wasp-smoocher

[wasp-smoocher]

the weight of the wind

— you don't know fear until it preys on your children; you and sylus are caught in the winds of its hurricane.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: i've had the concept of kyross being a sickly kid right as i conceptualized him, but i never thought i'd turn the lens towards when he was. nonetheless, this was another extremely challenging piece to write. i did my very best to be mindful and careful with how i handled the subject matter because this is a very real thing that occurs in families & i want nothing more than to be respectful. i intended this to be a story of unconditional love and hope- i hope i did this justice. & that you enjoy! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: kyros and lucian are (my headcanon) sylus's twin boys. around 1-3 months in this one! ᡣ𐭩

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | angst, hurt, comfort, boydad&husband!sylus, mom!reader, bigbrother!luke&kieran, kyros gets sick and shakes the foundations of this family tw: child illness/medical distress, trauma, self-blame/guilt, emotional overwhelm, tragic tones

Two years later and Sylus still freezes up when he hears Kyros so much as clear his throat.

He always turns to check, horror hiding behind a concerned gaze. He makes it a point to be vigilant, always on the lookout for wheezing, labored breaths or pale lips. Fearful of a looming thunderstorm, dreading a recurring nightmare. 

“Breathe for me, Kyros?” he’d ask sometimes, unable to mask the worry that creeps into his chest after a particularly nasty fit of coughs or a swallow gone wrong. Kyros would be lifted up in the air, his papa’s ear to his chest as he breathes in and out. 

A few rounds will do, before he’s set down like an injured bird, fostered to health and allowed freedom once more.

Sylus only knows safe because he knows the sound of terrible. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

It’s been a month since you had your little twins. A healthy pair of baby boys, the doctor had announced just past midnight. A harmony of cries, one after the other. Such a reward, a relief after a painful labor. 

And your husband sobbed quietly into your hair as he praised you, thanked you, beseeched you for this gift. 

As the beautiful flowers blossom into your family, your spring ends with the most fragrant of farewells. 

Summer welcomes you with sunshine—home after days of sterilized walls and fluorescent lights. 

Kieran and Luke have decorated the base with streamers and balloons; a handmade banner that read welcome little twins!  in red and orange paint and wobbly handwriting. And they wear matching watery smiles on their unmasked faces as they welcome the little ones into their arms. 

Mephisto lays down trinkets, oddballs and things that shine by the bassinets. He sits still as Sylus finally installs the baby-monitor program in him, but you’re sure even without the code he’d still long to see the little twins. Wouldn’t stop squawking if he didn’t lay a gemstone eye on them. 

Sylus wears many hats, you’ve seen him become one too many things in the moments you’ve shared. A leader, a fighter, a lover, an expert in every field— but you have never seen him slip into a role as seamlessly as this. 

As the herald of dawn as he rises before you to tend to the quietest gurgle or whine. As the light-footed healer that flocks to you on mornings of sore muscles and strange bladder control. As the hum of morning that wraps itself around you and your new babies. As the bright sun— as warmth that heals; as light that grows. Tireless, ceaseless, effortless. 

A father in all sense of the word. Indisputable. True. 

Soon, a routine is formed. He runs around like he would making underhand deals with important people, but this time it’s with his newborn son to stop squirming so he can put his mittens on, please. Each twin ping pongs for his attention. You watch him peek back and forth over each bassinet—a burp for Lucian, a mitten for Kyros, kangaroo time for one, the other to you for a meal. 

It’s almost shameful to ask for help when you decide to slot yourself in the gears of his clockwork. When you can’t seem to make Kyros stop crying, or when Lucian keeps whining when your tired feet ache and you need to sit down. It consumes you: incompetence, not being able to do it as well as he does. 

But he is clever as he is quick. Taking you aside, he kisses your cold fingers and holds your face in his hands. “I’ve got you.” he would say, and it would mean the world. Never once does he reflect your self-view, nor does he let it stew in your head for more than a passing thought. He does everything to make you believe it. 

He is patient when he offers. Mindful when he speaks. Loving when he helps. 

“You’re very good at this. Did you take classes behind my back?” you jab lightly, watching him burp Lucian and anticipate the spit-up to the tee. His grin is pure sunlight shot up through your veins. 

“If I didn’t anticipate every possible outcome, I wouldn’t be where I am today.” he’d tell you, swiping little lips with a clean rag. The spit up milk missing the sleeve of his shoulder just by a hair. “And I’d have to wash more clothes than I have to.” 

You acknowledge him with a hum, and he knows it’s a sign of you retreating. So he brings his son to sit by you and the twin in your arms, and kisses your temple. “You were very good at carrying them for nine months. Did you take classes for that?” 

You roll your eyes and swipe at his hair just as a cat would. He catches your wrist with sturdy fingers and brings your pulse up to his lips. “My turn to carry the twins, hm?” 

And finally, you understand his angle. Where he comes from—this is his way of paying you back. For each day he couldn’t take pain from you during the pregnancy, he repents in lightening the load of early rearing.

To him love is a verb—and he was built to act with and on it for them. For you. 

Tears blur your vision before you even realize it. Kisses are peppered on your face like fresh water over a burn as you break down on his shoulder. You cry—at how thoughtful he is, at how kind. At how you are crushed beneath the weight of his love for you. “Nine months of chores for papa?” you joke through a stuffy nose and a tearful smile.

He laughs, knocking the breath out of you, and wipes each tear away. “Eighteen—nine for each soul.” 

The best father. Indisputable. True. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer is beautiful. Summer is bright, warm and new. 

Summer’s thunderstorms sound like coughs from the smallest of mouths. A seizing of the tiniest of lungs. 

Summer’s thunderstorms scare Sylus more than any wrath or wanderer he has ever faced in his life. 

Kyros has a stutter in his breathing. His torso rises and falls faster than Lucian’s calm tides as they rest side by side. He suspires too quickly, like he’s trying his hardest to take in as much air as he can in his inhales and fumbling on the exhales. His cycles are too fast, and not enough. 

Breathing—what was such a simple joy to watch in new life, had morphed into the sound of fear. Sylus would never hear it the same again. 

At first, you’d thought it was the hiccups. He had those frequently, and you’d pity the poor little thing as it would exhaust him immensely. But it developed, and it worsened, and soon Sylus had at least ten pediatricians on the way to your home and even more on the phone line. 

It was a virus, someone had said. One of the ten doctors in your living room, you couldn’t focus on which. Not when your son was under so many lights, hooked to so many cables and that steady beeping was the only thing you could hear. The only thing that mattered. 

You were grateful for Sylus who listens when you could not. He relays the rest to you later: inflamed lungs; mucus making it difficult to breathe. You nod, hollow eyes never leaving your son’s gasping chest. 

And you are angry at the sight of him—how could the world be so cruel to something so small, so new? None of it made sense—not when the nebulizer masks were built too big, not when the pulse oximeter could clip onto two toes instead of just one, and not when the sounds he made were effortful grunts instead of the giggles you were just beginning to hear. 

Sylus was no better. Movement is his sanity—and so he mobilizes everything he can. Doctors to his home, a full NICU in the nursery, each and every device needed to keep his son breathing, to keep him alive. Because he will burn through all he has before he even thinks about losing him. 

Lucian needs to be separated. That was a given as soon as you realized it was contagious. And so the big twins take him to another wing of the house to be safe. To spare him the sight of your hollow dread and his father’s growing hysteria. 

He is peaceful in Luke’s arms— a vision of a healthy twin, one that Kyros is, now, not, and you feel bile rise up your throat. And where worry grows, injustice festers. Because why can’t they both be healthy? Why can’t you protect them both from pain? 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You are a tangle of nerves with tired eyes when Sylus approaches you, having arranged a medical service on standby as soon as Kyros had been declared stable. Sat by his bassinet, your lifeless gaze counts each second your baby’s chest rises and falls. Your finger rests snugly in his closed fist as he sleeps for the first time in hours. 

“Beloved,” His voice is a balm to the open wounds that coat your soul as he sits himself on the arm of the chair where you rest. He snakes his arms over your shoulders, eyes also on Kyros as if silently counting along with you, and he kisses your hair. “Go to sleep.” 

You ignore him. Because it’s a stupid request, and if he were of sound mind, he wouldn’t ask again. 

Though his genuine concern, it seems to you that he wants a fight. “Rest, please.” 

“No.” should be enough. You think it so when you try to pry his arms off your shoulders. “Don’t ask me again.” 

Paired with the anguish he’s felt throughout the day, the fatigue he feels having sorted out everything, the last thing he wanted was to feel you pushing him away.

Stubborn, just like you, he grits his teeth. “I can’t have you both sick.” 

“Sylus.” you warn. Tone dripping with misplaced venom. You are sorry, deep down, but you can’t find it right now in the jumble of slush your mind has become. “I can’t leave him.”

“You have to—“ 

“Don’t ask me to!” you snap, a curled fist slamming down onto your thigh. Blood surfaces on the skin of your palms as your fingernails dig deep into them. It dawns on you: what you've just done.

He is still as a stone.

You can’t look at him, you can’t fathom the look on his face now. 

He doesn’t deserve to be spoken to like this, not after everything he’s done, not after everything he’s given you. And you know this, you know this—but grief is slippery and anger is easier to understand. Especially when you think it’s your own shortcomings that led you here. The smoke clears, your vision blurs. 

He says nothing as you scramble for his hand. Watches as your shoulders shake and you plant kisses onto his wrist, his palm. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—“ 

And something inside him breaks. A glass heart, a phantom crystal in his chest, cracks in half at the sight before him—his son gasping for breath, his wife gasping through tears. 

Through your endless strings of apologies, he tries to break through. He severs them each with his lips pressing on your cold skin, on your salty cheeks, on your sweaty forehead, on your regretful mouth. 

He whispers, “I’ve got you.”

You believe him. And finally, you let yourself fall apart. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sleep finds you eventually, but you refuse to leave. Sylus had to bring in a sofa from the living room and carry your tired body onto it. And you drift, against your will, into a light uncomfortable slumber, but a slumber nonetheless. 

And the night betrays you. 

Kyros turns blue. 

Sylus spots the pallor immediately— his own breath siphoned from his lungs. His hands shake, his heart hammers in his chest. He forgets the emergency button entirely. 

Sylus screams for the nurses across the hall.

You jolt awake to chaos. To the sound of broken yelling. To people running past where you’ve curled up by the door. Through the haze, your husband is a man lost to his panic— something you’ve never once seen before, and for a moment, you think it’s all a nightmare. 

A nightmare where your baby is the wrong color. A nightmare where your strongholds crumble and fall apart. A nightmare where there is a horrid, ungodly cry— 

And it’s coming from you. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Kieran is frozen, upright in his bed. He barely moves. Not when Luke runs, not when Lucian stirs. He lets the baby squeeze his finger, counts time through the rise and fall of his ribs. 

The screaming woke them. Luke shot up immediately, barked for him to stay, and sped off to the other wing of the house. 

Kieran relies on Mephisto even when he doesn’t need to. To spare himself from his brother’s visions.

The bird’s feed directly transmits into his phone, and he watches the ruckus of people coming in and out of the nursery. Luke arrives in the frame, freezes just at the threshold of the door, before he marches in. 

Moments later, he comes back out with you in his arms—pushing him, fighting him. He feels each blow on his own skin. Your face is a picture of agony behind wet hair and shaking fingers. 

Luke stares at you with wide eyes. Sees not family, but something wild and wounded, begging for the pain to end.

Luke feels your torment, grits his teeth until his gums bleed to obey Sylus’s orders to keep you out. He steels each muscle as you begin to thrash in his arms.

Stopping himself from helping you barge back in there and get back to Kyros.

Kieran feels everything too. 

And he wonders if Lucian sensed it as well, because now his face had crumpled into a frown and his mouth let out a sonorous cry. He snaps out of it. Severs the link. Tends to the baby. 

He lifts him. Dances around the room in circles, shushing the little one to calm. “Hey, Cian, it’s alright,” 

“Everything will be okay.” He says. Hears his brother say it to you at the same time across the grounds. And together, they will themselves to believe it. “Everything will be okay. He will be okay.” 

They chant it to you both like a prayer. A promise. Because they refuse to let anything else be true. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You slam into Sylus as soon as he steps out of the room. Angry fists collide with his chest. Things unmeant are said. He stays still; lets you. Believing to deserve it after being so selfish—after ripping you away from your son to spare him the image of you dying inside. 

He takes each weak blow, forces himself not to look away. Until you calm, until your fists open into soft fingers caressing his jaw, his neck. Until your arms wrap around his shoulders and you sob onto his heart. 

Only then does he move. Only then does he hold you—circle his arms around you, bear down and cry. Apologizing. Sharing in the agony neither of you can seem to see through.

And finally, he whispers through his splitered sobs, “He’s okay. He’s breathing.” 

And now so are you.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･

Lucian bounces when he sees you in the morning light. Unmoored by your careworn appearance as he reaches out to you from Kieran’s hold. You practically run to him. 

Only mere hours away and already you think he’s grown out of your sight. You think his hair had gotten longer, his cheeks become fuller and his little legs have grown longer. It could be your tired mind playing tricks, but having his weight in your arms brings you down to the earth. 

Burying your face in his soft hair, you sit in this moment with your son. Still so small; already so patient and forgiving for letting both mama and papa tend to Kyros for the whole night. Not once making too big of a fuss under his big brothers’ care. 

You wonder if he knows, if he senses the gravity of the situation. Wonder if that is why he’s being such a perfect baby. Nevertheless, you are grateful for his heart, and one day, you hope he knows his brother is thankful too. 

Lucian gurgles a smile as you wipe his chin. And you dub him in a whisper, “My little angel.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus doesn’t need to sleep. 

He insists this on you as you rub his shoulders and bend down to whisper the opposite in his ear. Offering a turn to watch Kyros, presenting him a window to rest. Because you care for him as deeply as you do for the children.  “I can’t have you both sick,” you echoed his earlier concern to him, though softer. A wish, not a demand. 

But he refuses—  nuzzles his lips to your neck and breathes in your scent. This is all he asks of you in return.

And you concede, intertwining your fingers together and pressing a kiss to his knuckle. You trust him with your son just as he trusts you with his twin. Because Kyros needs him, and he needs Kyros. 

And so Sylus doesn’t need to sleep.  

He tells himself this as he looms over Kyros’s bassinet. Days have passed since that first night. Things have progressed for the better.

No longer does Kyros need the tubes and wires, nor does he cough so relentlessly anymore. And that should warrant being able to take a moment to rest. 

But he doesn’t. 

Because he doesn’t need to. 

What he needs is for Kyros to be okay. Clear. Healthy. 

Because what use is he as a father if he cannot heal his son? Time and time again, he'd thought about his gift—his ability to heal his own bleeding wounds—of using it to fix something, anything. But the mere thought of the venomous mist on his son's skin... The harrowing possibility that something goes wrong—no. Not after everything.

The risk is too great. And he, in all senses of the word, is scared.

So instead, he is at Kyros’s every beck and call. Has memorized the pitch and timbre of each grunt and whimper. Assembles medicine, milk bottles, and nebulizers with speed and precision. He moves like wind, watches like a shadow.

Unfaltering, not until his son is safe. 

Unspeaking, until there is enough air in his son's lungs to share.

And Kyros hates it. 

On a particularly quiet evening, Kyros stirs from his nap and feels the heaviness of silence weigh on him immensely. Consuming. Suffocating.

He begins to cry—short squeaks and wails, his lungs still not well enough to supply him enough air for anything louder. 

Sylus is up on his feet immediately. Checking his diaper, the time for a maybe meal, his nose for a clog, or his limbs for any pain. Tired eyes roam over each and every item on the list in his mind, and when all is clear and he is still crying, Sylus is at a loss. 

He takes Kyros out of his bassinet, holds him like glass; a loose leafed flower. Afraid of him blowing away in the wind. He thaws his cold ears with his palm, blows warm air on his fingers. 

And yet he cries still. Quietly. Weakly. Sadly. 

“My angel, what’s wrong?” He finally asks. Suprised with the voice that comes from his throat—scratchy, frayed and raw. He clears his throat. “What can papa do, hm?” 

Kyros cries. He cries and claws at his face with mittened hands. Sylus begins to worry, his shoulders tense at the intensity of his sobbing, at the shortness of his breath, at the wet coughs that start to slip past. 

“My love, please, stop crying,” he pleads. He cradles his little head. Brings his lips down to the smooth skin of his brow. Into it, he murmurs, “Please, for papa.” 

And then he does, and Sylus freezes. 

He does, not because of the request. 

But because of the way his papa’s voice resonates in his skull. 

He winds down as Sylus notices and continues to speak into his temple, quiet requests and grumbled lullabies. Small fingers move gently against the stubble on Sylus’s chin, enjoying the soft prickle against his palm. 

Silence has made him anxious. Sylus’s sound soothes that. 

To Sylus, love is a verb— he must move to make it feel. 

But to Kyros, love is still just feeling.

The sound of his papa’s voice in his head, how it vibrates, how it travels. The texture of his face, of his rough, calloused fingers caressing like mist. The smell of his skin and cologne as he is cradled close.

Love is feeling. Love is being there.

And Sylus does this for him. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer’s skies are beautiful after a thunderstorm. 

Plants inhale fresh air. The earth exhales a mingled breath of heat and rain now passed. 

And the moon hangs bright and radiant in the sky. 

Sylus tells Kyros this as he walks out to the balcony. Kyros is cocooned in layers—a onesie, a light jacket and a blanket. Swaddling him between states of healing and transformation—a miracle taking its time. Snuggled comfortably in the crook of Sylus’s elbow.

Sylus keeps his ear close to his body, and his lips close to his temple. An exchange: Sylus will hear his breathing; Kyros will feel his voice. 

His stories are carried by the gale into the night as he speaks, on and on, of this life, of his last, of the next. And Kyros never once interrupts, eyes wide and focused as if he truly did understand every word Sylus says. Like rebirth, or ancient.

No matter. Kyros hasn’t cried in hours, and Sylus isn’t about to stop now. 

When even the gentlest of breezes blow past them, Sylus is quick to hold Kyros a little tighter in his embrace. Lending him more warmth, keeping things the gusts usher with it away from his just-healing lungs. But Kyros doesn’t mind. He rather enjoys being squeezed. 

Moments drag on, more stories are told. The wind picks up. Sylus debates on bringing him back inside.

But once more, he is selfish—and he wonders if it makes him a terrible father. For this is the first time in days he’s seen Kyros’s face glow and stretch into smiles you’ve both longed for since the drought. And he’s not ready to give that up just yet.

His cheeks are fuller, squishier as he presses into them with his finger. Kyros gurgles in delight and wriggles in his swaddle, as if trying to catch papa’s finger beneath his trappings. Sylus swallows, heart melting, eyes watering. 

What would he have unleashed—what would he have become— if he’d failed to keep him alive?

“Kyros.” He whispers reverently. Once a god, a beast, a harbinger of ends—reduced to kneeling before a child. 

Begging. Never leave me. 

Surrendering. I will do anything for you.

Declaring, “I love you.” 

Fighting against everything he’d stood for—doom, destruction, death—for his boy. He will tear the world, fate, and cosmos apart with his own hands and teeth before he allows his son to be parted from him. 

And Kyros feels it. Each word rattles his bones stronger than any of the most powerful coughs ever could. The words a prayer. A promise. 

He feels it. 

He is safe. He is needed. He is loved. 

Fiercely. Immensely. Endlessly. 

And when he coos, Sylus feels it in return. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer ends with sunshine and storms, and makes way for Autumn to fill her place. 

Autumn sheds old wounds to make way for tender scars. Autumn is cool wind on heated skin. Autumn is a long breath of fresh air.

“Kyros!” Luke doesn’t even hesitate to run up to Sylus when he spots him coming out of the nursery with the baby in his arms. Finally, after weeks of distance and restriction, he lays his eyes on his little brother. Kieran follows close behind. 

Sylus doesn’t have the heart to roll his eyes as he witnesses the two grown men coo and make faces before him, nearly tripping over each other to get closer. In fact, something in his chest softens. They’ve missed him too.

Eventually, he sics Mephisto on them to spare himself of a dismissive escape. The bird obliges, plopping a shiny rattle on Kyros’s belly and chasing the big twins away with overdramatic squawks and pecks. Sylus will make it up to all of them later. 

But for now, they are scheduled to reunite with someone else.

Kyros is already bouncing in Sylus’s arms, huffing and squealing at the sight of Lucian.

Lucian, who’d already rolled on his belly, behaves the same. Snorting and wheezing—despite being distracted from holding his head up and falling face-flat into the plush of the mattress. 

Sylus places Kyros between you both on your bed as you welcome them with a gentle smile. The twins giggle at each other, speaking in a language you are not fluent in, and you both revel in their joy. 

For a moment, he dwells on their differences. How distinct they've both become. It's minuscule, but it's there—Kyros's thinner frame and weaker state beside Lucian's hefty muscles, already allowing him to roll on his stomach, while the other relies on Sylus's hands for support.

He shakes his head. What matters now is that they're both healthy. Safe. Happy. That, and he asks for nothing more.

Sylus curls himself around his children, stretching his limbs to circle create a nest to shield them, and rests his head on your lap.

You run your fingers through his hair, scraping nails over his scalp and watching as his eyes roll to the back of his head. He whispers, “You’re good at that. Did you take classes?” 

The callback makes you grin, and you strain down to plant a kiss on his temple. “You’re a good father.” 

He waits for the question. The teasing jab. But it doesn’t come. And somehow, your words sink deep into his muscles and settle like oil in his veins. 

He is weightless beneath your touch. Finally calm within the presence of his family. 

It dawns on him—Kyros’s understanding of love. How easy, how pure—how full of it his life has become. 

Soon, his eyelids droop. He tries adjusting out of your hold to wake himself, but you push his shoulders back and grip him tight. This time, it’s your turn to be selfish. 

“Sleep,” you tell him. The word having weighed so much in the past few weeks now feels like mint and honey on your tongue. Cool. Sweet. “I’ve got you.” 

He smiles, heart hammering in his chest at the beauty that is you.

Finally allows himself this pleasure, relaxes each muscle, and rests in your arms. 

Because, like you, he believes it. 

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you so, so much for reading! .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·.

[wasp-smoocher]

what's the mood

[wasp-smoocher]

On the Walls of The Cave

Summary: Caleb has taken care of you forever. Protecting you was easier as children, when threats were everywhere, but as you become more capable, Caleb has to find new ways he can rescue you. Zayne, ever-concerned about your well-being, wonders if you’re aware that the biggest danger is asleep in your bed.

Warnings & Tags: Threesome (M/F/M), Snuff (sort of (Caleb has a little baby snuff kink because he’s desperate to save and protect you)), Oral (m! receiving), Asphyxiation, Choking, Dubious consent, fem! reader

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: This idea has been plaguing me every time I smoke, so I wrote fanfic for the first time in like 6 years and made a whole new sideblog to deal with it.

EXPLICIT: MDNI

Caleb has always protected you. Since the cold, sterile days in the lab, strangers poking and prodding, he’s been by your side. After the catastrophe, when Gran took you both in, he protected you from threats big and small. From spiders dropping down before your eyes, to neighborhood bullies, he swept you out of harm’s way each time. He chased off potential suitors, made sure all your friends kept you at arm’s length. Every threat, each danger that dared to bare its fangs at you was banished before it could sink its teeth into you. A privilege reserved for him alone.

Protecting you used to be easy. Spiders, other children, your classmates, all of these were easily dealt with. Now though, you’re stronger. You’ve grown into a capable hunter; strong, resilient, clever. He’s seen you fight, fought alongside you as you tear through wanderers. He knows how capable you are. A part of him, hidden deep, knows that you don’t really need him. He’s left you before after all, and in his absence you conquered untold dangers, eliminated threats lurking in the dark, chased shadows into the light.

It’s a relief to know that you’ll be okay in those painful moments he has to part from you.

But he misses saving you. Truly rescuing you from danger; the only one who can protect you. Feeling the fear rolling off you, seeing the terror in your eyes, the way you’d cling to him. The terror transforming to relief and gratitude as Caleb, the only one who can, sweeps you to safety.

Caleb has always protected you. No one else can take your guard down like this, all soft smiles and relaxed muscles.

It’s because of this that you ended up here. Caleb in your kitchen, wearing the frilly pink ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron you had bought just to embarrass him, the one he wears every time he cooks for you. You can hear the running of water as he washes dishes. You’d finally made good on your promise to invite Zayne for dinner. He’s sitting on your sofa, as relaxed as is possible for the ever-restrained surgeon. He gazes at you with rapt attention as you ramble about your day. He doesn’t say much, you would almost think he wasn’t paying attention if not for his eyes locked on to your face. Zayne offers a small nod, or a soft question every few minutes, but his stare on you is impossible to ignore. You sip from your glass, the last drops of red wine rich on your tongue.

You hear the sink drain, and soon after Caleb emerges from your kitchen, apron and gloves removed. He refills your glass before you get the chance to ask him and settles behind you on the sofa. Zayne spares him a brief glance, before his eyes settle back on yours with determination. Caleb’s fingers slide down your arm before gently taking your hand to place your glass in it. His chin settles on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist, and though you can’t see it, you can feel him staring Zayne down. Trying to intimidate the intruder who’s trying to steal you from him.

You’re not oblivious to the tension between the two of them. Both childhood friends, both with their own claim to your heart. And now you bear witness to petty rivalry again. They’ve been behaving themselves for the most part; Zayne silently picking around the extra carrots in the dish Caleb made, and now how he ignores Caleb’s blatant affection in favor of listening to you. He’s familiar with how possessive Caleb is with you. He can see the ravenous need in his eyes like he’s standing before a mirror. It’s easy to recognize another man consumed by his own desire. But with his eyes on you, Zayne can’t tell how much you really see. Are you aware that the beast you so willingly snuggle up to is a far more dangerous predator than any threat lurking in the dark?

Lost in his thoughts, Zayne returns to the present to see your brow furrowed in concern. Caleb is nuzzling his nose in your neck, Zayne can see the thin sheen of saliva left behind by sloppy kisses as Caleb stares him down. Your glass is empty again. How long was he wandering in his own mind?

He doesn’t get the chance to think about it before you’re moving closer to him. Zayne feels a swell of pride as you gently pass your glass to Caleb, leaving his space in favor of fussing over your dear doctor. He can feel the heat radiating off of you as you move to straddle his lap. Your warmth is pleasant, a balm to soothe the ever-present chill in his bones. Zayne feels his face prickle in discomfort, and he doesn’t need to look to know that it’s Caleb burning a hole into his head. He can practically hear the glass creak under the strain of fingers no longer trying to be gentle for your sake. The rush of being envied fills him, but he sets it aside to focus on you.

“Are you alright, Zayne?” Your fingers flutter over his face, up his cheeks to brush his bangs out of his eyes.

He hums, eyelids falling heavy as he basks in your affection. His hands settle gently on your hips, thumbs drawing soothing circles into the soft material of your clothes. Desire spikes in Zayne’s chest, yearning to feel the heat of your skin unobstructed.

“I’m okay,” the words come out like molasses on his tongue. Sweet, heavy, slow. Against his will (or is it, really?), he finds himself leaning into your touch, pressing a gentle kiss to your palm resting on his cheek.

A small shift and a subtle swell of warmth is all the warning Zayne gets before your lips meet his. You taste of the wine you drank, rich and bitter. As he licks across the seam of your lips, into your mouth, the sweetness of the dessert he’d brought washes over his tongue. Chasing that taste, his hand pulls you further into him. Chest to chest, your hands knot in his hair. The obvious desire consuming Zayne consumes you in turn. The warmth filling your belly from the dinner Caleb made and the wine he selected is transformed into the heat that Zayne brings out of you.

When you feel the desperate tug of your lungs urging you to pull away for air, you ignore it and chase Zayne further. He feels the familiar urge to scold you about your self-preservation instincts, but settles for pulling away from you with a gentle hand pressed against your collarbone to hold you in place. He doesn’t stray far, soft, hot breaths mingling in the narrow space between you.

The peaceful bubble around you is broken as Caleb comes up behind you. His left hand settles on your hip, occupying the empty space Zayne left to push you away. His right caresses up and down your spine, thumbing at the gentle arch of your lower back. Zayne can see your attention being pulled away from him. Caleb nudges his nose against your jaw, and you turn to kiss him deeply. You’ve always fawned under his attention, let yourself be spoiled by his care. Zayne has seen how Caleb’s affection makes you helpless. He’d never considered you particularly cautious, but he can see how any remaining fear washes away from you. You could hardly fathom anything bad happening to you, not when Caleb’s here to protect you. Even now, you’re content to ignore the threat he poses to you, your loyal, violent predator.

He knows he should say something. Zayne wants you safe, healthy, cared for. Caleb can provide an illusion of these things, luring you in with false promises as he snares a trap around you. Caleb doesn’t frighten him anymore. Cold glares and vague threats won’t be enough to keep him away from you anymore. Zayne is confident that he could win, if it came to that. But what would you do? If they forced your hand and made you choose between them, would you pick him? A flicker of doubt flashes in his chest.

Forcing himself back into the present, Zayne takes advantage of Caleb moving to suck deep bruises and bites into your neck. A cold, steady hand on your cheek draws your attention, and he kisses you once more. His other hand slides up your waist under your shirt, and the chill makes you squirm. Your hips press flush against his, soft rocking movements as the heat between you rises. You’re beginning to pant from exertion, chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid movements.

A sudden jerk of your hips and a whine muffled by his mouth catches Zayne’s attention. He pulls away to check on you and his eyes find your heavy gaze before his own drift down. Caleb’s still gnawing at your neck, indentations of his teeth decorating your tender flesh. But below that, he finds Caleb rubbing gently at your clit over your clothes. The touch surprised you, but now, through the layers of your clothes, it’s not enough. Your hips roll into his hand, chasing the feeling you know he can give you. Your head rolls back against his shoulder, limp and pliant, waiting for Caleb to take care of you, like always.

“It’s rude to forget about our guest, pipsqueak,” Caleb finally pauses his assault on your neck to provoke you. His eyes flick to Zayne, who’s been consumed by the implication of the word ‘ours’ as though Caleb lived in this house. As though it was him who spent late nights on this sofa, soothing your mournful tears. Zayne helped you pick up the pieces after Caleb ‘died’, helped heal you, as he’s sworn to do. Caleb abandoned you, left you behind just to return and pretend he’s saving you.

Before hot rage can overtake his desire, you return your attention to Zayne. Mindlessly obeying Caleb’s silent command, you kiss Zayne long and deep. Your hands come up to pull at his shirt collar, drawing him further into you. When you begin to paw uselessly at the buttons, his hands, ever-steady and capable, come up to undo them for you. Once his chest is bared to you, your hands skate over the expanse of skin, flushed from your attention. When your hands venture down and meet his belt, your fingers curl into the leather and fabric.

“Off.” You swallow heavily, breathing hard between kisses. “Want you to fuck me.”

No longer having the patience to be coy, you reach one hand up to grab his, insistent. As he moves to remove his pants, Caleb shifts behind you to pull your shirt over your head, then dragging his hands down your body to tug off your pants. As soon as your clothes hit the ground, Caleb’s tugging his own shirt off to press his chest against your back. You can feel the heat of him behind you, slightly sticky from sweat. The cold metal of his necklace pressed against your spine send a shiver through you.

“C’mon doc, you heard her,” Caleb turns his gaze to Zayne once more, eyes unreadable. A smile plays across his face, self-satisfied. Like this, he looks more like an obedient puppy, only wanting to keep his master happy. Zayne catches a shadow across his face, sees a hint of the predator lurking in the dark, waiting to strike.

You press needy kisses to Zayne’s neck, palms pressed against his chest, hips rolling into his. He can feel his desire to please you winning out over any sense of jealousy or danger. He reaches down to help guide his tip to your entrance. Before he can reach out, Caleb’s hands are pressing your hips down, filling you with Zayne’s cock. Desperate mewls fill the air as Caleb moves your hips for you. He bats away your hand attempting to paw at your clit, and you resign yourself to the teasing rhythm he’s decided you deserve.

It’s only a few short moments before your need overtakes your self-discipline. Yes, Caleb knows just how to touch you, how to tease and sate you. But he’s not the only one who knows how to play this game.

“Zayne,” your voice is thick with desperation. “Want - mmm - want you to fuck me, please,” You suck a deep bruise below his jaw, over his pulse.

Zayne takes the bait you laid for him. How could he not? With one hand grabbing your hip, and the other on the back of your head, he maneuvers you to lay on your back, head resting on plush pillows over the arm of the sofa. He leans over you, pressing his hips to yours with the pace and pressure he knows you like.

“It’s alright, love,” Zayne’s words are a balm smoothing over you. Still needy, overwhelmed with desire, but not as desperate. You feel yourself relax at the assurance that Zayne will take care of you. The vows he’s sworn to himself serve to soothe you back to complacency. He’ll always take care of you, so long as you just let him.

Caleb, pushed aside by Zayne’s movements, feels the familiar sting of envy. He sees how you look up at Zayne like he’s saving you from Caleb’s torment. The relief and gratitude in your eyes should be his. Everything about you should be his. A well-angled thrust presses into you, forcing your head back and your mouth wide in a desperate cry. Caleb seizes the opportunity to grasp your hair, not as gentle as he usually is. His head tilts as he looks down at you, studying your face. A frown twitches at the corners of his mouth when he sees your eyes, full of love and adoration, but not what he’s looking for. He wants to see the fear and panic fill your eyes as the threats in the dark make themselves known to you. More than that, he wants to see the relief and gratitude when he comes to your rescue. Never mind who was making the shadows on the wall of the cave you share.

He feels desire consume him. Desperate need to protect and provide fills his chest, makes him tense. There isn’t danger here, not really. For all that Zayne might glare at him or mutter dryly about him, he wouldn’t really try to drive you and Caleb apart. Zayne knows that it would break your heart to lose him again, so a chilly tolerance has been built between them. You’re safe here, both your heart and your body. You’re stronger, more confident than when you were children. If there was danger lurking outside your door, you could handle it and be back between them before they even felt the chill of your absence. Caleb feels a small voice tug at the back of his mind. Play nice, it urges. But the ravenous need soon fills him again, and before he can resist, he’s guiding his cock into your mouth.

You take him in eagerly, your tongue laving over his tip. Zayne’s thrusts into you force eager moans from your lips, muffled now by Caleb’s thick length in your mouth. You, familiar with Caleb’s routine, eagerly arch your neck towards him, trying to guide him down your throat. He obliges, one large hand on the side of your head, the other grabbing harshly at your chest. Caleb starts a steady, slow rhythm, kind enough to ease you into it. Zayne feels a sense of watching a frog in a pot of slowly heating water. Your eyes flutter closed, fists clenching at your sides as you fight the urge to gag. With Caleb looming over you, consuming your senses with his presence. He slows slightly, pulling himself from your throat until his tip is just resting on the back of your tongue. So close to making you gag, but just shy of it. You feel warm with the kindness and care you receive. Zayne’s mind fills with the thought of a predator playing with it’s prey. Before you can get too comfortable, Caleb presses back into your throat. A surprise, this time, though you quickly ease into it. Your body tenses, struggling with the effort of holding back gags and trying not to choke. You can just barely breathe through your nose when he pulls his hips back.

“Relax,” Zayne, not one to be forgotten, speaks. You can’t see him, and he sounds muffled with Caleb’s hand over your ear, but you feel the soothing chill of his palm over your heart. You feel your tense muscles relax, the overwhelm threatening to take you over dissipates under his attention. His hand skates down your front slowly, easing the searing heat of your body. Satisfied that you’ve calmed down, he draws wide, lazy circles around your clit. The teasing motion stands in sharp contrast to his firm, steady thrusts into your core. It’s a mind-numbing sensation, almost enough to distract you from Caleb’s cock filling your airway.

Blissfully, you begin to feel the steady build of your release under Zayne’s careful ministrations. Your back arches sharply. The sensation of Zayne taking you apart is overwhelming. As your hands desperately fly to his, needing to feel him under your palms, your fingers intertwined with his. As soon as Zayne takes his hand in yours, your body starts to relax again. Climax still building, but calm, no longer fighting against the intrusion in your throat. Caleb’s not ready to let you relax yet, though. Not before you panic a little. Not before you feel your heartbeat pounding at your temple, strong and fast, before slowing down just slightly. If your eyes were open, you’d see the slight fuzziness at the edges of your vision. He can’t let you up until he knows that raw, mortal fear has chilled you with it’s embrace. He wants you to worry, just a little, that maybe he won’t let you up this time. Why would he? That fear, that he could really kill you, won’t even cross your mind. Not really. There’ll be a faint shadow flickering at the edge of your awareness but it is chased away by the warmth that embraces you. Of course, Caleb would never really hurt you. He’s killed others for doing even less, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he really hurt you, right? Caleb presses his hips as far as he can, cock so deep down your throat, balls pressed up against your nose. He places his palm over your throat, feeling the outline of himself buried so deep inside you. He feels your throat constrict around him, sees the familiar lurch of your chest as your lungs desperately beg for air. He’s watching you intently, waiting. He knows you, better than you know yourself. He knows what you can take, how to push your limits without you realizing.

But Caleb’s not the only one watching. Zayne, previously lost in pleasuring you, but pulled back to the moment once your chest lurches silently. His thrusts slow, focusing on where Caleb is hilted in your throat. If you’d been more aware, you would’ve whined and dragged his hand back to your clit, heels pressed into his lower back encouraging him to keep fucking you. But your body is occupied with your own suffocation. Zayne drags his gaze up to Caleb’s face, sees the hungry look in his eyes. He feels that prickle on the back of his neck, the same sensation he’s been feeling all night. The same thing he felt before, when every attempt to get closer to you was met with a menacing glare from behind you. A guard dog protecting its master. A predator claiming its prey.

“Ease up.” Zayne’s voice is firm. It’s only been a short few moments, not nearly long enough to do any damage, but that look in Caleb’s eye tells him that he wants to try.

Caleb doesn’t even look at him, eyes fixed on you. “She can tap out if she wants to,” he supplies easily, as though he’s got you pinned after a spar, rather than suffocating you.

Your hands fly to Zayne’s arms, gripping tight. You smooth your thumbs in stuttered circles up and down his forearms. He knows what you’re telling him, you do the same whenever he chastises you for being reckless, for pushing yourself too hard. You reach out, caress his scars gently, almost absentmindedly, and you tell him I’m okay. I’ll be more careful next time. Zayne can’t focus on your attempt to comfort him. He’s too preoccupied counting the seconds until he pushes Caleb off of you altogether.

Ten. Zayne feels your grip on his arms tighten.

“Caleb.” His voice is low, warning.

Twelve. Your fingernails dig into his skin. Caleb stares down at you, caressing your hair, your throat, your chest with a tenderness that feels almost out of place, but any sense of wrongness is washed away with your lack of oxygen and your desperation.

Fifteen. Your chest lurches again. Zayne doesn’t feel the sting of your nails in his arms, numbed by his own panic. His arms twitch, urging him to push Caleb off of you, but you only grip him harder.

“She can take it.” Caleb’s voice is cold, devoid of any emotion. He knows you can’t hear him right now, not with enough awareness to remember, anyway. There’s no need to fake any niceties or behave for your sake.

Seventeen. Zayne’s blood pounds in his ears.

“That’s enough,” Zayne’s throat feels thick, that heavy molasses choking him now.

Nineteen. Your grip on Zayne’s arms loosen, just slightly. Before Zayne can react, Caleb is withdrawing himself from your throat, grabbing the back of your head and holding your head steady as you gasp and cough. His gaze stays on your eyes, now open, as he fists his cock over your face. Your vision, still blurred and hazy from asphyxiation and tears, begins to clear and you see Caleb standing above you. His moans echo in your ears as your hearing returns and your blood stops rushing through your head.

Zayne looks down at your face, finally seeing what Caleb’s been looking for. Your lips, soaked in spit and swollen, are stretched into a blissed out smile. Your body, still heaving for breath, relaxes into his grip. There are hearts in your eyes as you look up at Caleb.

Zayne takes a deep breath and shifts uncomfortably. The panic fades as his mind catches up. You’re breathing. You’re safe. You’re okay. The words float in his head like a mantra, soothing his frayed nerves. The motion, subtle as it is, catches your attention. Head still held in place, your gaze snaps to Zayne. He feels the emotion in your gaze collide into him like a kick to his chest. Your eyes are wide with the echo of fear, but more than that, he sees relief. He’s seen that same look in the stray cats in the alley by the cafe after he chases feral dogs away from them. The terror of that drooling, gaping maw of sharp, strong teeth, made to bite and tear and break, is gone now. In it’s place is the relief of an animal that thought it was dead already finding itself miraculously alive. He sees you possessed by gratitude for your rescuer that placates you into obedience. Zayne finds himself relieved as you blink, freed from the restrictive binds of your gaze.

When Zayne looks back up, he finds Caleb’s purple eyes boring into him. They’re dark, cold. Zayne knows that look, too. It’s followed you for as long as he’s known you. She’s mine, it says. You can’t have her. The two men have been in a stalemate since you were children, neither willing to risk your ire or broken heart if something should happen to the other.

The tension is melted away when your hands grip at Zayne’s arms again. He feels, just as he’d thought about before, your heels press dully into his back, urging his hips to thrust into you again. Ever your doting caretaker, Zayne obliges. Within moments, he’s resumed his steady pace thrusting into you. Caleb keeps your head fixed, palming himself over you. He tugs at your hair, urging your eyes back to his, masking his rage with that familiar affectionate look. As your climax builds and your attention drifts, he tugs again, keeping you focused on him. Zayne doubles down, rubbing firm, quick circles into your clit. Your hips buck into him, chasing your own release, and Zayne grips your hips harder, holding you still and forcing you to let him take control. As your back arches and your body tenses, consumed by your own release, Zayne presses deep, hot cum spilling inside you.

Your body relaxes and the tension in your muscles releases. Your eyes are still on Caleb, now furiously chasing his own orgasm above you. They both know what you’re going to do before you do it. They can see it, practically in slow motion, as you bat your eyelashes up at Caleb, opening your mouth and letting out a soft “please”.

Caleb, still fighting to hide barely contained rage, smiles down at you. You’re as you’ve always been, waiting for Caleb to take care of you, soft and obedient. He feels the burn of Zayne’s vigilant stare, waiting for him to step out of line. As though Caleb’s rough treatment wasn’t exactly what you needed. Still, he resists the urge to press back into your throat, settling instead for nestling his tip in your mouth as he strokes himself. Between your tongue lavishing him in attention, your sweet noises escaping your mouth at the taste of him, your lovestruck gaze staring up at him, he reaches his climax quickly. You moan and your eyelids flutter as the familiar heady taste of his cum floods over your tongue. He rides out the final waves of his orgasm before pulling himself out of your mouth. He feels his cock twitch when he sees you swallow his cum.

“Attagirl,” the familiar praise makes you smile, welling with pride.

Caleb pulls away from you and Zayne seizes the opportunity to gently maneuver you into a seated position on the sofa. He pulls your back into his chest, smoothing cool hands over your heated skin, easing the aches that have begun to form. Comfortable silence washes over you, seemingly oblivious to the tension between your two lovers.

“Drink.” Caleb is first to break the silence, holding a glass of water towards you. As you reach for it, Zayne’s hand covers yours, helping you bring it to your lips. Caleb wipes away the stray drops that escape the corner of your mouth, tracing their movement down your chin to the ridge of your collarbone. You feel your body grow heavy, breathing slowing as exhaustion creeps up on you. When you begin to still, eyes lidded, Zayne and Caleb hold you tight between them. Your head is full of gentle caresses, sweet kisses, and whispers of praise and affection. Whatever tension there was is set aside as they clean you and wrap you in soft, fluffy blankets.

Later, long after the sun has gone down, Zayne puts his coat on to leave. You’re long asleep, tucked into bed. Caleb holds you close, pressing gentle kisses to your temple. When Zayne walks past your bedroom, he freezes. A flash of something in the dark, the reflection of eyes set his hair on end. In the soft glow of light spilling in from the hallway he can just barely make out your face. You’re relaxed, brow smooth, a small content smile on your lips. Unaware of the snare you’ve been caught in. Tight around, Caleb’s arms hold you close. In the dark, as their eyes meet, Zayne feels the same threat that’s been following him since the day he met you. A predator, lurking in the shadows. This time though, Caleb breaks his stare first in favor of looking affectionately at your face. The message is clear. Zayne’s not a real threat, he never has been. None of his sweet affection could compare to the doting of your beloved Caleb. He’s been there to protect you from the start, always taking care of your every need. He knows what’s best for you, after all. He’s warm, comforting and bright enough to sooth your fears and banish the shadows cast on the walls to frighten you. When danger lurks in the dark, Caleb is there to protect you. Zayne wonders if you see who drew the monsters in to begin with.

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