddenly, nearly making you lose your balance, his cock entering you just as quickly as it had slipped out. Sylus is desperate to see your beautifully hooded eyes, the faces you make when you come undone for him.

You grip the thick muscles of his neck, admiring his damp and exposed chest. The buttons of his shirt had been yanked open in the drunken shuffle, leaving little to imagination.

“H-Hey,” Sylus mutters, the faintest hint of a whine beneath his words, “Look at me.” His thrusts, sloppier than ever, never stopping.

You grin, despite how blissed out your mind is becoming, at his adorably needy behavior. As you let your eyes lose themselves in his, you stroke his jaw lovingly.

“Tell me,” he pants, his cock twitching as it presses insistently into your walls.

“Nngh — T-Tell you what Sy?” you coo breathlessly, nails digging into his sweaty skin, trying to distract yourself from the no doubt filthy brick wall pressing into your exposed back.

“Tell me how I make you feel,” Sylus’s jaw tightens dangerously.

He thrusts especially hard and deep when you don’t respond, capturing your wrist and pressing it into the wall above your head, effectively trapping you against the wall, “Tell me.”

You squeal, biting your lips, “Sylus! F-Feels s’good. N-No one else can — hng — make me feel like this!”

Sylus’s glossy ruby red eyes flicker, his fingers finding your clit pressed against his pelvis, “Yeah? You love my cock, don’t you sweetheart?”

You want to smile at how adorably needy his words are, the alcohol fueling him with the rare desire to be validated. Instead you just nod vehemently as he plays with your clit, “I dooo!”

Sylus grunts, struggling to breathe as you tighten around him. He grabs your cheeks in between his fingers, squeezing them firmly until your moans are muffled, “Shhh, we wouldn’t want someone to find us, would we little bird?”

You nod obediently, but your body responds instinctively to his words, your abdomen fluttering in excitement at the thought of being caught in such a compromising position, with the revered leader of Onychinus no less.

Sylus chuckles darkly, his every nerve receptive to your tiniest micromovements, and especially the excited way your pussy clamps down on his erection. His lips come down to kiss your jaw sweetly, contrary to the mean way he bullies himself into your cunt.

When he reaches the space beneath your ear he presses a tender kiss there, whispering huskily, “I can feel the way you’re tightening around me. Do you like the idea of someone watching us?”

Your eyes widen at him, and that’s all the answer he needs.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I would love to give them a show. Especially that man who had his hands all over you, hm? What was his name?”

“I-I d-don’t – hah – remember,” you wheeze, holding on as he bounces you into the wall, the sound of drunk bar patrons growing louder.

Sylus smiles darkly, his red eyes glowing in satisfaction, “Good girl. This pussy belongs t’me, hm?” His words come out in a purr, slightly sluggish with intoxication.

You can’t speak, opting to nod as eagerly as you can, your brain muddling against the pleasure of your joined bodies. Sylus chuckles at your wordless agreement.

“My precious dove…can’t even speak?” he coos, fingers still splayed out against your poor quivering clit, the wet sounds of his furious ministrations echoing throughout the dark alley. He leans in close to your ear.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. She’s so loud she might as well be answering for you,” he grins, clearly talking about your soaked and squelching pussy against his demanding thrusts.

You’re about to retort when you hear another group of people passing by the alley. Your hands fly up to your mouth, forcing your uncontrollable moans away. Your eyes squeeze shut as the patter of feet gets closer and closer, fear and excitement taking over.

“Ah-ah,” Sylus tuts, “You know better than to hide your beautiful sounds from me.” Your eyes widen when his words sink in.

Your hands fly to Sylus’s broad shoulders, but it’s too late to push him back. His hands find the globes of your ass, lifting you off the floor, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist. At this angle Sylus can fully bounce you on his cock, using you however he wants. At this angle, the swollen tip brushes right into your cervix. At this angle, it’s physically impossible for you to muffle your cries.

Your nails dig into the ropes of his shoulder muscles as you squeal. Sylus only grins as the sound of feet falter, right in front of the alley.

You try your best to whisper, “Sy-Sylus, please. Th-they’ll hear.” But it was pointless. Even if you could hold back your whimpers, the echo of his arousal dampened pelvis slapping against the space where your thighs met your ass bounced off the walls of the alley like a resounding bell.

“You say that…” he murmurs, fingers coming back down to your clit, balancing you in just one arm, “But why is she getting so tight?”

He’s right, and there’s no denying it. Sylus is well acquainted with your body, knowing exactly what excites you, what you don’t like, what you love.

The heavy footsteps gradually fade, likely too drunk to hear anything than the pounding of distant EDM music. Sylus hears you sigh in relief, releasing a bated breath, but your cunt stays as tight as ever around him. It drives him insane.

Nearly getting caught has only pushed both of you to the cusp of your orgasms.

“Close, dove?” Sylus whispers into your ear, one hand pressed into the wall, the other bouncing you on his quivering cock.

Your head is thrown back as you nod, gasping for your next breath, “Y-Yes! So cloooose Sy!” At this point you don’t even care who could possibly hear you, only able to focus on the angry way Sylus’s cock twitching inside you, stroking your g-spot, begging to paint you white.

“M-Me too, Y/N,” Sylus’s uncharacteristic stutter, driven to madness by the alcohol and you, makes you clench down, hard.

He hisses, hips stuttering, teeth clamping down on your shoulder, tongue subsequently coming out to lap at the space where he bit down, soothing your skin.

The push of pain, the pull of pleasure, it’s just enough to tip you over, careening down the cliff of your orgasm. Your head falls back, eyes rolling with them, body fully preparing to show Sylus just how much you loved him.

But Sylus has other plans, squeezing your cheeks in between his fingers, directing you to look at him.

“Hey. Look at me, please.”

His commanding words remind you that he’s very much still intoxicated, making him adorably needy for your attention.

When your eyes level with his, his red eyes sparkle happily, like a puppy getting its ears scratched, “Hello, my love. Show me, hm?” The duality of his lovable desperation and his downright malevolent plunges into your cervix blurs the lines between pleasure and reality, sanity and madness.

You nod eagerly, holding his intense eye contact, while you burst at the seams, spraying all over his still clothed abdomen. Sparks of white hot electricity travel through every one of your nerve endings while you cum on him.

Sylus gulps, in awe of the way you sing for him, shame thrown to the wind. If anyone were to walk by, they’d hear the way you screamed for his cock. Hear the way your body made him gasp for his next breath. How he grunts with each rope of cum that he dumps into your waiting hole, each sloppy pump filling his vision with bleary stars.

As he cums, he whispers brokenly into your ear, “C-Can never get enough. I love you, sweetheart.” One of his big hands comes up to clamp around your throat, his fingers pressing down forcefully as he erupts inside of you.

“Ngh…I love you Sylus,” you murmur against the pleasure of your constricted air flow, clinging to him, truly like an injured bird.

Sylus kisses your lips tenderly as you both come down from your highs, his fingers carefully laying your panties back in place. When he sets you on the ground, you nearly collapse, your legs quivering from the way they’d been locked around his waist. His arms are back around you in an instant, holding you steady. His cum flows out of you like literal tears, but you can only clamp your thighs shut and pray your pathetic soiled panties can catch the streams of his milky seed.

He guides you carefully out of the alley, pressing affectionate kisses into the crown of your head as he holds your waist protectively. You’re so dazed you hardly notice that your skirt is still ridden up, until Sylus gently pulls it back down, smoothing the rumpled fabric with his large hands.

The sounds of two far too familiar voices greet you when you emerge from the backstreet.

“Are you guys finally done?”

“Do you have any idea how long we’ve been waiting?!”

Sylus groans, running his hand down his face, “Didn’t I tell you two to go back to base?”

And though you’re thoroughly mortified at the idea of the twins having walked into your…situation, you can’t help but smile at the way Sylus handles Luke and Kieran. Like a father reprimanding his children.

“Well we did —”

“But then you guys didn’t come back for a while —”

“So we thought maybe something happened!”

You shake your head at their frenzied explanation, the smile stretching on your lips as you watch the twins move their hands animatedly in their defense, “You guys are impossible.”

Luke gasps in exaggerated earnest, “How can you say that after what you’ve put us through?”

Kieran nods in agreement, shuddering dramatically, “Yeah! I feel like I just walked in on my parents…”

“You two better watch yourselves before I confiscate your guns again,” Sylus sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. But you can see the corner of his lips fighting an amused smile.

Luke and Kieran simultaneously gasp, their reaction making it seem like Sylus was a father grounding his children, taking away their toys. You burst out into giggles, hugging Sylus’s side to keep warm as you watch the comical situation unfold.

“There’s no need for you to do that, Sy,” you murmur, looking up at him, admiring the way the moonlight frames his face. Sylus peers down at you, his face softening, before nodding curtly.

The twins snicker. Luke uses his hand as a shield in front of his mouth to whisper to Kieran, pointing to Sylus behind it, “Whipped.”

You shoot them a smile, a deceptively innocent and sweet grin, “I’ll gladly confiscate them for you.”

There’s nearly a cartoon puff of smoke left behind when the twins scurry off, desperately clutching their holsters and begging for mercy.

Sylus chuckles as he watches them run off, his arm slung over your shoulder, pulling you closer to his side as he presses a kiss into your forehead.

“Truly a force to be reckoned with.”

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 3.8k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, drunk mc and xavier, pre-established relationship (but not first time), public sex/voyeurism, sex on the dance floor, standing sex, fingering, dancing without leaving room for jesus, grinding, jealous!mc, not a content warning but xavier is wearing tight black shirt and jeans…….MMMMMM, unprotected sex, handjob through clothes

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: original inspo | pics (how xavier and you make out in this)

The thumping beat of club music pounds in your ears, making it difficult to hear even your own thoughts. But you really didn’t care, too intoxicated and having too much fun dancing with Tara in a throng of sweaty club goers.

The both of you had requested today off, wanting to see an up and coming DJ at the Linkon Lounge. You’d started the night off at your apartment, getting dolled up in your wispiest lashes and outfits that made you feel strong, confident, and beautiful. You’d shared a couple shots of tequila before slipping on your heels and scrambling out of your apartment, in a fit of tipsy and hushed giggles.

Coincidentally enough, you ran into Xavier on your way out. Your blonde-haired partner was in the apartment lobby, grabbing his mail, when you and Tara bumped into him, literally. If it weren’t for Xavier’s quick reflexes, his forearm darting out to wrap around your waist, you definitely would’ve ended the night before it began, with an ice pack in your hand rather than a fruity drink.

And that’s when Tara had invited Xavier out with you. Truthfully, you were sure Xavier would say no. The club definitely wasn’t his scene, and he undoubtedly had plans to have a cozy night in. But you were pleasantly surprised when he blurted out ‘yes’ before Tara could even get the words completely out. Tara knew Xavier wanted to come to keep an eye on you, and she was all too happy to play matchmaker.

You hadn’t seen Xavier for what felt like at least fifteen minutes. You assumed he went off to the bathroom, or maybe to order some more drinks. Before long, you started to worry.

“I’m gonna go look for Xavier! Will you be okay?” you practically scream over the music, pulling the side of Tara’s face to your mouth so she can hear you better.

“I’ll be here!” she yells, pointing at her phone, “Text me if you can’t find me!” You nod, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

You push your way out of the crowd, apologizing profusely as you’re met with the displeased looks and groans of drunk patrons.

Eventually you make your way to the edge of the dancefloor, scouring the area for Xavier. You had a difficult time focussing your eyes, stumbling about, but did your best to look for the enigmatic Hunter.

You quickly check the line at the bar before deciding to check the bathroom. It’s then you catch the glint of familiar platinum blonde hair, Xavier’s body leaned up against the wall near the public water fountains.

You gulp at the sight of him, his head leaned back to rest against the wall, his hands folded across his chest. The musky sweat of the enclosed space made his black fitted t-shirt cling to his biceps, his skin glistening with sweat under the pulsing LED lights.

Even from this far away, it’s clear Xavier is drunk. His eyes are hooded with intoxication, his throat bobbing with shallow breaths.

You’re about to approach him when the groups of people in front of you shift, and you see a girl latched onto Xavier’s bicep. The two look far too cozy, Xavier not doing anything to push her off as she speaks animatedly up at him, her eyelashes batting seductively.

It’s not like you and Xavier were dating…but it was clear there was something deeply intertwined about the two of you. That, and the fact that you’d been intimate several times. But you had to admit, you’d never made things exclusive.

You turn on your heel, thoroughly perturbed at the sight of Xavier with someone else, making your way back to where you’d left Tara.

You’d just broken into the crowd when a firm hand catches your wrist, stopping you from pushing further. You turn back sharply, ready to throw your fist back, only to be met with the sight of Xavier, in all his flushed and handsome glory.

“Where are you going?”

You fight the urge to smack him, jealousy a true green-eyed monster, instead just feigning ignorance, “What? I can’t hear you!” You gesture wildly with your hands to emphasize your point. You turn away from him, starting to tug your wrist away again when he pulls you back, hard.

He twirls you effortlessly into his chest, his strong arms wrapping around you, secure and unrelenting. You look up at him in question. He leans down, and your breath catches as his lips come an inch away from yours. But he doesn’t kiss you, instead whispering into your ear.

“I asked where you were going. Didn’t you see me?” his breath is warm against your ear, the smell of alcohol invading your senses over the pounding music.

“You looked busy. I didn’t want to intrude,” you try to keep your voice level, but you can tell it comes out petty. You hope through the deafening music, Xavier can’t hear how sulky your voice is.

Xavier looks confused in his drunken state, but shouts into your ear, his tone genuine and endearing even amidst the music, “You’re never intruding.”

You sigh at his sweet words, tiptoeing up to speak to him and trying to be nice, “Who was your friend?”

Xavier looks even more bewildered for a second, before realizing the implications of your words, a lazy smile painting his features. He holds you close, one hand on the small of your back, the other coming up to touch your cheek.

“Not my friend. She couldn’t find her friends and wanted to wait with me.”

You roll your eyes. Xavier was too sweet and unassuming for his own good.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Xavier chuckles, “You don’t have to be jealous, I only have eyes for you.”

Your cheeks flare amidst the flush of alcohol on your cheeks at his words, and before you can speak Xavier is leaning down to kiss you. You squeak in surprise, but respond to his lips, kissing him back.

Xavier kisses you slowly, gently, and tenderly. You can barely even hear the music around you, the musky people bumping into the pair of you. All you can feel is Xavier, lips on yours, his hands stroking your bare skin, his hardening erection against your stomach.

He pulls away for air, his lips swollen and wet from your passionate kiss. Your ears pound in excitement at the way Xavier looks down at you, hungry and wanting more. You hook your arms around Xavier’s neck, pulling him down until your foreheads brush against each other.

“Dance with me,” you whisper loudly against the music. Xavier’s eyes shine with excitement, and he nods, his hands gripping your waist as you start to sway to the music.

You turn around so you can watch the flashing lights, the alcohol making them look like a light show. You feel much bolder with the liquid courage running through your veins, so you grind back into Xavier, your rear molding perfectly against his crotch.

Xavier hardens so quickly against your movements, your body feeling so perfect against his. The alcohol makes everything feel much more fluid and raw, his body responding excitedly.

He too is fueled by the courage of intoxication, his hands roaming from your hips to your stomach, just above the fat of your cunt. He can feel the way you shiver at his touch, and he decides to dare further.

His strong hands wander up, until they cup your breasts through your sheer dress. He rests his chin on your shoulder, whispering into your ear.

“Is this alright?”

You crane your neck backwards to nod at him, eyes flickering to his lips. Xavier leans in to kiss you again, one hand still playing with your nipple, the other reaching up to hold your throat against him gently. The two of you kiss so passionately, so messily, that you hardly notice the crowd of equally drunk and horny people around you.

As you kiss him, your hand comes backward to cup the back of Xavier’s head, grabbing at his soft blonde locks. Your body continues to rock sensually into him, relishing in the way his hard erection sits between the slit of your ass.

Looking up at him through your wet eyelashes, you whisper, “M-More. I want more.”

Xavier groans, looking around, trying to find the quickest way out of the crowd. But you can’t wait, too aroused by the way Xavier’s shirt clings to his muscles, the way his cock fights against his jeans, straining to be with you.

The alcohol dares you to be bolder than you normally would ever be. You grab his wrist, bringing it down to the hem of your minidress, guiding his fingers to slip under it.

You can feel Xavier stiffen behind you, eyes darting around to make sure no one is watching. But he quickly realizes quite literally no one cares about the two of you, too focussed on the music, too focussed on their own partners, to even spare you a glance.

So he follows your lead, his hands roaming under your dress, digging into your soft thighs. You moan into his ear, your head laid back on his shoulder.

With his palm so close to your cunt, you grind right into his open hand, wanting more friction, more of him. Xavier groans at your enthusiasm, quickly forgetting about the people that are packed around you like sardines. He feels something damp against his fingers, making him all the more desperate to have you.

“You’re wet,” Xavier whispers sluggishly into your ear, “Is this all for me?”

You groan at his words, your muscles twitching with anticipation. You try and look at him, the back of your head still resting on his thick shoulder. Your hand grasps at the back of his neck, forcing his eyes to drift down to you, the azure blues flickering to your lips before they come back to your gaze.

“Touch me, please.”

Even under the strobing lights of the club you can see Xavier’s eyes darken, his jaw tightening. His eyes flutter shut as he leans down to kiss you.

At the same time, his finger gingerly dips into your folds, moving your panties to the side. At first he just rubs up and down with his middle finger, enjoying the way you moan into his mouth. But it becomes far too unbearable, not being inside you.

He slowly dips his middle finger inside of you, hissing when your little hole sucks him in tightly.

“Is this okay?” Xavier asks, wanting to make sure you’re alright. Your eyes dart around lazily, making sure no one can see Xavier’s hands underneath your dress.

You nod, your eyelashes fluttering shut as Xavier starts to pump in and out of you. The energetic music makes everything feel more surreal, only the occasional jostling of people bumping into the pair of you reminding you of exactly where you are.

Xavier’s index finger finds its way inside you, his thumb rubbing at your slippery clit. He alternates his free arm between shielding you from people pushing as they pass by, and cupping your breast through your dress. In all your writhing, your ass continues to grind against Xavier’s cock. Under his jeans, he’s leaking so profusely that your body rubs around the slick, creating a sticky mess.

Xavier pumps inside you, enjoying the feeling of you wrapped so tightly around him, the feeling of risk and wrong.

“Please – Please don’t stop,” you pant, looking up at him with starry eyes.

The look of complete and utter bliss on your gorgeously flushed face makes Xavier bite his lip, “I’ll never stop, angel.”

You clench down hard on his fingers at the endearing pet name, one he so rarely called you. It makes you writhe against his hot and hard body, pressed firmly into you, like a puzzle piece.

With your back still turned to him, you reach your hand back to where his bulge presses into you. With careful hands, you cup the massive swell of his manhood, biting your lip when he moans into your ear, teeth grazing against your earlobe.

You rub him enthusiastically through his jeans, enjoying the way he writhes under your touch, his cock straining through the tight restraint of his pants.

“You’re evil,” Xavier groans, pressing kisses into your neck, trying to contain the moans he wants to make for you.

You lean your head back, staring at him through hooded eyes, “Should I stop?”

Xavier holds you tight, almost crushing you, to keep you from stopping.

“No. Never.”

You giggle, turning back to the club stage, watching the DJ perform, hands finding their way back to Xavier’s crotch. His pants are heavy and breathy by your ear, fingers scissoring in and out of you furiously.

Soon enough, the feeling of just your plush body against his isn’t enough anymore. He needs more.

With his fingers never pausing, he asks, his voice smooth and sultry, “I need to be inside of you, is that okay?”

“Please,” you whisper huskily, grinding against his fingers, “I want you.”

You can feel Xavier shifting behind you, pulling out his cock. He feverishly pulls your panties down just slightly, so that they rest under your cheeks. He lifts your dress, enough to give him access but making sure you’re still covered. He would rather die than let anyone see your precious body.

As the music comes to a peak, the beat building alongside your release, Xavier slips his erection into you. You’re thankful for the heavy bass of the drop because you quite literally cannot hold back the scream that rips from your lips as he pushes himself into the hilt.

One of his hands travels from your waist to under the front of your dress. When he finds your clit, he pinches down hard.

“You’re so cute,” Xavier hisses into your ear, picking up his pace, “Were you jealous earlier?”

“N-No! Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout,” you whimper, your fingers gripping the arm he has buried between your legs.

“Mmm,” Xavier hums, clearly not convinced, “That’s alright, Y/N. You have nothing to be jealous of, ever.”

“I-I’m not – I wasn’t!” you gasp, forcing the words together as Xavier’s cock nearly finds its way into your throat. But at this point you knew he could see right through you.

“Would travel through time and space for you,” he murmurs, words full of a boundless affection, “I only see you.”

He puts all that same adoration and passion into the way he fucks up into you, holding you protectively in place, making sure no one so much as brushes against you.

Your moans are strangled when his cockhead angles into your g-spot, cutting off the drunken confessions on the tip of your tongue. Xavier’s girth was always something you had a hard time getting used to, and taking him standing was infinitely harder. Your inner thighs burned with the strain of how fully he stretches you out.

Xavier’s hand comes over to cover your mouth, his smile pressed against your throat. The alcohol makes Xavier irregularly chatty, his inhibitions lowered completely, “You’re so loud. Does it feel that good?”

Your eyes are rolled back mesmerized by the flashing lights, unable to discern what comes from the nightclub’s light show and what comes from the pleasure of Xavier’s poignant thrusts. You do your best to nod, your teeth sinking into Xavier’s palm to keep yourself conscious.

You’re nearly doubled over now, your jelly legs unable to hold you up, with only the support of Xavier’s strong hand against your cunt and his other arm wrapped around your chest. He holds you up as securely as he can, his own intoxication growing having not drank any water since you’d arrived at the club.

“Are you okay?”

Xavier’s head snaps up to see a club patron in front of you, a concerned look on his face as he kneels down to be eye-level with you. Xavier squick readjusts to make sure you’re covered.

Your eyes widen, trying to straighten up, “F-Fine!” You nearly scream as Xavier continues to thrust into you, his movement much more conspicuous but somehow more intense.

“Are you sure? You don’t look so good.”

You want to be kind, but you can really only focus on the way Xavier continues to fuck you, not even caring that the good Samaritan in front of you was this close to realizing what was happening. The fact that you were still very much drunk did not help.

“N-No, I’m fine,” you squeak, eyes rolling back when Xavier hits your g-spot. You can’t see him but you just know he’s enjoying the position he has you in. He smirks in satisfaction, grinding into your ass, his thick length nestling into your every nerve.

The man looks skeptical, especially at your unfocused hooded eyes, “Do you want some water?”

He’s about to reach out to touch you, when Xavier yanks you back, both arms wrapped protectively around you, “She’s fine.”

At Xavier’s harsh tone, the man recoils, looking up, almost as if he’s just noticing Xavier. He nods awkwardly before disappearing into the crowd.

Xavier resumes his vigor, kissing your neck and whispering, “Mine.”

“Now look who’s jealous,” you giggle languidly, gasping when Xavier drives into you harder.

“Not jealous. It’s just the truth,” he murmurs, tilting your head back to kiss you, fingers back on your clit.

His tongue explores your mouth excitedly, your pleasures quickly reaching a peak after coming close to being caught. Your body convulses around him, wanting him to push you into the oblivion of ecstasy.

“Always so tight,” Xavier groans, “I-I won’t last long like this…”

You squeal, your sounds drowned out by the vibrating music, “Ngh – me too Xavier.”

“G-Gonna cum,” Xavier gasps as your cunt strangles him, ripping away from your lips and panting for air.

You crane your neck back to look at him, your eyes wide with wonder and desperation. The blissed out look on your beautiful face makes Xavier groan, his hips stuttering into his climax.

“Cum for me, Xavier,” you beg, impossibly close as well, “Want to feel you.”

Xavier shuts his eyes, his body following your every command. His cock explodes inside you, filling you with a hot warmth that spreads all the way to your fingertips and toes. Xavier doesn’t speak as he cums, only suckling hungrily at your neck, moaning and whimpering into your bruised skin.

He keeps thrusting into you, even as his cum starts to leak out of your hole, wanting you to come undone too. Even when the overstimulation starts to border on pain, he refuses to stop.

His cum makes it so there’s zero resistance, only the pure pleasure of his cock against your throbbing gummy walls. Soon, you’re cumming too, screaming into the pulsating music, your climax crescendoing with the drop of the song. The symphony of it all, the alcohol, the threat of being caught by any one of the dozens of people around you, makes it one of your most intense orgasms yet.

Your body instinctively clenches down as you release, making you cream all over Xavier, a mix of both your arousals. Xavier watches in awe at the beautiful way you cum, for him. It’s enough to make him pump a few more ropes into you, even as his dick throbs sharply in protest.

Xavier hugs you to his chest tightly, holding onto you for support as his cock quivers inside you. You can feel his chest heaving against your back, shifting as he slips out of you and redoes his zipper. Xavier puts your panties back into place, pressing a faint trail of kisses along your shoulders.

Suddenly, the crowd feels suffocating and icky and you desperately want to be somewhere quieter with Xavier. You pull him out of the crowd, nudging throngs of drunk and horny patrons out of the way as you make your way to the bar. Xavier follows you sluggishly, his fingers barely closing over yours as you guide him out..

When you reach the bar, you order a water and turn to Xavier worriedly, cupping his cheeks in your hands.

“Xavier,” you urged, “Are you okay?”

Xavier’s eyes flutter open, his eyes slightly rolled back, “M’okay. Just sleepy.” You giggle, patting his face gently, realizing the haze in his eyes is a mix of intoxication and post-sex bliss.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, you’re always so sleepy. Especially after…”

Despite Xavier’s eyes remaining closed, he smiles and mumbles as he leans against the wall next to the bar, “Can’t help it. You drain me.”

You blush furiously, despite it being loud enough where no one can hear you two. The bartender hands you a glass of water, and you bring it up to Xavier’s lips. Xavier’s eyelids flicker open, his long eyelashes fluttering as he takes in his surroundings again, like he’s so intoxicated off the alcohol and you that he can’t make sense of his bearings.

You take his chin into your palm, tilting him up gently so the water doesn’t spill. Xavier drinks obediently, not letting a single drop go to waste. His position against the wall makes it so that you tower a few inches over him, so he has to look up at you through his eyelashes. With each gulp of the icy water he never breaks eye contact with you, staring at you with all the awe and devotion in the world.

His hands gently grip your wrists, nuzzling into your hand. The way he watches you makes you want to squirm, his eyes glimmering under the flashing lights. His azure eyes feel like they hold the weight of an entire galaxy, but in reality it’s the reflection of you that makes his eyes sparkle with the brilliance of the stars.

“Hey! There you two are!”

You whip your head around to see Tara excitedly hurrying over to you as Xavier finishes the last of the water.

You turn to her, “Tara! I’m sorry, I found Xavier but then we got…caught up.”

She smiles and shakes her head. There’s a knowing mischief in her eyes, as if she doesn’t believe you, “It’s alright! I made some friends.”

She looks at Xavier. Even though you no longer hold up the empty glass to his lips, he still stares at you with the same starstruck look, a post-orgasm mist over his entire face.

“Why does he look like that?”

Your cheeks burn and you scramble to find an excuse, “Oh, he’s fine! He’s just drunk. And sleepy. Very sleepy.”

Tara grabs your chin, tilting it up in a squint, inspecting you. You’re about to ask what’s wrong, if maybe your false eyelashes came off, but when you look down at your shoulder you see exactly what she’s looking at.

A bright red, purpling bruise. In the exact shape of Xavier’s lips.

“Oh, I bet he’s sleepy.”

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 3.7k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, drunk zayne, needy zayne, jealous zayne, couch sex, booby sucking, pretty vanilla tbh, slightly sub zayne, zayne begs a lot, prone bone, doggy, choking, making out, cumming in coochie, mentions of birth control usage, zayne is a lightweight

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: original inspo | video | art (credit to @roschea-arts)

You stumble into your apartment, nearly tripping over the threshold as Zayne’s heavy arm slumps over your shoulder for support. You kick your heels off, briefly bending down to slip Zayne’s shoes off, before you lead him to sit on your couch.

“Sit here while I get some water for you, okay?” you whisper worriedly against Zayne’s nearly unconscious face, pressing a kiss to his heated and clammy temple. Zayne doesn’t respond, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he takes a shallow breath, nodding gently.

Well, this was definitely not how you’d expected tonight to go.

When you’d invited Zayne as your date to the annual UNICORN hosted Hunters’ Association Banquet, you expected it to be a relatively uneventful night. You never expected your raven-haired surgeon boyfriend to get drunk. In fact, you’d never seen him so much as tipsy since you’d known him.

And that was something Zayne intentionally made sure of; alcohol was not something he indulged in, ever.

Except when you’re so busy socializing all night that he gets unbearably bored, curious, and desperate for your attention.

So that’s how he ended up absolutely plastered off two cocktails. In his defense they were deceptively fruity and sweet, the rims coated in thick crystals of sugar. Truly his kryptonite.

So when Zayne grabs your wrist while you’re talking to a fellow Hunter, spinning you gently to his hard chest, you’re completely taken aback.

“Apologies. Can I steal my girlfriend for a moment?”

Your colleague, standing before the both of you, looks flustered at Zayne’s commanding voice, nodding fervently before he turns to leave. His face is pale, not realizing you’d brought a guest to the banquet, much less a guest that looked as handsome and imposing as Zayne. You whip around, eyebrows raised, to face the surgeon in question.

His face is uncharacteristically red, the tips of his ears burning so adorably bright. The first few buttons of his shirt had been undone, the collar disheveled, like he’d pulled at it until the enclosures gave way. What’s more, the tension that colored his words, alarming and unusual.

“Zayne? What’s wrong?” you reach up to touch his cheek worriedly, gasping at how warm his normally chilly skin was, “Are you not feeling well?”

Zayne releases your wrist, instead capturing your hand on his jaw with his own palm, pressing you deeper into his cheek. He practically purrs into your touch, nuzzling into your hand warmly.

“You feel nice.” His voice is low, almost a rough whisper against the cheerful laughter of the night.

It was very unlike Zayne to be so blatant with his affections, especially in front of either of your colleagues. In this case, the packed banquet hall of UNICORN’s annual Hunter’s banquet, filled with curious and nosy onlookers, peering at the two of you embracing in the middle of the party.

Perhaps the bustling activity became too overwhelming for Zayne, especially given that you had been pulled every which way to discuss your recent mission successes. You’d hardly had a chance to make sure he was doing okay.

“Did you want to leave? I can —”

Zayne pulls you closer to him until your bodies are pressed together tightly, his slender fingers holding your waist in place. You squeak in surprise, blushing as you try to ignore the prying eyes of your colleagues as Zayne strokes your cheek, fingers playing with your loose strands of hair.

“Who was that?” Zayne’s voice is deceptively calm against the top of your head as he breathes in your familiar scent, masking the demand and restraint lurking just below the surface. Your pheromones calm him down slightly, making him feel much more at ease.

“Who was who?”

Zayne bends down to reach your ear, his normally calm and stoic voice much more shaky than usual, “That man, who was making you laugh. He seemed friendly.”

Zayne’s words tickle your ear, making you shiver. It’s then you can smell the alcohol on him, as he leans down to whisper in your ear, the bitter scent of vodka mixing with the faint smell of his cologne. Suddenly the questions of his irregular behavior clicked.

You lean back to look at him in shock, “Zayne?! Are you drunk?”

Zayne looks sheepish, his hazel eyes still intense, “No. I don’t – hic – don’t think so.”

You want to laugh at his incriminating hiccup, the surgeon undoubtedly intoxicated. That fact is only confirmed to you when you tip-toe up to peck his lips and taste the bittersweet trace of alcohol on him.

“You were so busy, I got curious and decided to...indulge. Just this once,” Zayne admits, his eyes never leaving yours as he holds you close.

You don’t speak, in shock at the way his words are slightly whiny and sulky all at once, something you never heard from Zayne. Zayne was never one to be jealous, and much less to actually show that jealousy.

Zayne’s eyes lower, glowing at you in a soft regret, “I’m sorry.”

You giggle, resting your head on his chest, arms wrapping around his waist. For that brief moment, you forget all about the watchful eyes around you, only able to focus on the man you loved before you.

“How many drinks did you have?”

He pauses, looking genuinely deep in thought as he tries to recall the night, “Two, no…maybe three.”

You grin wordlessly. Zayne never drank, so he was undoubtedly a lightweight, that was no surprise. But you would’ve thought it would take more than three drinks to knock the formidable man off his ass.

Zayne’s jaw clenched as he admires how beautiful you look tonight, his wandering alcohol-fueled desires pushing him to want to see much more, “Would it be alright if we called it a night?”

You nod, peering up at him, “Of course, are you not feeling well from the alcohol?”

Zayne averts his eyes, clearing his throat. His neck bobs against his undone collar, his tie hanging loosely around his chest.

“I’m alright. I just…want to be alone with you.”

By the time you arrived at your apartment, Zayne had gotten considerably more drunk, the alcohol being further absorbed into his bloodstream.

You hurriedly bring him a cool glass of water, standing in between his thighs, over his limp body. Zayne’s head is thrown back against the cushion of your couch, already having yanked off his suit jacket and tie, the articles of clothing strewn over the arm of the seat, his neck and collar exposed. His snowy pale skin is splotched red, practically radiating a wave of heat.

Your fingers cup his sharp jaw, tilting his chin up, shifting to hold his heavy head in the palm of your hand, stroking his cheek lovingly. Zayne’s eyes flicker up to yours as you tilt him up, his glasses slightly fogged up from the heated crimson flush on his cheeks. His eyes light up when they meet yours, his eyelashes fluttering as he fights to keep his eyes open. You bite your lip, trying to keep your wide smile at bay. He looked so utterly adorable like this, looking up so affectionately obedient like this.

You bring the glass gently up to his lips, encouraging him to drink. Zayne obeys, lips latching onto the edge of the cup as you tilt it forward, gently nudging his chin upwards with your other hand.

His eyes flutter open at the feeling of your touch, his golden emerald irises trained solely on you as he drinks, refusing to look away. He’s so focussed on you that dribbles of water stream down his chin as he gulps down the entire glass, falling onto his collar.

His eyes never leave yours as he chugs the entire glass of refreshing water, the whites of his eyes shining in the dim lighting of your apartment. If anyone else saw the way Zayne looked at you, they’d swear they could see hearts reflected in them as he drank from your hands. He looked at you as if his entire world spun around you, the center of his universe.

When you pull away, Zayne’s eyes still don’t leave yours. Instead, they appear to become more intense, more fiery.

“Zayne? Do you want more water?”

He doesn’t answer. You’re too distracted by the incensed pools of peridot when Zayne yanks you onto his lap, lips capturing yours hungrily.

–

“Ngh – Zayne!” you moan, pulling away from his demanding and bruising lips. Zayne grants you a brief break to breathe, but his fingers firmly hold your hips in place atop his erection that strains against his buckled pants, the two of you nestled deep into the couch cushion.

He gives you a second before he’s yanking your chin towards him again, soft mouth crushed against yours in an instant. Your lips are captured gently between his teeth, his hunger for you insatiable. The taste of alcohol is still faint on his tongue, and he wants nothing more than to overwhelm himself with the taste of you.

You’re completely engulfed by him, the ferocity of his mouth against yours, the warmth of his breath against your tongue. Zayne’s jaw alternates, side to side, trying to give himself the best access to you he can possibly get. The cool touch of metal grazes against your cheeks, his glasses pressing against you in the vigor of his embrace. He groans in frustration into your mouth, forcing himself to briefly pull away.

Before you can even question him, he’s yanking his misted up glasses off by the temples, tossing them onto your coffee table without a second glance, without a single care. His eyes are hooded with desire, his glasses no longer obstructing you from him. They shut sensually when he leans back in, lips parting as his glasses clatter louding against the table.

He says nothing, smashing his lips into yours once again. You can vaguely feel the distinct bump of his nose, pressing into your skin, when he grabs the back of your head, pulling you harder against his all consuming hunger.

His tongue is unbelievably tender against yours, despite how urgently and desperately he devours you. His fingers press into the divots of your arched back, his arms are completely wrapped around you, bringing you into an affectionate embrace as he continues to consume you whole. His fingers stroke up and down the half exposed expanse of your back, enjoying how soft you feel against his big hands.

You grind down onto his cock as you try and match his passion, your panties sticking to your soaked folds. Your thighs are spread so widely against his legs, that the dampness smears against his dress pants, your dress doing little to hold anything back.

Zayne hisses at the delicious pressure, lips leaving yours to gasp into your ear, his hot breath caressing the sensitive skin.

“D-Don’t,” he gulps deeply, alcohol and anticipation making him trip over his words, “Unless you're willing to take responsibility for the consequences.”

You shiver at his words, leaning in to kiss his reddened earlobe, “And if I am?”

And that’s how you find yourself naked, sweaty, and writhing on your back, under the pressure of Zayne’s half naked body on top of you, his cock ravaging every inch of your poor cunt.

Zayne is a mumbling and moaning mess above you, droplets of sweat beading on his bright red temples, his damp hair dangling below his forehead. His unbuttoned dress shirt flies wildly, his thick muscles twitching every time his lower half drives into you like a madman. If it weren’t for the sweat lining your back, you’d undoubtedly be pushed around the couch like a ragdoll under Zayne’s furious passion.

You can barely see Zayne’s eyes, his dangling bangs obscuring much of his frantic face. You do your best to sit up, your chin on your chest, watching the way Zayne’s glistening body jackhammers into you, his rhythm erratic and desperate.

Trying not to drool, you watch his abdominal muscles twitch, his briefs and dress pants hanging off his hips. He’d been so eager to bury himself inside of you that he didn’t even take off his clothing, instead pulling his cock out from under the top of the waistband of his briefs. It’s so heavy and thick with excitement that the restraint of his brief’s waistband is no match for it.

“M’sorry,” Zayne mumbles, so slurred you barely even hear it through the clinking of his undone belt, hanging off his waist.

“Wh-what?” you pant, tugging at the sweat-soaked shirt that clings to his back.

“Didn’t mean to get so intoxicated,” he pants breathlessly, almost sounding guilty, “I’m sorry.”

Your heart clenches at the vulnerability shining in his eyes. You know he’s not used to letting himself feel his emotions like this, to really give into his needs and desires.

“Zayne, don’t apologize,” you whimper through the pleasure, stroking his cheek, “You’re allowed to let go sometimes.”

Your words nearly make Zayne snarl, his pelvis slapping into your ass, his hands elevating hips, your thighs wrapped tightly into his sides.

“You’re so good to me,” he rasps, eyes rolling back as his praises make your body instinctively clench down, “I–I love you.”

“A-ahh nghn – love you s’much Zayne,” you squeal as he thrusts even deeper into you, his confession only increasing the passion he feels for you in the drunken moment.

You’re surprised when you feel his damp hair pressing against your forehead, his cool lips brushing a soft kiss onto it, deceptively gentle compared to the way he ravages your wet heat.

“M’always thinking about you,” Zayne moans, voice muffled as he kisses your forehead over and over, unable to keep his lips, his hands, off of you.

“I think about y’too Za–ayne,” you pant, trying to focus on forming coherent words through the shape of his erection being molded into your core. You knew just how vulnerable the fog of alcohol had made Zayne and wanted more than anything to reassure him.

But his cock stretching you out, nearly the width of a clenched fist, made that so difficult.

“You looked – you look ravishing tonight,” he slurs, kissing down your cheek and onto your neck, “Had a hard time tonight, watching you – hic – be the most beautiful girl in the room.”

Your chest flutters and you blush, clenching onto him, “H-Hardly.”

Zayne’s eyebrows furrow, giving you a pointed thrust, making your breasts jiggle at the force, “Look at what you do to me.”

His fingers cup your breast forcefully, squeezing down on your poor nipple, “You know I’m not one for jealousy…”

“But even I am not immune when you look like that, giving everyone but me your attention.”

“Sorry, my love,” you murmur, trying your best to speak through his frantic thrusts, “You know you’re the one I come home to at the end of the day.”

Zayne’s eyes darken with satisfaction, his fingers twirling your nipple in between them, “I suppose. But does that give you the right to let men flirt with you shamelessly all night?”

“Zayne, they weren’t —” But apparently protesting was a mistake, because Zayne only starts to hammer into you harder.

“They were,” he growls drunkenly, letting his emotions take control for a split second, “But I can’t really blame them, not when you look like this. Not when you feel this perfect around me.”

You whine at his words, his simultaneous threats and praises making it impossible for you to think straight.

“I-I’m soorry,” you find yourself apologizing, wanting to please Zayne, “Won’t do it again, I’ll b-be good!”

“No need to – hah – apologize, my love,” Zayne groans, “Not when I plan on reminding you exactly who you belong to tonight, all night.”

Your body convulses around him, knowing just how much stamina Zayne has, just how serious his slurred words are. Zayne’s hips falter, his body buckling into you.

“You’re s-oo tight,” he groans brokenly, letting his head fall down to your chest, “All for me, right?

“Allll f’you! Only you!” you cry, your fingers gripping onto the back of his shirt when his teeth close over your nipple, nibbling gently. You claw at his back, desperately wanting to be able to touch his bare skin, but his white dress shirt is in the way.

“That’s my girl,” he moans, words muffled by the way his tongue circles around your hardened peaks, suckling like he was trying to find the antidote to intoxication, “So good for me.”

As his thrusts grow sloppier, you know he’s coming close to his end. But you’re surprised when he pulls out suddenly, leaving you feeling empty.

“W-Why?” you demand, leaning up on your elbows in protest. Your eyes widen, almost salivating, when you see the way Zayne is gripping the base of his cock, the thick head red, angry, and ready to burst. He curses, forcing himself to take deep breaths, desperately trying to hold his orgasm back. He was learning that alcohol significantly decreased his normally endless supply of stamina.

“Don’t want to – ngh – finish yet,” he pants, hooking his arm under your back and flipping you over so that your back faces him, your hips arched slightly off the couch. He quickly takes off his pants that are pooled by his knees, his briefs still clinging to his muscled thighs.

You squeak in surprise when you feel the wet smack of Zayne’s cock against your ass, the surgeon hissing at the painful yet arousing sensation. The sting helps to keep him from exploding right onto your beautiful body.

“Ngh – Zaaayne!” you squeal when Zayne shoves himself back into you, parting your cheeks to give himself better access. You claw at your couch as he picks up his speed, rhythm still unsteady.

“I’m sorry,” Zayne apologizes, his words bordering on frenzied babbles as he pounds into you, his heavyset balls slapping against your clit, “M’sorry, love. Let me make it better.”

He leans down, pressing a trail of kisses down your spine, his pelvis rippling against your rear. His veiny forearms cage you into the couch, his foot lifting to step onto the cushion, right by your waist. With his leg raising as leverage, he can truly jackhammer into you.

Zayne goes absolutely feral in this position, his fingers coming up to grab a fistful of your hair, tugging gently as he bounces up and down on your ass. The sounds of skin against skin, drunken moans, and moist squelches resounds like a symphony in the early morning lighting of your apartment.

His grasp tightens in your hair, his other hand kneading the plush of your ass as it ripples against his thrusts. His voice lowers, throwing his head back with a moan, “Been waiting all night to have you like this.”

“Oh-oh God!” you cry when he thrusts into you, particularly hard and deep, making you see stars, “Zayne I-I can’t – I’m so close!”

Zayne hoists you onto all fours, gently lifting your upper body by your neck so that you’re pressed firmly against him with your knees holding you up. He kneels behind you, wrapping one arm around your waist while the other secures your neck against his chest.

“Me too, angel,” Zayne pants into your ear, his breath hot and moist. You can feel the truth in his words, his thighs shaky against yours, his thrusts erratic.

“Please, let me cum in you,” Zayne rasps.

“When have I ever denied you?” you respond. Zayne came inside you nearly every time you two were intimate, ever since you’d started birth control.

“It’s a waste, if it’s not inside you,” Zayne slurs, “You’ll take it, right?”

When you don’t respond, too wrapped up in the bliss of it all, Zayne’s hand descends to pinch your nipple. The power of his thrusts, the tease of his hands, his aura. He commands authority,

“Tell me you’ll take it all, for me.”

“I will, I will! P-please Zayne, give it to me!”

Zayne groans, grip tightening against your body, hugging you for dear life, “That’s my girl, that’s it, just like that.

Zayne has always been vocal, but his drunken ramblings have taken it to another level. You clench down, ready to come undone to the sound of his filthy praises.

Zayne is close behind you, hands kneading your breasts, balls slapping against your clit, “It’s coming Y/N, take it. Take it for me, please.”

You scream in response, cunt spasming around the last of his messy ruts. Zayne’s own strangled groans mix with the sound of wet flesh slapping against each other. You can feel every beautiful ribbon of white hot cum painting your insides, coating every inch of your waiting womb.

Zayne’s skin often felt ice-cold, but his cum always came out so hot and heedy. And now, with the flush of alcohol still clouding his circulation, his milky ropes of seed nearly made you feverish.

Zayne slumps against you, his body spent, drained bone-dry. The weight of him against your quivering muscles is too much, and your thighs give out, sending you crashing into the couch. He catches you before you can slam face-first into the carpeted floor.

He sets your limp body gently into the couch, shrugging off his white button-up.

“Zayne,” you murmur groggily, savoring the image of his muscles peaking through his open shirt, “Come cuddle.”

The corner of his lip twitches, “I will, sweetheart. Let me clean you up first.”

Using the clean inside of his shirt, he carefully wipes off the slick that collects at your inner thighs, before it can pool onto the couch. Your legs are putty in his hands, Zayne cleaning you with the utmost care and tenderness.

When he’s done, he settles beside you on the couch, shifting you so that your neck rests on his forearm. He holds you close with one arm, the other drawing lazy circles into your stomach.

Zayne turns his head to the side, pressing a kiss into your temple, “Thank you. For taking care of me tonight.”

You can tell by Zayne’s calm and steady tone that he’s sobered up quite a bit from the orgasm, the control returning to his deep timbre.

You giggle, nuzzling deeper into his arm, the hairs of his underarm tickling your shoulder, “I hardly did anything.” In the comfortable silence, your eyes start to flutter closed.

“You did more than you know,” Zayne whispers, the tender smile in his voice unmistakeable. You simply nod, muttering incoherently as you fall into a deep and sated slumber.

“You are everything.”

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 3.9k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, car sex, publix sex/slight voyeurism, sex while pulled over in da passenger seat, bottom raf, riding, face sitting, rafayel is a MUNCH, oral f!receiving, jealous raf, drunk rafayel, protective rafayel, somewhat mentions of violence, unprotected sex, no pull out ever

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: original inspo | pics 1 | pics 2 (both rafayel's car)

The night road ahead of you is peacefully calm, the drive back to Rafayel’s house a peaceful and scenic trip. There's very few cars beside yours, well Rafayel’s, on the main roads back, likely because it was close to 2am.

You were honestly having way too much fun driving Rafayel’s car, thoroughly enjoying the purr of the beautiful Benz. You didn’t have the opportunity to drive many cars, let alone a Gran Turismo.

Your fingers tap gently along the rim of the steering wheel, admiring the elegant LED lights that kept you awake. Rafayel had the car’s interior lights set to a blushed lavender color, ever since you’d said it was your favorite setting. It reminded you of the pink in his cotton candy eyes.

Your eyes flicker to your right, briefly checking on Rafayel as he groans beside you in the passenger seat.

He sat with his arm propped up against the passenger side window, his head resting on his palm. His breathing was still shallow, his eyes closed in a restless and light sleep. The alcohol was no doubt making it difficult for him to rest.

You sigh to yourself, trying to think back to how the night had ended disastrously with him so damn drunk.

Rafayel had invited you as his date to one of his endless art exhibits, a few cities over from your home. Only this one was special.

When they’d unveiled his starring piece, a beautiful oil painting on a massive canvas that nearly reached the ceiling, you nearly fell to your knees.

Because Rafayel had painted the most exquisite portrait of you.

You, surrounded in ribbons of coral and seaweed, the most colorful globs of intricate paint surrounding you, a mosaic of sea glass. You, dancing in the endless sea of pastel turquoise. You, in Lemuria. His home.

Rafayel had painted you countless times before, you were his muse after all. Even if he never admitted that openly to you. But this was different, he’d never so openly shared you with this world before. Never wanted to open himself up like this, to anyone, to you.

It was beautiful as it was magnificent. It made you feel like the most beautiful person in the world, more gorgeous than you’d ever felt in your entire life. The way he’d put paint to canvas and created literal magic.

It appeared others thought so too. All the patrons attending the gala that night clamored around the oil canvas, press snapping photos, writers grabbing at Rafayel, trying to get anything for their tabloids.

It was nothing out of the norm. You’d become quite used to the glitz, glamor, and madness that came with being his girlfriend.

What was unexpected, was the attention you got, as the subject of the painting.

The people who wanted a piece of you, the stunning woman in Rafyel’s newest piece. Rafayel did his best to keep you comfortable, shooing away the throws of people trying to get even a morsel of anything from you.

“Rafayel. It’s okay. I can handle it,” you give him your best reassuring smile, “Go mingle with your guests, I’ll be fine.”

Rafayel looks reluctant, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist, unwilling to let go. Eventually you convince him, with the promise of a reward later if he listened, to go speak to the serious sponsors and buyers that demanded his attention.

“Never should’ve painted that damn thing,” he muttered as he walked off, looking back at you as Thomas dragged him off. He should’ve known sharing you with the world would have driven him insane.

So you spent the rest of the night trying to be as sociable as possible, not wanting to upset any of Rafayel’s guests. After a few hours you finally found a free moment, finding yourself in front of the portrait once again. Most of the people had cleared out, giving you a chance to really admire the masterpiece.

Rafayel was undeniably talented, maybe the most gifted artist in the world, you’d always thought so. But the way he painted you here was more than just art.

It was his heart on a canvas. And his heart, his entire world, was you. Every fiber of his soul, woven together into a tapestry of lustrous colors, each one depicting a different memory.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You turn your head to the stranger’s voice, coming face to face with a handsome man, clad head to toe in the most luxurious brands. He stands so uncomfortably close to you that you can smell the nauseating cologne wafting off of him. And yet it’s his aura that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably.

He fills in your awkward silence, eyes looking you up and down, “Definitely not as beautiful as the real thing.”

You really don’t know how to respond to the stranger’s boldness, in shock at how forward he’s being. Your relationship with Rafayel was no secret, the paparazzi having photographed the two of you publicly many times. And you’d walked into the gala on Rafayel’s arm.

“Thank you,” you say curtly, offering a small smile, trying to return your attention to the display.

“I’m going to buy it, you know. And then maybe after, I can buy you a drink?” when his hand lands on your bare shoulder you flinch back, ready to resort to your tactical training. The thought of this man buying a portrait of you makes you nauseous.

Before you can give him a piece of your mind, he’s falling backward with a surprised yelp.

“Hands off the art,” an all-too familiar voice snarls, as he stands between you and the man. You’re too shell shocked to realize Rafayel is clearly drunk, his charismatic voice drawling muddily.

“Don’t touch me,” the man snaps, “I bought this piece, I legally own it.” The way he says ‘piece’ makes your blood boil, the misogyny dripping off his words.

Rafayel, drunk as he might be, catches on too. Fire burns in his eyes, matching the heat of his Evol. Thomas isn’t far behind, looking at you with desperation on his face, begging you to help him defuse the situation. Rafayel was spontaneous enough as it was, there was no telling the lengths he’d go to when he was intoxicated, especially when you were involved.

You reach your hand out, grasping Rafayel’s fingers and gently pulling him back towards you.

“He’s not worth it,” you whisper when Rafayel’s head snaps to you, his eyes softening instantly when they land on you. Rafayel spares the man, rubbing his wrist with a grimace, a glance. You wrap your arm around Rafayel’s waist tugging him close to you and trying to lead him out of the nearly empty gala.

Rafayel takes a deep and shaky breath, before nodding slightly. As he turns to leave with you, he glances back to the man and Thomas, his chin raised.

“It’s not for sale.”

“B-But I already wrote the check,” the man blew up, face red with anger and disbelief.

Rafayel smiles, a fake and genuinely terrifying smile, “I don’t care how many checks you write. You’re never looking at her again.”

It’s enough to even send chills down your spine.

With those words, Rafayel exited the gallery with you on his arm, you rubbing soothing circles into his back. It was rare Rafayel got full blown drunk; you’d seen him tipsy numerous times, but he was always careful not to cross the line into completely losing control of his inhibitions.

As he slumped in the passenger seat of his car, he briefly explained just how he found himself so shit-faced.

“Everyone was taking your time,” he slurred, breathing heavily. The alcohol made him bluntly honest, much more so than he’d normally be about something like this.

“Oh, Rafayel…” you giggle, bending over to latch his seatbelt in, “I know, it’s usually you getting the attention, it must have been weird to share it. I’m sorry.”

Rafayel scoffs, his head resting on the window, “S’not why I was upset. I don’t like sharing you.”

You bite your lip to fight the smile that threatens to sneak its way onto your face, “Why didn’t you just come back?”

“Was trying to distract myself. Didn’t want to disappoint you,” he mutters, his eyes closed and his arms folded across his chest as you start the car, “I know you wanted me to talk to the annoying old farts.”

And then he promptly dozed off, like a precious little baby.

You were about 15 minutes from his place when Rafayel stirred awake from the mere feeling of your hand on his thigh. It was far too dark to see the tent growing in his pants, all from your fingers stroking his sensitive thighs, even when he was unconscious.

“Hey,” you murmur softly, giving him a smile when you see the movement in the corner of your eye, “You feeling okay? I have water in my bag.”

“P-Pull over,” Rafayel slurs, still clearly drunk. His eyes are glued to your palm on his leg. Not even he knows why the innocent touch has him so worked up and feral.

“What?!” you exclaim in a mix of disbelief and shock, “We’re so close to home –”

“Pull over,” he urges you again, the strain between his legs growing painful, “Please.”

His urgency makes you nervous, and you quickly find a secluded area you can pull over, turning your hazards on when you do so.

“Do you need to throw up?” you turn to him worriedly, grasping his thigh tighter in your fingers and rubbing soothingly, unsure of what to do.

Rafayel groans at your unknowingly innocent actions, rubbing his hand down his face, which only makes you worry more.

You undo your seatbelt so you can sit on your knees and face him, your hands still rubbing up and down his thighs, hoping to make him feel better.

Rafayel takes that opportunity to undo his own seatbelt, hoisting you out of your seat and onto his lap. You try to muffle your scream as he effortlessly carries you onto his lap, cramped between his body and the front dash. It always surprised you just how powerful Rafayel’s body was despite his toned and slender build.

“Rafayel!” you squeal as he sits you on his lap, “What are you doing?!”

He doesn’t speak, only looking up at you with big wet eyes. He spreads your thighs so that they cage his own legs, his hands resting on your sumptuous hips. Despite his strong and possessive hold, you’re still able to twist around to grab your tote bag, pulling out a plastic water bottle.

“Don’t need to throw up,” he mumbles, looking up at you through his long and dark eyelashes, “Jus’ need you.”

With his hand on your back he pushes you down until your chest is flush with his, capturing your lips in a feverish all-consuming kiss. The bitter and sharp taste of alcohol is still strong on his tongue, his lips impatiently messy and insistent. Rafayel rocks up into you as he loses himself into your embrace, his very clear and prominent erection begging for attention.

“R-Raf!” you pull away, even at his whiny refusal, hands still tugging at the clothing at your hips, “Did you really make me pull over for this?” Your eyes dart around nervously, making sure there’s no cars around you. But it wasn’t necessary, Rafayel’s windows were so tinted that even if you had your nose pressed to the glass you wouldn’t be able to see much.

“Come on, at least drink some water while we’re pulled over,” you untwist the cap of your reusable water bottle.

“No,” Rafayel pouts at you, the rose flecks in his eyes glow as he looks up pleadingly at you, “I don’ want water, wanna kiss you.”

You can’t help but laugh, despite the risky and precarious situation you find yourself in. That situation being Rafayel’s very excited crotch.

“Don’t laugh,” Rafayel broods, his bottom lip jutted out, shiny with a sheen of saliva, “I wanted to be with you all night, ‘specially when everyone was getting your attention.” He presses his chin onto your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your body wash and pressing wet kisses into your neck.

“Wan’ my reward now,” Rafayel slurs, his wandering fingers hooking under the thin strap of your evening dress, slipping it off your shoulders.

“You’re drunk Rafayel,” you reason firmly, even though your body is already betraying you. Your thighs squirm, widening instinctively for him, excitement pooling at the apex of your legs.

“Sooo?” Rafayel’s head fall backs onto the headrest, “Just give me a taste, please?”

You want to keep a level head, deny his insane request, but his hard body against your pliable one makes you desperate for more. Besides…the windows are almost completely blacked out and you were in a very secluded upper-end neighborhood, where all the homes had nearly miles of yard between them.

“Fine…” you concede, “But only if you drink some water.”

Rafayel’s eyes practically radiate, nodding eagerly and raising his lips to the cool bottle. His sudden willingness is comical, and you smile fondly at him as you help him to drink. Rafayel’s fingers squeeze against your waist, your soft skin making him grow thicker and hotter by the second.

His body unconsciously grinds against you as he drinks the water, eyes open wide with a faux innocence, staring right at your heated and flushed cheeks. He’s so focussed on admiring the irresistible look of desire on your face as he relentlessly rocks into you, that he doesn’t even feel the cold streams of water trickling down his shaky chin.

His fingers trace delicate and intricate shapes into your waist, eyes hooded at the feeling of your heat against his throbbing member. His eyes never leave yours as he finishes the last of the water, looking up at you through his thick purple eyelashes. His eyes shine brightly, the pinks in them accentuated by the LEDs of the car, watching you with a vast sea of desire.

Just as you remove the bottle from his lips, Rafayel lowers the angle of the passenger seat, as far down as it can possibly go.

You shriek in panic, clutching onto Rafayel as the chair dips suddenly, limbs flailing wildly. Rafayel takes that opportunity to lift your thighs, hoisting you nearly to the top of the passenger seat until you’re kneeling with his face in between your thighs.

“R-Rafayel!” you yelp, gripping onto the leather backseat for balance, thighs squirming at the feeling of his warm breath fanning against your exposed lips. The slick that had pooled in your panties makes you much more sensitive to his heated pants. Practically dripping onto his face.

“You promised a taste,” he mumbles, all consumed by the way you glisten against the dim indoor lights of his car. He doesn’t let you get another word in before he’s pulling your panties to the side and licking a fat strip up your slit, all the way to your clit.

“Ngh – Raf!” If it weren’t for his strong hands on your thighs you would’ve crushed him with the way your knees buckled and you nearly fell on top of him.

Rafayel doesn’t speak, only a filthy string of wet slurps and strung out moans audible, this tongue writhing against you, positively starved. The way he makes out with your cunt makes your muscles melt, your body nearly melding into the seats.

Rafayel can feel your shaky legs struggling to keep you up and he pulls your hips down, guiding you to sit on his face. In your surprise, you fall completely, a choked sob of bliss ripping from your mouth when Rafayel completely engulfs your weeping cunt into his mouth.

You're a babbling mess of the most lewd cries, your thighs clenching unbearably at the pleasure Rafayel’s tongue forces into you. You try not to put too much weight on Rafayel, but he only pushes you down, wanting you to crush his skull.

“Tastes so sweet,” Rafayel moans into you, the vibrations of his praises reverberating through every single one of your nerve endings. As he eats you with a relentless excitement, his eager nose strokes along your folds, gathering your arousal with every stroke.

“And it’s all for me,” he whines in the most pussy drunken voice you’ve ever heard from him, likely from the heavy intoxication, “No one else's, just mine.”

You can tell he’s still reeling from the encounter at the gala, with the man who’d wanted to buy the piece he’d painted for you. Just reassuring himself of things he already knew to be fact.

“And you’re mine,” you gasp through the sparks in your vision, wrought with pleasure. You do your best to keep your nails out of the expensive leather upholstery, tearing at Rafayel’s skin instead.

He grunts with the sting of your scratches, the pain fueling his excitement, which he funnels into the way he devours you, slurping up every single drop that pools down your lips.

With one hand on your thigh, he palms himself through his dress pants, jerking furiously.

It isn’t long before he yanks you away with a desperate gasp, carrying you back down onto his lap, “Need to be inside you now, ‘kay?”

The ears ring with the whiplash, the pleasure being yanked away suddenly, staring at Rafayel with dumbfounded wide eyes. You barely register when he takes his bare cock out, rubbing it up and down your absolutely drenched folds, your dress bunched to your waist.

He holds himself firm in his fingers by the base, squeezing down as he rubs up and down your glistening slit, peering up at your rosy cheeks.

“Baby?” he huffs, sounding faraway, “Can I?”

You barely even register your nod, your body moving on its own volition. Rafayel grins, lining himself up and not wasting another second before sinking himself into you, his favorite place in the entire world.

Your face is stuck in a perpetual oh as Rafayel sinks all the way into you, his veins especially prominent in his intoxication. You can almost feel them throbbing as they squeeze against your tight walls, his hips flattering when he feels himself hit the soft walls of your g-spot.

“Ngh – I love you, Y/N,” Rafayel moans, his arms coming up to wrap around your back, pulling you tightly against his torso.

You nuzzle your head into Rafayel’s chest, needing the support as he starts to rock into you, bouncing your body off his lap with the strength of his thighs.

“O-Oh God,” you whimper into his chest, letting him man handle you against himself, too overwhelmed by the way he’d made you feel with his tongue, and now his cock.

‘J-Jus’ like that, baby,” Rafayel mewls into the crown of your head, taking in deep lungfuls of your scent. His arms are wrapped so tightly around you that you almost can’t breathe, but you only want him to hold you harder, tighter.

You can’t even be bothered to care that you’re fucking in such a public area, the risk of getting caught just a faraway thought. The only thing you can find yourself caring about is the way Rafayel drives deeper into your guts, forcing you to look at him as he buries himself into you.

“Hah – pretty girl,” he breathes out, his body slowing. You realize the alcohol must be making him tired, and you force your weight onto your knees.

“L-Let me, Raf,” you whisper, sitting up as much as you can until your head brushes against the car roof. Rafayel watches you with wondrous eyes as you begin to ride him.

“Oo-oh shiit,” he groans, mesmerized by the way you roll your body into him, “You're so perfect, Y/N. Just like that, please don’t s-stop.”

You whimper, biting your lip and trying to control the way his cock has your body screaming for release. You lean back onto his knees, one hand grappling at the window for leverage, the other cupping his balls.

Your hand is met with the wet condensation of the frosted window, the mixture of yours and Rafayel’s torrid breaths fogging up the interior completely. It’s such a sensual sight that you clench down on Rafayel, thinking about the passion of this moment, in the confined space of his favorite car.

Rafayel lets out the most delicious string of moans and expletives as you gently massage his balls in your fingers, fondling them delicately, “Oh God, that feels so good, you feel – angh – amazing.”

You throw all your energy into rolling your hips against Rafayel’s pelvis, wanting to use him until you were utterly spent.

“So big Raf,” you wail, struggling to keep up a rhythm as his size splits you in half, “I-I’m soo clo-ose.”

“Fuuck, me too,” Rafayel grunts, his neck craning back, back arching slightly at the way you ride him so filthily, “Don’t stop, I’m almost – ngh – there.”

His lewd words are your last straw, your hips stuttering as your cunt coils tightly around his length, your body orgasming so intensely through your tightly shut eyes. You desperately hope no one is nearby, because the muffled screams coming from the inside of the car were sure to be audible.

“You love me, right?” Rafayel slurs, his eyes wet and on the verge of coming undone, needing your words to be the final push.

“I love you Raf,” you gasp brokenly, still bouncing on his lap, “Soo-oo much!”

Your vice grip on him has Rafayel seeing stars of his own, the blinding pleasure signaling his own release. As he cums, he brings you back to his chest in a heated embrace, babbling into your mussed hair.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” comes his strangled mantra, the words overflowing from his wet puffy lips, “My Queen.”

You whimper as Rafayel fills you with rope after rope of his hot seed, it already beginning to seep out of your hole and down his still hard length. He gives you everything he has, the soul nearly being sucked out his body through his cockhead.

Rafayel digs his nails into your back as you overstimulate him with your languid thrusts, urging you to stop.

“N-No more,” he whines, holding you in place, “You’re trying to kill me.”

You still your hips with a chuckle, listening to his rapidly pounding heart, “I would never.”

Rafayel strokes your hair, holding you against his body, his cock softening and slipping out of you. You wince at the feeling of how much dampness leaks out of you, sitting up and trying to cup yourself so it doesn’t leak all over Rafayel’s seats.

But Rafayel holds you back down, “No. Stay.”

“Rafayel, it's going to ruin the seats!”

“I don’t care,” he mumbles, his voice still sluggish from the alcohol, nuzzling his face into your chest as he hugs you to keep you from moving.

“You care, you love this car. I love this car,” you whine, trying to pull away and keep the slick from spilling everywhere, but he doesn’t relent.

“Just say you love the car more than me,” he sulks, his bottom lip protruding.

You glare at him, before deciding to tease him and play along, “I love the car more than y–”

Rafayel covers your mouth with his hand, squinting at you, “If you finish that sentence I’ll scream.”

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

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