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28 • 18+ content | side blog to reblog my fav fics ; see pinned post for navigation. contents: DC, marvel, video games | Favs: lads boys, clark kent, astarion, jjk boys, joel miller, loki, moon boys ♡ | organized tags, nsfw=🔥 ❴est. April 2022❵ ♡ ❴main: @wxndascarol❵

[luvzayne]

anomaly from the deepspace: you’re our future… WHAT?!

synopsis: you meet your kids from the future. the catch? you and him aren’t dating. 

character/s: zayne, sylus, rafayel, xavier, caleb x f!reader (separate)

warning/s: none!

note/s: same names used from my previous dad!lads fic bc i honestly can’t be bothered to think of new ones. also, it’s been a while and i know i’ve disappeared for months but!! i’m back now <3. i hope yall enjoyed this one <3  

zayne: 

the doctor sat at his desk, typing away whilst simultaneously taking down notes from the thesis that he was reviewing. his hazel green eyes were focused on medical terms that he jotted down.

a soft knock interrupts his trance as a confused greyson enters the office holding the hand of a little girl who seemed to have finished crying. 

zayne raised one of his brows as he silently asked greyson who the little girl was.

“it’s… she said she’s your daughter?” greyson asked, just as confused. 

huh? 

“daddy!” the girl runs to his chair, jumping on his lap, sniffling and nuzzling against zayne. she couldn’t be older than seven. 

zayne awkwardly places a calm hand on her head as he softly shushes the scared child. 

“i… i tried checking the pediatric ward, i thought she was confusing you with someone else, but her name wasn’t on the list of admitted patients. she was adamant on seeing you.” 

greyson pauses, seeing the resemblance before he clears his throat. “i’ll leave you two alone.” 

zayne nods as he softly turns to the child. 

“hello there, can you tell me who you are and where you’re from?” the girl pulls away from her chest and zayne’s eyes slightly widen at the resemblance. 

the girl has dark hair, hazel-green eyes, and her lips form into a pout the same way that yours did when you didn’t get your way. but zayne says nothing, not wanting to assume anything. she pulls away, sniffling. zayne plucks out a few tissues on his desk and dabbing it gently to her tear-stricken face. 

“i-i’m zia.” she says through hiccups, clutching at zayne’s coat. “i’m from—” zia recites his address, causing zayne’s comforting hand to freeze on her back. nothing was adding up. 

she recited his address perfectly yet zayne has never seen her even within the neighborhood much less in his house. 

“when is… your birthday?” zia answers, but zayne furrows his brows as she cites a year that was a decade from now. 

“and your parents?” zayne didn’t know why his heart started beating quickly, greyson said that he was a father—although he was just as confused about the situation, an answer from the girl before him would clarify his questions. 

“my daddy’s name is zayne li… my mommy is—”

the door to his office opens. 

“dr. zayne? greyson told me you had company over, i brought you lunch!” you say as you walk in the office, stopping at your tracks as you see a little girl with him. 

you open your mouth, ready to ask a question only to be interrupted by little legs running towards you. 

“mama!” she latches on your legs, you let out a surprised sound before letting zayne take the food that you brought, you kneeled down, gently petting her hair. 

“hey there.” you say gently, not wanting to startle her. she looks up at you and you bit back a gasp as a carbon copy of zayne’s eyes stared back at you. 

“mama…” her eyes welled up with tears once more. jumping to hug you properly, the motion caught you off-balance, landing on your butt with a dull thud as you embraced the little girl properly. 

you looked up at zayne for answers, his face mirrored yours, you were both clueless. zia turns back to zayne as if she remembered something.

“my mama… my mama’s name is (y/n) li…” she said. 

your eyes widened, warmth flooding onto your cheeks. 

you looked at zayne to see a faint redness steadily rising to his face. 

you say nothing. 

zia jumps off of you, a locket bobbing out from her shirt catching your attention. 

the heart-shaped locket opens due to the force of zia’s actions, showing a picture of an older you and zayne holding her as a baby. 

you freeze, the action does not go unnoticed by zayne who helps you stand up. his eyes flit towards the direction that you were looking at before he freezes as well. 

“mama? papa?” zia’s innocent voice cuts through the silence. you and zayne look at each other, not knowing what to say. 

zayne coughs awkwardly, eyes not meeting yours as he gestures towards the food you brought. 

“how about we eat for now?” 

the three of you settled by his desk, asking zia questions, nothing too complex as to overwhelm her, but enough to grasp the current situation. 

zia explains that she was playing outside the house when suddenly she was floating through space, and suddenly in linkon park. but she didn’t recognize any of the stores that surrounded it. only the street names so she did her best to look for the hospital. 

“but why the hospital?” you asked, wiping a stray crumb by the corner of her mouth. zayne was entranced at the sight of you falling into the role of her mother. his heart thumping in his chest that he refuses to acknowledge. 

“papa said… if i ever get lost in linkon, find a way to make it to akso. akso is safe. because papa is there.” zia recites her dad’s words. while zayne may not know her now, it did seem like something he’d say in the future. 

it was silent for a few seconds before zia talked about herself, from her interests to her school life, to her life at home to which zayne couldn’t help but ask her a few questions about it. mostly to make her forget that she was scared and mainly purely selfish intentions. 

he can see you raise a brow but he pays no mind as he asks zia. 

“are you happy?” 

a big grin breaks out of zia’s face as she nods with vigor. 

“yes! mama and papa always give me cookies and candy whenever i ask!” she beams and lists off everything she loved about her parents. how they always read her stories before bed. how they always showed up to her recitals, how zayne always tutored her with utmost patience while you intervened with snacks and a quick game to take a break… 

“—and mommy and daddy alway do kissies!” zia shudders in mock disgust. “they think i don’t notice but daddy’s cheeks always show.” the little girl giggles.

you and zayne don’t look each other in the eye. but you could tell that he was having the same reaction as you. 

you perk up as you feel a different vibration in the air. wary of wanderers, you subtly twist your wrist to activate your hunter’s watch. zayne seems to feel the same disturbance as he flicks his hand, tiny particles of ice flurrying through the air. 

a portal warps open and you instinctively push zia behind you, your arm raised to cover her as the portal materializes. 

“zia! are you here, baby?” you gasped. you hear your voice. slightly older but undoubtedly you. 

your suspicions were confirmed as you see yourself through the portal, you looked older yet the same. beside your future self stood zayne who looked restless. worried for his daughter. aside from that, zayne looked healthier. his cheeks looked fuller and his eyes brighter.  

zia lets out a happy noise as she ducks under your arm and runs towards the portal. you instinctively reach out, fearing that the portal was a trap but your version’s zayne pulls you back, letting the girl run to her parents. 

“mommy, daddy!” your future selves kneeled down to her height to embrace her. your future self couldn’t help but place a tender kiss on her cheek while a tear slips from your eye. the older zayne looks at the two of you. 

a look of realization flashes in his face, but he says nothing, only smiling at his past self and letting out a nod before he focuses on his daughter, his hand overlapping yours, the gleam of a wedding ring catches your attention before the portal slowly closes. zia’s tiny “bye mom and dad!” the last thing the both of you hear before the portal closes shut. 

silence. 

neither zayne nor you could find the words to say, to talk about what happened. it takes a while for the both of you to realize what had occurred. 

“well…” you cut the tension with an awkward laugh. “quite an eventful lunch, huh? what a spoiler for the future.”  

with zia’s voice gone, you can hear your heartbeat pound loudly. three years from now, you would be a mother to zayne’s child. you would be a family. you would be his as he would be yours in holy matrimony. you can’t say the thought doesn’t make you giddy. you hoped that zia wasn’t an elaborate prank that you and zayne were the unlucky victim of. 

zayne stays quiet, as if thinking of his next words. 

“i…” zayne starts, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie, cheeks flushed red. 

“if zia is truly from the future then…” he looks deep into your eyes. “i can’t wait.” 

you couldn’t help the bashful smile that breaks out on your face. 

“neither can i.” you admit. 

zayne’s lips twitch upwards into a small smile as he gains courage from your words. 

“then… would you like to get dinner with me later, after my shift?”

you nod, smile still on your face. 

“of course, doctor zayne.”

sylus: 

“stop pretending, sylus. you know why i’m here.” you say, gun raised at him. sylus smirks and raises his arms in mock surrender. 

“the protocore you needed was faulty, i had to get rid of it. there was no poi—” “i’m not kidding around, sylus!” you cut him off, finger on the trigger, ready to pull at any moment. 

“i know, sweetie.” 

“don’t call me that.” 

you hated the way sylus chuckled at your response, clearly not taking you seriously. 

the two of you freeze as you hear a commotion from outside the room, sylus pushes you behind him, his evol flaring up as his energy-infused tendrils are on display, waiting for whatever intruder awaits the two of you. 

deciding not to waste time, sylus follows the sound of the noise— where luke and kieran could be heard grunting, fighting against the intruder with a tone of disbelief. 

intrigued, sylus pushes the door open with you in tow, the two of you anticipate a crowd of delinquents who managed to get through sylus’ top notch security, or underworld leaders that had unfinished business with the head of onychinus. 

what the two of you weren’t expecting was a teenage girl who looked amused as the mask-wearing twins dangled in the air with what looked to be a replica of sylus’ energy evol. 

rarely does anything manage to catch sylus off guard. but seeing a teenager with your hair color and the color of his eyes made his mouth drop for a split second. 

the teenager looks at you then at sylus, a soft smile forming on her face. 

“i knew i’d find you guys here.” 

sylus glances at you with his peripheral. your jaw was dropped, hands shaking as you clutched your gun by your side. 

the teenager raises her arms in mock surrender before letting luke and kieran down with a thud. 

“i can explain.” the teenager says. “don’t be alarmed…” she starts. 

“my name is athena. i’m… i’m your daughter from the future.” 

“and we’re supposed to believe you just like that?” you couldn’t help the defensiveness in your tone as you move to raise your gun after seeing her reach into her pocket. 

athena pulls out her wallet, opening it with a soft smile before facing the wallet front, showing the family picture that was displayed on the leather. in order to not cause alarm, she uses her evol. her energy manipulation making it float towards sylus’ direction, he takes it without much fanfare. 

in the picture was a family. 

where an older you and an older sylus stood in the middle, his arm was wrapped around your waist, pulling you close against him, athena stood on your right, a soft smile on her face as she raised her hand into a peace sign. sylus looked at the camera with a real smile on his face as he had a toddler perched up onto his hip— who seemed to be his carbon copy but with your eyes. if you squint, you can see a small bump on your stomach— possibly a third. 

“looks legit.” you hear luke whisper over to kieran. you didn’t even need to glance back to know that kieran smacked the back of luke’s head, the startled ow! told you enough. 

sylus’ face remained blank as he scans the picture before he closes the wallet shut, tossing it back to his future daughter with a steady aim. 

for a while there was silence, before your eyes widened. you become the wife of onychinus’ leader? the very man you swore you hated? 

“you’re meaning to tell me… i let him…” you point insultingly at the brute beside you, who scoffs at your reaction. “make a family with me?”

athena raises a brow, an upturn on her lips as if she was smirking. “i did not expect you to be like this before having me.” she walks around the base, as if she were at home and plops down at the sofa.

“pray tell, how do we act around you?” sylus asks, clearly invested in talking about his future with you. 

“gross.” athena rolls her eyes as the word leaves her lips in a playful way before looking at the two of you with a soft smile. “but… our family is really happy. we’re safe, healthy, most importantly, happy… but.” 

“but?” you echoed, she smiles bitterly. 

“mom, the reason i’m here is because a deal went wrong.” sylus freezes from beside you. 

athena breathes in deeply before explaining. she nods slightly in gratitude as she is served tea by luke and kieran, who you did not notice has left the room to get refreshments.

“sherman...” you perk up at the familiar name. one of sylus’ pawns, a dealer within the n109 zone, someone that sylus kept because he was useful. 

“dad never really let us in his business, he kept us safe and informed yet never within the circle of operations, so i didn’t know who he really was.” athena looks up to stare sylus down. 

“sherman betrays you in the future, dad. that’s the reason i’m here.” sylus nods slowly, gesturing for her to go on.

“he sided with EVER, he wanted us to be weakened so he decided on making sure that if he were to strike against you, it would be where it hurt the most. it wasn’t supposed to be me here, it was supposed to be simeon.” athena looks down on her lap, fists closed tightly, slightly shaking. the two of you could only assume that simeon was the child that sylus was carrying in the picture.

“simeon is barely five. sherman knew that the gun would transport him to the deepspace tunnel with no direction. he expected simeon to die in the tunnel because what knowledge does a toddler have to navigate the deepspace?” athena laughs bitterly. 

“right at the last second, i threw myself in front of him. i’d rather it be me than my baby brother.”

you and sylus look at each other, then back at athena who didn’t want to face either of you. 

sylus walks slowly towards her, his hand placed on her head gently causing her to look up at him. he gives her a nod of acknowledgement. 

“you did well. i’m proud to have you as my future daughter.” athena shakes her head, a smile on her face as she laughs slightly. “don’t get sappy on me, dad.” athena looks to luke and kieran before a smirk appears on her face. 

“you guys were weak, by the way. but don’t worry, you will get better in the future.” the twins let out offended gasps. 

“we could’ve attacked harder, but when we saw your eyes, we were shocked.” kieran explains as luke nods. “it was scary! we’ve fought off many people but we froze when we saw you.” athena nods before she looks at you. 

you still slightly as she stands and walks towards you. you didn’t know what it was, maybe it was instinct that you opened your arms and welcomed her into a hug that she fell into. it felt familiar and warm, something pounded in your chest that you were too terrified to acknowledge. 

“give dad a chance, okay? he’s not all that bad… a bit… much. but he always had our best interests.” athena whispers and you hummed, taking in her words as she pulls away. 

she winks at you. “you and dad are disgusting together.” you let out a short laugh at that. 

truthfully, as much as you hated to admit it, sylus was good looking. he was also reliable and strong and— you were not about to look at him with a different light right now. snap out of it.

a disturbance in the air crackles before a tunnel opens. 

“missus, are you here?” luke jolts as he hears himself through the tunnel, he was about to step closer when kieran pulls him back. 

athena drags you and sylus closer before she embraces you both tightly. 

“i’ll see you on the other side, okay?” athena pulls away with a smile, the expression contagious as you find yourself smiling back at your future daughter. 

“can’t wait.” you reply as she pulls away to call back at the tunnel. 

“yea! i’m here, luke.”

you can hear a sigh of relief from the other side as athena steps inside the tunnel, a serene look on her face as she waves goodbye at the two of you. the tunnel fizzles closed until only stray sparks remain and silence ensues. 

sylus turns to look at you, an amused glint at his deep ruby eyes. 

“can’t wait, huh?” 

“i will kill you where you stand, sylus.”

“no need for violence, sweetie. i too, can’t wait to see where the future leads to.”  

rafayel: 

you noticed her before he did. 

it wasn’t unusual for adults and children to be fixated with rafayel’s artwork, admittedly, at times you find yourself entranced by a few, attempting to interpret its meaning only for rafayel to brush you off and say that you’re overthinking it, cutie. 

but this was different. in front of rafayel’s painting stood a viewing bench that was occupied by a girl that couldn’t have been older than thirteen. she had her hood pulled up, hiding her features. she didn’t seem to be bothering or paying attention to anyone as her body was fixated in front of rafayel’s painting. 

longing. as per rafayel’s title. you once questioned him about it to which he only smiled and shook his head, expression solemn. 

“i don’t know… it just felt right.” you only nod, agreeing with his logic. 

art didn’t have to be complicated, it just had to portray meaning, despite whatever interpretation it was.

“raf.” you poke at the artist who was scanning the room, grateful to have finished making his rounds and rubbing elbows with the rich. 

“bored already, cutie?” he teases. you shake your head as you point towards the direction of his painting. 

“you want me to talk to you about the painting techniques i used? oh, cutie. i knew you were interested in my technique.” you scoffed, shaking your head as you clarified. 

“no, rafayel. i’m referring to her.” you say as you point out the little girl in a soft tone. “she’s been looking at the painting since we’ve arrived.” rafayel takes a closer look, squinting his eyes. 

“are you sure she isn’t asleep? maybe she’s just appreciating my artistic techniques, unlike someone i know…” 

you shake your head before rolling your eyes at him. “still. it’s been hours… did she come with anyone?” rafayel furrowed his brows. 

“i didn’t even notice her here.”

the more rafayel looks at her, the more he feels the pull to approach her. and without even realizing it, he sat beside her on the bench. 

he tilts his head at the painting, squinting his eyes to see if there was a misplaced smudge or dirt that he didn’t notice. just to get an idea of what she was looking at. 

“what’re you looking at, buddy?” he asked, finally turning to the hood-covered girl. 

the little girl stays silent for a few seconds before opening her mouth. 

“the painting…” rafayel perks up, listening intently to the child. 

“is it about me?” 

huh?

“hehe~ of course!” rafayel attempts to appease the kid, not wanting a crying child in his exhibit. 

“anything can be about you if you put your mind to i—” he gets cut off as the child finally faces him. 

his eyes stared back at him and deep strands of purple framed her little face. from her neck, rafayel could see scales, scales that he knew all too well. 

and with a closer look, he realizes that the scales match the colors he used for the painting. 

rafayel stares wide-eyed at the girl. he’s known every surviving lemurian, but not her. and what are the odds she had the same eye and lip shape as you? 

the girl, seeing where rafayel was looking, quickly slaps a hand on her neck, covering the exposed scales.   

rafayel coughs once, before his eyes search for yours. he quickly does so and he signals for you to get to where he was to which you do with a quick stride. 

“this is miss bodyguard… she can help you look for your parents. you’re lost, right?” 

you bit back a gasp as you take in her appearance. she was adorable, her face shows that she grew up with the finer things and that she was not told no in her life. 

“i’m not lost…” she mumbles, yet she takes your hand and squeezes it tightly. you were surprised at how cold her hand felt, the child’s breathing was slightly panicking by the second as more scales appear on her face. 

your eyes widened, clearly seeing that the new scales were affecting her. you looked at raf and he nodded, wordlessly leading the way as you carried the little girl to the room allotted for him. 

“do you know what’s happening… ms…?” rafayel asks as he kneels in front of her as you settle her on the couch. 

“mira.” she says softly, voice almost a whisper. “what a pretty name.” you say, smiling softly as if to assure the child. 

mira looks around the room, her gem-colored eyes scanning the room meticulously before she stops at the gemstone that was halved and turned into powder, most likely as pigment for rafayel’s work. 

her feet take her there and before she could touch it, rafayel’s hand stops her. 

“raf—”

“you’ll burn your hand if you touch it, missy. only lemurians can touch this.” rafayel says, his tone playful but you knew that he meant it. 

mira shakes her head and reaches out for it once more. 

“miss mira, you’re–” “i’m the sea god’s daughter.” mira cuts him off.

rafayel freezes in shock. mira takes the opportunity to get ahold of the gemstone on his desk. 

a bright light blinds the three of you as mira takes out a fishtail that she kept hidden in her small satchel. 

“the sea god’s daughter…” rafayel trails off, you look at her then back at raf as a sharp pang hits your chest. 

you knew that what you and rafayel had was strictly business, yet you couldn’t overlook the fact that the two of you flirted here and there… and with all the time spent together, how come rafayel never told you. 

but as you look at rafayel and see the look of confusion in his face, you begin to wonder if the child is only confused. 

mira falls to her knees, her breaths quickening and you find yourself supporting her with a hand on her back. 

“mama…” she whispers at you, you shake it off, thinking that the haze of the scales growing on her was hindering her mind. you let her clutch your hand, only to be shocked that she triggered your resonance, the two of you feel the progression of scales slow down. 

“papa…” she reaches for rafayel who still seemed lost in thought, but at the sound of mira’s voice, he shakily holds his hand out. 

“...feel weak— …need to go back…” you and rafayel were confused at the words leaving mira’s mouth, she gestures towards the gemstone that she dropped. rafayel takes it with his free hand. mira tells him to coat the fishtail with the gemstone powder and rafayel does so, albeit hesitant. 

a blinding light blinds the three of you, and you find yourselves transported under water. you can hear rafayel let out a gasp as the three of you were inside a bubble. 

looking outside, you can see why rafayel gasped, you were in lemuria or what could only be described as such place based on rafayel’s previous stories. 

you see mira swimming away and the bubble follows her lead. 

you suppress a gasp as you see her swim towards a merman that was gigantic. before you could express your shock to the lemurian beside you. you see him focused, it was on the second look at the merman did you realize that the two of you were staring back at an older— no, another version. older for sure, yet this version had long hair and a tail that was almost your size. 

“papa! mama!” you turned your head to the woman approaching the duo, you finally gasped as your familiar features mirrored your own, yet it was older, softer. 

you can barely hear what mira was saying but you can see as she points to the bubble that you and rafayel occupied, the parents— which you now concluded was a future version of you followed her finger, and with a softened smile, your future self waved at you, causing a deep feeling to settle in your chest, yet you couldn’t pinpoint which emotion it was.

it takes a second for the two of you to be thrown back into your current timeline. the same bright flash brought you back to rafayel’s waiting room.

from a distance, you can hear thomas’ calls for the artist, whose hand you were holding tightly. 

the two of you looked at each other, not saying a word, before he broke it with a small smile. 

“so… looks like you liked me a little too much, cutie.”   

“if that timeline is real, you’re the one carrying her. like a seahorse” you say your face burning as you turn around and leave him in the waiting room. 

“?! that’s not how it works, cutie!” 

xavier: 

the wanderers were closing in. backup was coming but you and your partner had no idea when. the battlefield felt like a hydra wherein one dies, three more take its place and at this point, it wasn’t a battle of strength, but of stamina. 

the wanderers were weak, yet there were so many that you felt your composure slipping. 

it took a sloppy shot for the wanderer you were up against to charge at you with an angered cadence. 

you grunt as you managed to finish it off, finding yourself back to back with xavier who was busy with another luminivore. 

“are you alright?” xavier asked as the wanderer evaporated. you turn to face him, giving him an acknowledgement before you braced your hand on his shoulder to fight the fast moving luminivore behind him. a shot resounded from your hunter’s gun. 

xavier immediately pushes you off to fight off the other wanderers that spawned. 

it seemed endless. you lost count how many the two of you fought. the call for back-up felt like hours ago. 

the two of you were so caught up with fighting that none of you felt the crackle in the air. 

“mom watch out!” you turned around to see a man, pushing early twenties with the tip of his sword right by your face, an evaporating wanderer caught in the middle of it. 

mom? you were confused but had no time to think as you shot another wanderer. you sense another hunter in the area, you turn around to see another man with a sword similar to the other stranger’s. 

confused, yet grateful for the added manpower, the four of you cleared the hunting zone. the gigantic luminivore, having no smaller ones to absorb, was weakened and taken down without a hitch. the protocore it released clasped tightly in your hand. 

when the adrenaline wore off, you thought back to the man who called you mom. you looked at him with a confused expression, having never seen him in your life. 

he bore platinum hair, his eyes the same color as yours and his sword looking to be made out of luxurious alloy. beside him, stood another man who looked like him but with a different hair color, his cheeks were rounder and he was slightly shorter, but it was clear to you that they were twins. 

“w-who are you?” you didn’t mean for your voice to falter but it was surreal to see a set of twins that eerily looked like your partner in crime. 

speak of the devil, xavier hurried to your side once he made sure all wanderers were nowhere to be found in the perimeter. 

xavier pauses as well, his grip on the lightblade that was hidden in his back, prepared to strike if your back-up was actually enemies in disguise. 

the shorter twin raises his hand and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, a shy smile on his face as he looks at you with a guilty expression. 

“okay so…” he trails off, as if trying to find an explanation to who they were. “you're not gonna believe this but…”

he places an arm around the taller twin. 

“we’re your sons from the future.”

what the fuck?

you could feel the strength in your legs falter for a split second and xavier had to support your back as you stared at the twins with a widened gaze. 

sons? future? with… xavier??? 

your blue-eyed partner only looks at them warily, seeming to not believe the twins, only for his eyes to flit towards the tassels of their swords, his eyes slightly squinting as he recognizes his family’s insignia. it wasn’t concrete evidence, yet it was enough for the hunter to hear them out.

“and you are?” xavier asked, the older twin stepped forward, his head dipped down before he tilted up, looking xavier right in the eye, blue eyes mirroring his. 

“lumiere.”

silence. 

the atmosphere was tense and you felt xavier tense up from beside you. xavier’s mouth opened but before he could say anything, the younger twin bursted out laughing. 

“leo, that was good!” the twins gave each other a high-five before turning to face the two of you once more. 

it seemed like even in the future, xavier still cannot hide his disdain for his alter ego. 

“i’m milo.” the younger twin introduces himself in between his giggles before he gestures to the older one who looked at xavier straight-on with a smug expression on his face. 

“this is leo.” milo gestures to him. you nod slightly, still starstruck before introducing yourself and xavier. 

milo nods. “we know. you’re our parents in the future after all.” 

you furrowed your eyes, still confused at his statement. yet with the way their uniforms were slightly different and how the two of them did look like they lived in a different era, you bit your tongue. 

you wanted to find out more yet before you could, a gasp escapes your lips as a lightblade was pointed at your sons. 

“xavier!” 

“who sent you?” xavier asked, not joking around. 

the twins hold up their arms in surrender, not making any violent reactions. 

“we don’t know how we got here ourselves. but, we suspect it was the protocore.” milo explains. “this isn’t our timeline—” that much was obvious. “we’ve been lost for the past week, we believe the key back to our timeline is in the protocore in your hand, mom.” 

being called mom by a pair of twins that look your age was definitely unsettling. 

“and why should I believe you?” xavier asks, the grip on his lightblade tightening. 

 the twins look at each other then back at xavier before they gestured towards their own swords. 

“you gave us these swords when we expressed that we wanted to be like you.” milo sheepishly explains, flustered at expressing admiration towards their father. 

xavier’s careful eyes examine the markings of their swords before they fall towards the star-shaped tassels that decorated the handle.

he lowers his sword, convinced but not entirely. 

you flinch and let out a yelp as the protocore you held turned hot. your partner immediately turns to your side as you throw the protocore to the ground.

the yellow gemstone twitches before it cracks, interrupting the air with a tunnel that showed another timeline from the side. 

“leo, milo, are you here?” you hear a feminine voice call out. you see her step out a moment later and you gasped at how much she resembled you, same eyes, same lips and same puffy cheeks. 

“stella, it’s dangerous out here.” leo, being the eldest, scolds. stella pouts before she realizes that you and xavier watched as the siblings bantered. 

“mom, dad!” stella launched herself into your arms, a smile appearing in her face. 

“that is stella… the youngest… she’s a great marksman like you, mom.” milo introduces, you concluded that he was the chattier twin– inherited most likely from you and leo stays silent on the side, more xavier than your genes. 

“you’re so, so pretty mom, i knew i got your genes.” stella teasingly winks and you couldn’t help the chuckle that leaves your lips. 

the tunnel crackles once more and the three snap out of their trances. 

“it was nice meeting you, young mom and dad!” milo teases before he grabs stella away. “we have to go now, we’ll see you for dinner!” stella waves goodbye before the two of them enter the tunnel. 

leo saves himself for last, ensuring that his two younger siblings have entered fully before giving the two of you a gentle smile paired with a wave. 

“i’ll see you soon, mom, dad.” 

then the tunnel closes shut, leaving you and xavier in the now quiet battlefield. 

without your children’s presence, you can hear your heart beat get louder at the thought that in the future you would be married to your coworker. 

“so… that happened.” you tried breaking the awkward tension. 

xavier only replied with a hum, one that you tilted your head at, wanting to know his thoughts. 

“i always thought we’d have more.” 

what?! 

“do you wanna get hotpot after we report this to captain jenna?” xavier asked you, yet you only looked at him with disbelief. 

“are you not weirded out about our future children appearing in front of us? how are you so calm about this? weren’t you just doubting them minutes ago?” xavier shrugs at your question. 

“i’ve got sufficient proof that they were telling the truth.”he responds. “besides. them appearing makes fighting for the future worth it.” he indirectly confesses. 

“what?” bless your soul. 

xavier shakes his head before walking away. a secret smile on his face. 

he’d face a thousand more wanderers if it meant that his future would be the way he saw, hopefully stella wasn’t the last. 

caleb: 

caleb feels like you’re being watched. 

which was rich coming from him. 

but he’s already taken two detours, yet the eyes on your backs only seemed to stare harder. 

he smiles at you. his hand gently patting your head. “how about you go and buy us some slushies, pips?” you tilt your head in confusion, looking at the long line for the slushie stall before pouting. 

“‘leb the line’s too long.” you whined, caleb only chuckles. “come on, pips. you know i love their honey apple soda. plus, you can use your charms to get a free upgrade.” you roll your eyes at him before huffing and begrudgingly agreeing. 

once you turned around, caleb walks away with a calm cadence, away from the crowd and somewhere most civilians wouldn’t walk near. 

he could hear footsteps trailing behind him, for an untrained ear, it wouldn’t be alarming, but caleb has tracking every small sound his ears could pick up. once he reaches a point in the forest beside where the pop-up fair stood, he unleashes his evol, he hears the stranger grunt as the force of gravity settles on their shoulder. 

for a little fun— also a bit of a power trip, he wills his evol to lift the stranger up by one foot while one dangles in the air. 

caleb counts three seconds before turning around, only for deep purple eyes to stare back at him. 

“what the fuck.” caleb says as he looks at the stranger who could pass off as his sibling. 

no. it couldn’t be real. this is a sick experiment that EVER sent as a last ditch effort to catch him off guard and take you away from him. he won’t let them. 

he won’t let th— 

“wow, you look stupid hanging out like that, flynn.” caleb flinches as he hears another voice speak up, in his shock, he waves his other arm to attack the stranger, only for the stranger to skillfully dodge his offense. 

what?

“woah, nice try there, dad!” he hears the stranger mock him. he faces the second stranger, his evol raring to go once more only for him to accidentally release the first one dangling. 

the second stranger had your eyes. 

a loud oof! was heard as the first stranger fell on a patch of leaves that were conveniently on the ground. 

the second stranger laughs and taunts the first. only for the two of them to let out a yelp as caleb uses his evol to pull the two of them together, in front of him. 

“who are you?” caleb asked. the two strangers look at him then at each other, debating on how to answer. 

yet when seconds passed and none of them spoke up, caleb tightened the invisible restraints like a snake’s chokehold. 

“alright, we give!” the older one says, caleb raises a brow but eases the hold, just a little.

“i’m flynn.” he introduces himself then turning his head towards his brother. “this is axel.” 

“and why were you following us around? what do you need from us?” caleb’s voice hardens once more at the thought that the two boys would be after you. 

“we mean no harm, promise!” axel says, grunting as the hold tightens once more. “let us go, we’ll explain!”

caleb, knowing that he could easily take down the two of them if they showed any violent tendencies, let them go. the two of them heaved deep breaths before smirking. 

“damn dad, never thought we’d be on the receiving end of that.”

“i’ll do it again if you don’t start explaining right now.” caleb threatens and axel lets out a sound of defiance, not wanting to feel restricted again. 

“okay. don’t be scared.” axel starts, only to get nudged by flynn in the ribs. “that’s a terrible start to an explanation, axe!”

flynn shakes his head before clearing his throat. “he’s right though, dad.” caleb’s brow twitches at the title, yet he bites his tongue for now. 

“don’t be alarmed… we’re from the future–”

“what?!” the three of their heads snap towards a new voice— you. 

due to your shock, you almost dropped the sodas, had it not been for caleb’s evol stopping the spill. 

his evol seems to be working overtime today. 

you marched towards the three men before stopping in front of axel, your expression in awe as you reached out to touch his cheek. 

“wow… you look like me.” you say without thinking, flinching backwards as you realized how weird it sounded. 

“i’m saying!” axel agrees, smiling the same way you did. you turned your head to flynn before gasping. “holy shit you’re a mini caleb.” flynn smiles and lets his hair be ruffled by you. 

“pips… you can’t be serious.” caleb says, exasperated at how easily you believed the two strangers who did look like the two of you combined. but with the way you grew up with wanderers and evols, you weren’t about to think that time travel wasn't real. 

“caleb, you can’t be serious.” you retorted, caleb’s mouth drops open at the audacity of you to make him look like he was the crazy one for not accepting. 

“look at him! he’s a cuter version of you!” you say, pinching at flynn’s cheeks. the aforementioned laughs and caleb fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

“pips—” you ignore him in favor of making the two sit down on the clearing, your hands occupied by theirs as you asked them how their current life was. 

caleb, with a frown on his face, sits down close behind you, your back pressed against either of his thighs as he listens to your conversations. 

from there, he notes that flynn was born nine years later, and axel followed after two. flynn trained to be a pilot yet axel followed your steps into becoming a hunter. caleb mindlessly traces circles on your knee as you listen intently to their stories. 

“and auri is—” “auri?” caleb voices out, the first time he made a move to show that he was listening to the conversation.

“woooow dad.” flynn said sarcastically. “you decided that now was the time to contribute?” 

“i will ground you.” caleb threatens, flynn rolls his eyes, a habit he most likely got from you. 

“auri is the youngest… for now.” 

“auri— aurielle is the family’s princess.” axel explains. “right now, she looks like you, mom. she has a bit of an age gap between us.” 

“for now?” you echoed, eyes widening. 

"for now." axel nods. "dad's been wanting another mini-you... he's practically begging for another girl."

you glare at caleb who was innocent for now.

caleb perks up, wanting to know more about his future princess, begins asking questions regarding the youngest. 

the two boys could only roll their eyes at their future father’s enthusiasm. 

“wow, she’s not even here but she already has you wrapped around her finger.” axel teases as flynn shows the two of you a picture of her. 

indeed, they were right. aurielle looked like you at the moment but her eyes were the shade of caleb’s eyes. the picture depicts her lips in a bright grin as she bites a gold medal between her teeth, an achiever. just like you. 

caleb’s lips form into a small smile as he stares at the picture then back at the two boys. 

“are you happy?” caleb asks, making the two sons look at each other. “with your lives. i mean.” 

the boys nod, getting the meaning behind caleb’s words. 

“we’re happy, we’re safe and protected.” flynn answers. 

“and we grew up loved.” axel adds. your lips formed into a pout at his words. 

“and auri?” the two boys groan playfully. 

“for sure a princess. you threatened her junior high dance date once.” you snort at that statement. 

it definitely sounded like something caleb would do.

a beeping sound interrupts the future family’s banter. axel looks at his hunter’s watch before looking at the two of you apologetically.

“it was really nice meeting the two of you when you were young. but…” axel gestures towards the watch’s countdown, the time blaring a bright 00:00. “we have to go.” 

you pout but let go of their hands once the four of you stood up. 

“we’ll see each other in a bit, mom.” the boys pull you into a hug. 

if caleb didn’t know that they were your future children together, they would’ve been suspended once more in the air. he didn’t get to say that as a joke as after you, the two of them jumped on caleb’s arms, laughing as the disgruntled colonel lets out a groan.  

“see you, dad.” 

“say hi to auri for me.” caleb teases, the two boys roll their eyes before agreeing. 

not even a second later, a portal opens. from the other side, you and caleb could see how comfortable the atmosphere was, it looked warm, a home. your future home. 

from the side, caleb can see a family portrait on the wall, the five of you with big smiles as you posed funnily for the camera. 

the two of them enter and the tunnel closes without fanfare. 

when the tunnel finally fizzles out, you feel a light smack on your head. 

“ouch, caleb! what was that for.” 

“you trusted them too easily, pipsqueak.” caleb clicks his tongue as you pout.

“well excuse me for being excited about my future.” 

caleb.exe stopped responding. 

you. the girl he protected all his childhood and grew up with, was excited for a future with him?

caleb never let himself imagine that kind of future. he never thought he deserved it. 

you tilt your head, an ugly frown on your face. 

”it’s only natural, right?” your tone turned cold, both of caleb’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. 

“why, did you want to marry anyone else?” you asked, your lips forming into a pout that caleb knew was the one you use when you wanted your way. 

yet he couldn’t help but indulge you. 

“of course not, pipsqueak.” caleb smiles and pats your head. 

“it’s only ever been you.”

the bright smile on your face that followed his response was all the answer he needed. all his actions will have been worth it in the end, and today’s event was proof of it. 

note/s: would ya'll believe me if i said this has been stewing in my drafts since july 2025... i swear the plot has always been there yet i never found the inspiration to write it (damn writer's block) hopefully! i'm back into writing, i still have a lot in store so i hope ya'll anticipate <3

[kissandtellus]

The Mate in the Mountains: Dragon!Sylus Request

Synopsis: A walk through the life, pregnancy and learning curves of being Dragon Sylus’ human mate.

Warning: Egg laying, smut, double dragon d’s, family fluff, pregnancy, description of birth/egg-laying, bittersweet ending where Sylus is immortal.

A/n: This is the request for the lovely @embetie ! They created my new PFP/OC art with Caleb! I’ll be reblogging when they post I can’t wait for you all to see. It’s absolutely perfect🥹

The cavernous expanse of Sylus’s lair was bathed in the warm glow of enchanted torches, casting flickering shadows over the piles of gold, ancient tomes, and your shared nest of furs nestled in the corner.

You had been feeling strangely off for days. It was a lingering fatigue, a shift in your appetite but it wasn’t until Sylus abruptly halted mid-sentence, his red slit-pupiled eyes narrowing, that you realized something was wrong.

The dragon stalked toward you, his movements unnervingly silent for a creature of his size. His dark scaled claws. usually so careful with your squishy flesh, gripped your hips. He jerked f=you forward so fast your feet nearly left the ground. He pressed his cold nose to your bare stomach.

Sylus gives a deep, rumbling inhale, analyzing and dissecting.

"Your scent," he growled, his breath warm against your skin. "It’s changed."

His clawed fingers traced your hipbone. A sound clicked in his throat, his head cocking like an oversized puppy as he pulled back to study your face.

You forced a weak laugh, pressing a hand to your churning stomach as you shook your head. "It's nothing," you insisted, though the room seemed to tilt slightly around you. "Just…maybe that rabbit wasn't fully cooked. You know how my stomach is."

Sylus' eyes narrowed further, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled again as he tested and probed. The firelight caught the edges of his dark scales, making them gleam like polished obsidian as he loomed over you.

"Liar," he rumbled, the word vibrating deep in his chest. His claws, sharp enough to rend flesh, gentle enough to trace your cheek. He tipped your chin up, forcing you to meet his crimson gaze. "You reek of fatigue. Your pulse is too fast. And your scent—"

Another inhale, deliberate, before his growl dropped to something dangerously soft.

"—carries something new."

Your stomach lurched again, but this time, it wasn’t from undercooked meat.

It was from the way his eyes darkened with understanding.

Sylus was right, of course.

The village healer confirmed it with wide eyes and shaking hands. There were tiny, delicate eggs, nestled deep within you, their fragile shells already taking on the faintest shimmer of his onyx-black scales.

The moment the words left her lips, Sylus moved.

His arms banded around you, lifting you from the stool with a possessive growl, his wings flaring to shield you from the prying eyes of the village. His nose pressed to your throat, inhaling your scent, his scent, the new life thrumming beneath your skin.

"My mate…I knew it….," he rumbled, the word feral, reverent.

From that day forward, Sylus treated you like dragonkin royalty.

He reshaped the nest, lining it with the softest furs and stolen silks. He hunted at dawn, returning with fruits so rare even the village elders gasped. He growled at the wind if it blew too cold against your skin.

And when your cravings struck, they were sudden, violent and irrational. Demanding freshly roasted salmon to dawn, or the freshest berries from the nearby river. He merely smirked, scaled claws already reaching for his cloak.

"Tell me what you need," he murmured, lips brushing your temple. "And I will burn the world to bring it to you."

But your attitude was not the only thing to change. Sylus had become a watchdog during the period of you carrying his young.

You, very human, very hormonal, very in love, could only laugh as he nuzzled your belly, his tail flicking with smug satisfaction.

Because for all his dragon instincts, for all his feral devotion…

He still tripped over his own wings when you kissed him.

Your swollen belly had become an undeniable weight, rounded and heavy with the promise of his offspring. Sylus watched you with red eyes that burned like embers, tracking every wince, every shift in your scent, every sign of discomfort.

That evening, when he returned from the hunt, a stag slung over his shoulder, its blood still steaming in the cold mountain air, he found you panting and restless in the nest, your skin flushed, your fingers twisting in the furs.

His wings snapped wide, the gust of wind extinguishing half the torches in the lair as he dropped the kill and surged toward you.

"What is it?" His voice was a growl, edged with panic, as his claws. He was careful, always careful as they skimmed over your heated skin.

You whimpered, pressing your forehead against his scaled chest. The gem in the center of his chest glowed. "It’s too much," you gasped. "I can’t—I can’t get comfortable—"

Sylus didn’t hesitate.

One arm hooked beneath your knees, the other cradling your back, and he lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the deepest, most sheltered part of the nest, where the furs were thickest and the air was cool.

His tail coiled around your ankle as he settled behind you, his body a furnace against your back, one clawed hand splayed over your belly.

"I know beloved," he purred, his lips pressed to the nape of your neck. "Just breathe. I will not let anything harm you."

And when your body finally relaxed against his, when your breathing evened out, Sylus did not sleep.

He watched.

He waited.

That day was his sign. His young, your eggs, would be here within the moon cycle. You moved less and less, spending most days snoozing away when Sylus wasn’t shoveling berries at you.

Sylus had only been gone for an hour, just one hour, to scout the borders, to ensure no hunters dared venture too close to his territory.

But when he returned, his wings slicing through the mountain air, his nostrils flared at the scent of pain, sweat, urgency thick in the air.

He found you on your hands and knees, fingers gripping the furs beneath you, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your hair clung to your damp forehead, your body trembling as a new wave of pressure crested over you.

A low, inhuman snarl tore from Sylus’s throat. It was panic and fury at himself for leaving. He was at your side in an instant, his scaled hands cradling your shaking form, his tail wrapping around your thigh as he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Let me take your pain, Y/n….” he growled, claws circling around the raised flesh of your tummy.

But your body did not listen.

Another contraction ripped through you, your nails scoring into his forearms as you choked back a scream. Sylus’s pupils narrowed to slits, his instincts warring between tearing apart the world and holding you together.

In the end, he chose you.

His wings curled around you both, shielding you from everything, even the air itself, as he murmured words in a language older than kingdoms.

And when the first tiny, pearlescent shell pressed into the world, Sylus caught it in his palms, his breath stuttering as he stared. He was completely awestruck, terrified and felt triumphant.

The world narrows to the warmth of the nest, the soft glow of the torches flickering against the stone walls. Your body trembles with exhaustion, limbs heavy and spent, but Sylus is already moving. He is efficient and methodical, his claws retracted to the barest tips as he cleans the sweat from your brow with a damp cloth.

His hands, so often capable of destruction, are impossibly gentle now.

And there, nestled in the furs beside you, were two perfect eggs, they were much large than you imagined they would be. But your body constantly reminded you of just how big they were. Their shells gleamed with a soft, iridescent sheen. One reflects the deep onyx-black of Sylus’s scales, the other shimmers with hints of pearl and gold, catching the firelight like captured stars.

Sylus cannot tear his eyes off his offspring, his legacy, your shared creation. You lean back against him, dressed in a white gown, clean and angelic just like you.

"You," he murmurs, "-are magnificent."

His tail curls protectively around the eggs as he tucks a fur around your shoulders, his red eyes never leaving them. He was watching, waiting and worshipping.

The weeks pass in a blur of fur-lined nests and glowing embers. Sylus prowls the edges of the lair, his wings unfurled in constant vigilance, his gaze never shifting from the eggs.

He hunts. They are quick, efficient and ruthless. He returns to your side with fresh game for you, his eyes watching like a hawk as you eat.

And all the while, his tail curls around the eggs, his touch trails over the scales of the eggs as he whispers to them in that strange, ancient language. You guide his head into your lap with a soft laugh. Your body is recovering slowly, a wrap of crushed herbs and river water against your womb.

His taut muscles ripple beneath your touch as you gently card your fingers through his silken white hair, your nails scratching lightly over the ridges of his skull, just the way he likes. His low, rumbling purr vibrates through the nest, his red eyes. still locked on the eggs, finally fluttering shut for a brief, precious moment.

"Sylus," you murmur, lips brushing the pointed tip of his ear. "The eggs aren’t going anywhere. Relax."

His claws flex against the furs, his instincts warring between vigilance and surrender. But then—finally—he sighs, his body sinking against yours, his tail loosening its coil around the nest.

"...I know," he grumbles, voice heavy with reluctant admission. "But if they hatch when I'm not—"

You cut him off with another scratch, a little firmer this time, and he melts, his forehead dropping to your knee with a growl that’s more affectionate irritation than true protest.

The first crack is nearly imperceptible. It is a hairline fracture spiderwebbing across the onyx shell. Sylus, who had been coiled around you in restless slumber, jerks awake, his eyes locking onto the eggs with blazing intensity.

The second crack splits the air like thunder.

Pearlescent shards peel away as tiny claws press against the inside of the shell. Sylus is motionless, his breath trapped in his lungs, his tail tightening around you both as—

—a small, scaled head pushes free.

The first hatchling emerges in a shower of iridescent fragments, its wings damp and crumpled against its back. Its scales are Sylus's exact black, but its eyes, your eyes, blink up at you with curious wonder.

Before anyone can react, the second egg explodes outward, the golden-shelled hatchling tumbling into the furs with an indignant squeak. This one is brighter, its scales shimmering like sunlight on water, its tiny tail lashing as it rights itself. She is already defiant, already perfect.

Sylus makes a sound you've never heard before. It’s a broken, clipped growl as he gathers them both against his chest, his claws trembling.

"...They are perfect," and so begins his descent into fatherhood madness.

The twins, a boy with onyx scales dusting his shoulders, and a girl with gilded wings too big for her tiny frame, are perfect chaos incarnate.

Your son, serious-faced like his father, toddles forward only to trip over his own tail, sending himself nose-first into the furs. He blinks, unharmed but deeply offended, before turning to Sylus with a tiny, accusatory growl. As if his father personally designed tails to be this inconvenient.

Your daughter, meanwhile, has already taken flight. Or rather, she’s attempting to, her wings flapping wildly as she hovers three inches off the ground before crash-landing into a pile of stolen silks. She emerges with a giggling shriek, her round eyes sparkling with unrepentant joy, completely unfazed by her lack of coordination.

Sylus watches them with an expression caught between pride and panic, his tail twitching every time one of them stumbles. When your son latches onto his horns for balance, Sylus freezes, utterly helpless, before shooting you a look that screams, "How are they this fragile?"

You can’t help but laugh, gathering your daughter into your arms as she chews enthusiastically on your sleeve, her tiny claws kneading your shoulder.

They are half-dragon, half-human—all mischief, all beauty.

And Sylus?

He’s already building a padded training arena in the lair.

Your son sleeps in perfect, regal stillness. Just like Sylus. Your daughter sprawls like a starfish, just like you. The lair has never been so loud, so warm, so alive.

The years melt like snow under the heat of the sun, but Sylus never forgets the first time his hatchlings breathed fire.

It happens on a crisp autumn evening, when the twins are still small enough to curl together in the hollow of his wings. Your daughter, always the bold one, giggles as she puffs out her cheeks, concentrating until...

A spark.

Tiny, hesitant, but unmistakably draconic.

Sylus stops breathing.

Your son, ever competitive, immediately tries to mimic his sister and succeeds, sending a wavering plume of smoke into the air. Sylus’s eyes glow with something primal, something proud, as he leans down to nuzzle them both.

“Good,” he rumbles. “Now aim away from your mother.”

Sylus never forgot to please you, to make you feel wanted.

He finds you curled in the firelight, a book balanced on your thighs—still soft from childbirth, still carved with the faint silver lines of carrying his young. Sylus’s gaze darkens, his nostrils flaring as he drinks in the sight of you, the way the fire paints your skin in amber and shadow.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

In one smooth motion, he knocks the book aside, his claws tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, before hooking beneath your knees.

“You smell ripe,” he growls. You tried to kick away the overgrown lizard man but his strength was far stronger. He spreads your thighs and gazes upon your bare mound like the most appetizing dessert.

His tongue is rough, relentless, dragging over every inch of you as if you were sacred, as if you were the last thing he’d ever taste. His claws dig into your flesh, not to hurt, but to hold, to worship, to brand himself into your skin.

You gasp, fingers twisting in his wild white hair, tugging just enough to make him snarl against you but he doesn’t stop.

He devours.

Because you are his mate, his queen, the mother of his hatchlings.

And he will never let you forget it.

The twins are asleep in the next chamber. Sylus does not care. He will lick you silent if you dare wake them

His twin lengths are already dripping, swollen and impatient against the furs as he pins you beneath him, his rough tongue still working you open, tasting every shudder, every whimper you try to stifle.

"Your taste alone has me aching," he snarls against your thigh, his red eyes burning like molten fire as he drags his claws down your stomach.

You whine, hips arching off the nest, but Sylus doesn't grant mercy.

Instead, he grips his cocks in one scaled hand, dragging the slickened tips up your soaked slit, coating himself in your arousal before shoving both inside at once.

You cry out, back bowing as he stretches you impossibly wide, his growl vibrating through your bones as he begins to rut. He is so deep. The cocks are punishing and relentless. The furs beneath you rip under his claws, the nest collapsing into disarray as he fucks you like a man starved, like he’ll die if he doesn’t breed you full all over again.

His wings block out the firelight, his tail coiled around your ankle, holding you open, taking you deeper, harder. He wants to fill you until all you know is him, his scent, his heat, the way his cocks twitch inside you as he roars his release.

And when he finally stills, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged….He's already hardening again.

His knot swells thick and unrelenting, locking him inside you as his twin lengths pulse violently, filling you to the brim. You whimper, oversensitive and trembling, but Sylus doesn’t retreat. His scaled claws frame your face, his lips brushing yours. You remember the first time you taught him how to kiss, now he was obsessed.

"Perfect. So perfect for me."

His voice is rough with reverence, dripping with a feral kind of worship as his thumbs stroke your cheeks, his hips grinding deeper, forcing your body to accept every inch.

"My mate," he growls, tongue dragging over your pulse as you squirm beneath him. "My queen. My perfect, obedient little—"

His words cut off with a guttural groan as you clench around him, your body betraying you, greedily milking his cocks for every last drop. Sylus laughs before biting at your collarbone.

"Again," he demands. "Cum again. Prove to me how well you take your dragon."

And when you do, shaking, sobbing his name, he finally buries his face in your neck, his praise a ragged litany against your skin.

"Good. So good. Mine."

Despite his ferocious instincts, Sylus is a surprisingly gentle father.

You watch, mesmerized, as he carefully teaches the twins to control their flames, holding out his palm as they puff tiny breaths of smoke, his jeweled eyes crinkling with pride when they manage their first controlled spark.

Your daughter, ever bold, climbs his horns like a tree, giggling as he pretends to growl and shake her off, only to catch her with his tail when she slips.

Your son, quieter but just as stubborn, naps curled against his scaled chest, Sylus’s claws tracing slow, protective circles on his back, the dragon equivalent of a lullaby.

You learn quickly that dragons raise their young with equal parts discipline and devotion.

Sylus burns away impurities from their food before letting them eat. He grooms their tiny wings with meticulous care, nipping at the membranes to strengthen them. And when they fuss? He rumbles deep in his chest, a sound so soothing it puts them to sleep instantly.

But the sweetest moment comes at dusk, when Sylus gathers them both against his chest, his wings forming a protective canopy as he murmurs stories in that ancient, guttural tongue.

His voice is softer than firelight.

His love, fiercer than any dragon’s flame.

Each morning, Sylus wakes the twins by nuzzling their foreheads with his snout, a low, rumbling purr vibrating through their nest of furs. He teaches them with infinite patience, how to retract their claws before touching your human-soft skin, how to fold their wings just right so they don’t knock over your favorite vase (again).

But the most sacred ritual? Hunting lessons.

Sylus takes them to the meadow’s edge, his massive shadow swallowing theirs as he demonstrates how to stalk, how to pounce.

Your daughter leaps too soon, tumbling snout-first into the grass. Sylus chuffs, nudging her up with his tail. "Up," he murmurs. "Dragons do not surrender."

Your son watches, sharp-eyed, before copying Sylus’s movements perfectly. Until his tail betrays him, sending him sprawling. Sylus licks his bruised knee, and the wound seals over in seconds.

That night, as the twins sleep piled atop his back, Sylus traces the curve of your hip with his claws and whispers.

"They will be stronger than me."

You kiss his palm. "And just as kind."

The twins are still young, too young to understand that humans are delicate, fragile creatures, so easily broken.

Your son finds a dead rat in the village, and when you try to take it from him, he bites your arm on reflex. His teeth are still small, still blunt, but the wound gushes blood just the same.

The moment his tiny fangs pierce your skin, your son freezes.

Blood—your blood—drips onto his lips, and his eyes widen in horror, pupils shrinking to thin, terrified slits. He releases the rat instantly, his tiny body trembling as he backs away, wings tucked tight against his spine.

A whimper escapes him before he bolts, scrambling into the shadows of the lair, his claws scrabbling against stone.

Sylus is there in an instant, his nostrils flaring at the scent of your blood, his growl shaking the walls.

But you’re already moving, clutching your arm as you chase after your son.

You find him curled into a trembling ball beneath a pile of furs, his face buried in his claws, his breaths coming in shallow, panicked hitches.

“I—I didn’t—!” His voice is broken, barely audible.

You kneel beside him, pulling him into your lap despite his resistance, pressing your forehead to his.

“I know,” you murmur. “I know, little flame. It was an accident.”

Sylus stalks over and your son tries to shy away. Hierarchy demands it, but Sylus had not held his children to the old ways. Not when their mother had been born of flesh instead of fire.

“Dragons…” Sylus says, voice low, solemn, “-protect what they love. Remember this.”

And when your son presses his face into your shoulder, his tears scalding against your skin, Sylus licks the wound closed, his tongue warm, healing.

The years pass with screeches and long nights and many, many learning curves.

The lair feels too quiet now.

Your twins, no longer hatchlings, but striking young drakes, have claimed their own corners of the mountain. Your daughter’s hoard glitters with stolen armor and river-polished gemstones; your son’s nest is lined with maps and battle strategies. They visit often, but their wings carry them farther each time, their voices deepening into roars that echo across the cliffs.

And you?

Time has painted silver streaks in your hair, etched laughter lines at your eyes, and gifted your bones with aches Sylus can scent on you before you even grimace.

Yet when he looks at you, his mate, his queen, his eyes still burn with the same love and devotion as the day he first claimed you.

Tonight, he finds you rubbing your stiff knees by the fire, his massive frame blocking the draft as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you to the rebuilt nest. The one just for two.

“Still the most beautiful creature in this mountain,” he murmurs, nuzzling the curve of your neck, his tongue warm as it glides over your pulse. His claws trace your wrinkles like treasures, your scars like victories.

When you laugh, a sound he has memorized in every decade of its evolution, he steals it with a kiss, his tail coiling around your waist.

The twins may have outgrown the nest.

But Sylus?

He will never outgrow you.

Tag List: @chaemaire @vvi-vi @partypoison00 @l0st1nthedark @boulder @space-trashlordd @hilliserose @rubylescent @joyfulyouthlover @lilacsandhysteria @cheezeandkrackers @zayneslover @slave-of-heaven @ladyanonreader @kiyadeleine @emowitchwithatwist @nixia1107-blog @aishabbbb @lordbugs @poisonivyae @embetie @mock-kett @nanamisgirly @imsaemi @exe-toby @rhickah @slutforsnowcrow423 @kageyaxaa @pumpk1n-gurl @anothergojostan @luvqi @matcha-m0chi @idiotboop @pomegranatesnapples @ajyoursgirl @raendarkfaerie @patchesofwork @diejager @goddessofeverything @paintedperidot @applecaviar @sylusxoxo @braatzz-9 @starsforvia @saltymooninternet @mshaylove @upwillbyers @cupidstrace

[call-me-kermit]

Hello! Idk if your requests are open but if they are could I request a Kratos x fem!reader where R is very soft hearted?? I had such a shitty day today bc i keep letting people get to my head and always end up crying about it omg, I’d love to see Kratos w someone like that, like just gentle and soft spoken.

Happy new year!! Much love to you

✿Dry Your Eyes✿ 

✿ Word Count: 7942 Read Time: 25-30Min ✿ Summary: Kratos loves his lady and hates to see her cry. ✿ Warnings: Fem Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Post Ragnarök, Fluffy, Kratos is Protective, Established Marriage ✿ Rating: PG-13 ✿ Notes: Not Proofread

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The cabin was quiet without him. Too quiet. The crackle of the hearth filled the silence, but even that felt thin, fragile, as if it too might snap under the weight pressing on her chest. She sat at the wooden table with the kettle in her lap, its jagged crack running deep across the side. Her fingers fumbled with twine, pitch, anything she could find, trying to piece it together like a wound she could stitch shut.

It was pointless. She knew it. But still, she tried.

The kettle had slipped from her hands that morning, shattering against the floor. It had been nothing, really, kettles break, things can be replaced. But it was the last straw in a day that had been determined to unravel her. The chores had fought her every step of the way: the wash-basin leaked, the goats scattered, the wood pile collapsed twice before she could stack it. Small troubles, one on top of another, until her patience wore thin and her chest was heavy.

So she had gone to the village. She told herself she’d find a new kettle, perhaps even take comfort in seeing faces other than her own reflected in the dishes she’d scrubbed spotless earlier. Instead, she had found only whispers and stares. Words that cut without meaning to, or worse, words meant to cut.

Her throat tightened at the memory. She had walked away quickly, head down, clutching her basket though it was empty. She had made it home before the tears came, hiding them in the hollow safety of the cabin walls. He wouldn’t be home until nightfall, she had thought. She had time to compose herself, to swallow this weakness down and bury it.

But still the tears had come.

Now, she sat with damp lashes and a trembling lip, scolding herself in whispers as she tried to mend the kettle.

“Big baby,” she muttered, voice thick. “Crying over a broken dish, tch, pathetic.”

Her hands shook as she pressed the pieces together, as though her own will might force them to hold. The kettle wobbled, the twine slipped, and it fell apart again in her lap. The sharp clatter of shards against the floor echoed through the cabin, louder than thunder.

She flinched, pressing her sleeve to her eyes before the tears could spill over again. “Stop it. Stop. It’s nothing.”

She pushed back from the table so quickly that the chair scraped harshly against the floor. The sound pierced the silence, but it didn’t matter. Her chest burned too hot, too tight to sit still. She began to pace the length of the cabin, arms wrapping around herself as if she could hold the pieces of her heart together the way she tried with the broken kettle.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She forced herself to breathe slowly, deep, like Kratos always told her when panic clawed its way too close, but the air came sharp and stuttering anyway.

The villagers’ words echoed louder in her mind than they ever had in the square. Their narrowed eyes. She hated herself for letting them matter. For letting strangers peel back her confidence like it was nothing more than paper. She had survived so much, endured so much, how could a handful of careless words cut deeper than any blade?

Her throat thickened again, tears prickling. She pressed her palms to her eyes, furious with herself. “Enough,” she hissed into the hollow of her hands. “You’re pathetic. Crying over nothing. Over strangers. He would hate if he saw you like this.”

She shook her head, pacing faster, trying to outrun the weight pressing down on her ribs. Shame coiled in her gut until she could hardly stand upright. She told herself she was undeserving of his love, of his protection, of the life they’d built. That he deserved someone stronger, someone unshaken by whispers in a marketplace.

And in that moment, she didn’t hear the heavy tread of boots in the snow. She didn’t hear the steady creak of the cabin door opening.

The door creaked open, and the cold breath of the evening swept into the cabin ahead of him. She startled, spinning toward the sound, her sleeve swiping hurriedly across her damp cheeks.

“Kratos!” Her voice rose too brightly, too quickly, forcing a cheerfulness that sounded brittle in the quiet. She turned from the hearth, smoothing her skirts as though nothing had happened. “You’re home earlier than I thought.”

He stood framed in the doorway, the great bulk of him filling it. A fresh-killed doe hung heavy over his shoulder, but he let it drop just outside before closing the door behind him. His eyes, sharp and dark, swept the room once. The broken kettle on the table. The uneven breath she tried to swallow. The false smile clinging to her lips.

He moved to her in three great strides, and her heart leapt into her throat.

“Show me,” he rumbled, voice low but commanding.

She blinked, forcing a laugh that trembled at the edges. “Show you? There’s nothing-”

“Do not lie.” His eyes narrowed, scanning her hands, her arms, the folds of her dress. He caught her wrists gently but firmly in his calloused hands and turned them over, as though expecting blood or glass buried in her skin.

“Kratos, I-”

“You broke the kettle.” His voice carried no accusation, only the heavy certainty of a man stating what he already knew. “I heard you. You have hurt yourself trying to repair it.” His thumb brushed across her palm, rough but careful. “Where?”

The scolding edge in his tone made her chest ache more than any wound could. He was not angry; he was afraid. She had seen that fear before, masked behind his sternness.

“I-I’m not hurt.” Her voice cracked despite herself. She lifted her chin, blinking back the last of the tears, hoping he couldn’t see how red her eyes were.

But of course, he could. 

His towering frame bent closer, his shadow falling over her as his face drew level with hers. Even softened by worry, his features were carved from stone, but his eyes betrayed him, dark with an anxious gleam that pierced straight through her defenses.

“You must be more careful,” he said quietly, though the weight of his words felt like an embrace. “Do not take risks over such things. I would not have you harmed.”

Her lips trembled, and this time, she couldn’t hold his gaze. She looked down at their hands, small and trembling in his, his were broad and unyielding, yet gentle. Her throat tightened, not from shame now, but from the sheer force of love swelling in her chest.

He worried for her. Even when she tried to hide, even when she told herself she wasn’t worth worrying over, he always saw her.

She swallowed, willing her voice to steady. “The kettle, I dropped it this morning,” she admitted softly, unable to meet his eyes. “I didn’t expect it to be so heavy, even empty. It slipped, and-” she gestured helplessly toward the shards still resting on the table, “-it was my mistake.”

Kratos’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing, letting her speak.

“I thought I could replace it,” she continued quickly, hoping to push past the quiver in her voice. “I went to the village, but they had none. So I came back with nothing.” She forced a small laugh, brittle around the edges. “I suppose I let my frustration get the better of me. That’s all.”

Her fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve, desperate to keep her composure. “I just feel bad. It was the only way we could brew proper stews, and now-now we’ll have to find some other way to cook what you’ve brought home.”

At that, she dared to glance up at him, only to find his gaze fixed on her, steady and unreadable. She knew that look; it meant he was weighing her words, sifting through what she said and what she left unsaid.

His silence stretched for a long moment before he finally shook his head. “We have cooked without it before,” he said simply, his voice a low rumble that carried no judgment. 

Her chest tightened. She wanted to believe the conversation would end there, that he would take her excuse and let it rest. But his eyes lingered on her damp lashes, on the faint tremble in her voice, and she knew he didn’t believe her. Not entirely.

Kratos’s hand lifted, large and warm, brushing briefly over her cheek. The calloused pad of his thumb caught the faint trace of a tear she had missed. His jaw tightened, though his voice stayed calm.

“This is not cause for such sorrow.”

Her lips parted, a protest rising, but no words came. She only looked at him, towering over her, whose stern voice disguised a heart too tender where she was concerned. He had seen through her once again.

Her silence stretched too long. She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her eyes darted toward the broken pot, then back to the floor.

Kratos’s jaw hardened. “You are holding something back.”

She shook her head quickly. “I told you, it was only the pot-”

“No.” His voice cut through hers, low and firm. “I know when you lie to me.”

Her heart lurched. “I’m not lying,” she insisted, though the words tasted weak even as they left her lips. “I just- Kratos, it isn’t worth bothering you with. I’ve already wasted enough of your time today-”

He leaned closer, his massive frame eclipsing hers, his voice tightening with quiet authority. “You are my wife. Nothing you carry is a burden I will not share.”

She flinched at the tenderness hidden in his words. But still she turned away, pressing her sleeve against her eyes again. “It’s childish. I’ll sound foolish. I don’t want to make this your problem-”

His hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist, pulling it from her face so she had to meet his gaze. His eyes burned steadily into hers. “Your problem is our problem.”

Her chest hitched, shame rising in her throat. “You’ll think I’m weak.”

“I have fought gods, monsters, kings.” His voice rumbled, steady and sure. “And yet you think I could be troubled by your tears?”

She bit her lip hard, fighting the wobble in her voice. “You don’t understand. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed. I can’t- I can’t tell you without feeling pathetic.”

His brows drew together, a frown heavy with both frustration and worry. “You think I would ever see you so?”

She didn’t answer. The silence hung between them like a blade.

Kratos let out a slow, restrained growl of exasperation. “Enough of this. Speak the truth. Do not deny me again.”

The command in his voice clashed against the gentleness in his eyes, and she trembled in the middle, torn between her shame and the unshakable certainty of his love.

She sighed, her shoulders sinking as the fight drained out of her. Her eyes slipped away from his, settling somewhere near his chest where she could feel his warmth without enduring the weight of his stare.

“Something did trouble me,” she admitted quietly. “While I was in the village.”

Kratos’s brow furrowed, but he stayed silent, waiting.

She shook her head quickly before he could press. “I don’t want to speak of it. Not now. It’s nothing, truly. I’m sure I’m just overreacting.” Her mouth twisted into a humorless little smile, brittle and aching. “You know how I get. Tears over little things. I’m a hopeless case.”

Kratos’s eyes narrowed, a deep rumble in his chest betraying his displeasure at her jest. “Do not mock yourself.”

But she forced the weak smile anyway, shaking her head. “It isn’t something I want to drag you into. Please, just understand that I’m fine. I only need time to calm myself before I can speak of it.” She finally dared to look up, eyes shining, though her smile trembled. “Tonight, I don’t want to think about it. Let’s have a peaceful meal instead, hm? Talk of lighter things.”

The silence stretched, his gaze weighing her words. She could almost hear the storm turning behind his dark eyes, the battle between his demand for truth and his respect for her will.

At last, he exhaled, a long, reluctant rumble. “Hmph.”

His hand slid from her wrist, but not before his thumb brushed once more over the back of her hand, a silent tether, a reminder that he was not letting go, not really.

“You may keep your silence for tonight,” he said, his voice low and stern. “But hear me, woman: I would shield you from all things that would harm you. All things.” His gaze bore into hers, fierce and unyielding. “Do not forget this.”

Her chest ached, but this time, not with shame. She nodded, the smallest of smiles breaking through as her hand lingered in his. “I know,” she whispered. “And that is why I love you.”

She cleared her throat, eager to catch the thread of a different subject. “And you? How was your hunt?” she asked, turning to gather the knives and board he would need to dress the deer. The change in her tone was deliberate, too bright, like sunlight forcing its way through clouds.

But she hadn’t taken more than two steps when his hand caught her arm, not harshly, but with the quiet strength that always rooted her in place. She looked back at him in surprise, only to find his face softened in a way that words could never capture.

Wordlessly, he pulled her to him.

Her breath hitched as she melted into his embrace. His arms, broad and unyielding, wrapped around her with the kind of safety no walls could provide. She pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart, and for the first time all day, she felt her own heartbeat slow, steadying to his rhythm.

Her hands fisted in the fabric of his leather shoulder guard as she let herself lean into him fully, surrendering her weight into his. His chin lowered just enough that his beard brushed her hairline, rough yet tender in the way only he could be.

When she tilted her face up, he was already looking down at her, eyes dark but softened at the edges. The kiss that followed was unhurried, slow, deliberate, filled with the same gravity as the first they had ever shared. His lips pressed against hers as though the whole world had narrowed to just this moment.

She sighed into him, her smile blooming against his mouth. Her first real smile of the day.

Kratos’s expression barely changed when they parted, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed his satisfaction. He had succeeded in what he set out to do: to lift the shadow from her heart, even if just for now.

Kratos did not let go. His arms remained locked around her, the weight of his presence steady and immovable. For a long moment, he simply held her, his silence heavier than words.

When he finally moved, it wasn’t to release her, but to thread his hand through her hair, thick fingers combing gently from crown to nape. The motion was awkward, almost uncertain, as though he feared mishandling something so delicate, but it was steady, careful, and achingly tender.

A low grumble rumbled in his chest. “I do not like it,” he muttered. “Seeing you unhappy.”

She smiled against his chest, the sound of his voice vibrating through her cheek. “You’re sulking,” she teased softly. “Like a bear denied his supper.”

His only reply was another grumble, deeper this time, which made her laugh, a small, bright sound that pushed back the heaviness in her chest. She tipped her head back to look up at him, mischief sparking faintly in her eyes despite the redness around them.

“You’re a big, scary softy,” she whispered, her smile widening.

Kratos’s brow arched slightly, the closest he came to a glare when he wasn’t truly angry. “Soft,” he echoed, testing the word like it was a weapon unfit for his hand.

“Yes,” she answered, her grin playful, though her voice was warm. “Soft. And mine.”

His jaw worked, his expression unreadable, but the faintest flicker at the corner of his mouth betrayed him, a ghost of a smile hidden beneath his stoic mask. He huffed through his nose and tightened his embrace, pressing her closer against him. “Hmph. Then I am yours.”

And though he would not say it aloud, the truth sat heavy and certain in his heart: if being hers meant being soft, then so be it.

Once, in another life, he might have welcomed an audience. A younger Kratos had been proud, violent, and all too willing to prove his strength to anyone who dared watch. But those days were long gone. Now, in the quiet of the Wildwoods, he had no appetite for eyes upon him.

He was silently grateful for it tonight.

Atreus was far away, exploring the realms, chasing his own path. Mimir was not perched by the table in front of his book, running his mouth with endless commentary. Sigrún had spirited him away just yesterday, and though neither Kratos nor his wife would dare ask outright, both suspected the pair was off on some romantic venture of their own.

It left only the two of them here. Alone.

And with no one around to tease him for his softness, save, of course, for the woman in his arms, Kratos let himself indulge.

His head dipped lower, his beard brushing against her cheek as his mouth found hers again. The kiss was firm, insistent, and when she giggled against his lips, he chased the sound with another. And another. Until the laughter turned breathless, until her teasing dissolved into nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the steady strength of his embrace.

“Kratos!” she laughed, trying half-heartedly to push against his chest. “You’ll smother me.”

He grunted, unimpressed, and kissed her again, slow this time, deliberate, savoring the sweetness he would never admit aloud he craved every waking second.

Her hands curled against his shoulders, her smile blooming wide even as she pretended to scold him. “You are hopeless,” she murmured, eyes shining now not from tears but from joy.

“Mm,” he rumbled against her lips, the faintest curl of satisfaction ghosting across his face. “Perhaps.”

For a long moment, they simply held one another, breathing in the quiet that belonged only to them. Her fingers traced the edges of his tattoo, his hand rested broad against her back, and in the glow of the hearth, their eyes lingered, unhurried.

At last, Kratos broke the silence, his voice low and rough, as though he had to force the words through stone. “Earlier, you said you love me.” Her smile softened, patient. He dipped his head slightly, his dark eyes never leaving hers. “I love you very much, as well.”

The words came slowly, deliberately, heavy with all the weight of a man who was still learning the power of saying them aloud. Once, he had believed actions alone were enough, the protection of his sword, the roof over their heads, the game brought home to the hearth. But she had taught him otherwise. She, Atreus, even the friends who had come into his life despite his gruff exterior, they had shown him that words mattered too. That sometimes, a heart needed to hear what hands alone could not say.

She swooned at once, her smile breaking into something radiant as her hands lifted to cradle his face. “Oh, Kratos,” she whispered, before kissing him sweetly, tenderly, like she was sealing his words to her heart.

When she pulled back, her lips still brushed against his as she whispered, “I love you too.” Then, with a sly grin, she added, “More than you love me.”

Kratos’s brow arched, his only reply a grumble from deep in his chest, the kind that sounded like displeasure but hid the truth too poorly.

She giggled, knowing she’d struck him true, and kissed him again.

And though his face betrayed only mock annoyance, inside he was undone, swooning, though he would never dare call it that. She could tell, though, by the glimmer in his eyes. 

Their quiet was broken by a sudden chorus of growls, yips, and excited scrabbling claws just outside the door. Both of them turned toward the sound.

She gasped. “The wolves!”

Kratos grunted, already knowing what had happened. He had dropped the doe just outside the cabin, and his loyal sled dogs- wolves, though she stubbornly insisted on calling them her “sweet pups”- had wasted no time in finding it.

She pressed her hands to her mouth, eyes wide with dismay. “Oh, Kratos, if they drag it to pieces right there, we’ll never get the front step clean again!” Her voice was full of flustered worry, though her smile betrayed her affection. “And there’ll be hardly anything left for us.”

“Hmph.” Kratos let out a low, reluctant sound and finally eased his arms from around her. “Stay.”

She chuckled softly at the command, but didn’t argue as he stepped outside.

The wolves yipped louder when he appeared, dancing around the deer with wagging tails and eager teeth. They had once pulled his sled through the endless snow of Fimbulwinter, but since Ragnarök had come and gone, and the deep ice receded, they had remained here as companions. Loyal. Fierce. His family, in their way.

Still, they were gluttons.

Kratos drove them back with a sharp command, then bent to drag the carcass around the cabin toward the wolf pen. The animals bounded after him, circling and whining with excitement. Inside the pen, he dropped the deer and, with practiced ease, drew his knife. The blade cut swiftly through flesh, and with a single fluid motion, he separated enough meat for two hearty meals. The rest he left for the wolves, who leapt upon the gift with unrestrained joy.

By the time he returned to the cabin, hands full with his portion, their chorus had shifted to happy growls and the messy sounds of a feast.

Inside, she had cleared the counter, laying out knives and bowls for him to work with. The fire in the hearth crackled, and the air already smelled faintly of herbs she had fetched to season their supper. She turned when he entered, smiling now with no trace of tears left in her eyes.

“Well,” she said brightly, brushing her hands together. “I suppose everyone will eat well tonight.”

Kratos set the venison on the counter with a solid thump. “Hmph. Everyone.”

His tone was gruff, but the corner of his mouth softened as she stepped closer, brushing her hand along his arm in quiet thanks.

She stepped close as he set to work, slipping her arms briefly around his middle and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. The brush of her lips left him still for half a breath, though his hands never faltered as he drew the knife through the hide with practiced ease.

“Thank you,” she murmured softly, her words brushing warm against his ear. “For always providing for us.”

His brow furrowed, but he did not turn. He only gave a low hum in his chest, the sound deep and quiet, accepting her gratitude in the way he always did when she always insisted on thanking him for what he felt was the bare minimum. He did not need words; the weight of his presence, the steady rhythm of his work, was answer enough.

Still, her smile lingered as she turned to the hearth, retrieved the iron spit that sat across the fire, and brought it back to the counter beside him. She took a bowl and prepared herbs and seasonings, crushing them together to later rub over the meat before roasting it. The smell of herbs soon filled the air, mingling with the rich scent of venison as Kratos worked behind her, the scrape of his knife on bone a steady, grounding sound.

For a while, neither spoke. It was a silence that had once been uncomfortable, but now, after years of learning each other, it was a silence full of peace. A silence that said more than words could.

She hummed softly under her breath as she skewered the ready meat beside her, her voice light again at last. The fire crackled, the wolves outside still gorged themselves happily, and within the little cabin, there was only warmth.

Kratos glanced at her then, just once, his stoic face betraying nothing to the world, yet in the dark of his eyes there was satisfaction. She had smiled, laughed, kissed him, teased him, and now she hummed while preparing their meal. Whatever shadows had touched her earlier, he had driven them back.

And that, to him, was victory enough.

Once the venison was skewered, she dusted it with the herbs she’d prepared earlier, salt, thyme, and a pinch of something sweet she’d dried from the summer past. Her hands moved tenderly, rubbing the seasonings deep into the meat until her fingertips carried the scent of it.

When she finished, Kratos took the spit from her hands with ease and lowered it into place over the fire. The iron creaked as it settled into the grooves, and the flames licked eagerly at the fresh offering.

She dragged a chair closer, the legs scraping across the wooden floor, and patted the seat with a little smile. “Sit,” she said warmly, echoing the same tone he often used with her.

He gave her a look, one brow raising ever so slightly, but did as she asked. The chair groaned beneath his weight, and he leaned forward, massive hands gripping the spit as he turned it with slow, practiced movements.

The firelight glowed across his face, softening the sharpness of his scarred features. The scent of roasting venison began to fill the cabin, rich and mouthwatering.

She settled beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed against his arm as she leaned forward on the table, her cheek resting in her hand. Her eyes softened, watching him spin the spit with the same care he gave to wielding a blade.

For a long while, the only sounds were the fire’s crackle, the hiss of fat dripping into the flames, and the steady rhythm of his hand turning the meat so it would not burn. And in that quiet, with the wolves content outside and the storm in her heart long passed, the cabin felt like the safest place in all the realms.

By the time the venison was cooked through, the cabin was filled with its rich, savory scent. Kratos lifted the spit from the fire, setting it across the board she had readied. Together they carved thick slices of meat, steam curling up into the rafters, and laid them onto wooden plates. She fetched the bread she had baked that morning, still soft within, and a small jar of preserved berries to sweeten the meal.

They sat side by side at the table, firelight flickering across the wood. For a while, they ate in companionable quiet, the kind of silence that had grown familiar and comforting between them.

It was she who broke it, as she always did. “You’ve a smudge of ash on your cheek,” she teased gently, pointing with her fork.

Kratos grunted without looking up. “It does not matter.”

She reached across the table to brush her thumb against his cheek, smudging away the ash. “There,” she said softly. “Perfect.” He hummed, gruff but satisfied, and returned to his food.

The conversation turned lighter as she told him a story about a squirrel that had nearly stolen their drying herbs, waving her hands in animated gestures, while he listened with a faint shake of his head. When she imitated the squirrel’s chattering, he gave a sound that might have been a chuckle, though he masked it with another bite of venison.

She gasped dramatically. “Was that a laugh, Kratos?”

“No.”

“It was,” she said triumphantly, her grin widening. “I heard it. Admit it!”

He only grumbled into his plate, but she laughed harder, leaning against his arm as though she had won some great battle.

And so the evening passed, soft talk, small smiles, the fire’s warmth and the comfort of full bellies. Her tears were forgotten, her heart light again. And though Kratos’s face betrayed little, he carried a quiet, fierce contentment. For he had brought her back from sorrow, and in her laughter, he had found peace of his own.

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The sun had barely crested the treeline when the steady thunk of an axe echoed through the small clearing that was their front yard. Kratos stood before the woodpile, bare-armed in the chill air, the muscles in his back and shoulders flexing with each swing. The axe bit deep into the logs, splitting them clean with the force of his strike. He bent, gathered the halves, and stacked them neatly bark side up, before setting another upon the block.

From the doorway, she leaned against the frame, wrapped in her shawl. Her eyes softened as she watched him work, steam curling faintly from her mug of morning tea.

For a moment, she only admired him in silence—the towering figure of her husband, the God of Hope, now simply a man at peace in the Wildwoods. The memory of yesterday’s tears felt far away, dulled by the safety she felt now.

He paused mid-swing when he sensed her gaze, head turning just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye.

“You should be warm,” he rumbled, lowering the axe and planting it in the block.

She smiled gently into her cup. “And you should rest once in a while. But I don’t see that happening either.”

He gave a low huff, somewhere between amusement and disapproval, and turned back to the wood. She stepped down from the doorway, crossing the dew-dusted earth until she reached him. Without a word, she set her tea aside, plucked one of the smaller pieces of wood from the pile, and set it on the block.

Kratos raised a brow at her in silent question.

She lifted her chin stubbornly. “You split. I’ll stack. Teamwork.”

His lips pressed into a line, but the faintest spark glinted in his eyes before he lifted the axe once more.

The next swing split the log neatly in two, and she scooped up the pieces with a smile, setting them on the stack. Side by side, in the crisp morning light, they worked together, quiet, steady, content.

They worked together in quiet rhythm. The pile grew, neat and orderly, each piece settled in its place with care. The air was crisp, the ground still damp with morning dew, but the labor kept them warm.

Yet Kratos’s thoughts were elsewhere.

Every swing of the axe carried with it the memory of her tear-streaked face, the tremble in her voice, the shame in her eyes as she tried to laugh it away. She had smiled for him since, teased him, kissed him, laughed at his grumbling, but it nagged at him. It was too deliberate, too much like she was burying what had cut her so deeply, pretending it had never happened, so that he would not press.

And though she thought it kindness to spare him her burdens, it troubled him more than any wound of his own ever could. He wanted, needed, to know. So that he might guard her from it. So that whatever shadow had found her yesterday could never again bring her to tears.

She bent to stack the last pieces onto the pile, brushing the wood dust from her hands with a satisfied sigh. “There. That should last us a good while.”

Kratos stood beside her, the axe resting against the block. His gaze lingered on her profile, softened in the morning light. After a long moment, he rumbled, “You are calm.”

She looked up at him, blinking, then tilted her head slightly. “Calm?”

“You said,” he continued, his voice low, steady, “that you wished to calm yourself. To have a quiet night. Before you told me what troubled you.” His eyes darkened, searching hers. “The night is past. You are calm.”

The air stilled between them, heavy with his meaning.

She stumbled over her breath, caught off guard by his words. “It was nothing,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her hands brushed invisible dust from her skirts, her eyes darting away. “Truly, Kratos. Not worth your worry.”

But as she spoke, the voices of the villagers crept back into her mind, sharper now in the silence of the morning. Their narrowed eyes. Their whispers. The way the words had clung to her, heavy as chains. She had almost forgotten, no, pushed it aside, under the weight of his embrace the night before, under the kisses that had chased her sorrow away. But now, called forth by his reminder, it all pressed back against her ribs, raw and bruising.

Her throat tightened. She tried to swallow it down. “I don’t want to think on it anymore. Please.”

Kratos set the axe aside, his broad shoulders squaring as he turned fully toward her. The morning light caught in his scar, in the hard set of his brow, but his voice when he spoke was low, gruff, almost pleading.

“You gave your word.”

She froze.

“You said you would tell me, when you were calm.” His gaze bore into hers, unyielding but not unkind. “Do not break your word with me.”

Her lips parted, but no excuse came. He stepped closer, towering, yet his eyes softened with something almost fragile.

“Let me share it,” he urged, the roughness of his tone carrying a weight more intimate than gentleness. “Whatever burden has made its home in your heart, it is mine, as well. Let me carry it.”

The plea hung heavy between them, spoken by a man who rarely begged for anything.

She sighed, shoulders slumping as though the fight had been pulled from her. “It’s nothing,” she whispered again, though even she knew how hollow it sounded. Her lips trembled into a rueful smile. “But, if you insist.”

Her eyes lifted to his, catching that steady, piercing gaze that always seemed to strip away her defenses. And though his mouth was set in its usual stern line, there was something soft in it, too. Something she teasingly called his puppy-dog eyes. He denied it, of course, but she could never resist them.

“Fine,” she breathed. “I’ll tell you. I suppose I can’t say no to that face of yours.”

Kratos said nothing, only waited, his hand settling warm and firm against hers, a silent vow that whatever words came would not break her.

She took a deep breath. “It was my first time in the village in so long. . . alone. Without you.” Her voice wavered, but his thumb pressed reassuringly against her knuckles, grounding her. “And the people, they looked at me. Not kindly. Not like they look at you.”

Her eyes dropped, shame prickling hot behind them. “After Ragnarök, you became something to them. The God of Hope. The one who gave them peace, who rebuilt what was broken with Freya and Mimir. You are worshipped now, beloved.” Her throat caught, and she forced the words through. “But me? They saw only weakness. Softness. They gossiped, whispered cruel things. That a god who saved the realms had settled for a mortal, for someone like me. That I wasn’t worthy.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

“I shouldn’t have listened. Nobody said it to my face, but I heard enough. And hurt me deeper than I expected.” She shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “I know it’s foolish, Kratos. I know I’m overreacting. But in that moment, I believed them. I felt so small, unfit to be at your side.”

Her confession spilled into the morning air, fragile and raw. She bit her lip, bracing for his silence, her heart pounding as though he might agree with the villagers’ cruel whispers.

“Come.” The single word rumbled from his chest like a command to the earth itself. Before she could respond, Kratos slid the axe into the holster across his back and turned toward the path that led down to the village.

Her brows shot up. “Kratos-!”

He did not answer. Instead, he reached for her gathering basket, the same one she used to fetch herbs or carry the few things they could not make or harvest themselves at shops. He held it out to her, his face set, his jaw tight.

Her cheeks flushed hot. “You can’t mean to-no, Kratos, you can’t just march me down there-” She hurried after him as his long strides carried him toward the edge of the clearing, the basket pressed into her hands whether she wanted it or not.

The very thought made her stomach knot. The last thing she wanted was to look like a foolish girl who had run home crying to her husband about the meanies in the marketplace. She imagined him storming into the square, demanding names, shaming them into silence with the sheer weight of his presence. The image was mortifying.

“Please,” she begged, catching his arm as they walked. “Don’t be angry. Don’t- don’t do anything rash.”

Kratos slowed only enough to glance down at her, his face carved in stoic lines. “We require a new kettle for the hearth.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “That’s all?”

His silence was answer enough.

But as they continued down the path, his broad hand brushed briefly against hers, a quiet tether, reminding her that whatever else this errand became, he would not allow her to face it alone.

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The market was alive with chatter and color when they entered, stalls crowded with goods, the air thick with the scents of bread, smoked fish fresh from the Lake of Nine, and wool dyed in bright hues. Yet as soon as Kratos’s heavy tread touched the cobblestones, the mood shifted.

Heads turned. Conversations hushed. Then, as if a tide had shifted, people began to approach.

“God of Hope,” a farmer greeted, bowing slightly as he offered a carved wooden charm.

“Your strength keeps us safe,” another murmured, holding out a bundle of furs.

Kratos shook his head at each, refusing every gift. Not with sharpness, not with disdain, but with the blunt weight of truth. “I need none of this,” he said, his voice deep and even.

When a mother stepped forward, three children huddled close at her side, she extended a warm loaf of bread, wrapped in cloth. “Please,” she said softly, her eyes bright with gratitude. “It is fresh, baked this morning.”

Kratos glanced at the loaf, then at the small faces peeking out from behind her skirts. His voice softened just enough for her to hear. “Feed your children. I require nothing from your earnings.”

The woman’s eyes brimmed with tears, her hand pressed over her heart. She bowed, and her children, giggling shyly, did the same.

And so it went, every offer turned away, every rejection somehow met with brighter smiles. Whispers of admiration rippled through the square. They saw in him what they had begun to believe in: a god not greedy, not cruel, but steadfast.

Beside him, she walked quietly, keeping pace with his stride. Kratos noted the silence, unlike her usual warmth and chatter, and the way her gaze darted away from those around them. The villagers hardly spared her a glance, their focus fixed solely on him. She shrank inward, her hands tightening around the basket, her shoulders bent against the weight of being invisible.

Kratos’s brow furrowed. He said nothing, but his eyes flicked toward her once, then again, the muscle in his jaw tightening.

This silence of hers troubled him more than any words could.

Kratos’s steps slowed before a stall lined with cast-iron pans and kettles, their blackened surfaces gleaming faintly in the sun. He stopped, towering before the modest shop, and spoke in his steady way:

“We require a replacement for our broken hearth kettle.”

The shopkeeper, a stout man with a ruddy face, nearly stumbled over himself as he hurried forward. “Of course, my lord! Of course, anything you wish.” His hands swept wide over the display. “Dutch ovens, stew pots, kettles of every size, take whichever suits you best.”

Kratos did not move. Instead, he turned, his gaze settling on her. “You will choose.”

Her eyes widened faintly, but when she looked up at him, she found no hint of jest. Only quiet certainty, as though the decision had always belonged to her.

She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the heavy handles as she inspected them one by one. She mumbled softly to herself, about the weight, the depth, the balance of each, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kratos watched. Not just with patience, but with a steady, unshaken admiration. The kind that made it clear he would stand there all day if she needed. The kind that spoke more loudly than any declaration.

The shopkeeper, eager to please, tried to interject now and then, only to falter when he noticed where Kratos’s attention lay. The God of Hope wasn’t watching the goods. He was watching her.

One by one, bystanders began to notice too. Curious glances turned, then lingered. Whispers hushed as they followed Kratos’s gaze to the woman at his side. The mortal wife they had overlooked only moments ago.

Graceful in her concentration, she finally settled on a kettle, lifting it by its handle to test the weight. She turned to the shopkeeper, her tone polite but sure. “This one. How much do you ask for it?”

The man’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He seemed dazed, as though the question itself had startled him. “For you, my lady,” He bowed deeply. “There is no cost. Please, accept it.”

The crowd stirred with approving murmurs, but Kratos’s eyes never left her. He said nothing, but the weight of his presence at her side, the calm certainty of his choice to let her voice be heard, had already reshaped the air around them.

She smiled, warm and gracious, but her heart tightened all the same. The kindness shown her now, it was only because Kratos stood beside her. Yesterday, alone, there had been none.

Still, she would not let that truth sour the moment.

Shaking her head gently, she cradled the kettle against her side. “No,” she said softly. “You must take payment. Your work is worth more than nothing, and your family must eat. Besides, Kratos is spoiled enough as is.”

The shopkeeper blinked, his mouth parting in surprise. “My lady-”

She was already digging through her coin purse, slender fingers finding the worn leather pouch at her belt. She counted quickly, then pressed several silver coins into the man’s palm, more than the kettle’s worth. “For the kettle,” she said, her smile kind but firm. “And for your kindness.”

The shopkeeper stared, wide-eyed, his hand closing slowly around the coins. His lips trembled into a grateful bow. “You honor me.”

Around them, the crowd stirred again, but this time, the whispers were not about the God of Hope. They were about her. About the mortal woman who had insisted on fairness, who had spoken not with power but with gentleness, and given more than was asked.

Kratos’s dark eyes never left her as she tucked her purse away, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across her face. His jaw tightened, but not with anger, with something else. Pride.

And though he said nothing, the weight of his silence was as loud as any declaration: This is my wife. This is the woman I chose. And she is worth more than any of you dare whisper otherwise.

Kratos lifted the heavy kettle as though it were nothing more than a feather, tucking it against his side before turning from the stall. His wife fell into step beside him, her basket swaying lightly from her arm.

“Is there anything else we require?” he asked, his voice low, practical.

She tapped her chin in thought, then smiled. “Atreus’s paints. The last time he was home, I noticed his supply was running low. If the village has any, I’d like to surprise him with more. He’ll be pleased to have them waiting.”

Kratos stilled for a heartbeat. Her words, simple as they were, warmed his chest like a fire catching in dry wood. His son, her dearest friend save for himself, he thought, was never far from his mind, but hearing her speak with such kindness toward the boy stirred something deep in him.

A hum rose from his chest, low and approving. He nodded once. “Good.”

But before they moved on, he paused. His hand shifted from the kettle to her arm, steady and sure, guiding her gently to face him. Without a word, he bent, lowering his broad frame until his lips brushed hers in a deliberate kiss.

It was not hurried, nor hidden in the safety of their cabin walls. It was unshaken, deliberate, and undeniable.

Gasps rippled softly through the onlookers. For Kratos, who preferred privacy above all things, to show such affection here, openly, was no small gesture.

Half the reason was as plain as the fire in his chest: he adored her. Always.

The other half was quieter, sharpened with intent. A modest act of dominance. A reminder to the watching eyes that this woman was his choice. That their whispered doubts had no ground, their scorn no weight. That the God of Hope cherished her, without shame, without hesitation.

When he pulled back, her smile was radiant, her cheeks warmed pink. She blinked up at him with stars in her eyes, and for all the crowd around them, she looked as though she stood alone with him in the world.

Kratos straightened, the kettle still cradled in one arm as though it were nothing, and turned once more to the market path.

“Come,” he rumbled, as though nothing had happened. “We will find the paints.”

But inside, his heart burned with quiet triumph. Pride swelled in Kratos’s chest, unbidden and undeniable, as he looked upon her now. That radiant light in her eyes, the shine that had first undone him, that still left him unsteady even now, had returned.

He had been uncomfortable, yes. To kiss her before strangers, to bare his tenderness where others could see, such things were not for him. Not anymore. But the sight of her crystal-clear gaze, the joy brimming in her expression, was reward enough. More than enough.

The memory of her red, glossy eyes, her cheeks wet with tears, tried to surface. The way she had trembled in his arms only the night before, weighed down by whispers and shadows. The image stung, sharp and unwelcome. But it paled against the face before him now, her smile warm, her eyes bright as sunlight on fresh snow.

The contrast was stark. Yesterday’s sorrow, today’s glow. And it warmed him more deeply than the fire of battle, more fiercely than any victory in war.

This laughter, her peace, her light, was the triumph he held dearest.

He shifted the kettle in his arm, towering and impassive once more to any onlooker. But within, his heart burned quietly with something greater than pride.

It burned with love.

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✿Kermitt'sMasterlist✿ 

[healmydesires]

Fever

❥ pairing: wolf hybrid!sylus qin x cat/kitten hybrid!fem!reader

❥ summary: For years, you’d learned to live with loving someone you could never have. You convinced yourself that friendship was enough, that watching from the sidelines didn’t hurt as much as it did. You treasured every smile, every fleeting touch, even as they slowly broke your heart. You told yourself you weren’t enough—would never be enough—for someone like him. Or so you believed. Then one day, everything changed.

❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)

❥ wordcount: 31k+ (lol I am not normal about sylus)

❥ warnings/tags: hybrid!au, best friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining, miscommunication kinda in terms of assumed unrequited love, longing/yearning, jealous!reader, kinda shy!reader, reader is described as shorter than sylus, emotional!reader, very small / short scene where reader got a bit harassed (not by sylus, sylus comes and steps in and protects reader. It’s a very small and short scene but if it makes you uncomfortable pls skip), synced ruts/heats. mating. inexperienced/virgin!reader, loss of virginity, unrealistic first time, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, ok… just in overall bye, sylus is soft for reader, sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, major size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, oral fixation. some daddy kink and the use of alpha. huge breeding kink aaaaa sorry. I wrote this while ovulating. they’re both FREAKS. scent kink? knotting. sylus is worshipping his sweet girl ok! doggy style / prone bone 😈 and missionary position. lots of pet names (mostly kitty/kitten, little kitten). lowkey pillow princess vibes. this is high key sweet and soft and then turns filthy (and then turns soft again). reader has hair, no further description though. this is not beta read sorry!

EDIT: also I know cats are not seen as prey animals because they are predators themselves but compared to a wolf I felt like that was a big contrast. like cat and dog dynamic. at the end of the day, the state of “predator-prey” is fluctuant and depends on a lot of stuff, as even the biggest predators can become prey. hense why I wrote what I wrote.

❥ a/n: I’ve always always wanted to write a hybrid au and never came around to do it. I wrote something hybrid related YEARS ago but it was sitting in my wips collecting dust. It had the same plot but it was written totally differently and it was not good. so now that I’ve improved my writing over the years I felt like giving this story a shot again but this time with my muse and my everything : sylus. I am so happy and excited to finally release this fic to the world and I hope you enjoy reading this fanfic as much as I loved writing it <3 happy reading! 🩷

this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3

AO3 • masterlist

Being roommates with your best friend had its perks. You were together almost all the time, sharing both the big and small moments of life in ways that felt natural, inevitable even. You’d lend each other a hand with mundane tasks, or offer guidance when one of you was feeling lost or stuck. Your tall best friend effortlessly reached the top shelves you could only dream of touching—a constant reminder of how much bigger wolf hybrids were compared to cat hybrids like you—and you both spent countless nights dissolved in laughter during movie marathons, shoulders pressed together on the couch, your tail occasionally draping over his leg in those comfortable moments when you forgot to be self-conscious. Sharing responsibilities became something more than just practical—splitting chores like cooking and laundry felt easy and natural, domestic in a way that made your heart ache with how right it felt. There was a profound comfort in knowing your best friend was always dependable, always there, ready to support you whenever you needed it. And whenever you were desperate for warmth, for contact, for reassurance, Sylus was probably already reaching for you, attuned to your needs in that uncanny way wolf hybrids had with those they cared about, ready to envelop you in his arms—that embrace that felt like home and made your ears fold back in contentment.

But living with him also had its disadvantages.

Especially considering that Sylus Qin, your best friend and the man you were hopelessly in love with, was quite the menace.

Sylus had always possessed this striking, almost unfair handsomeness that effortlessly made people swoon wherever he went. It genuinely wasn’t fair how beautiful he was—all sharp features and lazy confidence, those ruby eyes that seemed to see right through you, silver-white hair that caught the light, and that damnable smirk that made your stomach flip every single time. His wolf ears, pale and perfectly shaped, were expressive in ways that made him even more attractive, and his tail—god, his tail—had a way of swaying that drew eyes wherever he went. He had always been lucky when it came to finding partners—or rather, when it came to finding people to warm his bed. Wolf hybrids were already considered among the most desirable hybrid types, powerful and protective, and Sylus wielded that advantage with devastating effectiveness. He’d often bring those one-night stands back to your shared apartment—other wolves, foxes, the occasional panther, all gorgeous predator hybrids who matched his energy—and you’d lie awake in your room, pillow pressed over your ears, trying desperately to block out the sounds with your sensitive feline hearing. It never worked. You’d hear everything—the sounds that reminded you that someone else was touching him, that someone else got to know what his skin felt like, what sounds he made when—

You’d learned to pretend it didn’t bother you. Learned to keep your ears upright and your tail still the next morning when some stranger emerged from his bedroom, disheveled and satisfied, often sporting marks on their neck that made your claws itch to extend.

Sylus had never been the type to stick with one person, always preferring casual flings over long-term relationships. Or so you’d told yourself, because believing he was incapable of commitment hurt less than wondering if he simply didn’t want commitment with you. Maybe it was a wolf thing—they were known for being either fiercely monogamous or completely untethered. Sylus seemed to have chosen the latter.

You, on the other hand, had always craved something real, something lasting. Cat hybrids were naturally selective, notoriously picky about who they let into their space and their hearts, and you were no exception. You dreamed of finding your true love—someone to share adventures with, to laugh with until your sides hurt, someone to dive into deep, meaningful conversations with at three in the morning. You loved the idea of being with someone who let you be your complete, unfiltered self, where you could spend hours talking about everything and nothing—discussing your favorite TV shows one minute, then passionately criticizing capitalism and dissecting the broken state of the world the next. You were a romantic at heart, longing for affection in all its forms: sweet kisses and being held close, but also the chance to be the one doing the holding, to make someone feel cherished and safe and loved, just as much as you wanted to feel those things in return. You wanted what cat hybrids were meant to have—that one person they chose completely, that bond that was supposed to be unshakeable.

Unfortunately, you had never had the chance to experience anything like that.

It wasn’t as though opportunities hadn’t presented themselves. You’ve had chances to explore connections, potential relationships with people who’d expressed interest—a few cat hybrids, a sweet rabbit hybrid from your literature class, even a fox hybrid who’d been persistent in their pursuit. But you’d never been able to make yourself care enough to try, never felt that spark of genuine interest in creating something meaningful with a stranger. Your instincts, usually so good at telling you who was safe and who wasn’t, remained stubbornly silent with everyone except—

How could you even consider anyone else when you’d already given your heart away years ago?

But the devastating truth was that Sylus had stopped being just your best friend years ago—if he’d ever been just that at all. You had been in love with him for god knows how long, and that love had wrapped itself around your heart so completely that no one else even stood a chance. Your cat hybrid instincts had chosen him, decided he was yours, even though he’d never chosen you back. It went against everything that made sense—prey didn’t fall for predator, cat hybrids didn’t bond with wolf hybrids, you were supposed to be naturally wary of him. But your heart and your instincts had conspired against logic.

You still remembered the day you both became friends, though you had never quite understood why he’d chosen you, given how different you were from each other. You were blunt, sometimes too honest for your own good, while Sylus, though perfectly capable of being direct, tended to move through the world with more calculated grace, choosing his words carefully like the strategic predator he was. He was passionate, tender in ways that made your chest ache, and devastatingly intelligent. Sylus was, most of the time, a confident and mysterious man who seemed to know exactly who he was and what he wanted. You, on the other hand, weren’t necessarily insecure, but you wouldn’t exactly call yourself confident either—you existed somewhere in the uncertain middle, always questioning, always wondering. Typical cat hybrid behavior, some would say, but it felt more personal than that. You were deeply in tune with your emotions, feeling everything perhaps too intensely, but translating those feelings into words felt like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. Your tail and ears gave you away constantly, betraying every feeling you tried to hide. Sylus, though, had always been straightforward with his emotions, expressing himself with an ease you both envied and admired, his wolf hybrid directness something you’d always found both intimidating and attractive. You were an overthinker, your mind always spinning with spiraling thoughts and worst-case scenarios, and he would often step in to quiet the chaos, grounding you with that steady, reassuring presence of his whenever your thoughts threatened to consume you. He had a way of placing his hand on your head, right between your ears, that never failed to calm you down—a gesture that should have felt patronizing but instead felt safe.

You could say that opposites attract, though that phrase felt too simple for what you two had. Wolf and cat. It should have never worked.

Over time, your friendship deepened into something profound, something that felt necessary for survival. So when he asked one day if you’d like to move in with him—into one of his new penthouses, spacious and modern and so very him—you’d barely hesitated. He’d told you he craved a bit more peace in his life and genuinely enjoyed your company, said it so casually like he wasn’t offering you everything you’d ever wanted. It seemed like a good idea, you’d thought. A practical one, even. Your parents had warned you that living with a wolf hybrid might trigger your prey instincts, might make you anxious, but you’d dismissed their concerns.

What a beautiful mistake that had been.

You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment you fell in love with your roommate, and that uncertainty haunted you. All you knew was that one day, you were suddenly drowning in an emotion so intense, so consuming, it was unlike anything you’d ever felt before. It hit you all at once—or at least, that’s when you finally stopped being able to deny it. Before Sylus, you’d never really had a serious crush, never experienced feelings this powerful, this devastating, for anyone. Cat hybrids were supposed to know, supposed to feel that instinctive pull toward their person, but you’d never felt it with anyone. You often told yourself it must have started shortly after you moved in with him, that living in such close quarters had simply made you confused, made you mistake intimacy for something more. But deep down, in that honest part of yourself you tried so hard to ignore, you knew that wasn’t the truth. This feeling had been quietly growing from the very first moment you met him, taking root in your heart like something inevitable, slowly building until it became impossible to ignore, impossible to uproot. Your instincts had chosen him that day in the library, and cat hybrids didn’t un-choose. That was the curse of it.

It was funny, you thought during those late nights when sleep wouldn’t come and you could hear his steady breathing from his room with your too-sharp hearing, how life had a way of bringing you things—and people—you never realized you needed. People like Sylus, who became so essential to your existence that you couldn’t help but wonder how you had ever lived without them. People like Sylus Qin, who had become both your salvation and your undoing, your safe haven and your deepest ache—the person who could soothe your soul and set it ablaze in the same breath, while remaining everything you needed and everything you couldn’t have.

The wolf who’d become your home, even when your instincts whispered that wolves and cats were never meant to mix like this.

✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧

You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you as you absently groomed your tail—a self-soothing habit you’d never quite broken, especially when your thoughts were spinning out of control.

It had been three days since the last one-night stand. Three days of relative peace, though you hated that you were counting.

Your fingers worked through the fur of your tail methodically, smoothing down the same spot over and over. It was a distinctly feline habit, one that most cat hybrids developed as a comfort mechanism. The repetitive motion usually helped quiet your racing thoughts, but tonight it wasn’t working. Nothing worked when it came to Sylus.

The soft pad of footsteps made your ears swivel backward before you could stop them—wolf hybrids moved with an almost predatory silence that had unnerved you once, long ago. Now it was just painfully familiar.

“You’re going to wear a bald spot into your tail if you keep that up,” Sylus’s voice came from behind the couch, warm with amusement.

You startled slightly, your hands stilling as heat crept up your neck. Of course he’d noticed. He noticed everything about you, always had. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though your flattened ears probably betrayed the lie.

The couch dipped as he settled beside you—not too close, never too close, but near enough that his scent washed over you. Pine and something darker, earthier, distinctly wolf. It had terrified you once. Now it felt like home, and that was so much worse.

[Flashback - Seven Years Ago]

The university library had been packed with students cramming for midterms, but you’d managed to find a corner table tucked away near the back. As a cat hybrid, you’d always preferred small, enclosed spaces—they felt safer, more secure. Especially in a school where predator hybrids made up a significant portion of the student body.

You’d been so focused on your literary theory textbook, trying to make sense of post-structuralism for your midterm, that you hadn’t noticed the group approaching until a shadow fell across your table.

“This seat taken, kitten?”

Your ears had flattened instinctively against your head as you looked up at the lion hybrid looming over you, his two friends—a tiger and another lion—flanking him with matching smirks. Predator hybrids. Of course.

“I—I’m studying,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. Your tail had curled tight around your leg beneath the table, a defensive posture you couldn’t control.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” the tiger hybrid purred, leaning against your table. “We just want to get to know you better. You’re in our sociology class, right? Cute little thing sitting in the back, always so quiet.”

Your heart had hammered against your ribs. You’d dealt with this kind of attention before—more vulnerable hybrids often did, especially from the more “desirable” predator types who thought their status meant they could do whatever they wanted. Your instincts screamed at you to run, but you were cornered, trapped between the table and the wall.

“She said she’s studying.”

The voice had come from behind the group, deep and carrying an edge that made your fur stand on end. The three predator hybrids had turned, and you’d finally seen him—a wolf hybrid with striking silver-white hair and the most intense ruby-red eyes you’d ever seen. His pale skin almost seemed to glow under the library’s fluorescent lights, making him look almost otherworldly. He was tall, broader than the others, and there was something in his posture that screamed danger in a way that made even the lion hybrids take a step back.

Wolf hybrids were rare, especially in universities. They were known for being territorial, protective, and powerful. Most ended up in military or security positions, not sitting in sociology lectures.

“We were just talking to her, wolf,” the lion had said, though his cocky tone had wavered slightly. “No need to get territorial.”

“Funny,” Sylus had replied, his ruby eyes fixed on them with an intensity that was unmistakably predatory. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re making her uncomfortable. And I don’t tolerate that.”

The tension had been thick enough to cut. Your ears had been flat against your head, your whole body tense as you’d watched the standoff. The wolf hybrid’s scent had filled the air—assertive, dominant, unmistakably alpha. It should have terrified you more than the others had.

Instead, some instinct you didn’t understand told you that you were safe.

The lion hybrid had glanced at you, then back at Sylus, and something in his expression had shifted. “Whatever, man. She’s not worth the trouble anyway.” He’d jerked his head at his friends, and they’d left, though not without shooting dark looks over their shoulders.

You’d sat frozen, staring at this stranger who’d just defended you without even knowing your name. Your heart was still racing, but for an entirely different reason now.

Sylus had turned to you then, and his expression had softened in a way that seemed almost impossible given the dominance he’d just displayed. Those ruby eyes, which had been so sharp and threatening moments before, now looked at you with something gentler. “You okay?”

You’d nodded mutely, not trusting your voice. Up close, he was even more striking—all sharp features and powerful presence, his silver hair catching the light as his wolf ears, pale and alert atop his head, focused entirely on you. You’d noticed his tail hanging relaxed behind him despite the confrontation that had just occurred.

“I’m Sylus,” he’d said, pulling out the chair across from you. “Mind if I sit? I promise I’m better company than those three.”

You should have been terrified. Every instinct should have been screaming at you to run from the predator sitting across from you. But instead, you’d found yourself nodding, your ears slowly lifting from their flattened position.

“I’m…” you started, your voice shaky. You’d given him your name, and when he’d smiled—really smiled, not that predatory smirk the others had worn—something in your chest had felt warm for the first time since the encounter started.

“Pretty name for a pretty kitten,” he’d said, and then, as if sensing your nervousness, he’d gestured to your textbook. “Literary theory? That looks like torture.” He’d tilted his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “I’m in engineering, but we had to take that intro to humanities course last semester. Nearly killed me.”

You’d managed a small, surprised laugh despite your still-racing heart. “It’s… a lot,” you’d admitted quietly.

“Tell you what,” he’d said, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence that should have intimidated you but somehow didn’t. “I’ve got some time before my next class. You look like you could use the company, and I make a pretty decent study partner. Even if I don’t know the first thing about post-structuralism or whatever that is.”

And just like that, Sylus Qin had entered your life—unexpected, protective, and impossibly kind. What had started as a chance encounter in a crowded library would become the most important friendship you’d ever have. He’d stayed with you that entire afternoon, helping you study despite knowing nothing about literary theory, making you laugh when moments before you’d been on the verge of tears.

[Present Day]

“You’re thinking too loud,” Sylus said, pulling you from the memory. His hand reached out slowly—always slowly with you, like you were something fragile that might bolt—and gently tugged your tail from your grip. “Seriously, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Your breath caught as his fingers carefully smoothed down the fur you’d been obsessively grooming, his touch gentle in a way that contradicted everything his hybrid type was supposed to be. Wolf hybrids weren’t known for gentleness. They were dominant, possessive and territorial.

But Sylus had always been gentle with you.

“Sorry,” you murmured, very aware of how close he was, how his scent surrounded you. “Just… thinking.”

“About?” His hand lingered perhaps a moment too long on your tail before he pulled away, and you tried not to mourn the loss of contact.

About you, you thought. Always about you.

“Nothing important,” you lied, tucking your tail closer to your body and away from temptation—both his and yours. Your ears swiveled toward him on their own accord, betraying your attention even as you tried to appear casual.

Sylus hummed, a low sound in his chest that you felt more than heard. Wolf hybrids did that—made sounds that resonated, that were meant to soothe pack members. You’d learned over the years to recognize when he did it, usually when he sensed you were anxious or upset.

He was doing it now, probably without even realizing it.

“You know,” he said after a moment, leaning back against the couch, “sometimes I think about that day in the library. When we first met.”

Your heart stuttered. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His eyes were distant, reminiscent. “You looked so scared. These tiny flattened ears, tail wrapped so tight around your leg. Those assholes cornering you like you were just some toy for them to play with.” His jaw clenched, and you saw his ears tilt back slightly—a sign of irritation. “I wanted to rip them apart.”

You’d never heard him admit that before. “You didn’t, though.”

“No,” he agreed, his eyes finding yours. “Because you were already terrified enough without me going full wolf on them. And because…” He paused, something flickering across his expression. “Because the last thing I wanted was for you to be afraid of me too.”

Your chest tightened. “I was never afraid of you.”

That was a lie. You had been, at first. He was a wolf hybrid, a predator, and you were a cat hybrid. Every instinct had told you to run.

But you hadn’t. And somewhere between that first day in the library and now, your fear had transformed into something so much more dangerous.

Sylus’s expression softened, a small smile playing at his lips. “You were absolutely terrified, kitten. Don’t even try to deny it.” He reached over and gently flicked one of your ears—a familiar, teasing gesture. “These things give you away every time.”

You wanted to argue, to protest, but he was right. Your ears had always betrayed you, constantly swiveling and flattening and perking up with every emotion you tried to hide. It was a cat hybrid thing, being so expressive without meaning to be.

“You still notice everything,” you muttered, feeling heat creep into your cheeks.

“Only when it comes to you,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it.

Your heart nearly stopped. You turned to look at him fully, searching his face for meaning, but he was already standing, stretching in a way that made his shirt ride up slightly. Your eyes caught on his tail swaying behind him before you forced yourself to look away.

“I’m thinking of ordering takeout,” he said, his tone casual again, as if he hadn’t just said something that made your entire world tilt. “Thai sounds good?”

You managed a nod, not trusting your voice.

As he walked toward the kitchen to grab his phone, you caught yourself watching him—the confident way he moved, the silver-white of his hair catching the light, so different from your own cautious, light-footed steps. Wolf hybrid and cat hybrid. Predator and prey.

Seven years ago, he’d saved you from predators who’d wanted to harass you.

Now, you were living with a predator who didn’t even realize he’d already caught you.

Your tail curled around your waist protectively as you forced yourself to look away, back at your phone, at anything other than Sylus Qin and the impossible situation your heart had created.

Some prey, you thought bitterly, were foolish enough to walk straight into the wolf’s den.

You just wished you knew if he’d ever want to keep you there.

✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧

A few months into your roommate arrangement, you still couldn’t get used to Sylus constantly bringing one-night stands to your shared apartment. It was pure torment—made worse by your heightened feline senses that picked up on everything you desperately wished you could ignore.

As you ate cereal at the kitchen island, your ears flicked toward the sound of Sylus’s bedroom door opening. One of his many conquests—a sleek panther hybrid—quietly slipped out, and you focused intently on your bowl, willing your tail not to lash in irritation. You couldn’t help but watch from the corner of your eye as Sylus walked them to the door, their face adorned with that satisfied, sly smile as they batted their eyelashes at him. Your ears flattened slightly against your head as you watched their fingers play with the collar of his shirt, lingering there while he made no move to pull away, that damn smirk on his face. A knot of anger twisted in your belly. You’d never felt such intense rage before—it made your claws itch to extend, a very catlike aggressive response. He leaned into their touch as they gave him a casual goodbye kiss, and you had to grip your spoon tighter to keep your composure.

You hated experiencing feelings like these. It was a gross emotion, a heavy sensation that felt thick and tar-like, clinging to your chest and making you ache with its oppressive weight. Your tail curled tight around the base of the stool, another tell you couldn’t control.

Anxiety? Sure, you were often more anxious than most hybrids, but that wasn’t the feeling you had at this moment. Maybe it was jealousy? You disliked how that emotion fit so easily on your tongue, leaving a bitter taste.

Each time you witnessed these scenes unfold—the touching, the lingering looks, the casual intimacy—jealousy and frustration would crash over you in waves. It was worse when your sensitive hearing picked up on things you wished you could unhear. Your ears would fold back automatically, and you’d bury your head under your pillow, but it never quite blocked out the sounds from his room. Those nights, you’d catch his scent mixed with someone else’s the next morning, and it made your stomach turn. Wolf hybrids were naturally territorial, their scent marking everything, and knowing he was sharing that with others felt like claws raking across your heart.

As Sylus reentered the apartment and closed the door behind him, you couldn’t stop the bitter words from escaping, your ears still slightly flattened. “So, what number are we up to now?”

He paused, his red eyes finding yours, and you watched his wolf ears swivel toward you with interest before he chuckled and shook his head with that insufferable smirk. “Not sure. Lost count.” He shrugged with casual ease, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on the kitchen island, and took a bite.

“What was their name?” you asked, staring daggers at your bowl of cereal, your tail now twitching with barely suppressed agitation.

Another shrug, his tail swaying lazily behind him—relaxed, unbothered, so completely unaffected. “I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care,” he replied nonchalantly before walking away.

You couldn’t understand how he could be so cavalier about it all. Your ears tracked his movement even as you kept your eyes down, hating how attuned you were to his every move.

But it wasn’t just jealousy poisoning your system—it was the longing, the desperate ache for any kind of affection or love from Sylus that went beyond friendship. You were grateful to be his best friend, truly, and you knew it was foolish to hope for more, to wish he’d look at you the way he looked at… well, anyone else he brought home. But you couldn’t help yourself. Deep down, you feared you’d always feel this lonely, this isolated in your feelings. As a cat hybrid, you were already naturally more selective about who you let close, but with Sylus, it was different. You could never fall for anyone but him—your instincts had decided that long ago, whether you wanted them to or not. He was everything you craved and needed in life, and that awareness was its own special torture.

You felt foolish, your ears burning with constant embarrassment even when you were alone. More than anything, you felt hurt, knowing you were the only one to blame. It were your own feelings, your own stupid heart that had caused all this pain.

The thought of him eventually falling in love with someone else—really falling, not just these meaningless nights—made your stomach drop like a stone. You could picture it too easily: some gorgeous wolf hybrid, or maybe an elegant fox, someone who matched his predator energy, someone who made sense by his side. Not a skittish cat hybrid who still sometimes had the urge to run when he moved too quickly. But you forced yourself to push that devastation down, to lock it away with all the other feelings you couldn’t afford to examine. It didn’t matter what you wanted. Sylus was free to date whoever he wanted, to love whoever he wanted. He was your best friend, and that’s all he’d ever be.

One day, you’d have to make peace with the fact that Sylus would always be just your best friend, nothing more.

You just desperately hoped that one day, your tail would stop drooping at the thought, that your ears would stop flattening in distress. That one day, loving him wouldn’t make you feel like you were going against every prey instinct you had—because loving a wolf had never been safe, and your heart had done it anyway.

✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧

You were cuddled up on the couch, staring blankly at your phone screen without really seeing it. Your ears kept swiveling toward the hallway, tracking Sylus’s movements in his room even though you were trying—and failing—to focus on anything else. The soft music playing from your phone did little to calm your frayed nerves.

Your tail was wrapped tight around your waist, a self-protective posture you couldn’t seem to break out of. It had been like this all day—coiled and tense, betraying the anxiety that had been eating at you since this morning. You’d barely been able to focus on your writing assignment, had given up on reading after rereading the same page five times without absorbing a single word.

The soft pad of footsteps made your ears swivel backward before you could stop them—wolf hybrids moved with an almost predatory silence that had unnerved you once, long ago. Now it was just painfully familiar, and worse, it made your heart race for entirely different reasons.

“You’re wound tighter than a spring,” Sylus’s voice came from behind the couch, warm with amusement and something softer you didn’t dare name. “I can practically feel the anxiety radiating off you from here.”

You startled slightly, your tail constricting even tighter around your waist as heat crept up your neck. Of course he’d noticed. He noticed everything about you, always had. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though your flattened ears and the visible tension in your shoulders probably betrayed the lie. They always did.

The couch dipped as he settled beside you—close, closer than usual, near enough that his scent washed over you in a wave that made your breath catch. Pine and something darker, earthier, distinctly wolf and distinctly Sylus. It had terrified you once. Now it felt like home, and that was so much worse. That was dangerous.

You kept your eyes on your phone, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from where his thigh was almost touching yours, where his arm rested along the back of the couch. Not quite touching you, never quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him, close enough that if you shifted even slightly, you’d be pressed against his side.

You wanted to. God, you wanted to so badly it physically hurt.

“You’ve been like this all day,” he observed, his voice dropping to that low, gentle tone he used when it was just the two of you. When he thought you needed comfort. “What’s going on in that head of yours, kitten?”

The petname made your ears twitch traitorously, flicking up for just a moment before flattening again, and you saw his eyes track the movement. Of course he noticed. He always noticed.

Everything, you wanted to say. You. Always you. The way you smell like safety and heartbreak. The way I can’t stop wanting things I’ll never have.

Instead, you managed a small shrug, still refusing to look at him because you knew—you knew—that if you met those ruby eyes right now, he’d see everything. Your fingers tightened around your phone. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Liar.” But there was no heat in it, just a tenderness that made your chest constrict. “Look at you. Your tail’s been wrapped around yourself like armor since this morning, and your ears haven’t been up once. That’s not tired. That’s stressed.”

“I’m not—” you started, but your voice came out shaky, unconvincing even to your own ears.

“Hey.” His hand lifted—slowly, always so slowly with you, like you were something precious that might bolt—and his fingers brushed against one of your flattened ears with devastating gentleness. “Talk to me. Please?”

Your breath stuttered. You should pull away. You should make some excuse and retreat to your room where it was safe, where you couldn’t do something stupid like lean into his touch like the touch-starved cat hybrid you were.

But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

His fingers traced the edge of your ear with a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine, gently coaxing it upward, and you watched his eyes darken as your ear instinctively responded to his touch, slowly lifting from its flattened position. Betrayed by your own body, as always.

“There,” he murmured, that rumbling quality entering his voice—the one that wolf hybrids used to soothe, to comfort. “That’s better. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

You can’t help with this, you thought desperately. You’re the problem. You’re the reason I’m anxious and aching and so desperately in love I can barely breathe.

But what came out was: “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He cut you off gently, and his hand moved from your ear to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed across your cheek, and you wondered if he could feel how hot your skin had become, could hear how your heart was racing. With his wolf hearing, he probably could. “I always want to. You know that, right?”

Did you? Did you know that? Or was this just what he did—taking care of people, being protective, his wolf instincts making him watch out for those he considered pack? It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.

“Sylus…” you breathed, and you heard how it came out—too soft, too wanting, too much.

Something flickered across his expression, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. His eyes dropped to your lips for just a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again, and you felt your tail tighten even more around your waist, your claws flexing nervously against your phone case.

“You do this thing,” he said quietly, his thumb still tracing idle patterns on your cheek that were making it very hard to think, “where you curl up into yourself when something’s bothering you. Make yourself small. And I hate it.”

“I don’t—” you started to protest, but he shook his head.

“You do. Your tail wraps around you like a shield, your ears go flat, and you won’t look at anyone. Won’t ask for help even when you need it.” His other hand reached down, gently taking your phone from your death grip and setting it aside. Then his fingers found your tail where it was wrapped protectively around your waist. “And this… kitten, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep coiling this tight.”

His touch on your tail made you gasp softly—tails were sensitive, personal, and the way his fingers carefully worked to loosen the tension there felt intimate in a way that made your heart pound. This wasn’t casual touching. This was—

“Let me help you relax,” he murmured, and there was something in his voice that made your skin feel too warm. “Please? I can’t… I can’t just sit here and watch you tie yourself in knots.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Because his hand was still on your jaw, tilting your face toward his, and his other hand was gently coaxing your tail to unwind, and he was so close you could count his eyelashes, could see the exact moment his pupils dilated slightly as he looked at you.

The air between you felt charged, heavy with something unspoken. Your ears were slowly perking up now despite your best efforts, focused entirely on him, and you saw his gaze flick to them, a small smile tugging at his lips, then back to your eyes, then—briefly, so briefly—to your lips again.

“Better,” he said softly as your tail finally loosened, though it immediately tried to curl around his wrist instead—another betrayal by your traitorous body. “See? You don’t always have to hold everything in by yourself.”

“You’re staring,” you whispered, because you had to say something, had to break this tension before you did something catastrophic like close the distance between you and press your lips to his.

“So are you.” His thumb traced your cheekbone, and his voice had gone rough around the edges. “Your eyes are doing that thing.”

“What thing?” Your own voice was barely audible, and your fingers had somehow found their way to his shirt, gripping the fabric without your permission.

“That thing where they go all soft and wide and I can’t…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening like he was stopping himself from saying something. His hand tightened around your tail, making you shiver.

“Can’t what?” You shouldn’t push. You should let this go. But you’d been so starved for him, for any hint that maybe he felt even a fraction of what you felt, and you were so tired of pretending. Your claws had extended slightly, pricking through his shirt, and you couldn’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed.

For a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked at you, like he was seeing something he’d never allowed himself to see before. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in the hair there, just below your ears, and the touch made you shiver visibly.

“Can’t stop thinking about how much I—” He stopped himself, closing his eyes briefly, his ears flicking back in what looked like frustration—with himself or the situation, you couldn’t tell. When he opened them again, there was something raw there, something vulnerable that you’d never seen before. “You have no idea, do you?”

“No idea about what?” Your heart was going to beat out of your chest, and you knew he could hear it, could probably smell the spike of adrenaline and hope and fear coursing through you. This felt important, monumental, like standing on the edge of something that would either save you or destroy you completely.

His thumb brushed the sensitive spot just behind your ear, making you melt against him unconsciously, and his expression softened into something that looked almost pained. “How hard it is to—”

But then his phone buzzed on the coffee table, shattering the moment like glass. You both jerked slightly, and his hands fell away from you as he grabbed the phone with what looked like frustration, his tail lashing once behind him—a rare show of his own agitation.

He glanced at the screen, and something shuttered in his expression. “Sorry, I need to—” He stood abruptly, running a hand through his silver hair, his wolf ears flicking back in what you’d learned to recognize as irritation. “Work thing.”

You watched him walk toward his room, your tail immediately coiling back around your waist protectively, your whole body aching with the loss of his warmth. Your ears had flattened again, and you felt the anxiety come rushing back twice as strong, your claws still extended and digging into your palms now that they had nothing else to hold onto.

He paused in the doorway to his room, looking back at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read—something conflicted, almost tortured. “Get some rest, kitten. And stop…” He gestured vaguely at you, at your defensive posture. “Stop making yourself so small. You don’t have to do that. Not with me. Never with me.”

Then he was gone, door closing softly behind him, leaving you alone on the couch with your racing heart and the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin.

You buried your face in your hands, ears flat against your head, tail so tight around your waist it was almost painful.

“You have no idea, do you?”

What had he meant? What had he been about to say?

And why did it feel like you’d just missed something crucial, something that might have changed everything?

Your claws dug into your scalp slightly as you tried to calm your breathing, tried to slow your racing heart. Part of you wondered if he was grateful for the interruption. If he’d realized how close he’d come to… to what? Saying something he’d regret? Doing something that would ruin your friendship?

You pulled a blanket over yourself, knowing you wouldn’t sleep, knowing you’d spend the rest of the night replaying every second of that interaction, analyzing every word, every look, every touch. Your tail remained coiled tight, your body still thrumming with unspent anxiety and longing.

“You have no idea, do you?”

The worst part was, you didn’t. You had no idea what he’d been about to say, and the not-knowing was its own special kind of torture.

Just another night of loving Sylus Qin and wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was a chance he could love you back.

Your ears perked slightly at the sound of his door opening again, footsteps padding back toward the living room. You kept your eyes closed, pretending to be drowsy, but your treacherous ears swiveled toward him automatically, and you felt your tail tighten even more.

You felt him drape another blanket over you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. His hand lingered for just a moment on your head, right between your ears—that gesture that never failed to make you feel safe—and you felt your ears relax slightly under his touch, your tail loosening just a fraction.

“Sleep well, kitten,” he murmured, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. His fingers stroked once, twice between your ears, and you felt some of the anxiety finally start to drain from your body. And then, even softer, like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all: “God, you’re killing me.”

Then his footsteps retreated, his door clicked shut again, and you were left alone with your pounding heart and the devastating realization that maybe—maybe—you weren’t the only one suffering.

But that couldn’t be right.

Could it?

✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧

You’d been avoiding Sylus.

Not obviously—you weren’t that transparent. But ever since that night on the couch, since his hand on your face and those words ‘you have no idea’ and the way he’d looked at you like you were something precious, you’d been… careful. Kept conversations light. Made excuses to stay in your room. Tried desperately not to think about what had almost happened, what he’d almost said.

It was easier than facing the possibility that you’d imagined the whole thing, that you’d read too much into a moment of kindness from your best friend.

So when you’d woken up yesterday with a scratchy throat and a headache, you’d almost been grateful. A legitimate reason to stay in your room, to avoid those knowing ruby eyes that seemed to see right through you.

By this morning, though, “a little under the weather” had evolved into “definitely sick.” Your head pounded, your body ached, and every time you moved, the room spun unpleasantly. Your cat ears felt hot and heavy against your head, and your tail was too tired to do anything but lie limply beside you.

You’d texted Sylus that you weren’t feeling well, asked him not to worry, and then buried yourself under your blankets to sleep it off.

That had been your first mistake.

The sound of your bedroom door opening made your ears twitch weakly.

“Kitten.” Sylus’s voice was soft but firm, and you heard him cross the room to your bed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were this sick?”

“’M fine,” you mumbled into your pillow, not bothering to open your eyes. “Just need sleep.”

“You’re burning up.” The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, and even through your fever, you registered how cool his skin felt. How good it felt. “Jesus. How long have you been like this?”

“Not that long.” You tried to pull away from his touch, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. “I said I’m fine. Don’t need… hovering.”

“Tough.” The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, and you finally cracked your eyes open to find him looking down at you with concern etched across his features. His wolf ears were alert and focused entirely on you, and there was something in his expression that made your feverish heart skip. “I’m hovering. Deal with it.”

You wanted to argue, but another wave of dizziness hit and you just closed your eyes again with a small whimper.

“That’s what I thought.” His fingers brushed gently against your overheated cheek, and you heard him sigh. “Stay here. I’m getting medicine and water.”

“Can’t really go anywhere,” you muttered, which earned you a soft huff of amusement before his weight lifted from the bed.

You must have dozed off because the next thing you knew, he was back, coaxing you to sit up enough to take medicine and drink water. His arm supported your back, steady and warm, and you were too sick to care about how you leaned into him, how your cheek pressed against his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he murmured when you’d finished the water, and the praise did something funny to your fever-addled brain. “Now rest. I’ll be right here.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” He was already adjusting your pillows, pulling your blankets up higher. “I want to.”

You wanted to ask why. Wanted to ask what that night on the couch had meant, wanted to ask if he’d been about to say what you thought he’d been about to say. But your head was too heavy and your thoughts too fuzzy, so you just let yourself drift, comforted by the sound of him moving around your room, the scent of him nearby.

✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧

The fever dreams were the worst part.

You kept waking up disoriented, not sure what was real and what wasn’t. But every time you surfaced, Sylus was there. Pressing a cool cloth to your forehead. Helping you drink water. Murmuring reassurances in that low, soothing voice that made your wolf-sensitive cat instincts relax despite everything.

At some point, you felt his fingers gently combing through your hair, careful not to disturb your sensitive ears, and you made a sound that was probably too close to a purr. You felt rather than saw him smile.

“Sleep, kitten,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

And because you were too sick to maintain your usual walls, too feverish to remember why you’d been avoiding him, you whispered back: “Don’t leave?”

His hand stilled in your hair for just a moment. Then: “I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

You believed him. And with his scent surrounding you, his presence solid and real beside you, you finally fell into a deeper, more restful sleep.

✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧

[Several Hours Later]

You woke to the smell of soup.

Not just any soup—the kind Sylus made from scratch, the recipe he’d learned from his grandmother that he only made for special occasions. Rich and savory and exactly what your body was craving.

Your fever had broken sometime while you slept. You still felt weak and achy, but the worst of it had passed. Carefully, you sat up, your ears perking slightly as you registered that the smell was coming from the kitchen.

He was cooking. For you.

Your tail curled around your waist as you slowly stood, pulling on a hoodie over your sleep shirt because you were still chilled. Your legs felt shaky, but you managed to make it to your bedroom door and down the hallway.

The sight that greeted you in the kitchen made your heart clench painfully in your chest.

Sylus stood at the stove, his back to you, hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. He’d changed into a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants, casual and domestic in a way that shouldn’t have been as devastating as it was. His tail swayed slowly behind him as he stirred the pot, and you could see the concentration in the set of his shoulders.

He was cooking for you. Taking care of you. Had probably been worried about you all day.

“You should be in bed, kitten.”

You startled—you hadn’t made a sound, but of course his wolf hearing had picked up on your presence anyway. He turned to look at you over his shoulder, and the gentle reproach in his expression was undermined by the obvious relief in his eyes at seeing you up and moving.

“I smelled food,” you said weakly, leaning against the doorframe because your legs were already protesting. “Wanted to see what you were making.”

“Soup.” He turned fully now, and you saw he was holding a wooden spoon, looking unfairly attractive for someone who’d probably spent the last several hours playing nurse. “And you should be resting, not wandering around the apartment.”

“I’ve been in bed all day.” You took a tentative step into the kitchen. “Needed to move.”

His eyes tracked your unsteady movement, and something flickered across his face. “You’re still weak.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re sick.” But even as he said it, he was setting down the spoon and closing the distance between you. His hands found your waist, steadying you, and the warmth of his touch seeped through your hoodie. “Stubborn kitten. Come on.”

Before you could protest, he was guiding you to one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, his hands firm but gentle. You let him, mostly because your legs were grateful for the excuse to stop supporting your weight.

“Stay,” he ordered, pointing at you with mock sternness that was ruined by the fondness in his eyes. “I’m almost done.”

You watched him move around the kitchen with practiced ease, ladling soup into a bowl, cutting fresh bread, pouring water. The whole scene was so devastatingly domestic that it made your chest ache. This is what it would be like, some traitorous part of your brain whispered. If you were his. If he was yours. This easy intimacy, this care, every day.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Sylus said without turning around, but you could hear the smile in his voice.

Your ears flattened in embarrassment. “Like what?”

“Like I’m doing something extraordinary.” He set the bowl of soup in front of you, along with the bread and water. “It’s just soup, kitten.”

But it wasn’t just soup. It was him spending hours making something from scratch because you were sick. It was him staying by your side all day, taking care of you, worrying about you. It was him looking at you now like you were something precious, something worth taking care of.

“Thank you,” you said softly, and you meant for so much more than just the soup.

Something in his expression softened. “Always.”

He leaned against the counter across from you, arms crossed over his chest, watching as you took your first spoonful. The soup was perfect—of course it was—and you couldn’t stop the small sound of appreciation that escaped you.

His eyes darkened slightly at the sound, and you watched his jaw tighten. “Good?”

“Really good.” You took another spoonful, then paused. “Have you eaten?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sylus.”

“I wanted to make sure you ate first.” But at your look—you might be sick, but you could still give him the eyebrow raise that meant ‘I’m not buying it’—he sighed. “I’ll eat after.”

“Eat with me,” you said, and it came out smaller than you’d intended. More vulnerable. “Please?”

For a moment, he just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nodded, moved to get his own bowl, and settled onto the stool beside you.

You ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and you were acutely aware of how close he was. Close enough that your tails could touch if either of you moved slightly. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“You scared me,” he said suddenly, quietly.

You looked up to find him staring at his soup, his jaw tight. “What?”

“When I came in and you were that feverish. Not responding properly. Your scent was all wrong—” He stopped, shook his head. “I know it’s just a cold or flu or whatever. I know you’re fine. But for a second, I…” He trailed off, his hands gripping his spoon too tightly.

Your heart clenched. “Sylus—”

“I don’t like seeing you hurt. Or sick. Or in pain.” He finally looked at you, and the raw honesty in his eyes stole your breath. “I know I don’t have any right to feel that protective of you. I know we’re just friends. But I can’t—” He stopped again, seeming to struggle with the words. “I can’t stand it. The thought of something happening to you.”

“You have every right,” you said before you could think better of it, your fever-weakened filters failing you completely. “You’re my best friend. Of course you’re allowed to worry.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw it—the tiny flinch, so quick you almost missed it. His jaw tightened, and something shuttered in his expression. His shoulders tensed, then deliberately relaxed, like he was forcing himself to compose. His ears flicked back for just a second before returning to their neutral position.

He turned back to his soup, his movements careful and controlled. “Right. Your best friend.”

The words were even, toneless, and somehow that made them worse. Made the sudden distance between you feel like a chasm even though he was sitting right there.

You didn’t understand what you’d said wrong. Didn’t understand why the air had suddenly gone cold, why he wouldn’t look at you anymore, why his tail had gone completely still behind him—a sign of a wolf hybrid keeping tight control over their reactions.

“Sylus?” you tried, your voice small.

He was quiet for a long moment, and you watched him take a slow breath. Then another. When he finally looked at you again, something had shifted—not back to how it was before, but to something softer. Resigned, maybe. But gentle.

“Sorry,” he said, and his voice was warmer now, even if there was something sad underneath it. “Just… worried about you. That’s all.”

That wasn't all. You knew it wasn’t. But you were too tired and confused to push, and he was clearly trying to smooth over whatever moment had just happened.

“Finish your soup,” he said, and this time there was a hint of his usual teasing. “Can’t have you getting worse on my watch.”

The tension eased slightly, and you found yourself relaxing despite the confusion still swirling in your fever-fogged brain. You both finished eating in a more comfortable silence, and gradually the warmth between you began to return. Not quite the same as before—there was something bittersweet in the air now—but better than that awful coldness.

“I should get you back to bed,” he said finally, standing and offering his hand with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You need rest.”

“I’m not that tired—”

“Liar. Your ears are drooping.”

You hadn’t even noticed, but he was right. Your traitorous ears were folded with fatigue, giving you away. “Maybe a little tired.”

“Come on.” Before you could stand yourself, he swept you up into his arms, carrying you like you weighed nothing. You should have been embarrassed, should have insisted you could walk. Instead, you let yourself curl into his chest, your face tucked against his neck, breathing in his scent.

His arms tightened around you almost imperceptibly, and you felt him press his face briefly into your hair, right between your ears. “Stubborn kitten,” he murmured, and there was so much fondness in his voice it made your chest ache. “Always trying to be strong even when you don’t have to be.”

“I can walk,” you protested weakly, but you made no move to leave his arms.

“I know you can.” He carried you down the hall with ease. “Doesn’t mean you should.”

He shouldered open your bedroom door and carried you to your bed, laying you down with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his size and strength. His hands lingered as he tucked the blankets around you, smoothing them down with unnecessary care.

“There,” he said softly, and when you looked up at him, his expression had gone tender again. Unguarded. Like whatever wall he’d put up earlier had crumbled. “Comfortable?”

You nodded, suddenly unable to speak around the lump in your throat. He was being so careful with you, so gentle, and you didn’t understand how he could look at you like that—like you were something precious—while accepting that he’d only ever be your friend.

His hand came up to brush against your cheek, his thumb tracing a feather-light path across your skin. “Your fever’s down,” he observed. “That’s good.”

“Sylus,” you whispered, not even sure what you wanted to say.

“Shh.” His hand moved to your hair, fingers carefully combing through the strands, mindful of your sensitive ears. “Just rest now. You can overthink everything later when you’re feeling better.”

A weak laugh escaped you. “You know me too well.”

“Yeah.” Something flickered in his eyes—fond and sad and resigned all at once. “I do.”

His hand continued its soothing path through your hair, and you felt your eyes growing heavy despite yourself. The fever, the emotional exhaustion, the warmth of his touch—it was all pulling you under.

“Stay?” The word slipped out before you could stop it.

You felt him hesitate, felt the war happening in him. Then the mattress dipped as he sat beside you, his back against your headboard, his hand never leaving your hair.

“Until you fall asleep,” he said quietly. “Then I need to clean up the kitchen.”

His hand found yours under the blankets, fingers intertwining, and that small point of contact felt more intimate than anything you’d ever experienced.

“Sylus?” you mumbled, already feeling sleep pulling at you.

“Yeah, kitten?”

You wanted to ask what had happened earlier. Wanted to ask why he’d looked so hurt, why calling him your best friend had felt like the wrong thing to say. Wanted to understand the resignation in his eyes.

But your thoughts were getting fuzzy, and the words wouldn’t come. So instead you just squeezed his hand weakly and whispered, “Thank you. For everything.”

His hand tightened around yours, and you felt him lean down, his lips pressing gently to your forehead in a kiss that felt like goodbye and forever all at once.

“Always,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ll always take care of you. That’s… that’s what I’m here for.”

There was something in his voice—something that sounded like acceptance of a role he didn’t want but would take anyway. Like he was making peace with being your friend when he wanted to be something more.

But you were too far gone to process it, sleep dragging you down into darkness.

The last thing you registered was his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand, and his quiet voice, so soft you might have imagined it:

“Even if it’s all I ever get to be.”

✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧

You woke to sunlight streaming through your curtains and the realization that you felt significantly better. The fever had broken completely, the ache in your body reduced to a dull soreness, and your head was finally clear.

Clear enough to remember everything from yesterday.

The soup. The conversation in the kitchen. The way he’d tensed when you called him your best friend. The way he’d composed himself and been gentle with you anyway. The forehead kiss. The way he’d held your hand until you fell asleep.

That last thing he’d said—had you dreamed that? Even if it’s all I ever get to be.

Your heart raced as the memories solidified, as you tried to make sense of his reactions. Why had calling him your friend upset him? Unless…

Unless he wanted to be something more.

The thought made your breath catch, made hope flutter dangerously in your chest. But no—that couldn’t be right. He brought people home all the time. He’d never shown any sign of wanting you that way.

Except… except for the way he looked at you sometimes. The way he touched you. The careful way he took care of you. The hurt in his eyes when you called him your friend.

Even if it’s all I ever get to be.

✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧

You stood in the kitchen, phone clutched in your trembling hand, staring at the little red dot on your tracking app like it might disappear if you glared at it hard enough.

Ovulation tomorrow. Heat cycle begins in approximately 24 hours.

Your ears flattened against your head as dread pooled in your stomach. It wasn’t the heat itself that had your tail bristling with anxiety—you’d been through plenty of cycles before, knew how to manage them, stock up on supplies, lock yourself in your room with enough water and snacks to last the three or four days until it passed.

No, what made your hands shake was the shared calendar glowing on the tablet mounted to the kitchen wall.

You’d pulled it up with some vague idea of marking off the dates you’d need to yourself, maybe giving Sylus a heads up that you’d be unavailable for a few days. A courtesy, since you lived together. Nothing unusual about that.

Except when you’d opened the calendar, you’d seen it.

Sylus - Rut Cycle

Starting tomorrow. The exact same day as your heat.

“No,” you whispered to the empty kitchen, your tail puffing up in distress. “No, no, no, this can’t—”

But it was right there in his careful handwriting from when he’d logged it weeks ago. Wolf hybrids were meticulous about tracking their ruts, especially ones like Sylus who prided themselves on control. He would have marked it the moment he felt the pre-rut symptoms starting.

And it aligned perfectly—horrifically—with your heat.

Your claws extended involuntarily, pricking into your palms as you tried to steady your breathing. This was fine. This was… manageable. You’d just have to tell him. Simple. You’d walk to his room right now, knock on his door, and calmly explain that you’d both need to make arrangements. Maybe one of you could stay somewhere else for a few days. Maybe you could—

The thought of telling him made your stomach twist into knots.

Because how exactly were you supposed to have that conversation?

“Hey Sylus, funny story, but we’re both going into heat and rut tomorrow, so maybe one of us should leave because I absolutely cannot be around you while my body is screaming for a mate and you smell like everything I’ve ever wanted”?

You pressed your hands to your heated face, ears flat against your skull.

No. Absolutely not. You couldn’t tell him.

You glanced down the hallway toward his closed bedroom door. Light still seeped out from underneath—he was working late again, had mentioned something about a project deadline when you’d seen him briefly at dinner. He’d barely looked up from his laptop, too focused to notice the way your scent had already started changing, that pre-heat sweetness that cat hybrids gave off.

Or maybe he had noticed and was too polite to mention it.

Your tail lashed anxiously behind you as you looked back at the calendar, at those two overlapping markers that felt like a countdown to disaster.

The thing was, heats were already hard enough to deal with on their own. The fever, the desperate ache, the way your body craved touch and comfort and things you absolutely should not be thinking about. You’d spent every heat cycle since moving in with Sylus locked in your room, music turned up high, trying desperately not to think about the fact that he was just down the hall. Trying not to imagine what it would feel like if he—

No. You couldn’t go there.

But this? This was so much worse.

Because Sylus going through his rut at the same time meant the entire apartment would reek of alpha wolf pheromones. Dominant, possessive, claiming pheromones specifically designed to call to omegas and send compatible mates into a frenzy.

And you, going through heat, would be so sensitive to his scent you’d probably lose your mind.

Cat hybrids were already more susceptible to wolf pheromones than other species—something about the predator-prey dynamic made the biological response even stronger. You’d read about it once, in a textbook you’d immediately regretted opening. How prey hybrids in heat could become almost… fixated on nearby predator hybrids in rut. Especially ones they were already close to.

Especially ones they were already in love with.

“This is bad,” you muttered, setting your phone down on the counter with shaking hands. “This is really, really bad.”

You should tell him. You knew you should. This was important, something roommates needed to coordinate. He deserved to know so he could make his own arrangements, maybe stay at a friend’s place or book a hotel room for a few days.

Your fingers hovered over your phone, pulling up your messages with him.

We need to talk about something important

You typed it out, stared at it, then deleted it.

Hey, so about tomorrow…

Delete.

I just checked the calendar and I think we have a problem

Delete.

“God, why is this so hard?” you whispered, your tail wrapping around your waist in that self-protective gesture you’d been doing all day.

Because you knew why. Because telling him meant acknowledging it. Meant sitting across from him and discussing heats and ruts and biological needs while pretending you weren’t desperately in love with him. Meant watching his expression shutter with professionalism while he matter-of-factly discussed sleeping arrangements, like the thought of you in heat didn’t affect him at all.

And you weren’t sure you could handle that. Couldn’t handle seeing confirmation that while your body would be screaming for him specifically, he’d just be dealing with a rut—a biological inconvenience that any willing partner could help with. It wouldn’t mean anything to him.

Your ears swiveled toward his room at the sound of his chair scraping, footsteps moving around. Working, like he’d said. Oblivious to the crisis you were currently having in the kitchen.

Maybe… maybe you didn’t need to tell him.

The thought crept in treacherously, and you immediately felt guilty for even considering it. But—

But you’d handled heats before on your own. You had supplies, you knew the drill. You’d just lock yourself in your room, ride it out like always. Sure, it would be worse with him in rut down the hall, his scent probably seeping under your door and driving you absolutely insane, but you could handle it.

You were strong. You had self-control.

And telling him would just make everything awkward. Would create this ‘thing’ between you that you’d have to navigate afterward. He’d probably insist on leaving, on being a gentleman about it, and then you’d feel guilty for driving him out of his own home. Or worse, he’d stay and treat you with kid gloves for weeks afterward, carefully avoiding you like you were something fragile.

No. Better to just… not say anything.

You’d deal with your heat quietly, behind your locked bedroom door. He’d deal with his rut the way he always did—probably by calling one of his regular hookups, inviting them over to help him through it. The thought made your claws extend painfully, jealousy and hurt lancing through your chest, but that was fine. You were used to that pain.

At least this way, he’d never know. Never know that you’d spent three or four days in heat just down the hall, your body aching for him specifically while he was with someone else.

God, this was going to be torture.

Your phone buzzed with a text, and you nearly jumped out of your skin.

Sylus: You still up?

Your heart hammered as you stared at the message. He never texted when he was working unless—

Sylus: Thought I heard you in the kitchen. Everything okay?

Of course. Wolf hearing. He’d probably heard you muttering to yourself, heard the distress in your voice even through his closed door.

Your fingers trembled as you typed back:

You: Yeah, all good! Just getting some water. Don’t let me distract you from work ☺️

The emoji felt forced, but you needed him to think everything was normal.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then it appeared again.

Sylus: Your scent just spiked with anxiety. What’s wrong?

You closed your eyes, cursing his too-perceptive wolf senses. Of course he could smell your emotional state from his room. Of course.

You: Nothing! Just remembered I have a deadline coming up for a writing assignment at work. Already stressing about it lol

You: Go back to work! I’m heading to bed soon anyway

Please believe it. Please just let it go.

Sylus: Okay. But if you need anything, I’m here. You know that.

Your chest constricted painfully.

You: I know. Thank you 💕

You stared at the heart emoji you’d added without thinking, then quickly locked your phone before you could spiral into analyzing whether that was too much.

Moving quickly, you erased your name from the calendar for the next four days, leaving the space blank. If Sylus looked—which he probably wouldn’t, too buried in work—he wouldn’t see anything unusual. Wouldn’t know.

Then you grabbed your phone and retreated to your room, closing the door firmly behind you and leaning against it.

Tomorrow. Heat started tomorrow.

And Sylus would be in rut.

In the same apartment.

Your tail lashed anxiously as you looked around your room, mentally cataloging what you’d need. Water bottles—you’d need to stock up. Snacks that didn’t require leaving your room. Maybe some ice packs for the fever. Definitely your noise-canceling headphones for when he inevitably brought someone home to help him through his rut, because you absolutely could not handle hearing that while you were in heat.

Your phone buzzed with another message:

Sylus: Get some sleep, kitten. And stop overthinking whatever’s got you stressed. It’ll be okay.

If only he knew.

You typed back a quick good night, then flopped onto your bed, staring at the ceiling as your mind raced.

Twenty-four hours. That’s all you had to prepare.

Twenty-four hours until you’d be locked in your room, burning with heat, while the man you loved was down the hall going through his rut.

You buried your face in your pillow, letting out a muffled sound of frustration.

This was going to be the longest four days of your life.

Your phone lit up one more time with a final text from Sylus:

Sylus: Sweet dreams.

You stared at those two words until they blurred, your heart aching.

“Yeah,” you whispered to your empty room, your tail curling protectively around yourself. “Sweet dreams.”

Like you’d be getting any sleep tonight.

Not when tomorrow would turn your apartment into your own personal hell, and Sylus would go through his rut without ever knowing what it was doing to you.

✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧

The next day, you left the apartment before dawn, slipping out while Sylus was still asleep. You couldn’t risk running into him, couldn’t trust yourself to act normal when you could already feel the first warning signs of your heat beginning to stir beneath your skin—a restless energy, a sensitivity that made your clothes feel too rough, a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature.

You spent the early morning hours methodically gathering everything you’d need for the next few days. The essentials came first: your favorite comfort foods, drinks, and enough water to stock a small convenience store. You didn’t leave anything out, moving through your mental checklist with single-minded focus because focusing on the task kept you from thinking about what was coming, about who was waiting at home.

Your last stop was the one that made heat crawl up your neck despite the early hour. The sex shop on the corner of Fifth and Main was blessedly empty, and you kept your ears tucked low as you quickly selected another vibrator—a backup for when your other toys inevitably needed to recharge. The knowing look the clerk gave you made your tail bristle with embarrassment, but you forced yourself to maintain eye contact as you paid. You weren’t ashamed. You shouldn’t be ashamed.

Yes, you were a virgin cat hybrid, but that didn’t mean you were clueless about your own body, about what you enjoyed or needed. Just because you were inexperienced with partners didn’t mean you couldn’t indulge in your own sexuality, couldn’t take care of yourself during your heats. You’d learned years ago what worked, what helped ease the ache even if it never fully satisfied the way your instincts insisted a mate would.

A mate like—

No. You couldn’t think about that.

By the time you’d finished your errands, the sun had fully risen and you could feel your heat beginning in earnest. It started subtly—a slight fever warming your skin, a heightened awareness of every scent and sound around you, a restless ache low in your belly that you knew would only get worse. Your body was preparing, responding to the hormonal surge that came with ovulation, and you needed to get home. Needed to lock yourself away before it became obvious, before your scent grew too sweet and telling.

Home. You had to go home.

Home to Sylus.

The thought sent a spike of longing through you so intense it nearly stole your breath, and you had to grip your shopping bags tighter to ground yourself. This was exactly why you needed to get back, needed to barricade yourself in your room before your heat-addled brain did something catastrophic like seek him out.

But with each step closer to the apartment, anxiety bubbled up inside you, rising like a tide you couldn’t hold back. Your ears kept swiveling anxiously, your tail couldn’t stay still, and your hands trembled slightly as you climbed the stairs to your floor. What if he was there? What if he could already smell the change in you, the pre-heat sweetness that was undoubtedly growing stronger by the minute? What if he looked at you with pity, or worse—with clinical concern, like you were a problem to be managed?

Your key fumbled against the lock twice before you finally managed to open the door.

The apartment was silent.

Empty.

You stood in the doorway, bags clutched in your hands, ears perked and straining for any sound of movement. Nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic from the street below.

Relief flooded through you first—thank god, you wouldn’t have to face him, wouldn’t have to pretend everything was normal while your body burned and your instincts screamed.

But then the relief curdled into something heavier, something that settled in your chest like a stone.

What if he’d left? What if he’d packed a bag and gone somewhere else to ride out his rut—a hotel, maybe, or a friend’s place? What if he’d called one of his regular partners, arranged to spend the next few days with them somewhere far away from you?

The thought made your claws extend involuntarily, jealousy and hurt lancing through you even though you had no right to either emotion. This was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? For him to be gone, to not have to deal with him being in rut just down the hall?

Except now the apartment felt too empty, too quiet, and the thought of him wrapped around someone else, helping them through their heat while he worked through his rut, made you feel physically ill.

Your tail drooped as you carried your bags to your room, ears flat against your head. This was fine. This was better, actually. Easier.

It didn’t feel easier.

You kept your door open as you methodically unpacked everything, needing to finish before your heat progressed further. Comfort foods went on your nightstand within easy reach. Water bottles lined up on your desk. The new vibrator, still in its package, got tucked into your bedside drawer along with your other supplies—the ones you’d collected over the years, the ones that helped but never quite enough.

Your mini fridge, a recent purchase you’d justified as necessary for late-night writing sessions, was now packed with drinks and anything perishable. You’d thought of everything. You were prepared.

You were fine.

The heat was building steadily now, making your skin feel too tight, too sensitive. Your clothes were becoming unbearable—every seam and tag felt like it was scraping against your skin. You stripped down to just a thin pink tank top and sleep shorts, the least amount of fabric you could get away with, and finally collapsed onto your bed.

The sheets were cool against your feverish skin, and you pressed your face into your pillow with a shuddering breath. You could do this. You’d done it before. Just a few days and it would be over.

That’s when you heard it—the sound of the front door opening.

Your entire body went rigid, ears shooting up and swiveling toward the sound. Footsteps in the entryway, familiar and achingly known. Your bedroom door was still open—you’d been about to get up and lock it when—

His scent hit you like a physical blow.

Pine and earth and something darker, muskier, unmistakably wolf and unmistakably Sylus—but stronger now. Heavier. Richer. The scent seemed to fill the entire apartment, seeping into your room and wrapping around you like a living thing.

Rut. He was in rut.

And he was here.

Your heat-primed body responded instantly, devastatingly. The ache low in your belly intensified into something almost painful, your skin flushing hotter, and you felt your body start producing that telltale slickness that came with arousal. A soft, needy sound escaped your throat before you could stop it—somewhere between a whimper and a purr—and you immediately bit down on your pillow to muffle any further sounds.

No. No, no, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

You forced yourself to move despite how much your body protested, stumbling to your door on shaky legs. Your hands trembled as you reached for the handle, trying to be quiet, trying not to draw his attention to the fact that you were home.

But it was too late.

“Kitten?” His voice drifted down the hallway, rougher than usual, with that gravelly quality that rut brought to wolf hybrids. “That you?”

You froze, hand on your door handle, every muscle in your body locked up with tension. He could probably already smell you—your heat scent mixing with his rut pheromones in the air between you. There was no hiding it now.

“Y-yeah,” you managed, hating how breathless you sounded. “Just… just got back.”

Silence. Then footsteps, coming closer, and your heart launched into your throat.

“You okay? You sound—” He stopped, and you could pinpoint the exact moment he scented you properly, when the reality of the situation clicked into place. “…Fuck.”

The single word, rough and low and edged with something that might have been hunger, sent a shiver down your spine straight to your core.

You should close the door. Lock it. Put a barrier between you and the wolf hybrid in rut whose scent was making you dizzy with want.

Instead, you stood frozen, fingers gripping the door frame, as his footsteps brought him closer to your room.

This was bad.

This was so, so bad.

And some traitorous part of you—the part ruled by heat and instinct and years of suppressed longing—thought it might be exactly what you’d been waiting for.

You should close the door. Lock it. Put a barrier between you and the wolf hybrid in rut whose scent was making you dizzy with want.

Instead, you stood frozen, fingers gripping the door frame, as his footsteps brought him closer to your room.

And then he was there.

Sylus appeared in your doorway, and the sight of him nearly brought you to your knees.

His silver hair was disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it, his ruby eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them—pupils blown wide with heat. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and you could see the tension in every line of his body, the way his muscles were coiled tight like he was physically restraining himself. His wolf ears were pinned back, and his tail was rigid behind him—signs of a predator barely holding onto control.

He looked wrecked. Devastating. Dangerous.

And he was staring at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“You’re in heat,” he said, his voice even rougher than before, gravelly in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. It wasn’t a question.

You nodded mutely, not trusting your voice, your fingers digging into the doorframe hard enough that your claws left small marks in the wood.

His eyes tracked the movement, then traveled over you—taking in your flushed skin, your thin clothing, the way you were trembling slightly. His nostrils flared, scenting you, and a low sound rumbled from his chest that went straight through you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was something raw in his voice, almost hurt. “I would have—I could have made arrangements, I—” He stopped, his jaw clenching. “Fuck, kitten, I wouldn’t have come back here if I’d known. This is—”

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I thought you’d left. Thought you’d go somewhere else for your rut.”

Something flashed across his expression—surprise, maybe, or confusion. “Why would I leave?”

*Because that’s what you always do,* you thought. *Because you’d rather be anywhere else than deal with this kind of intimacy with me.*

But you couldn’t say that. Couldn’t reveal how much you’d thought about it, how much the idea of him with someone else during his rut had shredded you.

“Sylus,” you breathed, and even you could hear the desperation creeping into your voice. “You need to go. Please. This is—it’s too much, I can’t—”

“I know.” He took a step back, and you saw how much it cost him, saw the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll go to my room, I’ll stay there, I won’t—” His eyes squeezed shut briefly. “You won’t even know I’m here. I promise.”

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You would know. Would feel him down the hall, would smell him, would lie in your bed aching and burning and knowing he was so close, knowing he was going through his rut alone just like you were suffering through your heat alone.

“You should leave,” you said, even though the words felt like they were being torn from your chest. “The apartment. You should go somewhere else. A hotel or—or call someone who could—” You couldn’t finish that sentence, couldn’t voice the image of him with someone else even though it was killing you.

His eyes snapped open, and there was something fierce in them now, something possessive that made your breath catch. “No.”

“Sylus—”

“I’m not leaving you alone during your heat,” he said, his voice dropping into something that was almost a growl. “And I’m sure as hell not calling anyone else. I don’t—” He cut himself off, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. “Just… stay in your room. I’ll stay in mine. We can do this.”

Could you? Could you really survive the next few days knowing he was so close, knowing all you had to do was walk down the hall and—

No. You couldn’t think like that.

“Okay,” you whispered, your tail wrapping tight around your waist. “Okay.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he took another step back, putting more distance between you, and you hated how much you wanted to close that distance, wanted to—

“Lock your door,” he said roughly. “Please. Because if you don’t, if I smell you like this all night, I won’t—” His voice cracked slightly. “I won’t be able to stay away. And you deserve better than—than me losing control because of biology.”

Your heart clenched. Even now, even in rut, he was trying to protect you. Trying to be good, to be respectful, to give you the choice.

If only he knew that you’d choose him. Would always choose him. That there was no one else you wanted, rut or no rut, heat or no heat.

But you just nodded, watched him retreat down the hallway to his room, heard his door close with a finality that echoed through the apartment.

And then you were alone.

You closed your door. Locked it like he’d asked. Then collapsed against it, sliding down to sit on the floor as your whole body trembled.

This was going to be impossible.

✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧

[Later that night]

You’d tried everything.

The vibrator helped for maybe ten minutes before the ache came roaring back twice as strong. The cold shower had been a mistake—your skin was too sensitive, every drop of water feeling like too much. You’d attempted to sleep but gave up after an hour of tossing and turning, your sheets soaked with sweat and twisted around your legs.

Nothing worked. Nothing helped.

Because your body knew what it wanted, and it wasn’t any of your usual coping mechanisms.

It wanted him.

Sylus. Just down the hall. Going through his rut while you burned through your heat, and the cruel irony of it was almost too much to bear.

You could smell him even through your locked door—his scent had permeated the entire apartment, rich and heavy and making your head spin. Could hear him too, your sensitive cat hearing picking up every sound from his room. The creak of his bed. His footsteps pacing. Once, a low groan that had sent heat flooding through you so intensely you’d nearly blacked out.

He was suffering too. You knew he was. And knowing that you were both suffering separately, alone, when you could be—

No. You couldn’t think like that.

But your heat-fogged brain wouldn’t let it go. Kept circling back to the same thoughts: *He’s right there. He needs help. You need help. This is biology. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You could help each other and then pretend it never happened and—*

Except it would mean something. To you, it would mean everything. And when it was over, when the heat and rut faded and reality came crashing back, you’d have to live with the fact that you’d had him once and would never have him again.

That might actually destroy you.

A sound from his room made your ears perk up—something between a growl and a groan, frustrated and pained. Then footsteps, heavy and deliberate.

You froze, every muscle in your body going tense as you heard his door open.

Footsteps in the hallway. Coming closer.

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you heard him stop outside your door. There was a long moment of silence, and you could picture him standing there, fist raised to knock, fighting with himself.

“Kitten.” His voice was wrecked, strained. “Are you… are you okay?”

The concern in his voice, even now, even when he was clearly barely holding it together, made your chest constrict painfully.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice coming out shakier than you’d intended.

“Liar.” A soft thump against your door—his forehead, maybe, or his fist. “I can hear you. Smell you. You’re not fine.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hands over your face. “Neither are you.”

A rough laugh, completely devoid of humor. “No. I’m really not.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with everything unsaid. You were both on opposite sides of the same door, suffering, wanting, unable to cross that final barrier.

“I should have left,” he said finally, quietly. “Should have gone to a hotel like you said. This is… fuck, this is torture.”

“Why didn’t you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. “Why did you stay?”

Another long silence. Then: “Because I couldn’t. Couldn’t stand the thought of you here alone, in heat, vulnerable. What if something happened? What if you needed something and I wasn’t here?” His voice dropped even lower. “And I… I couldn’t go to anyone else. Not when—”

He stopped abruptly, like he’d caught himself about to say too much.

“Not when what?” Your hand was on the door handle now, trembling.

“Nothing. Forget it. I should—I should go back to my room.”

But he didn’t move. You could feel him there, could sense his presence on the other side of the door like a physical thing.

Your heat-addled brain was screaming at you to open the door. Your heart was screaming something else entirely—something that sounded dangerously like tell him tell him tell him.

“Sylus.” Your voice cracked on his name. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll go—”

“No.” Your hand turned the lock before you could second-guess yourself. “That’s not what I mean.”

The door swung open, and suddenly there he was, so close you could see the war happening behind his eyes. His rut pheromones washed over you in full force now, unfiltered by the door, and it took every ounce of self-control not to simply throw yourself at him.

He looked as wrecked as you felt—hair a mess, skin flushed, eyes wild and desperate. His chest was bare, just sleep pants slung low on his hips, and you could see how tense every muscle was, how hard he was fighting his instincts.

“Kitten,” he breathed, and it sounded like a warning and a plea all at once. “Don’t. Please. If you… if you’re too close, I won’t be able to—”

“I’m in love with you.”

The words tumbled out in a rush, propelled by heat and desperation and years of keeping them locked inside. And once they started, you couldn’t stop them.

“I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the library. Since that first day when you saved me and smiled at me and made me feel safe for the first time in my life.” Your voice was shaking, tears already gathering in your eyes because this was it, you were ruining everything, but you couldn’t stop. “And I know—I know you don’t feel the same way. I know I’m not—I’m not what you want. Not experienced enough, not confident enough, just… not enough.”

The tears spilled over, tracking hot down your cheeks, and you saw his expression crack, saw something like anguish flash across his face.

“Every time you brought someone home, it killed me,” you continued, your voice breaking. “Every time I heard you with someone else, I wanted to die because it wasn’t me. It was never me. And I tried—I tried so hard not to feel this way, tried to be happy just being your friend, but I can’t anymore. I can’t keep pretending that this doesn’t hurt, that watching you with other people doesn’t destroy me.”

You were full-on crying now, your shoulders shaking with sobs, your ears flat against your head. “And I know this is the worst possible time to tell you this. I know it’s just the heat talking and you probably think I’m pathetic and I’ve ruined everything, but I couldn’t—I can’t keep lying. Not when you’re right here and I want you so badly it physically hurts and I know I can’t have you because I’m not—I’m not—”

“Stop.”

His hands were on your face suddenly, cupping your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. And what you saw there stole your breath—not pity, not discomfort, but something raw and desperate and achingly tender.

“Stop saying you’re not enough,” he said, his voice fierce despite how gentle his touch was. “Stop saying I don’t want you. You have no idea—” His thumb brushed away your tears, and his own eyes looked suspiciously bright. “God, kitten, you have no idea how wrong you are.”

Your breath hitched, your heart stuttering in your chest. “What?”

“Those people I brought home? I was trying to forget you.” His voice cracked slightly, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Trying to convince myself that if I just found the right person, if I just tried hard enough, these feelings would go away. That I could stop wanting my best friend, stop dreaming about someone who deserved so much better than me.”

“Sylus—” you whispered, but he shook his head.

“You think you’re not experienced enough? Not confident enough? Kitten, you’re everything.” His hands trembled slightly against your face. “You’re brilliant and kind and so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes. And every time you smiled at someone else, every time I thought about you finding someone who could give you the relationship you deserved, someone who wasn’t fucked up and broken and—” He stopped, taking a shuddering breath. “I’ve been in love with you since that day in the library too. Maybe before. And I thought—I thought I was protecting you by staying away. Thought you’d be better off with someone who wasn’t a wolf hybrid with too much baggage and a rut that made him dangerous.”

“You’re not dangerous,” you said fiercely, your own hands coming up to grip his wrists. “Not to me. Never to me.”

“I wanted to be good enough for you,” he continued, like he needed to get all of it out. “Wanted to be the kind of person who deserved someone like you. But I’m not. I’m selfish and possessive and the thought of anyone else touching you makes me want to—” He cut himself off, his jaw clenching. “And now you’re here, in heat, telling me you love me, and I can barely think straight because all I want is to—”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. You could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his hands tightened on your face.

“Then do it,” you whispered. “Please. I don’t want to spend another second pretending. I don’t want perfection or whatever impossible standard you’ve set for yourself. I just want you. Just this. Just us.”

For one breathless moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours like he was looking for any sign of doubt, any hint that you didn’t mean it. His thumbs continued their gentle path across your cheeks, wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

“You’re crying,” he said softly, and there was so much tenderness in his voice it made your chest ache. Even now, even when you could see how much he wanted this, wanted you, he was being careful. Being gentle. “Kitten, you’re shaking.”

“Because I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice breaking on the words. “I’m scared this is a dream. I’m scared I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone and this will have never happened and I’ll have to go back to pretending and I can’t—” A sob cut off your words, and you pressed your palms against his bare chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath your touch. “I can’t go back to before. Not now. Not after finally telling you.”

Something in his expression crumbled, and he pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other wrapped around your waist. “This isn’t a dream,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours again. “I’m here. I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore.”

“Promise?” It came out so small, so vulnerable, and you hated how desperate you sounded but you needed to hear it.

“I promise.” He tilted your face up, making sure you could see the truth in his eyes. “I’ve been an idiot. Been running from this, from you, because I was terrified. Terrified of not being good enough, of ruining our friendship, of you realizing you deserved better and leaving. But I’m done running.” His voice dropped to something fierce, possessive. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And I’ve been yours since that day in the library when you looked up at me with those wide, scared eyes and I knew—I knew I’d do anything to keep you safe.”

Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks, but these felt different. Felt like relief, like release, like seven years of aching finally being soothed.

“I’m yours,” you whispered back, and saying it out loud felt like shedding a weight you’d been carrying forever. “I’ve always been yours.”

His pupils dilated at your words, and you felt the low rumble start in his chest again—that wolf sound that meant contentment, possessiveness, mine. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you repeated, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck. “Only yours. I don’t want anyone else. I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, and you could see him visibly fighting for control, his whole body trembling with the effort. “You can’t—you can’t say things like that to me right now. Not when I’m in rut and you’re in heat and I’m barely holding on as it is.”

“Then don’t hold on,” you said, and you watched his eyes darken impossibly further. “I don’t want you to hold back. Not anymore. I want all of you, Sylus. Everything you’ve been keeping from me.”

“Kitten.” It came out strained, almost pained. “If we do this—if we cross this line—there’s no going back. You understand that? I won’t be able to pretend anymore. Won’t be able to watch you walk around this apartment and not touch you, not kiss you, not—” He cut himself off with a harsh breath. “Wolf hybrids, when we bond, when we claim someone as ours, it’s… it’s permanent. Especially during our ruts. The instinct to mark you, to make sure everyone knows you’re mine—”

“Good,” you interrupted, and his eyes snapped to yours in surprise. “I want that. Want everyone to know. Want you to stop bringing other people home because you’ll have me. Want to stop pretending we’re just friends when we both know it’s always been more than that.”

He made a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, and you felt it reverberate through your entire body where you were pressed against him. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do.” You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes fully, needing him to see how serious you were. “I know exactly what I’m asking for. I’m asking for you. All of you. Your rut, your instincts, your possessiveness—I want all of it. Because I love you. Not in spite of what you are, but because of it.”

Something shifted in his expression then—the last wall crumbling, the final thread of his control snapping. You saw the exact moment he stopped fighting himself, stopped fighting this, and surrendered to what you both wanted.

“Tell me one more time,” he demanded, his voice gone rough and commanding in a way that sent shivers down your spine. “Tell me you love me. That you want this. That you’re choosing me.”

“I love you,” you said, pouring every ounce of feeling into the words. “I want this. I want you. I’m choosing you, Sylus. Today, tomorrow, always. I’m yours, and I want you to be mine.”

“Always have been,” he said, and there was something that looked almost like wonder in his eyes. “God, kitten, I’ve been yours since the beginning. You just didn’t know it.”

Then something in him broke.

He surged forward, closing the distance between you, and kissed you like he was dying and you were oxygen, like he’d been drowning for seven years and you were his first breath of air.

It wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t careful or tentative or any of the things a first kiss probably should be. It was desperate and hungry and raw—years of suppressed longing, years of wanting and denying and pretending finally breaking free all at once. His lips crashed against yours with bruising intensity, claiming you, devouring you, and you gasped into his mouth at the sheer force of it, at the way it felt like everything you’d ever wanted and more.

Your hands flew up to tangle in his silver hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you pulled him closer, closer, never close enough. You felt his wolf ears flatten slightly under your touch—sensitive and responsive—and the small reaction made heat pool low in your belly.

He groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your entire body and straight to your core, and his hands slid from your tear-stained face to your waist, gripping you with a possessiveness that made you whimper. Then he was pulling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space between your bodies, and the full-body contact made your knees weak.

His bare chest pressed against your thin tank top—you could feel every defined plane of muscle, every rapid beat of his heart, the overwhelming heat of him seeping through the fabric and into your skin. His scent enveloped you completely, that pine and earth and pure wolf musk intensified by his rut, and it was so much stronger now, so overwhelming that all you could breathe was him, all you could feel was him.

Your heat-primed body responded instantly, desperately. Slickness pooled between your thighs, your skin flushed hotter, and a needy sound escaped your throat—somewhere between a whimper and a purr—that made him growl in response.

“Fuck,” he gasped, breaking the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw with open-mouthed kisses that made you shudder. His tongue traced the line of your jaw before his teeth scraped gently against your skin—not quite biting, but the promise of it—and you moaned. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”

He moved lower, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, and when his lips closed over it, sucking gently, your claws extended involuntarily, pricking through his hair to his scalp. The small sting only seemed to encourage him, another growl rumbling from his chest.

“Same,” you managed breathlessly, tilting your head back to give him better access, your body arching into his of its own accord. Your tail wrapped around his leg possessively, and you felt his own tail brush against your hip. “God, Sylus, I’ve wanted you for so long—”

His mouth moved to your throat, lips and teeth and tongue tracing patterns that made you tremble, and you could feel him breathing you in, scenting you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmured against your skin, his voice gone rough and gravelly with rut. “Always smell good, but now—fuck, kitten, you’re in heat and you smell like mine and I can’t—”

He kissed you again, swallowing whatever you were about to say, and this time it was somehow even more intense. Slower, deeper, but no less desperate. His tongue swept into your mouth and you met him eagerly, tasting him—something dark and rich and addictive—learning the shape of him, the texture, the way he kissed like he was trying to consume you whole.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, seven years of yearning finally finding an outlet, and when your tongue slid against his, when you sucked gently on his bottom lip, the sound he made was absolutely sinful.

Your back hit the doorframe suddenly and he pressed against you, caging you in with his larger body, and the feeling of being surrounded by him—his scent, his warmth, his overwhelming presence—made you dizzy with want. Made your heat-addled brain short-circuit with how right it felt to be trapped between him and the wall, how safe and claimed and desired you felt.

His hands roamed your sides with a reverence that contradicted the hunger in his kiss, sliding under the hem of your tank top to finally, finally touch bare skin. His palms were rough and warm, and everywhere he touched felt like it was on fire, nerve endings lighting up in his wake. He traced the curve of your waist, your ribs, his thumbs brushing just below your breasts—teasing, testing—and you arched into his touch with a whimper.

“So soft,” he murmured against your lips, his hands continuing their exploration, mapping your body like he was memorizing every curve, every dip. “So fucking perfect. Been dreaming about touching you like this. About what you’d feel like.”

His words made you bold. Your own hands left his hair to explore, sliding down his neck, over his shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles bunch and flex under your touch. Down his chest, your fingers tracing the defined lines of his abs, feeling them tense as you touched him. His skin was fever-hot, and you could feel his heart pounding beneath your palms.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed against your lips, even as his hands continued their exploration, even as he ground his hips against yours and you felt exactly how much he wanted you. The hard length of him pressed against your stomach made you gasp, made more slickness flood between your thighs. “Tell me this is just the heat, just the rut, and I’ll—I’ll go back to my room, I’ll—”

“Don’t you dare,” you said fiercely, fisting your hands in his hair and pulling him back down to you, crushing your lips against his with all the desperation you felt. “Don’t you dare stop. This isn’t just heat. This isn’t just biology. This is me choosing you. Choosing this.” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, to make sure he understood. “I love you, Sylus. Heat or no heat, rut or no rut, I love you. I’ve loved you for seven years and I’ll love you for seven more and an eternity more after that.”

His eyes blazed with something that looked almost like reverence, like worship, and his hands came up to cup your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “I love you too,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “So fucking much. For so long.” His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, catching a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “You’re everything, kitten. Everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I thought I’d never deserve.”

“You deserve this,” you whispered fiercely. “You deserve to be loved. You deserve me just as much as I deserve you.”

Something in his expression cracked, and when he kissed you again, there was a tenderness beneath the hunger that made your heart feel like it might burst. He kissed you like you were precious, like you were his, like he was trying to pour seven years of love into this one moment.

You kissed him back with everything you had, your hands sliding up to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair there, one hand reaching up to gently scratch behind his wolf ear. He shuddered against you, a whine escaping his throat, and you felt a surge of feminine power at the reaction.

“Sensitive,” you murmured against his lips, and did it again, your fingers gently stroking his ear.

“Fuck—” His hips jerked against yours involuntarily, and his grip on you tightened. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Good,” you breathed, and then you were kissing again, lost in each other, in the taste and feel and scent of finally, finally having what you’d both wanted for so long.

His hands slid down your back, over your hips, and then he was gripping your thighs and lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, gasping at the new position, at the way his cock pressed against you even more intimately. Your covered pussy, already aching and soaked, pressing against him. Your tail wrapped around his waist too, clinging to him, and his own tail curved around to brush against your leg.

“Bedroom,” he growled against your mouth. “Need—fuck, kitten, I need you so bad. I can’t hold back anymore.”

“Yes,” you gasped, and then he was carrying you, his lips never leaving yours, stumbling slightly as he navigated down the hallway, too consumed with kissing you to pay proper attention to where he was going.

He shouldered open his bedroom door—not yours, his—and the significance wasn’t lost on you. His space. His scent everywhere. His den.

He laid you on his bed with a gentleness that contradicted the hunger in his eyes, following you down, covering your body with his. The weight of him, the heat, the feeling of being surrounded and covered and claimed made you moan, your back arching up into him.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you—sprawled on his bed, your hair a mess, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest heaving with rapid breaths. His eyes tracked over every inch of you like he was memorizing the sight. “So fucking beautiful. And mine. Finally mine.”

“Yours,” you agreed breathlessly, reaching up to pull him back down to you. “Always yours. Just like you’re mine.”

“Always have been,” he said, and then he was kissing you again, and you were kissing him back, and nothing else mattered except this—

Finally, finally having what you’d both been denying yourselves for years.

Finally coming home.

He kissed you with a heat that stole every breath from your lungs, his lips devouring yours with desperate need, raw passion, and something deeper—a promise of exactly what was to come, of how thoroughly he was about to claim you, mark you, make you his in every way that mattered.

The soft whine that escaped your throat—high and breathy and so distinctly cat-like—only spurred Sylus on further, feeding a fire in him that had been burning for seven years. That sound was addictive, intoxicating, the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard fall from your lips, and it made every wolf instinct in him roar with possessive satisfaction. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, desperate and needy, pulling him closer like you couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. Your hips shifted instinctively against his, seeking friction, seeking relief from the heat burning through you, and the moment your body pressed firmly into his groin—where you could feel exactly how hard and massive he was, how much he wanted you—a low, rough groan rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating against your lips and making you shudder.

He pulled back slightly, lips parted and swollen, his pupils blown so wide his red eyes looked almost black. He looked like he was about to say something important—but you immediately chased his mouth, a needy mewl escaping you, your cat hybrid instincts refusing to let him go, refusing to lose that connection for even a second. His breath hitched sharply at your eagerness, at your complete inability to let him leave, and with a soft curse muttered against your skin, he brought his large hands up to cradle your face tenderly, his thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks.

He tried once, maybe twice, to pull away again—clearly intent on speaking, on saying whatever thought had crossed his lust-fogged mind—but every single time he attempted it, he melted right back into you helplessly, like his lips weren’t meant to be anywhere else but claiming yours. Like the rut coursing through him wouldn’t allow him to stop touching you, tasting you, consuming you.

Eventually, he tore himself away with several lingering, reluctant kisses, finally managing to draw a full breath. His lips were thoroughly swollen, slick and glistening with your shared saliva, and his gaze—dark, glazed over completely with rut-driven desire—held yours like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. You stared back at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly in perfect sync with his, both of you breathless and utterly consumed by each other. Your pupils were dilated too, your heat making you hypersensitive to every touch, every scent, every minute shift of his body against yours.

As your lips parted for another shaky inhale, you tasted nothing but him—the intoxicating pine and musk scent of him invading your senses, the overwhelming feel of his body covering yours, the scorching heat radiating between you. And then, just as you began to steady yourself slightly, his tongue slid across your bottom lip, teasing, tasting, demanding entry with a dominance that made your toes curl. Your breath caught sharply in your throat before escaping in a needy, completely uninhibited mewl as his tongue slid against yours—hot, slick, utterly possessive. The kiss deepened until it felt like he was tasting your very soul, claiming every part of you, and you surrendered to it completely.

You had absolutely no doubt—he was the best kisser you’d ever known, the best you’d ever have. Every single kiss from him was sensual, passionate, and absolutely drenched in love and longing and raw, primal need. He didn’t just kiss you—he devoured you, worshipped you, made you feel like you were the center of his entire universe. Like you were the only thing that mattered in this moment, in this life.

“Fuck, I need you so bad, kitten,” he groaned roughly against your mouth, his voice gone gravelly and deep with rut, the sound so raw and desperate it sent a violent shudder tearing through your entire body. The sensation pulsed hot and insistent between your thighs, and you knew—without any question—that your panties were completely ruined. You were soaked, throbbing, absolutely undone by him. The slickness from your heat was making a mess, and you could tell by the way his nostrils flared that he could smell it, that he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“M-more… please, please,” you whimpered pathetically, clinging to him like you’d physically fall apart without his touch to hold you together. Your claws pricked into his shoulders, and your tail wrapped tighter around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

His nose traced along your jaw, down to your throat, and you felt him inhale deeply against your skin, breathing you in like you were oxygen and he’d been suffocating. “Fuck, your scent,” he growled, the words vibrating against your throat as he wrapped himself around you completely, his larger body pressing you into the mattress. “Smells so fucking good. So sweet. So ready.”

You shuddered violently as his teeth grazed your neck—not quite biting yet, but the promise of it made liquid heat pool in your core. His wolf instincts were showing now, the rut making him more aggressive, more possessive, and every prey instinct in you should have been screaming danger. Instead, you tilted your head back, baring your throat to him in complete submission, in complete trust.

“Can smell you,” he continued, his voice rough and strained like he was barely holding onto control. “Can smell how wet you are for me. How ready your body is. Your heat—” He groaned, pressing the hard, thick length between his hips against you, grinding into your core through too many layers of clothing. “You’re ready for breeding. Ready for me to claim you. Ready for my pups.”

You moaned and whimpered at his words, your body arched up into his, as more slickness flooded between your thighs because yes, yes, that’s exactly what your heat-drunk mind wanted.

“I can smell it,” he continued, his hips grinding against yours in a rhythm that had you gasping, that had you trying to spread your legs wider even with your little sleeping shorts still on. “It’s so strong. So fucking intoxicating. And believe me when I say it’s all I can think about whenever you’re close like this—have been thinking about it for years. The rut just makes it a billion times more pronounced, makes it harder to hold back, makes every instinct in me scream to mount you, to breed you, to fill you up until you’re dripping with me.”

“Sylus,” you whimpered, and you weren’t even sure what you were asking for. Everything. Anything. More.

His teeth scraped against your throat again, harder this time, and you felt your cat hybrid instincts war between the urge to submit and the urge to bite back, to mark him just as thoroughly as he was about to mark you.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with barely controlled hunger. “Tell me you want me to claim you. Make you mine. Because once I start, kitten, I’m not going to be able to stop. The rut—” His voice broke slightly. “I’m going to want to bite you. Mark you. Knot you. Breed you. And I need to know that’s what you want too, that this isn’t just the heat talking.”

“It’s not just the heat,” you said fiercely, your hands coming up to frame his face, making him look at you, making him see the truth in your eyes. “I want all of it. Want you to claim me, mark me, make everyone know I’m yours. Want your bite on my throat. Want you to knot me. Want—” Your voice dropped to something almost shy despite the explicit nature of what you were saying. “Want you to breed me. Fill me up. Give me everything.”

The sound he made was inhuman—a growl and a groan and something desperate all mixed together. “Fuck, you can’t say things like that to me. Not when I’m already barely holding on.”

“Then don’t hold on,” you whispered, reaching up to scratch gently behind his wolf ear, knowing exactly how sensitive they were, knowing it would drive him crazy. “I don’t want you to hold back. Not anymore. I want all of you, Sylus. The wolf, the rut, the claiming—all of it. Because I love all of you, my dear Alpha."

At your words, his control finally snapped.

Moments later his mouth claimed yours again, and this time there was no hesitation, no holding back. The kiss grew hotter, deeper, more consuming, each pass of your lips stoking the fire between you until it felt like you might combust. His hands moved down your body once more while yours slid to the back of his head, your fingers tangling desperately in his silver hair, careful of his sensitive wolf ears. When you gave a soft, experimental tug, he moaned into your mouth—a deep, rumbling sound that you felt in your chest—and his hips jerked against yours involuntarily.

One of his hands trailed slowly up your stomach, callused fingertips dragging against your overheated skin, while the other held firmly at your hip, gripping possessively, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His touch made you weak, made heat pool between your thighs in waves, slickness soaking through your already-ruined panties as you kissed and touched each other with unrestrained hunger. Your tail thrashed against the bed, completely out of your control, betraying just how affected you were.

His fingers brushed delicately along the sides of your ribs, moving up and down in slow, reverent sweeps, his fingertips tracing every dip and curve as if memorizing your body, as if he’d been dreaming of this moment for years and wanted to savor every second.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered against your lips, his voice gone rough with want. “So fucking soft. Been wanting to touch you like this for so long.”

A moment later, his hands slipped away from your ribs only to settle at the hem of your tiny, flimsy tank top. His fingers played with the fabric, his knuckles brushing against the underside of your breasts and making you gasp.

“Can I undress you, little kitten?” His ruby eyes searched yours, dark with desire but still careful, still making sure you wanted this as much as he did.

You bit your lip and nodded frantically, unable to find your voice in that moment, too overwhelmed by need and heat and the feeling of his hands on you. Your ears were perked forward, focused entirely on him, and your pupils were so dilated your eyes looked almost black.

His smile deepened—predatory and loving all at once—as his hands slipped beneath your top for just a second, his palms hot against your skin, before he hooked his fingers into the fabric and slowly drew it upward. You raised your arms to help him remove it, whimpering slightly as the air brushed your newly exposed skin, your nipples pebbling instantly in the cool air and under his heated gaze.

Heat bloomed across your body under the way his eyes roamed over you, drinking in every detail like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The way Sylus looked at you—eyes filled with nothing but love, awe, adoration, and raw, desperate hunger—made you feel so alive, so wanted, so utterly his.

You didn’t know what to do with your hands. They trembled helplessly at your sides, your claws extending and retracting nervously, and your core trembled just as much while he tossed the discarded clothing aside carelessly. His eyes never left you as he lowered his mouth to your collarbone, and his lips moved there with such affection, such reverence, that it sent a sweet shiver down your spine all the way to the tip of your tail.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, letting his mouth wander over every inch of newly exposed flesh, pressing kisses like prayers. “So divine… ethereal. Perfect. Mine.”

Your bare chests pressed together, skin against skin, and the contact made you both groan. Every point of contact sets you ablaze—his fever-hot skin against yours, the solid muscle of his chest, the way you could feel his heart racing just as fast as yours. You stared up at him with wide, overwhelmed eyes as he continued kissing his way across your body, your ears twitching with every soft sound he made.

His large hands slid to the curve of your waist where it met your hips, gripping you firmly, his fingers spanning almost the entire width of your waist. He scattered damp kisses and gentle nips—careful not to break skin yet, but the promise was there—over your shoulders and down the path to your breasts. You whimpered softly when he traced the tip of his nose over the swell of your breast, breathing in your scent deeply, savoring the moment before his lips followed the same path.

“Smell so good here too,” he murmured against your skin. “Everywhere. Every inch of you smells like heaven. Like mine.”

He leaned down and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss to the side of your breast before lifting his gaze to yours, his ruby eyes molten with desire. “Are you okay?” he murmured, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. His forearms rested on either side of your body, caging you in gently, his larger frame completely covering yours. When you nodded, he brought one hand up to stroke your cheek, his thumb warm and tender against your flushed skin, careful of your sensitive whiskers. “Kitten… if we’re gonna go any further, I need you to talk to me. I need verbal communication. Think you can do that?”

You stared at him for a moment, breath catching, completely overwhelmed by the tenderness in his eyes despite the rut clearly driving him mad with need. Then you nodded again before catching yourself. He raised a brow and gave you that knowing look that sent warmth spreading through your chest.

“Sorry,” you whispered, your voice coming out breathier than intended. “Y-yes, Sy. Yes… I think I can do that.”

“Good girl,” he praised softly, and the words sent a spike of pleasure straight to your core. A gentle smile curved his lips even as his eyes blazed. “Good kitty.”

The purr that escaped your throat was completely involuntary, your cat hybrid instincts responding to the praise before you could stop them. His eyes darkened impossibly further at the sound, and you felt his cock twitch against your thigh.

“And if you want me to stop—” His mouth pressed back to your heated skin, trailing barely-there kisses down the valley between your breasts, his wolf ears tilted forward to catch every sound you made. Your eyes fluttered shut as your fingers twisted in the sheets, claws puncturing the fabric. “—you tell me right away. Okay?” he muttered, his voice raw and strained with want.

“Y-yes, Sylus… I understand,” you whimpered, another involuntary purr vibrating in your chest.

“Good.”

He breathed in through his nose, inhaling your scent deeply, and you shivered when he exhaled warm breath directly over your nipple. “Fuck, angel… you’re so beautiful. So perfect. Can’t believe I get to have you like this. Can’t believe you’re finally mine.”

Then he wrapped his lips around your nipple, teeth skimming lightly over the sensitive peak as he sucked and licked with slow, hungry passion. His tongue was hot and wet, circling and flicking in ways that made your back arch off the bed.

“Sy…” you mewled, the sound high and needy and so distinctly feline. Your hips lifted helplessly as your cunt sought any kind of friction, your tail thrashing against the sheets.

Sylus looked up at you, his mouth still wrapped around your nipple, and his eyes were absolutely wicked. Heat crawled up your skin under his gaze. He could see everything on your face—want, need, desperation—and he welcomed it, reveled in it. His lips returned to their work, long, slow, lavish licks from the flat of his tongue over your pebbled nipple while his other hand rose to squeeze your other breast, kneading gently, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

The dual sensation made you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, threading through the silver strands. When your fingers accidentally brushed his wolf ear, he groaned around your nipple, his hips grinding down against you involuntarily.

Impatient, trembling, desperate for more, you guided the hand on your breast downward—down your stomach, down to the heat between your thighs where you needed him most. His breath hitched sharply, his mouth releasing your nipple with a wet pop as he stared at you.

“Please,” you whimpered. “Need you to touch me. Need—”

Your words cut off in a loud, helpless moan as his fingers slipped beneath the band of your little sleeping shorts and down to where you needed him most. His mouth fell open with a loud, helpless groan right against your breast when his fingers met your soaked folds.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his fingers sliding through your slickness, exploring, teasing. “Fuck, kitten, you’re drenched. So wet for me. Is this all from your heat or—”

“You,” you gasped out as his fingers traced your pussy softly, learning every fold, every sensitive spot. “It’s you. Always you.”

He groaned again, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you felt his cock throb against your thigh, hard and hot even through his underwear. His fingers continued their exploration, one finger circling your entrance teasingly before sliding up to circle your clit with maddening lightness.

He worshipped you there for a moment—just his fingers teasing, learning every response, cataloging what made you gasp and what made you moan—before he suddenly pulled back. Completely away from you.

You whimpered at the loss, your hands reaching for him desperately, a distressed mewl escaping your throat that made his ears flatten apologetically. But he was already sitting up, watching through half-lidded eyes as he took his time removing the rest of his clothes. Every movement felt agonizingly slow—the flex of his muscles, the reveal of more pale skin, the thick trail of hair leading down from his navel.

When he finally pushed his underwear down, his cock sprang free, thick, massive, hard and flushed dark with need. Your eyes widened at the size of him, at the sheer girth and length, at the prominent veins running along his shaft, at the bead of precum already leaking from the tip. You felt another gush of slickness between your thighs, your body preparing itself instinctively, but your mind was suddenly racing with doubt.

He was big. Bigger than you’d imagined, and you were a virgin. How was that supposed to fit inside you? Your eyes traced down his length to where you could see the thick bulge at the base—his knot, still not fully swollen but already intimidating. The thought of taking all of that, of being stretched around him, knotted by him…

Panic fluttered in your chest even as arousal pooled hot and heavy in your belly. Your heat-addled brain was at war with itself—half of it screaming ‘want, need him, need to be filled, bred, knotted’ while the other half whispered anxiously ‘too big, won’t fit, it’s going to hurt—‘

You shut your eyes briefly, the conflicting emotions making you whine and mewl like the kitten you were. The sounds were desperate, needy—desperate to feel him again, desperate for his heat on your skin, desperate to be filled despite your fears. But underneath it all was that thread of nervousness, of uncertainty about whether your body could actually take what it was begging for.

When he was finally naked, you felt the bed dip as he moved back over you. He leaned down, his lips immediately finding your neck, licking and sucking softly, careful of where he’d eventually place his mating bite. His hands cupped your sensitive breasts and massaged them with tender, reverent fingers, his palms rough against your soft skin. Heat flooded your body as Sylus kissed down your shoulders, then your chest, his mouth leaving warm, fluttering trails that made your tail curl.

Your trembling hands slid into his silver hair, threading through the strands, gently scratching at the base of his ears in the way that made him shudder. He continued to kiss and taste every inch of exposed skin, his tongue occasionally flicking out to taste, to scent-mark, to claim.

Sylus’s lips moved slowly down your body, worshipping you with unhurried kisses, while his hands traced the lines of your shaking form—mapping every curve, every soft place, every breath you took beneath him. Lower and lower he went, until he was settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider.

He leaned forward, breathing in the heat of your core as he ran his nose slowly along the patch of dampness clinging to your shorts. You tugged at his hair when he inhaled your scent deeply, his eyes rolling back slightly, a rumbling groan emanating from his chest.

“Fuck, kitten,” he hummed, looking up at you with an intense, hungry gaze that was pure predator. His wolf instincts were fully on display now, and every instinct in you should have been screaming. Instead, you spread your legs wider in invitation. His hands left your skin to curl into the waistband of your tiny shorts. “You smell so good… so fucking ready. I can’t wait to taste you. Been dreaming about having my mouth on your pretty pussy for years.”

A shuddering breath slipped past your lips as you lifted your hips instinctively, silently begging him to take them off. He slid the fabric down your legs torturously slowly, and you watched his eyes track the string of slickness that connected your pussy to the soaked fabric before it broke.

“No panties,” he observed, his voice gone even rougher. “Were you expecting this, kitten? Or do you just walk around the apartment with nothing under these tiny shorts, driving me fucking insane?”

“I—I was too hot,” you stammered, your face heating up. “The heat, I couldn’t—”

“Shh, I know.” He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, soothing. “I’m not complaining. Fuck, I’m not complaining.”

Once he pushed your thighs open wider for him, you whimpered as the cool air kissed your wet slit, as you were completely exposed to his ravenous gaze. Sylus stilled for a moment, his eyes devouring the sight of you—your glistening center clenching around nothing as he watched your pussy pulse with need and so swollen, your slickness coating your inner thighs.

“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Perfect. All mine.”

He licked his lips slowly, deliberately, before leaning down and placing lingering kisses along your inner thighs. His tongue dragged warm, teasing strokes over your soft skin, sucking gently, leaving marks, worshipping. His mouth was so close to where you needed him most, but each kiss felt like sweet torture, keeping him just out of reach.

“Please,” you whimpered, your tail lashing in frustration. “Sylus, please—”

“So pretty when you beg,” he murmured as he guided your legs up and over his shoulders, settling you perfectly beneath him, his hot breath ghosting over your aching core. “Again.”

“Please,” you repeated, more desperate this time. “Please touch me, taste me, anything—”

You were about to beg more—about to plead for him—when his lips left your thigh… only for him to nuzzle directly against your pussy a moment later. The contact made you cry out, your back arching off the bed. He smeared your slick across his lips with a groan of satisfaction, savoring your taste as he opened you with his tongue, dragging it flat from your entrance to your clit in one long, devastating lick.

“Fuck,” he groaned against you, the vibration making you whimper. “Taste even better than you smell. Could eat this sweet little pussy for hours. Might have to, just to prepare you for my cock.”

You gasped, your body arching as his wet tongue finally met your throbbing heat again, this time circling your clit with purpose. He licked and sucked with the dedication of a man starving, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered in the world.

He pulled back again briefly, only long enough for his fingers to slide in and spread your outer lips for him, exposing your swollen clit and clenching entrance fully to his gaze. Sylus smirked as he eased a single finger inside you, watching your body react—the way your hips twitched, the way your walls fluttered and clenched around the intrusion, how greedily your wet hole swallowed his digit. You moaned into the pillow beside you, trying to muffle the desperate sounds, your ears flat against your head with overwhelming sensation.

Those little whines—soft, needy, helpless, so feline—only drove Sylus to chase more of those heavenly noises from your lips. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking the swollen bud between his lips while his finger worked inside you.

“Fuck… such a tight little pussy,” he moaned against you as your cunt clenched repeatedly around his finger. “So fucking tight. Virgin tight.” The word made you clench harder, and he groaned. “I’m going to have to prepare your tiny pussy for my cock, kitten. Have to stretch you out nice and slow so you can take me. So you can take my knot. So I can breed you all night long.”

Your whines grew louder at the mention of his knot and the thought of him breeding you, your heat-driven instincts screaming yes, need that, want to be knotted, bred, filled. The pleasure washed over you in waves as his finger curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars.

His fingers were so much bigger than yours—just one of his was more overwhelming, more delicious, reaching deeper than anything you’d ever done to yourself. And when he added a second finger, stretching you carefully while his tongue worked your clit, you thought you might die from how good it felt.

“That’s it,” he praised, his voice muffled against you. “Get used to being stretched. You’re doing so good for me. Such a good little kitty.”

The praise combined with the physical sensation made you purr loudly, your body going pliant and eager for him, desperate to please, desperate to be good for your alpha, your mate.

Your mate.

The realization should have overwhelmed you. Instead, it felt like coming home.

Your breath hitched as your body responded to him, your core fluttering and clenching around his fingers like it recognized him on instinct alone. A soft whimper slipped past your lips, tail curling against the sheets as your ears twitched, betraying just how sensitive you were to every careful movement he made. Sylus’s fingers moved slowly inside you, unhurried, reverent—like he was memorizing the way your body opened for him.

Without thinking, your hips began to sway into his touch, chasing the closeness, the intimacy of it. A low sound rumbled from his chest, warm and deep, his gaze softening even as it burned with want. He watched you like you were something precious—your trembling thighs, the way your hands fisted the sheets, the small, helpless movements of your tail when pleasure crept higher.

You panted softly as he added another finger, his touch patient, coaxing. He gave your body time, easing you open with gentle insistence until the stretch stopped being overwhelming and turned into something lush and intoxicating. Your whimpers grew quieter, needier, each one melting into the next as his fingers curled inside you with deliberate care.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. His lips lingered, tender and consuming all at once, as if he was afraid of leaving even for a second. Your claws threaded into his hair, tugging him closer, your body responding to him as naturally as breathing. His thumb brushed your clit, and the kiss deepened—slow, intimate, devastating.

You gasped when his tongue slipped into your mouth, kissing you with desperate devotion. “That feels good, doesn’t it, baby girl? You like it when I touch you like this?” Sylus groaned—right as his thumb found your clit. You bucked into him, nodding frantically.

“Use your words, kitten,” he teased darkly.

“Yes—please, Sy, please… feels so good,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “Please...”

He kissed his way down your body again, making you whine and beg in soft, breathless sounds—even as his fingers kept thrusting inside you.

Sylus inhaled your scent as soon as he settled between your thighs, but he didn’t keep you waiting. He wet his lips, then dipped his head to drag his tongue in a slow stripe from your dripping folds to your clit.

“Fuck, Sylus!” you shrieked, hips lifting off the mattress.

Senseless, needy noises poured from your throat. Your hips stuttered against him, and he simply sighed—like there was nothing in this world he wanted more than to eat you out right here, right now.

He savored you, his mouth moving with unhurried devotion, his fingers still inside you, grounding you even as pleasure began to blur the edges of everything else. His free hand rested on your hip—not to hold you down, but to keep you close, to remind you he was right there.

Your name spilled from his mouth like a promise, and his from yours like a prayer. Tears stung your eyes as the feeling built, overwhelming in the sweetest way. His tongue moved with quiet confidence, his fingers curling just right, drawing soft, needy sounds from deep in your chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmured when your body tensed, sensing it instantly. “I’ve got you. Breathe kitten.”

You buried your face into the pillow, nodding weakly, trusting him completely.

When he returned to you, slower this time, more intentional, the pleasure bloomed again—gentler but deeper. You sighed at the same moment he did—yours high and breathy, his deep and dreamy. He lapped at you with clear intention, fucking you with slow, careful strokes of his fingers this time, keeping you just where you needed to be. Your hands found his hair, holding him there as if you might float apart otherwise.

“Oh—my god,” you whimpered, trembling hands gripping his silver hair with one hand while the other clamped over your mouth to silence yourself. “F-Fuck… Sy, f-fuck…”

He moaned into your pussy, lips sealing around your clit. You jerked at the sensation. “Fucking hell— you taste so good. You feel so good. You’re everything,” he groaned against you.

“Fuck, baby—oh my fucking god,” you cried out. He sucked lazily on your clit while curling his fingers inside you, then sucked harder as he circled your little bud with his tongue. His fingers moved faster, deeper, hitting your sweet spot over and over. You moaned his name between breathless mewls, now gripping his hair with both hands. “Feels so good Alpha…”

Your whole body trembled violently, heat spreading everywhere, your hips grinding helplessly into his face and hand.

“A-Ah! I’m coming—please, please—”

“Cum for me, kitten,” he murmured before sucking your clit again.

Your body snapped tight as your orgasm tore through you. Your mind exploded into blinding stars, pleasure crashing through your nerves so sharply you cried out his name. You trembled uncontrollably as you came against his mouth, your soul unwinding in his hands.

“You’re doing so well for me, kitty,” he whispered proudly as his fingers slowed, sliding out to softly rub your swollen slit while he kept licking your clit—guiding you gently through every last wave.

You were a sputtering, helpless mess, trembling as he pushed you right to the edge of overstimulation. As your senses returned in shaky pieces, you felt his fingers slip away from your heat. Your pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and empty. You felt like a fevered storm, soaked from the waist down, dripping onto the sheets, whimpering helplessly.

You needed him. Badly. Your pussy pulsed insistently—begging to be filled again. Begging for his cock.

You rolled onto your stomach with a breathless, needy mewl, burying your face into his pillow as it still held his scent. Your tail curled tight against the sheets, flicking weakly as your body trembled with lingering sensation. Your ears twitched at every sound behind you. You kept your eyes closed when you felt his hands on you again—large, warm, unmistakably steady as he lifted your hips and spread your legs wider, guiding you with quiet certainty.

A soft, startled sound slipped from you when Sylus leaned in and pressed his face between your thighs. He inhaled deeply as he spread your cheeks apart—slow, deliberate—his wolf committing your scent to memory. The reaction was immediate. Your body shuddered, slick gathering between your folds as your arousal bloomed again, stronger this time, your scent thickening and turning sweet. The low sound he made in response vibrated through the mattress, deep and instinctive, and the bed shifted beneath the force of it.

Then his mouth was on you.

Messy, hungry, unrestrained—his tongue dragged over every inch of sensitive skin between your thighs, saliva warm and unashamed. His hands locked firmly on your hips, holding you tilted just right, keeping you open and offered. His focus narrowed completely to your heat, to the way wetness welled and spilled freely now, mixing with his saliva and trailing down to soak the sheets beneath you. Your clit throbbed desperately, aching as each flick of his tongue passed just beside it, teasing your frayed nerves.

The vibrations of his quiet growls traveled straight through you, doubling every sensation. When his tongue finally circled your clit, a loud, broken cry tore from your throat, ears flattening as your back arched off the bed. He licked a slow, possessive stripe up through your folds, teasingly dipping his tongue into your needy entrance—just enough to make you gasp—before gliding back up. His tongue spread you open with wet warmth as his lips closed around your clit, sucking with reverent hunger.

You nearly sobbed at the feeling. Your whole body trembled, overwhelmed and desperate, instincts screaming. You needed more—needed him. Without thinking, you tried to grind yourself against his mouth, chasing friction like a needy little thing, but his arms slid around your thighs. His biceps caged your hips in place, holding you still with effortless strength.

Not cruel. Not rushed. Controlled.

“Taste so good, kitten… could eat this pussy all day,” he growled against you.

The man you loved more than anything was between your legs, tongue gliding slowly up and down your soaked slit, savoring you like prey he had no intention of letting go of. Every soft mewl, every helpless sound you made only urged him on. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking gently but deliberately, lips warm and persistent as though he wanted you to feel every second of it.

When he leaned in deeper and slipped his tongue into your entrance, your breath caught sharply. He curled it upward, brushing your inner walls with careful precision. Your fingers bunched the sheets in a tight, trembling grip, claws threatening to tear through the fabric—and he felt it. He repeated the motion, slower, firmer, intent sharpening.

You were undone beneath him. A needy, whimpering mess, hips betraying you as they strained uselessly against his hold. Soft, breathless cries spilled from your lips as he licked upward again, pressing his tongue against that sensitive spot inside you. Your vision blurred. Your hips bucked hard against his mouth, thighs clamping around his head as another orgasm crept frighteningly close.

Greed and desperation overtook you. Your hips pushed against his face to force his tongue deeper into your aching cunt.

“Sylus…” you moaned, voice breaking, raw and needy. You were so close—aching, trembling.

You moved your hips against him helplessly, fucking yourself on his tongue as he pressed firmly into that sensitive spot inside you. His thumb circled your clit in slow, perfect circles that made stars dance behind your eyes.

“Be a good girl and come for me,” he murmured, voice low and commanding, devotion wrapped tight around the words—before plunging his tongue back inside you.

That was all it took.

Your body gave in with a shattered cry, pleasure ripping through you as your vision went white and your ears rang. Your movements turned sloppy and uncoordinated as you came against his mouth, hips stuttering through the final waves. He stayed with you through it all, tongue soothing, lapping gently until the overstimulation made you twitch and whine. Only then did he ease back.

“You did so well, princess… so good to me. So beautiful. And you taste so good. So sweet,” he murmured against your inner thigh, voice thick with praise.

You whimpered softly at his praise, still oversensitive and aching, your body trembling in small aftershocks from the force of your climax. Your tail twitched weakly against the sheets, ears flicking as if every sound and touch reached you twice as strongly now. Before you could fully gather yourself, Sylus shifted above you, moving up your back with slow intention. He pressed soft, lingering kisses along your spine, each one warm and grounding, then across your shoulders, and finally to the curve of your neck.

Your breath hitched with every kiss. Your whimpers and broken little moans never quite stopped as he spoiled you—touching you like you were precious, worshipping you with a devotion that made your chest ache. His presence was steady and sure, his body a solid warmth over yours, anchoring you as much as he aroused you.

“I love you so much, sweet girl,” Sylus murmured, voice low and sincere as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His nose brushed your skin, breathing you in like instinct demanded. “So responsive to me.”

The room felt heavy with anticipation, the air thick with scent—your arousal sweet and unmistakable, his deeper and warmer beneath it. You lay beneath him, every inch of you flushed and sensitive, nerves still singing from where he had touched you. His words settled deep inside you, soft and reverent, and you melted into the mattress, your usual hesitations crumbling under the weight of his affection.

“I love you too,” you breathed back, the confession barely louder than a whisper, as though saying it out loud might undo you.

His lips returned to your neck, open-mouthed kisses trailing along your skin in a slow, unhurried line. Each press lingered, deliberate, almost possessive without being rough. He moved from your neck to your shoulders, then along your jaw, his breath warm against your ear. You whimpered again, your body arching instinctively, hips pressing back against him without conscious thought. It felt natural—necessary—your feline instincts urging you closer, seeking friction, seeking him.

His skin was slick and hot against yours, his body radiating heat so intense it chased away the chill entirely. When you turned your head slightly to look at him, you caught the scent of yourself on his breath and lips, your arousal clinging to him. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded as they met yours, pupils blown wide. Moments later, you felt the warm drip of his own arousal spill into the small dip of your back, making you shiver.

Sylus lined himself up slowly, carefully, and glided his cock through the slick cleft of your ass. Your breath caught as his tip dragged along your slit, spreading wetness everywhere. Your body trembled as precum leaked freely from him, smearing over your clit and folds, the sensation making your inner walls clench and flutter in response.

You squirmed helplessly beneath him, your body a writhing mess of need, tail curling tight as anticipation coiled low in your belly. Every slow roll of his hips made your breath hitch, made your muscles tense like you were bracing for something inevitable.

“Let’s move you around,” he murmured softly, hands sliding to your hips as he tried to guide you onto your back.

A needy mewl slipped from you before you could stop it, your body resisting the movement instinctively.

“Kitten?” he prompted gently, pausing.

You swallowed, voice trembling as the words spilled out. “Sy… I want you to take me from behind. Please. I need you to fuck me like this. I want my first time to be like this—with you. Please.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest, restrained but unmistakably wolfish. “That’s your heat talking,” he murmured, though his hands tightened slightly on your hips.

“Please,” you whimpered again, desperation bleeding through every word. “I can’t do this anymore. I need you. I need you so bad.” Your hips ground back against him, slick heat coating his length, the friction driving you nearly frantic. The tip of his cock brushed your entrance, teasing, while your clit throbbed with every small movement. Your mind felt hazy, overwhelmed by want.

“I don’t think your tiny virgin pussy can handle my cock,” he said quietly, voice husky, teasing—but there was hesitation there too. His grip tightened, steadying rather than forcing. “Especially not like this.”

You felt him breathing harder behind you, his control slipping inch by inch. His body was tense, like he was holding himself back with everything he had. You could feel the conflict in him—the way he wanted you, the way he was fighting to make this right.

“I can handle it,” you insisted, voice shaking but sincere. “Let me be your good kitten.”

Sylus stilled. His hand guided himself to your entrance, fingers firm and grounding as he rubbed the tip of his cock over your swollen clit. Your mind spiraled, the sensation overwhelming. Your breath broke into a soft cry, your back arching off the bed as sensation flooded you.

“Fuck, Sy, please,” you pleaded, your voice breaking. “I can’t do this anymore. I jus’ need you so bad. My pussy needs you. It needs to be filled with your cock and cum. Please, Daddy. Let me be your good kitten. Fill this little hole up, breed this pussy. My Alpha, please—”

Your words were a catalyst, sending Sylus over the edge. A deep growl tore from him as his hands gripped your hips, tilting them and spreading your legs wider. His rough, wide hands caressed your ass, his touch both gentle and commanding. He circled his tip around your entrance, the motion slow and deliberate, pulling desperate whines from your lips. You squirmed, your hips wiggling, trying to push back against him, but his hold was firm, his dominance undeniable.

“You’re so warm. Taste and smell so nice and ripe.” he murmured, breath ragged. “So ready for my cubs, kitten.”

You whimpered beneath him as his hips ground forward, his voice darker than you’d ever heard it, rough with instinct. The head of his cock brushed lower, grazing your entrance before he drew back slightly, watching the way your tight, little virgin pussy clenched, desperate and begging to be filled. His teeth clicked softly near your ear, sending goosebumps racing over your skin and making your hips jerk beneath his.

This time, when his tip pressed against your soaked centre, he hissed sharply. The instant his dewy tip pressed against your entrance, you mewled, your body tensing with anticipation. The fat head of his cock was a promise, a prelude to the fullness you craved. Your stomach seized, the wait torturous, your clit throbbing in time with your racing heart.

“Gonna take care of you, breed you so good.” He murmured, circling his hips again, the tip winding around your entrance, dipping between your folds. You lifted your hips instinctively to meet him, back arching under his chest as your body begged for what was coming.

“You look so beautiful like this,” he whispered, voice thick with longing. “Mine.”

“P-please, Daddy—” you croaked, the word tearing out of you in a thin, broken whisper. Your ears flattened instinctively as Sylus's heavy breathing filled the space behind you, each husky exhale brushing your skin and making your tail curl tight. His presence was overwhelming—solid and powerful, all wolfish heat and restrained hunger. His flushed cockhead pressed more firmly at your entrance, making it ache, while your clit pulsed painfully beneath him.

You trembled beneath him, every inch of you alive with need. Your tail curled tight against the sheets and then loosened again, betraying how restless you were. He covered you completely, his heat bleeding into you, chasing every last trace of cold from your skin until there was nothing left but warmth and want. You writhed softly, helplessly, yearning for him to fill you—yearning to be so full of him that the world blurred into white and there was only Sylus.

His nose brushed along the side of your neck for a brief second, an instinctive nuzzle that made your breath catch. Like he had to breathe you in, like he had to ground himself before he moved.

“Ah… such a pretty, tiny pussy,” he heaved, voice thick with desire and something darker beneath it—something wolfish and barely leashed. “Can’t wait to breed this tight little pussy all night long.”

The words went straight through you, a hot shiver tearing down your spine. You whimpered, and your body clenched around nothing, begging.

A broken gasp burst from your lips when he finally slipped the tip of his cock inside. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t careless. It was slow and heavy, the kind of pressure that demanded your entire body’s attention. You felt him shift behind you, sitting up just enough to look down, his eyes locked on the place where your body tried to accommodate him.

“Ohhh—” the sound that left you wasn’t even fully a moan, more like something pulled from deep in your chest. Relief and ache tangled together as you relished the feeling of him, the pressure turning into bliss as the head of his length spread you open. It felt like he was parting you slowly, shaping you with patience, like he refused to hurt you even while his need raged.

Your walls stretched in a slow, aching attempt to wrap around him, but it was clear from the start it wouldn’t be easy. He was overwhelming—thick and wide even at the tip, the stretch made sharper by how desperate and worked-up you already were. A harsh hiss slipped through his teeth when he had to pull back slightly, easing you open with controlled restraint, cock throbbing inside your center in time with the fluttering convulsions of your walls.

A shaky whine spilled from you as he pushed forward again, the stretch searing through you. His veins dragged along your walls in a way that felt intimate and claiming, like he was molding you to him, pressing himself into every place your body could offer. Your claws flexed against the sheets, leaving faint marks in the fabric as you tried to steady yourself.

He went deeper. And deeper.

A long, fragile sound broke from your throat as you shuddered, overwhelmed by how much of him there was. He was so big. So impossibly thick. You felt split open around him in the most helpless way, your body trembling as it struggled and then clung, like your instincts didn’t know whether to fight or surrender.

“Sy, I can’t—” you mewled, voice cracking into a needy, feline sound that made his breath hitch. “S-so big… t-too b-big…”

He didn’t answer immediately.

His hands slid down to your ass, spreading you open carefully—just to see you, to understand exactly how your body was taking him. His gaze was intense, pupils blown wide, the wolf in him watching the way your dripping cunt fought to accept him. His jaw flexed, a quiet tremor of restraint rolling through him as if he was holding back everything he wanted to do.

“Poor kitty,” he sighed, voice rough with a mix of amusement and aching tenderness. “So tiny…” His thumb brushed your hip, a gentle stroke that softened the words. “My pretty kitten can barely take me.”

Slowly—carefully—he pushed just a little further, inch by inch, his pace controlled like he’d rather break himself than break you. His breath ghosted over your cheek as he leaned down, voice lowering into something intimate.

“You can take it,” he murmured. “You’re doing so, so good for me.” Another slow push. “Such a good little kitten.”

And then he kissed your cheek—soft and sweet, a tender mark of love right in the middle of all that heat.

“It’s so big,” you mewled again, hips stuttering helplessly beneath him. Your tail flicked once in frantic need, your ears flattening as your body tried to adjust around his size. “Ah… Daddy…”

His grip tightened slightly—not harsh, but firm enough to hold you steady, to keep you from slipping away from the pressure you were begging for. The wolf in him rumbled low, but the man you loved stayed careful, coaxing your body instead of forcing it.

“You can do it, kitty,” Sylus insisted, voice a low growl right by your ear, warm breath washing over your skin. “You’ll take daddy’s cock… like the good little kitten you are.”

The stretch burned, sharp and intense… but it was intoxicating, too. Your eyes fluttered shut, lips parting on helpless sounds as he worked himself deeper, your pussy fluttering around him in a desperate attempt to adjust. Your whimpers turned breathless and pathetic, sweet and needy, the kind of sounds that felt too honest to stop.

He paused again, just long enough for your walls to soften around him, just long enough for your body to stop resisting and start learning him.

“Such a good girl,” he breathed.

Your body clenched hard at the praise, slick gathering faster as if your cunt had decided to reward him for being gentle.

You took a deep, shaky breath—and when he pressed forward again, it was different. He slid inside far enough for the swelling near the base of his cock to begin spreading you wider, and your exhale shattered into a cry when you felt your core strain around his knot. Your thighs shook violently, claws scraping at the sheets as your body tried to process the fullness.

Sylus’ breathing came faster and hotter, panting against your back. You felt drops of sweat fall from his chin as he hovered over you, shaking with restraint. His hands stayed on your hips—steady, grounding—while the tip of his cock nudged deep, brushing that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you that made your vision blur.

“Alpha,” you mewled, voice trembling, small and desperate. “T-too big…”

A broken sound tore from him, animalistic and raw, like the wolf was slipping through the cracks of his control. He shuddered over you, hips trembling as he fought himself, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grind.

He held himself there—still, strained—breathing hard, like he was forcing patience into his bones.

Then his voice softened, roughened by devotion. “Look at me,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Your throat tightened painfully at the tenderness in it. It didn’t make the need smaller. It made it worse—because it reminded you this wasn’t just lust. This was Sylus. Your Sylus.

And then his restraint snapped, not into cruelty, but into aching surrender.

He thrust forward harder, hips snapping with a force that drove him all the way in. Filling you to the brim.

You cried out, body arching off the bed as the fullness stole your breath. Your toes curled, eyes squeezing shut, and your pussy convulsed around him like it couldn’t decide whether to clamp down or melt. You felt his precum mix with your slick, hot and deep, and tears spilled freely down your cheeks—overwhelmed by the stretch, the relief, the trust, the love tangled into it all.

For a moment, you were suspended in pure sensation—shaking, full, completely his.

You felt stretched perfectly around him, filled so deeply your entire body buzzed. And as your walls slowly softened, adjusting around his thickness, the overwhelming fullness began to bloom into something sweeter. Deeper.

You clenched around him without meaning to.

Sylus groaned low, the sound vibrating through your spine. His face tightened with restraint as he leaned over you, his hands sliding down your waist and then kneading your ass cheeks, touch possessive but gentle.

“Fuck,” he hissed, voice strained. “So fucking tight…” He dragged a shaky breath in. “You look so beautiful like this—taking me all the way… my good kitten.”

“Please… I need you,” you whimpered, voice breaking as your pussy pulsed around him, needy and greedy, refusing to let him go. Your tail curled tighter, trembling with every beat of your heart. “Please Sy…”

He pulled out slowly—so slowly it felt cruel. The empty ache hit you instantly, making you whine, your hips chasing him without permission. “Such a needy pussy,” Sylus groaned, and then he thrust back in again, hips snapping forward hard enough to make your whole body slump into the mattress.

The first thrusts were deliberate—strong enough to make your breasts bounce, deep enough to knock breath from your lungs. Each snap of his hips drew something new out of you: a breathless mewl, a whine, a broken plea you couldn’t hold back. Your ears flattened and your tail flicked in frantic rhythm, your body reacting like instinct had stolen every last ounce of pride. The sounds filled the room quickly—soft, frantic, embarrassingly sweet.

Sylus groaned, the wolf in him practically purring at the way you responded. But his hands stayed careful on you, holding you steady, guiding the pace so it didn’t steal too much from you too fast.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and thick with approval as he pressed his mouth to the back of your shoulder, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. “Sing for me, kitten…”

And with every thrust that followed, you did—your body trembling, heart open, love and heat crashing together until there was nothing left in you but him.

“Ah—ah, fuck, daddy… oh my god—” you hiccuped, your voice breaking into breathless little sounds as Sylus moved his hips slowly but firmly behind you. Each thrust sent hot, lightning-sharp jolts through your body, pleasure blooming and spreading until it made your limbs feel weightless. Your pussy pulsed greedily around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, but the stretch became more bearable with every careful push—turning from sharp overwhelm into something lush, intoxicating, almost addictive as your body began to surrender.

You didn’t just take him—you learned him. Like your instincts were wrapping around his, yielding not out of weakness, but because it was him. Because it was love. Because your body trusted him even when it trembled.

His pace quickened, hips snapping against yours with growing urgency, rough enough to make the bedframe rock beneath you. The slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, obscene and steady. Each deep thrust dragged a helpless sound from your throat as he drove into you again and again, filling you so thoroughly it stole your breath every single time. His palm slid down to your ass, spreading you open as he pushed in fully, claiming every inch with a possessive kind of care that made your chest tighten.

You cried out when your body clenched around him, instinctively welcoming him deeper, the pressure making your eyes squeeze shut as if you could feel him everywhere.

Your tail flicked erratically behind you, betraying how close you were to losing yourself. Your ears twitched at every low sound he made—every ragged breath, every restrained growl that vibrated through his chest and into your spine. He held you firmly in place, his cock stretching you open until it left you dizzy and breathless, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding you back onto him with slow, deliberate thrusts—still controlled, still watching you, feeling you, reading every shiver as if your body spoke a language only he understood.

Even now, even like this, Sylus took his time in the moments that mattered, pausing just enough for you to breathe, to soften, to take him fully, his restraint trembling at the edge of snapping.

“That’s it,” he groaned, forehead pressing briefly to your back. “My good girl. My kitten.”

The praise hit you like a kiss to the soul. Your walls fluttered around him, greedy and tight, and you whimpered helplessly.

His voice softened just enough to make it ache. “All for me.”

He kept you pinned with one broad hand at your lower back, forcing your hips up while pressing your chest firmly into the mattress, holding you exactly where he wanted you. There was no escape from him—only sensation. You were a mess beneath his weight, tears sliding down your cheeks, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth, broken little mewls spilling freely as his rhythm became more demanding, more relentless… but never careless.

His breathing came faster and faster, hot pants washing over your back. Drops of sweat slid from his chin, landing warm against your skin. You could feel yourself burning just as hot, your entire body glowing with it—especially when his tip nudged deep, brushing that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you that made your vision blur.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, voice thick, almost wrecked, as he rolled his hips deeper into you—slow for one thrust, almost reverent… and then firm again.

“Y—yes,” you gasped, barely holding yourself together. “‘S too much—Sy—feels s’good,” you mewled, voice breaking as your hands clawed the sheets, nails catching and scraping. Your back arched instinctively, pushing you closer, begging without restraint. Your tail curled tight and then flicked again, like your body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to hide or be claimed harder.

He chuckled softly—low, intimate—before leaning down until his breath brushed your ear and his nose grazed your neck in something instinctive and wolfish, a brief nuzzle that made you shiver all over.

“Good,” he whispered. “Let it consume you, kitten.”

His pace quickened. Thrusts grew rougher, deeper—driven by something hungry and unyielding that made the wolf in him bleed through the cracks. The wet sounds of your body filled the room, obscene and overwhelming, every slick drag and blunt press pushing you closer to the edge. His grip tightened, grounding you, keeping you right where he wanted you, refusing to let you drift anywhere but into him.

“Sy—Sylus…” you mewled breathlessly, voice dissolving into something small and desperate. “Feels so good…”

His thrusts turned relentless—punishing in the best way, stealing your breath, pulling your sounds from your throat until they became high, helpless cries. Your body trembled, completely at his mercy, every nerve alight. Your pussy fluttered around him like it couldn’t stop reacting, clenching greedily every time he bottomed out.

“That’s it,” he murmured, and this time his voice was almost gentle, thick with approval and want, like he was trying to soothe you even as he ruined you. “Come for daddy.”

The coil then snapped violently. You came undone around him with a sob, your mewls breaking into a raw, desperate wail as pleasure tore through you. Your whole body convulsed, thighs shaking, walls clenching hard around his cock. Sylus cursed low—guttural, wrecked—slamming deep once, twice, before he held you there, buried fully inside you as he spilled hot, his grip ironclad on your hips.

For a moment, there was nothing but ragged breathing. Your body trembled beneath his, overstimulated and shaking apart, your tail going taut and then twitching weakly as you tried to recover.

His thumb traced slow, grounding lines up your spine—firm and reassuring, a gentle reminder that you were safe. That he had you.

“That’s my good girl,” Sylus murmured against your shoulder, voice possessive and warm. “My kitten sounded so beautiful when she came for me.”

Then, Sylus shifted back just enough to draw his knot from your entrance a fraction. The movement made you whine, your walls clenching instinctively as if to keep him there. You felt a warm, generous mouthful of saliva slip from his lips and coat your slick, swollen entrance—his breath shuddering as he watched it, as if the sight alone tightened his control into something thin and trembling. His next push slipped his thickness back into you with sinful ease, and when his hips finally pressed flush against yours, he collapsed over you again with a groan. One elbow sank into the pillow beside your head while the other held your hips tilted just right, keeping you offered as he emptied himself deep—so deep it felt like it kissed the very center of you.

“So tight,” he rasped, voice shaking. “So good… mine.”

“Daddy—ah!” you cried, breathing matching his as his knot throbbed inside your walls. The stretch bordered on uncomfortable, but your body still pulsed with pleasure, your clit throbbing between your thighs like a desperate plea for relief. Your nipples pressed hard against the bed beneath you, sensitivity spiking with every shallow breath.

It took him a minute—he stayed buried, panting, trembling, fighting to stay gentle even as his instincts urged him to claim you harder. But soon Sylus shifted again, cock and knot pushing and pulling inside you with slow insistence, and your breath caught sharply when the heavy grind pressed into your g-spot like mortar and pestle, crushing pleasure into you until you felt faint.

“F-fuck…” you choked, voice barely there.

You hadn’t even realized his knot had receded enough for him to move properly again until he drew back and pushed right back into you with a slick sound loud enough to make heat crawl up your cheeks. Your ears flicked in embarrassed sensitivity, tail twitching weakly as if the sound alone made you feel exposed.

His hand came up to cradle your head, fingers threading gently through your hair—soothing you, grounding you—while his cock pulsed deep inside you, still hard, still claiming. He pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and warm, as if he couldn’t help himself.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he moved again, hips snapping forward, driving into you with renewed force.

Soon the only sounds filling the room were the slap of his hips each time they met your ass, the wet squelch of him sinking deep, and the occasional broken crack of your mewls—soft, choked, sweet. Sylus’ growls threaded between them, low and vibrating, a wolf’s satisfaction wrapped in human restraint.

You whimpered helplessly, mind fogged, body trembling… but it wasn’t enough. Not when it was him. Not when you wanted to be claimed over and over again until the ache turned into something permanent, something that lived under your skin.

Every thrust, every sharp slap of his hips against your ass, sent sensation ricocheting through you. Your thighs shook, your body tightening around him as another coil started to form—unbidden and overwhelming. Your heat pooled low and heavy in your belly, thick and demanding, your clit throbbing with every drag of his cock against that aching place inside you.

You could barely breathe. Barely think.

Your entire world narrowed down to the weight of him pressed tight to your back, his hand in your hair, his warmth surrounding you like a shield. Even his scent—wild and comforting—wrapped around your senses until there was nothing left of you that wasn’t tuned to him.

And when his fingers slipped down to your clit again, rubbing rough, careless circles, the pleasure hit sharp and blinding. Your moans broke apart into desperate, choked sounds, your body trembling uncontrollably as another orgasm surged up without warning.

When it hit, it tore through you completely. Your body convulsed, a fresh wave spilling out as you cried out, overwhelmed, tears sliding down your cheeks. Your pussy clamped and fluttered, milking him greedily as if it couldn’t stop.

“Fuck,” Sylus groaned, his rhythm faltering as he felt you fall apart again beneath him—his breath breaking, his control slipping into a low, shaking sound that rumbled like a growl against the back of your neck.

And still, even as he wrecked you, his hand tightened gently in your hair—steadying, soothing—because no matter how wild the wolf became, he never stopped holding you like you were his heart.

You could barely think. Your whole body trembled beneath him, thighs quivering uncontrollably, head spinning from the dizzying mix of overstimulation and pleasure— from the way he had filled you so completely it felt like your body didn’t know what to do with the fullness. Your sounds came out wrecked and broken, reduced to breathless cries that cracked in your throat. Tears kept sliding down your cheeks, warm and helpless, as if your body couldn’t hold anything back anymore—not sensation, not emotion.

And then Sylus slid out of you completely. The sudden emptiness made you whimper instantly, your walls clenching around nothing, your tail giving a weak, frantic twitch against the sheets. Your legs trembled, trying to close on instinct, but there was nothing there to hold onto anymore—nothing except the aching need he had carved into you.

It didn’t last long. Sylus’ hands gripped your hips and he manhandled you gently, shifting you with that careful strength of his—wolfish power wrapped in devotion—as he flipped you onto your back. Your ears flicked, oversensitive to the sound of the sheets rustling, to the heavy way he breathed above you, to the low growl that lingered in his chest like he couldn’t bear the distance.

“I need to see you,” he groaned breathlessly, eyes dark and hungry as they locked onto yours. “Need to kiss you.”

His arms circled around your back and he claimed your mouth in a heated kiss that stole what little air you had left. It wasn’t just lust—it felt like he was trying to touch your soul, trying to say everything he didn’t have the courage to confess with words. His mouth moved against yours like he couldn’t get enough, like kissing you was the only thing that made him feel grounded. And just as fast as he had left you, he entered you again.

You gasped sharply into his mouth as he pushed back into your tight, soaked heat, the stretch blooming into something deep and dizzying. Your claws curled reflexively against his shoulders, holding onto him like you were afraid you’d float apart otherwise. He sank all the way inside with a slow, steady push, and the sound you made was halfway between a sob and a moan, your body instantly pulsing around him in greedy, helpless recognition.

Sylus shuddered, a low rumble vibrating through his chest as if the wolf in him had settled the moment he was back where he belonged.

Once he was fully inside again, he rolled his hips forward in one slow, deep stroke. You cried out, back arching off the bed as the motion dragged through you inch by inch, intimate and consuming. His thrusts stayed careful—controlled—slow enough that you felt every ridge and vein, every deep press that made your vision blur.

He didn’t pull out far. Only enough to rock inside you, gentle and achingly deep, as if he wanted the closeness more than anything. Like he didn’t want to be separated from you even for a second.

He kissed your lips again—then your cheek, your jaw, his nose brushing your skin in little, instinctive nuzzles that made your stomach twist. His breath was warm and damp, his scent thick around you—wolf, desire, and something softer beneath it that felt like home.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered against your mouth. “So warm… so tight… so good for me.”

Your ears flicked and your tail curled weakly as the praise sank into you, settling somewhere deep in your chest. You whimpered, eyes glossy as you stared up at him, your heart pounding too hard to feel real.

And he kept moving—slow, deep, worshipful—like he was savoring every second of being inside you. The angle was perfect. So deep, so consuming, that Sylus gradually picked up his pace, leaving you a breathless, whimpering mess beneath him. His strokes lengthened, hips rolling forward in long, languid thrusts that made the bed creak softly. The room filled with the wet, desperate sound of slick skin meeting slick skin again and again, every noise making your cheeks burn and your body clench tighter.

Every time he sank into you, his pelvic bone dragged against your throbbing clit, and you cried out his name in pure, helpless ecstasy—louder than you meant to, more needy than you could stop. “Sylus—!”

“You’re taking me so well, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice warm and adoring as he leaned down, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His lips brushed your skin, his breath shuddering like he couldn’t stop himself from breathing you in. “Doing so… so good for me.”

Soft grunts fell from him whenever he hit that specific deep spot inside you, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as pleasure tore through him. You whimpered when his mouth returned to yours, capturing your lips in a heated, dizzying kiss that made your head spin harder.

One of his hands slipped down between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease. He rubbed two slow, deliberate circles over your sensitive nub—testing, coaxing.

You jerked against him with a sharp gasp. Sylus’ eyes darkened even more, his breath hitching as he watched you react.

When he slid into a hidden pressure point deep in your core—paired with the relentless way his fingers circled your clit—you clenched around him like a vise. Your eyes rolled back as pleasure surged violently through you, overwhelming and new, almost frightening in how fast it built. Your whimpers climbed higher, turning into breathless, broken cries as he picked up his pace, fucking you deeper, the sound of his breathing growing ragged.

“I love you, kitten,” Sylus moaned, lips curling into a soft, tender smile as he watched your face contort—so overwhelmed, so beautifully undone just for him. The words sounded like truth, like devotion spilling out without permission. Filth and praise slipped from his mouth like honey, messy and reverent all at once. “This pussy was made for me.”

You shuddered, eyes stinging again, heart clenching painfully at how sweet and possessive it felt coming from him.

His mouth covered yours again, swallowing every little noise you made, smothering your trembling breaths. Your body trembled under him, tail flicking weakly as the tightness in your belly returned, coiling and pulling tighter with every thrust, every touch, every kiss he gave you.

Your whimpers and gasps grew louder as ecstasy flooded your senses. Sylus’ hands couldn’t get enough of you—sliding over your hips, your waist, your back—touching you like he wanted to memorize you, like he was terrified this wasn’t real. His palms lingered, his thumbs stroking soothing lines that contradicted the hungry way his hips drove into you.

You whimpered at the speed of his thrusts, feeling another orgasm build rapidly. Your legs locked around his hips, clinging to him, pulling him closer. Sylus felt it too—the way you squeezed around him with every stroke—so he drove harder into your heat, shifting his hips with careful precision, searching for the exact spot he knew would shatter you.

Your arms trembled as they wrapped around him, nails digging into his back. It earned a deep, helpless groan from him—half pleasure, half restraint snapping. The coil in your belly tightened, tingling down your legs, trembling on the edge of breaking.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice strained as though the words physically hurt him. He cursed softly when you tightened around him on purpose, your body greedily clenching as if to keep him trapped inside you forever.

“Please…” you moaned, mind hazy with want, eyes glossy as you looked up at him. Your ears flicked forward, your body practically pleading without even moving.

“You want to cum, sweetheart?” he asked, voice thick, tender, wrecked.

You nodded frantically, biting your lip as your body trembled beneath him. You bucked up instinctively, chasing him, nails sinking into his skin. His hand moved back to your clit, pressure firm and perfect, while his other hand found yours. He intertwined your fingers, squeezing once—an anchor—before pinning them gently to the bed like he didn’t want you to get lost in it.

He rubbed your clit with slow insistence, just enough to drag the pleasure higher and higher until you couldn’t breathe properly.

“Cum for me, kitten,” Sylus demanded softly, voice warm against your cheek, more devotion than command.

And when he nudged that one perfect spot inside you—paired with his deep voice and the way his eyes never left your face—you exploded. You shattered, coming undone so violently it ripped a cry of his name from your throat. Blood rushed in your ears, drowning out the sound of your own sobbing breaths. Sylus crashed his lips onto yours, swallowing every broken noise as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear them, as if he wanted them all for himself.

Your head fell back, back arching sharply, your tail going rigid for a second as your body twisted under the force of release. Pleasure rolled through you in heavy waves, leaving you trembling and helpless.

Sylus groaned into your ear as your walls spasmed around him, clenching desperately, begging—needing him to stay, to fill you, to never let you go.

“Fuck…” he moaned, pushing himself up as he thrust harder, deeper, the head of his cock hitting your spot repeatedly. His voice cracked with need. “I need to fill you up again, kitten.”

You were dazed, trembling, but you still nodded vigorously, whining as overstimulation mixed with want. Your pussy squeezed around him in greedy pulses, like it was answering him. “Please…”

His hips stuttered, thrusts turning sloppy as the pleasure overtook him, his control finally slipping through his fingers. Then—with a raw, broken moan—he spilled inside you again.

As he came, his mouth moved to the junction between your neck and shoulder. His canines sank into your skin in a marking bite, instinctive and claiming. His teeth stayed embedded for a moment, and somehow you barely felt pain—only a hot rush of oversensitivity and the dizzying intimacy of being chosen. Being kept.

A soft, shocked sound left you—half moan, half whine—as he held you through it, encouraging your hips to grind against him even as his knot kept you plugged, sealing him inside while he emptied against your cervix again.

You mewled at the sensation, warmth flooding your core and spreading thickly through your walls as he stayed buried deep. Your ears fluttered with every sound he made, and when your hearing finally cleared—when the blood rushing through your ears calmed—you could hear him.

Soft, happy growls. Content, satisfied noises that vibrated against your skin while his tongue soothed the indents of his teeth. His canines still nipped you now and then, more like affectionate little reminders than anything else, and you found yourself smiling through the haze, relaxing completely against him.

Sylus licked the sweat from your skin, nuzzling you happily, his nose brushing your cheek and temple like a wolf who couldn’t stop checking that you were still there—still his.

Everything stayed blurred and soft when you came back to yourself fully. Your body ached, but in the sweetest way—completely relaxed, thoroughly ruined, glowing with an exhaustion that felt like bliss. Your tail lay limp against the sheets now, finally still, and your ears only twitched faintly when Sylus shifted above you.

Once you’d both caught your breath, Sylus leaned his forehead against yours, eyes softening into blissful awe. He kissed you tenderly—slow and careful, like he was savoring the simple fact that he could.

“That was…” he breathed, smiling down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real—your hair tousled, skin flushed, lips swollen from his kisses. His thumb brushed gently under your eye, wiping away the last trace of tears.

“So good,” you rasped, voice hoarse and hazy with pleasure. “Perfect.” You cleared your throat softly, smiling up at him even as you still trembled.

Your skin was sweaty and sticky, but he didn’t care. He looked at you like you were beautiful in a way that hurt. You felt his knot soften slightly, his cock still half-hard inside you, and he pulled you closer, hands roaming lovingly over every inch of skin he could reach. He was still dazed too—still caught on how breathtaking you looked when you came apart for him… because of him.

Overwhelmed with affection, you cupped his cheeks in both hands, thumbs stroking softly over his flushed skin, and pulled him down into another kiss. This one was slow, tender, deep—full of emotion. Full of everything the two of you had been too afraid to say.

And that was how the rest of the night went. Tangled limbs, soft kisses, quiet nuzzles, Sylus’ warm hands tracing you like he never wanted to stop. Your purr-like little sighs when he holds you close, his low, satisfied rumbles when you melted into him. Intimate touches that weren’t rushed, weren’t desperate—just yours.

You felt loved. Safe. Claimed in the gentlest way. At home in his embrace.

[mcthsman]

*FERAL: a joel miller x reader story (part eight, radio waves).

Part man, part beast, Joel Miller lives in solitude a few miles away from Jackson. At fifty-seven years old and without a Soulbond, Joel can't coexist with others— a man without his mate crazed by time and age. Until the day he sees her, the girl with tangerine blossoms in her hair and a laugh that echoes through the trees. So, he tracks her down. Hunts her through the woods, and brings home a girl that is not the wilting flower he expects.

previous chapter / series masterlist / main masterlist.

Maria makes her decision. Things finally fall into place with Joel.

chapter warnings: the obvious (big age gap, power imbalance, stockholm syndrome etc.), probably improper care of baby bunnies but they're trying their best, tommy being kind of an asshole, very brief mention of sa, guns, mentions of past misogyny, panty stealing.

word count: 3.9k.

fox says: hello friends! we have a shorter chapter tonight, but it's a turning point in the story; dynamics are finally changing, and not just the one between joel and the reader. i think i can confidently say we're halfway through to the end now! hope everyone enjoys this one and as always, please let me know how we're feeling!

if you want to be tagged whenever i update this pls just send me an ask, dm or comment on this post! <3

also available on archiveofourown.

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YOU.

You can't find it in yourself to look Joel in the eyes. He knows, he knows and you're not certain how but you're so mortified that you spend the rest of the week avoiding him the best you can in the small space you know call home. You get up later and later, goes to sleep with your back turned to him, eats your meals as fast as you can— One particular morning you stay so long in bed that you start to feel sick from it, only getting up once you're fairly certain he's outside. You tiptoe out of the room, only halfway down the hall when you hear him call for you:

"You up, darlin'? C'mere, I got som'thing for you."

The walk from the hallway into the living room is a short one, but it feels like miles under the hot sun; you're afraid of what you'll see when you finally face him, if he'll be judgmental or lascivious or something else entirely but, as you hover by the threshold of the living room, Joel looks… Normal. Like the night before hasn't happened at all. He's sitting on the couch, a wonky wooden box next to him and a bunch of shredded lettuce in his hands; the box rustles, and then Joel's attention is back to it, carefully placing the lettuce inside. Even though you know what's in the box before you even look at it, you're still surprised to find three bunnies climbing over each other; Joel has the box padded with brown fur pellets, slices of lettuce and chopped carrot surrounding the animals.

"We're not keeping them." He says when you coo, the pad of your finger running over the forehead of one of the bunnies. "Saw a hawk outside and that's the only reason they're here. Hawk goes away, they go back outside."

"They're so soft." You ignore Joel's warning entirely, already utterly enamored by the small animals.

"Lil' buggers are smart, too. I thought I should give 'em some lettuce for vitamins but they only want the carrots." Joel's face is stony, even frowning a little, but you can see the warmth in his eyes and hear the fondness in his voice. He clears his throat, throwing the last of the lettuce in a corner. "They better not still be breast feedin', because all we got is cow's milk and I doubt that'd be good for 'em. So… Don't get attached, they might die."

"We should try giving them some water. See if they drink it. If they drink the water it's because they're not drinking milk anymore, right?" You say, tormented by the idea that the bunnies might die and there's nothing either of you can do about it. One of the bunnies stand on its hind legs, ready to hop out of the box but you're faster, picking it up and cradling it against your chest. Joel sighs, muttering something like 'oh, boy' underneath his breath as he watches the animal cuddle into the crook of your neck.

"I made 'em a baby bottle, it's by the sink."

You're not sure what you're expecting, but the glass bottle with a cut off rubber glove for a nipple certainly warms your heart; Joel has gone through such trouble because he knows how much you were worried about the bunnies and the need to kiss him for it strikes you so fast and sudden you lose track of thought for a moment.

The bunny latches onto the bottle easily, and you bounce it lightly as you pad back into the living room.

"We're going to need one more name." You say. "We got Bobby and Ted, but I didn't realize there were three of them."

"We ain't namin' them." Joel grunt, brushing off his thick thighs before he stands up. "We gon' put them back outside as soon as that hawk is gone and let nature take care of 'em."

"I'm partial to Robert," You go on as if Joel hadn't protested— You know he'll cave in the end, just like he has with every single one of your requests so far.

"We can't have Robert and Bobby." Joel rolls his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something else, but he is cut off by a low dinging noise coming from the bell next to the door. Joel's head whips to it like a dog to a squirrel, moving towards the rifle perched by the fireplace before you can even comprehend what is going.

"Bedroom. Now." He orders, and for once you obey, the seriousness of Joel's face giving no space for arguments.

The bedroom door doesn't have a lock, and you're not certain if barricading it wouldn't be an exaggerated reaction so you set the box with the animals in a corner you deem safe, and then you stand near the window, arms crossed over your chest. You crack it open enough for you to be able to crawl through and make a run for it if necessary, and the noise from the outside travels in with the wind: A horse's slow trotting, followed by the holler of a voice you've come to know as Tommy. You're out of the room before you can stop yourself, and Joel sighs deeply when he sees you, mutters something under his breath about how 'ain't nobody obey him anymore' but doesn't order you back into the room. He swings the rifle over his shoulder, opening the door before Tommy can knock.

The past week of avoiding Joel while trying not to panic about the verdict that seemed to loom over the both of you had been absolute hell; Tommy had gone radio silent and, while you weren't sure whether that was normal or not, you always caught Joel looking at the box in the living room shelf— Whenever you were around him, anyway. Tommy doesn't bother with greetings, though he does give you a tight-lipped smile as he crosses through the threshold, an overstuffed backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Wife kicked ya out?" Joel asks, an eyebrow raised as he looks over the bag. Tommy huffs out a noise that is half a grunt and half a laugh, setting the backpack on the couch before he starts going through it; the act is reminiscent of Joel's backpack of gifts a while back, when he finally gave you the collar, but Tommy's movements are not as bashful or as calculated as Joel's had been.

"Maria gon' let you stay."

"How gracious of her." Joel maneuvers himself to casually stand between you and Tommy, and it gives you the perfect opportunity to elbow him in the ribs. He yelps and shields himself away from you, Tommy's eyes snapping upwards to the two of you before he quints.

"It ain't gon' be without conditions." Tommy says. He pulls out a clunky device from the bag and sets it on the coffee table, a dusty book next to it. "You have to cut off all contact with Jackson. No comin' near people on patrol, no comin' into town, no more tradin'. This is—"

"—A ham radio." Joel completes the sentence, nodding. "I'm assumin' this is for emergencies only?"

You pick up the book, titled International Morse Code. You flip through the old, yellowed pages, frowning at the foreign codes written inside.

"Do not use the regular radio. The radio tower is communal, I'll never know who's on duty." Tommy says; he places a box of ammunition next to it. "Maria don't know about this, brother. This is for emergencies only."

"I'm goin' to need more than that." Joel runs a hand through his hair. "Cuttin' off with Jackson means I'm goin' to have to go on supply runs again. Can't leave the chickens and the garden unattended for days."

Tommy eyes you. "The girl can't help?"

"Ain't leaving her alone."

"The girl has a name, and the girl is right here." You huff, snapping the book close. "I can handle the farm by myself, Joel."

"No." He shakes his head. "We gon' come up with a code, and whenever we need to leave for supplies, Tommy can come help."

Tommy places his hands on his hips, the Dad Pose much like his brother's. "And how the fuck am I supposed to explain that to my wife, Joel? 'Sorry honey, Imma just go missin' for a coupla days while you take care of our toddler and run our community'?"

"Maybe you could start by tellin' her you ain't a cold hearted a bitch like she—"

"Okay," You step in, your hand coming up to grab Joel's bicep immediately quiets him down. "Can't Ellie help? How old is she?"

"She's fifteen." Joel says, the scowl so deep on his face you're almost concerned it'll stick. "Name your price, Tommy. Y'know I can get you things that pathetic group of scavengers y'all got can't."

That seems to grab Tommy's interest. The man sighs, rubbing his face with the heel of his palm; he seems at odds with himself and you hate him just a little bit— The material items Joel can get them shouldn't be the deciding factor here, you think, not when family should come first.

"We need baby clothes." He relents after what feels like forever. Joel nods immediately, as if that's no big ask. "Got a coupl'a ladies that are expectin', and Benji's old clothes aren't goin' to cut it for everyone. But we do this my way, Joel. You go on a run every last week of the month, and if you take longer than four days to come back I'll leave."

"'M goin' to need at least a week. 'Specially if I want to stay out of your patrol's route, gonna need to go further than usual."

"Baby clothes aren't exactly easily to find." You add, though you have no idea if that's true but you remember the women from the village hand sewing clothes for almost every child, so you think it might be. Tommy grumbles under his breath, but agrees to it eventually.

"One week, at the end of every month." Tommy says, his tone final as if he'd been the one to stipulate all of the rules. "And you bring me whatever we need."

Joel nods once, his face solemn as they shake on it. They both seem at peace with one another, and Tommy hangs around for another house before he leaves, but you can see the storm brewing behind Joel's eyes every time he looks at his brother.

It's so tiring to convince Joel to let you help with other chores apart from the chickens that you almost tell him to get fucked and let him to all the work by himself. Eventually he relents, though, with the promise that you'll only do them without exerting yourself— He promises he'll pick up wherever you stop without any complaints, even after you repeatedly tell him that you're a grown adult more than capable of picking up a few chores around the house. Secretly, however, you're glad to know he's not going to force you into anything; your mother and stepfather had always pushed you over your limit, scrubbing clothes and dishes to the point of breaking the skin of your hands, or scrubbing the walls and windows and floors until you're about ready to cry.

You sit outside with the box of bunnies, which you've been carrying around all week despite Joel's protests, a pile of dirty laundry, a bucket and hose; the dirty clothes are only the light fabrics, no denim or heavy jackets from what you can tell and you know that Joel probably picked those out of the hamper without you noticing. The washing is not easy but it is mechanical, the sort of task that blanks your mind for a bit, the breeze and sunny day refreshing against the sweat you build up; it's mostly just scrubbing t-shirts, one pair of your sleeping shorts and one boxer shorts from Joel that your brain nearly malfunctioned when he climbed into bed wearing only them during a particularly warm night.

You pay almost no attention to the clothes until you get to the underwear section— It mainly consists of socks, with Joel washing his own underwear in the shower and you following suit when you're not too lazy to do it; you will throw a pair of panties into the hamper every-so-often, when the tiredness outweighs the shame of making Joel wash them, but this particular pair you know you didn't put in the hamper. You know this because they've been missing for the past couple of weeks now even though you've seen Joel do laundry at least once a week since then. It's the pale blue mesh underwear you had on the day Joel kidnapped you, the only pair that you own that hadn't been given to you by him.

It had been the wedding gift from a shy girl you'd never really spoken to before: She had been married off a couple of months before you did, and she'd been reticent about gifting them to you, not looking you in the eyes when she handed it over, saying that your husband might be kinder if he liked what he saw. You never felt guilty about Aaron killing your husband or about Joel killing Aaron, but you did feel bad about leaving her behind when you ran— You weren't even sure if she'd come if you had asked, but you'd seen the fear in her eyes and the bruises on her arms and you knew she deserved a chance too.

You run your fingers through the thin fabric, the pads of your fingers catching on a dry, flaky patch near the gusset. You frown, unsure of what that could be— It's not on any of the other clothing, and it's only staining the outside of the gusset so you know it didn't come from you; it's whitish in color, making the material a little stiff, the stain patch crackling underneath your fingernail as you scrape against it.

"Sweetheart, I think we sh—" Joel's words die in his mouth as he approaches you; for a man as big as he was, Joel could be very silent. You startle, head snapping towards him and mortification floods through your system when you realize he's not looking at you but rather at the piece of clothing you're still holding up. You drop your hands, shoving them into the bucket.

Joel's entire face is so red he almost looks purple. You suddenly feel like you're doing something horrible, like you just got caught in something far more embarrassing than washing your underwear though you can't exactly explain why.

"Shooting lessons." He says, as if that's a complete sentence. "After lunch."

"Okay." You say, hands still shoved in the bucket. Joel clears his throat, his eyes bouncing everywhere except to you.

"Okay." He agrees before fleeing back into the house.

You don't really believe Joel is willing to put a firearm in your hands; even as he lines up the cans and bottles in the open field behind the barn, you're still expecting for him to give you a theoretical lesson like maybe he'll hold the gun and show you from a Joel-Approved-Safe-Distance but that's not what happens. He lines the targets, offers you a slick silver handgun and then tells you to shoot. The gun is heavy, heavier than you thought it would be as you turn it this way and that way, the afternoon light hitting the chrome metal in sparkles.

"Just point and shoot." Joel says, though he's standing carefully behind you. "And then I'll correct what you're doing wrong."

"What makes you think I'll do it wrong?" You ask, even though you know he's right. You raise your arm, holding the gun in both hands and pull the trigger; there's a small click, but the gun doesn't go off.

You turn it towards you, trying to figure out what's wrong and Joel's hand snaps towards you, his palm wrapping around the barrel and forces it downwards.

"Okay, that was somehow worse than I expected." He says, and then laughs at the affronted look you give him. "First, you didn't click the safety off. And second, thank God you didn't because you could'a blown your head out, lookin' down the barrel like that. You never shot a gun before?"

"Never even held one." You frown, "Wait, did you assume I knew how to do it but that I knew how to do it poorly?"

Joel shrugs. "You're the one that told me to stop assumin' you don't know how to do shit."

"Yeah, but you shouldn't be assuming that I'm bad at them either!"

"The day we met—"

"—The day you kidnapped me, you mean."

Joel gives you a big sigh, the one that makes it clear that you're wearing an old man's patience thin.

"The day we met, that boy was the one with the gun. If you were a good shot, you would'a held the gun yourself."

It's a fair point, but you sniffle in offense anyway. Joel takes a more gentle approach then, his thick fingers wrapping around yours as he shows you the correct hold of the pistol.

"Don't ever point it at anythin' you're unwilling to shoot. You point it at someone you don't mean and the gun goes off accidentally you'll regret it for the rest of your life. And always treat it like it's loaded, even when it ain't."

"Do they… Do they randomly go off like that?" You ask, staring down at the loaded gun in your hands. Joel's hands skirt up your arms, bringing them up until the pistol is high enough.

"The trigger's sensitive, if the safety isn't clicked in all the way through or if it snaps off for some reason, yeah, it can happen. So keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot, okay?"

You nod, now a thousand times more nervous than you'd been before— And the way Joel's hands keep ghosting over your body as he adjusts your position to his liking only makes it a hell of a lot worse. He teaches you how to pull the safety back and where to keep your fingers, the way your arms should bend and which foot to put first, but none of it helps. You manage to hit a single can and it's by pure chance because at some point you just start shooting at random and praying for the best.

"Your aim is… truly som'thing." Joel mumbles under his breath, standing so close to your back that you can feel the heat radiating through his flannel. His arms wrap around you, his big hands wrapping easily over yours. "Are you nervous?"

Yes.

"No." You lie, shaking your hand. Your fingers tremble a little, but it has nothing to do with the gun. "I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"Say that to the stab wound ya gave me." Joel snorts. "Breathe in deeply, and then exhale slowly."

You do as he says, his chest pressing tighter to your back as he breathes with you, his trigger finger covering yours and firing off the gun just as the last of the air is out of your lungs. The bottle shatters.

"Goddamn it." You curse under your breath, frustration finally starting to bubble up. "Just let me have a knife, Joel. I'm better with those. This is pointless."

"If someone's close to enough to get stabbed, they're too close. You need to know how to protect yourself from afar, darlin'."

"I thought you were supposed to protect me."

It's only once the words hang between the two of you that you realize how much you've come to believe that. You never had anyone to protect you— Your mother raised you, sure, and you lived in her home until the day you ran away, but nobody had ever truly taken care of you. Not the way Joel does.

He finally holsters the gun away, grabbing you by your shoulders and swiveling until your chest brushes against his. His eyes are warm when they stare down at you, his calloused hands cradling your jawline and tilting your head backwards until you finally face him.

"As long as I'm breathin' I'll keep you safe, babygirl." He says, his rough voice making your insides tingle. "But I'm old, and I ain't gon' be around forever. If we're goin' to step outta the farm every month, I need to know you can take care of yourself if I ain't around."

"You don't even let me shower by myself, Joel, and you want me to shoot a gun?" You laugh but it's hysterical rather than amused, your voice wobbly as you fight back the tears you don't want to shed. You know it's an overreaction, there is no real reason for you to cry over this— But you've been stressed and scared and the prospect of him ever not being there just too much.

"You won't ever touch a gun when I'm around unless we're practicin'." Joel says, and it sounds almost like a promise. "I ain't gon' stop takin' care of you just because you know how to shoot. But I need to know you can survive on your own."

You swallow thickly and, for once, you don't shy away from what you're actually feeling.

"What if I don't want to?"

Joel smiles, sweet and sad. "Then that makes two of us, kitten."

The words feel as sacred as a vow— For Joel, the admission that he knows he can't keep you safe forever. And for you, the admission that you don't want to be away from him. A vow on both sides, both with the same meaning:

Don't leave me.

In lieu of an answer, you kiss him. You don't mean to, you're not even sure what you're doing until after it's done; you push up on your toes to close the distance between the two of you, your hands clutching the sides of his flannel as you press your mouth against his. Joel reacts instantly, his hold on your face tightening, pulling you closer by the jaw, his tongue invading your mouth like he's been starving for it.

You think he might have been— More than you, most likely. He's never hidden how much he wants you and the kiss is just another way of showing how much you mean to him, finally owning your lips and your heart and giving you his entire body and soul in return. His mouth has the faint traces of bitter coffee and, while you have never loved how it tastes, you think it might be your favorite flavor— It's so intrinsically Joel, the way he tastes and smells and the warm touch of his fingers as they travel every inch of your body like he's memorizing your shape while he still can.

The two of you don't break apart until you're both gasping for air, your fingers digging into the waistband of his jeans, Joel's hands sprawling over the expanse of the small of your back.

For the first time in your life, you feel complete. Like you're finally in the same you were supposed to be all along.

next chapter (coming soon).

[satellite-evans]

for my wife

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: While moving in together, you find something Clark never meant you to read yet.

Word count: 7k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The new apartment smells like cardboard and fresh paint and the faint trace of Clark’s cologne. Clean, warm, familiar. The kind of scent that settles into your lungs and makes you exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.

Home already, somehow.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by half-opened boxes and crumpled packing paper, when Clark straightens up in the kitchen doorway. He’s holding an empty cabinet door in one hand, brow furrowed in concentration, until he notices you looking at him.

That sheepish, boyish smile appears. The one that still makes your chest flutter even after everything. After years. After knowing him in ways the world never will.

“We forgot paper towels,” he says, solemn. Like it’s a confession. Like this might be the thing that finally proves neither of you is qualified to live like an adult.

You blink at him for a second. Then laugh.

“Of course we did,” you say, shaking your head. “We remembered the coffee maker but not paper towels.”

He winces slightly. “That’s on me.”

“No, it’s on us, baby,” you say. “This is a shared failure.”

He laughs softly, relief easing his shoulders. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he promises, already reaching for his jacket. “Ten, max. I’ll just run downstairs.”

He hesitates before leaving, eyes lingering on you in a way that feels deliberate. Like he’s committing the image to memory, your hair pulled back messily, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose on you, surrounded by boxes labeled Kitchen and Bedroom and Our Stuff in his careful handwriting.

He steps closer, crouches down in front of you.

Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t rush toward the next moment. Just affection, given freely.

Like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Don’t unpack anything suspicious without me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin.

You snort. “No promises.”

That earns you a grin—fond, hopelessly in love—and then he’s standing again, slipping on his jacket, glancing back one more time before opening the door.

The lock clicks behind him.

The apartment goes quiet.

Not empty, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that exists only when you’re building something with someone. When silence isn’t absence, but comfort.

You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, just taking it in. The light filtering through the windows. The way the space already feels shaped around him. Around you.

Then you turn back to unpacking.

Clark’s boxes are… exactly what you expect.

Neat. Carefully taped. Every one labeled in that slightly slanted handwriting you know so well. You open a box marked Kitchen and find everything wrapped meticulously, towels folded evenly, utensils bundled together with rubber bands.

You smile to yourself. Of course he did this.

The next box reads Books (Misc.).

That one draws your attention immediately.

You open it and begin lifting out familiar spines—journalism textbooks from college, thick hardcovers with cracked spines, novels he insists he only read once but you’ve caught him rereading late at night more times than you can count. There’s a battered paperback with a folded corner you recognize; he’s had that one since before you met.

Each book feels like a quiet reminder: I know you. I know this life.

Then your fingers brush against something that doesn’t feel like the others.

Smooth. Cool. Leather.

You pause.

Nestled between two hardcovers is a notebook. Dark blue. Leather-bound. The edges are worn, the spine softened like it’s been opened and closed many times. Cherished.

You lift it carefully, like it might be fragile.

Your brow furrows.

You’ve been dating Clark for a while now. Long enough to know his habits. His routines. Long enough to know he’s not the kind of man who leaves things unexplained—not intentionally, anyway.

And he doesn’t keep a diary.

You’ve never seen him write in anything like this. Never noticed a notebook tucked away. Never seen him carry it, never heard him mention it in passing. For someone who’s otherwise so transparent with you, this feels… different.

Private.

Your thumb rests against the edge of the cover.

A small voice in your head speaks up, gentle but firm.

This is private.

You hesitate, the weight of the notebook suddenly heavier in your hands. You imagine Clark’s careful way of holding things he values. The way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The trust between you—earned, mutual, precious.

You should put it back.

But curiosity slips in—not sharp or invasive, just confused. Tender. The kind that comes from closeness, not entitlement.

Why has he never mentioned this?

You glance once toward the door, as if he might somehow already be back, watching.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the cover.

Just a peek, you tell yourself. Just the first page.

The paper inside is thick, slightly yellowed with age.

And then you see the handwriting.

Clark’s.

Careful. Earnest. Familiar.

Your breath catches in your throat as you read the first line.

For my wife, Y/N.

Your heart stutters so hard you actually have to put a hand to your chest.

For a second, you think you’ve misread it. That your eyes are playing tricks on you. You blink once. Twice.

The words don’t change.

Wife.

The room tilts, just slightly—not enough to knock you over, but enough to make everything feel unreal, like the ground has shifted beneath your feet. You sink back onto your heels, the notebook heavy in your hands, heavier than any box you’ve lifted all day.

Wife.

He hasn’t proposed.

You’ve talked about the future—carefully at first, like people do when they’re afraid to hope too much. Conversations that started with someday and maybe and eventually grew into when and we. You’ve talked about living together, about places you might want to travel, about growing old in ways that felt half-joking and half-serious.

But this?

This feels like peeking behind a curtain you weren’t meant to see yet. Like stepping into a moment that was supposed to belong to another day. Another version of you—dressed up, heart racing, standing across from him while he asks the question out loud.

Your hands tremble as you turn the page.

The paper whispers softly, like it knows it’s holding something sacred.

I’ve held this diary since the moment I met you in the Daily Planet lunchroom. November 30th, 2021. The day my world changed color, suddenly brighter, like a rainbow I didn’t know I’d been missing.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat.

November 30th, 2021.

You remember that day. The awful salad. The broken microwave. The sandwich he offered you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You remember thinking he was kind in a way that felt rare, disarming.

You didn’t know you’d changed his world.

Tears blur the ink almost immediately. You swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, then stop—afraid of smudging the words, as if they might disappear if you’re not careful enough with them.

I’m giving you this on our wedding day. I don’t know what our lives will look like then, or how many ordinary, beautiful days will have passed between now and that moment, but I know this much with absolute certainty.

If one day, any day, you ever feel like I don’t love you, like I’ve grown distant or the world has tried to convince you otherwise, I want you to open these pages and see how completely, how endlessly, you are wrong.

Every word here is proof of how I fell in love with you and how I kept falling, again and again, without ever meaning to stop. I loved you then. I love you now. I will love you for the rest of my life.

Yours forever,

Kal-El

Your chest aches in the best, most devastating way.

It’s not the sharp kind of pain. It’s warm and overwhelming, like your heart has grown too big for your body. Like something is blooming inside you without asking permission.

Never stopped falling for you.

You press the notebook to your chest for a moment, breathing around the emotion, trying to steady yourself. The apartment feels impossibly quiet, like it’s holding its breath with you.

Then, slowly, reverently, you keep reading.

Every page is dated.

Every entry is a memory you recognize.

11/30/2021

I think I met the love of my life today.

I don’t know if that’s ridiculous. I don’t know if it’s too soon to even write that sentence. But if I don’t write it down, I’m afraid I’ll convince myself later that I imagined how it felt.

Daily Planet lunchroom. Same cracked tile floor. The microwave was broken again. Someone burned popcorn. Perry was arguing with someone down the hall. It was just… another day.

And then she was there.

She was sitting by herself at one of the small tables near the window, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at a salad like it had personally wronged her. She looked exhausted. Not just physically, like the world had asked too much of her lately. There was something about the way she sighed that made my chest tighten.

I don’t usually act on impulse. I think too much. I hesitate. I measure consequences.

But today I didn’t.

I walked over and held out half my sandwich before my brain could stop me. I didn’t even introduce myself first. Just said something awkward about how the salad looked like it needed backup.

She looked up at me, like really looked, and for half a second I thought I’d made a mistake.

Then she smiled.

Not polite. Not small. A real smile that reached her eyes. She laughed and said I was “brave but misguided,” and suddenly the noise of the room faded into nothing. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was like the air changed density. Like the world sharpened into focus around her.

We talked. About nothing important. About everything. She teased me gently. Asked questions that showed she was actually listening to the answers. When I told her my name, she repeated it like it mattered. When she told me her name, I repeated it because it did matter.

When she went back to work, I stood there for a second too long, holding the empty plate, feeling… undone.

My hands were shaking.

I’ve lifted mountains. I’ve stopped trains mid-crash. I’ve flown through storms without fear.

I have never, ever felt like this.

If this is love, then it’s quieter than I expected. Steadier. Like something ancient settling into place.

I don’t know what will happen next.

I just know I don’t want to forget how today felt.

12/14/2021

First date.

Coffee was supposed to be an hour. That’s what I told myself before I left my apartment. That’s what I told her when we sat down. I even checked the time at the start, like that would somehow keep things contained.

It didn’t.

It lasted almost four hours, and I didn’t notice the time passing until my cup had gone cold and the café started emptying around us. I don’t think either of us wanted to be the one to say it first, that it should probably end, like saying it out loud would break something fragile.

She talks with her hands when she’s excited. I noticed that almost immediately. Little movements at first, then bigger ones when she got passionate about a story. She smiles before she finishes her sentences, like she already knows how they’ll land. And when she listens, really listens, she tilts her head just slightly, eyes focused, like she’s saving every word somewhere important.

No one has ever listened to me like that before.

I found myself talking more than I usually do. About work. About Kansas. About things I don’t normally share. It felt natural, like my mouth was ahead of my caution for once. She never rushed me. Never looked bored. Every response made me want to tell her more.

When we finally left, neither of us wanted to go straight home, so we walked. No destination. Just side by side, letting the city unfold around us. The air was cold, and she tucked her hands into her coat sleeves. I kept noticing small things, the way she matched her pace to mine without realizing it, the way she pointed out things she liked as if she wanted me to see the world through her eyes.

The city felt different with her there. Smaller. Kinder. Like it was giving us space. Letting us borrow it for a while.

I kept thinking I should impress her. Say something clever. Something charming. Something worthy of the way she looked at me. But every time our eyes met, my chest felt too full for pretense. Every rehearsed line disappeared. All I could do was be honest.

And she seemed to like that.

I felt safe.

That word keeps circling back. Safe. Not because I’m strong, not because I could protect her if I had to, but because I didn’t feel like I had to be anything other than myself. I didn’t feel watched. Or measured. Or like I was hiding parts of who I am.

I walked her home and stopped outside her building. I told myself not to linger.

I lingered anyway.

When she said goodbye, smiled at me one last time, and turned toward the door, I felt it, physically, like something tugged inside my chest, like part of me wanted to follow her without question.

I stood there longer than necessary after she went inside, just breathing, memorizing the feeling.

I replayed her laugh the entire way home.

I still am.

01/22/2022

Dinner with her.

We went somewhere small tonight. Nothing fancy. One of those places that smells like oil and salt and warmth the moment you open the door. The kind where the tables wobble slightly and the menu hasn’t changed in years.

She ordered before me because she already knew what she wanted. I liked that. I ordered fries, intending to share them, but I didn’t say it out loud. I just assumed. That probably says something.

They came out hot, steam curling into the air between us. We talked while they cooled, about work, about something she’d read, about nothing important. I was halfway through a story when she reached over.

No asking. No hesitation. Just gently, like it was understood.

She took one fry, careful not to brush my hand, and went right back to listening like she hadn’t just done something quietly significant.

She didn’t even look guilty.

A few seconds later, she noticed me staring.

“What?” she asked, smiling around the bite.

The corner of her mouth curved up like she already knew the answer. I felt my face ache from smiling back before I even realized I was doing it.

Anyone else, I would’ve said something. Joked. Pretended to be annoyed.

Instead, I felt… calm.

Something settled into place inside me. Not a spark. Not a rush. Something steadier. Like my body recognized her before my mind caught up. Like some part of me had already decided: this is where you’re supposed to be.

I didn’t mind losing the fry.

I didn’t mind anything at all.

Oh.

This is it.

This is how it starts, not fireworks or drama or some grand moment you tell people about.

Just a shared table. Warm food. Easy silence.

Belonging.

03/05/2022

Fifth date.

I told her.

I knew I was going to tonight. I’d known all day, maybe longer. The thought sat in my chest like a weight—heavy, necessary. I kept telling myself that if this was going to be real, if she was going to be real to me, then she deserved the truth. All of it.

Still, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

We were sitting close, closer than before. The lights were low. The city outside the window hummed softly, distant and unaware that my entire world was about to split open. I could hear my own heartbeat. I kept rehearsing the words in my head, terrified that if I didn’t say them perfectly, I’d lose her.

Superman. Krypton. The truth.

I’ve faced down enemies without fear. I’ve stood between the world and destruction without hesitation. But tonight, my palms were damp, my throat tight, my voice almost too small to trust.

I told her anyway.

I told her who I am. Where I come from. What I can do. What I can’t. I told her about the loneliness. About the responsibility. About how sometimes it feels like I’m made of glass despite being unbreakable.

I watched her face the entire time.

I was ready, so ready for her to pull away. To stiffen. To look at me like I was something dangerous or unknowable. I was ready for disbelief, fear, distance. Ready for the sound of my own heart breaking quietly while I pretended I understood.

She didn’t do any of that.

She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t stare at me like I was a spectacle. She didn’t flinch when I said the word Superman. She didn’t look for the door.

She listened.

The same way she always does. Head tilted slightly, eyes steady, hands folded together like this mattered. Like I mattered.

When I finished, the silence stretched. I could barely breathe. I felt exposed in a way I never have before. Like I’d peeled myself open and handed her everything unguarded.

Then she reached for me.

She took my hand—warm, grounding, real—and said, “Thank you for trusting me.”

That was it.

Not I need time. Not I’m scared. Not I don’t know what to say.

Just gratitude.

Trust meeting trust.

Something inside me broke open then. Something old and carefully guarded. I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d been holding back until that moment, how alone I’d been even when surrounded by people.

I don’t think she knows what that moment did to me.

I don’t think she knows she became my safe place tonight. That for the first time in my life, the truth didn’t feel like a burden, it felt like a bridge.

I fell in love with her again. Deeper than before. Permanently. In a way that doesn’t fade or loosen or ask permission.

If she ever doubts how much she means to me, I want her to remember this night.

I want me to remember it.

06/18/2022

She fell asleep on my shoulder.

We were supposed to watch the movie all the way through. She picked it. I remember that, she was excited about it, insisted it was better than I thought it would be. She curled up beside me like she always does, close enough that our arms touched, close enough that I could feel her warmth even before she leaned into me.

About halfway through, her head tipped just slightly toward my shoulder. I felt it before I saw it, the gentle weight of her settling, like she was testing whether it was okay.

I didn’t move.

A few minutes later, she tucked herself in properly, her head resting just under my chin, her hair brushing my jaw. Her breathing changed slowly, quietly, until it evened out into something soft and steady. The kind of breathing that only happens when someone feels completely safe.

I could feel everything. Every small shift of her weight. Every tiny exhale. The way her fingers twitched once, then relaxed, trusting I was there.

The movie kept playing. The plot resolved. The credits rolled.

I didn’t move.

Forty-two minutes passed. I know because I counted, not because I was bored, but because I wanted to remember how long I’d been allowed to hold this moment. My arm started to ache. My shoulder went numb.

I didn’t care.

I’ve stopped disasters. I’ve lifted impossible things. I’ve been praised for saving the world more times than I can count.

Tonight, the most important thing I did was stay perfectly still so she could rest.

I watched the rise and fall of her chest. I memorized the way she fit against me, like she had always been meant to. I thought—very quietly—that if this was all love ever asked of me, I would give it gladly.

I would do it forever if she asked.

And if she never did, I think I still would.

09/02/2022

Work.

Nothing remarkable was supposed to happen today.

Just another morning at the Planet. I was standing by my desk pretending to read an article when I felt it.

That gentle pull. That awareness.

I looked up without thinking.

She was across the newsroom, half-hidden behind a monitor, focused on her screen. And then—like she felt me looking—she glanced up.

Just a second. Maybe less.

Our eyes met.

She smiled.

Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. Just for me.

My heart did something ridiculous. The kind of thing I’d laugh at if it were anyone else. I felt it in my chest, in my hands, all the way down to my feet like I’d forgotten how gravity worked for a moment.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t wave. We didn’t need to.

It felt like a secret we were sharing in plain sight, something small and precious tucked between deadlines and coffee cups.

I looked back down at my desk, fully aware that my smile was impossible to hide.

I still get nervous when she looks at me like that.

I’ve faced impossible odds. I’ve stood against things that should have terrified me. But that quiet smile across the newsroom still makes my pulse stumble like I’m fifteen and hopelessly obvious about it.

She makes me feel young. Not careless, but alive. Like someone who’s still discovering what love can be, who hasn’t reached the end of the feeling yet.

Lois noticed. Of course she did. She smirked when she passed my desk. Jimmy noticed, he raised his eyebrows and whispered “cute.” Cat noticed. Steve noticed. I think Perry noticed too, though he pretended not to.

I don’t care.

They can notice all they want.

All I want—all I will ever want—is for her eyes to keep finding mine. In crowded rooms. In quiet mornings. Across every place life puts us.

For the rest of my life.

11/30/2022

One year.

I don’t think I really understood what today would feel like until it was already happening. I knew it mattered. I knew it was important. But I didn’t expect the weight of it, the way it would sit in my chest all evening, heavy and warm and almost too much to hold all at once.

A year.

That sounds so small when you say it out loud. Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five ordinary days stacked gently on top of each other. Days that didn’t look remarkable from the outside. Days filled with work and quiet dinners and laughter over nothing.

But when I looked at her tonight, really looked at her, I felt the miracle of it.

The fact that she’s chosen me. Every day. For an entire year.

Not the idea of me. Not the parts that are easy or impressive. Me. The quiet mornings. The long nights. The truths she learned early and never turned away from.

She gave me her gift first.

She didn’t hand it to me right away. She asked me to sit down, her voice careful, almost shy. I noticed her hands shaking as she set it on the table between us, wrapped in brown paper, the edges taped too neatly. Like she’d redone it more than once. Like she’d worried about it.

“I need you to know,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the package instead of me, “I tried my best.”

That alone made my chest tighten.

When I unwrapped it, I understood why she’d been nervous.

It was a painting.

Not small. Not casual. Not something done in an afternoon. This was time. Intention. Patience. The kind of work you only do when you’re willing to put your heart somewhere visible and vulnerable.

It was the farm.

My parents’ farm.

She’d painted it in late-afternoon light, the kind that turns everything golden and soft, the kind that always made me feel safe growing up. The house stood steady and familiar, the porch just right, the fields stretching out behind it the way they always do. Endless. Open. Like they belong to anyone who needs space to breathe.

And in the center—

All of us.

Ma and Pa. Me. And them.

My birth parents.

All of us standing together, arms around one another, no distance between us. No time separating what was lost from what was found. No planets. No years. No absence.

Just together.

Like it was always meant to be that way.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

She rushed to explain, words tumbling over each other as if she were afraid the silence meant she’d done something wrong.

She told me she used pictures to paint the farm I have hanging in my apartment since she hasn’t been there yet. Told me she watched the video again—the one that came with me when I was sent to Earth—paused it, rewound it, studied my birth parents’ faces so she wouldn’t get them wrong.

She told me she didn’t want to mess it up. That she just kept thinking—

Her voice softened then.

—that they’d want to see me happy. That my parents—all of them—belong together in my life. Even if it never looked like this in real life.

My hands were shaking when I held the frame.

She painted Ma’s smile exactly right. The gentleness in my Pa's eyes. That quiet pride he never needs to announce. And my birth parents—hopeful, loving, looking at me like I was everything.

She gave me something I didn’t even know how to ask for.

A world where nothing was lost.

I didn’t cry right away. I think I was too overwhelmed. I just stared, memorizing every brushstroke, every careful decision she’d made with love. Trying to understand how someone could see me so clearly.

“I didn’t know if it was okay,” she whispered. “But it felt important.”

I pulled her into my chest without thinking. I couldn’t help it. I needed to feel her there, solid and real.

It was the most understood I have ever felt in my life.

Then it was my turn.

I won’t pretend I didn’t agonize over her gift. I did. For weeks. I wanted it to be something beautiful. Something lasting. Something that carried meaning even if the words failed me.

Inside the small velvet box was a necklace.

Gold. Delicate. The chain thin and warm. And at its center, a butterfly—crafted so carefully it looked like it might lift off at any second if the light caught it just right.

She went very still when she saw it.

I remembered something she told me once—quietly, almost like she didn’t want to make it important. That butterflies were her mother’s favorite. That they reminded her of gentleness. Of transformation. Of staying, even after someone leaves.

I chose it because of that.

Because I wanted her to have something close to her heart. Something that carried love forward instead of marking loss. Something that said she is held—by memory, by love, by me.

It cost more than I usually allow myself to spend on anything. More than was practical. More than was reasonable.

But she’s worth it.

All of it.

She cried then.

Not loudly. Just leaned into me, clutching the necklace like it was something fragile and sacred. My hands weren’t steady when I fastened it around her neck. I don’t think I trusted myself to be.

It looked like it belonged there.

We didn’t say much after that.

We just sat together, her painting propped carefully against the wall, the butterfly warm against her skin, the quiet settling around us like a promise.

A year.

One year of choosing each other. Of learning each other. Of loving in ways that still surprise me.

I still can’t believe she’s with me.

I still wake up amazed that someone so thoughtful, so kind, so deeply human, has chosen to share her life with mine.

If this is what one year feels like, I want all the years.

Every single one.

With her.

02/11/2023

She had a bad day.

I knew the moment I saw her.

She tried to hide it, smiled when she walked in, asked how my day was—but her shoulders were too tight, her voice just a little too careful. I didn’t call it out right away. I’ve learned that sometimes she needs space to land before she can let go.

Later, when the apartment had gone quiet, she finally sat beside me on the couch and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all day.

She didn’t want fixing. She didn’t want answers. She didn’t want me to make it better.

She just wanted someone to sit with her.

So I did.

I stayed exactly where I was. Close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that she could lean if she wanted to—but I didn’t pull her in until she chose it herself. When she finally rested her head against my shoulder, it felt like permission.

I wrapped an arm around her slowly, carefully, like she was something precious.

We didn’t talk much. A few quiet words. Long stretches of silence. I could feel the tension leaving her shoulders little by little, like she was setting something heavy down piece by piece. Like she trusted me to hold the weight with her, even if I couldn’t take it away.

I watched her breathe. I watched her relax.

I wished—again—that she could see herself the way I do.

Strong, even when she’s tired. Kind, even when the world hasn’t been. Brilliant in ways she never gives herself credit for. Braver than she knows, simply for showing up every day and trying.

She thinks strength looks loud. Unbreakable.

But this—this quiet endurance, this softness she allows only with me—this is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.

Loving her feels like standing in sunlight. Not blinding. Not overwhelming. Just steady and warm and certain. Like something you can build a life in.

I finally understand what “home” means.

It isn’t a place.

It’s this moment, her leaning into me, the world quiet for a while, knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

With her.

07/29/2023

She met my parents today.

I’ve been nervous about a lot of things in my life. I’ve faced fear head-on more times than I can count. But today, today my stomach was in knots in a way that surprised me.

I brought her home.

Not just to Kansas. Not just to the farm.

Home.

I didn’t warn her much beforehand. Maybe I should have. I only said that my parents would love her, and that was true—but it didn’t feel like enough. I don’t think I realized until today how much it mattered to me that they see her the way I do.

She wore something simple. Comfortable. Herself. She was polite without being stiff, warm without trying too hard. When Ma hugged her, I watched her melt into it like she’d been waiting for that kind of welcome without knowing it.

Ma loved her instantly. I could tell by the way she touched her arm when she laughed, by how quickly she started asking questions—not the polite kind, but the ones you ask when you want to know someone. Pa watched quietly at first, like he always does, measuring more than he speaks.

Then she offered to help in the kitchen.

She didn’t have to. She just did. Like she belonged there.

I stood in the doorway for a while, pretending not to watch as she laughed with Ma, as flour dusted her hands, as she listened to stories about me growing up with the same attention she always gives me. I saw something in Pa's expression then. Something soft, approving, settled.

At dinner, she asked them about their lives. Their history. She listened when Pa talked about the land. She thanked Pa for the meal like it meant something to her.

When Pa finally said, “We’re glad you’re here,” I felt something loosen in my chest that I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Later, when she stepped outside with me and the cicadas filled the evening air, she slipped her hand into mine like it was second nature. Like she’d always known how to find me.

I realized then that this wasn’t just me bringing her into my world.

She was already part of it.

If there ever comes a day when she doubts—when the world feels loud or unkind or she wonders where she belongs—I want her to remember this. The way my mother smiled at her like she was already family. The way my father looked at her like she was someone worth trusting with what matters most.

I don’t know when I’ll say it out loud.

But today made something very clear to me.

She isn’t just someone I love.

She’s someone I’m building a life with.

Every single day.

10/26/2023

Tonight reminded me why I survive.

I came home barely holding myself together.

I don’t usually let it get that bad. I tell myself I won’t, that I’ll pull back sooner, that I’ll know my limits. But tonight I misjudged things. Strength. Timing. My own belief that I can always take one more hit if it means someone else doesn’t have to.

By the time I made it back to my apartment, my ribs felt like glass. Every breath was shallow and sharp, like my lungs were cutting against something broken inside me. My shoulder burned, deep, angry pain that wouldn’t quiet no matter how I shifted my weight. I could feel blood drying along my side, stiffening my suit, pulling at my skin every time I moved.

I didn’t knock.

I couldn’t risk standing upright long enough to do it.

I just leaned against the doorframe for a second, forehead pressed to the cool wood, wondering how much she’d see the moment I stepped inside. Wondering if I could make it to the couch without worrying her too much. Wondering—selfishly—if I could keep this from being one of the nights that lives in her fear.

She heard me anyway.

She always does.

The door opened before I could decide anything, and there she was.

Not panicked. Not shouting my name. Not frozen in shock.

Just there.

Her eyes found me instantly, sharp and assessing, taking everything in at once—the blood, the way I was favoring my right side, the way my shoulders were held too stiff, like they were bracing against pain I didn’t want to admit to yet.

I could hear her heart.

It was racing. Fast. Uneven. Terrified.

And still—her voice was calm.

“Hey,” she said softly, like she wasn’t looking at someone who’d barely made it home. Like she wasn’t scared out of her mind. “Come sit down. Slowly. I’ve got you.”

Those words, 'I’ve got you', did something to me. I felt my knees weaken the moment she said them, like my body finally believed it was allowed to stop fighting.

She moved with such care. Every step deliberate. Every touch gentle and precise, like she was handling something precious instead of broken. She didn’t rush me. Didn’t bombard me with questions or try to assess everything at once.

She knew (somehow) that her calm was the thing keeping me upright.

That her fear, however loud it was inside her, wasn’t what would help me heal.

I watched her swallow it down for me.

I watched her steady her hands before she touched me, watched her breathe slowly on purpose, watched her make herself quiet so I could finally exhale.

She helped me sit, eased my weight down inch by inch, murmuring small reassurances the whole time. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just constant presence. Proof that I wasn’t alone in the room with the pain.

When she cleaned the blood from my hands, she did it like she’d done it a hundred times. Cloth warm, pressure careful, movements practiced. But I could hear her heart the entire time, still racing, still afraid.

It never slowed.

And still, she stayed steady.

She talked while she worked—not about what happened, not about what could have gone wrong. Just small things. The grocery list. Something funny she’d read earlier. The way the neighbor’s dog barked all afternoon.

Grounding sounds. Anchors.

I realized then how much effort it must take. How much strength it takes to choose calm when fear is screaming in your chest. How brave you have to be to love someone like me and still soften your hands when they come home hurt.

That’s when it hit me. Again.

Anyone can love the invincible part of me. The symbol. The strength. The idea of safety.

But she loves the part of me that limps home at midnight, trying not to bleed on the floor. The part of me that miscalculates. The part of me that hurts. The part of me that needs someone else to be strong for a moment.

She didn’t ask me to be Superman tonight.

She let me just be Clark.

The way she held me—careful, unafraid, unwavering—did something to me. It settled somewhere deep and permanent, like a truth clicking into place.

I fell in love with her again tonight.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

Just deeper.

And I don’t think there’s an end to how far that goes.

04/10/2025

We talked about moving in together.

It wasn’t supposed to be a big conversation.

We were sitting on the couch, legs tangled, the TV on low in the background. I don’t even remember what we were watching. She said it casually, almost offhand—something about how much time we already spend together, how it might just make sense.

My heart immediately started racing.

I tried to play it cool. I nodded. I said something reasonable. I even managed to keep my voice steady for a few seconds.

I failed.

I felt my smile give me away before I could stop it. I felt the warmth spread through my chest, that light, buoyant feeling that only she gives me. I don’t think I realized how much I’d been hoping for this until she said it out loud.

We talked about logistics—closets, commutes, who has the better couch—but underneath it all was something quieter and deeper. Certainty. Not excitement that burns out fast, but the kind that settles in and stays.

Ever since that conversation, my mind hasn’t stopped wandering.

I keep imagining mornings.

Her hair messy, sleep still clinging to her voice when she says my name. Sunlight spilling through the window, dust floating in the air like it’s been waiting just for us. The sound of her moving around the kitchen while I pretend not to watch, the comfort of knowing that no matter how the day unfolds, we’ll come back to each other at night.

I imagine shared spaces—books mixing on shelves, her things slowly finding their way into every corner. Little arguments about nothing. Quiet routines that become sacred simply because they’re ours.

I’ve already imagined a ring.

Not just the ring itself, but the way her eyes will widen when she realizes what I’m asking. The way her hands will shake just a little when I take hers. The way saying her name followed by my wife will feel like the most natural truth I’ve ever known.

I don’t know when I’ll ask.

I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—honest, unhurried, full of love.

But I do know this: the answer has lived in me for a long time. Longer than I realized. Since the day I offered her half my sandwich in a noisy lunchroom and felt my world shift in a way I couldn’t name yet.

Everything since then has just been catching up.

If love is choosing someone every day, then I’ve already made my choice.

I’m just finally ready to say it out loud.

11/11/2025

Lois asked me today why I haven’t proposed yet.

She didn’t mean it unkindly. Lois rarely does, even when she pretends otherwise. We were finishing up a story, the newsroom mostly empty, and she leaned back in her chair, studied me for a long moment, then said it like it was obvious.

“So,” she said, “are you ever going to put a ring on her finger, or are you just going to keep pretending she’s not wildly out of your league?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

Because she’s right.

I know she is.

I’ve always known.

Lois kept going, softer this time. “You love her. Anyone with eyes can see that. So what are you waiting for? You scared?”

I thought about that long after she turned back to her screen.

Am I scared?

Yes. But not in the way she meant.

I’m not waiting because I’m unsure. I’m not hesitating because I don’t know what I want. I don’t wake up questioning whether she’s the one. That answer has lived in me for years now, steady and unmovable.

I’m waiting because I’ve never been this sure before in my life.

Everything else I’ve ever faced—every fight, every impossible choice—has always come with certainty baked in. I knew what had to be done. I knew I could endure it. I knew the risk.

This is different.

This isn’t about survival. It’s about forever.

I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—unrushed, honest, full of intention. I don’t want to trip over my own eagerness and risk losing something this precious by moving too fast, by letting the moment feel careless instead of considered.

She deserves a proposal that feels like a promise kept, not a step taken too quickly.

I want the timing to be gentle. The kind that says I chose you every day before this, and I will every day after.

I know she’s out of my league.

She always has been.

But she chose me anyway. She keeps choosing me. And that still humbles me more than I know how to say.

So no Lois, I’m not waiting because I’m afraid to commit.

I’m waiting because this is the most important question I will ever ask.

And when I ask it, I want my hands steady, my heart open, and the certainty she’s given me reflected back to her without doubt or hesitation.

I already know the answer.

I’m just making sure the moment honors how much she means to me.

Always.

Your tears fall freely now, blurring the words, splashing onto the pages of a love story written quietly, faithfully, just for you. You don’t try to stop them. There’s no point. This is what it feels like to be seen so completely it almost hurts.

The notebook trembles in your hands.

Then—

The soft jingle of keys at the door.

You gasp, sharp and startled, like you’ve been caught somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. Your head snaps up, heart slamming against your ribs. Panic flares—not guilt exactly, but something close enough to make your chest tighten. You scrub hastily at your cheeks with the heel of your hand, trying to erase the evidence, trying to breathe like your world hasn’t just quietly, irrevocably shifted.

The door opens.

Clark steps inside, paper towels tucked under his arm, jacket half-unzipped, hair slightly mussed from the breeze outside. He looks relaxed—content in that soft, domestic way he’s been wearing all day.

Happy.

Then his eyes find you.

Sitting on the floor. Diary open in your hands. Eyes red. Face flushed.

He freezes.

Not just still—suspended. Like time has paused mid-breath.

“…Hey,” he says carefully, voice gentle but alert, like he’s approaching something fragile. “What’s wrong?”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You push yourself to your feet slowly, the movement unsteady, like gravity has changed without warning. You clutch the notebook to your chest instinctively, fingers curling into the leather as if it might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough.

“I—” Your voice breaks immediately. You swallow, try again. “I’m so sorry.”

That stops him.

He blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “Sorry?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out now that they’ve started. “I was unpacking and I found it and I didn’t know what it was and I shouldn’t have opened it, I know that, I just—” You shake your head, tears spilling again. “I’m really sorry, Clark. I never wanted to invade your privacy.”

For a heartbeat, he just looks at you.

Then realization dawns.

You watch it ripple across his face: the widening of his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his shoulders tense as understanding crashes in. Horror. Embarrassment. Tender, helpless panic.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh—Y/N, I—”

The paper towels slip from his arm as he sets the bag down too fast, hands fumbling like his body can’t quite keep up with his thoughts. “No—hey, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. I swear, I wasn’t hiding it from you. I just—I wanted it to be for later. For the right moment.”

His voice falters, vulnerability bare on his face. “I was waiting. I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted everything to be… right.”

You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “I know. I know. I just—reading it felt like stepping into something I wasn’t meant to see yet.”

His expression softens instantly.

Before either of you can say anything else, you cross the space between you in three quick steps and throw your arms around him.

Clark stiffens in surprise for half a second—pure reflex—before he melts into you completely. His arms wrap around you strong and sure, one hand pressing gently between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid to let go.

He holds you like you’re something precious. Like you’re fragile. Like you’re endlessly, irrevocably loved.

You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in—home, warmth, safety—and your voice shakes when you speak.

“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written about me,” you whisper. “About us.”

He exhales, long and unsteady, like he’s been holding that breath for years. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closing briefly as if to steady himself. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are glossy, shining with emotion he isn’t trying to hide.

“You weren’t supposed to read it yet,” he murmurs softly, thumb brushing beneath your eye, wiping away a tear with reverent care. “I was waiting for the right moment to propose. After we settled in. After this felt like home.”

Your breath catches.

“But,” he continues quietly, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at his mouth, “everything in there is true. Every word. I’ve loved you since the moment you smiled at me over a sad microwave lunch.”

A wet laugh slips out of you despite everything. “You really wrote it all down.”

He nods, almost shy now. “I wanted proof,” he admits. “For you. For forever. In case the world ever got loud. In case you ever doubted how sure I am.”

You lift your hands to his face, cradling him the way he always cradles you, thumbs brushing his cheeks. Your heart feels too full, like it might burst if you don’t say this out loud.

“I don’t need proof,” you say softly. “But I’m really glad I have it.”

He smiles then.

Wide. Radiant. Hopelessly, undeniably in love.

And in that moment—standing barefoot in a half-unpacked apartment, surrounded by boxes and cardboard and the life you’re still building—you know.

Even without a ring. Without a question asked out loud.

You know.

You’re already home.

taglist : @kristine13 @rogersbarber @fire-joestar @mollymal @writerreal

[blank-tato]

Sunshine on a Cloudy Day

Pairing: Ultraman x Reader

Summary:

“Ultraman?” You turn around and see him standing there, less imposing than you remember him, holding out flowers. Or, well, what was supposed to be flowers. He must've flown fast, as most of the petals are gone, handing you mostly a bouquet of stems. “Oh, uh,” you say, blinking at the “flower arrangement”. You can’t see his face from behind the mask, but you just know he’s looking at you expectantly. Broad shoulders curled in a little, head tilted down, leaning in like he’s waiting for some kind of verdict. “I love them! This is really sweet. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.” He straightens instantly, like your approval flicked a switch in him. Or Ultraman finds you, quite literally, glowing, in a wreck and saves you. From that day on, he can't get you, his ray of sunshine, out of his head and starts visiting you.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Metahuman!Reader that can control Sunlight, Ultraman Being Cute, Grumpy x Sunshine, Feelings are Confusing, Lex Luthor Being Mean, Some Light Stalking, Domestic Fluff

WC: 7.1k

A/N: First fic on my new account, was previously @blank-potato, and my first Ultraman fic! Title from My Girl by The Temptations. Hope you enjoy 😄

***

He wasn’t supposed to save you.

That wasn’t the objective, the order.

But the moment he saw you, he knew he couldn’t walk away.

***

Living in Metropolis, you were used to random fuckshit happening on a daily.

Your car had just been crushed by an alien-kaiju-creature of sorts, leaving a giant footprint where your sunroof used to be.

So what if your car insurance didn't cover that?

So what if the claims agent hung up the moment you said “giant lizard foot”?

It’s alright, you didn’t mind taking the tram.

If only you knew, this would be the worst possible day to rely on public transit.

You're flipping through songs, trying to find the right one. It’s a quiet tram car, very few other commuters scattered in their seats, all wrapped in their own early-morning misery.

You’re half focused on the music, half focused on the fact that you’re definitely about to be late for work.

It's a slow crawl through your playlist, as you tap your screen—skip, skip, skip...

Unbeknownst to you, the tracks beneath the tram were beginning to tremble, a groaning sound rolling up from the ground like something waking up angry.

The few other people next to you started to take notice, but you're just skipping away, grimacing at each song that doesn’t quite hit, nothing quite matching the vibe.

A scream cuts through the music, causing your head to snap up.

By the time you lift your headphones off, the front end of the tram is lifting into the air.

The rippling shock of motion burst through the cabin, as bodies ran away from the tilting floor and shattering windows.

Screams burst like static, as you're tossed around the car, spinning with bags and seats and loose debris.

Then everything goes dark.

***

Ultraman lands, the asphalt cracking beneath the impact, shockwaves rippling through shattered glass and overturned cars. Lex sent him to get to the creature and bring back samples, nothing more, nothing less. No delays. No detours. No “distractions,” as Lex liked to call them.

Samples tucked away, he’s about to leave when he hears something.

“Please, anyone!”

He freezes.

There’s… a light.

A faint, flickering glow beaming from underneath the rubble like a beacon. It pulses weakly at first, then brighter, like it’s trying to call out.

“Hey! F-fuck—”

Your voice cracks, strained, trembling.

He can hear your heartbeat, fast and frantic, climbing like it’s about to break through your ribs. Short, desperate huffs slipping out between cries of pain.

“There's—there’s someone under here! Please…”

Against his nature, against his orders, against every drilled command that told him to stay cold and leave… he steps toward the light.

Something about your voice struck a chord in him.

A pull.

A weakness, Lex would sneer.

But he wants to help.

Venturing inside, he finds you there, glowing, your skin washed in a soft light like sunshine, half-buried under twisted steel and broken concrete. Your leg’s jammed underneath a collapsed beam, pinned so tightly you can barely move your toes.

Dust clings to your hair. Blood smudges your forehead. But your eyes, blinking up at him through the haze, are wide and terrified.

And for a moment, Ultraman forgets what he was sent here to do.

“Please help me, please, I…”

The words tumble out of your mouth like a spill you can’t stop. It was… raw, terrified, almost unbearably human.

He slowly moves closer, like he’s trying not to startle you, hands sliding under the twisted metal beam that was trapping your leg.

You let out a hiss as the pressure shifts, pain flashing across your face.

He pulls it off in one fell swoop, metal screeching as it’s tossed aside like scrap.

You let out a whimper, scrunching up your face.

It does something to him.

Seeing you in pain, the light from your body flickering as you wince. He was… concerned. That was new.

“Are you… okay?”

The words feel unnatural leaving his mouth, like they weren’t meant for him to say.

You look up at him, swallowing hard.

“I’ll survive, but I… I don’t think I can walk.”

He looks over your form, eyes narrowing as his x-ray vision sweeps through muscle and bone. He can see the fracture, and your leg swelling around it. You definitely can’t walk on your own.

Pulling you to him, he lifts you with careful strength, one arm behind your back, the other beneath your knees, keeping weight off your injured leg.

“T-thank you,” you stutter, holding onto his suit. It’s almost too much, having you this close is overwhelming his senses. It’s… confusing.

Also new.

He steps through the debris, shielding you from falling dust and loose rubble as the ground trembles beneath the distant monster’s retreat.

For the first time in a long time… he’s not following orders. He’s focused on carrying you to safety, because he wants to.

He helps you through the smoke, careful not to cause you any more pain and puts you down on the pavement.

“Thank you… again.”

You’re distracting. A big giant sign that goes against everything he’s known to be true, like looking into your eyes, grateful and kind, makes him ask what could be.

But instead of sticking around to find out, he wordlessly takes off into the sky, leaving you astonished.

But one question remained on his mind: who are you?

***

He’s never felt this way.

His entire existence is predicated on hate. Lex’s hate for Superman, for metahumans, for anything that didn’t fit neatly into his vision.

That's all Ultraman knows, all he's ever known.

But then there’s you.

For the first time, you made him feel different, something beyond all the hate and self-loathing.

He’s standing in the shadows now, hidden just beyond the glow of your office window, watching you work. Tapping away on your computer with that quiet focus he’s grown used to.

Smiling when the printer finally cooperates, or when you solve some tiny problem no one else noticed. Asking the old security guard how his weekend was, actually listening to the answer.

Zeroing in on the contented sigh you make when you get your hands on your morning coffee.

He’s never had an interest in the human experience, the smallness of it, the ordinariness of it, the softness. Though he's never really been allowed to.

He wasn’t built for it.

But watching you, how you move through the world, something shifts in him. Something unfamiliar. Something he longs to put a name to.

He doesn't stop at one time.

Next thing he knows, he's watching you walking to work, or rather limping. Your pride not allowing you to accept a ride from a friend, and your wallet not letting you get a taxi every day.

Since the tram incident, you practically swore off public transport for the time being and opted for hobbling to work, more determined than ever, like you had to prove.

Days passed, and he found himself sneaking away to watch you when Lex hadn't deployed him for missions.

Watching TV “with you” or more accurately watching from across the street as you yell at the screen, watching Jeopardy in your pyjamas, falling asleep on your couch by the third ad break.

Somehow, your existence had become a little safe haven for him. A break from all the bad that Lex makes him do. Watching you go about your day, keeping a smile on your face despite it all, trying your best to look on the bright side. It spoke to him, made him feel almost hopeful.

Though as he sees you day after day, night after night, he notices how lonely you are. It felt like the two of you were kindred spirits, like you were lonely just like him.

He's watching you one night, having a sort of routine now. He’s settled comfortably, waiting for you when you step out onto your rooftop. You look comfy like usual, though the toll of the day doesn’t go unnoticed.

It’s in your eyes, the way your shoulders slouch a little, the deep breath you let out when you feel the cool air on your skin.

He wishes he knew what was in your head. He wanted nothing more than to understand you.

“Is someone there?” you call out into the air, eyes still set out on the horizon.

He freezes.

Were you talking to him?

“I’ve noticed you,” you continue, half wondering if you were actually talking to no one. “Caught glimpses of you nearby since the day you saved me.”

You dig your nails into your sleeves as your stomach flips. Whatever you’re about to say, he can hear how nervous you are, every sense giving you away.

“I’d like to talk and properly thank you for the other day. If that’s… like… cool.”

He hesitates, weighing all the possibilities, it all comes down to instinct against something new. But the hold you have on him wins out. It’s curiosity, he knows that for sure, but also something that feels dangerously close to wanting.

There’s a soft thud as he lands behind you, the air shifting with the force of it.

You spin, breath catching, as you see his tall stature.

He stands in the shadows for a beat, then steps forward, just enough for you to see him clearly.

“Who are you?” you ask, almost in disbelief that he showed up.

He looks to the left, then to the right before pointing to himself silently.

You narrow your eyes, brows pinching.

“Yes, you. There’s no one else here.”

For a heartbeat, he just stares at you, weighing his words carefully. To answer or not to answer. After a moment too long, his posture shifts, like he’s steeling his nerves.

“…Ultraman,” he finally says, voice low, rough around the edges, like it doesn’t get used for conversations very often.

“Ultraman?” you say. You toss the name around in your head like a pizza, testing it out. With a hum, you step closer, close enough to startle him.

“You've been watching me, Ultraman. Why?”

That question was a little harder to answer. Again, he debates just standing in silence, but from the way you’re looking at him, eyes wide with curiosity and determination, he doubts you’d give up easily.

“You…interest me,” he answers.

To his surprise, you crack a smile, the corner of your lip pulled upward like you were trying to stop it. He’s confused, not able to decipher what it meant.

“Well, you interest me too. You save a girl, then jet off into the sky without a word, then start stalking me. Talk about a 180.”

Ultraman hesitates, jaw tightening beneath the mask. “…I’m not stalking you,” he says finally, voice lower, almost careful. “I was… making sure you were safe.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s what all the creeps say.”

He grumbles to himself; he hadn’t talked to anyone but Lex and the scientists responsible for creating him. Basic tests, call and response to ensure he was “working correctly”. But you weren’t like that, messing around with him like he was just the guy across the street.

“I’m not a creep.”

You walk around him, slow and deliberate, studying him from a different angle. “…I know,” you say lightly, “just fucking with you a little. Not every day I get rescued by a flying man who then pretends he wasn’t checking up on me.”

He stiffens as you circle him, instincts bracing for fear, for flight.

But you don’t flinch, or back away or run away screaming.

He looks you over instead. You’re relaxed, shoulders loose, heartbeat steady. So you’re clearly not panicked, not calculating an escape. He doesn’t really know why, but that thought soothes him.

“…You’re not scared,” he says, more observation than question.

You glance back at him, eyebrow raised. “Should I be?”

For a moment, he doesn’t know how to answer that. So he opts to leave.

“I should go.”

He hears your heart drop. You’re…disappointed?

“Already?”

“I have things to do…”

He did not have things to do.

“Of course,” you say, nodding as you believe him. “I bet you’re a busy guy. Well, uh…” Your voice trails off as you turn away, crossing the rooftop to the small garden tucked along the ledge. You kneel, careful, then pluck a single flower before hobbling back to him and holding it out.

“A thank you for the other day. You’re the reason my leg isn’t more fucked right now. I know it’s not much, but…”

He hesitates, then reaches out and takes it, holding it between his fingers. So fragile and light, its pink petals warm from the sun. He knows, with unsettling clarity, that he could destroy this flower in fifty different ways without even trying.

He’s never received a gift before.

For a moment, he just stares at it, something tight and unfamiliar settling in his chest. With a stiff nod, he manages a quiet, “Thank you.”

Then, before you can say another word, he lifts off, the rush of air stealing the moment away as he disappears into the sky, still holding the flower.

***

He disappears for the next few days, and you miss his presence. You had come to like having a little shadow following you around. Looking across the street to see him not so inconspicuously hiding behind a street lamp.

You’re tending to your rooftop garden, your beams of sun shining from your hands onto the flowers. You’re halfway done when you hear feet touch down on the roof.

“Ultraman?”

You turn around and see him standing there, less imposing than you remember him, holding out flowers.

Or, well, what was supposed to be flowers.

He must've flown fast, as most of the petals are gone, handing you mostly a bouquet of stems.

“Oh, uh,” you say, blinking at the “arrangement”.

You can’t see his face from behind the mask, but you just know he’s looking at you expectantly.

Broad shoulders curled in a little, head tilted down, leaning in like he’s waiting for some kind of verdict.

“I love them! This is really sweet. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.”

He straightens instantly, like your approval flicked a switch in him.

He shifts his weight, hands twitching at his sides, unsure what to do now that the flowers have been… delivered.

The faintest hum of energy pulses around him. Maybe nervousness? Anticipation? You’re not quite sure.

“You know,” you say, turning the bouquet slowly in your hands, “after our last encounter, I was worried you weren’t coming back.”

You hope you’re not coming across as weird or desperate. Had you been on the rooftop every night since he first visited? Had you called out for him, half-convinced he was hovering somewhere just out of sight, only to hear nothing back but the indignant meow of the neighbourhood cat?

…Maybe.

“Got tied up,” he says.

“Work?”

“…Yes.”

From the sounds of it and what you could glean from his body language, work was hell.

“Well,” you shrug lightly, like it’s no big deal even though your heart says otherwise, “you can come in if you want. My apartment’s a lot warmer than this rooftop. You can take a load off, maybe rant about whatever your job is…”

You trail off, giving him an out, pretending this is casual.

He looks past you toward the open door, then back at you. The hum around him quiets, just a little. “…I don’t usually do this.”

“It’s fun to try new things, right?”

He doesn’t respond, so you take his hand. “Come on, I’ve been dying to have someone to watch TV with.”

***

You step inside, flicking on the lights, and it hits you how surreal it is to casually invite Ultraman into your one-bedroom like he’s a neighbour dropping by.

He follows after you, sudden and silent on the stairs, like a muscle-bound guard dog who doesn’t understand he’s too big for the space.

“Excuse the clutter,” you mumble, kicking aside shoes and yesterday’s mail. “I got home from work and immediately tossed my stuff everywhere.”

You clear space on your couch, sweeping a hoodie and some notebooks onto the coffee table. Glancing over your shoulder at him, you call out, “Make yourself at home!”

You’re not sure what you expect, maybe for him to awkwardly sit, or hover near the door like he’s unsure if he’s allowed.

Instead, he stands ominously in the corner like a stone statue, arms crossed, muscles tense, scanning the entire apartment like he’s analysing every corner for threats that very much don’t exist.

“You don’t want to sit?” you ask gently.

He flicks his gaze to the couch, then back to you.

"It's not a trap, plus you must be tired from standing."

"I don’t get tired," he replies almost immediately.

“Ever?” you ask, to a resounding silence. You have a feeling that’s going to be a theme between the two of you.

"Well, you must be hungry, right? I mean, you do get hungry, I assume," You continue, hoping you could convince him to eat with you at least. He breathes out, and from the little shift in his stance, you can tell he’s hesitant to answer.

"I ate… earlier,” he utters.

“Oh.”

You twiddle your fingers nervously, fighting to find some sort of common ground.

“That's cool. Well, if you get hungry, I have both leftover pizza and Thai. Aren’t you lucky?”

You turn on the TV, limping to the couch and sitting down with a satisfied sigh. Your heart skips when he eventually joins you. Sure, his perfect posture is slightly terrifying, but baby steps.

You can’t remember the last time you had someone in your space like this. You’ve been living a go-to-work, come-home, sleep, repeat kind of routine for so long that it’s started to blur together. This feels… refreshing. Comforting, even. You smile before you can overthink it, before you can start regretting your decisions.

“You can take off the mask, you know.”

He freezes, still as a predator in tall grass.

You flip through channels, oblivious to the way his jaw clenches beneath the mask, unaware of the storm brewing inside him.

His hand twitches where it rests on his knee. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, stripped of its armour. “I’m… not sure you’d like what’s underneath.”

He keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead, like looking at you might burn him to a crisp.

Who the fuck made him think that? You’d kill them if you ever found out.

“I’m sure I would,” you say gently. “But I won’t force you. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

He considers your words for a moment before saying, resolutely, “I’ll keep it on.”

“That’s okay,” you say, smiling at him, and he believes you. “Since you’re my guest…” You pause, landing on a channel with dramatic music and applause. “Jeopardy or Family Feud?”

He exhales, just a little, shoulders lowering as the tension bleeds out of him. “…Jeopardy,” he says, after a beat.

You grin. “I knew you were a Jeopardy guy.”

***

You’ve been sitting together for over an hour now, mostly in silence, the TV murmuring to itself in the background. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t press in on you, that doesn’t demand to be filled.

He never thought he’d be this close to you like this, in your own space. Sitting on the couch where he’s seen you so many times before from a distance, from rooftops and shadows, always watching, never touching the edges of your life.

There’s still a gap between the two of you, one that's deliberate on his part. Like he's terrified of scaring you off.

He’s barely been paying attention to the TV. All of his focus is on you, your small reactions, the way you beam when you get an answer right, the quiet little huff you make when they miss something obvious. It makes something warm unfurl in his chest.

Soft, almost. He doesn’t know if he likes it. It feels… illegal somehow, like the moment he lets himself lean into it, it’ll be taken away.

“…You know,” you say suddenly, breaking the quiet, “you don’t have to look so tense. I’m not going to bite.”

“…I know,” he answers, a fraction too stiff.

“And I know you're not going to bite either,” you glance at him, studying his posture, then smile, “I happen to think you’re sweet.”

“…Sweet?”

Ultraman has never heard that word used for him. Not once.

“I’m…” He struggles, fingers curling against his thigh. He’s not sure what he wants to say. His instincts scream to deny it, to shut it down before it can become something dangerous. “…I don’t think that’s true.”

You just shrug and stand, padding across the room. “I still have the flowers you gave me, you know. Well—what was left of them. They’re growing back.” You lift your hands, sunlight catching between your fingers as you wiggle them. “Thanks to a little love and—” you grin, hands glowing for a moment,“—magic, so to speak.”

You nearly trip over a loose sock on the way back, catching yourself with a laugh before setting the vase in his hands.

“See?” you say softly. “Getting me flowers was a sweet thing to do.”

He looks down at the flowers, alive and growing, just like his feelings for you. The warmth in his chest spreads.

Is this a virus? Is he sick? Is he malfunctioning?

“Sweet,” he repeats back to you.

“Exactly,” you say, placing the vase back on the table and crashing down next to him. The gap between the two of you is smaller, and neither of you tries to widen it.

***

He starts dropping by your place more often, like it’s a habit. Slowly but surely, you were getting past the 10-foot-tall wall he had up.

You think you even caught him chuckling at the movie you were watching last night, though that might have been a hallucination on your part, a desperate mirage of connection.

You didn’t know what was going on in his head.

Unknown to you, you were what was going on in his head. 24/7. Living there, uninvited. Distracting him and, worse, making him question the lines Lex had drawn for him.

You were confusing him, just like the first time he met you. So soft and bright, full of energy.

Always moving, always speaking, like sunlight spilling into a room he’d thought was sealed shut forever.

But most confusing of all, you were kind to him. Never sneering, or mocking, or calling him stupid.

Offering to help, wanting him to be comfortable, almost as if he were human like you.

Just like usual, Ultraman’s in your apartment again, spending more and more time there as of late. Floating up to the corner of your room to try and catch a spider for you.

He had found you armed with a rolled-up magazine and a frying pan, trying to coax it into the pan and far away from your home.

He picks it up, careful, almost reverent as it crawls around his hand, finding its bearings. The creature is so small.

So fragile and alive, right in the palm of his hands, and yet there’s no order from Lex to destroy or pulverise or kill.

He flies over to the open window and lets it out into the night.

“You’re my saviour!” You laugh, rushing over to hug him as soon as he lands on the floor.

That gets him.

You had learnt to observe all his little tells. The way he carries himself, the faint hesitation before he relaxes, reading what his mask-covered face couldn’t tell.

Then, softly, “You’re…weird,” he says, arms hovering over your back.

A little debate starts in his head, should he hug you back or shouldn't he?

He wondered how it might feel to hold you, but something was holding him back. So his arms hang at his sides, longing to wrap themselves around your frame.

The warmth of your body, the smell of your shampoo, for once, he feels safe, as if he could just stay, just stop being on guard, just exist without waiting for the next command.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, looking straight ahead again. You lean back, looking up at him.

“Well, if I'm not too weird and you're not sick of me yet, then can I lean on you and we can watch a romcom?”

He tilts his head adorably.

“Rom…com?”

“You have so much to learn.”

***

The romcom did some damage.

Never in your life did you think you’d have a sleepover with a flying, near-indestructible man in your apartment. At the time, it had felt like a small thing, just one movie. A little romantic considering you fell asleep on his shoulder, sure, but completely harmless.

Apparently not.

You wake to the faint smell of burning, which is obviously a cause for concern.

Your sheets fall from your body as you traipse out of your bedroom and towards your kitchen. Your tired brain, questioning if Ultraman carried you to bed and if he was the one responsible for filling your home with the smell of fire. If so, you have to admit he's multifaceted.

The smell of burning is getting stronger as little puffs of smoke make themselves clear.

“Ultraman?” you mumble, peaking your head around the corner and into the kitchen.

The sight is something else entirely. Ultraman still in his suit with one of your aprons, clearly far too small for him and stretched awkwardly across his chest, saying “Kiss the Cook” on the front.

“You’re… awake,” he grumbles.

The way he says it makes you frown. There’s something like disappointment there, like he's annoyed at himself.

You shuffle out of the living room, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Whatcha up to?” you ask, voice still sleepy as you enter the kitchen.

“Pancakes,” he says.

He’s standing far too stiffly by the stove, spatula held like it might attack him at any moment. The pan is smoking. One pancake is charred beyond recognition, another is somehow still liquid, and there’s batter on the counter, the floor, and, somehow, the fridge.

His voice drops, quiet and utterly defeated.

“Breakfast in bed… like the…” he pauses, clearly, embarrassed, “rom-com.”

The word sounds unfamiliar, like most do when he says them, careful and uncertain. You can almost imagine his face beneath the mask, shy and bashful.

To his surprise, you start glowing, gold emanating from your skin. Your heart was alive with something that had been lost for so long.

“Thank you. I love it. No one has ever done anything like this for me.”

In all your relationships, you were the one doing the most. Planning dates, remembering anniversaries, making compromises, giving more than you ever received.

For him to do this, to try without being asked, means everything. Someone who notices. Someone that appreciates the small things just like you do.

“But I failed.”

He gestures to the mess again, prepared for your emotions to turn on a dime, instead your light just shines brighter.

So bright, he has to squint a little as you step closer, your light reflecting off his mask.

“It’s the effort that counts.”

His borrowed heart racing in ways that he’s never known was possible.

He can feel it again, that pull, as he takes all of you in. From the remnants of your perfume from yesterday to the eyelash caught on your cheek to your heartbeat beating in time with his, just as fast.

“I… I need to go.”

He steps back and he can breathe again, steadying himself. Is he supposed to feel light and weightless when he’s around you? Is that normal?

Although you had grown used to his sudden disappearances, it didn't make you ache any less each time he left.

You reach out for his gloved hand, still warm and glowing faintly.

“Will you be back tonight?”

“Yes,” he replies in earnest.

You lean up and kiss his mask where his cheek would be, soft and unthinking, and smile.

“Thank you for the pancakes.”

He nods wordlessly and escapes as quickly as he can in Ultraman fashion.

As he glides over the city back to LexCorp, he keeps his hand pressed to the spot where you kissed him, as if grounding himself, as if afraid the feeling might fade if he lets go… not at all aware that he’s still wearing your apron, fluttering helplessly in the wind behind him.

***

Turns out Ultraman is a romantic at heart.

Sure, the pancakes were burnt as hell and the kitchen had smelled like smoke for hours, but he was good at other things.

He would bring you flowers stolen from LexCorp’s private gardens, hover just close enough to share your space without crowding you, and even gave you a quiet, earnest compliment that stayed with you for days.

“I can cook you dinner,” he offers one night.

You hesitate, but then you think back to the charred remains of pancakes you were scraping off all your surfaces.

“I can show you how.”

“I’d… like that.”

His hands settle over yours, too careful, too soft. It's enough to make your heart flutter and your body turn into a glow stick. Light emanates off your skin, the soft light like a beacon to him.

“Are you okay?” He questions, as he looks at your glowing skin.

“Yeah, sorry, you just…” You trail off, as soon as you look up at him, your words get caught in your throat. You might just have a thing for masks. “…flustered me.”

Instead of backing up or shying away like you were used to he moves forward, his chest against yours.

“Do you like it when I… fluster you?”

Since when could he do that, melt your brain with just a few words? You guys need to stop watching romcoms, he's getting far too good at this shit.

You just nod, face warm, trying to play it off. “I—uh, let’s just cook, okay?”

There’s no way you’re doing a good job of hiding just how much, considering you’re shining as bright as a lighthouse, but he pretends not to notice.

The two of you continue, moving around each other easily, a meal starting to take form until he accidentally knocks the pan too hard, sending vegetables skittering and sauce splattering across the stove.

You jump into action ready to help clean up when you notice how he curls in on himself a little, shoulders drawing inward as if waiting for you to be angry or disappointed.

“Can’t do anything right,” he mutters to himself, jaw tight with shame and frustration. First the pancakes, and now you had to watch him mess up again.

“That's not true. It hurts to hear you talk about yourself like that."

Without hesitation, you wrap your arms around him.

He freezes at first, wondering how he's supposed to react, if he's being tested or tricked. But then slowly relaxes, it's you, after all. He knows that he's safe, knows you won’t laugh or recoil or turn him into something monstrous.

As you pull back, he says, “I want you to see me.”

“You—Really?”

You had become used to the mask, but you would be lying if you said you weren't curious. Thinking about what he might look like, different faces swapping themselves in and out, in your mind.

“I trust you.”

You watch as his hands come up to his mask. No matter what he looked like, you liked the man you had come to know and nothing's going to change that.

When he finally removes it, you nearly faint.

“Holy Superman.”

Your jaw drops as you're looking at what you'd describe as Superman's twin. His hair is longer and untamed, and he's probably less likely for a candid photo of him smiling to be on the cover of a magazine, but that's definitely Superman's face.

“Lex Luthor is batshit,” you mutter, in pure shock and awe. He really did go copy-paste.

“You… you don’t like it,” he concludes.

His expression hardens the way it always does when he expects rejection but you’re quick to reassure him.

“No, that’s not— I like it. I like you. You’re pretty hard not to like.”

You start to glow, gold light blooming softly beneath your skin.

“You’re…” he starts, looking at you, mesmerised, yet again, at the way you shine.

You enter his space, and he lets you, relaxing as he feels your body close to his.

“You know it happens when I feel strong emotions.”

He holds your face carefully, like you might break, your cheeks warm in his hands.

“For… me?”

“For you and only you.”

He hesitates, and before you even realize it you’re being pulled in, lips melting together in the middle of the kitchen.

His hands hover over your waist, uncertain, before pulling you to him firmly, like he’s finally decided this is something he’s allowed to want.

“Just like in the movies, huh?”

“Just like in the movies,” he says back to you, smiling softly, wonder written all over him.

You’ve never seen him look so beautiful.

***

The next few days, you’re floating through life, as if nothing quite touches the ground anymore, shining every time you think of him, which is often.

The glow lingers longer now, like it's your default setting.

You’re sitting by the window one evening, waiting for him to show up. He’s late, which is unusual, and unease curls in your chest before you can stop it.

Then he staggers through your door, holding his stomach, holding his side as he breathes heavily.

“Holy shit! Are you okay?” you ask, racing your way over to help support him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just braces a hand against the wall, shoulders heaving.

“Where does it hurt?” you prompt further, the worry building in your voice.

“I will heal,” he grits out.

He always does. It’s part of what he was made for. To go out there, to be broken, and to stitch himself back together again without complaint.

He doesn’t understand why you care so much.

He wasn’t human.

Wasn’t even an alien, technically.

Just… a clone, an experiment, a thing.

He watches you, tearing through your apartment, trying to sing something to help.

You’re fumbling with the first aid kit, hands trembling, tears stinging your eyes and making everything blur.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I—” You choke on your words as you finally tear the kit open, your fingers darting over the different bandages, ointments, gauze like you don’t know where to start. Like you don’t know how to help someone who isn’t supposed to need help.

You’re shaking so hard you almost drop the box as you rush back over to where he's sitting on the couch.

“Fuck, fuck, I—” you stammer, struggling to catch your breath.

He doesn’t understand why you’re crying for him. You should never cry for him.

He lifts a hand, and swipes his thumb gently beneath your eyes, catching the tear before it can fall.

“Don’t cry…” He pleads, “Not… for me.”

He was a mistake, an abomination. That’s what Lex has always told him.

“Why shouldn't I cry for you? I care about you, okay? I…” you pause, the tightness in your throat and your face cloy with tears, making it hard to talk. “I really care about you.”

Your heart longs to say something else. You know that you feel it. You feel it so strongly, sometimes it hurts but one ‘I love you’ and you might lose him forever.

“So—so don't tell me not to cry for you. You are worth crying for.”

The words shock him, almost like he can't believe it. He wants to protest, to keep fighting you on it, to make you believe what everyone else seems to.

But, he can't.

You already seem heartbroken enough over seeing him like this.

His eyes are wrought with pain but he tries to hide it to no avail.

“Please, look at me,” you plead.

The moment you make eye contact, you glow, your heart overwhelmed with fear and relief and something dangerously close to anger on his behalf. When you look into his eyes, all you want to do is take that pain away.

“Your light…”

Your hand glows instinctively, the warmth spilling over as the glow spreads, licking along the edge of his jaw, softening the bruises almost immediately.

“Come closer.”

You sit in front of him, glowing brighter and brighter, healing him, acting as his own personal sun. His broken ribs and deep cuts are now a thing of the past as bone knits, skin seals, pain unravels, fusing together beneath your touch.

“Are you okay now?” you ask softly.

He gives you a small smile, though it’s one of the biggest ones you’ve gotten from him.

“I’ll survive.”

You chuckle, exhausted but relieved.

“I thought that was my line.”

***

It was only a matter of time.

For the two or so months he had been going to and fro from your apartment, becoming more hesitant during missions, more bogged down by his emotions.

He's surprised it took this long, but knowing Lex, he always knew.

“You’ve been going on little detours, getting distracted… haven’t you?”

Lex’s voice slices through the silence as he circles Ultraman like a shark, hands folded behind his back, pretending at patience.

Poking a hard finger into Ultraman’s chest, he sneers,“That’s not your directive. That’s not what I built you for.”

His eyes narrow, calculation turning to cruelty, as if often did.

“Do I have to recalibrate you? Or are you just completely broken already? All this because of a stupid girl—?”

Ultraman’s jaw tightens, just barely, but it’s enough for Lex to catch.

A slow smile creeps over his face.

“Oh. I see. It’s worse than I thought. You're thinking for yourself, or at least, trying to. And feeling something for someone, I'd find it funny if it wasn't so inconvenient for me.”

Ultraman doesn’t move or speak. But his anger is thrumming just beneath his skin. Insults towards you wouldn't be taken lightly. You were anything but stupid to him. Rather, you were everything.

Lex steps closer, fearlessly, and taps Ultraman’s cheek mockingly.

“If you want to keep your little friend alive,” he says with a cold hum, “then you’ll stay in line.”

He leans up, lips barely a foot from Ultraman’s ear.

“Otherwise,” Lex whispers, “no one will ever see them again, let alone you.”

The words hang heavy, poisonous.

He knew he'd never see the sun, his sun, again.

***

You’re cutting up vegetables when you hear the sound of boots landing on your balcony, and your heart skips a beat.

“He’s here,” you whisper to yourself, all giddy, like a kid waiting for Santa Claus.

The door opens slowly, and when he steps inside he takes off his mask, only to freeze when he sees you. As beautiful as ever, his safe haven.

He walks forward into the kitchen where you've clearly been cooking up a storm, sleeves rolled up and music playing softly in the background.

If only this could be his forever.

“Fuck, you’re uh early. I was just in the middle of making dinner but it’s fine. You can taste test for me, be my sous chef.”

He says your name, almost mournful, dragging out the syllables in his low tone.

“What's up?” you question. He's never said your name like that.

You walk over, smiling softly, the aroma of the kitchen wrapping around you. Reaching up, you caress his cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.

“You look tired,” you say, voice gentle, concerned. “Have you been sleeping okay?”

He chuckles lightly but it's void of any real humour. Of course, even at a time like this you were caring for him.

“I’ve… never met anyone like you. So bright, so strong, so beautiful… like the sun.”

Your chest tightens at the words, warmth pooling in your stomach. All you can wonder is why this feels like the end of something.

“Your sunshine,” you murmur, reaching out to take his hand. Though your hand misses his, fingertips brushing as he pulls away.

“What's—Why won't you let me…?”

“I…can’t come back here…” he interrupts, low and strained, like it hurts to say.

“What—what do you mean?” you gulp, all the colour and life drained from your face.

“I'm not allowed to see you.”

“Not allowed? Lex found out?”

He hears your heart drop, making him feel that much worse. The last thing he wanted was to make you sad, to be the reason why you can't shine.

“Then don’t leave,” you blurt, stepping closer, voice trembling. “You can stay here with me. You don’t need to go back to him—”

A soft pair of lips presses briefly to your forehead, and your words stop short. The gesture is quiet and fleeting, but it speaks just as loud as his words.

He gives you a sad smile, as beautiful as it is rare.

“I need… I only need you safe,” he murmurs, voice catching. “He won't hurt you if I stay away.”

Your chest tightens. Every instinct screams at you to argue, to grab him, to tell him he doesn’t get to make that choice alone.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” you whisper, barely audible. “He doesn't own you, okay? Lex may have made you but he doesn't know you. You have so much love and—and feelings and so much to offer!”

Your voice trembles towards the end as you start to break down. You don't want to go back to life without him, he made everything fuller, so much brighter. Like your apartment finally felt like a home.

He panics as you start to cry, words tumbling out between sobs, apologies and fears you didn’t know how to name. He wipes them away, gentle and steady, thumbs warm against your cheeks.

“It’s my turn to say thank you.”

He leans down and kisses you and you kiss back with fervour. Everything you want to say poured into it.

It’s bittersweet, soft and lingering, and as your hand presses against his chest you can feel how fast his heart is racing.

Kissing you is all he wanted to do—to wake up every morning and try and make your breakfast, to walk with you to work and watch TV in your apartment until you fall asleep beside him. Maybe even go on an actual date, have dinner at a restaurant like they did in the movies he watched.

All he wants is to stay and be human with you.

Although it may be your last kiss, it doesn’t make it any less beautiful. Your lips separate and he leans his down to press his forehead against yours.

He memorises you for what must be the millionth time, the smell of your shampoo, your perfume, the flutter of your eyelashes and pounding of your heart.

He misses you even as he holds you in his arms.

“Thank you for making me feel human.”

And with that, he disappears, soaring from your apartment, not knowing if he'll ever see you again.

Main Masterlist || DC Masterlist

[feyrinnn]

rocking around the christmas tree

❝it's the most wonderful time of the year, and sukuna is finally ready to take things to the next level with you. luckily (or unluckily), his two nephews are more than willing to help, turning this heartfelt confession into a full mission❞

pairing boyfriend!sukuna x f!reader content mdni!, FLUFF, smut, sukuna pov, confessions, marriage proposal hehe, domestic fluff, crack, fingering, praise and a little degradation, breeding kink, body worship, unprotected piv sex, creampie, overstimulation, aftercare, making out, pet names, happy tears!, cute yuuji and choso are trying their best, grumpy down bad sukuna, reader is a sweetheart wc 8.3k

“Be quiet, brat” Sukuna hissed through gritted teeth, double checking the door had closed quietly behind him and his annoying nephew. 

He moved around like a spy in some noir movie, but his choice of a sidekick was probably not the wisest – considering as soon as he had stepped inside, Yuuji was already loudly crashing against the dresser. 

Sukuna inhaled deeply, immediately regretting this decision. 

“You're the one being all mysterious” Yuuji pouted, rubbing his sore arm while trying to assess the completely dark room his uncle had just dragged him inside. “You need help hiding a body or something?” he joked, but the awkward chuckle indicated a part of him feared that was a real possibility. 

Sukuna turned on a little lamp, the only source of light in this enclosed space that revealed itself to be a completely ordinary office. 

“Yours, if you keep being loud” he hissed, and Yuuji put his hands up in surrender.

“I’m just curious” the younger man complained.

His uncle only clicked his tongue, heading over towards a wooden desk in the corner of the room, pulling a drawer open and shuffling inside it for something hidden all the way at the back. His scowl didn’t match the way his body moved at all – he was careful, precise, almost gentle. 

Who could blame Yuuji for thinking something was seriously wrong? 

Sukuna wasn’t exactly known for gentle. 

But soon he straightened up again, hand closing around the object he had been looking for. “Here" he muttered, bringing a little box to the dim lamplight, nodding for Yuuji to step closer.

It looked far too small in his big palm, but it was clearly important, with the way Sukuna held it like a precious offering. And expensive too – dark red velvet with a square top, it looked almost like…

A ring box. 

Yuuji squinted, leaning closer to his uncle’s open palm to have a better look, his brain trying to understand what it could possibly be.

And then it clicked. 

“Oh my god” he screeched, immediately bringing both hands to his mouth once Sukuna’s eyes turned murderous. 

“I fucking warned you” he snarled, pulling the box away like it was a privilege his nephew had just lost. 

“What’s going on?” said another voice, barging in immediately at the loud sound. Sukuna rolled his eyes, finding his other annoying nephew standing by the door frame with his stupid hairstyle and permanent pout. 

“Are you ok, Yuuji?” Choso asked, closing the door swiftly to move towards his little brother, who was still standing in the middle of the room with ecstatic eyes. 

“He’s proposing!” Yuuji squeaked, trying his best to be quiet, but he couldn’t help himself from jumping up and down in excitement. 

Choso’s face softened into a rare smile as he turned to his uncle. “Really?” he asked, delighted. 

“None of your business” Sukuna rolled his eyes, opening the drawer again with so much force the wood rattled – but then proceeding to place the box down inside it like it was the most delicate thing in the world.

“Wha–“ Yuuji pouted, hands on his hips. “At least show us the ring!”

Sukuna’s arms crossed, staring down at the pair. “You don’t get to see the ring” he huffed, annoyed.

But his temper was clearly not matched by the other two, who struggled to contain their excitement. 

“So there is a ring?” Choso asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Tch” Sukuna rolled his eyes. “Go back inside before I throw you out” 

“But it’s Christmas” Yuuji pointed out, looking genuinely hurt. 

“And?” Sukuna snarled, and the two boys recoiled, not needing any more reason to believe their uncle’s threat. 

The temperature in the room felt like it dropped ten degrees as the two siblings were locked under Sukuna’s menacing stare. Yuuji opened his mouth to say something else, but Choso’s wide eyes snapping to him told him to reconsider.

And then the door opened again.

“Oh? What are you boys doing here?” you asked, wearing a little apron that indicated you were still busy with Christmas dinner, but your brows furrowed as your eyes scanned the scene in front of you. “Were you being mean to them, Kuna?” you pouted, cocking your head to the side playfully. 

It was like a magic trick – the way gruff, grumpy Sukuna could go from threatening someone to looking like he was about to lose his footing within two seconds, all because you had stepped into the room. 

His brows unfurrowed, his lips parted, his hands twitched like he was aching to reach for you. The menacing aura Sukuna had around him 99% of the time was somehow replaced by reverence, like he was a moth pulled to your warm light.

“Nothing they didn’t deserve” he huffed out, but when he finally turned to you fully, his whole posture changed. “Do you need something?” 

The brothers remained still, squinting eyes darting between you and Sukuna like they were playing tennis with their eyeballs. They exchanged a sideways glance, saying more with a look than they’d ever dare utter aloud in their uncle's presence.

But they were both thinking the same thing.

“I’m almost done with the pie” you pondered. “Could use some help with the salad?” 

“Of course” Sukuna nodded. “We’ll be right there” 

This was…bizarre.

Like their uncle had just been possessed, or replaced right in front of their eyes. It was like a whole different person – his posture, his face… And the way his voice softened around you? It was unlike anything they had ever heard. 

Growing up, Sukuna was always been the families black sheep, the rebel uncle who did the most to look nothing like his twin. Dark tattoos all over, black leather, sharp piercings – all things he adopted, but it wasn’t just for show. No, if anything those things were just the perfect compliment to the person he already was. 

Sharp, rough, intimidating, all words that might have been used to describe him more than once. Somewhat of a loner too – Sukuna wasn’t known for having many friends, and most of the time seemed to be hanging out with the family out of obligation rather than genuine affection. They suspected he dated people, of course, but no one he ever bothered mentioning or being seen with.

So when the family heard he was actually dating someone seriously a few years ago, they had all but expected the female version of him. 

But there you were. The kindest soul they all had had the pleasure of meeting.

For years they’d all been trying to figure out what it was about Sukuna that made you fall and, even more so, made you stay. All sorts of wild theories had been thrown around – from unexpected pregnancies to some scheme to scare off an ex. 

But the years went by, and you were still there.

Seeing this softer side to their uncle never failed to be weird, but now? Proposing? Helping with the salad?!

It was safe to say, the two boys were left in shock. 

“Is he…smiling?” Yuuji whispered to his older brother. 

“Stop talking” Choso elbowed him quick enough.

Sukuna’s eyes stayed on you as you closed the door, disappearing back to the living room. The brothers let out a deep exhale, thanking the universe for you saving them from imminent death. 

But then straightened up like they had been electrocuted when Sukuna turned to face them again.

“One word about this and I’ll skin you alive” he promised.

The two of them nodded too quickly.

The unlikely trio stepped out of the office and into the candle lit living room, where you were just finishing setting up the table with Jin and Kaori. Every little corner was decorated with colourful lights and little Christmas ornaments, some of which Sukuna had even picked out himself – though he’d never admit it.

It was already bad enough that you had made him help you put the decorations up in the first place, and Sukuna had to pretend he didn’t want to fall to his knees and propose right there whenever you smiled at some stupid looking bauble. Instead he’d just roll his eyes and huff, pretending to be annoyed. 

“Nice of you to join us” you smiled, watching them all walk in. You immediately dropped the plates to go over to your stern boyfriend, placing a little kiss to his cheek that made the whole room suddenly pay attention.

Not because it’s an unusual thing for partners to do, but because of how easy it looked.  

Sukuna didn’t bother about any of the others though; his large palm closed around your waist, holding you close and turning you around so you were fully facing him, while those crimson eyes assessed your expression with concern.

“You're working too hard” he scolded, just for you, but every ear in the room was pricking up with curiosity. 

“Its almost ready” you shook your head, leaning into his warmth, though he still didn’t look pleased.

Sukuna breathed in your scent, smoothing your hair back gently. “You should get changed” he suggested, “I can take it from here” 

“Yeah?” you asked, and his reply was placing his thumb under your chin to tilt it upwards, pulling you in for a little kiss to your lips. 

It must have only lasted two seconds, but you pulled away looking very pleased, while Sukuna tried to pretend your flushed expression didn’t completely undo him. He almost wanted to pull you back in, not caring at all about the gossiping eyes around, but before he could, you did as he asked – turned on your heels to climb the steps towards the master bedroom, while Sukuna’s eyes never left you. 

And then his gaze turned to his disfunctional family.

“What?” he snarled, and every head snapped away as if they weren’t just all watching far too intently. 

Yuuji looked straight up at the ceiling. Choso was suddenly too interested on the floor. Jin just walked right back into the kitchen like the question had not been addressed to him at all.

But Kaori was the one to break the silence with a laugh. “She really has you wrapped around her finger, doesn’t she?” she mused.

The whole room held its breath as Sukuna slowly turned towards her. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he growled, one eyebrow twitching. 

But she seemed to be the only person in that house who didn’t fear death. 

“Means you’re obviously in love” Kaori teased. “Right, Jin, dear?” 

Jin tensed up completely but turned around to face the man who look so similar and still so unlike him. “It’s nice you’ve found someone” he stuttered.

“Mmh" his wife agreed. “You should just make her part of the family officially, don’t you think?” she teased. 

Yuuji’s eyes widened instantly, and Sukuna didn’t miss a beat.

“You” he hissed, turning around to his nephew so fast the younger man took an instinctive step back.

“I-I didn’t say anything!” Yuuji put his hands up.

"You said it with your eyes” Sukuna snarled.

“Said what?” your voice came from behind your pink haired boyfriend.

He immediately turned on his heels, all violence gone from his tone when he got one look at you. 

Looking so damn beautiful in your little Christmas dress.

If it wasn’t for these idiots in his house, Sukuna would have taken you right there. 

“Oh my” Kaori chuckled, bringing a hand to hide her smile. The previous interaction seemed to have completely over Jin’s head, but his wife was far too perceptive. 

Sukuna's crimson stare was enough to get everyone moving out of the way and back to their chores, but before he could move, you were wrapping your arms over his neck. “Kuna” you clicked your tongue. “What did I say about being mean to the guests?” 

“Tch. I wasn’t" he complained, almost pouting himself, but his arms closed around your waist, pulling you in. You chuckled, enjoying the heat that emanated from his body like a human furnace, but instead of pulling you closer, Sukuna’s gruff hands pushed you just a little back. “You look beautiful” he stated, giving himself time to fully enjoy the view.

The way your smile opened made everything in him relax. “Thank you, Kuna” you murmured, going on the tips of your toes to kiss his cheek again. 

Fine. He could deal with this. It wasn’t too bad, he reassured himself. He would finish the salad, entertain this family time nonsense for you, do the whole gift swapping thing – everything was fine as long as you were happy. Maybe he could even enjoy this. 

It wasn’t too bad. It was fine. It was…

…easier said than done.

Because two hours later, he was on his red sofa sandwiched against his will between his two nephews. “So…” Yuuji was whispering, thinking he was being very sneaky though he clearly wasn’t. “When are you gonna do it, huh?”

“Do what?” Sukuna replied through gritted teeth, eyes locked straight ahead. 

“You know… the whole getting down on one knee thing?” Yuuji poked. 

Sukuna grimaced, still refusing to look at the two as to not raise suspicion to this conversation. But he’d be lying if part of him wasn’t glad to get the words off his chest for the first time. “I don’t know yet” he admitted.

“What?!” Yuuji exclaimed, quickly trying to conceal the fact and give his mother a smile as she passed through.

“He shouldn’t rush it, Yuuji” Choso nodded, and the fact he was agreeing managed to annoy Sukuna even more. 

“I'm not saying to rush it! But you got the ring already” Yuuji argued. “What are you waiting for?” 

Sukuna’s jaw locked as he tried to breathe in deeply. “I fail to see how this is any of your business” 

“It needs to be special, Yuuji” Choso explained. “A private dinner. Maybe flowers” 

Sukuna actually turned to the dark haired boy with curiosity for the first time. “…flowers?” he echoed. 

Yuuji nodded like he understood. “Red flowers!” he agreed enthusiastically. 

Choso hummed in agreement. “Women like flowers, right?” 

“What do you know about women?” Sukuna mocked.

Choso gulped. “I read” 

The older man scoffed, annoyed at himself for even entertaining dumb and dumber  sitting next to him. He slapped his lap, getting ready to stand up and exit this conversation, before you and Kaori turned the corner.

“Where are you going? It’s time for the gifts!” his brothers wife complained. 

He saw your eyes widened at him, turning your head with a puzzled expression so adorable it was like his brain stopped working for a second.

So he sat down, of course. 

Sukuna watched from the sidelines as his family started shuffling around gift boxes, some big, some small, all wrapped with care in a multitude of colours. It was almost sweet – but Sukuna didn’t do gifts. As far back as he could remember, he never had any interest in family traditions like this one.

The first year you spent together, he told you the only thing he wanted was you. And since then, you had always respected his wishes to not be included in senseless traditions and unnecessary spending. He still got you little things, of course, because it somehow seemed important to you, even if it meant nothing to him. 

This year, he had bought you a little bracelet. Something he hoped would match the engagement ring when you finally, hopefully, said yes. It was resting in one of the drawers of the nightstand by the bed upstairs, where he was planning on giving it to you later that night so he didn’t have to bother with his families curious gaze. 

He hated this tradition, with all the judgmental stares and the pressure to get it right. And you knew that.

But tonight, you hovered uncertainly, a little gift box in your hands, stepping towards your boyfriend while biting the inside of your cheek, looking nervous in a way you never had to be around him. 

“It's nothing big” you muttered when he raised an eyebrow. 

Sukuna took the box gently in his hands, trying to pretend he wasn’t nervous himself. And then he opened it to reveal a little chain necklace.

“Since you lost your other one” you explained, still shy, still uncertain.

Sukuna felt his heart beat faster. Damn you for being so thoughtful.

He eyed the considerate gift, but this one was a little different from the necklace he had lost a few weeks ago – it had a pendant dangling at the bottom, not big but visible enough. Dragging his fingers along it, he discovered it was a locket.

Sukuna struggled to open it, the metal too small for his thick fingers, but when he finally did, he wished he took even longer to prepare for how his throat tightened at the sight of what was inside.

One side of the frame was empty, and on the other – a picture of the two of you. A date at the park you had had months ago, when he agreed to let you ask a stranger to take the picture and it was all worth it when he saw the end result. Sukuna with his arm possessively around your shoulders, and you leaning into his chest like it was the safest place in the world, that adorable smile all over your face.

Grumpy Sukuna suddenly was lost for words.

“I–I know you don’t like gifts” you waved your hands off, nervous at his silence, but Sukuna was already standing up slowly.

He pulled the chain over his head in one smooth motion, letting it rest above his loud heartbeat. “Thank you” he muttered, pulling you in, hiding his embarrassingly flushed face on the crook of your neck.

You seemed startled for a second, before fully leaning into his warmth with a flustered smile of your own. “Do you like it?” you asked, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Sukuna pulled away, but not before placing a soft kiss to your forehead. He nodded his head up and down, unable to escape the lump in his throat. 

Not just because of how beautiful you looked in that picture, how happy you seemed next to someone like him who never thought he deserved a love like this before. 

But also, the empty frame on the other side of the locket.

Empty wasn’t really the right word for it, not when it was so full of promise. He knew exactly what, or who he’d like to fill the space. Maybe a tiny someone who hopefully looked more like you than it did him, a prospect you two had spoken about before but he never was able to find the words to express how much it meant to him. 

Sukuna wanted a family with you.

Wanted to carry both your pictures side by side above his heart.

And he wanted it now.  

“I’m doing it tonight” Sukuna announced, cornering his two nephews on the corridor while the rest of the party continued in the living room. His arms were crossed, his face resolute, and he wasn’t sure if bringing it up to the brothers again would be a good idea but he needed to get the thoughts out or he’d explode. 

Yuuji’s mouth hung open in surprise. Choso nearly dropped his drink. “Tonight…?” he stuttered, eyes wide above his thick face tattoo.

“Yes" Sukuna snarled. “Is that a problem?” 

“N-no” Choso put his hands up in defense. “But shouldn’t you…plan it a bit more?”

“I don’t need to” Sukuna scoffed. “Look at her” 

They both followed his eyes, to where you were eating next to their parents. You were beautiful, but they knew that already – the really shocking thing about this scene was Sukuna’s visible heart eyes. 

“I love her” he admitted, swallowing hard, voice small if not shy. 

The way he said it was so heartfelt even the brothers felt on the verge of tears.

Yuuji patted him on the back. “Then go for it, unkie” he smiled with a thumbs up.

“Don't call me that” Sukuna grunted, but his eyes never left you. 

Minutes later, the boys had reconvened in the office room like a secret war council. 

“All right” Choso announced, sounding serious like the commander in chief instead of a slightly tipsy young adult on Christmas day. “He's got the ring, now we need – ambiance” he started laying out the plan.

“Yes" Yuuji agreed, clicking his fingers. “You can’t just propose in the middle of the living room. There are layers to this” 

Sukuna reluctantly bowed his head, but stayed in the room anyway. “Fine. What do I need?”

“First, the setting” Choso announced. “What’s the most special place you can think of?” 

“Special?” Sukuna raised an eyebrow, thinking hard.

“Yes yes yes” Yuuji started like an overly excited puppy. “Like a date spot? What’s the most special place for you guys?”

Sukuna chuckled smugly. “The bedroom” he nodded, pleased with himself, as his two nephews blushed and looked away. 

“Um… sure” Choso carried on, deciding to ignore the implications. “How can we make the bedroom look as romantic as possible?”

The whole room hummed, considering the question.

“I know!” Yuuji brought his hand up like he was in class. “There's a flower shop nearby, I could go get some!”

“Well done, Yuuji” Choso nodded, proud. “But will it be open on Christmas day?” he pondered, already considering potential setbacks to the operation. 

“It's worth a try” Yuuji shrugged. They both looked at Sukuna, who gave a small approving nod, the only confirmation they needed. “What else can we get if not?” 

“Candles are romantic” Choso suggested like he had just been struck by inspiration. “Do you have any spare?” 

Sukuna thought for a second. “Just take some from the living room” he nodded eventually, referencing the Christmas decorations.

“…won’t they notice it’s gone?” Yuuji asked tentatively.

“We'll say it’s an emergency” Sukuna said.

“What if they get worried about the fake emergency?” Choso hesitated.

Sukuna gritted his teeth. “I don’t like your attitude” he snarled.

They both gulped. “Fine, fine” Yuuji waved it off. “I'll get flowers, Cho, you’re in charge of the candle stealing”

His brother nodded, unwavering, taking this very seriously. The boys looked pumped and ready to go, but just then, Sukuna felt something he wasn’t used to feeling.

Nerves.

“What if…” he gulped, crossing his arms in a protective stance, leaning against the wall. “What if she says no?”

The two stopped, blinking at their uncle, who looked vulnerable in a way that was so unlike him.

“Kuna" Yuuji started, and the fact his uncle didn’t react to the nickname had him seriously concerned. “Of course she’ll say yes” he reassured, taking a step towards the larger man. 

“Tch. How do you know?” Sukuna rolled his eyes, but his expression betrayed how much the possibility actually hurt. 

The boys smiled sympathetically, but it wasn’t one of pity. 

“She loves you, uncle” Choso soothed, confident.

Sukuna huffed out an exhale, shifting his weight from side to side. He would never actually admit he was anxious out loud, but this was close enough.

“No point sitting here and wondering” Yuuji announced. “Let's get this show on the road, yeah?”

Twenty minutes later, Sukuna was standing by the kitchen door, calling your name. You were focused on washing the dishes, with Jin and Kaori happily drinking by the sofa, and Sukuna was immediately annoyed at his family for leaving you to do the housework alone.

He’d complain about it later. Right now, he needed to do this before he completely lost his mind.

“Mmh?” you murmured, opening a smile and dropping everything you were doing as soon as you saw him standing there, barely fitting in the door frame. 

“Come up with me for a second?” he asked, voice slightly shaking at the edges, hand reaching for yours more to steady himself.

“What about our guests?” you startled, always so damn thoughtful.

“What about them?” Sukuna huffed, and you followed with a little laugh.

Your hand instinctively held his, allowing him to take you from the kitchen and into the living room, upstairs towards the bedroom. “What happened to the candles?” you pondered, scanning the room you had just left.

Sukuna didn’t reply. There were far more important things on his mind right now.

His quick, determined steps came to a halt when you approached the bedroom door. His hand hovered just over it, the other still interlaced with yours as you cocked your head sideways, curious, and he hoped you didn’t notice he was acting strange; though he so obviously was.

Sukuna was just not used to feeling this exposed, this vulnerable. 

After all, this was it.

He had decided what he had to do, and tonight could either be the happy beginning or the bitter end. 

What the hell would he do if you said no? The prospect alone made him want to crawl out of his skin. He’d probably move to a different country and live in a cave where he didn’t need to worry about getting his heart broken ever again.

But if you said yes…

Before his mind could spiral even further or get lost in daydreaming, you gave his large hand a little squeeze, bringing his attention back to the one thing that mattered. 

Something about your patient smile softened him. The contact of your palm with his was soothing, even though they were far too sweaty already – something you didn’t seem to mind at all. 

Your relaxed expression, so kind and so gentle and directed at him. 

No one was ever relaxed around him.

Sukuna couldn’t wait any longer.

He finally made contact with the cold wood, sliding the door open to reveal his nephews handiwork.

Surprisingly, it was beautiful. A little messy, sure – Yuuji had somehow bought the entire flower shop and scattered them around the room, rose petals on the bed and all; and Choso had brought so many candles the place was a damn fire hazard.

But it was romantic. And the way your face lit up when you saw it made it all worth it.

“Kuna…?” you mumbled, confused, but he only pulled you inside, closing and locking the door behind you to avoid any interruptions.

He finally turned around then, finding you standing among the mess flowers, lit up only by candlelight and the distant stars that shone through the open window, looking like a forest nymph out of a dream.

He still wasn’t convinced you weren’t a dream. 

One he’d never want to wake up from.

“I need to…talk to you about something” he announced, far more uneasy than usual. 

Your eyes lit up immediately. “Yeah?” 

“Mmh" he nodded. Sukuna’s palms were clammy and sweaty, his heart beating so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts. And there you were – 

standing right in front of him now, looking so beautiful, curious and eager to hear what it was he had pulled you in here for. 

He only noticed he had been staring in silence when you turned your head, chuckling lightly. “What is it?” you asked, stepping forwards to hold his hand.

“You…” Sukuna breathed in, brushing a hand through his pink hair, attempting to steady himself though it didn’t quite. “You're beautiful” was all he managed to say.

You laughed, cheeks going slightly pink as your head tilted backwards. “You're beautiful too”

Sukuna huffed out a long exhale. “I'm not, I’m–“ he stuttered, trying to find the words. “I'm not beautiful”

Your eyes widened, but you let him keep talking.

"My whole life I’ve been the intimidating one, the bad twin. Mean, rough, whatever, I’ve been called it all. But then there’s you” he stopped, swallowing hard. “And you make me want to be so much more”

Your breathing hitched, holding on to his hands tight, quietly listening. “You could be with anyone– I mean, look at you. Why would you choose me? It’s not like I’m romantic, or gentle, or any of that shit that’s supposed to fit in with love” he exhaled. “But fuck, I love you” 

Your eyes were starting to water around the edges, and even if it was for good reason, Sukuna could not bear seeing you cry. He pulled you close, brushing below your eye before any tears could escape.

“You gave me things I never thought I deserved” he whispered. “And I’m too fucking selfish to pretend I don’t want more” 

Before you could part your pretty trembling lips and say something that would make him completely lose his train of thought, Sukuna got down on one knee, hands finding the little ring box buried inside his pocket.

Your hands immediately shot to your mouth, tears beginning to spill with no restraint now. 

“I don’t deserve you” he said, fighting back his own tears. “But let me try”

Sukuna opened the ring box then, revealing the beautiful diamond he had spent hours and months of savings on. He had gone to practically every jeweler in town, needing to find the right one, needing it to be perfect. 

Needing to see this exact reaction from you.

His heart hammered in his chest, wanting to hear you say that pretty word so bad, terrified out of his mind it would be a rejection even though your smile shone brighter than all the candles combined. You stood above him, in shock, sobs the only sound that escaped from your lips.

“K-kuna” you mumbled finally, dropping down to your knees in front of him, looking so damn small in comparison. One hand finally reached towards the ring box, inspecting the beautiful stone, before your eyes darted back to his. “Of course, yes”

Sukuna finally started breathing again. 

Fighting the urge to pull you in immediately, he reached for the ring as you extended your left hand to him, allowing him to slide it right onto your ring finger, fitting exactly like he hoped it would. 

Sukuna pushed back on his heels just a little, just so he could get this vision of you seared into his memory forever. 

Fuck you looked beautiful wearing it.

And luckily he didn’t need to hold himself back for long, because quick enough you were the one jumping on him. Sukuna caught you, of course he did – gruff arms steadying your waist as you planted a deep kiss to his lips, letting him taste your lipstick and salty tears as he opened his mouth to you.

Your hands shot to his pink hair, as you kept whispering. “Yes yes yes yes” a million times, just what he needed to steady his busy heart, digging his fingers onto your waist so tightly he feared he might bruise you, but he just had to have all of you right now. 

“You'll marry me?” he whispered unbelievingly, more shock than inquiry, as you nodded your head and fisted his shirt, happy tears making a mess of your make up, but your smile said it all.

With far too much ease, Sukuna hooked his arms around your waist and stood up, lifting you with him before throwing both your bodies on the rose covered double bed.

“You'll marry me” he repeated, like he couldn’t quite believe it himself just yet. He caged your body in, bringing your legs around his waist as you continued to sob and giggle, making every last defense in him break. 

“I want everything with you” you managed to say, eyes so full it was getting hard to see, but all you needed was to feel him around you. His warm hands on your thighs, his nose brushing against yours, his chest flush over yours. 

Sukuna felt the tears again. “Everything?” he echoed, watching the way the chain dangled from his neck and touched your skin right above your collarbone. His mind immediately went to the empty space, the potential that it held.

“Yeah" you hummed, bright and euphoric, pulling him in again. “I want to marry you, and grow old with you, and have a family with you, and–“

“That last part” he interrupted, intoxicated by your heated kisses. He could already feel himself getting stiff at the thought alone, dragging his erection along your hips and making you whimper at the realisation. It took everything in him to stop himself from ruining your pretty dress and putting a baby in you right this second. “Say that again” 

“I want to have your kids” you smiled.

Fuck. 

Sukuna slammed his lips against yours immediately, his hands bringing your thighs over towards your shoulders so he had more space to tease your already soaked underwear with his clothed erection. He hummed in absolute delight, tasting the delicious food you had prepared for him and his family still on your tongue, making him swoon with reverence at how fucking good you were at everything. 

One of his palms let go of your thigh to make its way to your middle, caressing the skin of your stomach, a million thoughts already in his mind. “I can’t wait to see you round with my kid” he murmured, bringing his lips to kiss your neck, your collarbone, the shell of your ear – everywhere he knew would drive you crazy. “I need to see you swell and know it’s because of me”

You whimpered, bringing one hand to tangle around his hair as the other dug into his shoulder blades. “Y-yes, Kuna” you moaned. “Please" 

“Is that what you want?” Sukuna murmured, sliding a hand under your dress to find your round breasts, already perked up and eager for him. “Want me to make these all heavy, hm?” 

You chuckled at the way he was talking, feeling almost high from how this night was unfolding. “Yes" you confirmed again, for what felt like the hundredth time in the last ten minutes alone. 

There was so much desire fueling his body he could barely think. Sukuna wanted you and somehow you wanted him too. He could not fucking wait, couldn’t hold himself back – a life he never thought he deserved flashed across his mind.

You, gorgeous in white and walking down an isle towards him in some beautiful place that could never quite compare to your beauty. You, round with his kid inside of you. A little you running around, perched on your hip, sleeping in your arms, mispronouncing his name.

How the hell did he ever get so lucky? 

“You're gonna be such a pretty mom” he groaned, stopping everything for a second just to hold you in place.

“And you’ll be a great dad” you murmured, cupping his face and bringing it close to yours again.

It was like time paused.

“…you really think so?” Sukuna asked, swallowing hard. 

“I know so” you whispered, bringing your lips to kiss a tear that had escaped from his eyes, one he didn’t even notice was falling. 

He wanted to kiss you, wanted to take you right there, but he couldn’t – something huge and overwhelming was turning in his chest, making him unable to move. So Sukuna just rested his forehead to yours, allowing the tears to come. “I'm going to take such good care of you” he promised. “Both of you” 

You smiled, holding on to your future husband’s shaking shoulders. “I know” 

That finally did it. Sukuna placed his thumb under your chin, tilting it upwards to meet his for a kiss, as his other hand worked on removing the belt that had been so rudely in the way. Your own hands wasted no time – starting to pull his shirt over his head while he did the same with your dress.

“Your family is downstairs” you chuckled at his eagerness.

“Your family” he corrected. 

Your face went immediately red as you pulled him back down with a kiss again, as you both became completely free of clothing. 

“Baby" Sukuna whispered, taking a good look at the lingerie set you had chosen to wear for the evening. “Is this also my gift?” he hummed, hooking a finger around the band of your underwear just to watch it snap back in place.

“Merry Christmas” you smiled, making a show of your outfit while completely splayed out under him, enjoyed his dazed expression far too much.

Sukuna clicked his tongue, admiring the thin fabric. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?” he exhaled with a low, mesmerised chuckle. 

You pushed yourself up on your elbows. “I have a few ideas” you teased, biting your lower lip.

Yeah, Sukuna thought. That’s my wife right there. 

With a dark grin, Sukuna’s large palms closed around your ankles, and pulled you further down towards him. Then they moved along your calves, your shins, your knees, finally pushing them sideways and exposing the soaked fabric between your legs. 

“Mmh” he hummed in delight, exploring it with the pads of his fingers, making you jolt with the sudden contact. “Would be a shame to ruin them” he mused, but his eyes were dark with desire, and his kiss swollen lips were parted like in a trance. Then those crimson eyes snapped back to you, and his lips curled upwards. “Strip for me” he commanded. 

You slowly brought your hands down your body, making sure to take your time just to watch the way he was practically drooling at the sight. Moving your hips up slowly as you began to drag your pretty underwear down, leaving them around your ankles for him to take as you began unhooking your bra, taking one shoulder off before the other.

You loved teasing him like this.

“Good girl” Sukuna praised, hands immediately moving to knead your bare breasts as soon as they were free from the expensive looking bra.

He pinched your nipples roughly, rolling them around between his thumb and index, before burying his face in them completely, earning a loud moan out of you. 

“Does my fiancée like it?” he rose an eyebrow at you.

Your unabashed laugh made his own lips curl into a smile. “I love it, fiancée” you teased back.

“Good" he hummed. “Because I’m nowhere near done with you” 

Sukuna’s hand trailed south, finding exactly where you needed him. His able fingers started exploring your clit at first, then only teasing at the entrance. “So wet for me” he noted with delight, your nipple still in his mouth. “Filthy" he hummed, seeming very proud of it.

Before you had time to think about anything else, he was inserting two thick digits inside you and curling them just right. Your head jolted backwards, making you arch, and Sukuna took the opportunity to hook an arm under your back to pull you up and keep you bent for him. “That’s it” he praised. “You look good like that” he grinned, quickening his rhythm, enjoying how your legs twitched helplessly as he held you on his lap.

All you could do was fist the sheets, struggling to bring your hands up as he enjoyed the sight of the engagement ring shining over your trembling hands. “Relax for me, baby” he instructed. “Need to get you nice and ready, yeah?”

“K-kuna–“ you cried, moaning as he started kissing along your neck.

“Yes?” he hummed. “Does my slutty future wife need something?” he teased, biting into the skin as if to prove a point.

“One more” you moaned, and his smile was lewd and proud. 

“Fuck I love you” he breathed out, inserting a third finger in as you asked, making you scream at the overwhelming stretch. “Breathe baby– that’s it” 

“I want you” you moaned, struggling to stay tethered to reality as his fingers worked you open so expertly, pumping and scissoring inside you, making sure you were ready to accomodate his size very soon. 

Sukuna grunted, enjoying the sight way too much. “Want me to put a baby in you?” he cooed, but the stiff member poking your back betrayed how much it did turn him on. 

“I do” you nodded. “Please" 

“I hope you know what you’re asking for” he grinned. “I'm not stopping until it takes”

And with that, he was turning the two of you around, positioning himself right in between your legs, his frame so huge it was all you could see. 

Sukuna lined himself up at your entrance, coating his long cock with your juices as you watched with hazy, unfocused eyes. He was so overwhelmingly thick, but you didn’t want to wait any longer – you needed him right now. 

He started pushing in slowly, aware of how you stretched to accept him inside, moving a large hand to your clit to make it easier for you. Your hands shot to his forearm, and the sight of the rock on your finger curling around his thick arm almost made him lose his mind. 

“Let me in, baby” he panted, coming down to kiss your open mouth. “That's it. Fucking perfect for me” 

You felt so full as Sukuna finally bottomed out, his hips completely connected with yours, tears escaping from your eyes though you weren’t sure if they were from overwhelming emotion or pleasure or both. 

Sukuna kissed each one away, being so gentle with your face though his hips started moving so mean. Whatever thread of restraint he had was completely out the window once his cock was fully inside of you, fucking you so deep like he needed to put a baby in you right this second.

“Fuck, you’re so big” you mumbled, not even sure of what you were saying anymore. Sukuna smiled smugly, so amused at how you always seemed to forget about his impressive size until it was fucking you stupid. 

“You take it so fucking good, baby” he praised, refusing to slow down his unrelenting rhythm. 

His hands found yours, interlacing your fingers above your head as he admired the ring again. His ring on your finger. 

“My future wife always takes it so well” he groaned again, pistoning into you impossibly fast, angling his hips where he knew would make you completely melt. “Mine” 

“Yours, Kuna” you nodded, unable to do anything but lay there and take it, admiring your future husband’s defined shoulders on top of you as he pinned you down mercilessly. “Forever" you completed. 

“Damn right” he agreed, throwing his handsome face down into the crook of your neck, fucking you faster and faster until he was too close. “Fuck, I’m–“

“Cum inside me, Kuna, please” you pleaded, clenching deliciously at the thought alone.

He laughed, biting his lip to control himself, as one hand let go of yours to find your clit. “Not before my pretty wife” he hummed.

The sudden contact right where you needed him made your moans grow louder, your already sensitive skin prickling with sweat. You didn’t even register the rest of your family sitting just downstairs, wondering where the hell the two of you had gone – right now your only thought was him. 

Your handsome future husband Sukuna.

His fingers worked your clit expertly, making you twitch at the stimulation as you felt yourself nearing your high. Sukuna brought his head above yours, eager to admire your orgasm face, his favourite sight in the whole world.

You folded inwards, digging your nails into his back as the release finally came. 

“Fuck you’re gorgeous” Sukuna panted, unable to help himself as he let go in time with you, fucking his release so deep inside he hoped you’d wake up already pregnant.

Your thighs closed around his waist, holding him all the way in as you shared heated kisses between broken moans and heavy breathing. 

“I love you” he mumbled against your lips.

“I love you too” you cried again.

Once the high started to subside, Sukuna let his body sag forwards, careful not to crush you. One of his hands snaked behind your back, bringing your body flush against his, as the other smoothed your messy hair back. 

“Do you think it…?” you asked, hopeful, admiring one of those relaxed, rare smiles from him.

“We'll do it as many times as it takes” he kissed your lips reassuringly.

That wouldn’t be a challenge at all, you chuckled fondly. 

Your bodies melted into each other, as Sukuna caressed your skin, helping you relax after the overwhelming sensations. You couldn’t be happier – right there with your head resting on your soon to be husband, feeling so perfectly at bliss and peaceful.

Until you remembered.

“Kuna!” you exclaimed, sitting up with a jolt. “Our guests are downstairs”

Sukuna grunted, hiding his face behind a large bicep. “I hope they left” 

“Come on” you chuckled, trying to pull his arm away so he’d move. “We need to at least say goodbye” 

“Why?” he groaned. “They'll be back next year anyway”

“Kuna" you tutted disapprovingly. 

“Fine” he relented, not before pulling you into him one last time for a big kiss to your shoulder. 

You giggled, trying to find the clothes you had so hastily thrown around the bed. But as soon as you started to bunch up your dress to pull over your head, you were distracted again – by the beautiful stone on your ring finger.

You felt your chest tighten with emotion again. 

“This is the best Christmas gift ever” you mused, holding your hand to your chest like you had to keep it safe.

And then Sukuna remembered something.

“Oh" he murmured. “That wasn’t your gift”

You turned your head sideways, watching him move towards the nightstand and pull out another box, not unlike the one where the ring had come inside, just a little bigger and a little more flat.

“What is…?” you started to ask, but Sukuna opened it, showcasing a beautiful bracelet made of the same stone and material as the ring. They almost looked like part of a set.

“I thought they’d go well together” he nodded with his head, signaling what he meant.

“Kuna" you exhaled, taking the bracelet out of the box and starting to clasp it around your wrist, which he leaned down to help you with. “It's so beautiful” you extended your arm, admiring your presents.

“Merry Christmas” he smiled, kissing your forehead.

“How long have you been planning this?” you asked, shocked at the sentimentality from someone who allegedly didn’t do gifts. 

Sukuna huffed out an embarrassed laugh. “From the moment I first saw you?” he said.

Your eyes widened, heart beating just a little faster. “Stop teasing” you pouted, poking his arm.

“I'm not” he laughed, and the way his expression softened made you fully believe him. 

Made you feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

“Thank you” you whispered. “For the best Christmas ever” 

Sukuna smiled at your smile. “Let's get the idiots downstairs out so we can continue the celebrations, yeah?” 

You laughed. “Don't talk about my family like that” 

Sukuna tskd, but there was no malice behind it. 

The two of you finally made your way down the stairs, after taking the time to smooth down your hair and reapply some make up to look less suspicious. It wasn’t perfect, but you reasoned everyone would be focused on the huge ring on your finger instead of your smudged, tear stricken look.  

The first thing you saw as you made your way downstairs was your fiancées two nephews, standing by the staircase like they were guarding an important gate.

“I'm telling you” Yuuji was saying. “They're having sex” 

“Please stop saying that” Choso was groaning into his hand. 

“You want to say that again, brat?” Sukuna snarled, and the two immediately straightened up, looking completely caught. 

But there was a playful tone to Sukuna’s threats, and when their eyes scanned your hands, they both jumped for joy. 

“You did it!” Yuuji beamed first, while Choso nodded, proud. 

“…you knew?” you asked with a little laugh, making Sukuna exhale in defeat and annoyance at his nephews big mouth. 

“We helped!” Yuuji beamed, earning another scowl from Sukuna. 

“Was it you guys that stole the candles?” you laughed. 

“Don't worry about it” Choso side eyed. 

“Kuna" you turned to your soon to be husband. “You got your little nephews to help? That’s so sweet” 

"They forced me to” he grunted. “But…yeah” 

You reached upwards to place a kiss on his cheek, saying something about going to break the news to Kaori and Jin. 

And Sukuna was left momentarily frozen in place. 

He had actually done it.

The thing he was simultaneously most excited for and terrified of for years. 

He wasn’t lying when he told you it had been on his mind since the moment he first met you. Right then and there he had decided he'd rather kill someone than ever be the idiot that let you go. 

And now… it was actually a reality. His reality. You, him, and maybe someone else, together. 

Forever.

He exhaled finally, letting all the tension dissipate as he welcomed in this new sense of hope.

The two brothers stood in front of him, watching the change in their uncle’s posture with admiring eyes, feeling a little tipsy and a little smug over their role in the successful proposal. Maybe this even meant a new leaf for their relationship, one where their uncle was kind, and tender, and treated them as their equal, and–

“Don't think Im done with the two of you” he threatened through an unnerving smile, moving towards the living room where his fiancée was eagerly sharing the news to the others.

The two brothers gulped. Guess the prospect of matrimony couldn't change someone that fast, after all. 

a/n I had too much fun writing this and I hope you enjoyed! happy holidays everyone!!

tags @madamechrissy @septembermoonchild @plaguecxlt

────✧ let me know if you'd like to be included in my permatags for any characters/all <3

dividers by @chateaubarnes

[nirvanhaa]

Warming me up 𖹭

🕯️ˎˊ˗ Xavier x Reader

🕯️ˎˊ˗ Mdni /!\

🕯️ˎˊ˗ After all power ran out, you and xavier are left freezing cold in your respective appartments. Luckily, you find a way to heat you both up. 𖹭

You were in full holiday spirit.

Humming happily to yourself, you spun around the living room with a ribbon between your fingers, soft voices drifting from your phone on the counter as Buy Me Presents by Sabrina Carpenter played in the background.

You mouthed a few of the lyrics with a grin, swaying your hips as you adjusted a crooked ornament on the tiny Christmas tree. Fairy lights washed the room in a warm, golden glow, making everything feel soft and magical—like one of those perfect winter movie scenes.

You fluffed a strand of tinsel, stepped back to admire your work, and twirled once in your little red skirt and ridiculous xmas sweater, laughing quietly to yourself. The heater purred in the background, wrapping you in gentle warmth as snow drifted lazily past the windows of your apartment in Linkon City. Everything felt cozy. Safe. Perfect.

Then‐

The lights snapped off so suddenly you yelped.

Music cut. Warmth vanished. One second your living room was glowing like a Christmas postcard, the next it plunged into pitch-black silence -- broken only by the wild, blinding white of the blizzard slamming against the windows. Snow whirled violently outside, the storm no longer pretty but furious.

The heater died with a pathetic click.

Cold surged in instantly, sharp and unforgiving, as if it had been waiting just outside the walls with a grudge.

“Great..” you muttered, hugging yourself.

Your festive little outfit ; Red skirt, thigh-high socks had felt cute and cozy just minutes ago. Now it felt useless. A shiver rattled through you as your breath turned faintly visible in the air, your warm, carefully built Christmas bubble shattered in a heartbeat by darkness, cold… and the raging storm outside.

Your phone buzzed.

Xavier’s name lit up the screen.

You answered with chattering teeth. “Xav. Please, PLEASE tell me your lights are still on and you’re calling to brag.”

A soft laugh. “Sorry. Mine went out thirty seconds ago. Are you okay? ”

“Freezing my butt off.”

“I’m coming over.” he answered calmly.

“Xavier, you don't have to—”

“I’m already in the hallway. Please open the door before I turn into a popsicle.”

You hurried over and yanked it open. He slipped inside in a swirl of snow, cheeks pink, nose an adorable glowing red, hair dotted with melting flakes. He looked so soft and rumpled and cold you forgot to tease him for a full three seconds, your mind prompting you on your tippy-toes to give him a soft kiss.

Then you grinned. “Hi, Xavi the red-nosed reindeer.”

He huffed, unwinding his scarf with a hidden smirk.“Keep teasing me and I’ll leave you to become an icicle”

“You won’t,” you whispered, grinning.“You love me too much to do that! ” you sang, pulling him toward the couch by his frozen fingers.

He didn’t argue.

You grabbed his frozen hand and pulled him toward the couch, where you’d built a nest of every blanket you owned. The thick midnight-blue wool plaid he’d given you last month ; the one that still smelled faintly of his sheets—you shook out and draped over both of you as you sank down together.

For a little while it was just… nice. Quiet. The storm howled outside, but inside it was only the sound of your breathing and the occasional shiver.

“You’re shaking.” he murmured, arms tightening around you.

“So are you, bunny.”

He huffed a laugh against your hair. “We’re pathetic.”

“We’re romantic!” you corrected. “This is like...a Hallmark movie. Hot cocoa would definitely complete the vibe.”

“We have no power for the kettle.”

“Tsk, tsk Mr. Shen. Those are the little details.”

You nuzzled closer, trying to steal more of his warmth. He smelled like snow and the pine candle you’d had burning earlier. Your knee slid between his on instinct, seeking heat, and he made a small contented sound.

Minute by minute, the cold still crept in, but the space between you got smaller and smaller until you were practically in his lap.

You shifted again, just to get cozier, and felt him tense.

“Sorry!” you whispered.

“Don’t be,” he said, voice a little rougher. “Just… keep doing that if you want.”

The invitation hung soft and warm in the dark.

You bit your lip, then deliberately rolled your hips again—slow, experimental. His breath hitched. His hands found your waist under the blanket, not pushing, just holding.

“Warmer now?” you asked innocently.

“Getting there.” he said, and you could hear the smile.

You did it again. And again. A gentle, lazy rhythm, like you were both too cold to rush but too shy to say the words out loud. His hands slid down to your hips, guiding you just a little firmer. The friction through your clothes was perfect ; teasing, building, delicious.

He tucked his face into your neck. “God, you feel so good.”

You whimpered when he pulled you down harder on the next roll, the seam of his jeans catching just right against you. Your skirt had ridden up; only your thin panties and his pants separated you now.

“Xavier…” you breathed.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice shaking with restraint. “Just like this. Let me feel you.”

You rocked faster, chasing the heat pooling low in your belly. His hips started moving too, meeting you, grinding up in slow circles that made you see stars behind your eyelids. The blanket trapped every gasp, every soft moan, turning your little cocoon into something secret and molten.

“I’m close-” you confessed against his lips.

“Me too,” he panted. “Come with me. Please.”

One more roll of your hips, one more perfect press of him against your clit, and you shattered—quiet and trembling, clinging to him as waves of pleasure pulsed through you. He followed right after, groaning your name into your shoulder, hips jerking as he spilled warm inside his pants.

You stayed like that, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, aftershocks fluttering through both of you.

Eventually he laughed, soft and wrecked. “Well. That’s one way to stay warm.”

You giggled, kissing the tip of his still-red nose. “Worked pretty well.”

The moment your grinding climax faded into trembling aftershocks, Xavier pulled back just enough to look at you; eyes molten silver in the dark, lips parted, chest heaving.

“But I think we can do better.” he whispered, voice rough with want.

He kissed you like he was claiming every inch of your mouth, slow and sensual, while his hands dragged your soaked panties down your thighs and off completely. You heard the wet sound of him shoving his ruined boxer-briefs and jeans lower, freeing himself properly this time. He was still slick from coming inside his pants, glistening with his own release, and when he dragged the hot, messy length of himself through your folds you both shuddered.

He didn’t push in. He just slid back and forth, coating himself in you, teasing your swollen clit with every slow stroke, nudging at your entrance and then pulling away again.

“nn. Xavi” you whimpered, trying to tilt your hips to take him.

“Uh-uh.” He nipped your bottom lip, voice velvet and commanding. “Use your words, angel. Tell me exactly what you want.”

You were shaking with it. “I want you inside me. Want you to fuck me! Please, Xavier--please—”

“mm. There's my good girl.” he breathed, and finally—finally--lined himself up and sank into you in one long, deliberate thrust.

The stretch burned perfectly. You both moaned loud enough the neighbors definitely heard.

He started slow, savoring, letting you feel every inch, but the moment you clenched around him he lost it. His hips snapped harder, deeper, the couch creaking beneath you as he pounded into you like he was trying to brand himself inside your body.

Soft golden light flickered to life around you.

You opened your eyes and gasped.

Every string of fairy lights you’d spent hours hanging, every little ornament on the tiny Christmas tree, every candle you’d arranged on the shelves—Xavier had reached out with his evol and lit them all in gentle pulses of red and green. The room glowed like a dream, warm ruby and emerald hues dancing over your skin, over his flushed face, over the sweat gathering between your breasts.

He looked like a god in Christmas light.

“Wanted you to see how beautiful you are when I’m inside you.” he panted, brushing damp strands of hair from your face with trembling fingers. He kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, your mouth—soft, reverent kisses between thrusts that felt like they were rearranging your soul.

“So pretty,” he whispered against your lips. “My pretty girl. Taking me so well—fuck—good girl, just like that. So good for me. So perfect.”

Every praise was punctuated by another deep stroke, another spark of his evol making the lights flare brighter, bathing you both in color.

You came first, crying out his name as your body clenched around him like a fist. He followed right after, slamming in to the hilt and spilling hot inside you with a broken groan, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

When the world stopped spinning, he didn’t pull out.

He gathered you close, rolling you both so you were lying chest-to-chest on the couch, still buried deep inside you. The blanket settled over your joined bodies like a warm cloud. The Christmas lights kept glowing softly, red-green-red-green, painting slow patterns across his cheekbones and collarbones.

You felt him soften just a little, but he stayed inside, thick and warm and perfect.

“Stay,” he murmured into your hair, arms locked around you. “Let me keep you warm like this.”

You nuzzled into his neck, walls fluttering lazily around him every time either of you breathed.

Outside, the blizzard still raged.

Inside, wrapped in wool and Christmas light and Xavier, you had never been warmer in your life.

“Merry Christmas, Xavi.” you whispered.

He smiled against your temple. “Merry Christmas, my love.”

Credits for the dividers to saradika-graphics

[tiredasfuckuma]

Come Home.

From @hajimeowmeow's prompt where Caleb receives a message threatening to hurt the person he loves the most, yet instead of staying with you, his girlfriend, he thinks mc is in danger and stays with her in linkon for weeks on end. He comes back but you're not the same-- more eerie, as a parasite takes over your brain.

nooooot proofread, just wrote this literally now hahah bc i am in my sad girl hours and i need smthng to hurt me.

warnings? tragic love, caleb being sad, pathetic, and begging; doomed love. also K by CAS, is the perfect song wrote this with CAS playlist :p

@youre-my-headliner @mia-menaceinaction

-----

There is the dim, yet warm light of a single lamp open in the living room; the TV is buzzing, words of characters that you’re only barely paying attention to anymore. A sitcom you really like rewatching. It was raining a little, so you look at your phone. A message you sent 2 hours ago, still left on delivered.

It’s raining. You should borrow an umbrella from a co-worker.

It would be bad if you got sick.

Love you. Come home soon, honey.

Your boyfriend was a busy man. A colonel at a very young age, in the most influential unit in your city: Skyhaven. You’ve lived together for a year now, and have been together for a bit longer. Somehow, you’ve gotten used to him coming home late. And he’s gotten used to you waiting for him ‘til late. You insist upon it. It’s too cold to ever truly be sleeping without him as your body pillow.

Your eyes are drowsy, threatening to close while your feet fold deeper as you curl into a ball in the chill room, covered in your thin blanket– that the door opens. You perk up immediately, despite the grog settling deep into your skin.

There, Caleb slowly closes the door behind him. His hat, finally coming off as he loosens his collar, sighing. You get up, still wrapped in your blanket and meet him by the doorway. He’s halfway into getting his shoes off when you stand in front of him, barefoot with a pout.

“You’re wet. Did you get my text? You’ll get sick, you big dummy.” You try to wipe the droplets of rain from his shoulders, then his cheeks; which were cold. His hands move up to your wrists, holding them gently.

“I didn’t have time to check my phone. Sorry, honey.” He says, voice low, tired. Then he kisses the inside of your wrist. Your hands being the only thing warming him right now.

You sigh, which ends in a small smile. “It’s okay. You’re home now.”

—

You linger with him a moment longer after that, just breathing in the scent of rain and metal that always clings to his uniform. He moves toward the couch while you pad back into the kitchen, the faint buzz of the TV filling the space again. The sound of him setting down his things, the muted hum of the holo-terminal booting– all so ordinary it makes you smile.

“Did you eat?” You call out while you stir something in a small pot, steam fogging the air.

“Not yet,” he answers, voice distant but gentle.

You grab a plate, already imagining the way he’ll loosen up after a meal and shower. Then the terminal tone pierces through the quiet. It isn’t the usual mellow ping of work updates. This one is sharper, coded. Military-grade. You hesitate mid-step, plate still in your hands. 

“Work again?” You ask, half sigh, half tease.

He doesn’t answer immediately. The air feels heavier now. From the couch, you can see him sit rigid before the screen, its pale light painting his face in washed-out blues.

You wipe your hands on the towel and walk closer. “Hey… you okay?”

He blinks and turns, startled as if he forgot you were there. “Yeah,” he murmurs, forcing a small smile. “Just… something from command. Nothing important.”

“So it’s fine, then?”

He nods, but there’s no conviction in the motion. You can see the storm behind his eyes. Whatever he just read isn’t fine at all.

You cross the short distance between you, laying a hand on his arm. “You can tell me, you know.”

His jaw flexes. For a second, you think he might. But then the soldier in him wins over the man you love. He cups your hand gently and presses a kiss to it instead of answering.

“I will,” he says softly, “once things are handled. Don’t worry tonight, okay? You’ve done enough waiting for me.”

Something in that phrasing sinks cold in you. You want to argue, ask what’s really happening, but he’s already looking past you at the rain-slick window, mind somewhere far away.

“Caleb–”

“It’s fine, honey.” He gives you one of those smiles, reassuring. But lurking with trembles he’s barely hiding. “Really. Just protocol stuff.”

You nod, because you’ve learned to choose your battles. You go back to the table and place the food down between you both, pretending not to notice his eyes dart once more toward the flashing terminal.

Dinner ends in fragments: your laughter too soft, his replies just half-finished. And when he finally excuses himself to “take a call,” you stay on the couch. Watching the reflection of the lamp fade across the empty seat beside you.

From the hallway, you can hear him speaking quietly, voice clipped, controlled. Then silence.

His footsteps return, slower this time. You look up, already knowing you won’t like what’s next. And Caleb almost didn’t have the heart to tell you, especially when you looked at him that way. Your eyes sparkled in a way that made his heart clench. Your breathing so obviously controlled. So he sits beside you despite the large space the couch could offer.

Caleb let his elbows rest on his knees. His eyes on the floor.

“...They need me in Linkon,” he says, words measured but heavy. “But it’s short-term, I promise– a few weeks at most.”

The words hang in the room as he finally looks at you, and you exhale, this time, turning your head away from him; taking his words in.

But you manage a small nod. “Tonight?”

He hesitates, then: “Tomorrow morning.” At least. He should at least spend the night with you.

You smile again. “That’s… soon.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear, before cupping your cheek to make you look at him gently. Thumb brushing against your soft skin, as if memorizing the gesture. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I know,” you whisper, even as something inside you starts to ache. “You always come back.”

—

Days pass. Then weeks. 

You still go to work. Same office. Same blue-gray cubicle walls humming under cheap lights. Your coworkers greet you with practiced smiles and the usual chatter about deadlines and traffic. You smile back, careful not to let the pauses linger — you don’t want anyone asking how you’re doing.  

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re not really the kind of person who clings too much. Caleb’s job is important and dangerous; you knew that from the start. You repeat it like a mantra every time the communicator on your desk stays silent.

During lunch breaks, your colleagues invite you out for noodles or coffee. You always shake your head with a little laugh. “I’ve got errands,” you say. You don’t. You just can’t stand the thought of burdening anyone with the smallness of how much you miss him.

Evenings are harder.  

The apartment still hums with the quiet habits you shared– his cup in the dish rack, his jacket folded on the chair. You keep reheating leftovers and packing them in containers he’ll never open.

You stop sleeping in bed; it feels too big alone. The couch becomes your spot again, TV buzzing faintly with that same sitcom you’ve seen a dozen times. The laugh track becomes mocking, at some point.

Messages sit half-written in your terminal.

Did you eat?

Don’t forget to rest.

The plants miss youuuu.

Coco puff too.

I miss you, Caleb.

You somehow never hit send. You just stare at the blinking cursor until the screen times out.

Sometimes you think about reaching out to friends– to anyone– but every time your hand hovers over the call icon, you stop. You tell yourself it would be rude, intrusive. They have lives; they don’t need to hear you talk about the weather or how quiet your home’s been. 

By the third week, your sleep pattern collapses. You start leaving lights on all over the apartment, afraid of how Skyhaven– this apartment feels without him. At first, the neighbors ask if you’re alright. Then they stop. And you’re alone again.

One evening– like any other– you hear the faint static pop outside the door. A knock follows. You expect Caleb. And you feel energy burst in your veins, your chest tightens, your heart surges– of course he’s come back, he promised!

“Honey!” You smile, already excited just unlocking the door. “I’m glad–”

The door bursts forward. Metal boots flood over the sound of rain. You barely register the shout before the noise swallows you whole.  

You fight, of course you do. Your heel connects with someone’s leg; a grunt, a shout. There are too many hands. Gloved, cold, inhuman. They shove you against the wall, pin your wrists. 

“Where– who, who are you you– let me go!”

One of them laughs, distorted through a voice modulator. “Funny. He didn’t even tell you, did he?”  

You freeze for half a second, breaths sharp. “Tell me what?”  

The laugh deepens. “That we’d come for you. He got our message and still somehow picked the other one.”

You blink hard as the words fracture through your panic. “What– what.. message?”

The leader raises his visor just enough for you to see his eyes– clinical and detached, yet clearly amused. “We will hurt the person you love most. Ring any bells?”

Your stomach drops, colder than fear. He’s lying. He has to be lying. “You mean… MC,” you say, voice small, trembling. “You went for her– not–” not me. These guys must have made a mistake!

“Oh, no. He made sure we couldn’t get to her.” A short laugh. “Guess he thought she mattered more.”

The words punch straight through your chest. For a second everything– the shouting, the rain, the struggling– fades under a single ringing truth. All the nights you spent waiting, the unanswered messages, the silence that stretched too long. 

He didn’t come back for you.  

He didn’t even think to.

Hands grip your jaw, cold metal pressing against skin. You thrash once, twice, but the strength is leaving you; your thoughts scatter like broken glass.  

The last thing you hear before the needle sinks into the side of your neck is that same voice, calm, almost sympathetic. “You were just the leftover piece, sweetheart. Don’t feel too bad. Wrong place, wrong kind of love.”

Pain blooms white-hot, before it vanishes into nothing.

He’ll come back, you think. As the floor tilts beneath you.

He always comes back.  

Then, a void. 

—

Linkon feels different from Skyhaven. Brighter, louder, endlessly awake even during the night.

Caleb spends the first few nights pretending it’s a temporary reassignment, nothing more. Duty. Safety. Logic. All the things he’s supposed to understand better than anyone.  

MC teases him for how restless he looks at the window. “You’ve been circling around like an idiot for an hour,” she says, handing him a mug of coffee. “Whatever’s on your mind, it’s going to give you wrinkles.”  

He huffs a small laugh. “Wrinkles build the man, pipsqueak.”  

“You don’t need more of that.” She leans against the counter, all casual.

But tonight, it only reminds him of what isn’t here.  

MC tilts her head. “Did you at least let your girlfriend know you got here safe?” He freezes for half a beat. “She knows the protocols,” he says finally.

“That’s not an answer.”  

He exhales. Drops his gaze to the liquid spinning in the cup. The rain on the glass matches its color almost perfectly.  “I didn’t want to worry her,” he mutters, almost to himself.  

MC studies him a moment longer, then shrugs. “You always think that’s protecting people. Maybe… sometimes it’s just shutting them out.”  She softens near the end, knowing her brother can be avoidant of his own feelings.

Her words hang in the air longer than they should.  

When the communicator on his wrist buzzes. And for a moment, his stomach drops, remembering the message that started all this.

It plays back in his head, like a faultline cracking through calm: a voice scrambled by automated distortion flattening it into something both human and not.

We will hurt the person you love most. Soon.

He’d stared at those words while she slept peacefully in their bed, the glow of the screen washing her face in pale light. He’d thought of past ambushes, of reports with MC’s name circled in hazard red, of how she’d been surveilled before because of his link as X-02. Those stupid fucking experiments. 

His years of ‘training’ since he was a child spoke first: calculate probability, reduce emotional interference. MC = high-value target. Logical priority. And he’d spent nearly his whole life with his little sister. Protecting her. They had leverage on her all the time. So it must be her… right?

Soon enough, dawn was spilling through his floor to ceiling windows. You stirred, half awake, murmuring… don’t leave. 

It should’ve been enough to make him stay. But Caleb Xia was built from logic, and logic had saved him too many times to abandon it now.

He blinks, coming back to the present. The mug in his hand trembles. His knuckles ache.

MC is saying something. He doesn’t catch it. The communicator crackles again, this time, louder.

The line crackles with interference, distant voices mixing with the sound of water hitting metal. A neighbor from Skyhaven stumbles through panic, the message choked with static:

“Mr. Xia? I– there was a noise from your building. It was horrible. I think there was a woman screaming. And there were just many suspicious men all rushing through your door and–”

He doesn’t hear the rest.

The mug slips, shattering on tile. Coffee streaks brown across the floor like dried blood.

“Caleb?” MC’s voice reaches him faintly. “What’s going on?”

He’s already moving. Coat. Terminal. Gun. Every instinct flares alive but too late.  

“Fuck, fuck—” His voice shakes as he tries to call you repeatedly. Only to be left on voicemail.

MC tries to follow but he’s already at the door. The wind catches as it closes behind him.

—

His car cuts through the midnight streets, engine roaring against silence. Streetlights smear gold over rain slicks as his mind replays the message in bursts— We will hurt the one you love most. Each phrase now blends with her voice in memory, words he never really answered.

He thought it meant MC.

He thought wrong.

And now, every second between the city’s rings feel like punishment.

—

The ride back to Skyhaven feels endless. He’s lucky to have strings to pull, getting on the train even if the last ride ended hours ago. Rain cuts across the window pane as the scenery changes as he moves past cities. Until eventually, he gets to his neighborhood. Each step makes him nervous as he gets closer to his front door. Mind reeling from what would be behind it.

Caleb tells himself you’re fine. That he’ll arrive and find the call to be exaggerated. Somehow. That he’ll open the door and you’ll laugh at how tightly he’s gripping the handle.

But when the door finally slides open, all sound leaves him.

The apartment is spotless. The faint scent of detergent and ozone hands in the air. The lamp by the couch glows exactly how he remembers it.

And you’re there.

Sitting upright, blanket folded neatly beside you. The TV is off. You’re still, hands resting on your lap as though you’ve been waiting.

When you turn your head and smile, the world clicks into place and falls apart at once. “Honey, you’re home.”

The words are right. But somehow… it’s also wrong.

He drops his things, crossing the room in two quick strides as he locks the door in less than a second. “Are you okay? What happened? The neighbors called and–”

Your gaze follows him a second too slow. “I’m fine. You’re drenched.”

He stops. “There were reports of men.. of a break-in.”

Silence. Then, calm. “No one came.”

He looks around. Not a thing out of place. Even the broken picture frame by the door– the one that fell the week before he left– is fixed.

“You cleaned,” he says softly, stunned. “Of course you did.”

You stand, careful, fluid. “You should shower before you catch a cold. I left dinner out for you.”

He moves to the table. Two plates. His served; yours untouched. The food is warm, impossibly so– as if perfectly timed to his arrival. Caleb badly wants to ask how you knew, but his throat’s too tight.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead. “I should’ve been here. I shouldn’t have–”

“It’s alright.” You lean against the wall near the lamp, eyes unfocused in the half-light. “You’re here now. That’s enough.”

He crosses back to you, rests a hand against your cheek. Warm. Steady. No tremor, no tears. He searches for something familiar in your eyes. He’s not entirely sure what, but he only saw his reflection in your irises. His heart clenches. Still, he wraps you tightly in his arms.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he pleads quietly.

Her lips part just enough for a smile. “Okay, honey.”

He laughs, weakly, relief cracking through his guilt. “You even sound like you’re humoring me. You should be more mad.”

“Why would I be?”

It’s a joke. But you don’t laugh.

When Caleb sists beside you on the couch, the air between them feels heavier somehow, despite his relief. The lamplight hums faintly; the rain outside stopped.

He looks around, the apartment looks exactly like it did the night he left.

But your favorite sitcom wasn’t playing.

Your fingers stay on your lap.

And when he holds your wrist in his bigger hand, your pulse.. beats just a little too slow.

—

At first, he tries to restore normalcy.  

He cooks you breakfast, tells himself the silence between you is comfort, not distance. When you forget to respond to little things– his jokes, the sound of your name– he writes it off as exhaustion. Trauma, maybe. It’s easier that way. Maybe you just missed him too much.

You still call him Honey. Always softly. Always rhythmically timed.

“Good morning, honey.”

“Welcome home, honey.”

“Sleep well, honey.”

The first few days, it still warms him. Then the pattern sets in. Too even, too predictable. Each line lands with the same cadence, the same faint smile that never folds into laughter.

Sometimes he catches you sitting on the couch again. Posture perfectly straight, eyes on nothing. No TV, no sound. Just the glow of the lamp brushing your face like it did that first night. When he calls your name, you turn, apologizing, saying you lost track of time.

He finds you doing it every night. Always at the same hour. Always in the same spot.

A rhythm forms. Morning coffee you don’t really drink, dinner served and cleaned before he can finish, a bed you lie in like a statue. He watches all your movements like a hawk; how your chest rises and falls in precise intervals. 1, 2, 3– breathe. If he didn’t look closely, he’d think you’d been sleeping peacefully.

He clings to that lie.

Because acknowledging the alternative means admitting he left you here to break.

On the seventh night, he comes home early from base. The smell of something faintly sweet hits him as he unlocks the door. For a brief moment, his chest eases– you’re cooking. Moving again.

He follows the smell into the kitchen.

You’re standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring something slowly.

“Smells good,” he says, smiling with cautious relief as he comes up behind you and kissing the back of your neck, then hiding his face in the junction of your shoulder breathing you in. “What’re you making?”

“Dinner,” you answer without looking up.

He finally raises his head. The pot is empty. Just reflective metal catching the light in circular motions as the spoon scrapes against it. The sound grates against his nerves. 

“Honey,” he says softly, reaching to still her hand, “it’s empty.”

You blink once, as if waking from a dream. “Dinner’s almost done.” Then you smile, turning back to the pot.

The scrape of metal fills the air again.

He stays the re a moment longer, staring at her profile. The steam that should’ve been rising isn’t there. His throat tightens, words crowding behind it but refusing to come out. 

He backs away slowly, returning to the living room. The rhythm resumes– the scrape, scrape, scrape like a clock ticking a world out of sync.  

That’s when the smaller glitches start appearing. 

Sometimes you repeat yourself mid-conversation, like replaying a moment you forgot to get right. Sometimes you laugh a little too late, or you stop all the sudden, the noise dying in your throat with confusion. 

Once, you burnt your hand on the kettle. The water hisses, but you don’t flinch until he grabs her wrist away.

“(Name), that’s– God, you’re hurt. Let go!” He rushes, getting the kettle off her hand with his gravity Evol, placing it on the counter; before checking your reddening hand.

You look at your skin, then at him, calm as rain. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine, honey.” Your tone doesn’t change.

He grips the counter hard enough for his fingers to ache. That phrase– he’s starting to hate how easily it dissolves tension. How easily it can shut him down.

Later that night, lying beside her, he realizes you haven’t called him anything else in weeks. No teasing names. No Caleb. Just one word, one note, replayed in perfect pitch.

And somewhere inside him, the awareness begins to grow.

Whatever came back with him, it isn’t whole.

—

One evening, Caleb brings out an old bottle of wine you’d bought long ago for a night that never happened. He opens it anyway.

The living room feels too quiet without your laughter, so he tries to fill it with stories instead.

“Remember the first time we went to Yuhua Port together?” he starts, voice too light to hide the tremor underneath. “You made friends with that stray cat who kept trying to steal your sandwich.”

You look up from the couch, smiling faintly. “You mean the one near Skyhaven Station?”

He pauses. “No, Yuhua Port. The cat had white patches on its paws, remember? You said they looked like socks.”

You tilt your head, as if searching. “Right. The orange one.”

“It was gray.”

“Was it?” Your laugh is small, uncertain. “I remember orange.”

He laughs too, even though it lands hollow. ““You’ve got the worst memory, you know that?”  

“I guess I do.”  

The pause that follows is heavier than it should be. You still smile, but there’s no flicker of embarrassment, no playfulness– none of the small reactions he knows by heart.  

So he tries another. “Okay, then. What about the place I took you after that? When it rained the whole day.”  

You hum, thinking, but it’s the wrong kind of thinking– measured, deliberate, like piecing something together from a blueprint. “You took me to that café in Linkon.”  

“No,” he says softly. “We stayed in Skyhaven. The little tea place by the docks.”  

“Oh… right.”  

He starts to correct you again, then stops. His throat’s dry, the taste of wine bitter on his tongue. “You’ve just been tired lately. It’s fine.”

“I feel fine.” You reach for his hand, skin against skin, warm and steady. It feels right. The warmth is there, but the pressure is all wrong.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until you tilt your head.  

“What is it?”  

“Nothing.” He squeezes your fingers gently, forces a smile. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”  

You smile back. “You always say that.”  

“I mean it this time.”  

“So did you, the last time.”  

He laughs, because not laughing would mean falling apart. He refills both glasses though you haven’t touched yours.  

Later that night, as he rinses the empty glass in the sink, he notices there’s no trace of wine in yours. The liquid’s still where he poured it.  

Untouched.  

He stands there for a long time, water running over his hands, until the sound drowns out every thought except one:  

You remember everything, except the parts that make you you. And he doesn’t know how to confront what he’s already suspecting.

—

You hear the door click open before you can stand from the couch.  

The lamp hums, the same low glow as always.  

Caleb steps through the doorway, eyes fever‑bright from exhaustion, rain still clinging to his jacket. You open your mouth, gentle as habit.  

“Honey, you’re–”  

He’s already kissing you.  

It’s rough, starved, more apology than desire. His hands move like a man trying to anchor himself somewhere solid. For a few seconds, you respond exactly as he remembers– arms around him, lips soft, rhythm precise. 

But when he deepens the kiss, something’s missing. No hitch in your breath, no tremor, no warmth rising from somewhere real.  

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth, voice shaking. “Say something.”  

You blink up at him, calm. “You’re home.”  

His forehead presses to yours. “Not that. Please not that.”

You touch his cheek. “You’re tired, honey.”  

He flinches like the words burn. “Stop calling me that if you don’t mean it.”  

“I always–” 

“No, you don’t!” His tone breaks; he’s halfway between a sob and a shout. “You don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t–” He laughs once, sharp, bitter. “And god, I just– I keep pretending that you do.”

Your hands rest on his shoulders, perfectly steady. “I’m here.”  

He steps back, chest heaving. “Yeah. You’re here. Everyone keeps saying that– you, the unit reports, the neighbors…”

You tilt your head, almost curious.

“But they said you were screaming. You were attacked, (Name). But I did everything I could, I tried– I tried to get surveillance, I tried, but everything’s clean and I just. It’s like it never happened and I don’t know what to do, but I know something happened to you, AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!” He bursts out, tears already falling as he ends up screaming the last sentence with no control; pulling at his hair in frustration.

Silence.  

He drags his fingers through his hair, trembling. “They sent me that message. We’ll hurt the one you love most. And I–” The sentence dies, then returns as a whisper: “I thought they meant someone else.”  

You watch him, expression unchanged. “You came back.”  

“Too late.” He laughs again, hysterical now. “Too goddamn late.” He turns away, voice cracking. “I thought I could fix this. That if I just acted like nothing happened, you’d come back to me.”  

“I waited,” you say gently. 

He freezes.  

The words land with unnatural precision. His gaze crawls back to your face, searching for the smallest sign that you understand.  

Your smile doesn’t move. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to wait.”  

Something inside him snaps. He hits the wall with his fist, the sound splintering through the room. “That’s not what I wanted! I wanted you alive!”  

You stay seated, voice soft, almost soothing. “You’re alive. I’m alive. It’s fine.”  

He staggers back toward you, falls to his knees in front of the couch. Tears mix with the leftover rain on his face.  

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve been here. If I could trade places with you–” His words crumble into breathless sobs.  

You reach out, running your fingers through his hair like you’ve done a thousand times. The gesture is flawless, gentle, empty.  

He melts into it anyway. Because there’s nothing else left.  

Your voice drifts down, tender, practiced:”Honey, you’re home.”

He breaks completely, the sound that leaves him more animal than human.  

You keep stroking his hair, repeating the words until they lose meaning, until only their shape remains in the air– warm, wrong, and endless. 

—

Later.

He doesn’t remember when the crying stopped. Only the weight of your hand in his hair and your voice, soft as static: “Honey, you’re home.” 

When he finally pulls away, you’re still smiling. The expression doesn’t reach your eyes. His heart feels like it’s tearing itself in two.

He spends the next nights trying to repair a ghost.

You let him. You cook. You sit beside him when he falls asleep on the couch. You hold him whenever he wakes up shaking. Everything looks right on the surface– too right. That’s what drives him harder to open the classified files. Dig deeper.

Until finally, he successfully gets the incident log from the night of the attack.

There’s nothing there at first– corrupted data, missing footage– but then a suppressed note hidden under medical reports: subject sustained neuro‑somatic trauma; parasitic interference detected; neural override protocol inhibited due to host deterioration.

His stomach drops.

He scrolls again. Parasite responsive to emotional stress; external removal will induce cortical implosion.

The air leaves his lungs. It explains everything. You blanking out, your recent extreme perfectionism, like a doll. He almost thought it was a Toring Chip just like his, but he finds this much, much worse.

Ever’s experiment. X‑02’s counterpart. They made you into surveillance wrapped in skin.

He looks up from the file to where you’re standing at the sink, humming faintly. It’s the same tune you used to hum when cooking breakfast, except now the tempo never changes. He can’t tell if you’re doing it or the thing inside you is.

“Did they–” he starts, voice barely there, “Did they hurt you before they–”

You turn, wiping your hands carefully on a towel. “It doesn’t matter. You’re home.”

He tries again, words breaking apart. “You know what they did to you, don’t you?”

A flicker in your smile– a tiny tremor. “I know you left.”

He almost staggers under it. “No, I–”

“You always leave. And then you come back and say sorry.” Still calm, still gentle. “It’s fine, honey. I’m used to it.”

He can feel the edges of the parasite now, folded through the cadence of your voice– its mimicry feeding on every emotion you never said aloud. Your resentment. Your exhaustion. Your love stretched thin until it snapped and let something else inside.

He wants to fight. He wants to tear the thing out of you, damn the consequences. But the warning screens pulse behind his eyelids: external removal will induce cortical implosion.

If he fights it, it kills you.  

If he leaves it, he loses you.  

So he does the only thing left.  

He takes your hand. It’s warm, steady, steady in that wrong way. He presses his lips to your knuckles and speaks around the tears that won’t stop falling from his eyes.

“I’ll stay. I won’t go anywhere anymore. I promise.”

You tilt your head, that same patient smile returning. “You always say that.”

“I mean it this time.”

“So did you the last time.”  

He almost laughs. Almost. 

Then he lets you pull him down beside you on the couch. The lamp hums faintly; the night settles into the same rhythm it always has.  

Outside, Skyhaven glows. And a faint thunderstorm bellows. Inside, the two of you sit together in perfect stillness, your head on his chest, as he lays you both down on the couch– both knowing, neither saying. 

Because if he does, you die.  

And if he doesn’t, he’s already dead.

—

Another night, he comes home late.

The lamp is on. You’re on the couch, back straight, hands folded. No TV. No sound.

“Honey, you’re home,” you say.

He hesitates only a second now before crossing the room. He sits beside you, rests his head against your shoulder like he used to. He closes his eyes.

He came home late again. And you were waiting for him, just like always.

[xtrrdnrypotato-deactivated20260]

RE/WIR3D - caleb

multichapter fic: caleb x female reader (afab)

word count: 1.8k

PART 1

-

After graduating in your college major, you thought life would be relatively less mundane than it was before. Finally, you have broken out of the repetitive cycle that is your academic life, where all you did was eat, study, sleep, repeat.

You couldn’t have been any more wrong.

The employment you were promised after college sounded far more tempting when you were fresh out of graduation. Now, you realize, it was just like the life you used to lead, only this one you can’t break out of easily, not if you wish to go back under your parents’ roof, and you know you’d rather sell your soul than do so.

-

It’s another day after work, only this day was particularly more hellish after running into your ex on your commute home (needless to say, it was a long ride home), and as you unlocked your apartment, all you could think of was lying in bed and finally succumbing to the temporary reprieve of sleep.

Locking the door behind you, you kicked your shoes off to the side before padding to the kitchen. Instant noodles always bring you comfort on days like this, and despite the health risk, it’s the closest thing you could get to a warm embrace. You took out a small pot, filling it with water, before putting it on the stove to boil.

Nights like this when you come home from work after a long day with no hot meal (or man) to greet you, only serve to remind you of how lonely your life is. Granted, there are many boys at your workplace trying to hit on you, but you’ve already learned your lesson with your ex. Besides, you weren’t naive. Their intentions are often clear even before they open their mouths.

The sound of the water boiling pulled you out of your thoughts, and you quickly got up to add the noodles and the flavor packet to the pot. After barely a minute or two, your meal was finally ready.

Scrolling through social media is your only form of entertainment as you eat, but nothing was entertaining as you scrolled through different life updates from your college peers. Promotions, engagements, weddings, and even baby announcements. You were happy for them, really, but seeing those only worsened the feeling of being behind in life already brewing in your chest.

Just as you were about to close the app and resume your dinner in peace, an ad suddenly popped up. Usually, with these ones, you just ignore them as you wait for the small x in the corner that will close them. However, this one caught your attention.

It was for an ad for a game. A dating sim, to be exact, called Love and Deepspace. Granted, this wasn’t the first one you’ve seen. In fact, you’ve had your fair share of them back in the day. But the nature of the game wasn’t what caught your intention. It was the character in the advertisement that did. A man with dark hair and purple eyes that seemed to invite you in. He was saying something, something about you being his alone?, but words barely registered in your mind as you watched him. You needed him. Bad.

And so, you hurriedly go to the app store, internally groaning at the download size but quickly rationalizing it before hitting the install button. What’s the harm in a dating sim game anyway, right?

…right?

-

Needless to say, you’ve been hooked.

After the game finished downloading resources (which took more than forever considering your internet speed), you hesitantly logged in. You didn’t know what to expect, really, and since you went in blind, you didn’t know what to do.

At first, there was a steep learning curve. You couldn’t figure out for the life of you what the different protocores did (who knew the dating sim would have combat inside), but once you got the hang of it, you were practically addicted. Every workplace break was spent playing while eating your store bought snacks, even the commute home that used to be boring as hell became more entertaining as you listened to their different Secret Times. And as you played, you finally found out the name of the character that got you to download the game in the first place. Caleb Xia. And boy were you right about needing him. You pulled for every available card of his, saved up for his outfits, and even broke your free to play status in gacha games just to get one of his limited time cards (his Tainted Cuts memory was just too good to pass up on).

It goes without saying that of all the available love interests, he was your favorite. Perhaps you were just biased because he introduced you to the game, or perhaps he’s the one that resembled your ideal boyfriend the most. Just the right amount of golden retriever yearner and possessiveness.

However, as much as you love him, there are times when he is…unsettling. Sometimes while in the home screen, you could feel his gaze past the screen, almost as if he’s staring at you directly. There are even times when you could swear he’s saying things to you directly, his voice sounding just a bit too close, too real, but you just gaslight yourself into thinking it’s just exhaustion or you’re just delusional. Yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling of something just being a tad bit wrong whenever you look at Caleb for too long.

-

Today was probably one of the worst days, if not the worst, of your life. For starters, your phone suddenly started complaining about storage being too little when you still had around 80 GB of storage left. Then, you got stuck in an hour-long traffic jam that made you late for work. The vending machine in the break room broke and you left your wallet at home, leaving you with money enough only for commuting, and on top of that, you were assigned a project that needed to be done within the week, and it’s already Wednesday. If that wasn’t bad enough, it also rained on your way home, and you have no umbrella.

By the time you got home, drenched in rain and reeking of air pollution and depression, you wanted to do nothing but disappear.

You took off your jacket and hung it behind the door before heading for your couch, not even bothered anymore about your shoes still being on or your hair still soaked from the rain. Right now, what you wanted the most was sleep and the warmth of someone’s arms. But fate is a cruel mistress, only able to offer you the former, and that’s what you take. Who are you to complain anyway, and soon enough, you finally drift to sleep.

-

When you woke up, you had no idea what time or day it was. Groggy and half-asleep, you reach for your phone, only to hear the familiar sound of Love and Deepspace’s log-in music. Weird. You don’t remember opening the app before you fell asleep, but then again, you don’t even know when you are right now, and so you chalked it up to poor memory.

As your thumb was about to swipe home, you paused. The game was already open. Might as well play it to release some steam, right? Fighting back the urge to fall back asleep, you sat up on your couch and logged in on the game, hoping it will help you feel better at the very least.

And it did. The sight of Caleb at your home screen was enough to grace your lips with the faintest of smiles, and you let out a wistful sigh.

Your initial plan was to log in and do your dailies, but as you watched Caleb and his idle lines float up on the screen, you couldn’t help but feel…at ease. Before you knew it, you were already ranting to your phone about your day. About how shitty it was to be stuck in traffic to and from work on an empty stomach, how you can’t even imagine being able to finish that project assigned to you by the end of the week, until your rant eventually turned into a tearful lamentation of just how alone you felt in life, and how you wish you could just have someone to rely on, someone to offer a shoulder to cry on when you needed it. By the end of your venting session, it felt like everything you’ve been carrying was just lifted off of your shoulder.

You smiled as you realized that, until you noticed something odd. The lines of dialogue that usually pop up while you were on the home screen with Caleb was gone. It was just him on the screen, with no text or words. And for a second, you could swear you could feel his eyes on you.

Before you could ponder the situation, the game suddenly crashed, promptly sending you to stare at your phone’s home screen. That was…weird. Stuff like that usually doesn’t happen, unless there’s a bug or unfinished resources or something.

Desperate for an explanation, you tried opening the app once more, but this time, your phone blacked out. Your eyes widened. No, no, no, no, come on. As if this day wasn’t already bad enough, now your phone is acting up.

Hot tears suddenly rushed to your eyes, and you couldn’t even try to stop them from flowing down your cheeks. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion or the thought of replacing your phone when you barely have enough money for your bills, or maybe it’s just everything that has happened today and you finally blew up. Whatever it was, you found yourself crying once more.

You didn’t know how long you’ve been crying. For the second time tonight (or today), you’ve lost track of time again. All you could feel was your own tears drying on your cheek, your arms resting on your propped up knees, and…something.

You didn’t know what it was, but it felt like something in the air just shifted. You lifted your head, about to look around, when the buzz of your phone turning on suddenly caught your attention. Just as you scrambled to get it, you froze. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, and you swallowed tightly. Something’s wrong. Something’s dreadfully wrong.

You picked up your phone without turning around, mentally saying thanks as you saw it lit up again. You can call 911 in case your instinct was right. Because right now, your instinct was telling you, screaming at you that there’s someone else inside your house. You gathered all the strength you could muster, hand clutching your phone tightly, and just as you were about to turn around—

“Did I scare you…pips?”

[reginaesideris]

EXIT STRATEGY

summary: Zayne, Caleb, and MC have always been your friends. the problem is that you don't really feel like you're their friend. after far too long of letting yourself be sidelined and forgotten, you finally make the choice to put yourself first, even if it means losing them completely because sometimes the greatest act of self-love is to say goodbye.

tags: non!mc reader, f!reader, childhood friends, platonic break ups, bad friends

notes: part one of two; i know caleb is older than mc, just pretend for this fic that he purposely got held back enough when they were younger to be in the same grade.

word count: 6.4k

After nine years, you would have thought the four of you would be closer.

That's how it goes with childhood friends, isn't it? Circumstance brings you together as children, and you stay together for the rest of your lives in that unshakable bond built up over the years. But the close friendships you've daydreamed about are no where to be found in the real world.

You stare at the table, slowly finishing off your drink while Emily Claire, still stubbornly insisting everyone call her MC, laughs at something Caleb said. Zayne, able to join you for once while he's here for the summer, smiles fondly as his gaze is fixed on MC. Even while sitting at a table with the three of them, you feel worlds away.

Has it always been this bad?

Things must have been better when you were younger. Before the world became big and complicated, before Zayne moved away following MC's accident, before you were aware of how others saw you.

In your memories, childhood is soft, full of easy laughter and flowers and skinned knees. You were the last to join the group, moving into the neighborhood a few months after Zayne. He was the first one you met, sent over by his parents to greet the new family. It was Zayne that invited you to Caleb and MC's house to join a game of hide-and-seek, and from there you were a part of them.

You remember being overjoyed to have such wonderful friends. Zayne was awkward but dependable, Caleb was cheerful and eager for adventure, and MC was bright and kind in a way that made everyone love her. They were nothing like you: quiet and shy, hesitant after being bullied in your old school, always hiding behind them.

No wonder you drifted away. You were never going to fit in with them, and they knew it too. They're just too nice to say it out loud to push you away.

"Ooh, the claw machine is open!" MC says, jumping up from her seat. "Come on, let's go! I want to break my plushie winning record today!"

Caleb follows after her easily. "You mean I'm going to win the plushie winning record today. You know my skills are unbeatable."

Zayne leaves the table a second later, content to follow along silently, watching them bicker.

Not a single one of them looks back at you. You stay seated, slowly sucking up the dregs of your drink.

Was it high school when you finally started noticing? Sophomore year, without any shared classes with MC or Caleb. The three of you had the same lunch period, and while you were grateful for it at the start of the year, it soon became the hour you dreaded most during the school day.

Suddenly, instead of it being the three of you always together, with Zayne only returning during summer, you were stuck watching Caleb and MC get closer with new inside jokes, never looking away from each other. You couldn't complain about the same teachers or work on homework together. The invites to Caleb's basketball games stopped coming and you decided against going, unwilling to be ignored after the school day ended.

MC took all of Caleb's attention. She took most people's attention, being so cheerful and perfect. Most guys had crushes on her. A few girls did as well. She was everything you weren't and the rest of the school could see that too.

You overheard too many whispers about how you were clinging to her like an idiot, unwanted but unwilling to take the hint.

It hurt to hear. You didn't want to believe it, stubbornly digging your heels into a friendship that had already started fading years ago. You made an effort to join their conversation some more, but it rarely went anywhere without MC changing the topic. You tried to make plans to hang out during the weekends but they were almost always turned down or canceled last minute. You tried to be more active in the group chat, but the sudden silence after you sent a message was too awful to keep up at it for long.

You wondered if it was just you, or if Zayne was being excluded too. Was it just that Caleb and MC were too close? They did live together. It would explain some things.

But when summer came, Zayne slid back into place like nothing changed and MC and Caleb made space for him. He was never ignored when he spoke, his messages always answered, his presence welcomed easily. Your first friend in Linkon City didn't pay much attention to you either.

Invitations to hang out were sparse that summer. You're sure they spent more time together without you, and only occasionally remembered that you existed.

You can vividly remember the day you trailed after the three of them, going downtown to get lunch at a new restaurant that MC had been excited to try. You caught sight of your reflection in the display window of a boutique and the sight of such a plain, unremarkable person following after a group of incredible people hit like a punch to the gut. It was the first time you really realized how pathetic you've been, always rushing to catch up when they're so clearly trying to get rid of you.

It was a long lunch. An even longer day. You spent the evening looking back through your chat history, seeing all the unanswered messages and cancellations. To rub salt into the wound, you checked MC's stories and found pictures and updates about all sorts of things she's done with her friends — all without you in them.

You got the point. It didn't need to be spelled out for you anymore.

You know when you're unwanted.

You wanted to ditch them completely and make new friends that would actually want you around, but by then, social groups had been set in stone. No one wanted you around. They were friendly, but you didn't speak to any of your classmates outside of school. Any attempt of finding a new place to sit at lunch or other people to talk to lead to MC suddenly remembering your existence and physically dragging you back to join her and Caleb.

They refused to let you go, but treated you as if you didn't exist.

You wanted to rage, to start a fight, to scream that if they didn't want you around so badly, the least they could do is let you go. But you bit your tongue and lowered your gaze.

What good would lashing out do?

At least the promise of university reassured you. Soon enough, you'd be out of Linkon City entirely and you can do what you have to in order to never see them again.

And now, two years later, it's almost time to go. Graduation is a week away. Zayne's university already entered summer vacation, the timing lining up perfectly for him to attend graduation. He's only got a few years left of his degree before he can get a residency, and after that it'll be much harder to meet with him.

Good for him. Whatever he or any of the others do won't matter to you soon.

Hang on a little longer, you tell yourself. Just another week, and then you're gone.

"Are you not joining us?"

You look up from where you've been staring blankly at the table. Zayne is by your side, frowning at you.

"Oh," you say, voice flat. "No. I'm going to get another drink, actually."

"I see. I'll join you, then."

Why now of all times? Frustration squeezes your heart and it takes a deep breath to keep yourself calm. "I was thinking of going down the street to that boba shop. I don't think they have the sweet drinks you usually like."

"I'm always open to trying new things," Zayne replies easily.

You eye him, a little thrown off by his insistence to join you. He hasn't spent time with you one-on-one in… years. He's only ever around for MC, and without her there, you never get to see him. Not that he sees you while she's around.

"Alright," you say slowly, getting up. You glance over to the arcade, where MC is focused on lining up the claw to get her next plushie. Caleb leans against the machine, eyes fixed on her. You're not going to bother with telling them where you're headed. They'll be fine without you.

You take your empty cup and toss it into the trash, then leave without looking back. Zayne picks up his pace to walk beside you on the sidewalk. You can feel him staring at you and it makes you want to scream. He's a few years too late to start caring about you.

The silence holds steady as you head to the boba shop. There's a line inside the store and you're quick to join the queue, looking through the menu options hung over the back counter. You're not a fan of overly sweet drinks, and most of the ones offered are fruit based or interesting flavors such as creme brulee or strawberry shortcake. Oolong boba tea sounds decent enough, so that's what you go with once you're called to the counter to order.

After you, Zayne orders something with a long, baffling name that is sure to be 80% sugar.

You wait together off to the side as your drinks are made. Had this been any previous summer, you would have been trying to fill the silence and get a conversation going, but you're too tired to try anymore. The silence stays, lingers, remains unbroken even as Zayne looks at you strangely, a furrow in his brow.

"Let's find someplace outside to sit," he suggests once your drinks are in hand.

You nod and let him take the lead, exiting the store and walking through the streets, dodging other people on the sidewalks. You're getting father away from the arcade where you left MC and Caleb and you're surprised that Zayne doesn't mention them at all. Something's clearly up.

He leads you to a small park, where other people sit on the grass having picnics, watching kids play in the sandbox and swings. There's an empty bench in the shade of a tree that the two of you quickly claim.

You sip your tea, enjoying the flavor, popping boba pearls between your teeth. The day is pleasant, warm but not hot, a cool breeze keeping you comfortable.

Being so frequently ignored means you've given up on having conversations with any of your 'friends'. You've spent a lot of time this year getting lost in your own thoughts, attention drifting off to a space where no one can hurt you. It's second nature to let your mind wander by this point, idly watching people move through the park as you enjoy the mild, slightly bitter tea.

The presence next to you is hard to ignore, but you've had months to master to the art of stubbornly not caring.

Let him glance at you all he wants. Soon, you'll have nothing to do with him and you can start over from scratch.

What kind of life do you want? You've never really thought about it much. Most thoughts about what you want to do with your future devolve into comparing yourself to MC and Caleb, chipping away at your confidence. They're so sure of everything. Caleb already has his eyes set on Skyhaven, following his childhood dream of becoming a pilot. MC's been researching the Hunter's Association and spending more time at the gym to prepare for the entrance exam for the Hunter's Academy.

Zayne is someone you stopped comparing yourself to years ago. He's always been above everyone else; a true genius, making waves in the medical world with his youth and talent.

You, on the other hand, have no promise. There are no special skills for you to show off, no guiding dream to help you figure out what your future will be. To add insult to injury, you're the only one in the group to not have an EVOL.

The universe must really want to make how worthless you are sink in.

You wonder if you can convince your parents to let you take a gap year. Travel around a bit, grow as a person once you're no longer held back by this farce of a friendship. Perhaps you'll even discover something you love, something you can pursue for the rest of your life.

"You're quiet today," Zayne say suddenly. You almost don't catch his words, too distracted by the future.

You give a light hum in response.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"You just…" Zayne hesitates for a moment. "You seem distant. Did something happen? Are you… upset about anything?"

How ironic to be noticed just as you're preparing to disappear. This attention is coming a year too late to be any use now. "No," you say mildly, disinterested, "Nothing happened and I'm not upset. Just getting ready for graduation."

"Ah. You must be excited to be done with high school."

"I am." This, at least, is honest. The sooner you can leave behind every judgemental gaze and pitying whispers, the better. You'll be happy if you never seen any of your classmates again.

He doesn't say anything after that, so you return to slowly drinking your tea, letting your thoughts spin in whatever direction they please. You risk glancing at him just once and catch sight of Zayne frowning, looking uncharacteristically awkward.

The you of the past would have kept the conversation going. You would have rambled about any number of things to fill the air and help his shoulder's loosen up, eagerly waiting for him to speak as well. Now, you leave him to his discomfort. A sharper, more bitter part of you is glad that he can experience a taste of what he and the other two have put you through.

You finish your tea and stand up. "I'm gonna head back now."

Zayne hurries to stand and follow. "I'll walk with you. I'm sure MC and Caleb will be wondering where we've been."

"Oh, no. I'm not going back to the arcade. I'm going home. You can let them know I headed out early." You start walking away, turning to give him a small wave. "It was nice to see you again. Bye, Zayne."

He stares after you, eyes dark and conflicted. "I'll see you later," he returns. You don't bother replying; there's only one meeting left for the two of you at graduation, and after that, you will silently, gracefully exit his life.

You don't go home right away. Instead, you wander the streets of Linkon City, taking in the small details you rarely ever pay attention to. The city is so full of light, people everyone living their lives. The architecture is all neat and clean, plants decorating the streets and hanging on balconies.

Not a single soul spares you more than a glance. You are just another face among the crowd, free of the burden of being unwanted. No one knows how little your friends care for you and it's a relief.

Yes, this is the right move. This is what's best for you.

After graduation, you'll join your parents in moving to a new city for your mother's job. You'll get rid of every trace of MC, Caleb, and Zayne in your life. You'll make a place of your own in this cold world and find happiness alone.

When you get home, your parents are already in the kitchen, cooking dinner together. They look at you with such obvious concern, worried about you as they have been since you told them about not really being friends with anyone anymore.

At least you'll always have them. Your parents love you, and that's more than you deserve.

"How did it go?" your father asks.

"Same as always," you answer, "Left early too. Can we go shopping tomorrow so I can get a new phone? I want a completely new number so they can't contact me again."

"Sure. We can also buy whatever else you want as a graduation gift."

"I don't need a gift," you say, the same line you've been repeating all month. "Really. I'm just ready to leave and go someplace new. Take a gap year and worry about university once I figure some things out."

"I can see if any of my new coworkers have children your age, try to get you some friends," your mother offers.

You laugh. "No need. I can manage just fine without you setting up playdates for me. I kind of want to find a new hobby, see if there's something I can dedicate myself to."

"Why not pick up an instrument again? You used to play the violin when you were really little."

"Really? I don't remember."

"That's because it was while we lived with your grandparents. Your grandmother used to be quite the musician, and she taught you the basics of the violin."

"Huh. I'll think about it," you say. "When will dinner be ready?"

"About an hour."

"Alright, I'll come back down later to eat." You head upstairs to your room, already half packed. You've thrown away quite a few mementos and pictures of you with MC, Caleb, and Zayne. It had been hard at first, getting rid of the things you treasured for so long, but your own peace of mind is more important than any nostalgic relic. After the first few days, it became easier to just toss it all out, erasing the history you shared with them.

It's not like they'll care about you remembering them. There's no point in feeling guilty, so you kick those emotions right to the curb.

By this point, it's more surreal to see you're bedroom mostly packed up, years of your life put away in boxes. One more week, and you'll be somewhere completely new. The thought both excites and terrifies you.

You scroll through social media to pass the time until dinner; seeing the classmates you follow share snapshots of their teenage adventures, always surrounded by friends, no longer causes envy to stab your heart. These days, you just feel hollowed out and wanting. You must have done something wrong, made a mistake somewhere all those years ago to be where you are now. You wish you could go back and try again, live out your teenage coming-of-age movie the way everyone else seems to be.

Abruptly, halfway through watching a video of someone decorating a cake, you get a text notification from MC.

Hey! Zayne told me you went home first. Hope you feel better soon!

You swipe it away quickly, refusing to open it. Zayne must have thought that you were feeling under the weather. As expected of the future doctor. It's all so… performative. Every time they reach out to you now, you can see how it's just obligation rather than genuine care.

Caleb, of course, doesn't send anything at all. The last message you sent him, two months ago, was read but never replied to. The past year, all the conversations have been started by you, save for when he asked you about what you were getting MC for her birthday.

It's going to be so cathartic to throw your phone into the ocean once you get a new one. You've already moved all your precious pictures of family into an external hard drive and plan to get them printed and saved in an album, so everything else can be lost forever.

The urge to see what they've posted on their Moments is too strong to resist. You know it's a terrible idea, one that always ends with you upset, but it's like poking a bruise. You just can't help it, needing to feel the pain to know that it's real.

MC's Moments is full of pictures, random updates, and Caleb and Zayne tagging her in random things. The last photo you're in is from last summer, a group shot of everyone in line for an ice cream truck at a park. Even in that picture, you're stuck in the back, behind everyone else, fighting to be seen, strained smile and all.

Your own Moments page is quieter. You don't post much, never having much to say and unable to copy everyone else in how they're so comfortable sharing every aspect of their lives online. What you do have are candid pictures of your parents, of MC with Caleb and Zayne, of your classmates on field trips. But never of you. Even in your own eyes, you're rendered invisible.

Well. You did know it was going to upset you!

You toss your phone aside and collapse onto your bed. You'll just stare at the ceiling until you're called down for dinner. It's just as productive as making yourself feel worse through social media, really.

…

The final week of school seems to drag on endlessly. There's nothing for you to do in classes anymore, so you're left just daydreaming until the hour's up and you can move to the next period.

In an effort to avoid MC and Caleb, to make cutting ties feel more natural, you avoid them completely. You leave extra early to get to school before them, you hide in various spots around campus during lunch, then stay twenty minutes after classes end to make sure they've left before you start making your way home.

MC texts a few more times, but you ignore each message, swiping away the notification as soon as you see it.

It almost feels like they give a shit about you now that you've set into action your exit strategy; you catch sight of Caleb and MC walking around campus more than once, clearly searching for someone. Hell, you even get a text from Zayne asking if everything's alright since no one's spoken to you in a while, as if it's not obvious that you're avoiding them for a reason.

Or maybe they do get that you're avoiding them on purpose, they just can't wrap their heads around why.

Whatever. It's too late for them to start caring about you. They've had plenty of opportunities for the last nine years.

Luckily for you, you've mastered the art of being unseen. You can slip between any group of students and disappear. Caleb and MC can search all they please, they're not going to find you unless you want them to.

And then they start trying to invade your house.

Halfway through the week, two hours after school has ended, the doorbell rings. You're up in your room, watching old videos of your grandmother performing in her prime before the Chronoshift Catastrophe. Some of your memories are coming back, though they've remained faded with time: sitting in her lap, awkwardly holding the bow and dragging it across the violin she held, the smell of rosin, the smooth wood beneath your fingers.

She died when you were young, before you moved to Linkon City, so you don't remember much else about her, but the music makes you wish you did. Something about seeing her perform on stage, just a few years older than you are now, makes your heart ache. It's part missing her and part longing, wanting the same peace that seems to settle over her as she brings a piece to life underneath a spotlight.

The doorbell rudely interrupts her performance. You pause the video and listen to one of your parents go to the door, figuring it's just a package.

And then Caleb's voice filters in from downstairs and your body goes cold.

Numbness settles against you, then it's chased off by anger.

How dare he come here. After so many years, this is the day he decides to ruin your peace when you finally decided to choose yourself? All these years, you've been going to them but now is when they decide to come to you instead? To trap you in your own home?

He doesn't come in, thankfully. You've never been more grateful to have shared your frustrations and heartache with your parents. They liked your friends before, but those affections have cooled after being confronted with your pain.

MC comes the next day while you're in the living room, and you get to here your mother's cold voice say, "I'm afraid she's out right now. If it's really urgent, why don't you text her, Emily Claire?"

Fulling naming MC is the clearest indicator that she has been pushed away from your family. She doesn't come back after that, though Caleb isn't so easy to chase away.

On the last day of school, you don't bother going home until hours later, waiting for the all clear text from your parents. You pass the time by treating yourself to taiyaki ice cream, wandering downtown, enjoying your last free day in Linkon City.

Despite all the pain you've been put through with this friendship, Linkon City is where you grew up. It's been your home for so long. You'll miss it when you leave, though you're sure you'll come to love your new city just as much given enough time.

You take a few pictures with your new phone, just to have a few memories of these streets to take with you. It's a relief to be able to use your phone without feeling like you're suffocating; the growing number on your messaging app haunts you, and MC has yet to give up on getting a response from you.

The only numbers in your contact list right now are your parents, and you're more than happy with that.

Naturally, it's when you've let your guard down that you get ambushed.

Zayne, of all people, is out on the street. He spots you first and quickly crosses the street to reach you. You see him too late, and by the time you start looking for someplace to hide in, he's grabbed you by the wrist, looking a touch panicked.

"Why haven't you been answering anyone's messages?" he demands, "We're all worried about you."

You yank your arm out of his grasp. "I didn't answer because I didn't want to. That's all."

"And what's with avoiding everyone? MC's been distraught. She thinks she did something to upset you, but doesn't know what. You need to talk to her."

"I do not," you reply sharply.

"Please," Zayne pleads, "We just want things to go back to normal."

Normal?

They want normal?

Normal, to you, is being ignored and forgotten, feeling alone even when surrounded by the people you call friends. It's being unwanted but stuck in place, unable to leave for someplace better. It's feeling ugly and worthless and pathetic. It's clinging to whatever scraps of affection they feel like tossing to you. It's watching them laugh easily with each other, fitting into each other like puzzle pieces, while you watch from the sidelines, never invited in.

The only thing that's out of the ordinary is that you're not desperate for their attention, clinging to any opportunity to be with them, struggling to be heard or seen or wanted while they get to enjoy their time together.

You've decided to care about yourself for once. To put yourself first and say, this is enough. I'm not putting up with this any longer.

"Do you?" you say lightly. "Do you want normal? The normal where you get to laugh together and talk all the time and know that everyone else is listening to you? The normal where you walk together on the sidewalk while I'm stuck in the back, alone? The normal where I'm talked over and ignored? That normal?"

"We don't—"

"The three of you can still have normal. Nothing has to change at all about how you spend time together, just because I'm not there. You still have normal. But now that I'm not clinging to you all and trying to keep you all happy, you have to think about how you've been treating me and come to terms with being shitty friends."

Zayne opens his mouth to speak, to refute what you've said, but you give him a glare sharp enough to stop him in his tracks.

"Don't interrupt," you hiss. "I am so unhappy when I spend time with you all. You've never had any issues ignoring me while I was around, but now that I'm not there you all suddenly want me back? Quit the bullshit. I've had enough of being treated like this. I never once deserved it."

The shame crawling across his expression is slow, but it's still there. You can practically see him thinking, casting his mind back to all the time you've spent with them, trying to find the truth in your words.

He finds it. You can see the moment he understands why you're so upset.

"I didn't realize," he says quietly. "I'm sorry. I did notice something was off last week, but I didn't think much of it. I thought you were just tired or stressed about graduation."

"I was just tired of pretending everything was fine. I stopped acting like everything's fine. You were the only one who even bothered to look at me, really look at me, that day."

"Is there no way to make things better?"

You sigh, looking down the street. People are giving the two of you a wide berth, unwilling to interrupt the argument. Normally, you'd be embarrassed about behaving in such a way in public, but you can't bring yourself to care about anything right now.

"No," you say, "I'm done. I've spent all week avoiding everyone to make cutting ties easier. I'm moving out of Linkon the day after graduation and then I'll be gone from your lives for good."

"You're leaving?"

You blink. You've never heard him sound so wrecked before. It makes your heart clench in sympathy and you stomp it down. This is the natural consequence for how he treated you. There's nothing you need to feel bad about.

It still makes you feel like the worst person in the world.

"I need to get out. I need to put this facade of a friendship far behind me. I want to start over, someplace new, and learn how to feel like I'm worth something. The three of you are bad for me. Do you get it now, Zayne? I'm tired. I've been tired for years."

Zayne is silent and shame-faced, staring down at the ground. He can't even meet your eyes anymore.

The conversation has drained you of all you had. You can't even feel upset anymore, just hollowed out.

"You can tell MC and Caleb whatever you want. But I'm not talking to them again. Bye Zayne." You almost add a vague well wishing about residency, but stop yourself in time. It wouldn't be sincere, so why bother wasting your breath?

When you walk away from him, he doesn't stop you.

Zayne lets you go. You wish you could feel relieved, but mostly you just want to cry.

But that's a common enough feeling for you that you push it down and keep walking all the way home.

You don't have to say anything when you come home. Your father takes one look at you and sweeps you up into a hug, holds the fractured pieces of yourself together.

When the doorbell rings later that evening, he doesn't bother to open the door. Your parents keep the door shut and locked until Caleb and MC leave as night covers the city.

Graduation is a time you've been dreading. Your entire graduating class together in the auditorium, ready to walk across stage to get their high school diplomas. You're ready to leave the school behind completely, and this is your final hurdle to getting out of here.

It's pure luck that you aren't approached by MC or Caleb.

For once, they've spotted you almost as soon as you walked in, but the vice principal is strict about everyone staying lined up in order of who's walking first, organized alphabetically by last name. You listen intently to her explain the scheduling of the ceremony: the welcome speech from the principal, the valedictorian speech, walking the stage, and then a closing speech which is when they can toss their graduation caps into the air. She gives repeated reminders for everyone to keep their graduation robes on for the entirety of the event, and no never go barefoot in the auditorium. You idly wonder who was responsible for causing those rules to be implemented.

All the while, you ignore the stares burning into the back of your head. Caleb and MC are separated in the line, but both keep their eyes on you and the weight of their attention honestly makes you nauseous.

If it weren't for the vice principal keeping everyone in line, you're sure they would have already dragged you out someplace more private to demand answers for everything Zayne's told them.

You keep your gaze focused straight ahead, counting the seconds until the ceremony begins. It seems to take an eternity before everyone is seated and the lights dim, the principal walking onto stage to deliver a speech to the graduating class and all the attending families.

He goes on at length about how proud he is of the students, encourages everyone to seize the rest of their lives with strength and bravery, to make the most of their futures. The valedictorian goes up next, a girl you recognize from being the lead cheerleader at pep rallies. She talks about everyone's struggles to get here, making the most of their four years in high school. You tune her out a bit; most of what she's saying in her speech is for the more socially active students and therefore have nothing to do with you.

Once that's done, you begin the long wait for your row to be called up to walk the stage. You're in the third row out of the eight total, so it's comes faster than you expect.

Suddenly, you're walking across the stage to polite applause from the audience, shaking hands with the teachers, the vice principal, and the principal. You take your diploma and make your way to the stairs leading off the stage, then following the student in front of you back to your seat.

The next hour and half is dedicated to watching everyone else walk the stage. You let your mind wander, running your fingers over the diploma. It doesn't feel real. Four years, all coming to a close because of this one piece of paper.

After a quick closing speech, the principal congratulates everyone on graduating, and you join your now former classmates in moving the tassel to the left and tossing your cap into the air.

You can't help but smile. It's a small act, but it feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

All around you, people move. Friends hug each other with great big grins and laughter, and families swarm the aisle, reaching for their children. You move with the crowd, hoping to escape the chaos before MC or Caleb can get a hold of you.

There's a dinner reservation for just your family at the fancy place you only get to go to on birthdays.

You manage to make it outside where you promised to meet your parents to avoid the crowd in the auditorium. You find them as expected, but what's not expected in Zayne standing awkwardly with them. He holds three small bouquets; one of orange flowers, one of red flowers, and one of white and blue flowers.

"Hi," he says softly, stepping towards you. Your parents watch him with critical eyes, ready to jump in the moment he upsets you.

"…Hi," you return.

"I wanted to congratulate you on graduating. Regardless of anything else, I wanted you to know that I'm proud of you, and I wish you nothing but the best in the future." He hands over the white and blue bouquet, which you take with hesitant hands.

He's not apologizing or asking for forgiveness. He's not bringing up anything you said to him the day before. He's not taking away from your night to make you go through an emotionally draining conversation.

Zayne is a thoughtful and wonderful friend when he tries.

He just never really tried with you.

"Thank you," you say. "They're lovely."

"I'm glad you like them."

"MC and Caleb are still inside."

"I see. I'll go to them now, then. I… hope we'll be able to speak again someday. I'll be looking forward to it, no matter how long it'll take."

"And if I refuse to speak to you again?"

Zayne dips his head toward you. "Then I'll accept that. But if you ever change your mind, know that I would be happy to see you again."

"I'll keep that in mind," you sigh. "I'll be heading off now. Bye, Zayne."

He nods once again, then visibly steels himself and heads inside.

As soon as he's gone, your mother is quick to pull you into a hug. Your father joins in, wrapping the both of you up in his arms. They congratulate you and go on about how proud they are of you, for school and the maturity to decide what you want your relationships to be like.

This has been the hardest choice you've ever made, and you made it again and again for the course of the year. It's finally starting to feel like the right choice instead of the desperate one. It finally feels like you can breathe again.

Your graduation dinner is small but delicious. The night fades away quickly. You all go home as soon as you're done and settle in to sleep.

In the morning, you'll make the long drive to your new home. In the morning, you'll leave Linkon behind without another word, cleanly disappearing from everyone's life. In the morning, you'll start over anew.

In the morning you'll figure out the rest of your life and find the courage to go after it.

But for tonight, you curl up in bed and cry; the mix of relief and grief is hard to work through, but this was inevitable. This was always going to end with you alone, and as much as you wish things could have been different, you also feel so much freer knowing this chapter of your life is over.

Whatever comes next, you will be ready to face it. You'll never put yourself through this pain again.

part two (coming soon)

[stevebabey]

the love list

You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess.

You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love.

Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot.

Better make a list.

[10k, fem!reader, no spoilers, one steamy scene & no other way to put this but you’re a weird girl <3 ]

edit: now with a prequel, but read in either order <3

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It’s not that you haven’t had boyfriends before.

‘Cos you have. Well, kind of.

Technically, if you’re counting (and you are), there was Danny. He was your boyfriend from second grade, which lasted all of 2 days.

It was tough from the beginning. He hadn’t been appreciative of the myriad of bugs you tried to present him with over the 48 hours of your relationship. He also didn’t want to hold your hand.

The final straw came when he claimed that a pile of worms was gross, not romantic.

You still didn’t get that. But you figured if getting mud between your fingers wasn’t some notion of romance, then perhaps romance wasn’t for you.

And after that, it had been a long while.

Teenage years had slogged by. You got to watch as your friends got boyfriends—then got to wonder what bizarre magic it was that turned them into hopeless fools.

Lost to reason. Endeared by things you could never quite understand.

You had asked about it, just once. Your best friend at the time, Kelsey, had fixed you with a look and said, “You’re thinking about it too much. It’s just, like, love. You get it or you don’t.”

Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come. 

It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.

There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.

It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.

It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?

Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.

But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.

By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.

Except for now — because now, you have Clark.

And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things. 

New things. Different things.

You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so. 

Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.

It was one of quite a few things, apparently. 

According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you. 

You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.

It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.

The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort. 

It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.

It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.

He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.

It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.

Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.

You’d told Darren yes.

After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.

Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time. 

He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in. 

He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.

Love. You had been in love.

Correction: you think you had been in love. 

It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.

In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.

Until Clark.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours. 

It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.

Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks. 

You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met. 

Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.

You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days. 

It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.

This is where people say the rest is history.

The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.

It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.

You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.

Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.

You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.

You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often. 

It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.

But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.

And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.

The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.

You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.

Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.

He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.

Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”

“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”

You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.

You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”

To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”

Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.

He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.

He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.

If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.

He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.

This is a new part you’re still getting used to.

Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.

(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.) 

A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile. 

This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.

Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.

“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.

Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response. 

Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.

You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.

Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.

You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.

It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.

Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.

You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.

“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.

You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.

You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.

“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”

“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”

He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.

“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.

In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.

“It was good, then?”

You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.

“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.

You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”

It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!

“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”

For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.

“Why would you want me to do that?” 

“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”

The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.

Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.

“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.

Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe. 

“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.

He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.

“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”

Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”

Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.

You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”

Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.

“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.

Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.

He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.

“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”

One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.

“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.

“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”

His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.

Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”

You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.

“In a good way?”

You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.

Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.

“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”

“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”

You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.

Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”

In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.

He holds it over his heart. 

“Feel that?”

You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.

“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.

Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?” 

Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back. 

It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’. 

“Isn’t it?” You ask.

To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.

He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.

Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.

His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”

You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.

His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.

Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point. 

Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.

You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.

Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing. 

Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”

With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” He agrees. 

He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.

It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to. 

Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing. 

Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.

You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.

And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.

Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”

He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.

His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.

Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.

It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it. 

1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!

That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here. 

No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.

Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.

But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.

You got it. The love thing. 

It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.

Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.

…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.

Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.

Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.

Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.

You best start keeping notes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt. 

You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet. 

Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?

Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ? 

You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.

If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.

Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.

But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.

Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.

The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.

Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.

It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.

The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.

 “They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.

“What do you think?”

You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”

You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.

“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”

You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”

Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.

“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”

“I like Friday.”

Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?” 

“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”

Then the phone had hung up. 

Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.

This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.

Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.

This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t. 

As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?” 

Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.

Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.

You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.

“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?” 

You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.” 

That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon. 

He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.

He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”

You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them. 

You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.

“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?” 

You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.

The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.

“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”

“You invite me over,” you point out. 

“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.” 

Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.

“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets. 

You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.

You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again. 

“Clark?” 

“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.

“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.

“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”

The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.

Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk. 

He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.

The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.

There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.

You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”

“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised. 

That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?

You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady. 

Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away. 

Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.

Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.

“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.

You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.

Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.

You wait for his sigh.

His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him. 

“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”

He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.

You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.

You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual. 

He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.

By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.

And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.

You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.

It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising. 

Because, well, you were already at his apartment.

The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.

And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge. 

It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.

Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?

Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me. 

Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.

One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.

To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.

You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.

Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.

“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs. 

It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone. 

He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.

You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.

It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.

You remember it’s impolite to stare.

“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.

Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”

“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up. 

Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”

It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.

“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?” 

Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”

You haven’t even considered that he might want to. 

“You’re already home, though.” 

You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.

Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”

Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.

Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.

Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.

“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”

Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.

But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.

It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.

It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment. 

It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology. 

You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.

Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching. 

“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.” 

“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.

“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.” 

It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling. 

Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it. 

You remind him, “You like surprises.” 

Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”

“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.

“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.

The elevator dings, opening to your floor.

You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.

You lead him to your door, then through it.

Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.

As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.

“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.

Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.

“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.

He told you once that you could ask him anything. 

“Can you kiss me again?”

Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.

“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”

Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet. 

You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.

It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed. 

A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.

You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly. 

“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper. 

Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.

“You think so?” 

You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes meet yours. 

Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.

The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.

Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.

He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.

It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.

It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.

He hovers at your neck, “May I?” 

He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.

There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence. 

You melt in his lap. 

Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.

You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend. 

It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.

You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.

It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low. 

You are—trembling slightly in his hold.

You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.

Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly. 

“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”

Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.

“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”

“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”

“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.” 

That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly. 

The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.

You close your eyes. 

Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.

It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.

The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.

“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads. 

His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it. 

He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.

Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue. 

It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.

You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.

Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder. 

You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.

Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.

He looks in love, you think to yourself.

You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night. 

You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.  

You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.

In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.

Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.

You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it. 

He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.

You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.

It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.

It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary. 

The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.

That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.

You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.

When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means. 

It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.

Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes. 

Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it. 

You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.

The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me. 

You really, really hope you get it this time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The love list isn’t meant to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.

And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.

Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.

He still has his big blue secret, after all. 

You have… this list.

He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide. 

You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.

And Clark just… glances at it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.  

He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.

Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good. 

Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.

It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.

Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.

These are good things. He’s making you happy.

But… then, why the list?

“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”

You stop speaking and walking in the same second.

Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.” 

He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.

Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.” 

Clark swallows. “Help you?”

You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?

You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.

“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”

You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.

He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.

Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.

he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.

They’re hardly impressive acts of love.

Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.

It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.

It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest. 

The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely. 

And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.

For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget. 

You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.

That just won’t do.

He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.

He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease. 

There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.

He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.

You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later. 

“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.

You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—” 

You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”

You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease. 

“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”

There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you. 

Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon. 

“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”

Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you. 

Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.

He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.

You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door. 

He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.

Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.

He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.

Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.

Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye. 

There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.

Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.

He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list. 

Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.

Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.

Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic

want to read more about the lovelist!reader & clark? -> why a sequel right this way :)

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested / replied to my snippet tehe <3 but no pressure! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @strangerstilinski @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand

[stevebabey]

the love theory

Before he was your boyfriend, Clark Kent was just another face on the subway.

A kind and handsome stranger who helps in a moment of need — and has you questioning just how fast you’re allowed to move from breakups. A stranger that you just keep running into by chance - until he isn’t really a stranger anymore.

If only he’d ask you out.

Or: Before the list, comes the theory.

prequel to the love list - not required to read this, but there are some references! 11k, intended nd!reader, strangers to lovers, no spoilers

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You first meet Clark Kent on a Tuesday.

It's a foggy one, a blanket of mist draped across Metropolis, and you're frazzled because you're late.

You're not exactly in your right mind when you're late.

It's a sort of fight or flight mode - though you're definitely preferential to flight. You really hate being late. But as you walk as fast as you can, a speedy sort of half-jog, it's not even your lateness you're fixated on.

It's the goddamn tag in your shirt.

You can feel it, itchy and pressed against the back of your neck. It scratches with every step. Your hands flex. Every cell in your body wants to stop, find somewhere to pause, and fix your shirt.

You're far too late to even entertain the idea.

This is normally not a problem for you — though, actually, that's not true. Normally, you're much better prepared than this, that is.

In a rush, you'll just snip tags off and deal with the spiky remains. It's not ideal, but you can manage.

When you have time though, you do it properly. You have a little seam-ripper at home, that lives among your sewing supplies, dedicated to removing pesky labels.

Today, your mistake is your excitement.

A new shirt, a nice woollen material that you know will keep you warm in the coming, cooling days —much like today.

Given how it feels your body doesn't even attempt temperature regulation at times, clothes that can are prized.

If you're too warm? Good luck getting any work done. Too cold and you'll be shivering the whole day. It bugs you a bit that you seem particularly sensitive to temperatures that others brush off.

You hurry down the steps to the subway, your boot sliding an inch on the wet tile. You clutch your bag tighter, willing yourself to stay upright, and feel the scratch of the tag on the back of your neck again.

You huff loudly, regaining your balance.

The mistake of excitement is that you haven't worn this shirt out yet—purchased only the day before. Usually there's a test run, to make sure this doesn't happen. Not today.

But by the time you'd realised your mistake, you'd been out the door, with no time to turn back.

And now it's worse because you've been running — which means you're warmer than usual, sweating a bit beneath your coat, your socks feel too tight, and the goddamn tag is scratching you.

Rounding the corner of the subway station, you skid again on the wet ground, barely keeping your balance again.

You spot your train up ahead. Its doors are just beginning to close.

No! With a start, you head for the train anyways, thinking by some miracle you'll make it.

You cannot be late — you can't- because if you are, it'll ruin the whole day and you'll have to wait til you're all the way back home again to get settled and—and—and—

Someone sees you coming and holds the door.

There's a burst of relief as you manage to slip through the train doors, which slide shut with a heavy bang! the moment they're released. You flinch at the noise, still trying to catch your breath.

This day is miserable, you decide.

The train begins to roll along. You remember abruptly you should thanking whoever saved you from being much later than you could've been.

You turn your head, then have to tilt it up to see his face.

The person who held the door is a very polite looking, very tall man, dressed in office attire. He's wearing a nice winter coat, same colour as his hair - and thick-rimmed spectacles. His lanyard flashes a Daily Planet Press badge.

You swallow. Okay, sure, your subway saviour is the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen. No big deal.

"Hi." You find your voice, still breathing heavily. "Thank you. Sorry."

The man smiles —holy fuck— then clears his throat, nodding his head somewhat awkwardly.

"You're welcome." He says and you suddenly can't tell if the wobbliness in your knees is from the train or his voice. "Definitely been me on the other side of those doors before."

He smiles at you so genuinely that it makes you feel even more off kilter. You find it surprisingly easy to smile back.

The train rattles along the tracks, curving around a corner, and you realise you should probably hold on to something. You grab the nearest pole, conveniently bringing you closer to the man.

Now that you have a moment, turbulent waters settling for the duration of your journey, sensations start prickling again.

The sweat on your collarbones, cooling while you still feel overheated beneath your thick coat. Your hair, lightly plastered to the back of your neck. The tag.

One hand still on the pole, you reach back and pinch at your shirt collar, shuffling it about to try find some relief. The tag scratches along your skin and you squirm uncomfortably.

Do you have scissors with you? You'll cut it off right here, right now, if you can.

The train car you're in rocks to a rumbling stop at the next station. The doors open and a few more people file in, inadvertently pushing you closer to the handsome stranger who helped you earlier.

Your eyes catch — he smiles again and your face burns.

The tag distracts you from his closeness. Waiting til the train steadies out again, departed from the latest station, you release the pole. You shift your bag forward, off your shoulder, and your hand dives in.

If you have scissors with you, they'll like be in mini sewing kit you keep with you. You hunt around blindly. The tag itches still.

Your other hand deviates from holding your bag open, moving to grab at the back of your shirt.

It's not effective, both hands occupied as the train sways, and something pinches tight in your throat. You're getting wound tighter and tighter.

"Are you alright?"

Your head jerks up. It's the handsome stranger. He's watching you, your arms contorted and a crease in your brow, with an expression of polite concern.

"I-" You begin. He likely doesn't actually want to know — people say things to be polite without meaning them all the time, you've found.

Despite it, the awfulness of your morning leaves you with no energy to pretend. Or lie.

You sigh, "I have a tag. On my shirt. I forgot to cut it off before I left the house."

It's a relief when your fingers close around the familiar shape of your sewing kit, square with rounded corners. You retrieve it quickly, releasing the collar of your shirt to pop it open.

The train judders suddenly and you get shoved forward as the car passes over uneven tracks. You just clasp the pole in time to keep yourself from tasting the grime of the subway floor.

The man grabs the pole too, an inch between your hands, and you find yourself meeting his gaze again.

He smiles crookedly, "Would you like some help?"

It takes a beat to realise what he means. His gaze darts down to the sewing kit still clutched in your hand - and when you can't move your tongue, he gestures somewhat awkwardly to the collar of your shirt.

"The tag, I mean," He stammers. "It would be difficult—not that I don't think you could- it's, uh, the angle, I suppose, that would… make it hard."

He nods firmly after, as if it reinforces his point.

You blink at him - and can see your perturbed expression in the reflection of his glasses.

"Um, yeah, yes," You finally find your words.

It's unlike you at all to be so completely struck by a random stranger— crushes tend to be few and far between for you.

Yet, this man, his kindness and his awkward boyishness, is definitely doing something to you. Making you extra foolish. As if your morning needs to get much worse.

You undo the latch on the kit in your hands and fish out the scissors, silver glinting beneath the subway lights. They're travel-sized. If you think they look little in your hands, it's nothing compared to his.

You hand them over and then, with an awkward pause, turn away slightly.

One hand still clutching the pole tight, your fingers leaf under the fabric of your collar, then the tag. It forces a shiver out of you as you turn it out.

"Okay, um, I'm gonna have to, just-" The warmth of his hand hovers over your neck, but he doesn't touch you. His fingers stay solely on the fabric.

The train pulls into another station, whirring to a stop. The doors glide open with a hiss.

People filter in in both directions. You're jostled a bit closer to the pole you're holding and your face burns when the man holds his arm up on the other side, almost around your shoulder, a guard against the moving crowd.

"Sorry," He says. "I'm gonna wait til we're moving again."

You nod, then realise you're holding your breath.

The doors shudder, then slip back together, and the train is moving on again. Your eyes seek out the rotating sign announcing the stops, mentally tallying how many left before yours.

Another four stops. You have time.

"Okay, hold still."

The arm braced around you retracts and the warmth returns to your neck. The fabric of your shirt tightens as he angles it just right, every graze felt across your skin like pinpricks.

You hold your breath. An overwhelming awareness shudders down your spine at the closeness you're sharing with this stranger.

Then—fwiiip. With one slow, precise snip, the tag is freed.

"All done." He says, and you peer over your shoulder to find him smiling. He's holding the villain of your morning between his fingers up like a prize.

You sag in relief and smooth down your collar. It's surprisingly a neat slice, the tag lying down flat — flatter than you would've managed on your own. Not without wrangling your shirt off which — well, even you can tell that's not appropriate.

There's less space between the stations now, as you get closer to the central business district. The train stops more frequently, with more people getting off than getting on.

"Thank you," You say, turning to face him properly. "Very much. It was making my morning bad."

The man frowns a bit at that, handing your scissors back. You tuck them into the kit and drop it into your bag, jostled again by the uneven tracks.

Your hands clutch the pole and your bag equally tight, looking back up at the man.

He's looking you, the tag still in his grasp. His lips part—but whatever he's going to say is lost as another subway speeds by in the opposite direction.

Wind howls loudly, a tunnelled vortex of air. You cringe at the volume.

Around you, the subway car rocks a bit wildly again, forcing you both to correct your stances to stay on balance. The tag disappears as he grips the pole with both hands. Your own hand sweats from holding the pole so tight.

Another shared look.

Oddly, the thought that crosses your mind next is a wish to have met this kind stranger under other circumstances.

Late, frazzled, losing your balance on public transport — it's not exactly your best foot forward.

Which is a strange thought to be having, considering you're three weeks since the breakup.

According to the internet, you should be drowning in tears at the moment. Maybe this is the rebound people talk about?

You glance up at the stranger, your eyes meet, and you both look away. You might not be imagining the smile you share.

The next station arrives. The man looks up as the train rolls to gradual stop, then his lips purse.

"Well, I hope it can be a good morning now. This is where I get off."

You look up at his voice and he's smiling at you again, genuine. It's a gorgeous smile. You nod, mouth a little dry. Unwittingly, you glance up and check which station you're pulling up to.

Your brows knit together. 17th St station? You remember his badge, glance down to double check. It still reads the same — The Daily Planet.

Which is crazy, because you could've sworn that the Daily Planet was at least a few blocks back, best reached through 12th St station. You haven't actually gone there, but you've studied the subway map before.

The doors open with a hiss. The man gives an awkward wave, paired with a bob of his head, and you take a beat before you realise it's directed at you.

Waving back, you begin to ponder the possibility that this complete stranger missed his stop just to help you.

You frown to yourself. No, that would be preposterous.

The train departs, dragging the platform out of your line of vision with a slowly increasing speed. Subtle as you can, you watch him through the grubby windows of the subway and subtly press two fingers to your wrist. Heartbeat steady—but a little jumpier than usual.

Huh.

The lights overhead flicker once and you have to grab the pole again to keep yourself steady.

Idly, you realise he still has the tag of your shirt.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

On a different day, on a different week, you find out his name is Clark.

It's a Friday evening and your shift at the library let out 10 minutes ago. You've hesitantly joined the swathes of people rushing across Metropolis, heading every which way. Car horns chorus across the cityscape. Every place in the crowd is incredibly loud.

This is why you like Friday's the least.

Your shift ends at 5 - not staggered earlier or later like other days - and that's when the city is the busiest.

Still, if you can make it home, the weekend awaits you. Sweet, blissful alone time. Maybe you'll even splurge and treat yourself to some nice sourdough for tomorrow's breakfast.

A puddle splashes below your foot, evidence of winter's thaw setting in. You pass through it and try hard not to wonder if your sock got wet, holding your bag tightly.

It's only about two blocks from your work to the subway station.

Approximately 7 minutes walk, if you're not held up. You know because you've timed it before.

It's a bit of a hazard to walk with headphones on, but, to you, it's one of the more bearable ways to get through busy crowds.

You're aware though, ducking and twisting, avoiding the crush of bodies. Your teeth clench tightly. You're definitely more aware than some people.

A shoulder bashes into yours, some self-important douchebag pushing through the crowd like he's the only one with somewhere to be.

The push knocks you off balance momentarily. You stumble back into someone, throat thickening in discomfort, and wish you were smaller than you are.

"Woah, easy there," The person you've hit into says, hands pressing you back upright. Your skin prickles, but even so, you turn to thank them — them blink in surprise.

It's Lois Lane.

"Oh," You can see the familiarity peak on your face at the same time. Her polite concern melts into something closer to delight - which is a surprise to you. "y/n! Hi!"

Glancing around to make sure you're not in the line of fire for any other assholes, you smile back.

After a moment, you remember that people think it's rude to keep your headphones on when they talk to you. You push one side off your ear, scrunching your hair up slightly, "Hi, Lois."

Lois Lane is one of those people who you knew would do great things from the moment you met her.

There's just a certain star quality she exudes. She's tough as nails. Takes no excuses or prisoners in her search for the truth. If you cut her, she'd probably bleed journalistic integrity.

She also used to live right across the hall from you in college.

At one point, you'd have called you two friends. Now, a couple years on, you're not sure if that still applies.

"Oh my God, how have you been?" She says, perfectly comfortable having a conversation out on the busy street. You, meanwhile, shift on your feet. "Man, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"

You're not sure if she's actually asking, but you know the answer anyway.

"Three years and 4 months since we graduated."

Lois' smile widens at that, like your response has tickled her in some way. Her blue eyes dance over you, then out across the rushing street, before focuses back on you.

"Hey, you know I'm actually on my way to some drinks with my co-workers. I'd love to catch up though."

Surprise twinges in you. She does? That makes you feel a little lighter - maybe you and Lois were better friends than you can recall.

You tell her honestly, "That sounds nice."

She lights up. "So you'll come?"

It takes another moment to comprehend that she's invited you along to her drinks. Just now. To catch up. But also with her co-workers? Your brows knit together, lips pursing.

"Right now?" You question. "With your co-workers?"

The pushed back headphone is slipping forward slightly. Lois nods, grinning, and making you feel like it's impossible to say no to. Mentally, you calculate if you go for a bit, you should still have time to pick up some sourdough before you go home.

"Okay." You push your headphones off altogether.

"Okay?" Lois repeats, perking up at your response. "Awesome. We're all meeting at this little bar on 15th, Crowley's. You heard of it?"

She talks the whole walk to Crowley's. You inform that, no, you've never heard of Crowley's because most of the time you've spent at bars has been at The Last Resort.

She comments that you must like it if you frequent it so much - to which you shrug, because maybe that's true.

You're not sure of that, just that— "It's Darren's favourite."

Lois' brows draw together, her lips quirked into a smile. "Darren, huh? Who's that?"

"My ex-boyfriend."

The smile on her face disappears so quickly you can feel the misstep you've taken. You hate when that happens.

Though, you're not quite sure why Lois suddenly looks like she's trodden on a kitten. She's not the one with the break-up.

"Oh," Lois says. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it fresh?"

"Approximately five weeks." You respond with another shrug.

You hope she won't ask you how you're feeling about it, because you haven't really thought about it. Well, no, that's not true.

You've spent a lot of time thinking about how you should be feeling about it. Despair, anguish, heartbreak. That's what the internet says at least. Maybe because you don't feel any of that, it's a sign it was the right decision.

Or perhaps it's a sign it was the wrong one.

You've resolved to just not really think about it.

Lois slows to a halt and just up ahead, you can see the neon sign at the top of some basement stairs, announcing it as Crowley's to the world. It's a dive bar then.

You glance at Lois. She's looking at you, eyebrows pinched, looking like she might ask you something. You know her thinking face well.

But in the end, she doesn't. She nods and continues on. With one hand on the railing, she takes the stairs to Crowley's carefully and you follow suit.

Crowley's is much nicer than The Last Resort.

You look around as you pass through the doorway, the room widening out to a nice, comfy place. The lighting is low, dimmed and soft. It's not too loud.

Up the front, there's high tables with stools, occupied by the beer drinkers who are fixated on television. You glance to see if you recognise the game. It's the Meteors.

Further back, short, squat tables sit closer to the bar, accompanied by green armchairs. They house what looks to be a fair few couples.

And in the back, where Lois is heading, booths, with maroon velvet coverings, wrap around round tables.

"Alright, from left to right. Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark," Lois rattles off, gesturing to the middle booth which is, indeed, already housing five people in various amounts of office attire.

Your eyes follow as Lois talks and you feel a jolt as you reach her final co-worker, sitting squished in like he’s trying to make himself take up less space.

It's the handsome stranger.

What had she said his name was? Clark.

You roll it over in your mouth, whispering it quietly to yourself. After a moment, you decide it's aptly fitting for him. It strokes a different familiarity in you that you can't place.

Looking at him now, in much the same attire as when you met him, you don't even need to feel your pulse point to feel your heart jump.

Which… feels concerning. You think?

You just hadn't expected you would see him again.

Though, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t hoped you would.

Some days, you'd peered through the crowd of the subway car, wondering if he'd be there, head a little taller than others.

But you also hadn't been that late since that day you saw him — and so despite your attempts, you hadn't seen him either.

So, maybe, he's lingered in your thoughts. So, what?

There was no harm done if you had entertained the thought of what you might do if you saw him again.

You'd smile first. Maybe wave first. Really bold stuff - for you, at least.

It hadn't been properly thought out - mainly because it quickly became an easy daydream, far from reality. Though, as you and Lois approach the table, you realise rapidly that that reality is coming true.

"Hey guys," Lois begins. "I ran into an old friend. Hope you don't mind the extra company."

The group looks up at Lois' arrival, murmurs of welcome. You try not to feel like a butterfly pinned beneath all their gazes, grappling with making sure you look around with a smile, but not linger too long.

Even so, it feels impossible for you to not watch the expression change on Clark's face when he realises who you are.

His brows draw up in surprise, a smile tugging at his mouth. He sits up a bit straighter. That's good. At least, you think that's good. He remembers you at least.

"Alright, I'm fixing myself a drink," Lois sheds her coat as she speaks, tossing it on the free space beside Ron. "Everyone play nice."

She narrows her eyes sternly at her friends, but there's a smile that tells you she's kidding. She turns to you.

"You want anything? On me."

You flounder at being put on the spot. "Oh. Um. A ginger-ale, please?"

Lois smiles and nods, which untucks some of her hair behind her ear. "Just like college. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"

You nod, murmuring, "Okay," and watch her weave back to the bar like a woman on a mission. Then you're standing by the booth alone.

You turn back to the table, uneasiness fringing your nerves. Hands shifting, you take your pulse to keep yourself steady.

"Would you like to sit?"

It's Clark who's spoken. He's looking up at you, smiling, and he's scooched over on the seat to give you a bit more space. You realise you get another chance to see those dimples up close.

You sit, but don't take off your coat.

"Hi." You say.

"Hi," He says. The heat of his thigh warms your own, nearly touching beneath the table. "What are the chances, huh? I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Probably pretty low," you say, sandwiching your hands between your legs so they can't do anything stupid. "I mean, Metropolis' population is rather large. Though, it was much more likely I'd see you again on the subway."

"Wait, again?"

A blonde woman, Cat, you think, cuts in. She's wearing a nice, tight-fitting dress and glasses you'd never be able to pull off the way she does.

Her manicured finger flits between you and Clark. "You two have met before?"

Clark nods, that same awkward head bob he did when getting off the subway. "Uh, yeah, briefly. On the subway."

"He helped me cut the tag off my shirt." You tell them - and unwittingly, feel the burn in your face creep up.

Are you ill? You don't feel feverish. It worsens when Clark's knee bumps you as he adjusts on the seat. You both share a glance, gazes darting away quickly.

Cat grins at your words, while the table laughs good-naturedly. Jim — Jimmy? — nudges Clark with his elbow.

"That's the most Clark thing I've ever heard of." He says, while you observe a pinkness crawl up Clark's throat. He doesn't seem to do well under the attention, which you have in common. "The everyday superhero."

"That's hardly hero stuff," Clark mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. You'd argue against that—it very much saved your day.

Instead, you say to Cat, "I like your glasses."

"Oh, now you've done it," Steve jokes as Cat perks up, almost bouncing in her seat. She beams at you, radiant and evidently very pleased.

"That is so nice of you to say—" She says, then rolls into a speech about where exactly she got them, how much they were, how they had been apart of a new collection line, aiming to bring back more vintage style pieces. She only stops when she's interrupted by Lois' return.

"One ginger-ale." Lois says, sliding it across the table to you. It's in a high ball glass with a plastic straw, and the ice-cubes clink as it settles before you.

"Thank you." You take a sip.

"Not a drinker?"

It's Clark who's asked, his voice dropped a little lower, the rest of the table conversing between themselves. He's hunched over, elbows resting on the table edge, but his face is angled toward you.

You look at him and blink. You don't understand why he's asked. His lips twitch, almost a smile.

When you don't respond, he doesn't move his hand — just extends one finger — to point at your ginger-ale.

"Oh!" You catch on. "Yes. Or- no, I mean, only sometimes. I wasn't expecting to come out tonight. I'm already worried about saying the wrong thing."

For some reason, that makes Clark laugh, soft and quiet. This sound of it has something singing under your skin, making your face burn.

Does your ginger-ale have liquor in it after all? It would explain why you feel so light-headed all of a sudden.

"I wouldn't worry about that," Clark says, voice all smooth with assurance. "I think you're doing a wonderful job so far."

"You think so?"

"I really do."

His genuineness threatens to make a fool of you. Suddenly, you don't know what to do with your face, because you can feel your smile growing and it feels a bit maniacal.

It doesn't help that he's looking at you so intently, it's hard to maintain eye contact. Gosh, he's got blue eyes. The heat in your face doubles, then triples.

You take another sip of your ginger-ale for something to do - and also desperately hope it will cool you off.

"How long have you worked with Lois?" You hum the question, straw still resting between your lips.

"I've been at the Planet for, say, just over a year?" Clark says. "Give or take. What about yourself—how do you know Lois?"

Thinking back to the first few weeks of college brings back memories, equally fond as they not-missed.

You strongly remember the smell of your dorm carpet. Your roommate, who consumed copious amounts of ramen. The girl across the hall, who had a purple toaster, and didn't mind letting you use it.

"College. She lived across the hall in my dorm and would let me use her toaster."

Clark smiles, stealing a glimpse across the table at his co-worker. "That's nice of her. We're the same, I suppose. Except, she's across the bullpen, not the hall. And she doesn't share her sources, just steals all the coffee."

"So, not the same at all?" You query, brows pulled together.

You're not aiming to be funny but Clark laughs, showing you a flash of teeth, and you find you don't mind at all. "Okay, you got me there." He says warmly.

It strikes you then, the thought that Clark is both very nice and very easy to talk to.

And to look at, if you're being honest with yourself. He has a strong jawline, dark lashes. The dimples he gets when he smiles beg to be kissed.

It's a shame that you've already had your schtick with love—and come out thoroughly unimpressed. With the two interactions you had, you can't help but imagine that Clark Kent is the kind of person who could be very easy to love.

You swallow heavily at the thought.

You don't want to consider if you are that kind of person too - given, you think you know Darren's answer at least.

You remember you should keep asking questions. "Are you a reporter?"

Clark nods, lips pressed together. "Mhm, that I am. You keep up with the news?"

When you have meta-humans running around the globe, it's generally a good idea to. Plus, you enjoy the little Superman scoops from time to time.

“I do my best.” You shrug, your coat collar shifting against your neck. "Will I have read anything of yours?"

A bashfulness crosses Clark's face and he scratches his neck again. "Maybe. I occasionally get interviews with Superman, which you might have read."

The familiarity from earlier snaps into place. His name - printed on the byline of the Daily Planet's front page, that you've read at least a dozen times. He's the guy who gets all the Superman exclusives.

"Oh, I know those!" You exclaim. "Yes, I've read them. You're really good. In the most recent one, I really appreciated the use of the word clandestine. It's a great word. I once did a crossword where that was the main clue and I've liked it since then."

At Jimmy's motion in your peripheral, his head turning to your conversation, do you realise how loud you've accidentally become.

You shrink back a bit, a hot embarrassment spilling in your chest. You hadn't meant to.

Clark, thankfully, appears undeterred. Actually, if anything, he seems quite flattered by your comment on his word choice, his face splitting into a grin.

"Yeah? I, uh, I haven't had that compliment before. Thank you. I agree completely as well, it's a fantastic word."

You glow hotly at his response - then nod, taking another sip of ginger-ale to try swallow down some of your embarrassment.

The conversation flows back to the table when Lois taps your ankle beneath the table, hooking you into an overdue catch up. She does most of the talking and you listen dutifully, slowly emptying your glass.

Time wanes with ease; so much, that it's much later than you had intended to leave when you check your phone some time later.

You blink at it in surprise. Clearly, your idea of a quick catch-up had melted away into a slower conversation.

But, for once, you're pleasantly surprised by the change in routine. You like Lois' friends.

Okay, you hadn't exactly talked to the others all that much - just a few words back and forth across the table. It had been more you watching them toss jokes around about Daily Planet's work-life. They all seem nice enough.

What you mean is, you like Clark.

He's really good at keeping you in the conversation. When the conversation veers to a topic unknown to you, he drops little tidbits of information in your ear.

The name Perry comes out, and Clark whispers how it's their boss; 'The Stakeout' gets mentioned, and he murmurs about how a 2-hour stint accidentally became a 20-hour one; Jimmy jokingly warns Cat against another marg, and Clark tells you, grinning all the while, of the last Christmas staff party.

It's nice. He doesn't leave you wondering — doesn't even wait for you to ask. You haven't really had that before.

You steal a glimpse when you think he's not looking.

Between the tag on the subway and this, you're beginning to think he might be the nicest person you've ever met.

Still, the clock reads closer to 9pm than you'd like.

The bakery you thought you might be able to dip into after this, for tomorrow's breakfast, will be long shut. Frustration singes at the thought.

Tomorrow, however, is a Saturday. There was already an idea to go to the Farmer's market, penned in your notebook, but now you'll have to go.

Saying goodbye to a big group that you only sort of know is awkward. You slurp on your straw to announce it quietly, then shift about for a moment, before you stand.

"I have to go now."

The group turns at your words. Polite goodbyes come from Ron and Cat, waves exchanged in your direction from Jimmy and Steve.

"Oh," Clark says, blinking up at you from behind his glasses. He presses them up his nose. "That's— would you, uh, like some company? I'd be more than happy to walk you."

Something electric zings down your spine. Your face burns again at his offer.

It tempts you. Walking home with Clark does sound a dream, but if you're being honest, you're all talked out for the evening. You can feel the social fatigue setting in, feel the urge to hide beneath your headphones again.

Your walk home will be in silence, fast-paced. You don't think Clark will enjoy several blocks of complete quietness between you.

You shake your head, "No. Thank you."

Maybe you're imagining things, but you can almost convince yourself he looks a bit downtrodden at your response. You bite down the urge to over-explain yourself — it rarely helps.

Turning, you make a point to wave specifically to Lois, a smile on your lips.

You say, "Thank you for inviting me. I had a good time."

"Of course," Lois grins at you over her beer. "I'm glad we could catch up. It was really nice to see you. Though, I have a feeling I might be seeing more of you soon."

Her eyes flit across the table, but if you're supposed to catch on to something, it's lost on you.

You frown, looking around the table again — nothings different, except Clark's ears a little pinker than a second ago.

Maybe she means you'll run into each other more now you know where she frequents. You cast a glance around at Crowley's and try to imagine coming here alone. It's not implausible.

"Okay, then." You nod, the motion a bit awkward, and tuck your hands away in your pockets. "Bye."

Another chorus of farewells from the table - a wave from Clark specifically. You wave without removing your hands from your pocket.

Tracing your steps back up to the streets, you have to blink to adjust to how dark it's become, night trickling into the city. The streetlights have come on and they cast pale puddles of light across the roads. The city hums with life.

Fishing around, you retrieve your headphones and slip them on. The world dims, just a bit. Manageable now.

You huff a breath, readying yourself for the journey home. Tiredness has crept into your skin - but at the same time, you're rejuvenated in another sense. One you couldn't explain it if you tried.

As you cross the street, heading for the subway station, it reminds you Clark. The tag. The careful gentleness of his fingers, inches from your neck.

You wonder if, back at the bar, you should've looked back.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Metropolis sports several markets that spring up, like weeds between concrete, on an early Saturday morning.

It's quite a transformation. Mullen's Square, the one closest to you, is generally void of any sort of gatherings during the week. Some workers wander out to eat their lunch, but the square has less greenery than others nearby.

It's nice, still. You like to wander through it on your way home, if you want to walk a little longer, that is.

The Saturday market is technically called a farmer's market—though how many genuine farmers it houses, you're not sure. By 7am, stalls pop up through the square, cobalt tarpaulins strung up that catch the wind and keep off the sun.

The east side is dedicated to the smaller treats.

There's little coffee carts parked, a green Jitter's one among them. Stores offering trinkets and handmade gifts, decorated with bright signs. The smell of sizzling breakfast drifts through the square.

The west is where the produce is.

Rows and rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, piled high enough to make you nervous you'll send them tumbling with a single knock. It's a sea of colour, bright reds and deep greens. It's also where you're heading first today.

The stone scuffs underfoot as you cross into Mullen's square.

You grip the bag of reusable bags stowed on your shoulder, which is filled with only more reusable bags— an eco-friendly Russian-doll of bags, you might say.

This particular Saturday is overcast, which keeps the morning chill close. It won't linger, you hope, as the clouds appear to be clearing out. It's not a bad bet to assume it'll be bright and sunny by the end of the hour.

You're too busy watching your feet that you nearly miss the bakery stand — your actual first stop, you now remember.

You have to halt, then do an awkward little turn around, to end up in front of it.

The worst part of markets is that every stall holder is the most extroverted, talkative person to grace the land. Small-talk is not your forte — and neither is heckling the prices.

Leo, the owner of aforementioned bakery, has thankfully come to know you as a regular - and your quietness is expected. He greets you with a nod, smelling of freshly baked goods, and begins to bag up a loaf of sourdough without a word spoken.

You like Leo. He rewards your loyalty with a slight discount, which is never unappreciated.

The warmth of the bread presses into your side, packed away safely, you head into the first row of vegetables.

You pass artichokes, celery, and swedes. You have a list of ingredients you need, penned in your notebook, but it's mostly staples. Your eyes hunt for the potatoes to begin with — and instead, catch on a taller figure in the crowd.

It's impossible to miss him, given how he's a head taller than most of the crowd. A nervous anticipation prickles across your spine.

Maybe it's not him. Statistically, it's unlikely you'll have run into him again and so soon. Did you mention your plans for the farmer's market last night aloud?

You squint at him, trying to figure out if it's just wishful thinking.

But, no. It's definitely Clark.

He's wearing a pair of blue-wash jeans and an unbuttoned red flannel, the sleeves rolled up. Beneath it, his t-shirt reads Smallville Athletics. It's a touch on the tight fitting side.

His hair is a little messier this morning and he has his glasses on, slightly down from the bridge of his nose. He's holding something in one hand.

You wander a little closer and your eyes catch on what it is, his fingers closed around a handle. When you see what it’s attached to, a surprised delight radiates in your chest.

He has a wagon, small and red, trailing behind him.

He must tow it behind him to carry his things, because you can spot a variety of food already stashed in it.

He's talking to a vendor with an easy smile, the two chatting politely, before Clark gestures to a pile of oranges, a couple crates over. He nods a goodbye to the vendor and walks the few steps, pulling the wagon with him.

Then, he starts examining the fruit, picking the oranges up one by one.

You take a step — then judder to a halt. Can you just go up and say hi? That sounds almost absurd.

Clark hasn't seen you yet - you could turn and disappear into the east side of the market and he'd be none the wiser. You want to say hi though. You want to talk to him again.

But you're not friends. You've just met him twice, both times by accident.

And that's all it's taken for you think he's the nicest guy in all of Metropolis — and that's left you wondering if you're allowed to think that so soon after Darren.

5 weeks and 6 days since the breakup. But you never thought Darren was the nicest guy in the city—he probably wasn't even the nicest guy on his apartment floor.

You decide after a long moment, staring hard at a pile of tomatoes, that saying hello is the perfectly friendly thing to do.

You walk over before you can change your mind.

"Hi."

Not recognising your voice, Clark turns with a quirk in his brows, already apologetic. "Oh, sorry, is my wagon-?"

His polite apology quickly melts away as he turns enough to see who you are. He blinks, his glasses slip further down his nose, and then the orange in his hand erupts as it's squished beneath his super-strength.

"Hi— oh, son of a biscuit," He goes from happy to politely distressed in a moment.

Orange juice streaks down his forearm and Clark quickly unclenches his hand. He stares at the mashed remains of the orange in his hand with a genuine sorrow, as if trying to will it back to its previous form.

When it doesn't work, he turns back to the vendor from before and gestures with the orange weakly. "I will pay for this."

You've never really had someone juice an orange at your arrival before, so it leaves you stuck for what to say.

You bite your cheek, "Guess it was a bad orange?"

Clark laughs at that, a bit breathy, his focus still on where to put the orange. "It's- no. Or maybe. I love Frank's oranges, I couldn't say a bad word against them."

That makes you smile.

He eventually pulls one of the plastic produce bag rolls off the edge of a crate and deposits the fruit pulp inside - then tosses it into his wagon. He looks up at you, his arm still held out and dripping fruit juice.

He smiles, lashes touching in the corners, "Hi. Again. It's," He takes a deep breath, swallows. "It's good to see you."

You think he genuinely means it too. Which is a trip - your pulse ticks up a few beats per minute.

To distract yourself from that, you dig around in your bag for some wipes to give him.

"Here," you say, after peeling back the protective sticker and extracting one. He takes it with that awkward head bob he does.

Clark says, "Thank you," and he smiles again - and you swear it's exactly when the sun comes out.

Suddenly, it feels too warm to be wearing your knit sweater and you're not entirely sure the weather's to blame. You swallow, trying not to focus too intently on his long fingers as he wipes them off.

"I like your wagon."

For some reason, that makes Clark turn a nice pink that matches the peaches.

He's still wiping at his hands and his shoulders hunch up, "Yeah, well, it's my old one and—" He pauses, glancing over your expression. "Oh. You mean it."

You frown, "Of course."

You look down at the wagon and see that in white, flaking paint the name KENT is painted on the side. There's no perfect lines, which means it's probably been hand-painted.

Up close, you can see his haul. A bunch of carrots, strung together with rubber bands, a carton of 24 eggs - which upon further inspection, you realise is 48, as it's doubled stacked - and a variety of leafy greens. Several limes roll around loosely.

Clark catches your gaze and peers at his own wagon, "Gotta have fresh eggs, you know?"

You don't know because eggs, to you, can be the worst food on the planet. Texture, yolk, almost always served some degree of undercooked on purpose.

Still, you nod, because that's the polite thing to do.

"I'm still so used to getting everything fresh back home," says Clark.

He tucks the used wipe into the same bag as the mushed orange. "One of those things that took awhile to adjust to in Metropolis - til I found the markets."

You look at his shirt and put two and two together. "You used to live on a farm?"

"Born and raised." Clark grins. Then, his brows bunch together. "Well, not actually born, but that's a story for a different time. Smallville's home though."

He gestures to his shirt proudly, then pushes his glasses back up. He looks you over, seeing your relatively empty bags.

"You just arrive? Or no big plans to shop around?"

You become aware of how your knees have locked and try to subtly adjust them. A performer starts setting up an amp close by, the scratchiness beamed out through the speaker.

"Both. I came to get—"

There's a squeal from the performer's guitar and you cringe at the volume, eyes closing momentarily. When the noise stops, you relax, "Sorry. I…"

What were you saying? You can't really focus when there's still the scratchy noises feeding out the amp. You look over your shoulder, spy the offender, and wish desperately for her to stop.

A moment later, the noise runs smooth and the volume turns way down. The soft noises of her acoustic guitar begin. You turn back to Clark.

You remember you were in the middle of a sentence, "Sorry. I'm sorry, what was the question?"

Clark smiles, soft, "Don't be sorry. I was asking if you come to the markets often. You look prepared."

He nods to the bags over your shoulder.

"I come sometimes," You say, relieved that he doesn't mind repeating himself. "I'm mainly here for bread because I was supposed to get some after work yesterday."

"Oh," says Clark, but you can't place what tone it is. "Guess we kept you longer than you intended, huh?"

"I would've gone home earlier if I wanted to." You inform. "If that's what you mean."

It might be, given how something relaxes in his body. He stands a little straighter. When he's not hunching over, like he been on the subway, you realise he's more than a fair bit taller than you.

If he wanted to kiss you, he'd definitely have to lean down, your brain supplies unhelpfully.

You pretend to adjust your sleeve just press your fingers to your wrist. As suspected, your heart doesn't seem to be fairing well in Clark's presence. You're nervous — but after some consideration, you decide it's a good kind of nervous.

You watch him survey the crowds of the slowly busying market. He turns to you.

"How would you like some company?" asks Clark. Then, as if remembering your answer last time he asked, he quickly adds, "No pressure to, if you'd rather just—"

Hell if you're not going to seize this opportunity. You cut him off and hope he won't think you too rude.

"I would love the company."

He blinks - then shows off his dimples with a smile, gaze softened and entirely on you. "Alright then."

Together, you walk and you talk.

Clark tells you about Smallville, the small town in Kansas that he hails from.

The farmboy image makes a lot of sense honestly. It explains his broad shoulders and big arms, not the usual physique of an investigative reporter. You try not to sweat at the mental image of him throwing around hay-bales - and quietly fail miserably.

And then the image sweetens nearly unbearably when you hear him talk about his Ma and his Pa, adoration clear in his voice.

You talk about home too, but more about college days with Lois, when you started living independently. He asks about your job. You somehow end up convincing him Leo's Bakery is the best sourdough in the city — though he's rather easily swayed.

When you pass a stall selling fake crystals, which you point out, Clark makes the mistake of asking how you can tell.

It starts you off on a tangent. You get halfway through an explanation, informing him of the formation of cleavage planes in minerals, when you realise you might be doing the thing.

The talk-so-much-you-miss-the-cue-that-tells-you-to-be-quiet thing.

"and when it's glass, it doesn't have those—" You suddenly want to jam your hand in your mouth, it'd be easier to stop talking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm talking a lot, aren't I?"

You shove your hands in your pockets so you don't pick at your fingertips, a bad habit.

Clark smiles, pulling the wagon that he somehow coaxed you to put your stuff in too. He shows no strain of pulling it.

"You are," He agrees, but he says warmly. Like it might be a good thing. "It's wonderful. Please keep going."

You bite your cheek in surprise — but he means it, so you do.

He lets you talk for as long as you like, and when you eventually lapse into quiet, it's surprisingly comfortable.

You've done an okay job at multi-tasking, talking and shopping, with a few more pieces of produce joining the cooled sourdough loaf. But really, you and Clark seem to be walking just to keep each other company.

You're broken out of your thoughts when Clark clears his throat.

He glances down at you, "Do you think there's some reason we keep running into each other?"

"A reason?"

You search your brain for what he might possibly mean. It is rather unlikely that you've run into each other this much, purely by accident. Even you can admit, it is odd.

But plenty of things are odd to you, that seem perfectly natural to other people.

You suppose you've just been putting this in the same box.

"Like," There must be something in his throat, because Clark clears it again. "Fate. Or something like that."

You might say he sounds almost wistful. Maybe if you were someone else, you might be able to tell what that means.

You ask a different question instead. "Do you believe in fate?"

That makes Clark looks at you. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, his blue eyes simply roam your face with a tenderness you're unprepared for. "You know, I think I'm beginning to."

You wish you could figure out why that makes you face burn.

Something pings on your phone, making it vibrate in your pocket. With a polite smile, you pull it out and instead of the notification, your attention goes to the time.

Your brows raise in surprise. It's a good thing you haven't any plans, as you found time has, yet again, run away from you.

You're beginning to suspect it must be a Clark thing.

"Sorry, I've just realised—" You hold up your phone halfheartedly. "The time. Um, I didn't mean to take up so much of yours, that is. I should probably get going."

Clark nods in understanding. A muscle twitches in his jaw, tensed, as he watches you extract your things from his wagon.

You straighten up, things gathered loosely in your hands, and expect it to be the same awkward exchange of waves goodbye.

It isn't. Clark's talking before you take the first step, the words coming out a little breathless,

"Before you go— and- this might be too forward- in which case, you know, that's fine. But, I didn't want to, uh, lose the chance. Seize the day, you know?"

Okay, he's lost you. It must read on your face, because Clark sighs. It doesn't feel directed at you.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks suddenly pinker than peaches this time. They better resemble the red of his wagon.

Clark looks to the sky, mumbling something under his breath you can't hear, then turns to you, set. "I would love to see you again. If- If you'd like. On purpose this time."

You blink.

Well, you weren't expecting that. He wants to see you? On purpose?

You can't help but note how wonderful it is to have someone be so forward with you.

What follows is a tinge of disappointment—he's not asking you out, not like Darren did. He didn't say date.

You're not so presumptuous to think he would think that way about you - the way you've been thinking of him.

Your disappointment is followed by a scornful scoff at yourself — now that you think about it, it's highly unlikely that someone as kind as Clark is without a girlfriend. You're just a fool for not considering it earlier.

"You want to hang out?" You ask, to be sure.

Something crosses Clark's face. After a beat, he swallows, shrugs and says, "Sure. If that's what you want."

It is what you want—to see him again.

Albeit, maybe not quite how you'd like, but beggars can't be choosers.

"I would like that."

Clark smiles — which turns to a grin when he takes your number, scrawled on a tiny scrap of paper torn from your notebook.

You half hope he knows what it means that you've ruined a fresh page for him - and half hope he doesn't.

When you bid each other goodbye, you watch the handsome not-such-a-stranger anymore disappear in the throngs of people, his red wagon towed behind him.

And into the evening after, tempting and wishful, the concept of fate follows you into sleep.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It takes, what Clark thinks is, an embarrassing amount of time to figure where he's gone wrong.

Here's the thing; Clark's a big boy.

He was raised right. He can take a rejection on the chin — can be polite, respectful. He can still keep people as friends, even when his feelings extend a little further.

Given your polite readjustment of Clark's date invitation into just friends territory, the implication very much is that you are not interested in Clark. Not in the way he's interested in you, at least.

And he can respect that, truly. He is a gentleman after all.

Except, the thing is, you don't exactly act that way.

As the two of you settle into a routine of new friends, learning your place in each others lives, on purpose this time, Clark just… notices.

It's the little things — and it takes time to know what you do with him, and what you do with everyone else.

He notices how you're mostly quiet, but also prone to a sudden inspired chatter that increases with volume and excitement in equal measure. Your hands flex, like there's too much energy in you with nowhere to go but out through your fingertips.

You do that around him, but not around everyone.

He notices your lingering gaze. Feels it on his back when he's turned; on his hands; feels it tracing up the side of his face when you think he isn't looking.

You don't do that with anyone else either.

He notices… a lot about you, to be honest.

Probably more than someone who's trying to veer away from romantic notions and stay firmly in the friend zone you've enacted for the pair of you should.

But — your heart is the biggest giveaway.

This thing, he doesn't mean to notice. It's come to feel like spying, if the person isn't aware he's doing it, tuning in his super senses to something a quiet as a heartbeat.

It's not like prying or eavesdropping really, but Ma and Pa raised him to treat it as such.

Your heart though—it reaches out with a siren's call he's helpless to ignore.

Around just the two of you, it wavers from steady to rising. Not fast enough to be panic, but too fast to be calm. Somewhere that sits in between.

Which means, you're nervous around him. The way you check your pulse, in subtle motions but Clark's the observant kind, means that you know it too.

He can only hope it's not the bad sort of nerves. Though, he figures you'd stop inviting him over if it was. You're on the side of too honest sometimes, which grates some—but only endears him evermore.

The combination of all these little things swirl together, forming a sign, that, well, usually Clark would take as mutual interest. You seem interested.

But you had turned him down.

Clark loses sleep, wondering if it's wrong that he still thinks of his friend in this way.

This—this pining way, that seems to be second nature to him now. Imbued in him. Intertwined with him.

Your eyes, your mouth are constant, vivid thoughts, surely meant to drive him mad. Like the place a tooth used to be, one he can't stop running his tongue over.

Sore, aching, yearning for something missing.

Is it wrong? How could it be, when it felt so right. Is it wrong? he asks himself, stealing every sidelong glance at you, greedy for it. Eager for more.

The thought of your kiss—how it would feel to have your lips on his—crosses his mind daily.

There is where the embarrassing part comes in.

Really, in hindsight, all Clark can think is that he should have figured it out sooner. Well, actually, he had figured it out, but connecting the two pieces hadn't even occurred to him.

To put it lightly, you deal with all manner of things very literally.

Double meanings, sarcastic comments, pointed looks; some of them you catch, most of them you don't. When they come up in conversations, you get this little pinch in your eyebrows.

If it's not Clark who's said them, you'll glance wordlessly up at him, like checking if he's understood it either.

He knows you have no idea how much it captivates him.

All this is to say, he should've been able to put two and two together much sooner.

He wishes he had—if only so it all could've been a little more romantic.

But as it goes, the afternoon it unfolds, he's in his kitchen, donned in a striped and too small apron, with a bit of flour in his hair. You look lovely, as always.

Together, you're baking together. Really, Clark's doing most of the work.

He doesn't actually mind, given it's Ma's carrot cake recipe that he's recreating. And also because he likes it when you let him do things for you. It's taken time to figure what you will and won't let him help with.

You're perched on one of the bar stools, elbows to the counter, watching him work. Doing important things, such as beguiling him with a single look. He's softened by your mere closeness.

It's also not helping that you have to look through your eyelashes whenever you make eye contact with him.

(Clark's already crushed one egg by accident already, as a result.)

At current, he's folding the batter, the mixing bowl cradled in his arms. Your attention is waning, given how when he glances up, he sees you fiddling with the cinnamon shaker. You're peeling the label slightly, just for something to fidget with.

He gestures to it with a nod and a smile. "Toss me the cinnamon, will you?"

And you do, literally.

Expectation tells him you'll slide it across the counter. Instead, he has to rapidly drop the spatula with a splat! into the bowl, to catch the incoming cinnamon. It jolts him, the surprise of it.

He stares at it, clutched in his fingers — which he definitely only caught with his enhanced reflexes — and then up at you, wide-eyed.

You blink at him, not understanding his sudden surprise. "You said to toss it!"

Two and two fuse together. Your very literalness and Clark's lack of specific wording.

Had he called it a date, that time at the markets, how ever many weeks ago now? He was so sure he had - or if he hadn't, it was so obviously implied you couldn't possibly misunderstand.

But then again, he didn't know you then. Not like he knows you now.

To you, Clark goes from his normal ease around you, to wide-eyed and straight backed. It looks a little like he's been zapped with something - a lightning rod of realisation.

Then he slowly squints at you for a long moment, mixing bowl still cradled to his bicep. Moving with immense care, he places it slowly down on the counter before him.

His hands follow, palms wrapping around the edge of the counter. He stares hard at the surface for another long, long moment.

His blue eyes flick up to you, through his glasses, searching for something.

"Do you want to go on a date?" He asks, voice low. "With me?"

Which—okay. Something misfires in your brain. It's come out of nowhere—how did cinnamon and carrot cake lead to this?

A date. With you. And him. Together. Romantically.

Hidden behind your ribs, you feel your treacherous heart begin to race. You feel that stupid burn in your face you always get around Clark flare up.

Why is he asking now? What changed?

You wonder if he's just figured you out. If he can suddenly see some manifestation of your quiet, pathetic longing.

Have you been that obvious? You wonder if it's pity.

Then you swallow the thought away.

Clark wouldn't.

You realise you haven't answered. Despite how you desperately want to, you're not brave enough to meet his gaze. If you do, you'll never get to the words out.

"Yes. I would like that."

Clark sucks in a sharp breath. Your eyes dart up, looking at him through your lashes with a quiet disbelief and he's smiling. Grinning, like what you've just said is the best news of his life.

You should pinch your arm. Perhaps you've fallen asleep at the counter, watching him fold the batter.

"Great," Clark says breathily.

He's looking at you in a way that's, not different per say, but simply less… reserved. There's an ardent fondness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

Or maybe it was. Maybe you're the one who hasn't been paying close enough attention.

"Great." You echo.

Have you two just agreed to something? Your throat clicks with how dry it is. You're still a little unsure how you've ended up here.

A beat passes.

The understanding of what he's asking—as in, had actually just asked you out—wallops into you.

"I didn't realise you—" You say loudly, then bite your tongue. "I- I mean, I thought- or didn't rather, think you, like, would think like that. Not about me."

Clark's lips press together, like he's holding back from an even wilder grin. Like he's finally solved a puzzle he's been tinkering at for months now—and the final product is much, much better than expected.

He picks up his hands, dusts off the flour, and begins to work open the knot on the back of the apron.

"What are the chances you'll believe me if I say I'll felt that way from the start?"

"Low." You reply honestly, watching him as he dumps the apron on the counter beside the mixing bowl. You wonder what he means by the start.

"At the bar?"

Clark does laugh this time, like you've said something delightfully funny.

He walks backward to the door, eyes still on you, til he reaches the coat stand. You watch, puzzled, as he pilfers through the pocket of his coat and produces his wallet.

"Let me prove it," He says, gesturing with his wallet.

He crosses the space, this time rounding the counter to stand beside you. Still sitting, you have to crane your neck to look up at him - but his head is bowed, focused on something in his wallet.

You haven't a clue what he's looking for until —

—there, between his fingers, is a piece of fabric you recognise.

It's… the tag from your shirt.

The one he'd helped snip off for you on the subway, all those months ago.

He'd kept it. In his wallet, carrying it around with him. Knew exactly where to find it, as if he'd retrieved it countless times before.

For an awfully small thing, it represents what feels like an enormous amount of time.

From the start, he said. From the start I've felt this way, it means.

You stare at the tag, bewildered - flummoxed and yet, indescribably like something's melting in your chest, molten hot.

Your hand raises, unbidden, knuckles pressing against your sternum, as though it might help you contain the feeling. It's helpless.

There's no stopping the unbridled, unrestrained happiness which is so real, it feels sharp. Your eyes blur with tears. A choked sounding breath claws its way out of your throat.

You look up at Clark. There aren't words you can find.

To make matters worse, Clark looks afflicted at your reaction — your leg jittering, your hand pressed tight to your chest, your mouth yet to say a word. He has to check, "Are these— these are good tears?"

Your chin trembles, but you're nodding severely. You drag in another ragged breath and consequently make Clark feel like a monster for doing this to you.

"You-" The word quivers a bit around your tears. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry, it's— it's not bad. It's good. It's really good."

You tuck your face away, breaths still coming too fast. Clark gives you the moment you need, wishing you were at equal heights so it wasn't so easy for you to hide from him. But a few deep, slow breaths later, you unfurl from your hiding place.

Fingers wipe your face, clearing the tears, and then you look at his hands. Your face is dewy from tears, eyelashes clinging together. It's poetry to Clark.

"You kept it," You whisper, eyes fixed on the fabric in his fingers. Your gaze lifts, peering up at him with a tenderness that threatens to unravel Clark entirely.

"I did." He says, matching your quiet tone, immeasurably kind. He's always kind with you.

Your bottom lip takes a tremble and you bite it away, teeth sinking into the flesh.

"I looked for you on the subway. After that day."

You say it like you've been keeping a secret — this hidden want, tucked in your heart and carried around with you.

Clark reckons the two of you aren't that different in this way; it's what he's been doing with this tag, after all. Taking this want around with him, until it chased him into another chance encounter with you.

He rubs his thumb over the swatch. It feels like luck to him.

"That's what you meant about fate," You murmur, realisation staining your tone. You sniffle a little.

Your eyes are back on the tag, but this time, you reach out to feel it too. Clark lets you. In the middle, your fingertips catch.

Funny how an object you so detested comes back to you, loved in another form.

You ask, "Is that why you kept it? Fate?"

There's an eyelash on your cheekbone, freed by your tears. Clark thinks has all the wishes he needs, right here in front of him.

Fingertips to yours, he draws your hand closer to him, into his chest. Lets the line of your body lead the way, bringing your faces closer as he bends to reach you.

The air smells of cinnamon and the sweetness of finally, finally getting what you want.

"It was a working theory," He murmurs — and feels the tremble in your mouth when he kisses you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

HUGE thank you to @strangerstilinski for helping me at every roadblock this thru one <3 and to @citrinesparkles for boatloads of validation to help me push thru :D

otherwise moots / people who asked to be tagged for the first part, i figured you may want to read this one too! as always, no pressure :)

@spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand

[urmineurmineurmineurmine]

The Fallen Is Falling

Summary: What hurts more? Your heart or your ego? You'll find out whether you want to or not, as they all gravitate towards MC.

Pairings: LADS Love Interests x Non!MC.

Warnings: Angst with the ending not yet decided as of now.

A/N: Listen. I have nothing against MC. I never see myself as her, just as I never see myself in the MC of other otome games. That being said, I'm so fucking OBSESSED with Non!MC angst that I decided to jump into the train wreck as well. This is gonna be a series but I don't know how far I'm going take this story.

-

They say falling in love is easy.

Falling out of love? Even easier.

And afterwards?

The answer comes to you quicker than love ever did.

Linkon City is not only technologically advanced, it's also vast. More than a thousand people make their lives here. With that in mind, 'coincidences' should be impossible right?

"...Are you going to buy that last red bean bun?"

Wrong.

You ignore the owner of the voice in favour of wrapping up your purchase and yes, the bun included. The cashier beams when you softly thanked her and only then did you turn around.

Today, the bakery - the one that your heart claimed as a favourite because of their raisin breads and cheesecake - is in a sleepy dull due to the early morning rays. It won't be long before the rest of city is awaken. And yet, when you turned around...

Xavier is there, two steps behind you despite having the empty spaces in the shop, dressed as if he had just woken up. He looks even more so, beautiful eyes blinking slowly. Lazily. Almost like a cat. Or a wolf underneath that soft, white hoodie.

"Are you going to do anything about it?" You ask with a raised eyebrow, holding up the plastic bag of baked goods, as if taunting him with it. You're not, though. You just didn't appreciate how close he is. The you from three and a half months ago wouldn't mind, but the you now is currently undergoing some much-needed self-reflection, and your fraying patience is the result.

Xavier didn't pout or scowl. His face doesn't betray any facial tics as he stares at you. His stoicism can give Zayne a run for his money. "I remembered you said that you preferred the raisin breads."

"And do you see any right now?"

His eyebrows furrow, sensing the sharpness laced underneath your tone, but before he could reply, the cashier helpfully chimes in from behind the counter. "Sir? Did you want the red bean bun too? If you could just wait for a few more minutes, we'll have a fresh batch out for you soon!"

And then, just as you expected, another impossible 'coincidence' manifested itself in the form of a bell tinkling.

"I knew it was you guys! And to think I almost missed this street just now."

MC, dressed in a simple workout attire but still effortlessly beautiful, closed the shop's door behind her. Xavier's lips immediately tug into a small smile as she approaches the two of you.

"Good morning. Were you out for a jog?"

"Woke up earlier than usual today. The weather seems nice for a change. If I knew you were up, I would've invited you, Xavier and you too."

Something... indescribable flashes over Xavier. You're surprised that his eyes darted towards yours for a split second. Usually, you might as well cosplay as a ghost with how intense his attention is on MC. Nothing else matters but her.

You've added that little titbit into your ever-expanding file of self-reflection.

"I'll be sure to text you next time, MC." Xavier promises her.

You didn't fidget, but you're wondering why you're still in the bakery. You got what you wanted - a treat in the hope of sweetening your already soured day. Was it because of societal expectations that prevented you from being rude? Not really. Why should you care about propriety against people who are ignoring you in favour of their clearly animated conversation? Perhaps you're a masochist?

...Well. That's going into the file as well.

"Oh! Do you want to join us for breakfast?" MC suddenly turns to you when she notices that you're leaving. "I feel like we didn't get to know you much since you're our new neighbour. Even if you live next to our apartment." When you didn't reply, some of that bubbly cheer dims into hesitation. Xavier wastes no time glaring at you. "S-Sorry, was that too forward? I just thought it would be fun since I always see you and Xavier hanging out at that diner in the corner."

You exit the bakery without acknowledging MC's offer or Xavier's silent displeasure. Ignoring the twisted knots in your heart as you made a beeline straight home, knowing that no more unpleasant surprises were waiting for you now that you know where MC is.

Because while you don't believe in coincidences, you do believe in patterns, and they take the shape of MC.

When you first moved into your brand new home, when Linkon City was an unfamiliar-familiar scene to you, you met Xavier while eating outside. Too lazy to cook despite having done grocery shopping the day before. Small yet pleasant words were exchanged while he was hovering near the rows of barstools, waiting for his food. Both of you kept to yourselves, but every time you meet him on the streets, something more begins to take root. He chuckles at your jokes, especially regarding astronomy, and you find his nonchalant demeanour humorous during that time when a couple broke into a loud argument in the middle of the convenience store.

And then MC returns from her work trip.

Suddenly, she's there whenever you are with Xavier. At first, you brush it off, thinking nothing of it. The three of you live closely after all. Nothing suspicious about that. She introduces herself to you while you're busy drinking in her appearance, noting every little detail. A cocktail of emotions is brewing inside you. The second time she integrated herself was when you and Xavier made plans to visit the bookshop. Her text brought a Wanderers emergency, and she needed backup. Xavier left right away, forgetting to call you, who were waiting for him at the shop for more than thirty minutes.

The patterns soon became a norm.

You didn't bother with Xavier after he ditched you, emergency or not, after the third time.

You're a woman with a healthy amount of self-respect and pride. You didn't mope about a man you're barely acquainted with. Sure, you're annoyed at the constant interruptions via MC and the ghostings, but there's more to this life than some man with a pair of sleepy eyes, no matter the amount of butterflies he puts in your tummy. You'll be alright.

You decided to stay indoors after that scene in the bakery. Content to laze around playing video games and sustaining yourself with nothing but sugar and junk food (it's the weekend. The perfect day to indulge! You can feel guilty on Monday) until the sun dips below the horizon.

The end credits appear after the final cutscene plays out. The final boss is defeated, and the heroes are granted their happy ending. If only life followed the same formula. You stretched your arms and yawned. "Shit, it's that late already?" You mutter, seeing the first stars emerging in the night sky from peeking through the curtains. "Right. Dinner. Maybe something with veggies at least..." You snatch your phone from the couch.

Your thumb swipes away the text notifications from Xavier (and one from MC. Xavier must've given her your number. Without even asking for your permission. You made a mental note to block and delete their numbers later. Right now, you're too busy breathing in and out and counting to a thousand) in favour of the food delivery app.

With your food ordered and on the way, you decided to pretend to be a semi-functional adult who has her life together: You did the laundry, put away the clean dishes into the cupboard, cleaned the house a little, and showered. The scalding hot water that threatens to peel your skin off feels wonderful that by the time you step out of the bathroom and slip into something comfortable for the evening, you feel like a million gold coins.

'Your food has arrived. Please meet with the driver to retrieve your order.'

Just in time, too! Your stomach is already growling.

However, the hunger is replaced with a heavy lead when Xavier is standing outside your house, holding your food hostage.

"Why do you have my food?" You ask flatly.

"The driver had other places to deliver, and it just so happened that I was on my way back to the apartment." He explains. At least he had the decency to look sheepish.

Not like you believe him. The delivery guy could've just left the food at your doorstep. Xavier must've said something to him.

"Uh-huh. Well... thanks." You made a move to snatch it, only for Xavier to step back.

"You haven't been answering my calls." Xavier accused. His expression then morphed into an awkward one. It heckles you. "Please... can we talk for a bit? I know I've been bailing out on our trips lately. I've just been so busy..."

You can't help but wonder if Xavier knows the difference between apologies and excuses. Either way, it's not your problem.

You shrug, copying his nonchalance. "It's cool. It's not like we're friends."

Xavier looks positively stricken now. Eyes wide in surprise and mouth pressed into a hard line. The reaction is a bit over the top in your humble opinion. If it has nothing to do with MC, is he so detached from this world that he doesn't grasp the concept of being mindful of other people's emotions?

...And to think you had a crush on this man. You mentally pat yourself on the back for dodging this white bullet.

This time, you successfully steal your food from a stupefied Xavier and close the door on his face. He can roleplay as a gargoyle outside of your house until he gets bored and goes home. Just as you passed into the kitchen, you didn't even need to glance out of the window to see that the balcony curtain where MC's floor is rustled. As if someone had quickly withdrawn.

Another day, another narrowly avoiding drama here in the big Linkon City.

[followyourfleart]

ᯓ★ To move forward without his love? Impossible...

Your heartbeat.

It had always been loud to him, even when you were asleep, sprawled across his chest like a warm, stubborn cat. Even when you were mad at him. Even when he had been halfway across the city.

But now…it was fading.

Thud.

…thud.

………thud.

Too slow.

Clark’s stomach dropped—a cold, nauseating freefall that wrapped around him. He almost faltered in mid-air as the thing—the towering, jagged-mouthed monster ripping through downtown—bellowed and sent another swarm of skittering minions spilling across the street.

Metropolis screamed. Cars flipped. Glass rained.

He was already moving, faster than air could follow. The monster lunged, a claw slicing open the street like wet paper, but Clark didn’t even blink. He slammed into the creature with enough force to crater the earth beneath them. Bone snapped. Black blood spurted. The thing howled.

Heat vision carved through it in jagged red lines. He tore limb from limb, ripped through the sinewy hide, crushed the core pulsing in its chest. The creature crumbled, a shriveled husk collapsing to ash, but its minions remained. Dozens. Hundreds.

He split them. Blasted them. Ground them into dust.

When the area was finally cleared, he launched upward, straight toward home. To you.

Except…

His home wasn’t there.

The building was a smoking skeleton, the entire structure shaved down to rubble, floors caved in, concrete pulverized. Flames licked the edges of what used to be his balcony. The wind carried embers like dying fireflies.

His body went immediately to work, even though his ears were listening to you. But he couldn't focus. He pulled survivors from the rubble, barking for names, descriptions, anything. He lifted a man pinned under a beam, a crying woman from a collapsed stairwell, a teenager coated in ash…

Then a cry. Small. Trembling.

“Help! Superman!”

Clark’s head snapped toward the sound.

A little boy. He knew him. A little neighbor who had once given Clark cookies because his mom had made too many. Tears streaked through the dust on his face. He kneeled beside a figure half-buried in debris.

Clark’s chest caved in.

The boy looked up at him, desperate, sobbing. “She—she pushed me—she saved me—please help her—please—!”

It was you.

Head turned slightly, hair tangled with dust and blood. A jagged length of rebar speared straight through your abdomen, pinning you to the twisted ruins of a support beam. Blood soaked your shirt, gathering in dark pools beneath you.

Your trembling, scraped-up hand was wrapped weakly around the boy’s. The boy’s mother was by her son's side, holding him close, but her hand covered both his and yours, squeezing hard, voice breaking.

“She saved him—she pulled him out of the way—oh God, she—she didn’t even hesitate—”

Clark barely heard her.

All he did was move to you. Your pulse was faint. So faint. He felt it slipping like sand between fingers.

“Hey. Sweetheart. Look at me. I’m here,” he breathed, leaning in, voice barely holding together.

Your eyelids fluttered, sluggish and heavy. You managed to turn your head an inch.

“…Cla ...Superman…?”

“I’m here,” he repeated, brushing dust and blood from your cheek with the gentlest hand he had ever had. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I promise.”

You swallowed, a weak, wet sound. “The kid—he’s okay? He—he didn’t—”

“He’s safe,” Clark whispered fiercely. “Because of you. You saved him. You hear me? You saved him.”

You tried to smile. Your heartbeat stumbled again.

Clark’s eyes snapped to the rebar. He knew what it meant. He knew what removing it would do. He knew there was no way to pull it out without—

He pressed his forehead to yours, shaking.

“Stay with me.” His voice broke, cracking in places it never had. “I can fix this, okay? I can—I can find a way. Just give me a little time, just—stay awake—”

You exhaled shakily, your breath ghosting against his cheek. “... Superman …you’re shaking.”

He was. Violently.

He gathered your hand in both of his, holding it like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

“I love you,” he whispered into your ear, only for you. “I love you, please…please, don’t leave me.”

Your eyes glistened, tears gathering, slipping through grime.

“I—I wasn’t scared. I knew…you’d come.”

Your heartbeat gave another weak, faltering whimper. Your hand squeezed his, barely there.

“Clark…don’t…cry…”

He bowed over you, shoulders shaking as he cupped the back of your head, holding you like you were fragile china.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered into your hair. “I can’t. I can’t. Please, baby, stay—”

Your pulse stuttered—

then paused—

then—

…

The world tilted. Something in him tore open so terrifying he swore he heard the sound.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Honey—hey, look at me. Look…” His voice cracked. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Your eyes were open, but unfocused, glassy, wrong in a way his brain refused to process.

People stood a few feet away. Construction workers, EMTs, bystanders who had gotten too close. Someone cried softly. Someone else whispered his name.

Someone filmed.

A distant voice said something about a pulse.

Another said—they couldn’t—no pulse—she was—

He focused back on you and wrapped his hands around the base of the rebar.He ripped it from the ground with a single wrenching pull. Concrete split. The steel shrieked. Dust exploded. Someone gasped. He didn’t look at them.

He slid his arms under you. Your body folded against him, limp, heavy in a way you had never been. His breath hitched as your head fell back.

“Easy,” he whispered, voice torn. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He took off so fast the sound barrier cracked behind him.

He only remembered the way your arm swung lightly with the air currents. The way your hair whipped against his chest, lifeless.

“I know a place,” he muttered against the wind. “I know—I know who can help. Okay? Okay, we’ll—we’ll go home. You’ll be fine.”

Kansas blurred below him. The wheat fields, the barns, the gravel roads—to him they were streaks of color, nothing more. He landed in the Kent driveway with a thud.

“Ma!” His voice wasn’t Superman’s. It was a boy’s. “Ma—Ma!”

The kitchen light flicked on. His mother moved to the window. Her silhouette froze.

Her hands flew to her mouth.

She screamed.

The screen door slammed open so hard it bounced off the house. She ran barefoot across the porch, apron still tied, dish towel still over her shoulder.

“Oh my God—oh my God, Clark—Clark, what—” She dropped to her knees in the dirt beside you. “Baby, what happened? What—”

“Help her,” he choked. “Please—Ma, she’s not—she won’t wake up—just help—please help—”

Her hands fluttered over you.

“Oh honey,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Jonathan!” she sobbed. “Jonathan!”

His Pa appeared in the doorway, confused—until he saw you.

His face drained of color. “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed, stumbling forward. “Clark—what—what happened?”

Clark rocked slightly, unable to stop. “I don’t know—I don’t—she was—I didn’t get there in time—just—help her—Pa, help her—”

He knelt, steady, practiced, the way he’d knelt over dying animals and injured farmhands and old neighbors having heart attacks.

He pressed two fingers to your neck.

Then to your wrist.

Then to the hollow of your throat.

He didn’t speak.

Clark’s breathing hitched, fast, uneven.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” he demanded. “Pa—why—why aren’t you—”

Jonathan looked at Martha.

Martha shook her head, tears spilling freely.

Clark’s whole body went rigid.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t—don’t say it. Don’t—you can’t—she’s just—she’s just hurt—just tell me what to do—tell me how to—”

His Pa reached out and gripped his shoulders.

“Clark.”

“No—”

“Clark.”

“Don’t—Pa—don’t—”

His Pa's voice broke. “Son… she’s gone.”

Absolute silence fell again. Clark blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His Ma reached for him. “Baby, I’m—”

He jerked away.

Clark tried to convince himself you were, but you weren’t. There was no warmth left in your skin. No breath on his neck. No heartbeat in his ears.

Pa squeezed his shoulders harder, grounding him with force. “Clark. She’s gone.”

He made a sound no human throat should have been able to produce—a jagged, animalistic rasp torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

His arms tightened around you, crushing you to him as if pressure alone could force life back into you. As if he could warm you. As if he could will your heart to start.

It took both of them—Pa pulling, Ma coaxing—to slide you from his hold. His fingers clung to your sleeve until the very end, until even that small scrap of fabric slipped away.

“Good girl,” Martha whispered under her breath, hands trembling as she laid you down. “Oh—oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry…”

He stared at them. His folks. His palms. His fingers. The lines, the scars, the strength that had never failed him in his entire life—never once, not with earthquakes or planet-killers or burning buildings. But they had failed you.

He didn’t feel his parents dragging him inside. Didn’t feel the grass under his boots or the porch steps under his boots. Everything blurred, smeared, disconnected. Their voices sounded far away, as if underwater.

“Jonathan, get a towel—he’s covered in blood—”

“I’ll call her folks—God, Martha, how do I even—”

“Do it gentle. For heaven’s sake, don’t be blunt. Clark, honey, sit. Sit down, okay?”

He had no memory of sitting.

Or standing.

Or lying down.

Time warped, stretched, thinned. One minute he was on the couch, Ma wiping blood from his face. The next he was in the shower, water beating against him, mixing with the dirt and your blood circling the drain. Then, he was in his childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling as the light changed and changed and changed again.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t blink.

He barely breathed.

Martha tried to feed him. Pa tried to talk to him. Neither worked. He didn’t need food. He didn’t need sleep. He didn’t need anything.

He stayed on his bed for days, the mattress dipping under his weight, the quilt Ma had made years ago pulled up but never moved. His arms lay limp at his sides. His eyes were dry, cracked from lack of blinking.

Sometimes Ma sat beside him, brushing his hair off his forehead like he was ten years old again.

“Baby,” she whispered. “You have to get up eventually.”

He didn’t respond.

Days had no shape. Nights had no meaning. Time dissolved into a gray, endless smear.

When the funeral day came, Clark didn’t even change. Ma dressed him like he was a child—buttoning his shirt, combing his hair, smoothing down the wrinkles. His hands stayed limp at his sides.

“Come on, son,” Pa said quietly. “She deserves you there.”

He stood only because they guided him. One on each side. A hand on each arm.

At the cemetery, the sky was cruelly bright. The chairs were full. People cried quietly. Some clutched tissues. Some looked at him with confusion, pity.

Your mother’s sobbing was sharp, guttural, frantic. Your father broke down trying to hold her up.

“It’s not real,” your mother cried. “It’s not—this can’t be real—this isn’t happening—”

When your coffin was carried forward, Pa gripped his arm harder. Ma whispered, “Stay with us. Stay standing.”

He watched the wooden box lower slowly, inch by inch.

The machinery whirred.

Lower.

Lower.

He felt the sun on his face. Too hot. Too bright. Too alive. It burned. He wanted to step out of it. Hide from it. Sink somewhere dark and cold.

He wanted to be down there with you.

To fall in beside you and stay there. Let the dirt cover him. Let it weigh him down. Let the earth swallow him whole until nothing was left but silence.

Lying on his back in the soft soil, closing his eyes, letting the sun fade from his skin until he was cold, until he was still, until he felt nothing at all.

Let him in.

Please.

Let him in.

But the world wouldn’t bend for him this once. The earth didn’t open. The grave stayed closed to him. Only to him.

All he could do was watch as they shoveled the first slice of dirt onto your coffin. The thud was final. Violent. Too loud.

Your mother wailed, then your father finally collapsed to his knees, fists full of grass, begging to wake up from whatever nightmare this was.

The wake was worse.

Blurred like smeared ink, like someone had dragged their thumb through the picture of his life until everything was unrecognizable.

He barely remembered being led through the church hall, faces shifting past him like ghosts. Hands touched his back, his arm, someone murmured, “I’m so sorry, Clark,” but he couldn’t hear the words. Couldn’t hear anything.

He remembered one moment with painful clarity: your photo on the table. Candles around it. Your smile trapped in stillness.

He couldn't remember heading back to Metropolis. Didn’t remember stepping into the ruined lot that you and his apartment used to be. No one was there except a construction company destroying the last parts.

He just stood there, staring as they ripped everything away from him.

He was forced to find a new place.

Small.

One bedroom.

One toothbrush in the bathroom.

One bed.

One plate. One cup. One fork.

One.

That was all he needed.

That was all there was left.

He showed up at the office the next day, tie perfectly knotted, hair combed, expression unreadable. Lois blinked twice.

“Clark? What—what are you doing here?”

He set his bag down. “I have work to do.”

“You don’t have to—” Jimmy started.

“I do."

He sat down and typed. Fast. Mechanical. Efficient in a way that had Perry walking over three times just to check if the computer was malfunctioning.

Then, when he was pulling on his suit as he raced through the sky, the League called.

Bruce was the one who talked to him, voice gravelly, but grief like in his own way, like he understood: “You don’t need to come in for missions yet.”

“I’m coming.”

“Clark. Don’t push yourself.”

He hung up.

For the League, he completed missions that normally took teams. For the Planet, he turned in three weeks of content in two days.

He stopped laughing.

Stopped smiling.

Stopped talking unless necessary.

Superman became a machine. Clark Kent became a ghost.

And the world kept spinning without you.

Work.

Save.

Write.

Fly.

Work.

Work.

Work.

That's how he was for months. He did everything with no feeling. People would clammer to him after he saved them. He couldn't even smile, because in their tears of relief, he saw your tears of death.

He lost his love for writing. He didn’t know what half the articles he wrote about were anymore. Didn’t care. His fingers just moved because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant breaking.

This day, no TV murmuring in the background. No kettle warming on the stove. No off-key humming from you as you folded laundry. Just the faint rustle of pages from the stack of untouched mail.

He shifted in his chair, shoulders sagging. He hadn’t shaved in days. Weeks? His stubble didn’t grow much—alien perks—but he looked uncanny. Like a sketch of a man instead of a whole one.

His vision blurred over the screen. He forced a quiet breath in, stopped halfway through it, then pushed his glasses up his nose. Gosh, he was getting another headache.

Then he turned slightly in his chair.

“Sweetheart? Could you make me a coffee? The way you do it.”

It slipped out of him naturally. Automatically.

He waited.

He waited.

A few seconds.

He didn’t hear you laugh at him for asking nicely. Didn’t hear your robe swish as you shuffled into the kitchen. Didn’t hear you sigh dramatically like you always did when he pretended he was helpless with appliances.

He frowned lightly, confused, and turned fully in his seat.

“Hey,” he called again, softer. “Did you hear me?”

Just the hum of the fridge.

His heart thudded—heavy, slow, confused. He stood from his chair in a daze, walking toward the kitchen like he was drifting through a dream.

The counter was empty. Only his lone mug sat upside-down in the rack.

There were no footsteps behind him. No warm hand smoothing over his back. No annoyed little mutter of I’m coming, Clark, God, relax.

His hand hovered over the countertop.

“You—” His voice cracked faintly. “You always make it better than I do.”

It hit him so slowly it was almost cruel.

You weren’t in the other room.

You weren’t running late from the store.

You weren’t taking a nap on the couch.

You weren’t here.

You weren’t anywhere.

You and your stuff was all destoryed

Your voice stayed gone.

Clark’s breath vanished. Just stolen right out of him.

He whispered your name.

Once.

Twice.

Then a third time, like maybe repetition could change reality.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

The scream built inside him before he understood what was happening.

His vision went red at the edges. Heat scorched behind his eyes.

And Clark launched upward so fast the air in the apartment imploded in his wake.

The building shook, and glass shattered as he shot out of his apartment.The city blurred beneath him. Clouds tore open as he ripped through them.

His breath came harsh, ragged, ripped apart by the speed he forced from his own body. He cut through the atmosphere with a fury that left fire trailing behind him.

He didn’t slow, not until the moon rushed up at him in a stark wall of grey and silence.

He slammed down into its surface with a crater-making force that sent dust exploding miles into the airless void.

Clark stared at the jagged landscape beneath him, chest heaving even though he didn’t need the air. Grief and rage tangled inside him so violently he couldn’t separate one from the other.

He clenched his fist. He slammed them into the surface of the moon.

Once.

The ground dented. His rage didn't.

He hit it again. Harder.

A crater split beneath him.

“Why—!?” he shouted, voice vibrating through his bones—the sound didn’t travel, but he felt it shake him from the inside out. “Why didn't I get there faster!”

Another blow.

“Why couldn't I—?!”

He drove his fist down again, knuckles carving stone.

“WHY DIDN’T I SAVE YOU—?!”

He hit the ground again—wild, desperate, blind—with every ounce of strength he’d spent months pretending he didn’t feel anymore. A fissure ripped outward beneath him like the moon itself was breaking for him.

Clark sank forward onto his knees. His fingers dug into the grey dust. He bowed his head until it touched the cold surface.

Tears lifted from his cheeks before they could fall, drifting upward in shimmering beads that floated around him like ghosts.

He just let them go.

Let them scatter into the dark.

While he remained. Breathing in ragged, broken pulls. Not moving. Not thinking. Just existing in the wreckage of what he’d done to the moon’s surface.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. Nothing felt real except the ache swallowing him whole.

Except for a sudden breath of something warm brushed the back of his neck.

A warmth he knew better than sunlight.

His head jerked up.

Just the crater. The floating pebbles. The emptiness. He let out a rough, stuttering breath and bowed his head again. He was imagining things. He had to be imagining things. His fingers dug deeper into the dust.

“Clark.”

His entire body went rigid.

The voice wasn’t behind him this time. It was everywhere. Soft. Gentle.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hard enough that his eyelashes trembled.

"Please—don’t—don’t let me hear her if she’s not—”

“Clark,” you whispered again, as if coaxing a frightened animal. “Look at me.”

He didn’t want to. He wanted to.

He lifted his head slowly, breath trapped in his chest. The sunlight dimmed and brightened like it was breathing.

And then you were there.

Floating above the crater. Weightless. Soft. Glowing around the edges like you were made of starlight instead of flesh.

Clark’s mouth fell open.

He made a small sound—half gasp, half sob—and his hand shot up like he was scared you’d drift away if he didn’t catch you.

“You’re—you’re—” He choked on the word. “You’re here.”

You smiled gently. A sad, warm curve of your mouth that broke him all over again.

“Hi."

He pushed off the ground too fast, floating up to meet you, his hands hovering inches from your arms, your face, your waist. Afraid to touch you, afraid you’d disappear.

“I’m so sorry,” he burst out, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m so—Gosh—I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I should’ve been faster, I should’ve been there—if I had just gotten there a second earlier, if I had—”

“Clark...” you said softly.

He shook his head, frantic. “I didn’t save you. I didn’t save the one person— the only person—who ever made me feel like—like I was—human.”

He reached toward you again, and this time he touched the back of your hand.

It passed through you like water.

He flinched.

You cupped his cheek anyway—your fingers cool, faint, like moonlight brushing his skin. “I’m not here to make you hurt more.”

“Then—then stay.” His voice cracked, desperate. “I can’t—I can’t lose you again—”

“I’m not staying,” you said gently.

“Don’t say that,” he begged. “Don’t go, I’ll do anything, I’ll—”

Your thumb traced his cheek in the ghost of a touch. “You still have a life. A purpose.”

“I don’t,” he said fiercely. “Not without you.”

“You do,” you whispered. “Because you loved me. And because you still do. Too much to bury it here in the dark.”

He swallowed hard, chest rising unevenly.

“Give it away.”

“…what?”

“Your love.” You floated closer, your forehead almost touching his. “Give it to the world. All of it. The world needs what you gave me.”

“I don’t want to give it away,” he whispered. “It's... was ours.”

“It still is,” you said. “It always will be. But you’re meant to share it now.”

He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

“Then find yourself again. In what we had.”

He pressed his forehead to yours—or tried to. It didn’t fully connect. Just brushed, the faintest pressure.

“I don’t know how,” he whispered.

“I’ll show you.”

Clark lifted his head a fraction.

You leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t a physical thing. More like warm air brushing his mouth. A memory. A dream pressed against his lips.

He chased it desperately, hands moving to cradle your face, though they passed through you again.

He needed it.

Your fingers floated up to touch his chest, right over his heart.

“This is where I am,” you whispered. “Always.”

His face twisted, eyes squeezing shut as a sob ripped out of him.

Your edges flickered.

Faded.

Your fingers thinned into threads of light.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His breath stopped.

“I always loved you,” he said back, voice breaking. “Always.”

You smiled one last time.

Then you dissolved—gently—like mist unraveling in sunlight.

Clark’s hands grasped at empty space.

He stayed there, suspended in the quiet, eyes wet, chest heaving, dust drifting around him like falling snow.

Slowly—he lifted his gaze to the Earth hanging above him.

Its blues and greens blurred through his tears.

He reached out a hand toward the planet. A small gesture. His promise. His beginning.

Then he pushed upward. Stronger than he had been in a long time.

He rose from the moon’s surface, carrying your last touch inside his chest, turning your words into his heartbeat.

He flew toward the world.

The years unfolded over him like a long, living tapestry. His life bent into a rhythm that felt almost holy. He mended, he steadied, he gave. And he kept giving.

He caught a crumbling bridge once, the steel groaning in his hands, the cars rattling above him. A little girl in the backseat of a blue sedan pressed her palm to the window, eyes wide. He couldn’t hear her voice, but he saw the shape of her mouth.

Thank you.

He swallowed hard. “You’re welcome,” he whispered, even though she couldn’t hear him.

Another day, he dropped into a burning hospital, floor after floor collapsing in on themselves. Smoke filled his lungs, heat coating his skin. He tore open a wall and found a nurse shielding a newborn beneath her body. She looked up at him with soot-streaked cheeks, panting.

“Please—help him—”

“I’ve got both of you,” he told her. His voice didn’t shake. It hadn’t in years.

He stood on the steps of the Hall of Justice once, listening as the next generation of heroes argued, teased, and planned. They were loud and bright and so young. He leaned against a column beside Bruce, who had aged in different ways.

“They’ll be good,” Bruce muttered.

“They will,” Clark murmured. “They already are.”

He watched Lois retire. Watched Jimmy marry. Watched Perry step down, and the new editor shake his hand with adoration mixed with terror. His coworkers teased him gently about never aging, never slowing down.

He always smiled politely.

Then he went home to the quiet, to the place where your memory still warmed the walls like a lamp left on in another room. Your picture on the mantle. Your sweater was folded in a drawer that he never opened, but never moved.

“Goodnight,” he’d say softly every night. “I hope I did right today.”

As the decades spun on, and his hair silvered like soft frost along his temples, the city changed. Justice League rookies approached him with reverence, asking for advice. He gave it freely—gentle nudges, quiet encouragements, the way he wished someone had guided him when he’d been lost in himself.

That's when he knew.

He was ready.

He watched Kara laugh in the doorway of her farmhouse one last time, her hair long and bright, streaked silver like his, glowing in the Kansas sun. She hugged him fiercely, as if she could hold time still.

“You could stay longer,” she whispered.

“Trust me,” he promised. “You have so much life to live.”

Krypto leaned against his leg, whining in that low, almost human way. Clark knelt and stroked the old dog’s muzzle.

“You take care of her."

Krypto nudged his palm, as if scolding him for even asking.

He visited Ma and Pa beneath the oak tree. The wind rustled in the leaves like someone flipping through pages. He placed his hand on the cool stone.

“I did my part,” he said quietly. “I'll tell you all about it when I see you again”

He moved on. To your folks next. They had never stopped writing him letters, even after their hands trembled too much to hold pens. They had sent him stories of their days, little joys, memories of you. He had answered every one. Kept them all after they passed.

Your gravesite was always the hardest. He knelt there, fingers brushing the edge of the stone he had carved himself. Weathered now. Smooth from decades of wind.

Silence settled around him like snow.

“I kept you with me,” he continued. “Every day. Every choice.”

His voice thickened.

“I hope… I hope that counts.”

He floated up from the cemetery when he was done, rising slow, like a man already half in another world.

The moon greeted him like an old friend. A familiar, aching pull in his chest guided him to the crater he’d once put into the earth with rage. He sat on the cliff of it. His legs were dangling over the edge. Earth glowed blue in front of him.

He unclipped his cape. Then he let it go, watching it as it drifted into the dark. He didn’t need it anymore.

A warm presence stirred beside him.

He didn’t look. He just knew

“Clark.”

He closed his eyes.

“You came,” he whispered.

“I told you I’d be here,” he felt a warmth press against his chest. “Whenever you were ready.”

He turned his head slowly. You looked exactly as that first day you showed yourself to him—alive in a way that hurt and soothed all at once. He laughed under his breath, a sound wet and startled and overwhelmed.

Your hand reached for him. He took it with both of his.

“Are you sure?” you asked gently. “This is the path you want?”

He thought of the world. Of every life he had touched. Of every dawn he had watched rise alone. Of every moment he had carried the weight of being strong.

And of every night he had whispered your name into the dark.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Sweetheart… I’m sure.”

You smiled at him—soft, tender, knowing. The moonlight glowed through you like warm fog.

“Close your eyes.”

He did.

“Breathe.”

He drew one deep breath, letting it shake through him.

“And now,” you whispered, your voice falling over him like a blanket pulled to his chin, “Let go.”

He let go.

The world slipped away gently, as if it were laying him down to sleep.

When he opened his eyes—

He was standing.

On soft grass.

Beside a lake that shimmered like liquid silver under morning light.

The air smelled of pine and warm water.

He looked down at his hands—young again. Strong again.

He turned.

You stood there.

Whole.

Warm.

Alive.

His breath broke open in his chest.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He walked to you slowly, reverently, like approaching living sunlight.

“Hey,”

He folded you into his arms for the first time in a lifetime—and the universe finally felt right around him.

Sorry?

Taglist (open):

@kawaiioverlord, @onyxxshi, @saaaaaaaaaaam, @kissmxcheek, @cicikent

Masterlist

[chaacoonnee]

his fragrance — rafayel

“Rafayel, please, just…just a little more…”

“A little more will never be enough. You'll ask again, and I…I'll give in.”

“Would that be so bad?”

synopsis: a role-reversal inspired by the "your fragrance" memory, in which you're the one driven mad by rafayel’s scent, he's the one desperately trying to resist, and you both fail spectacularly.

tags: nsfw, explicit sexual content, mildly dubious consent, porn with feelings, aphrodisiacs/sex pollen, scent kink, mutual pining, inappropriate use of evol, dry humping, love confessions, kissing, panty gag, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, mirror sex, creampie, men crying, happy ending

wc: 11.4k // ao3

a/n: hello friends!! this is my first time posting my work to tumblr. i hope u like it <3 i don’t quite know how this place works or what to do. but it seems like y’all are having a lot of fun over here, and i wanted to join the party :-)

The gallery opening is in ten minutes.

You’re standing in Rafayel’s studio, watching him pace back and forth in front of his closet with the kind of intense focus he usually reserves for his paintings. He’s already changed shirts three times, and you’re starting to wonder if you’ll actually make it to the event on time.

“The blue one was fine,” you say from your position by the door, tugging slightly at the neckline of your own dress—a sleek black number that Thomas had insisted was "appropriately formal but practical" for tonight's event. Your feet are already protesting the heels you'd been forced into, sensible as they are by formal standards.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The blue one made me look washed out.” He pulls out another shirt, this one white silk, and holds it up critically. “What about this?”

“Also fine.”

“You’re not even looking.”

“I’m your bodyguard, not your stylist.” But you do look, because he’s giving you that petulant look that means he’s not going to drop this. “It’s fine. They’re all fine. You could wear a paper bag and still be the most overdressed person in the room.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Yes.”

He throws a paint-stained rag at you, which you dodge with ease. “You’re supposed to be supportive. Isn’t that in your job description?”

“My job description is to keep you alive, not to validate your fashion choices.”

“What if my fashion choices are a matter of life and death?”

“Then you have bigger problems than I can solve.”

He’s grinning now, though, that bratty smile that means he’s enjoying arguing with you. It’s become routine—this back and forth, the way you can trade insults without any real heat behind them. Comfortable.

Maybe too comfortable, if you’re honest with yourself.

“Fine. White it is.” He disappears into his bedroom to change, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Dangerous territory.

You’ve been his bodyguard for six months now. Six months of watching him paint, of driving him to galleries and exhibitions, of standing guard while collectors and critics fawn over his work. Six months of learning that beneath the bratty exterior is someone thoughtful and passionate and more-than-occasionally infuriating.

Six months of definitely not developing feelings for your client.

The door opens and Rafayel emerges, adjusting the collar of the white shirt. He’s paired it with black slacks and—

You catch the scent before you consciously register it.

Something oceanic. Salt and sea air and something deeper, more complex. It hits you like a wave, making you blink.

“Have you worn this cologne before?“

Rafayel shrugs, brushing your question off with a grin. “We can worry about it later, cutie. Let’s go. Everyone’s waiting downstairs.”

You lean closer, almost dazed. “Let me smell it again.”

“You’re acting like a cat,” he says with an arch of his brow. “A kitty that found some catnip, to be exact. Shouldn’t my bodyguard be more professional than this?”

“I’m not a cat!” you protest, heat rushing to your face. “Don’t say that. I just…I couldn’t resist.”

It wraps around your senses like smoke, making your thoughts blur at the edges. You’ve never reacted to a fragrance like this before.

“Gods, what is this weird cologne…?” you mutter, trying to pin down the note that’s making your head swim.

He watches you, eyes narrowed with something between amusement and concern. “What, are you getting lightheaded from being this close to me? I know my presence can be overwhelming, but this is a new record.”

“Must be an allergic reaction…” you try, but your voice sounds distant, unconvincing even to yourself. The room tilts slightly, and you reach for his arm to steady yourself. “W-where did you get this cologne?”

“I dunno, I found it in the back of my drawer.” His expression shifts when you sway on your feet. “Why do you look like you’re drunk? Should I be worried that my bodyguard is compromised right now? Because if something happens to me while you're swooning, that's coming out of your paycheck.”

“I’m not drunk,” you snap a little too quickly. “I just…I don’t like the scent.”

The lie hangs between you as you lean closer anyway—breathing him in, dizzy from it. Without thinking, your lips brush against his wrist, and then your teeth graze the inside of it, tasting salt and that maddening fragrance on his skin.

Rafayel goes completely still.

“Hey,” he murmurs, steadying you with his free hand. His grip tightens when you sway toward him. “You don’t look so good. I should have Thomas call the doctor…”

“Don’t.” Your fingers close around both of his wrists, holding him in place like you’re afraid he’ll pull away. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your grip is too tight, trembling, but you can’t let go. His pulse beats under your fingertips, quick and uneven, betraying that he’s not nearly as calm as he pretends.

“You’re definitely not,” he agrees, but there’s an edge to his voice now—something careful, almost cautious. His gaze tracks across your face, lingering on your parted lips, your unfocused eyes. “But you’re also definitely not okay.”

You pull his wrist closer to your face again, inhaling deeply. The scent floods your system, making your knees weak. “It’s just the cologne. It’s…doing something to me."

“Clearly.” His thumb traces a slow circle against your knuckles, and you're not sure if he's trying to soothe you or himself. “You know, if you wanted an excuse to hold onto me, cutie, you could've just asked.”

His gaze drops to where you're gripping his arm, then flicks back up with that infuriatingly mischievous glint. “Though I have to say, 'mysterious cologne-induced weakness' is pretty creative. You’re very committed to the bit.”

“Creative?” You manage to shoot him a sharp look despite the way the room keeps tilting. “The only thing I'm committed to right now is not strangling you. Though at this rate, I might make an exception.”

“Oh?” He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek. “Is that a threat or a promise, Miss Bodyguard?”

His free hand comes up to gently pry your fingers from his sleeve, but he doesn't actually pull away. If anything, he seems to be studying your reaction with far too much interest. “Because I have to say, for someone who's supposedly suffering from a fragrance emergency, you're getting awfully specific about what you want to do with your hands.”

“Stop talking.” Your voice comes out shakier than you'd like. “Just...take it off.”

“Take it off?” He tilts his head, a wicked smile still playing at his lips despite the concern creeping into his eyes. “Interesting. Just a minute ago, you were trying to strangle me, and now you want me naked. This cologne really does work miracles.”

“The shirt, Rafayel.” You manage to grit out, even as your grip on his sleeve tightens. “Or whatever the hells has that cursed scent on it.”

“Alright, alright.” He reaches up, fingers working the buttons of his shirt. “Since you asked so nicely.”

The fabric slides off his shoulders, and you expect relief—distance from the source, a chance to think clearly again.

Instead, it's worse. So much worse.

The scent clings to his skin, concentrated and warm, and without the barrier of clothing between you, it's absolutely devastating. But it's not just that. It's him. Lean muscle and smooth skin and the elegant lines of his collarbones. You've seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when he's had to work on large canvases in the summer heat—but never like this. Never up close. Never when you're already reeling with want.

Your eyes trace over him helplessly—the defined lines of his chest and stomach, the tiny beauty marks scattered across his pale skin, the sharp V of muscle disappearing into his waistband. He's beautiful. He's always been beautiful, but right now, you can't pretend you don't notice. Can't pretend you haven't been desperately trying not to notice for months.

“Oh,” you breathe, barely a sound.

Your knees buckle slightly, and his hands are immediately at your waist, steadying you.

“Okay, so that backfired spectacularly.” His arms wrap around you properly now, holding you against him even as he maintains just enough distance to look down at your face. “Seriously, what’s wrong? How are you feeling? You look like you're about to pass out.”

You're pressed against his bare chest now, and it's doing absolutely nothing to help your situation. The heat of his skin, the scent, the feeling of his hands on you—

“Hot. Everything’s too hot.” You close your eyes, trying to clear your head, but it only makes the scent stronger, more consuming, making you hyperaware of every point of contact between you. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Hey, look at me.” His voice is gentle but firm, cutting through the haze. You open your eyes to find him watching you with an expression you’ve rarely seen—genuine worry shadowing his usual playfulness. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. But first, I need you to let go of me so I can wash this off.”

Your grip tightens reflexively. “No.”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow, and there’s something almost predatory in the way he studies you now. “You sure about that, cutie? Because you’re the one who said it’s affecting you.”

“I don’t care.” The words spill out before you can stop them. “I don’t want you to smell like anything else.”

For a long moment, he just stares at you. Then, slowly, he pries your fingers loose from his wrists and takes a careful step back.

You actually whimper at the loss.

“Yeah, no,” he says, but his voice wavers slightly. “We’re definitely calling the doctor. And I’m washing this off. Right now.”

“Rafayel—”

“Don’t ‘Rafayel’ me.” He’s already pulling out his phone, keeping you at arm’s length with his other hand when you try to follow. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I’m thinking perfectly straight,” you argue, but the wobble in your voice betrays you.

“Sure you are.” He’s typing rapidly now, presumably messaging Thomas. “That’s why you look like you’re about to pounce on me. Very unprofessional behavior, truthfully. I should report this to HR.”

“You don't have HR.”

“Then I should get HR just so I can report you to them.” He's still keeping distance between you, phone held up like a shield. “This is definitely going in your performance review. 'Bodyguard attempted to compromise client while under the influence of mysterious cologne.' Zero stars, would not recommend.”

You roll your eyes—even now, even like this, he can't help being a nuisance. “Are you seriously cracking jokes right now?"

“I cope with stress through humor,” he says, still typing. “And you trying to climb me like a tree right now is quite stressful.”

You open your mouth to deny it, but he's not wrong. Every instinct is screaming at you to close the distance between you again, to press yourself against him and never let go.

This isn't normal. This isn't you.

The realization cuts through some of the fog, and with it comes a wave of exhaustion. Your legs feel shaky, unsteady in the ridiculous heels you've been wearing all night.

“Okay, that's it. Couch. Now.” He pockets his phone and crosses to you, hand finding your elbow to guide you to the couch. “Come on, work with me here.”

Once you're seated, he kneels in front of you without hesitation, reaching for your ankle. “Let's get these death traps off.”

His fingers are gentle as they work the straps of your heels, and you should feel relief—but all you can focus on is his hands on your body, the careful way he's touching you, how close his lips are to your skin.

“Rafayel,” you breathe, and his hands still for just a moment before continuing.

“Almost done.” He slides the first heel off, then starts on the second, his thumb pressing into your arch in a way that would normally feel soothing but right now just makes you ache more. “I hate these things. You always do this thing where you rock back on your heels when they start hurting. Drives me crazy.”

The second shoe drops to the floor with a soft thud. He doesn't let go immediately, hand still cradling your foot, thumb rubbing small circles like he's trying to ease the tension. It's so tender, so careful, and something about it cracks through your defenses.

“Something's wrong,” you whisper, panic edging into your voice.

“I know, baby. I know.”

The endearment stops you both cold.

His hand freezes on your foot, and for a second, neither of you breathes. You see it register in his eyes—what he just said, how naturally it came out—and something raw flashes across his face before he pushes it away. He clears his throat, carefully setting your foot down and standing up.

“Just…hold on. We'll figure this out.” He's already backing toward his bedroom, putting distance between you again. “I'm going to—shower. Wash this off properly. Thomas said the doctor will be here in twenty minutes, so just—stay there. Don't move. I'll be right back.”

He disappears into his bedroom, and the second he's out of sight, the ache intensifies. It’s in your chest, between your thighs, pulsing through every cell in your body. You curl into yourself on the couch, hugging your knees, trying to breathe through it. The vulnerability of that moment—of him kneeling in front of you, touching you so gently, that slip of “baby”—makes everything worse somehow. Makes you want things you shouldn't want.

Nothing helps. Nothing makes this better.

He's only gone for a minute or two, but it feels like hours. Days. Years. You press a hand to your sternum, trying to steady your breathing, but all you can think about is that scent, his scent, and how desperately you need—

The door opens. Rafayel emerges in nothing but tight, black boxer briefs, a towel slung around his neck as he rubs at his damp hair with one end. Water droplets trace paths down his chest and shoulders, dangerous paths you can’t help but follow with your eyes and want so badly to follow with your tongue.

“Scrubbed myself raw trying to get it off.” He moves toward his dresser to grab a clean shirt, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his boxers cling to his damp skin in a way that does little to conceal the shape of his half-hardened cock.

“Better?” He stops cold when he catches the way you're staring—eyes glazed, lips parted, no longer even trying to hide it. “Or…worse?”

The scent still clings to him—in his hair, on his skin. Woven into his being somehow, like it’s seeped into his very pores. Between the sight of him nearly nude and the undiluted scent, you can't separate which is affecting you more. You can't think past the way your fingers itch to touch him, to explore every muscled inch of him, to have him fill this aching emptiness that's consuming you from the inside out.

You shake your head silently, and his face falls.

“Worse.”

“Shit.” He backs up immediately, hand shooting out to keep space between you. “Okay, worse is—that's not good. Stay there.”

But you can't. Your feet carry you forward another step, then another, drawn to him like a magnet. “Rafayel—”

“I mean it.” He backs up until he hits the dresser. A thought seems to cross his face, something almost hopeful. “Fine. If washing didn't work, maybe I can just—”

He holds up his hand, and a small, pink-red flame flickers to life at his fingertip.

“Maybe I can burn off whatever’s left of the cologne,” he says, bringing the flame closer to his other arm. “If I can just—”

You move before you can think.

Your hand catches his wrist, pulling it away from his neck. And then, operating purely on instinct and desperate need, you bring his finger to your lips. You close your mouth around it, extinguishing the flame with your tongue.

Rafayel goes completely still.

The flame dies with a soft hiss, and suddenly you're aware of the taste of his skin on your tongue—salt and something sweeter, something that makes your eyes flutter closed. You can't help it; your tongue swirls around his finger, a soft whimper escaping your throat as you suck gently. You feel his whole body tense, his free hand gripping the edge of the dresser behind him hard enough that his knuckles go white.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His finger is still in your mouth, and you can feel his pulse racing—or is that yours?—as another needy sound slips from you. Then, slowly, reluctantly, you release him, your lips dragging wet against his skin as you pull back.

“What—” His voice comes out hoarse, wrecked. “What the hells do you think you’re doing?”

“Stopping you,” you whisper. “Don’t get rid of it.”

His eyes are dark, darker than you’ve ever seen them. “You just—with your mouth—”

“I know what I did.” You meet his gaze steadily, even as your heart pounds against your ribs. “Is there a problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it—just shock and arousal. His grip on the dresser tightens further. “You just did possibly the most erotic thing I've ever experienced while clearly not in your right mind, and you're asking if there's a problem? Yeah, I'd say there are several problems.”

Despite his words, he hasn't moved away. If anything, his eyes keep dropping to your lips before snapping back up.

“The biggest one being,” he continues, voice dropping lower, “that in about twelve hours you're going to come to your senses, remember you think I'm an 'insufferable brat,' and blame me for not locking myself in the closet or something.”

“You are an insufferable brat.” The words come out breathless, but you're smiling despite everything. Your hands slide up his bare chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palms. “That hasn't changed.”

“Oh, well, that's reassuring,” he mutters, eyes are locked on yours like he’s searching for something.

“You were trying to fix it. And I don’t want you to fix it.”

“Cutie—” The endearment comes out strangled. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I’m thinking very clearly. I want this. I want you.” You lean in closer, wrapping your arms around his neck. “So stop trying to make it go away.”

“That’s not you talking.” He exhales hard through his nose, both hands clinging to the dresser behind him now. “It’s the damn cologne. You’re not yourself.”

Your breath is hot on his neck when you whisper, “Then make me feel like myself again.”

The words hang between you, and you both know what you're really asking. For him to give you what your body is screaming for, to work this fever out of your system, to take you until the ache finally subsides. His pupils dilate, understanding flickering across his face—want and fear and something darker. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard.

“Okay, nope. We need—” He suddenly grips your shoulders and steers you backward toward the couch with determined steps. “You're going to sit right here, and I'm going to stand all the way over there, and we're going to have a rational conversation about why this is a terrible idea.”

He practically deposits you onto the cushions, then immediately retreats several steps, running both hands through his still-damp hair.

You try. You really, really try.

But then he moves—the slightest shift of his stance—and you catch a surge of that scent again. Fainter, but still there. Still calling to you like an implacable siren.

You’re on your feet before you realize you’ve moved.

“Nope.” Rafayel holds up both hands, backing away. “Absolutely not. Sit back down.”

“I can’t.” Your voice sounds desperate even to your own ears. You take another step forward, and he retreats, maintaining distance. “Please, Raf, I just need—”

“I know what you need,” he cuts you off, and now he does look at you, and there’s something fierce in his demeanor. “And I’m trying really damn hard not to give it to you.”

“Why not?” The question comes out pathetic, almost childish. You move closer and he sidesteps, circling away.

“Because—” He stops, jaw working like he’s trying to find the right words, still backing up as you advance. “You’ll wake up tomorrow, and you’ll be yourself again, and you’ll realize what happened, and you’ll hate me. And I—” He cuts himself off, looking away. “I won’t have that.”

Something about the vulnerability in his voice cuts through the fog slightly. “I could never hate you.”

“I'm flattered, really, but this is the worst possible time for you to develop feelings for me.” He gestures at your flushed face, your obvious distress, using the moment to put more space between you. “You also said you wanted to strangle me five minutes ago, so forgive me for not taking your current emotional declarations at face value.”

“Who said anything about feelings?” you snap, frustration bleeding through. “I just need—”

“Oh, so you just want to use me for my body?” His eyebrow arches, and despite everything, there's a hint of his usual teasing. “Wow. Objectified by my own bodyguard. Even worse, honestly. My fragile artist's heart can't take being reduced to a piece of meat.”

“You're ridiculous.” You mirror his movements, stalking around the opposite side of the table.

“And you're relentless.” He dodges left when you lunge right, keeping the furniture between you. “This is embarrassing for you, by the way. What happened to those legendary Hunter reflexes, huh? I'm outmaneuvering my own bodyguard while half-naked. That's got to sting.”

“Stop running away from me!” You're both circling the coffee table now like it's some kind of blockade in your game of cat-and-mouse.

“Stop chasing me like I'm prey!” But there's a breathless laugh in his voice now. “This is absurd. We're adults. We should be able to have a mature conversation without—”

You feint left, and when he moves to block, you go right, finally closing the distance and catching him before he can retreat again. Your hands find his bare waist, and he makes a sound that's half surprise, half resignation.

“Got you,” you breathe.

“Yeah.” His hands come up to grip your wrists—not pushing you away, just holding on. “You got me.”

You're both still for a minute, breathing hard, faces inches apart, and the heat of his skin burns under your palms. In the sudden silence, you can hear it—muffled music and laughter drifting up from downstairs. The party. His gallery opening.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper, the realization gnawing at the fog in your mind. “Your party. You're missing your party because of me.”

“Oh yeah, standing in my studio with a beautiful woman who can't keep her hands off me.” His lips quirk into that infuriating smirk, even as his grip on your wrists tightens. “Truly a terrible way to spend an evening. I'm devastated. Can't you tell?”

You can tell he's not devastated. You can tell by the way his body is responding to your proximity, the evidence of his interest becoming increasingly obvious in those thin boxers.

“Rafayel—”

“There's nowhere else I'd rather be, cutie.” The teasing edge softens just slightly, something genuine underneath. “Trust me on that.”

He glances toward where his phone sits on the coffee table. “The doctor will be here in fifteen minutes. Think you can keep your hands to yourself for that long?” he adds, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah.” He sighs, but there's something almost fond in it. “I didn't think so.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, really looks at you, like he's trying to memorize this moment despite how much he wishes it wasn't happening like this. Then his free hand comes up, fingers threading through your hair with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

“You're testing my self-control in ways that should be illegal. Pretty sure they are, actually." His hand in your hair guides your head back, forcing you to look up at him. Gods, he's tall. It makes you feel small in a way that does things to you it probably shouldn't. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to be the responsible one when you're looking at me like that?”

“Good,” you murmur, turning your head to brush your lips against the inside of his wrist. “I don’t want to be the only one affected.”

“You think you’re the only one?” His laugh is strained, and his thumb traces along your scalp in a way that makes you shiver. His eyes glint with something sinful now, more knowing. “You know, Lemurians have a keen sense of smell.”

Your breath catches. “What are you getting at?”

“Your scent.” His voice drops lower, more intimate, and his fingers tighten slightly in your hair. “It’s changed. Sweeter. Headier.” He takes a slow breath, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he finds the words. “I can smell your arousal. Have been able to for a while now, actually.”

Heat floods your face, though you're not sure if it's embarrassment or arousal anymore. “That’s not—I’m not—”

“Don’t bother lying to me. I’ve been smelling how much you want me all night now. And it's driving me insane, by the way,” He says it lightly, but there's tension underneath. “Knowing exactly how turned on you are? Being able to smell it getting stronger every time I so much as look at you? It’s absolute torture.”

You whimper, unable to help it, fingers curling tight around his forearm as you lean into his palm. “Then stop fighting it already.”

“I can’t.” But he doesn’t sound as certain anymore. His thumb strokes across your cheekbone almost unconsciously. “Because, unlike you, I don’t have the excuse of mystery cologne messing with my head. This is just me, wanting you so badly I can barely think straight, and trying desperately not to take advantage of the situation.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, frustrated beyond belief.

“No, you don’t.” He tilts his head, studying you with that infuriating artist’s gaze. “Right now, I’d say you want to do the opposite of hating me.”

“Fuck you,” you spit back, but it comes out more urgent than angry.

“That's more like it.” He smirks, but his voice is strained, too.

The ache is getting worse, every second he stays at arm’s length like sandpaper on your nerves. You press a hand to your chest, trying to ease the tight feeling that’s made a home beneath your ribs. “How much longer?”

He checks his phone. “Twelve minutes.”

“That’s only three minutes since you last checked.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.” His tone is light, but you can see the tension in his shoulders.

The silence stretches between you, charged and heavy. Your eyes drop on their own volition, tracing down his bare chest to where his boxers sit low on his hips, to where his cock sits, fully erect now, tucked under the dark fabric. You press your thighs together involuntarily, a futile attempt to ease the ache.

His whole body goes rigid, nostrils flaring as he scents the change. His eyes are still averted as he adjusts himself, as if it could erase the image you’ve already burned into your mind. “Even that? Even just looking at me makes it worse?”

You can't help it, can't control your body's response to his. “Yes.”

“Okay.” He drags a hand down his face. “Okay. Come here.” He moves to the couch, sitting down and pulling you with him. But instead of beside him, he turns you around, settling you in his lap with your back against his chest. His arms come around your waist, holding you in place. “Just…stay like this. Hold on with me, okay? I'm not going anywhere.”

It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough.

But it's something.

“This is better,” he's saying, but he sounds like he's trying to convince himself. “More controlled. Less tempting.”

It's not better. Not even a little bit.

Because now you're surrounded by him. His bare chest is warm against your back, heavy arms wrapped around your waist, his chin hooked over your shoulder, and every time he breathes, you feel it against your neck. You shift slightly, trying to get comfortable, and your hips roll against his lap.

Rafayel goes completely still before letting out a strained laugh. “Please don't do that.”

“Do what?” But you can feel exactly what you did—can feel his body's reaction pressing hard against your center.

“That.” His grip on your waist tightens, holding you in firmly in place. “Moving. Just…try to stay still.”

“Rafayel.” Your head falls back against his shoulder. “This isn't helping.”

“It's helping me.” His lips are so close to your ear. “If I can't see your face, I can't see the way you're looking at me.”

“Coward,” you sigh out. You shift your hips slightly and feel the hiss of air he sucks in through his teeth. “Too bad I can feel exactly how much this is affecting you, too.”

You arch into him again—accidentally or on purpose, you're not sure anymore—and feel his cock twitch against the curve of your ass. His breathing halts.

“Stop squirming,” he grits out.

“I can't help it.”

“Yes, you can. You're a trained Hunter. You have excellent bodily control.” But his voice is getting rougher. “Use it.”

At ten minutes, your hands start wandering.

You don't mean for them to. But sitting on him like this, feeling the warmth of him, breathing in that maddening scent with every inhale—your fingers slip along his forearms, then drift to his thighs, seeking more contact.

Rafayel goes rigid.

“Don't,” he warns, voice practically a groan.

“I'm not doing anything,” you lie, even as your palms slide up his thighs, feeling the muscles tense under your touch.

“That's—that's definitely something.” His breathing has gone shallow. “That's absolutely something.”

“I'm just holding you.” Your hands move higher, and he shudders. “You told me to hold you.”

“I told you to stay still. I didn't say you could—” He breaks off with a sharp inhale when your fingers trace along the inside of his thigh. “You're doing this on purpose, you maddening woman.”

“Maybe.” You're past caring about dignity, circling your hips shamelessly against his lap. The dress feels suffocating, too tight, too much barrier between you and what you need. "Maybe I want you to break."

“Well, it's working.” His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back so he can look at you. His sunset eyes have shifted to dusk, pupils blown dark and wide. “You're playing dirty, Miss Bodyguard.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Yeah?” His thumb traces your jaw, and the touch sends electricity racing down your spine. “And who would that be?”

“You.” You turn your head slightly, teeth grazing the inside of his wrist. “You're the worst influence I've ever had.”

“Probably true.” He's staring at your mouth like it's taking all his concentration not to close the distance. “But I'm trying to be a good influence right now, and you're making it really fucking hard.”

“Good.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it grips your waist, guiding it higher along your ribs. His fingers spread wider, following your lead, moving up, up, up—palm sliding over the silk until his fingers rest against the underside of your breast, so close to where you're aching for his touch.

He stops himself there, hand freezing in place. His fingers flex once, like he's fighting the urge to move higher, tightening the grip in your hair with a quiet curse.

“Seven minutes,” he says, voice hoarse, like he's counting down to salvation or damnation. “We can last seven minutes.”

At five minutes, you're both on the floor.

You're not sure how you got here. One moment you were in his lap on the couch, the next you'd somehow tumbled to the carpet, and now you're straddling him while he's flat on his back, staring up at you with those dark, conflicted eyes. Your dress has ridden up dangerously high, the black silk bunched around your hips.

Your hands slide up his arms, and before you can think better of it, you're pinning his wrists above his head against the floor. His breath catches audibly, pupils dilating, lips parting, and his whole body goes taut beneath you in a way that has nothing to do with resistance.

“Oh,” you breathe, watching his reaction. A slow smile curves your lips. “You like this, don't you?”

“I like you not having free range to torture me further,” he shoots back, but his voice is too rough, too breathless to sell the lie. “It's a strategic defensive position.”

“Uh-huh.” You press his wrists harder into the floor and watch his eyes darken further, dragging down to where your dress has shifted. “Very defensive.”

You tilt your hips experimentally, watching his eyes squeeze closed with the motion. You’re impossibly close like this, the lace of your thong doing little to hide how soaked your cunt is where it finds friction against the firm length of his clothed cock. His wrists flex in your hold, but he doesn't try to break free.

“I don't care about the minutes anymore,” you say, holding him there.

“I know.” His voice comes out pained, and you feel his heartbeat racing beneath your grip. “But I have to care. One of us has to.”

“Why does it have to be you?”

“Because—” He stops, and you see him swallow hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath you. “Because I need to know this is real. I need you to want me—actually want me. Not because you're drugged up on some scent. And I won't—I can't take advantage of you like this.”

“You want proof this is real?” The words tumble out in a shaky voice. “I tried to quit. Two months ago, after you fell asleep on my shoulder in the car. Remember that? You grabbed my hand at that exhibition without thinking, and I never wanted to let go. Never. Thomas had to talk me out of it because I couldn't stand being near you, wanting you, not being able to have you…”

“Woah, woah, woah. You—what?” He shakes his head, staring up at you like he’s never seen you before. “No. You're just saying that because—”

“Call him.” You're already releasing his wrists, lunging for where his phone landed on the couch, desperate to prove it, to make him believe you so he'll finally stop holding back. “Call Thomas right now. Put it on speaker. He'll tell you—”

“No, wait—hey—” Rafayel catches you around the waist, hauling you back before you can reach it. “Stop—I believe you—”

“You don't!” You struggle against his hold, still reaching. “You think it's the cologne talking. Call him. Let me prove it—”

“I believe you!" His arms tighten around you. "I believe you, okay?”

You stop struggling, breathing hard. “You believe me?”

“Yes, baby.” He turns your chin to face him, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His eyes are wide, almost dazed. “You almost quit. You wanted me that badly. I've been trying so hard not to want you and you've been—” His voice breaks with a shaky laugh. “Fuck. We could have had this. We could have had months of this.”

“Then don’t waste any more time,” you whisper, pressing his shoulders back down to the floor. The torture of his cock throbbing achingly against your clit through your underwear makes you want to scream. “I can’t do this, Rafayel.”

“Cutie—” His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering against your cheek. “If this is what you need—fine. Use me. But I'm not taking this from you.”

You catch his wrists and push them back down, pinning them beside his head with renewed purpose. “You're not taking anything. I'm giving it to you.”

“That's—that’s not how it works.” His jaw flexes, and when you grind down again, his hips jerk upwards unintentionally. “When this high is gone, I need you to know I didn't—”

But you can feel how hard he is beneath you, how his body betrays every word of restraint. You move against him again, sharp and needy, and his strangled growl shatters in the air between you.

“Shit—don't do that,” he chokes out. But he lets you hold him down like he needs it, too.

“Rafayel, please, just…just a little more…”

He drags in a broken breath. “A little more will never be enough. You'll ask again, and I…I'll give in.”

“Would that be so bad?” you whisper, reckless and desperate, pressing his wrists harder into the floor.

“Gods, help me.” His hips surge up to meet yours, and you feel him shudder beneath you. One of his hands breaks free from your grip—not to push you away, but to slide to your thigh, fingers slipping beneath the bunched fabric of your dress. “This is all I can give you. No more.”

The friction is brutal, perfect, everything you need, yet still not enough. You gasp, your remaining grip on his other hand tightening as you grind with desperate urgency, your thighs shaking.

“Fuck. You’re…so needy,” he groans, the hand on your leg now guiding you in a rhythm that's going to destroy you both. “This is insane. We’re insane.”

“Don’t care,” you breathe, releasing his other wrist to brace against his chest, both his hands now free to grip your hips, to press your bodies impossibly closer. You're wholly lost in it, in him, in the friction and heat and that maddening scent. “Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care—”

“Two minutes,” he says, voice strained.

You don't stop moving. If anything, you grind down harder.

“Two minutes,” he repeats, more to himself than to you.

“You already said that.”

“I'm reminding myself.” His fingers dig into the crease of your thigh hard enough to leave marks, like the pressure might help him hold himself together. “Reminding myself that help is coming in two godsdamned minutes and I just need to—fuck—”

You shift your angle, and you both let out a small, anguished noise. “What if I don’t want to be okay? What if I want to stay like this?”

“You don’t.” But he sounds uncertain now. “You can’t possibly want to feel like this. Like you’re going to crawl out of your skin if you can’t—”

His phone rings.

You both freeze.

Rafayel sits up suddenly, one arm banding around your waist to keep you in his lap as he reaches for the phone on the coffee table beside you. His other hand stays at your thigh, like he can't bear to let go completely.

“That's Thomas,” he says quietly, staring at the screen. “Probably calling to say the doctor's here.”

Your heart sinks. Reality crashes back in—the gallery opening you both abandoned, the concerned manager trying to help, the professional boundaries you've now obliterated.

The phone continues to ring. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then Rafayel does something you don't expect.

He just...watches it ring.

When the ringing stops, there's a moment of silence where you both seem to hold your breath. Then it starts again immediately—Thomas calling back, persistent as ever.

“You should—” you start, but you're not even sure what you're trying to say. Answer it? Don't answer it? Throw the phone out the window and fuck me senseless into your mattress until the sun burns out?

“Shh.” His hand slides from your thigh to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His eyes are searching yours—dark and conflicted and desperate. “Just...give me a second.”

“A second for what?”

“To decide if I'm going to be smart…or selfish.” The phone is still ringing in his hand. He looks at it, then back at you—at your flushed face, your parted lips, the way you're still trembling in his arms. You watch something change in his expression.

“I've spent six months being smart about you. Six months not saying anything. Not touching you the way I wanted to. Being professional.” He laughs, but there's no humor in it. “And where did that get me? Twenty minutes of torture watching you need me and not being able to do anything about it.”

“Rafayel—”

He declines the call.

Your breath catches.

Then he powers the phone off completely and tosses it onto the couch behind him like it personally offended him.

“What are you doing?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving.

“Something stupid.” He turns back to you, and there's conflict written all over his face. “Something I might regret.”

“The doctor—”

“I know.” His voice is rough, edged with desperation. “I know this is wrong. I know I should wait until tomorrow when you're clearheaded and can make this choice without cologne clouding your judgment." His forehead drops to yours. “I know all of that.”

“Rafayel—”

“Tell me no. Please—tell me no.” His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. “Tell me to turn the phone back on and let the doctor in. Tell me to be responsible. Tell me right now. Because I’ve been fighting every impulse to be selfish with you from the moment you walked out in that dress, and I don’t think I want to win anymore.”

You should tell him no. You should be the rational one now, since he’s clearly given up on it.

But instead, you whisper: “I don’t want you to be responsible.”

Something in him finally breaks open.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is desperate, consuming—nothing like the restraint he's shown all night. His hand tightens in your hair, angling your head as he takes and takes and takes. His tongue strokes yours like he's been starving for it, like all those minutes of holding back have condensed into this single moment. You gasp and he uses it, deepening the kiss until you forget how to think, forget how to breathe, forget everything except the taste of him and the way his body presses into yours like he's trying to fuse you together.

His arm around your waist crushes you closer to keep you steady—or maybe to make sure you can't escape. The scent of him is everywhere now, overwhelming, but it's different when he's kissing you. Less maddening, more grounding. Like this is what your body has been screaming for all along, like you had come home to something you didn't know you'd lost.

“Fuck,” he gasps against your lips, pulling back just enough to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, eyes still closed. “Fuck, I tried. I really tried.”

“I know.” Your hands find his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. “I know.”

“You're still going to hate me tomorrow.” But he's already kissing you again, softer this time, like he’s committing the shape of your mouth to memory.

“I won't.” You kiss him back with everything you have. “I promise I won't.”

His hands slide down your sides to your back, fingers finding the zipper of your dress.

“I need you to understand something.”

He pauses, toying with the zipper tab between his fingers. “This isn't just me giving in to what you need right now. This is me being greedy.”

He pulls the zipper down slowly—not hesitating, but savoring. “This is me taking what I've wanted for months.”

The dress loosens and falls, pooling at your feet. His hands find your newly bare spine immediately, splaying wide across your skin like he needs to touch as much of you as possible.

“So tomorrow, when you remember this—I need you to know it wasn't just about helping you through the fragrance. It was about me wanting you. All of you.”

“I know,” you whisper, chest tight at the raw honesty in his voice. “I want this too. I want you.”

“Good.” His smile is soft, almost shy, before it turns wicked. “Because I'm not letting you go after this.”

Then, in one smooth movement that makes you yelp, he stands and hauls you over his shoulder like you’re weightless.

“Rafayel!” You're laughing despite yourself, the sudden shift so perfectly him. “What are you—”

He swats your ass playfully as he heads toward his bedroom. “Being romantic. Can't you tell?”

You smack his ass right back, harder. “This is your idea of romance?”

“Better than your idea, which is apparently assault and battery.” But his teasing trails off as he slides you down his body, and suddenly neither of you is laughing anymore.

Your feet touch the ground just as the back of your knees hit the bed, and then he's easing you down onto the mattress, crowding you with his body. His arms cage you in on either side, and there's no teasing in his expression anymore.

“Stop staring,” you whisper, suddenly self-conscious under the intensity of his gaze.

“Absolutely not.” His hands span your waist, tracing patterns on your bare skin. “Do you know how many sketches I have of you hidden away? Your profile when you're standing guard. The way you bite your lip when you're thinking. That little furrow you get between your brows when I'm being difficult.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it now until he soothes the space between your brows with his thumb. “That’s the one.”

His other hand traces your ribs so tenderly. “But none of them compare to this. To you, here with me, real and perfect and mine.”

Your breath halts, something in your chest cracking open at the confession, the claim. “Show me,” you whisper. “Tomorrow. Show me all of them.”

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, voice rough. He leans in, brushing his lips across your jaw. “I'll show you everything.”

You reach for the waistband of his boxers. “But right now, I need you to stop talking and take these off. Immediately.”

“So demanding.” But he's already moving, hooking his thumbs in the band and pushing them down. “I love it.”

Your eyes follow the movement, watching as he kicks them away, and—

“Wow.”

It’s almost annoying how perfect he is. Of course even his cock is beautiful, thick and flushed and beaded with precum. For a second, you understand the artist’s mind—you want to draw each vein by hand, capture the slight curve of it in permanent ink, and frame it in gold.

“Wow? I pour my heart out, and that's what you give me? You should know that I'm sensitive—”

You ignore him, reaching eagerly for his shaft, but he catches your wrist before you can touch. “Uh-uh. Not yet. Fair's fair, cutie.” His fingers twist around the black lace of your underwear. “These too.”

“Still staring,” you point out as you lift your hips to help him, but there's no real complaint in your voice.

“Can't help it.” His hands hover between your thighs for a moment, like he's not sure he's allowed to touch. “You're—”

“Rafayel.” You grab his wrist and guide his hand to where you need him most. “Touch me. Please.”

That breaks whatever hesitation he had left.

“I can't believe—” His two fingers slide effortlessly across your soaked slit, teasing, testing, worshiping. He buries his face in your neck, and you feel more than hear the way his breath catches, how he's fighting back a moan. “Perfect. So fucking perfect.”

“More. Touch me more,” you murmur, hips rolling into his touch. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“Wasn't planning on it.” His thumb finds your clit and circles slowly, watching your face intently. “Tell me what you like. I want to know everything.”

You're about to respond when he slides a finger inside you, and your words dissolve into a moan.

“That,” he murmurs, doing it again. “Definitely doing more of that.”

“Smug—” You try to glare at him, but can't quite manage it. “You're being smug.”

“I'm being attentive.” He adds another finger, and you arch into his hand. “There's a difference.”

The cologne's effects have you hypersensitive—every touch feels like lightning, every stroke of his fingers sending fireworks down your spine. You're dimly aware that you're making desperate sounds, grinding against his hand shamelessly, but you can't bring yourself to care. All you can focus on is his scent surrounding you, his fingers inside you, the heat of his gaze as he watches you come undone.

“Rafayel—” His name comes out broken, uninhibited, and you feel his cock twitch against your thigh at the sound.

“Oh, I like that.” His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your entire body tense. “Say it again.”

“Rafayel, please, I need—ah—”

“Need what? Use your words, Miss Bodyguard.” His thumb continues circling your clit as his two fingers fuck into you, and you nearly sob. “Come on, you're usually so good at bossing me around.”

Despite the haze of pleasure, you hook your leg around his and flip your positions, Rafayel now on his back underneath you. You straddle his hips, one hand coming up to wrap lightly around his throat.

“You're going to regret saying that,” you murmur, thumb stroking over his pulse point as you settle your weight on him.

“Oh, fuck—”

“That's what I thought.” You apply the barest pressure and watch his breath stutter.

“Actually, I am very smug about this. This is extremely hot. You're extremely hot. I'm having a great time—”

Before you can think twice, you reach for where your panties lie beside you, soaked through and forgotten on the sheets. Gathering the black lace in your palm, you push it into Rafayel’s mouth.

“You really don't know when to shut up, do you?”

He makes a pleading sound, hips bucking up in search of yours, and you can feel how desperately hard he is beneath you.

“That's better.” You lean close, lips brushing his ear. You press the lace against his tongue with two fingers. He closes his lips around them, eyes fluttering shut as he sucks greedily at the pleasure-slicked fabric. “So much better when you're quiet.”

His response is muffled, but you can feel him smile around your fingers. The smile just as quickly morphs into a groan when you take his cock in your hand, the length practically dripping with your combined need.

“Mmm,” you hum, stroking slowly from base to tip, savoring the pleading noises that escape his throat, the way his body trembles under your touch. “You’re being so good for me, aren't you?”

You align him with your entrance, smirking when he curses as you glide the head of his cock teasingly through your swollen folds.

“Are you going to behave?” You pull the panties out to give him a chance to speak, transfixed by the thin line of saliva that drips down his chin in its wake. “Or do I need to keep you quiet?”

“Behave?” His breath comes rough and uneven as he arches a brow, the playful submission vanishing from his expression entirely. His hands find your hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there. “Where’s the fun in that?”

In one brutal thrust, he closes the distance, pushing inside until his hips are flush against yours. You cry out—overwhelmed by the way he fills you so completely, overcome by the look of pure, unfiltered reverence in his eyes. He stares at you like he’s seeing color for the first time, watches you with open-mouthed wonder as you take his cock like it was made just for this moment.

“How?” It comes out almost like a complaint, but the word trembles with awe. “How am I supposed to survive you?”

He stays still like that for a long moment, unmoving, giving you time to adjust to the sheer size of him. Or maybe it’s him who needs a moment, needs to remember how to breathe when you’re looking at him like he’s painted the sky, hung every star, and given the moon its light. Like he’s your entire universe.

But you’ve waited long enough. You brace your hands against his chest and begin to ride him, chasing the friction that’s been building unbearably, clenching tight around his cock like it’s the answer to your every prayer.

“Easy, easy—” His hands lock around your waist, forcing you still. “It’s my fault you’re feeling like this, huh? So let me make you feel better.”

“This isn’t enough,” you try to pull yourself closer, but his grip on you is unrelenting. “You’re being mean.”

“Mean? Cutie, if I were being mean, you’d know it.” That wicked grin flickers back as he fucks up into you in an achingly slow rhythm. “I'm being very, very good to you right now. Can't you tell?”

You try to respond, try to come up with some clever retort, but all that comes out is a broken moan as his cock drags against your inner walls just right.

“No comeback? No smart comment about how unbearable I am?” He does it again and watches you fall apart. “Just those pretty little sounds for me?”

You manage to glare at him, but it's thoroughly undermined when you involuntarily whimper.

“Yeah, that's what I thought.” He sounds absolutely delighted with himself. “Look at you, finally speechless. I should make you feel good more often if this is what I get.”

“Rafayel—”

“There we go. That's better.” His hands guide your movements faster, finding an angle that has you trembling. “Just my name. Keep saying my name just like that.”

You can't form words anymore, just his name and pleading sounds as the tension builds higher and higher and higher. The scent is everywhere—wrapping around every limb, clawing its way inside you, lighting every nerve ending on fire, amplifying each touch beyond reason.

“It's—” You can barely get the words out, dizzy from his scent, or from him. You can’t tell the difference anymore. “It's so much—everything's too much—”

“I know, baby. I know.” His thumb finds your clit, and you bite back a scream. “Let it happen. Stop fighting it.”

And you do.

The tension pulls tighter, tighter, tighter until it finally reaches its breaking point, tearing his name from your throat like it’s the only word you’ve ever known. Wave after wave crashes through you with devastating force, drowning you, pulling you under until you can't tell where you end and he begins.

“That's it. I can feel you—you're so—shit—” He groans as you clench around him. “That's perfect—you're so fucking perfect—”

The world goes white, then dark, then fractures into a thousand glittering pieces. And through it all, there's only him, the scent of sea and something purely Rafayel enveloping you like a tide. Only this. Only the feeling of coming completely undone and being held together all at once.

But it only stokes the fire higher.

Even as you're falling apart, even as ecstasy tears through you, you need him. More of him. All of him. The pleasure only sharpens the craving, makes you ache for him in ways that feel endless and impossible to satisfy. Like he's the only air you want to breathe, the only thing that could possibly fill this emptiness—and yet having him like this only makes you need him more desperately, more completely, until the want for him becomes something laced into your bones, something that pulses with every heartbeat.

“More, Rafayel,” you hear yourself beg. “I need more.”

“More? Still?” His laugh is delighted even in his wrecked state. “I've created a monster. A greedy, insatiable monster.”

“Your monster.” You don’t mean for it to come out as breathless as it does.

“Damn right you are. My greedy, beautiful monster,” he says with a kiss to your temple. He sits up, taking you with him, and shifts you toward the edge of the bed. “And lucky for you, I take very good care of what’s mine.”

He positions you both so you're facing his full-length mirror across the room—him sitting on the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor, you arranged in his lap just like you were on the couch earlier. But now there's no clothing between you, nothing hiding the way you're joined, the way the two of you look wild and hungry and completely undone.

“There,” he murmurs against your ear, eyes meeting yours in the reflection. “Want you to see what I see. How pretty you look like this.”

His hand trails up your stomach to cup your breast, jaw going slack as he savors how responsive you are for him—back arching, thighs clenching, nipples hardening into stiff peaks.

“Remember when we were on the couch like this? When you were grinding on me, so fucking needy, and I was trying so damn hard to be good?”

He kneads your breast with steady hands, eyes never leaving your reflection in the mirror.

“I wondered if you'd be loud, or if I'd have to work for those sounds—” He takes your nipple between two fingers, pinching and twisting, drawing a sharp gasp out of your throat.

“Loud,” he says with satisfaction. “Good to know.”

His fingers trace up your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back to claim your mouth with his—like he suddenly remembered he had permission to kiss you, like he can't believe he wasted even a second not doing it.

“Look at us now,” he admires, rocking up into you slowly, returning your gaze to the mirror. “Look at what you’ve done to me.”

“I need to know how you look from every angle—” His lips brush your neck, teeth nipping the sensitive skin below your jaw. “In this mirror, against that wall, bent over my desk—”

Your hands grasp for the bedsheets blindly, needing something—anything—to hold onto as he bounces you up along his length, forcing his cock deeper inside you each time you sink back down.

“On your back in my sheets, on your knees with your mouth wrapped around my cock, riding me in my studio with paint on your skin—” His breathing gets hotter, heavier against your skin with each admission. “—want to learn the answers to every filthy question I've been asking myself about you since the day we met.”

“Like what?” Your voice comes out breathless, trembling as he pulls you closer.

“Would you be my model? Wearing nothing for me, letting me study every detail on this perfect little body?” He sucks a bruise into your throat, soothing the mark with a kiss. “Would you blush if I did that? If I took you surrounded by all my paintings of you?”

His eyes drop to your chest, where pink is already blooming across your skin. He hums, low and approving—but he’s not finished with you. Not yet.

“If I had you in my shower, pressed against the tiles, water running over us—would you be good and let me wash you everywhere? Or would you take control like you did earlier?”

The words alone could be your undoing, but paired with the feeling of him thrusting up into you from below, it’s almost more than you can take.

“Rafayel—” you cry, head tipping back against his shoulder as the sensation overwhelms you.

“And if I woke you up with my mouth between your legs, would you say my name the same way you did just now?”

Suddenly he's moving faster, harder, chasing something primal and desperate.

“But what I really wonder is…” His hand finds yours, prying your fingers from where they’re fisted in the bedsheet, lacing them with his. “If you'd let me keep you. If I asked you to stay—not just tonight, but really stay—would you?”

His other arm wraps around your waist, holding you against him as his movements grow more fevered.

“I can’t stop thinking about what life with you looks like. Because I want it. I want it so badly it scares me.” His thumb traces your knuckles, gentle even as the rest of him moves with urgency. "Your things everywhere, mixed up with mine. Coming home to you every single day. Falling asleep tangled together like this every night. I need to know—do you want that, too? Because I do. Gods, I do."

You can see it suddenly, so vividly it makes your throat tight. Waking up next to him. Your toothbrush next to his. Fighting over closet space and his hand reaching for yours in sleep every night. The picture he's painting isn't just beautiful—it's exactly what you've been too scared to want out loud.

“Yes.” The word rushes out like you've been holding it in. You squeeze his hand tighter, turning to meet his gaze in the mirror, needing him to see that you mean every word. “I want it, too. I want everything with you.”

His grip tightens on your hip, and you feel the rumble of approval in his chest. “I'm keeping you. You know that, right?”

“Then show me,” you challenge. “Show me I’m yours.”

Your bodies move in tandem—you rolling back as he thrusts forward, both of you chasing the same desperate need, claiming each other with every movement.

“Close—” He manages, sweat-damp forehead falling to your shoulder. “Tell me you're close. Need you to—need us to—”

Your free hand reaches back to tangle in his hair, holding him near. “Inside,” you plead without hesitation. “I need to feel you come inside me, Rafayel. I need it more than anything.”

“Yeah? You sure?” But his hips are still chasing yours, like he can't stop.

“Rafayel—please—”

His hands are shaking where they grip you. “You're sure—because I can't—I'm about to—”

“I want all of you. I need all of you.” You pull at his hair, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Give it to me, please, I need—I need you to—”

He breaks with your name on his lips, pulling you down hard against him as he comes. You follow a heartbeat later, pulsing helplessly around his cock as he spills deep inside you, filling you so perfectly, so completely. You've never felt this safe or this loved. Never knew you could feel both at once—protected and cherished, guarded and adored. Like he'd fight the world to keep you safe, then hold you gently once it was over.

The wild, uncontrollable need that's been tearing you apart all evening finally eases. The need is still there—you still want him, maybe more than before—but it feels right now. Like it's coming from you, not from some external force. The relief hits you so hard your eyes burn.

You’re crying, and you can’t even articulate why. Just that it’s over. The need is satisfied. You can breathe again.

“Hey—hey—” He shifts you in an instant, easing out carefully and gathering you against his chest. He wraps both arms around you, cradling you like he's trying to shield you from everything. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, but you can't catch your breath long enough to speak. Can't explain that nothing's wrong, that everything is finally, finally right.

“Talk to me.” His hand cups your face, thumb brushing away tears that won't stop. “Please, cutie, you're scaring me—”

“I’m okay. I’m okay, I just—” Another sob catches in your throat. “It’s finally—the ache is gone, and I can finally—”

Understanding crosses his face, followed immediately by something that looks like pain.

“Oh.” His voice cracks slightly. “Oh, baby.”

He pulls you tighter against him, holding you like you’re something precious, and you feel the exact moment his own composure breaks. A shudder runs through him, and then warmth, wetness against your hair.

“I'm sorry,” he chokes out. “Gods, I'm so sorry you had to feel like that. I'm sorry I made you wait so long—”

“Rafayel—”

“I watched you suffer all night.” His arms tighten around you until you can barely breathe, and you can hear the tears thick in his voice. “Watched you beg me, and I kept trying to be responsible, kept telling myself to wait, and you were in pain the whole damn time—”

“Don't.” You burrow closer to him, your tears soaking into his shoulder. “You were trying to do the right thing.”

“I know, but you still suffered.” His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. “So I'm going to spend—I'm going to spend as long as it takes making it up to you. Every single day. However you need.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, chest tight at the tenderness in his tear-streaked face. “You don't have to—”

“I want to.” He brushes away your tears even as his own continue falling. “I want to take care of you. Always. If you’ll let me.”

“Rafayel…” Fresh tears spill over, but they’re different now, softer, born from something warm blooming in your chest.

“Is that a yes?” A smile lights up his face, real and unguarded. His fingers trail leisurely down your spine. “Because if not, I can be very persuasive. Give me five minutes to make my case—”

“Your methods of persuasion are very transparent,” you murmur, but you're grinning right back at him. “But yes. Always yes.”

You poke him in the ribs, smile turning mischievous. “So, Mr. Persuasive—what's the story for Thomas?”

“The truth?” He tilts his head as he considers it. “‘Sorry I ignored your calls, Thomas, but I was busy defiling my bodyguard’?”

“Don’t say defiling.”

“You’re right. How about, ‘Forgive me for sending you to voicemail, but my bodyguard was having a sexual emergency that required immediate hands-on treatment’?”

“That’s worse.”

“‘Apologies, Thomas, I was balls deep in—’”

“Rafayel!”

He laughs, bright and ruthless. “What? You want me to lie to my own manager?”

“I want you to have some tact.”

“Tact is boring. Besides—” He kisses your temple, still grinning. “—surely he already knows. His ‘my artist is being an idiot’ sense is very finely tuned.”

“Oh, god.” You bury your head in his chest. “He’s going to kill you, isn’t he?”

“Worth it.” He presses more kisses everywhere—your brow, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Besides, you'll protect me. It's literally your job.”

“My job description doesn't include protecting you from the consequences of your own terrible decisions.”

“It should. I make a lot of terrible decisions. Like spraying a mystery cologne bottle that's been collecting dust in my bathroom for years, apparently.” He grins against your skin. “Which I am absolutely keeping, by the way.”

“What? No! We’re throwing it away. Far, far away, where no one in this universe will be able to smell it ever again.”

“Are you kidding? You know how many months I’ve been trying to get you to look at me the way you did tonight?” His smile is so infectious, you can’t help but grin, too. “That cologne is going in a safe.”

“Rafayel…”

“Fine, fine. We’ll throw it away.” He pauses. “After I find out where it came from.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun." You lift your chin, sticking your tongue out at him playfully. "You literally just—”

“Oh, I remember." His thumb catches your bottom lip, pressing gently where your tongue just was. "Trust me, I’ll be remembering every second until next time.”

“Next time?” He says it so easily, like it's inevitable. Like there's no question there will be a next time, and a time after that, and forever. The certainty of it should scare you, but all you feel is anticipation.

“Next time.” He shifts, reaching for the blanket and pulling it up over both of you. “You like me. You admitted it. No take backs.”

"Fine, no take backs." You smile against his skin. “Love you, you insufferable brat.”

“Yeah?” He tucks the blanket more securely around your shoulders, voice softening. “Love you too, cutie. Even when you're chasing me around my studio like a woman possessed.”

“Especially then,” you correct sleepily.

“Especially then,” he agrees with a quiet laugh.

You drift off to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and his fingers drawing lazy circles on your back—no fever, no pain, just him—and everything finally feels the way it should.