𖦏₊ ⊹ <series summary> In your universe, Sylus is your beloved character in a game you like to play. In his universe, Sylus acquires a mirror of the game… and sees you playing. </>
𖦏₊ ⊹ <series notes> Sylus x Nonmc. Yearning. Sylus and MC are not in a relationship. Current chapter wc 500~ </>
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A gold ring embedded with a row of tiny diamonds sparkles in between his thumb and forefinger as Sylus turns it about, catching the light from different angles.
It holds the attention of his crow, currently perched on the wide desk in front of him, transferring digital cargo to the computer in his office.
He tosses the ring upwards once the transfer is complete. Mephisto gives a happy caw, catching the shiny ring with his beak, flapping away to admire and stash it in a hidden nest.
Sylus huffs in amusement before turning serious as he looks at a projected holographic screen. The contents of the hunter’s watch are on display.
Missions
Report Logs
Health Status
Map Scan
Rescue Center
Wanderer Information
Metaflux Detector
He shifts forward in his chair, ready to meticulously sift through information, leaving no folder unopened.
The screen swiftly moves as he swipes and scrolls, going through data after data. His sharp eyes are on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary, anything that could explain his linkage’s odd behavior.
After opening everything, however, nothing has come up.
Records, updates, messages. Everything seems to be just what any regular hunter would carry.
He slowly taps his finger on the table. He exhales as he makes a few changes on the screen, then scrolls through the files again.
And there it is, a hidden folder. He hums as he opens it to see that it contains only one thing.
It looks to be an app, but unlabeled. The icon shows a face of a certain purple-haired man resting his chin on his hand. Sylus pauses, eyes narrowing as he taps it open. A window pops up, the program launches, and a logo appears.
“Love… and deepspace?” Frowning at the odd name, he presses on the bottom area that says “enter game”. A loading bar shows, and he waits for a moment as it quickly reaches 100%.
Cautious curiosity is immediately replaced by sharp alertness when he next sees—
Himself.
Reclining on a sofa chair. Inside a familiar-looking cafe.
In the very same black dress shirt with red streaks that he usually likes to wear. The belt. The pants. The polished shoes.
All exactly the same as his.
“What… is this?” Sylus frowns with furrowed brows, tampering down his hackles as he stares at this version of himself for a few good seconds.
He continues to assess the screen, his eyes darting around the edges to look at all the surrounding icons. Agenda, events, wish, shop, main story…
He tries to open one of the icons, then all of them. Nothing happens.
He hovers over his own image, then taps on it. Still nothing.
Just the same animation of himself in the cafe: legs crossed, head slightly shifting from time to time, finger tapping on the armrest as if waiting for something.
Waiting for what?
Or perhaps… waiting for who?
Sylus leans back on his chair, arms crossed, as he stares at this absurd game.
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𖦏 <an> When I first had this story idea, I didn’t think how odd it would actually be for Sylus to see the game… sorry Sy T_T But forge ahead, he might like the game soon enough hehe. Because. :3 </>
🐦⬛ Thoughts about Sylus with a shy, timid, anxious mc
hurt/comfort, gn mc reader
wc: 870
I'm used to sneaking around my home quite a bit, always nervous about running into someone. I tense when I hear the wood floor creaking outside my bedroom or I see a shadow pass by my door. When I'm in public, I often avoid making eye contact with strangers.
So I was thinking about an mc like this staying with Sylus for the first time. He's been abrasive and rough, terrifying you in your first few interactions and leaving a horrific first impression. Even if he's started treating you a bit more nicely, staying with him in his home would be an unnerving experience. And I feel like the easiest way for someone like me to cope with that would be to learn his patterns and use them to avoid him like the plague. To know when and where he is during certain times of night and avoid those areas of the house.
Of course, Sylus can be a little emotionally constipated and would have no idea how to approach a situation like this. He'd notice for sure, though. Your quiet watchfulness, the way you startle when he walks into a room you're in, the way you walk through his halls as quietly as possible. How you'll approach the kitchen for a snack or some water, only to see him there, causing you to freeze in place and slowly slink away if you think he hasn't noticed you. I imagine this would hurt, seeing you so afraid of him. It would reinforce his view of himself as a monster, I think.
He wouldn't push. He's not one to push, especially not with something like this. He'd make sure to treat you gently, offering you little rewards for spending time with him. Maybe the chef starts preparing your favorites, or you wake up to a little gift box with a necklace inside on your nightstand. He'd be so proud and happy to see you walking around his home wearing it on the daily. A little sign of his ownership, as well as proof that he knows your taste and chose well.
I think things would change once you have to spend more time with him and eventually realize he's really not all that scary. Maybe you go to an auction with him and hold his hand the whole time, feeling safest while hiding behind him rather than conversing with the other people there.
You get caught alone with a shady man who's a bit too pushy while Sylus is doing some negotiating on his own, but he notices quickly and drops everything to come to your aid right away. He easily scares the man off and takes you aside to make sure you're alright.
Overwhelmed and overstimulated, you start to cry a little, and instead of freezing up awkwardly or telling you to calm down, he coaxes you into his arms, rubbing your back and soothing you gently. When you try to insist you're okay to continue with the auction, he sees through your lie, taking you back home even while you protest, not letting you apologize for 'ruining his night'.
This is a turning point in your relationship. Having direct experience with him, learning that he's not going to hurt you or lash out, and also that he's actually quite fun to hang out with! You hesitate a bit out of habit for a little while, but you no longer shy away from the spaces he occupies. Instead of tensing when he enters a room you're in, you start to perk up, hoping that he'll talk to you.
The first time you actively seek out his company would be incredibly meaningful to Sylus. He does his best to act nonchalant to avoid spooking you and scaring you away, but he can't hide how his eyes widen in surprise when you approach him. He teases you a little to keep the mood light, but he treats you so incredibly kindly, engaging with what you show him and making sure you feel at ease.
Eventually, you begin to bloom, unveiling new parts of yourself and truly being happy much more often. Gone is the nervous little kitty hiding in the shadows and jumping at every little noise; now you're playful and upbeat and not afraid to make noise or take up space in his home. You've befriended the twins and Mephisto as well, and have even gained the courage to play pranks on him alongside them.
Idk, as someone who's never really had a place that feels like 'home', having somewhere that I can fully relax and let go and spend time with those I'm closest with would mean so so much to me.
Sylus would be so proud to be the person who changes your life's tone to be one of happiness and comfort. He consistently treats you with patience, kindness, and warmth, helping you learn that you no longer need to be afraid. He watches you thrive both mentally and physically, surrounded by a support system that you've never had before. Always being there to catch you when you stumble or fall.
Who would have guessed that the big bad leader of Onychinus is such an expert in caring for stray cats?
synopsis: you can come to sylus anytime you need him. also, some of his men need better training!
tags: fluff/comfort, anxious reader, onychinus guard is dismissive of reader, reader feels like a burden, sylus has none of it, vague threats against anyone who keeps him from his partner, tiny bit suggestive at the end
word count: 1.4k
one, two, three…
another futile count to four.
no matter how many times you guide the air in and out of your lungs, your heart still thrashes in your chest.
on the nightstand, the clock reads 3:06 a.m.
where was he right now?
in times like this, there was only one person who could soothe you. you hadn’t seen much of sylus this week, but the chances of getting through this without him were slim. you could only hope he hadn’t left for the night.
hugging your sides, you pad through the base’s chilly halls, the echo of gruff voices growing louder with each step. above them all, one seems to soar—the one that sings you to sleep through thunderstorms, that greets you at every dawn.
sylus.
you nearly trip as you round the final corner that separates you. but when you finally reach the room where his meetings are held, the hulking figure looming outside gives you pause.
“you need something?”
he’s one of sylus’s men—bruce, if you remember right—but you haven’t spoken to him much. surely, though, he’s seen you around?
swallowing thickly, you wring your hands out in front of you. “i was looking for sylus. i was hoping i could talk to him.”
if he notices the tremor in your body, he doesn’t say anything. “boss is busy right now. you can come back when he’s done.”
when he’s done?
“um…are you sure?” you protest weakly. “he usually doesn’t care if—”
“i’m sure, alright?” for some reason, he sounds exasperated. “look, this deal is important to us, and he doesn’t need any distractions. just wait for him to finish.”
the words bounce in your brain. they feel wrong. you feel wrong. but if your presence ever sabotaged his work, you’d blame yourself for weeks.
biting your lip, you nod once and turn on your heel, dragging your feet back to your shared bedroom.
you’ve been hugging your knees for what feels like hours when the door creaks open. almost immediately, the scent of home fills the room, wrapping around you like the hug you needed earlier.
“sylus?” you croak, pushing yourself up on the mattress. “are…are you free now?”
he pauses for a moment, then flicks the nearest lamp on its lowest setting. in the warm, reddish light, you see his elevated eyebrow. “what do you mean?”
“i know you were in a meeting. i almost went to see you, but the guard said i shouldn't disturb you. so i’ve been waiting here.”
“disturb,” he repeats, like the word is foreign on his tongue. “you…disturb…me?”
his head is angled to the side, like a puppy’s during its first encounter with the bathtub. you decide against telling him this, only nodding instead.
as soon as you do, the shadows of snarl creep onto his face. “why were you coming to see me?”
“i was just anxious, i guess. it wasn’t that much worse than usual.” the back of your neck warms, and you scratch it nervously. “since you usually help me, i thought maybe you could this time, too. but it’s okay,” you rush. “i feel better now.”
he shuts his eyes, letting out a three-second sigh. then, he comes to the bed, sits down beside you, and tucks you into his side. “he’s fired.”
startled, you raise your head as much as his bear paw of a hand allows. “what?”
“the guard you ran into. he’ll be gone by morning,” he says simply.
your heart hammers in your chest again—this time, out of guilt. “but—i’m sure it was a misunderstanding. he was only trying to make sure your meeting went well, and i could have come in at a bad time, and—”
the wry curve of his lips tells you he’s not convinced. “alright, sweetie. let’s say i keep him on. this first time, you’re upset, and he thinks it’s not worth telling me. what happens next, then? you’re hurt, and i don’t find out until it’s too late?”
he takes your silence as a sign to continue.
“if you were in danger and someone kept you from coming to me,” he begins, voice dipping in with conviction, “i’d do much, much worse than fire them. consider this a blessing, sweetie. you’re doing the man a favor.”
you chew your lip and fiddle with your hands, unable to fully believe him. “i guess.”
gently, he takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting your head until your eyes meet. “i want you to see me anytime, no matter the reason. even if you don't have one. your problems are my problems, and my time is yours.”
you can’t hold his gaze for very long—you never can. but when you wrap your arms around his torso, he knows he’s gotten through to you.
“good. now, why don’t you tell me what you were so anxious about?”
you stiffen against him, but only momentarily. “i don’t really want to.”
he lets out a bewildered scoff. “hmm?”
“you’re here now, and i’m happy. i want to focus on that instead,” you say, shoving your face into his chest.
he lets his body buckle slightly from the force, his rich chuckle setting your mind at ease. “alright, then. how was the rest of your day?”
a week later, a taller, bigger, much nicer guard knocks on the dark oak door. nodding your head in thanks, you enter after a moment’s preparation, and the mix of deep voices falls to a hush.
the meeting is over. you know that as soon as sylus’s eyes find yours, softening from warmth and relief. “thank you, morgan,” he calls to the new guard. then, he cuts his eyes across the sleek round table. “i’ll have the room now. follow up in three days.”
scraping their chairs against the hardwood floors, the other men nod their heads and clear out. once the door shuts behind them, sylus turns his chair toward you and pats his thigh. you rush into his open arms without a second thought.
“hi, sweetie,” he murmurs into your hair. “what is it?”
heat rushes to your cheeks. you bite the inside of your left one. “i…”
humming inquisitively, he gives an encouraging squeeze to the side of your waist. “you…?”
“i…am bored.”
pulling back a bit, sylus examines you carefully, checking to see if you’re serious. when all you do is stare back at him, fighting the urge to cover your face, a snort builds to a wheeze, then to a bark of laughter. “and we can't have that, can we?” he teases, eyes twinkling like roses in starlight.
sheepish, you shake your head and try to double down. “we can’t. my problems are your problems.”
“they are. you’re a quick learner,” he rumbles, gently bringing your foreheads together. “how lucky is it that i’m bored, too? had that meeting gone any longer, i would’ve had to remove our honored guests from the base.”
shifting on his lap, you squint down at him. “by kindly asking them to leave, right?”
“something like that,” he replies, and you try to suppress the image of fifteen bodies being flown out the front door. “in any case, what should we do instead?”
“well, there’s this rainforest documentary i want to watch. or we could keep watching that vampire drama, or we could play that game i beat you at last time—”
“i have no memory of that.”
“I do.” you steamroll over him. “or you could walk me through the armory again, or…”
as you spew out options, you’re almost oblivious to the way he maneuvers you in his hold. soon enough, though, you’re intensely aware of the kisses he scatters over your cheeks, stealing your focus until your lips tug into a frown. “you’re not listening, are you?”
“of course i am,” he whispers, hands roaming over your skin. “your ideas are great, kitten. it’s just…there’s no need to rush. why don't we start going down the list, say, an hour from now?”
you can barely nod before he pulls you into a searing kiss, any and all boredom going up in smoke. you don’t know how long you stay there with him, touching until your bodies blur together. an hour, two—you’re not sure, you don’t care.
with the room to yourselves and him in your arms, you have all the time in the world.
♡︎ synopsis: The veil lifts, revealing the secrets that had been blooming in the dark.
♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus, vampire!Caleb x fem!reader (separately and together)
⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠
♡︎ cw: mentions of blood, injuries, people being imprisoned situation (a vampire is keeping them as his regular blood supply. didn't go too much into detail tho)
♡︎ word count: 5.7k
♡︎ a/n: I can't believe I'm finally posting the 'behind the curtain' chapter! I've been thinking about it probably since I posted chapter 3. I had no intentions of adding Caleb then (I think he hasn't been reintroduced in the game yet), so I'm glad it kinda worked out. Here we get to see what the men were up to since the beginning of the story.
divider by @diviniyae
The storm had already swallowed the forest by the time Xavier found you.
Rain crashed violently through the trees, and somewhere deeper in the woods, thunder rolled hard enough to shake the branches. The sound that drew his attention toward you had been small in comparison – a yelp followed by a dull thud.
For a moment, he simply stared.
You looked fragile lying there in the rain. One wrong step and the storm had knocked you unconscious.
Xavier crouched beside you. The sight seemed to unsettle him, though whether it was the blood running from your temple or the simple fact that a human had wandered this far into the forest alone was impossible to tell.
A quiet sigh left him then, barely audible.
“Poor little bunny.”
When he lifted you into his arms, your head rolled weakly against his shoulder. A faint sound escaped you – half-whine, half-confused protest – and your eyes fluttered open for barely a second.
He smiled despite himself at your delirious question ‘are you my prince?’ before unconsciousness claimed you again.
*
“The living room looks dreadful.”
Sylus stood near the entrance with his arms crossed, staring into the dust-covered room with visible displeasure. The sharp line between his brows deepened further as his gaze traveled across the old white sheets covering the furniture.
Rafayel stepped briefly beside him, a small wooden box of art supplies balanced against his hip. He peered inside only long enough to grimace.
“Yeah,” he murmured, already backing away. “I’m not helping you with that.”
The comment earned him a low scoff from Sylus as Rafayel disappeared farther down the corridor.
Rafayel eventually drifted toward the kitchen, stopping in the doorway when he spotted Zayne standing at the counter. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Sorting herbs.” Zayne barely glanced up from the collection of paper bags and half-filled glass jars spread across the counters. “You’re welcome to help.”
Rafayel adjusted the box in his arms. “No, thank you.”
A quiet chuckle escaped Zayne before he returned to his work.
Rafayel wandered toward the window instead, watching water stream heavily down the panes.
“I wanted to go outside,” he said after a while. “There’s a boutique not far from here.”
“In this weather?” Zayne asked flatly.
Rafayel sighed dramatically at the storm outside. “Well, I’m overdue for new clothes.”
“But when I asked you before we left whether you needed something from the tailor, you said no.” Sylus appeared beside him, his voice carrying a teasing tone. “Now you want to run through a thunderstorm for something off-the-rack?”
Rafayel rolled his eyes when Sylus poked sharply at his side.
The exchange might have continued longer if not for the sudden shift in Rafayel’s expression. His attention drifted back toward the rain-darkened windows.
“Xavier should’ve returned by now.” The ease in his voice was replaced by quiet concern.
The silence that followed Rafayel’s words lingered heavily through the kitchen. Neither Sylus nor Zayne offered a response. Sylus remained standing near the doorway with his arms still crossed, while Zayne’s hands slowed over the glass jars spread across the counter, though neither man looked away from the storm beyond the glass.
Then, somewhere beyond the corridor, came the strained sound of the front door trying to open against the wind.
Sylus was the first to move. His posture straightened instantly before he crossed the hallway in long strides.
The moment Sylus pulled the door wider, the atmosphere inside the mansion shifted completely.
Xavier stood on the other side drenched from head to toe, rainwater streaming from his coat and dripping from strands of silver hair plastered against his forehead. One arm held a fishing bucket while a woven basket hung from the other, a fishing rod resting against his shoulder. Yet none of those things were what drew the eye first.
It was you.
Your body rested limply in his arms, soaked clothing clinging heavily to your skin while your head lolled weakly against his shoulder. Mud stained almost everything – your boots, your coat, your hair.
For the first time that evening, Rafayel looked genuinely startled.
His usual teasing ease disappeared entirely from his face as he stepped away from the kitchen doorway, gaze darting quickly between Xavier and the unconscious figure in his arms. Even Sylus, still holding the front door open against the storm, seemed briefly caught off guard by the sight standing before him.
Xavier did not explain.
“Where’s Zayne?” He asked, his breathing heavy.
“Kitchen,” Sylus answered immediately.
Xavier moved at once, wet footsteps echoing sharply through the corridor as he carried you deeper into the mansion, abandoning the fishing rod near the entrance without so much as a glance back. Water trailed behind him across the old wooden floors while the bucket hanging from his arm knocked once against the wall as he turned sharply toward the kitchen.
By then, Zayne had already turned around.
His eyes widened for only the briefest moment as they landed on Xavier approaching with you in his arms, before his posture shifted completely and the last traces of quiet domesticity vanished from the mansion.
“Put her on the table.”
Xavier obeyed without hesitation.
The old kitchen table groaned softly under your weight as he lowered you carefully onto the dark wood. Rainwater gathered around you, dripping from your clothes onto the aged surface.
The fishing bucket slipped from his arm first, soon after followed by the woven basket, both landing heavily beside one of the chairs.
He then stepped back toward the table almost at once, drawn immediately to your side again.
Zayne had already leaned over you by then, his attention settling fully onto the wound near your temple. His fingers moved carefully through rain-soaked strands of hair, searching for the source of the blood. For several long seconds, the kitchen filled with nothing but the storm outside and the sounds of examination – soaked fabric shifting, Zayne moving around you, Xavier’s heavier breathing gradually slowing.
Then Zayne finally looked up.
His gaze landed briefly on Sylus and Rafayel still standing near the kitchen doorway, both of them unusually silent now.
“Warm water,” Zayne said. “A bucket, soap, towels.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the upper floor before returning to them. “And prepare one of the bedrooms. Get the fireplace going. She needs dry clothes and heat before the cold settles in properly.”
Sylus moved first, already turning toward the back corridors of the mansion before Zayne had fully finished speaking, his footsteps disappearing quickly into the depths of the house.
Rafayel lingered – only for a moment.
The stormlight spilling through the windows caught strangely against his face as his gaze drifted toward you lying motionless on the old wooden table. Whatever expression crossed his features remained difficult to name – shock, perhaps.
Then he finally turned away as well, disappearing upstairs without another word.
Zayne’s attention returned to you immediately, fingers pressing gently near the wound at your temple while Xavier remained standing close enough beside him.
“Alcohol,” Zayne said without looking away. “And bandages.”
Xavier moved instantly.
He crossed toward one of the cabinets, hands already searching through drawers and shelves. Somewhere upstairs, muffled footsteps echoed through the mansion while thunder rolled heavily beyond the walls.
*
The kitchen no longer resembled the quiet room it had been less than an hour ago. Wet clothes lay folded across nearby counters beside jars of herbs and hastily abandoned bundles of dried plants, while the scent of medicinal alcohol had long since mixed with steam rising from the basin of hot water resting near the edge of the table.
You remained unconscious through all of it.
Bandages had already been wrapped carefully around the wound near your temple, the bleeding finally slowed to little more than faint traces staining the white cloth. Towels had been arranged under you to keep the old wooden table from soaking through entirely. Warmth slowly returned to your body thanks to Zayne’s careful hands.
His sleeves had been rolled to his forearms as he carefully cleaned away rainwater, mud, and the lingering traces of blood from your skin, moving your arms and legs only when necessary.
Across the room, Xavier stood near the counters with his back turned toward the table, having changed into dry clothes, though the ends of his silver hair still remained damp against the collar. His gaze drifted absently across the kitchen counters crowded with spare linens, herbs, and your basket he had brought with him.
Only the occasional sound of water shifting softly inside the basin interrupted the silence between them now, accompanied by distant thunder rolling somewhere beyond the forest.
Then, eventually, Zayne spoke.
“You’re aware this was reckless.”
For a moment, Xavier said nothing.
His shoulders rose slightly before slowly easing again.
“Well,” he answered at last, “what should I have done?”
A pause followed.
“I know each one of us would’ve done the same.”
Zayne did not respond.
After several more moments passed Xavier glanced back.
His eyes drifted toward the table only for a second, concern surfacing visibly across his features at the sight of you lying there on the towels and bandages before he quickly looked away again, his attention returning toward the scattered linens near the counter.
“Is she going to be alright?”
Zayne placed the sponge back into the basin before answering.
“She’ll likely develop a fever,” he said calmly. “A day or two, perhaps longer depending on how hard the fall was on her body.”
Carefully, he adjusted one of the towels before continuing.
“But it’s manageable.”
Another brief silence followed before his gaze lifted briefly toward the bandages wrapped around your head.
“The concussion concerns me more.” His tone remained steady, clinical. “If she wakes soon, there shouldn’t be lasting damage. Her memory should remain intact.”
An exhale left Xavier’s lips, though the concern remained on his face.
*
Upstairs, one of the mansion’s forgotten bedrooms slowly shed the last traces of abandonment under the warmth of the fire Sylus had lit not long ago.
Rafayel finished smoothing the last crease from the fresh bedsheets before stepping back, his gaze lingering on the bed – his mind seemed elsewhere entirely.
Nearby, Sylus moved around the room with a feather duster in one hand, clearing away the last thin layer of dust gathered atop the dresser and table near the fireplace.
Sylus broke the silence first.
“So,” he said, adjusting one of the candles near the nightstand, “I suppose now you have one more excuse to visit that boutique.”
Rafayel let out a soft breath through his nose that almost resembled a laugh.
“I suppose I do.”
His voice remained quiet, distracted. He glanced once more toward the bed before lowering his gaze, fingers absently brushing over the edge of the fresh sheets.
Rafayel’s brows pulled together faintly as his gaze drifted toward the rain-streaked windows.
“What was she doing out there alone?”
“In weather like this,” he continued after a moment, almost as though speaking more to himself than Sylus, “most people would’ve turned back long before reaching those woods.”
A frown formed on Sylus’s face, but he remained silent.
Neither man spoke again for a while after that. They simply continued preparing the bedroom in silence while downstairs, beyond the old floorboards, the rest of the mansion slowly began rearranging itself around you.
*
By the time all four men returned to the kitchen, the storm had calmed down. Darkness had settled fully around the mansion by then, swallowing the woods outside.
The kitchen had returned to order as well.
The towels soaked with rainwater and diluted blood had disappeared, the basin emptied, the old wooden table wiped clean once more as though the chaos from earlier that evening had never touched it at all. Only the faint scent of antiseptic in the warm air hinted otherwise.
Zayne had resumed the task interrupted hours earlier – sorting dried herbs from paper bags into glass jars. The repetitive motion seemed almost meditative along with the quiet rhythm of rain outside, though the slight tension in his posture betrayed that his thoughts remained elsewhere entirely.
Nearby, Sylus leaned against a kitchen counter with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression unreadable. Across from him, Xavier sat at the kitchen table in silence, one forearm resting against the wood while exhaustion lingered visibly in his posture despite the warmth finally surrounding him. Rafayel was seated beside him, leaned back in the chair as he gazed out the window.
“Did you make sure nobody followed you?” Sylus asked, looking at Xavier.
Xavier nodded once.
Sylus’s gaze lingered on him for another moment before drifting toward the darkened windows.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she was bait.”
Sylus continued when no one said anything, “A young woman alone in the middle of the woods during a thunderstorm?” His brows pulled together further. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Xavier lifted his gaze then, tired but steady.
“I made sure no one was behind me.” His voice remained quiet. “I checked several times before reaching the mansion.”
For the first time since sitting down, Rafayel finally spoke as well.
“I searched the grounds from upstairs.” His gaze still fixed on the window. “I didn’t see anyone either.”
Sylus fell silent after that, though he didn’t seem reassured entirely. The tension remained visible in his shoulders and the distant look settling in his eyes, the look of someone already calculating possibilities several steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
Eventually, he exhaled through his nose.
“I’ll be very surprised if a hunter doesn’t appear at our door sooner or later.”
The soft clink of glass interrupted the statement as Zayne closed one of the final jars and set it beside the others lined across the counter.
“Even if someone unwelcome does appear,” he said calmly, “we already know how to handle it.”
Sylus glanced toward him briefly but did not argue.
Zayne wiped the remaining traces of dried herbs from his fingertips before continuing.
“But no one came yet.” His gaze shifted briefly toward Xavier and Rafayel in turn. “And if both of them checked the grounds, then I doubt anyone followed her here.”
For a moment, the room grew quiet again.
Rafayel’s attention drifted subtly toward Sylus then, as though checking whether the reassurance had softened any of the tension lingering in his composure. It hadn’t, at least not entirely. Sylus still looked lost somewhere deep within his own thoughts, his jaw slightly tense.
Eventually, though, he nodded once.
“We were supposed to scout the surrounding area anyway,” he said at last. “If someone is nearby, we’ll know soon enough.”
No one disagreed with that either.
The tension lingering through the kitchen had eased after a discussion was held regarding hunters and scouting routes, though not enough for anyone to truly relax. Something irreversible had already settled into the mansion that night, and all four of them seemed aware of it.
Rafayel eventually leaned farther back in his chair, stretching one arm behind his head before the other followed, the posture deliberately casual. He tilted his head toward the others.
“So,” he asked, “what exactly are we going to do about her?”
No one answered immediately.
Xavier’s gaze remained lowered toward the surface of the table while Sylus continued standing near the counter with his arms crossed, distant thoughts still lingering visibly behind his eyes.
Then, he spoke first.
“It’s risky if she stays.”
Xavier looked up at that.
“She can’t leave yet.” The answer came quickly enough to suggest he had already reached that conclusion long before the discussion even began. “She needs time to recover first.”
Rafayel glanced between them before sighing dramatically.
“Well,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t exactly complain if she stayed.” He shifted in the chair, lips curving into the faintest trace of amusement. “I’m starting to get bored looking at the three of you all the time.”
That finally earned the smallest reaction from Sylus – a quiet scoff with the brief twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
Nearby, Zayne finally turned away from the counter entirely, leaning back against it as his attention settled fully on the others.
“She’s a risk either way,” he said calmly.
The statement quieted the room again.
“But it’s not in our interest for her to leave too soon.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward Xavier.
“If she suddenly returns to town bandaged up after disappearing into the woods, people will ask questions.” He finally rolled down his sleeves.
No one disagreed.
Sylus exhaled quietly through his nose before speaking again, his tone thoughtful now.
“If we tried to bribe her, that would only make us seem more suspicious.”
His gaze lowered briefly toward the floorboards.
“And threatening her…” He trailed off for a moment before shaking his head once.
“No.” Zayne said calmly, with finality in his voice.
Zayne folded his arms loosely across his chest. “If she wants to stay until she fully recovers,” he said, “it would likely be better for everyone involved.”
His eyes drifted briefly upward, toward the second floor where you still slept.
“I need to monitor the concussion regardless.”
This time the silence that followed no longer carried the same uncertainty as before. The discussion had already shifted away from whether you would remain in the mansion at all.
Now it had simply become a matter of how long.
*
The front doors of the mansion opened hard enough against the wind that the sound echoed through the otherwise silent halls, followed almost immediately by Sylus stepping inside first, one hand braced against the heavy wood as cold night air rushed in. Zayne entered beside Xavier only a second later, supporting most of his weight while Xavier leaned heavily against him, one arm slung weakly across Zayne’s shoulders as the three men crossed the threshold together. Rafayel followed close behind, damp curls clinging to his forehead from the rain by the time Sylus finally pushed the doors shut behind them with a low thud.
The moment they entered the kitchen, Zayne guided Xavier toward one of the chairs near the table.
“Sit.”
Xavier obeyed, lowering himself heavily into the chair while one bloodied hand caught the edge of the table for balance. Only then did Zayne finally straighten fully again, already turning his attention toward the cabinets nearby.
“Rafayel,” he said calmly, though urgency simmered beneath, “my medical bag. Upstairs.”
Rafayel disappeared from the kitchen almost instantly.
Meanwhile, Zayne had already returned to Xavier’s side, his attention settling on the blood staining through the front of Xavier’s shirt and coat in dark, uneven patches.
“Take this off.”
Xavier exhaled quietly through his nose before reaching for the buttons. After fumbling briefly with the soaked fabric, he finally pushed the coat from his shoulders while Zayne stepped closer to help pull the ruined shirt away from the wounds. Blood had already dried in several places across Xavier’s torso by then, darkened crimson spreading along shallow cuts near his ribs and shoulder while fresher streaks still traced faintly down one arm.
In the background, Sylus paced restlessly near the counters without seeming fully aware he was doing it, one hand occasionally dragging through damp hair while the other flexed faintly at his side. His boots tracked rainwater across the floorboards with every slow turn through the room.
Rafayel returned quickly with Zayne’s medical bag in hand, descending the stairs fast enough that the sound of his footsteps echoed through the corridor before he reentered the kitchen and set the bag carefully atop the table beside Xavier.
Without wasting another moment, Zayne opened the bag and began cleaning the wounds with practiced precision, first using clean cloths soaked with alcohol to wipe away the blood gathered along Xavier’s skin while Xavier remained seated in exhausted silence. Occasionally his jaw tightened faintly whenever the cloth pressed too firmly against one of the deeper cuts, though otherwise he barely reacted at all.
Nearby, Rafayel remained standing beside the table watching quietly, his attention shifting repeatedly between Zayne’s hands and Xavier’s injuries as though waiting for instructions before stepping in to help wherever necessary, while behind them Sylus continued pacing through the kitchen.
For several long moments, the only sounds filling the kitchen were the steady rainfall against the windows, the rustle of cloth and bandages shifting between Zayne’s hands, and the creak of floorboards from Sylus’s restless pacing. The tension lingering through the room had not eased since they entered the mansion. If anything, it seemed to sharpen further the longer the silence stretched between them.
Then Zayne finally spoke.
“Next time,” he said without looking up from the wound he was tending to along Xavier’s ribs, “we can’t afford a slip-up like this.”
Sylus stopped near the far end of the room, one hand braced briefly against the edge of the counter before he let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“If you’d let me handle it,” he said darkly, “we would’ve been done hours ago.”
His gaze shifted briefly toward Xavier before drifting away again.
“But no – ”
“Stop it.” Rafayel’s interrupted him. “It’s useless to argue now.”
He turned his attention back toward Xavier afterward, concern settling faintly across his features as Zayne pressed the cloth more firmly against one of the deeper cuts along Xavier’s torso. Xavier flinched at the contact despite himself, the reaction brief but noticeable enough that the room seemed to still around it for half a second.
The reassurance lost some of its conviction when his shoulders tightened again a moment later under Zayne’s hands.
Rafayel exhaled quietly before resting one hand against Xavier’s shoulder, fingers pressing carefully into the tense muscles there in a slow motion that seemed intended more to steady him than anything else.
Nearby, Sylus’s pacing slowed the moment he noticed the reaction as well. He remained still for a second, watching silently while Zayne continued tending to the injuries, and only after seeing that Xavier remained upright and conscious did he finally resume moving again – slower now, though the frustration had not entirely left him.
“I still don’t understand why we hesitated,” he grumbled.
Rafayel glanced toward the staircase.
Then, with a pointed look in Sylus’s direction, he raised one finger briefly toward his lips before lowering his voice.
“We have someone sleeping upstairs.”
For a moment, Sylus said nothing.
Then he exhaled slowly and lowered his voice as well.
“It would be very inconvenient,” he said, “if we had to move again so soon.”
“Yes,” Zayne answered calmly, not once pausing his work. “I’m aware of that.”
The cloth in his hand came away bloodied again before he reached for a fresh one nearby.
“That’s precisely why I wanted more information before acting recklessly.”
Sylus let out another low breath through his nose, though this time the irritation seemed directed more toward the situation itself than anyone in the room. His eyes drifted briefly toward the kitchen windows.
“I’ll go back out in a few hours.”
No one interrupted him.
“I’m not letting that snake disappear into the woods without knowing where it slithered off to.”
Again, no one argued.
Rafayel’s hand remained resting against Xavier’s shoulder while Zayne continued wrapping fresh bandages carefully around the worst of the injuries.
At last, Sylus stopped pacing entirely and leaned back against the counter instead, folding his arms across his chest once more before glancing toward Xavier.
“Do you want something to eat?”
*
The real reason Zayne suddenly couldn’t accompany you back to your cottage that day, arrived after midnight at the sharp tapping against glass.
Candlelight flickered across Zayne’s bedroom while scattered papers rested across the desk in front of him, stacks of notes and dried herbs occupying nearly every available surface.
He lifted his attention from the papers, his gaze drifting toward the bedroom window where the silhouette of a large crow perched against the glass. He rose from the desk and crossed the room before pushing the window open just enough for the bird to hop onto the wooden frame inside.
“Mephisto…”
The crow tilted his head once at the sound of his name, feathers dampened slightly by the lingering night air. Only then did Zayne notice the narrow strip of rolled up paper secured around his leg.
His brows pulled together faintly as he unwrapped it.
The message itself consisted of only a few hastily written words.
‘Meet us by the old tavern.’
Zayne stared at the note for a moment longer before a sigh left his lips. His fingers brushed briefly through the dark feathers along Mephisto’s neck in absentminded affection before he crossed back toward the desk, already reaching for another piece of paper.
That piece of paper was slipped under Rafayel’s bedroom door.
The next day, another note, this time written by Rafayel, rested on top of the kitchen table.
‘Thank you for not telling me why all of you suddenly had to disappear and leave me responsible for accompanying her to Linkon.
You are all very aware I have a business meeting in a few days, so someone will have to take my place in the city.
If not, I’ll have her join the theater.
XX
(None for you, Zayne)’
*
The three men moved through the corridor in heavy silence, their footsteps muffled from layers of dust and dirt that seemed to cling to every inch of the space hidden beneath an old, seemingly abandoned distillery. The air itself felt stale enough to settle heavily in the lungs, carrying the scent of mildew, smoke, and something sharper.
Only the candles Sylus carried offered any real light.
The small flames illuminated the state they themselves were in after whatever confrontation had taken place earlier that night. Mud still clung to their boots, while faint scratches marked exposed skin near Xavier’s jaw and Sylus’s hands.
Eventually, they reached one of the doors standing slightly ajar farther down the corridor.
Xavier stepped forward first.
The hinges groaned softly as he pushed it open wider before the three men entered the room beyond, the candlelight spilling across sparse beds lining the walls and three startled faces turning toward them at once.
The room itself was larger than the corridor outside but no less unsettling in its emptiness. Aside from the narrow beds, a few scattered blankets, and abandoned trays resting along the floor near the walls, there was almost nothing else inside.
Two candles were lit inside the room, showing three young people occupying the space – two women and one young man.
Though exhausted and visibly unsettled, none of them appeared severely injured. Their clothes looked worn from prolonged confinement and their expressions carried the dull strain of sleeplessness and fear, yet they remained alert enough that the young man immediately pushed himself to his feet the moment the men stepped farther inside.
“Who are you?” His voice came rough with distrust.
Xavier stopped several feet away from him and slowly lifted his hands in a calm gesture.
“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “He won’t be bothering you anymore.”
The man seemed confused at the words.
“We’re here to take you home.”
None of the captives relaxed yet.
The young man continued studying the three strangers standing before them, clearly attempting to decide whether they were telling the truth or if they were simply another variation of the nightmare that had already trapped them there.
Nearby, Zayne stepped closer with the same calm composure.
“Do any of you have injuries I need to look at?” he asked. “Fever? Dizziness?”
The women exchanged uncertain glances before one of them shook her head slowly.
“We’re alright,” she answered quietly. “We just want to leave.”
Zayne nodded once.
Before anyone else could speak again, one of the women suddenly looked toward the corridor outside the room.
“There’s another person.”
All three men shifted their attention toward her.
She hesitated briefly before continuing.
“Further down.” Her voice lowered slightly. “I… I don’t know if he’s alive.”
“Stay here,” Xavier said calmly after a moment. “We’ll check.”
The three men turned and disappeared back into the corridor once more, the sound of their footsteps fading deeper until they finally stopped outside the smallest door at the very end of the hall.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Xavier pushed the door open.
Darkness swallowed the room beyond almost entirely until Sylus stepped closer, raising the candle holder higher and allowing trembling light to spill across the cramped interior.
A figure lay collapsed near the far wall – motionless.
One arm curled tightly against his torso while the other rested awkwardly under him at an angle that looked wrong in the dim light. Dirt and dried blood stained the dark fabric of his clothes while his breathing came shallow enough that it barely disturbed the silence surrounding him.
Zayne turned his head toward Xavier.
“Go escort the captives.”
Xavier nodded without questioning the instruction. His gaze lingered briefly on the injured stranger lying on the floor before he finally turned and disappeared back into the corridor.
Sylus stepped farther inside first, illuminating more of the room while Zayne approached the injured man and crouched next to him. The candlelight revealed details gradually – dark combat boots streaked with dried mud, black clothing worn beneath a heavy coat now stained with blood and dirt, worn out dark leather gloves.
Sylus’s gaze lingered on it briefly before drifting farther across the room, and that was when he noticed something metallic discarded near the far corner.
A dagger.
The blade glinted faintly in the low light before the shadows swallowed it again.
For the first time since entering the room, Sylus exchanged a long glance with Zayne.
“So,” he said quietly, “what exactly are we going to do?”
Zayne’s attention remained fixed on the injured man as he answered.
“What we always do,” he answered. “We treat him like everyone else.”
Sylus’s frown deepened at that.
Zayne pressed two fingers against the man’s neck to check his pulse, his expression gradually tightening the longer he remained silent. Then his hand moved higher, briefly touching his forehead before the words finally came in a quiet murmur, almost clinical despite the gravity of them.
“High fever.”
His fingers returned to the pulse again.
“Slow heartbeat.”
Carefully, he reached toward the man’s injured arm next.
The moment he attempted to lift it, the damage became obvious under his touch. The arm shifted wrong before the man let out the faintest strained sound somewhere between a grunt and a broken breath.
Zayne’s brows pulled together faintly.
“Broken in several places.”
The stranger remained barely conscious through it all, his body limp against the cold stone floor except for the weak tension tightening instinctively around the injured arm.
For a second, Zayne simply watched him in silence.
Then he reached toward his shoulder and shook him lightly.
The man stirred weakly.
Slowly, heavily, his eyes opened just enough for the candlelight to catch against the muted ametrine color of his irises. His breathing remained uneven, distant somehow, as though consciousness itself had become difficult to hold onto.
Zayne held his gaze steadily.
“I’m sorry to say,” he began quietly, “but I don’t think I can treat your injuries. I don’t believe you’ll survive until morning.”
For the first time since waking, the stranger’s expression shifted faintly at that, but exhaustion still dragged heavily at every movement.
“There is one other option,” Zayne continued after a moment.
A brief silence followed before his gaze flickered once toward the discarded dagger resting in the corner.
“But given who you are…”
The candle flames trembled softly between them.
“You may not want it.”
“Zayne – ” Sylus interrupted.
“I know.” Zayne’s voice remained calm.
For several seconds, neither man moved. Then, eventually, Zayne lifted his gaze just briefly toward Sylus over his shoulder. Something silent passed between them there, and Sylus said nothing further.
Then, Zayne looked back toward the stranger.
The injured man exhaled weakly through parted lips afterward, exhaustion dragging visibly at every movement before his jaw tightened faintly as though forcing the words out required the last remaining strength left in his body.
“Do it.”
Without hesitation, Zayne carefully slid one arm under the stranger’s shoulders, lifting him from the floor with enough care to avoid worsening the injuries already ravaging his body. The movement exposed more of his neck while the stranger’s head lolled weakly against Zayne’s arm, too exhausted now to resist or even fully hold himself upright anymore.
Nearby, Sylus remained standing in silence, watching everything unfold without interruption.
Then, slowly, something shifted in Zayne’s expression. The sharp edges of his teeth lengthened gradually into visible fangs.
Before moving any closer, Zayne paused once more.
“This will hurt.”
The stranger gave no response. Perhaps he could not. Or perhaps he no longer cared.
Zayne leaned down and sank his teeth into the exposed skin of his neck.
A sharp intake of breath followed by the faint strained grunt escaped the stranger at the initial contact. His body tensed weakly for a moment under Zayne’s hold, though exhaustion and fever had long since drained him of any real strength left to fight against it.
So instead, he simply endured it.
Sylus remained motionless near the doorway, his expression unreadable as seconds stretched inside the cramped room smelling faintly of blood, dust, and damp stone.
Eventually, Zayne carefully pulled away.
A thin streak of blood lingered at the corners of his mouth before he lowered the stranger gently back against the floor, one hand remaining briefly behind his shoulders to ease the movement. The man’s body had gone completely limp by then, eyes closed once more, his breathing almost imperceptible even in the silence surrounding them.
Zayne kneeled beside him afterward without speaking, watching and waiting.
Nearby, Sylus stepped forward and crouched beside him, silently offering a folded handkerchief from inside his coat. Zayne accepted it with a brief nod before wiping the remaining traces of blood from his mouth.
“Are you alright?” Sylus asked quietly.
Zayne only nodded in response.
From somewhere farther down the corridor came the distant sound of movement – footsteps against old floorboards accompanied by Xavier’s low reassuring voice as he guided the freed captives. The sounds felt strangely far compared to the suffocating stillness inside the small room.
For several long moments, nothing happened at all.
Then suddenly –
The stranger’s fingers twitched faintly against the floor.
𖦏₊ ⊹ <series summary> In your universe, Sylus is your beloved character in a game you like to play. In his universe, Sylus acquires a mirror of the game… and sees you playing. </>
𖦏₊ ⊹ <series notes> Sylus x fem!nonmc. Yearning. Sylus and MC are not in a relationship. </>
⊹ [previous] ⊹ [masterlist] ⊹
Just a few hours ago, despite attempts to persuade her to stay over in his guest room, Miss Hunter had declined. After a polite (again, just polite) goodbye, she hopped on her motorcycle and rode back to Linkon.
Now, Sylus stands on the roof deck of the onychinus base, overlooking the night cityscape of the N109 Zone. The outline of tall buildings are barely visible with scattered neon signs and amber lights glowing from windows. From time to time, a few daring souls would rev their engines as they sped nearby.
Sometimes, it’s a place to view a quick sweep of his territory. Sometimes, he would stand on the high edge to get a burst of thrill. And sometimes, this open space is his place for thinking and clarity.
He is still for a long time, the cold night wind threading through his hair and ruffling his clothes. Yet he didn’t seem to feel it as he remained unmoving, arms crossed, a frown on his face.
He’s replaying the flow of their linkage in his mind. It’s given him a clue, beckoning him to come grasp it in his hands and unravel the truth that’s been eluding him all this while.
And Sylus has always been one to take what he wants.
“Mephisto.” He calls, and the crow quickly comes to ride on his shoulder. He finally moves to go back inside. “It’s time to give you an upgrade for your next little mission.”
Some nights later, the black crow seamlessly blends into the darkness as he quietly flies over the streets of Linkon. He finds a certain miss hunter's apartment, and perches on her balcony railing.
He peers through the gauzy curtains of an open window to check that she’s asleep, then glides to the bedside table where her hunter’s watch lay.
Mephisto has been equipped for the best stealth, making no disturbance in the air, not even a small noise as he lands on the table and goes through the functions he’s been recently trained to do.
One of his ruby eyes faintly glows as he pairs with the watch, which lights up at the connection made before softly fading back to darkness.
Bypassing the security codes, he commences a program that would copy all of its contents into his own expanded memory drive.
He’s still as a statue as his internal progress bar loads. As if he’s just one of the decorative pieces in the room.
The seconds slowly go by. He doesn’t flinch even when she stirs a little on her bed.
When the duplication is finally complete, his eye grows dim as he disconnects, then nimbly flies out as soundlessly as he came.
A few minutes pass in the dark room.
The figure on the bed slowly rises to stand by the window, gazing out into the cloudy night sky. She closes the window with the usual tiny smile on her lips.
⊹ [previous] ⊹ [masterlist] ⊹
𖦏 <an> Mephisto bestest birb ✨ He is ninja, he is stealth, his nest is full of hoarded wealth! He is also a bluetooth pairing device now lmao. Jk Mephie~ we love you </>
𖦏 <reminder> Kindly respect the time and effort put into this fic. Do not copy, plagiarize, reproduce, feed to ai, or upload this work elsewhere. Instead, reblogs, tags, and comments are deeply appreciated! ♥️ divider by @/diviniyae </>
Summary: a continuation of a cat hybrid!mc/reader x sylus story. After Sylus kills your owner in a business deal gone sideways, you follow him home without asking for permission. This part is a story about Sylus's POV and his continued invitation to 'join him' now that you've returned to your human form. To be continued in part 5. word count: 5,385.
contains: fluff and banter.
Sylus's bedroom is dim, the thick velvet blackout curtains holding back the sleepless N109 zone night, the dark, gauzy curtains around his bed further layers of protection for his sensitive eyes. When he wakes, sweaty but refreshed from a good night's sleep—so rare more than a year ago, but these days, the norm instead of the exception—slow consciousness brings him the awareness of an unfamiliar weight pressing down onto him. It doesn't even occur to him, anymore, to move in order to throw open either set of curtains. It doesn't occur to him to listen to the needs of his body and go to the toilet, or check his phone or tablet.
But this morning, the reason for his utter stillness is something he had almost given up hope in ever happening.
Why would he ever consider moving, when finally, finally, after over a year of patience, restraint, and questioning his own sanity, he finally has everything he's waited for in his arms.
He isn't lying, when he says that he expected no less than the magnificently beautiful creature now glaring, defiant eyes bright, from where she is draped over his body in his bed. Her skin is delicious along his own—soft, silk, glorious. Her chest presses against his own, and he must pointedly ignore its curves, the softness between her legs where his thigh is wedged.
Luckily, Sylus Qin is a master of restraint. He is not surprised by his body's reaction to his kitten's human form. Her personality in her feline form is intriguing enough to have had his full attention for over a year now. And though her feline form is adorable, sleek and wild, her human form is simply a masterwork of perfect proportions, a sculpture in lively motion. As if she was designed to his exact specifications by a master artisan, without his ever knowing that he had such preferences before seeing her in the flesh.
He lets himself look his fill in the silence that follows his genuine declaration that seeing her other form was worth the wait. Lustrous hair, with two black, furred-feline ears shifting agitatedly from those beautiful locks, the little tufts of fur at each tip as tantalizing to him as a feather toy to a cat. It's as if she's straining to hear every single sound in the building while she contemplates the meaning of what he just said. Her eyes, luminous even in the dark like the little predator she is, are narrowed and calculating as they observe his face. He must once again restrain his excitement, the excitement of being seen in a way that he is rarely, if ever seen, and never before by her in particular. Her human eyes are shrewd in an entirely different manner than her cat eyes as they gleam, watching him in the dark. She flares the nostrils of her perfect nose as if desperate to read a scent that she can no longer detect. It must be jarring for her to experience the limitation of human senses after being in her animal form for so long. It will likely take her awhile to adjust. Of course, her human mind makes up for the loss of the acute senses required for animal survival, but Sylus knows from experience that the longer one remains in one's animal form, the more time it often takes to re-adapt to the gifts and restrictions of the human body. Her mouth, her soft lips are slightly parted as her breathing grows more shallow, further testing his restraint.
But he is no animal, after all. She finally feels safe enough to shift, and he's not going to ruin it with his own base instincts in response to her proximity, her beauty, the affection he already feels for her after a year spent watching and waiting for her to reveal herself to him.
Her indignant glare following his request to call him Sylus since she has been a little voyeur in his home for the past year fades, her lovely brows furrowing, lips tightening.
He doesn't have to be an animal to sense the dawning comprehension, and with it, the fear now surging through her.
"What do you mean, worth the wait?" she whispers, vocal cords rasping with lack of use. He wonders how long exactly it has actually been since she shifted. "Did you… Did you know?"
Sylus Qin, if nothing else, is a very thorough man. It's a point of pride. His enemies may call it arrogance. But is it really arrogance, if it's true? And the opinions of others have never bothered him, anyway. Not in any way that mattered.
Admittedly, he didn't know. Not for sure. But he's a thorough man, and when he went into business with his kitten's former captor, he had gathered a file with sufficient detail on that cockroach to know that he was likely illegally keeping two cat hybrid evolvers prisoner. The illegality was hardly surprising, considering the nature of both his and Sylus's business. The cruelty of this particular flavor of illegality, however, was distasteful. Unfortunately, the cretin's skill, sufficient to draw Sylus's attention for a business relationship in the first place, meant he was skilled enough to evade Sylus's curiosity-driven efforts to concretely confirm the truth of the rumors.
Ultimately, it was simply a stroke of luck that the fool decided to try to extort Sylus first, giving him all the excuse he needed to torpedo the business relationship that he had only ever considered temporary to begin with, as he worked his way back through the idiot's contacts in order to cut the useless middle man loose. When the simpleton finally invited Sylus into his own territory, and Sylus saw the cat, crouched tense and miserable in her 'owner's' lap, he was both infuriated and pleased. He wouldn't have to go hunting for her after obliterating the pathetic, human-shaped excrement subjugating her to such cruelty. The final meeting with the imbecile was a stroke of efficiency. He could wind down the useless business relationship and satisfy his curiosity—he hadn't met many other hybrids aside from the twins. Freeing her was just another way to rub salt into the wound before dealing her captor the final blow.
That was all it was. Curiosity. A little spite, driven by a personal distaste for seeing gorgeous, unique, wild things handled and caged by men undeserving of their lethal beauty.
He had no expectations, when he removed her collar. It was the collar, really, that convinced him that she was indeed the rumored, priceless hybrid in this shambling moron's clutches. Why would an ordinary housecat require a shock collar with an evol-suppressing protocore embedded in its unwieldy clasp?
He had no expectations, when she sat staring at him with those uncannily intelligent golden eyes instead of running as far and as fast as her little legs could take her, now that she was free.
He had no expectations as he propped open the base's basement exit door with an open can of tuna, nor when he casually left one of his own custom-made Berluti biker boots to prop open the emergency exit leading directly into his penthouse in the base.
He had no expectations as he plucked a raw steak from the fridge, originally destined to be cooked by his personal chef, and began grilling it himself.
His heart didn't knock against his ribs in the same way she didn't knock on his door when a little shadow slipped into the kitchen, nor did a deep satisfaction soak warmly into his chest like fine wine as the little shadow crept under the chaise lounge at the end of the living area and fell right asleep without further ado.
It was just curiosity, after all.
But then the first night passed. And the second. And though he did his best to convey that he knew, that he knew and that she was finally safe, his little kitten remained a kitten. His reputation took hit after hit as he told himself that it was for her sake, and not his own, that he refused to be parted from her if at all possible as he conducted his business within his empire. She ignored his provocations, never giving any truly convincing indication that his little kitten was in fact a human being.
But just as he truly despaired, wondering if the rumors about him and his grip on his own sanity were correct, he passed the heavy wooden doors of his home gallery and noticed that they were slightly ajar, just wide enough for a kitten to slip through. He paused, moving silent as a raptor, glancing through the doors.
His art gallery is not extravagantly large, but it does have a vaulted ceiling with murals in a Renaissance style depicting mythological beasts in flight across a night sky. The midnight marble floors depict the points of golden compasses in repeating patterns, gleaming under the spotlights highlighting his most favored paintings in his possession. Benches with crimson velvet cushions dot the expansive space, waiting for him to sit in quiet contemplation before whatever art he's in the mood to admire at any given moment. As with his weapons, and his jewelry, antiques and cars, he loves collecting fine art. Art, a manifestation of human creativity, a reminder that not all humanity is worthless on nights when he wonders why he doesn't simply pull down the sky, raze everything to the ground, and move on from this wretched planet. Art, a reason to pause the apocalypse.
That night, he spotted her sitting with unnatural stillness in front of one of the particularly dramatic painting in his collection. Still silent, he melted along the wall in the shadows behind her to observe her unnoticed, just a little black form sitting precisely on the northern point of one compass-star, gazing up with her wide golden eyes, tail flicking, flicking, flicking across the stone. She admired the behemoth of a painting, depicting a battlefield in which a tyrant is being beheaded with a guillotine by the successful revolting forces. A woman, hair wild, cloak billowing in the wind of an oncoming storm, pulls the cord with a ferocious grin on her face.
It was one of his favorite paintings too.
Then, one evening, he quietly watched her very deliberately knock a heavy art history coffee table book onto the floor and then bat at the pages with studied determination to turn each one, and then would stare at the page for several minutes before moving to the next one.
And sometimes, she'd make the most heart-wrenching, excruciating sound in her little throat, a sort of high keening mewl—and in those moments, he would recall the intel in his files indicating that the walking amoeba he had eradicated was supposed to have had two cat hybrids.
He told himself it was out of curiosity when he ordered the twins to look into that particular matter.
But the nights passed, and then the months, until it was over a year later, and she still showed no interest—or capacity—in shifting.
Until tonight.
Sylus is a thorough man. He had his suspicions. And the opinions of others have never bothered him, anyway. Not in any way that matters.
But as his laughter fades, and that terrified, hollow panic creeps over his kitten's face as she asks him, "Did you know?" he finally understands for the first time what it means to care about someone else's thoughts in a way that matters.
As she begins to shake again, he's slammed with the understanding of what it feels like to be willing to do anything—anything and everything—to keep that fear from ever dimming those bright eyes again.
Mr Qin's—
no, Sylus's, bedroom is dim, but even in your human form, you can see him clearly in the dark. His eyes, steady and focused, glint like a nocturnal predator's in the shadows. The only sounds are the shift of Mephisto's wings on his perch beyond the curtained bed, the fading of Sylus's laughter, and the agony of your racing heart.
It was worth the wait.
What does that mean?
Your mind sharpens, awakening after too many years in a simple animal state. The pools of your feelings, the puddles of your comprehension, deepen, deepen, opening below down into the yawning depths, underwater caves, tunneling into a bottomless void.
All at once, you must see the truth that your kitten heart dismissed, driven by the illusion of safety, his gentle hands, his easy acceptance of your presence at his side, in his life, in his bed.
He knew? All this time? He knew and he said nothing?
It was worth the wait.
Is that why he left his base wide open the night he killed your owner? Because let's face it, that man owned you. He crushed you and Caleb under his boots by twisting the bond you shared, keeping you each in line with threats to the other. Caleb would absorb anything on your behalf. But you? You didn't conform to the rules, even when you knew the risk. You kept fighting instead of resigning yourself to the reality that you were just a caged animal, fit only to fulfill the whims of a bad man.
It was worth the wait.
And what did you do?
The first taste of freedom, and you followed another bad man home.
He knew. He knew, and he said nothing.
Why didn't he say anything?
Is that why he spoiled you, petted you, carried you everywhere with him? Not because of friendly affection, genuine care, but to keep you always under his supervision, lying in wait for you to shift?
It was worth the wait.
Self hatred you haven't felt in years—not really, with your muted cat's emotions, your instincts overriding complex emotions contrary to survival—for why would a wild cat have need of the feeling of guilt? Of self-recrimination? A cat acts according to its nature, unapologetically.
But you, your faulty, human self—you should be groveling before the universe for your existence every day you still draw breath.
And if not the universe—then at least to Caleb.
You went from one villain's lap to another, without even a question. What an insult to your brother's sacrifice.
You hate yourself, and you're terrified of the cost of your accidental shift.
You should have seen it coming. But you wanted to believe that such simple bliss could last forever.
You needed to rest, so, so badly, after the long years, scared and lonely and enraged in your owner's cruel cage.
But all that's over now.
You have to hear him say it.
He knew.
And then you have to figure out what he wants.
What's the price you'll pay this time?
"Did you know?" you grind out, throat still so raw with disuse. More of an accusation than a question. You should be cautious. Roll over, show your belly. Or, now that you're naked against him in human form, rub your chest lasciviously against his, roll your hips a little, hope that he'll feel generous if he thinks you'll do your utmost to please him.
But you've never known how to play it safe.
As he just stares at you, those maddening, glowing eyes narrowing a little in thought, you lose your patience.
"Did you fucking know? This entire time? Without saying a word?"
Heat, under your skin. Nausea, in your belly. Animal sensations in your human body. Your lips are trembling as your nervous system can't decide whether you want to scream in rage or cry in despair.
"Such accusations from a little intruder who waltzed in and made herself at home," he marvels, unruffled by your meltdown right on top of him. He continues cupping your cheeks, stroking his thumbs along your skin. You hate yourself for not wanting to jerk away from his gentle touch. But he's touched you so tenderly for over a year now—how can you be blamed for having grown dependent on its soothing reassurance? "I didn't know know for sure." He shrugs, big, bare shoulders lifting a fraction. Shoulders you've spent the last year curling around like a scarf. "But I hoped."
Now you do pull away.
He hoped?
What was he hoping for?
What does he want from you? How will he hurt you now that he knows what you are?
You pull away, away from his hands caressing you, the silk sheets slithering down your back, pooling around your waist. Straddling him, bare before him, you steady yourself by placing your hands on his massive chest. It's not much, but it's better than sliding along the length of him, skin to skin, slightly slick with sweat. You can always just shift back. You can shift back, claw him, and flee. If all else fails, you'll use your evol. Something you haven't risked in… a long time, even before the collar.
"What do you want?" You tense, preparing for violence. For last resorts.
"To piss."
You tilt your head, utterly confused.
"I see your ears twitching, so I know you heard me, Kitten. Care to stop crushing me under your massive weight?"
Indignant, you slide off his lap, plopping onto the bed next to him. "A rhino couldn't crush you, let alone me whether in human or cat form."
"Is that so? Tell that to my bladder. It took you so long to wake up I thought I'd be forced into watersports without the proper preliminaries, as is polite." Rolling to the side, he gracefully rises to his feet, throwing open the dark, gauzy curtains around his bed and heading to the bathroom. The blackout curtains pull themselves back at the touch of his fingertips against the wall next to the bathroom door before he disappears.
You stare after him, alone in your puddle of sheets, absolutely confused. "I'm not into watersports!" is all you can think to yell after him.
"No? Just voyeurism then?" His voice, drifting from the bathroom, is filled with mirth.
"If you didn't want company while you were—"
"Who said anything about not wanting company while I'm pissing, or anything else for that matter? The door's wide open. According to your rules, that's an engraved invitation, so what are you waiting for?"
Hesitating, you sit very still, not understanding what game he's playing.
The resounding sound of a big man peeing ricochets out of the bathroom, followed by the flushing of the toilet. Water begins to run.
You don't know what game he is playing, but you're determined to find out.
Curiosity and the cat and all that blah blah blah, with all that entails for you and the unwise decisions you've made your whole life.
After all, what's the worst that can happen?
Caleb's already dead.
You follow him.
It's strange—your bare, delicate, human feet against the cool marble floor. Your height, your slightly dulled senses, your human body in space. You'll adjust quickly, but it's still strange, after so long. Silently, you pad across the room and march into the bathroom like you own it. He basically handed you an engraved invitation, after all.
Steam billows from the walk-in shower and then scent of some fancy, citrus, bergamot shower gel wafts through the air, pungent even to your human nose.
Planting your ass on one of the fancy benches he has scattered about the unnecessarily large bathroom, you stare at his massive ass partially visible through the steam. It's so round. It's so big. You should have bitten it while you were a cat. You want to bite it now.
Your tail puffs at the thought.
Sylus 's off-tune humming envelopes you like the steam, and it takes you a second to realize it's What's new, Pussycat?
How did you never realize how obnoxious he is while you were a cat?
You wait, but he says nothing. He's using the same tactics on you that he does during negotiations. Some spiteful part of you wants to wait him out, force him to speak first, to lose. But fuck it, you're no businessman and you've never had much patience to begin with. "What do you really want?"
"How long has it been since you've taken a shower?" Ignoring your question, he lathers his hair, a dark pewter now that it's wet.
"What, do I smell?" you demand, scoffing. Impossible. You keep your fur very clean, and always have, thank you very much.
"Yes."
Bristling, you pull your bare feet up on the bench, wrapping your arms around your knees, your tail wrapping around your ankles. "I do not—"
"You smell incredible. But let me rephrase: how long has it been since you were in human form, and thus had a shower?"
With every question and response, with every unexpected reaction to your questions, your fear, your demands, Sylus Qin sends you reeling faster and further, the disorientation of your unexpected shift and his unpredictable responses making you question your sanity. You're confused, deflated, disarmed.
You should be cautious. You should persist in divining his true intentions, give nothing away, get out of here as quickly as possible.
But where will you go?
Caleb is dead. Your owner is dead. You have no education, no job, no source of income.
And now that he knows you're not actually a cat, there's no way he'll let you stay and live out the rest of your days peacefully as his pet like you had dreamed of doing for the past year.
You're so scared, and lost. You've been so scared and lost for so, so long.
You tell yourself that all you can do is give him what he wants, and see what he'll do once he gets it. You refuse to consider the possibility that he had tamed you, long ago.
"What year is it?"
Pausing with his hands in his hair, he turns his head, his profile severe and achingly beautiful. He tells you the year.
When you don't immediately answer, he thrusts his head under the water, rinses the shampoo out of his darkened hair, and then turns to fully face you.
He really is just like a sculpture, except unlike the statue of David, his dick is huge. You stare at it, at the soft silver hair surrounding it and arrowing up to his navel, instead of meeting his eyes. Your mouth waters.
"How long have you been living shifted as a cat, Kitten?"
"Ten years."
Your lips are shaking again, eyes hot, throat thick.
Ten years.
Almost a third of your entire life.
As the fall of the shower's water shushes any other sounds and the quiet stretches, you lift your eyes to Sylus's. His right eye flares hot. "I should have taken my time with him."
Once again, you're left confused. "What?"
He looks away, throat bobbing as he swallows, before glancing back at you, eyes now their customary soft ruby glow. "Time for a shower then. Care to join me?"
He's asked this so many times over the past year. You always thought it was a private joke, a silly man doting on his pet and asking her questions he already knew the answer to, an answer she could never actually give.
"You knew, but you said nothing."
As he runs his long middle finger thoughtfully over his lower lip, you can't help but watch its trajectory across the wet softness of his mouth. "No. I suspected, and you're lying to us both if you didn't notice the very loud hints that I've spent the last year trailing behind me like bait."
"You bait a trap. So what now?" You clear your own throat now. "Now that I've finally walked into your trap."
The water pounds over his shoulders, streams over his broad chest, the slick fur around his nipples. He looks both stronger and more vulnerable, naked and wet like this. Glorious. It hurts you to look at him, knowing that he's looking at the real you now, naked and vulnerable in turn, and not your disarming, soft little cat form.
He stands, hands easy at his sides, as if to drive home the point that he's unarmed. At least physically. The heart beating in his chest may be his most powerful weapon, though. At least against yours. "What do you think I want?"
You look away, unable to bear how much you care about him, even as a human, when you know nothing about him. Not really. Just how he takes his coffee, his preferred wine, his soft-hard hands, his favorite records, the scent of his sweat right after he's done boxing, his tuneless humming, his ruthless efficiency in killing and signing contracts.
You know him in all the ways that don't matter.
"To use me."
He laughs, low and intrigued. "Are you useful?"
You glance back at him. Maybe he doesn't know how you're useful. You refused to perform for your owner, after all. And he put the evol suppressor collar on and left it, after he resigned himself to never earning your trust. Maybe Sylus is so easy-going because he has no idea what you're really capable of.
"Not at all."
He smirks, eyes flashing red only for an instant, only an imagined beast circling the firelight. "Then what use have I for a useless cat, other than to spoil her rotten?"
You watch him, a beast yourself. "None at all, I suppose," you agree, carefully. "What now, then?"
"Come join me."
You tilt your head again, confused.
"Join you?"
He lifts his hand, bicep bulging, water dripping, and beckons you with a flick of his fingers.
"Join me in the shower, since you've spent the last year refusing my offers, and we can talk about what's next."
Through the hot steam, Sylus watches every single emotion flit across his kitten's face with increasing fascination. Having been so long in cat form, it's no wonder that you have lost the art of schooling your expressions, shielding your emotions from anyone with eyes to see. He wants to teach you again, or for the first time, if you never learned, because he wants to be the only one who gets to see the unveiled beauty of your confusion, indignation, sorrow, cunning and now, outrage.
Black tufted, velvety cat ears swivel, flatten against your lovely hair. Bright eyes narrowed, fists clenched, the appealing, bared curves of your body tense—fight or flight, you clearly haven't decided yet. Sylus forces his eyes to keep moving, not lingering on your pretty nipples, the dip of your belly button, the shadow between your legs. Instead, he admires your tail, long and fluffy, puffed wide as it whips behind you in agitation.
You're so mad at him, and it's the cutest thing he's ever seen. He wants to eat you.
He's very, very pleased with himself. The fear is nowhere to be seen, and you haven't run yet. His tactics, since the beginning up till now by acting like nothing was extraordinary about your shifting to your hauntingly beautiful human form, continue to pay off. You walked into his life of your own accord, and the only way he'll accept your continued presence by his side is if you continue to choose to stay with him, as a human and not just as his pet.
He thought it was just curiosity at first.
Simple intrigue. A puzzle to be solved, a riddle to unravel. A novelty to turn in his hands for his amusement until she slipped away again, on silent paws into the neon night.
But now, seeing the truth of you?
If nothing else, Sylus is an honest man. More honest than most, in fact.
And he's honest with himself as he admits that perhaps, it's never just been curiosity.
Maybe, fate already had plans for him the moment his eyes met your golden gaze, and for once, such plans weren't cruel.
He wants to eat you. He wants to keep you.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fate.
But he's never been one to sit back and let fate decide the course of his life. He'll take its machinations into his own hands now that the gears are in motion, tinkering with an engineer's agility to ensure that it runs exactly how he wants.
"I'm not doing anything until you give me a serious answer! What now?" you demand, and Sylus can perfectly picture the bristle of your raised hackles if you were still in your cat form.
Sighing, he turns, twists the handle of the faucet, and the water stops abruptly, the silence a relief after its steady pounding. It was worth the attempt. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and so forth. He pads to the towel rack, chooses the smallest one that can still wrap around his waist, and proceeds to dry himself with it. "Whatever you want."
He can't help the twitch of his lips as your tail continues to whip wildly in agitation.
Agitation, but not fear. As long as you're confused, or indignant, or mad at him, you're not scared. That's enough for him, for now.
"What do you mean, whatever I want?" Ducking your head, resting your chin on your knees, your voice is heavy with suspicion and doubt.
"What do you mean, what do I mean? What's not clear about that, Kitten?" He wraps the towel around his waist so that his muscular thigh will be revealed with each step.
He likes it when you stare at his body and the tips of your human ears turn pink, and the saliva pools in your mouth so much so that you have to swallow. He feels the same way, looking at the curve of your hips, your rounded shoulder, your parted lips. All the places he wants to bite, and they're not even typically understood to be erogenous zones.
"You'd let me leave, just like that?"
He turns abruptly, disliking the smallness of your voice.
Striding over to where you sit curled over your knees on a little vanity stool, he takes another gamble. He gives in to the desire to run his fingers through your lustrous hair, rubbing gently at the base of your kitten's ear. "Let you leave? Who was the intruder who barged her way into my home in the first place? You've always been free to go. Why would that change just because you're not just a cat?" As you don't pull away, he pushes his luck, "Then what, do you think I'm broke, and can't keep a human in the same state of luxury that I can keep a kitten?"
His heart hitches, starts again, as you lean into, instead of away from his touch.
Snorting, you mutter. "You should be guillotined, your wealth is so obscene. The least you can do is re-distribute it to me." Glaring up at him, your defiant gaze is a gunshot straight to his heart. "Even if I wasn't invited, I'm not leaving. You can't make me leave."
Over a year in the waiting. One short morning fraught with possible missteps, possibly undoing it all. Sylus Qin will never tire of the taste of triumph. Of successful schemes. Of plays with giant payoffs.
"Okay." He gazes down at you, satisfaction surging through his tense muscles, relaxing as you meet his gaze with renewed confidence.
The shower drips, but the steam is slowly dissipating. You're crystal clear in his hungry gaze.
You don't shy away from whatever you see on his face. "Okay. So what now? Like, right now?"
"What do you want?" he shrugs, feigning nonchalance.
"I have a choice?"
He scoffs. "Again, when have you not had a choice?"
"Fine, I get it."
"Do you?" he mocks, laughing.
Over the giant bathtub, your bright eyes track the city beyond the windows as it glitters, beckons as the condensation from the shower fades.
"I guess I need some clothes."
Eyes flicking to the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass against the bench, the idea of you hiding yourself from him is… displeasing. "No one said that."
You laugh. "I said that."
It's the first time he's heard you laugh.
The reality, once again, exceeds his wildest expectations.
"As you wish, sweetheart."
Oops i lied about finishing it in this part. I'm going to try to finish it in the next part. and no, i will not be addressing sylus's hypercapitalist war profiteering in any signficant way, because i've written other fics that address that. but yes, i am posting this after wine time on a friday afternoon, so please excuse the typos, I edited it more than once but i only see glaring mistakes after sharing stories publicly. if you have thoughts to share, i love to see them in comments and tags! if you leave tags, i will assume you don't want a response so if you want one, just @ me and i will come out of your walls thanking you for every thought you shared.
I hope this tag list is better than the last. tumblr is a confusing labyrinth of dysfunction:
When your daughter's psychiatrist suggests you get in touch with your abusive ex-husband in prison for her sake, you're not thrilled. Fortunately for you, he's dead. Unfortunately for you, someone else is alive and very keen on playing the part of a doting father. wc: 3.1k
Anyone who saw the way you were glaring at the red envelope sitting on your kitchen counter would assume you were trying to vaporize it through thought alone.
When your daughter's recuring nightmares had made you consult a children's psychiatrist, she'd come to the conclusion that your daughter missed her deadbeat of a father.
"He's in jail" You'd deadpanned.
"Perhaps, she could visit?"
"Thank you"
You weren't interested in any suggestions the psychiatrist had to make that revolved around getting your daughter involved with your criminal of a husband. Not that you could even if you wanted to.
Hell didn't really have a visitors' policy.
As you absentmindedly braided her hair that night, you wondered if it was your bad luck or good grace that he'd been killed in a riot in jail. When the penitentiary had phoned for you to come and identify his body, you'd been scared.
Scared that it wouldn't be him and the bastard would've cheated death itself.
You decided there was no need for your daughter to ever know what kind of person her father was. But as she grew older and the neighbors' kids started talking, it was clearly affecting her more than you'd realized.
"Hey, Bun" You softly turned her to face you "Do you miss Daddy?"
Her eyes widened like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar before she hid her hands behind her back, shoulders drooping "No.."
"It's okay if you do" You reassured her. You couldn't blame her for feeling left out when she watched all the little kids get picked up by both their parents. It was obvious she'd wonder why she didn't have that.
You weighed your options. If you played it right, you could satisfy her and also keep her in the dark at the same time.
"Would you like to write him a letter?"
Tears sprang to your eyes when you saw how instantly she bloomed in joy, nodding vigorously and trying to escape your hold so she could do it immediately. You stopped her, promised you'd help her write it the next day if she went to bed at once.
Three days after she posted her letter, you brought one home with a flourish, telling her that her father had written back after all!
If the little lie you told was the reason your daughter had the dopiest smile on her face, you'd never feel guilty for it ever again. Especially not as you tucked her into bed that night, her little fist still clutching the letter like it was her lifeline.
It was only a few days later that you felt your heartbeat nearly triple when she rushed into the house, clutching a blood red envelope "Mommy! Mommy look!" You'd been folding laundry when she barreled into your legs "Daddy wrote letter again!"
You didn't mean to, but you snatched the letter from between her hands so fast, it startled her. Lower lip wobbling, you saw the tears well up in her eyes and immediately decided to do damage control.
"Daddy said I should only give you this letter if you freshen up for dinner quickly!"
When your daughter turned and sprinted for the bathroom, you couldn't believe it had worked. Abandoning the laundry, you tore the envelope open and started reading.
You stared in disbelief. Sure, you had really posted the letter to the penitentiary when your daughter had insisted to take it all the way to the post office herself. You'd come up with a random serial number on the spot and figured they'd just toss the letter when they realized there was no one with that number on the roster.
My dearest Princess,
Daddy very much misses you as well. I'm always thinking of my precious daughter.
P.S You are very good at drawing! I'm proud of you.
Love,
Daddy
Not only had someone received her letter...they'd also written back? In character?
The obvious conclusion is that it's an accident. An obvious mix-up. But your daughter is so ecstatic, you can't possibly break her heart like this.
So, you let her write a letter back. Again going to the post office and posting it.
When the third letter comes back from the prison, you decide to take matters in your own hands. Writing a little letter of your own and enclosing it with your daughter's drawings.
I really appreciate you humoring my daughter, but this was just a way to cope since her father is dead. There is no need to keep up with the farce.
I don't mind it. I quite enjoy her little sketches of the three of us. Tell her that Daddy's hair is lighter in color (:
I will not be telling her anything of the sort.
So cutthroat. You wound me, darling.
Despite yourself, you found your lips lifting at his words, but you caught yourself in record time, shoving the little note in your jeans as you quickly skimmed over his letter to your daughter before you deemed it okay to hand it to her.
She squealed with delight, clutching her new bunny by the ear as she thundered down to her room to read her letter in "secret". You watched her go till she was out of sight, still staring after her and wondering if it really was a bad idea to exchange harmless letters. If some bored criminal wanted to play house with your daughter over some letters, was there really any real danger to it?
You'd always check the letter she'd write, illegible as it was, to see if she didn't accidentally reveal any information about herself. And after she'd go to sleep, you'd only change one little thing.
Erasing her name at the bottom, you used your non-dominant hand to sign a pet name. Not once had you let your daughter's letters carry her real name over to a criminal. For the sake of her mental health, you'd allowed the letters, but this was non-negotiable to you.
Like clockwork, every Tuesday his letter arrives, you skim the contents before re-sealing it and handing it over to your daughter when she comes home from pre-school. Subsequently, you post her letter every Wednesday evening, using an address that was four blocks away from yours, belonging to the sweetest old lady who lived by herself and had dementia. You felt horrible taking advantage of the fact that she never checked her mail so you could always just conveniently swipe out the letters from her mailbox, but you brought her enough baked goods to make up for it. The letters you sent were just addressed to the penitentiary; with the serial number of an inmate you'd never know the owner of.
He signed his letters Skye but after having lived a life in hiding with a criminal, you'd learned not to trust the lot. If your daughter's deteriorating mental state hadn't been in question, the first letter would've never gone out.
One Tuesday evening, your daughter pulls at your pants to grab your attention and gives you a tiny note that she says is from Daddy. Your senses immediately go on high alert, wondering how you could've missed it, worrying he's said something inexcusable and you would have to stop this little pen pal relationship.
Am I not allowed to know what my daughter looks like?
You feel a vein throbbing in your forehead, smiling at your daughter as she stares at you with her big doe-like eyes before you distract her with a snack.
If he wants to know what your daughter looked like, he would do something crazy like wanting to meet her if he ever got out. And if that wasn't bad, he'd probably kidnap her or do something inane, maybe he was already plotting it. Feeling your heart drop to your chest, you decide it really was the end.
That week, you don't send your daughter's letter. It remains in an unmarked envelope, hidden on the top shelf of your closet in a big box at the very back. The Wednesday of the week after, you wake up in cold sweat wondering if he sent a letter anyway. The morning of, you drop by the old lady's mailbox and quickly look through her mail just in case and sigh in relief when there's nothing in it.
The next week, you can't help the dread as you're swiping through the mailbox again, realizing how stupid you'd been. Not only had you probably endangered your daughter, but also the sweet old lady who always babysat for you whenever you had to pull extra shifts at work.
You can't keep the guilt off your face when you run into her at the grocery store that weekend, paying for her share as well when you realize she didn't remember to bring her wallet with her, heart pinching in agony at having taken advantage of her situation. Your daughter is skipping in front as you carry all the grocery bags, dropping the old lady off at her place with her stuff. She insists you stay for tea and you're about to decline but she's already bribed your daughter with cake and it's too late to retreat.
The sun is setting in streaks of orange and blue when you finally wave goodbye to her, adjusting the beanie on your daughter's head before she runs off again. You cross the mailbox, your stomach dropping as you backtrack and decide to doubly check.
Your hands are sweaty, forehead perspiring as you pluck out the blood red envelope, gulping as the dread overwhelms you, like hands wrapping around your throat and squeezing squeezing squeezing to see how long you'd last.
You quickly shove the letter inside your purse before your daughter can catch sight of it. There was no way she was going to read it- if at all- without you proofreading it first.
The entire walk home, you cannot keep your eyes off her. Heart palpitating like any minute you expect someone to pick her off the street and run away where you could never find her again.
Your mind is on the contents of the letter throughout preparing dinner, watching your daughter's favorite show, her bath time, reading her a story to bed and finally, like all the other nights for the past week reassuring her that her Daddy does love her even if he's not written back in a while.
By the time you're finally alone, you're about ready to rip off your hair from its roots as you hastily open the envelope and pluck the letter out.
You skim the letter, it is inconspicuous, nothing suggesting that he never received another letter, keeping the conversation going like always. Asked her about school, her best friend Kara (who was a plushie, but he'd never know) and what kind of cake she liked. Totally innocent. Picking up where they'd previously left off.
You checked for another note, and sure enough there was one. Hands trembling, you opened the twofold and started reading.
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
You'd have appreciated the sarcasm if your knees weren't fighting the urge to buckle and give in from the dread.
I suppose I have scared you with my little request. Thus, the lack of letters from your end for the past couple weeks. I apologize for the same, I only realized the implications of my request afterwards. I meant no harm and would understand if you would like to stop completely.
You trusted the man as far as you could throw him. Considering you knew nothing about him; you decided even that was unreliable.
But once in a while, with your permission of course, if the little bunny draws any more pictures, I'd be very much interested in seeing them.
You huffed out a laugh at his audacity, feeling your chest deflate. Years spent trusting your instinct to protect your daughter had wound you so tight that feeling even a single knot loosen was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.
In sickness and in health,
Daddy
As you posted your daughter's letter that Wednesday, you couldn't help but laugh at your inside joke, wondering how he'd take it. If his previous demeanor was anything to go by, you were guessing it'd be in stride.
"Mail!"
Complete silence filled the yard, all the inmates stopping where they were, at odds with how they'd usually be clawing over each other to get their mail first.
Because no one touched their letters till he had taken his.
The crowd parted like the red sea, hordes of men in orange clearing a path till the mailman who, for all the brave face he put on, was trembling in his pants as well. He could feel the bead of sweat on his back, lining his forehead as he watched him approach, praying to all the Gods up in Heaven that someone- anyone had written this man a letter.
When he'd realized there was no letter for him, yet again, no one had been allowed to take theirs. Not because he forbade them, but because they were scared of what he'd do.
He'd not raised his voice, barely bothered looking intimidating and yet no one stood in his vicinity as he carded through the envelopes, not finding one for himself before asking in a saccharine tone "Are you sure you didn't misplace any?"
The first week, the mailman had been cocky, confident. He'd tched as he snatched the mail back, wondering why no one else was stepping forward "Don't blame me just 'cuz there ain't a letter for you in here ya bloke"
But when no one else stepped forward to take their mail, all that confidence had wavered as he looked around at downcast eyes, no one willing to risk upsetting him any more than he already was.
For the past two weeks, inmates had been avoiding him like the plague. He wasn't amiable on any day but if he didn't receive his letters on Friday, it was a long weekend for all of them.
Especially the ones who challenged him in the ring on Saturday nights.
The second week, it was a similar outcome. The mailman didn't understand what exactly was going on but the nervous, fidgety energy of the inmates was making him nervous as he watched him go through the envelopes and come up empty.
This time he'd just raised an eyebrow, making the mailman sweat "I didn't misplace any!" The desperation and fear ringing clear in his voice.
He'd smiled, crimson eyes glimmering in the sunlight "No one's blaming you" He'd turned around but the wind still carried over the last word "Yet"
The mailman had found himself rechecking for any lost envelopes thrice. He didn't know what would become of him if he returned another week without a letter.
Everyone waited with bated breath as he flipped through the stack of mail the mailman had just handed over and a collective sigh of relief escaped when he plucked out a measly white envelope, lips lifting in a sinister smirk as he handed the rest of the stack back, uncaring of the crowd descending on the poor mailman now that they had the green signal.
He returned to his cell, littered with drawings lining the walls surrounding a single bed, desk and chair. His fingers were twitching with excitement as he tore open the envelope and three things fell out.
He picked up the one on the top first. His daughter had written back to him finally, describing in great detail that she had won a finger-painting competition in school, that Kara came second, her favorite cake was "stroubery". A wry smile lifted his lips at the little sketch of the cake next to the text with cherries lining the top.
Like always, she'd signed it
He admired your resolute, truly. Your daughter's writing was so dark that it would leave indents behind the paper and yet, you'd erase her name so cleanly every time that despite multiple attempts at shading over the lines of the pencil indents, he was yet to figure out her name.
Luv u forehver
Princess Bunny
Picking up the second letter, he couldn't help the smirk spreading over his lips when he saw what you'd addressed it.
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
God, he wanted to see you mouth off to him in person so bad.
I've attached a picture of her.
He was so surprised that he immediately dropped your letter to look at the polaroid you'd sent him. One he stared at for all of two seconds before throwing his head back and barking with laughter, unable to help himself as his shoulders shook with mirth.
Resting his forehead on the letter, he could faintly smell the perfume lingering on it and wondered what you looked like. He'd spent almost every day since your first letter wondering who you could possibly be. Sure, he had no reason to lie here and actually complete his sentence, he could get out whenever he wanted but he looked forward to his daughter's letters. There was no fun in finding out who you were through Luke and Keiran when he was sure he could get you to come to him. And you would. Slowly but surely.
Beautiful, isn't she?
She looks forward to your letters so I suppose you can keep sending them.
In happiness and in sorrow,
Mommy
As he pinned up the latest letter next to the others, he also pinned the polaroid next to it, unable to escape the huff of laughter escaping him when he gazed at the ultrasound.
Sylus would make you his. There was simply no other option.
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
She is, indeed the most beautiful little princess I've ever seen. She takes after her mother, I'm sure. For research purposes, would you be willing to provide evidence I can submit?
To have and to hold,
Daddy
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Do you want my ultrasound too?
For better or for worse,
Mommy
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
I don't mind. Although, I'll admit I usually save the ultrasounds for a third date.
For richer or for poorer,
Daddy
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Unfortunately for you, I don't have those ultrasounds or a third date for you.
To love and to cherish,
Mommy
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Why don't we start at a first one then? I would like to know the color of your eyes.
Till' death do us part,
Daddy
A/N: This has been marinating in my drafts for two months now. Time to unlock multiple chapter fics<3
caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her
warnings. angst fest, eventual fluff, failing marriages, misunderstandings, suggestive content, jealousy, stalking/following, caleb getting rejected, reader in denial, feelings are hard
preview. "Why wouldn't I be romantic? I'm your husband." He's been doing that lately--dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they're nothing. Somehow always when you're least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he's either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he's doing. You're willing to bet on the latter.
wc. 7.4k
Your husband does not love you. He doesn’t love anyone except for one, and it is not you.
You used to like romance. You’d fantasize about who your beloved forever would be in your room, kicking your feet childishly at the thought of someone loving you so purely. So innocently. You wondered what kind of person they’d be, what kinds of foods they’d like, what their family is like. You wondered which holiday would be their favorite, whether they’d want children, whether they’d have a time-consuming job. But really, none of it mattered, because you only wanted someone by your side.
So when you were told you’d be put into an arranged marriage, you tried to be hopeful. An embarrassing, pathetic hope that maybe this man could love you the way men love in books and movies if you tried hard enough.
Caleb Xia is not a loving person. You realized this the moment he stepped into the room with cold, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare straight through you as if the wall was worth more than your presence. He’d smiled, but it felt stiff. Awkward. But you’re sure yours was the same.
Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes.
“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.
He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway.
A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.
The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.
The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it.
It felt like nothing.
This was not romantic at all.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.
“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.
But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
The flame went out.
Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt?
Does it even matter?
Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.
The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.
Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.
The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared.
They’re pretty, you think.
Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large.
“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”
A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”
You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?
“It’s a regular office job.”
“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”
“What about picking up another hobby?”
“I’ve exhausted most of them.”
“Then traveling?”
“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”
You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”
He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”
“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”
“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”
“Again, not the point.”
His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”
You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”
Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat.
His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”
You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”
He whips his head around. “What?”
You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”
Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.
“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.
When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.
Damn it.
Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.
You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA.
It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.
The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes.
Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.
When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”
“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”
“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”
He coughs again, and you snicker.
You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.
Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too.
[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)
Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.
Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.
You start down your usual route.
At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.
But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.
You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.
Your fingers tighten around your bag.
Coincidence, surely.
You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.
The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach.
Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry.
Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.
[You]: Still there?
[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?
[You]: I think there’s someone following me
Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.
You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.
You don’t turn around.
Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.
A car passes.
He’s closer now, whoever it is.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.
Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you.
The passenger door swings open.
“Get in.”
Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.
Relief?
This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out.
Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.
You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap.
A part of you is envious of her.
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.
“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”
You nod again.
“Are you okay?”
Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.
You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”
“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”
“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.
He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”
For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him?
How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.
At least you’re home—thanks to him.
“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”
He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”
Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”
Strangely, the words make your chest tight.
Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”
You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.
Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.
You’d never tell him that though, of course.
You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed.
[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?
[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too
[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)
Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.
“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.
“Mm.”
He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?
“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”
You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”
“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”
“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”
“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”
“But I want my own money, too.”
“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”
“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”
He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”
This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.
You’re willing to bet on the latter.
Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.
“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”
He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”
“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”
The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?
You’re married, for god’s sake.
Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.
“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”
Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.
“How long?”
“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”
You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.
You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.
The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.
You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.
His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.
“Who said I want to?”
“You wound me.”
As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…
[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D
[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>
[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave
This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous.
You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.
A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on.
It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.
So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.
You pretend not to notice.
What are you doing? What are either of you doing?
You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.
The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”
Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”
A pause.
“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”
He stills.
You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”
“Yeah?”
You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”
He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.
“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."
It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.
Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.
Panic. Something is wrong.
You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.
“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”
Huh?
“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”
What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.
“You must hate me so much.”
When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?
“Caleb.”
“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”
“Caleb.”
“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”
“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.
His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him.
A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”
Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.
The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.
Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?
No. You don’t.
So instead, you kiss him.
A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in.
You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.
You’re here again.
He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.
Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”
The world stops.
“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.
Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.
This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.
You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.
The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.
“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”
Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.
It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?
He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”
You don’t get much sleep that night at all.
Morning comes anyway.
And then another.
And another.
His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.
You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.
He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.
You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.
You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does.
But he always comes back. He has to.
You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.
The front door shuts faster than you anticipated.
He’s gone.
This is fine.
This is what you wanted.
The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.
You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.
His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.
“I love you.”
You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family.
But you’re his family, aren’t you?
You can still smell his cologne in the air.
You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.
You nearly drop it.
His wedding band.
Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.
No.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.
The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.
This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.
And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.
Your body moves before your mind catches up.
You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.
He can’t leave.
The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh.
Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.
A chance for what, you're not sure.
Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?
Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?
The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.
Finally, you slam into something solid.
The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.
“Hey—watch it—oh.”
You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”
“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”
He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"
“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?
His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”
“So you were going to leave the ring?”
“Well, yes, but can we–”
“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”
He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”
“Then why?”
His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”
Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”
Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.
“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”
“...Confusing?”
“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”
His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.
So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”
You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.
You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.
“What am I to you?”
Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”
His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Who am I to say no my wife?”
Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.
taglist. @inzanekillian @someonestopsoren @sweetieelilii @3rdslide2heaven @gabburabbu @moltensceptergambit @cherrysherryblossom @younbeanz @txtworlddom @glitterykingdomheart @applebrat9 @ephemeraleb @cherrybomb5000 @chartreuxxlikesboba @corvusmemoriae @toorulee @ilovecoffe8 @cordidy @younghideoutberserker @yesbiaswrecked @madnesslusy @bypanana @noosummert @littleappleorchard @anyeeyna @xie-hua (I apologize if I didn't add you! I always struggle with tagging on tumblr lol!)
“Sylus,” you shifted in his lap to face him, his brows lifted, lips stretching into a smile.
“Kitten?”
You slowly traced the line of his jaw with your thumb, the skin there was smooth from a recent shave. You still hadn’t spoke, just took in each detail your eyes could reach. The bridge of his nose, the lines where his eyebrows furrow and the silvery-white hair that framed them. Beautiful pieces of your lover’s human puzzle.
“I love being here. With you.” Your voice was quiet, but there was no denying the weight of the words that filled the intimate space between you.
“There’s no place I’d rather be, really. I…don’t think I’ve understood warmth until I felt it from your embrace.” You slid your hand into his to feel the warmth you described, it radiated beneath your skin like liquid fire, wrapped around you like it belonged.
“Sweetie…,” Sylus began, your voice broke in to gently interrupt him.
“Do you understand how much I adore you? How long you had to endure wearing the facade of a monster, when you’re the most gentle man I’ve ever met?”
His gaze faltered then, flickering down to your intertwined hands, this thumb idly drawing circles against your skin.
“May I ask what brought this on? These…thoughts. Praises…”
Your body fully settled into him, legs draped over his thighs, head resting on his chest. His heartbeat fluttered wildly, its sound pounding like a drum against your ear. Tracing the veins on his wrist, you hummed thoughtfully.
“I’ve felt this way for a while, now. But..I realized I never really expressed that and I should have sooner.”
The path that led you to these thoughts was one made of gravel. Your reunion with Sylus wasn’t exactly heartwarming, but like a neglected garden, your love needed plenty of water, sunshine and enriched soil to grow again.
And what bloomed was beautiful. Deep, red-black datura rooted themselves in your heart. Those roots sutured the gaps that his thorns had left before. Now, all you knew was the softness of his petals.
Sylus, the man with a floral scented soul, was speechless for the first time. After a moment, his arms tightened around you and he pulled you closer.
“I’m not used to being without a response when you speak,” he murmured before pressing a kiss into your hair. “As long as you know how I feel, that’s enough for me,” you replied.
“Thank you.”
“Your patience and acceptance…the kind words I often feel I don’t deserve, mean the world to me.”
Sylus cradled your face in his hands, he saw every version of you as he admired your features. He would remember them from each lifetime you had spent together, but this current one was growing to be his favorite.
One where your trust was earned, your touch softened and love honest.
“I love you for you, Sylus. Even the rough parts.”
An unfamiliar sensation washed over him, a mixture of warmth and relief. For the first time his eyes stung with tears and for once he let them fall.
“And I love you, in every universe. No amount of space, time or separation will ever change that.”
His kiss was gentle, reverent, maybe even thankful. This moment alone, with you curled into his frame, voices just above a whisper, was the best gift he could have ever asked for.
***
a/n: something sweet for Sylus since his birthday is approaching. I love my sweet dragon. 💛
Thank you for reading. Comments, reblogs and likes are welcome and appreciated. Please do not repost, plagiarize or feed into ai.
Summary: a continuation of a cat hybrid!mc/reader x sylus story. After Sylus kills your owner in a business deal gone sideways, you follow him home without asking for permission. This part is a story about some of the consequences of that decision, and how you unintentionally returned to your human form. To be continued in part 4. 4,268 words.
Content: mass murder, sushi, eyeball licking, fluff and angst, Sylus having the time of his life.
And thus begins your life of fable—the dread dragon, feared by all, rumored to cannibalize his enemies and scorch the territories with flames and salt the fields of anyone who dares oppose him—now always appears in public within his empire with a little black cat on his arm, who lounges in his lap as he negotiates deals in the most exclusive night spots in the N109 zone.
The dread dragon, Mr. Qin, is known to always get what he wants.
But everyone knows black cats bring bad luck.
And so, at first, rivals and begrudging business associates assume he's lost his touch. Maybe gone a little soft, or daft.
So, like sharks circling chum in the water, failing to see the wicked hook in the bloody gloom, they begin to test their luck.
Previously reliable suppliers start 'misplacing' certain parts of shipments. The best parts. Rivals begin to edge in on the dread dragon's turf, causing ruckuses at businesses he is known to own—nightclubs, casinos, and a chain of cat cafes he recently acquired. They intimidate the employees, the nearby residents, offering better 'protection' than what the dragon can offer these days, what with his true colors showing as a frivolous peacock with a weakness for literal pussy.
After all, as quickly as a king can rise, a king can fall, they say.
Mr. Qin takes it all in stride, receiving the increasing reports of insulting chaos encroaching into his domain calmly, only tapping his finger against the kitchen counter as he lounges on a stool, idly watching you eat your weight in perfectly seared wagyu beef on a delicate plate of china.
"You gotta do something, boss-man," one of the magpies, the one with the scar—Kieran, says agitatedly one night. He's almost vibrating with indignation.
"We can take care of it. Just give us the word—we can have charges in every single one of the upstarts' bases within twenty-four hours," the other magpie, Luke, shifts from foot to foot, just as restless as his brother.
They're both clothed, now—all black ensembles, cargo pants with as many belts and buckles and pockets as Mr. Qin seems to have on his 'casual' outfits. Unfortunately, they've have never appeared before you naked since that first night.
"And just one detonator! One click and—" Kieran cries.
"Boom! Like the end of Fight Club!" they crow together, miming entire skyscrapers collapsing one by one, complete with sound effects.
"Only the film version,"Mr. Qin just sniffs disdainfully. "The film was completely unfaithful to the book."
"Not the point, boss! The point is, BOOM!" Luke's eyes are wide, like a little kid who thinks that if he just explains his genius plan to the grown-up slowly and loudly this time, the grown-up will eventually come around to seeing his genius vision.
Leaning forward, Mr. Qin rests both elbows on the counter. "Many bases these fools own are prime real estate. Destroying them would be a waste, when I can simply take over and lease the premises to tenants with a better sense of self-preservation than their current occupants."
The twins' shoulders slump in unison.
"However, I do have some small fish that need frying, so you're welcome to throw grenades into their ponds instead."
Immediately perking up, the magpies are so overjoyed that they'll get to blow anything up in the near future even if it's not as cool as Fight Club that they shift right out of their clothes, winging around the room in a flurry of chittering, dive-bombing Mr. Qin's head, and then zooming out of the kitchen when your back has arched enough to let them know that if they continue, there will be Consequences.
Luke had to lose a few feathers before they both understood that you mean business when it comes to protecting Mr. Qin's glorious hair.
"Did you eat your fill, Kitten?" Mr. Qin asks idly.
You answer with a satisfied purr, slinking over to him and rubbing your cheek and body along his arm and chest leaning over the counter.
Thoughtfully running a hand over your back, he scritches behind your ears. "Good. I hope your appetite is as endless as always, because it's time to kill two birds with one stone, and you're going to help me do it."
More food, and helping Mr. Qin?
A truly fabled life indeed.
Later that night, you find yourself in a familiar setting. To the average patron, it's a small place. So small that the waiting list for a reservation is known to stretch into years, and not just months. Just a few stools along a bar, a few small tables for two along the windows facing a quiet city street. The waiting list is so long because it has always been, essentially, one person operation. The art of sushi has been passed down for generations in the same family, with the parent training their child who then takes over the business and continues the family legacy. All they make is sushi, and they simply make the best sushi in the world. No wonder that the menu prices reflect such exquisite offerings.
However, to those in the know, beyond the tiny dining area, there is a back room. Larger than the dining room out front, but still small as far as rooms that serve its purpose typically are. Back here, there are no chairs.
The room itself, windowless, only narrow enough to contain the long table, still feels light, airy, with its blond wood-paneled walls lined with alcoves containing lovely vases and elegant flower arrangements. The effect is serene, a counterpoint to the blood soaked, high tension decisions that are made within its walls.
At the far end of the room, next to the door leading to the front and the kitchen, a beautifully carved liquor cabinet sits. The respective lackeys accompanying their bosses mix the drinks and serve —warm sake. Whiskey and soju. Bourbon and scotch. Serious drinks for supposedly serious people.
The clientele sit on cushions, shoes off, socked feet whispering across the tatami mat floor when they must move around to obsequiously pour their boss's drinks or discreetly hand them documents for review.
To enter this dining room, weapons must be surrendered at the door to the restaurant's only staff aside from the chef—the sous-chef, in training under her mother, this generation's current chef. This is a neutral location, after all, and all must walk in having surrendered their means of harm to others. That is the sacred rule of this hidden room, inviolate for years stretching back into memory.
Mr. Qin sits at the head of the long, low table. He has said nothing, simply nodding his head as the guests initially filed in and took their seats. He's relaxed as you curl into his lap, cradled between his crossed legs. The picture of indolent insouciance, his serenity sharply contrasts with the acrid stench of nervous fear wafting through the air from most of those seated around the table. All but one person reeks of guilt—not remorse, but the feeling of having done something that, if discovered, will warrant swift, horrifying punishment.
The sous-chef, tall and svelte, enters repeatedly, bringing in each round of sushi, carefully plated, one item at a time, to be savored in its individual glory before the next round is brought.
As the food arrives and empty plates depart, the guests share surface-level pleasantries, innocuous and polite.
All lies. Tigers wearing bow ties.
You don't pay attention to the particularities of meetings like this—they mean nothing to you, provided no one smells of violent hostility towards Mr. Qin. They can hate all they like. They can look all they like. And so long as Mr. Qin smells calm, you don't trouble yourself with his fleeting anger or amusement, with what's actually being said underneath the sheathed words.
As Mr. Qin's silence stretches, the discomfort in the room rises. But he waits, patiently, occasionally sipping some fizzy concoction that reeks of gin, as the people in the room grow increasingly restless. They desperately try to avoid staring as he hand-feeds you a portion of each priceless dish carefully prepared by the internationally-renowned chef, even as indignant disgust thickens their already foul scents.
After more than two hours of his silence, and as the meal is entering its final course, the sous-chef brings one of the highlights of the menu: fugu sashimi. Or, raw pufferfish.
A delicacy, and incredibly dangerous if prepared by inexpert hands due to the neurotoxin naturally occuring within it. You perk up, having heard of fugu before, back before, before, before…. you shake your head, ears flapping.
It's prized as such a delicacy not only because of its taste, but because the thrill of eating something so deadly often evokes a euphoric feeling in the one eating it. Some even report an aphrodisiac quality to their experience of consuming it.
As the sous-chef places the dish before Mr. Qin, you lean over to take a lick, but for once, his large hand slips between your nose and the fish.
"Not tonight, Kitten. I'll share fugu with you another time, under more convivial circumstances."
This gentle denial, given as if you're an actual person, is the final spark that ignites the simmering, resentful ire of the gathered guests.
"How much longer must we endure this grotesque display of poor manners before we get down to business?" One of the guests demands, loud and irritated. Many others grunt or nod in accord, finally brave now that someone else has drawn a target on his own back.
Mr. Qin simply hums, not taking his eyes off you. "Would you say that bringing an emotional support kitten to an establishment that allows them is less polite than say… theft or extortion from your valued business partners?"
The room goes quiet as the clink of chopsticks against plates and everyone's breath ceases.
Finally, the mutinous guest who was brave enough to initially complain clears his throat. "That is a serious allegation, Mr. Qin." He glances around the room, as if gathering support from his counterparts. "Do you have proof?"
"Proof, hmmm," your human, ruby eyes glinting in the low light, muses. "My kitten is all the proof I need."
"Ha, yes. We've all noticed lately how your… behavior, has changed recently. As if you've become more… distracted." The leader of the mutiny, though his confidence is growing with Mr. Qin's seemingly bizarre behavior untempered by shame or concern, remains cautious in choosing his words. The scent of fear, but also derision, intensifies.
"If I were distracted, you would be free to continue your unwise flirtation with my ire without consequence," Mr. Qin slips a thin slice of the fugu into his plush mouth. His subsequent noise of pleasure elicits a purr from your own throat, as you enjoy seeing him happy as much as experiencing your own happiness.
The leader of the mutiny has the audacity to roll his eyes. "You must be confused, if you think anyone at this table would dare cross you." His fear fades as his conviction that Mr. Qin has lost his marbles rises.
"Let's find out, then." Mr. Qin runs one long, elegant finger along the top of your head, down your spine. "Kitten, could you kindly indicate everyone at this table who is currently gambling with their life?"
The noises of disbelief, confusion, and disgust shatter the otherwise quiet room as you, without hesitation, rise to your paws, tail straight up in the air, and hop lightly on the table. Winding your way around and over the plates of each guest, you stop to sniff, growl, and then turn, showing your own asshole to every single asshole in this room who reeks of the scent of smug betrayal and lies.
When you stop before the one person who now smells of fascinated curiosity, the same one who hasn't smelled guilty since the beginning, you flick your tail in satisfaction and briefly nose her palm in respect, and then trot your way back to Mr. Qin's lap. He rewards you by lifting your small body into the air and nuzzling into your furry tummy. "Thank you, sweetheart."
The leader of the mutiny scrambles to his feet rather ungracefully from a cross-legged position, and seethes over the table. "This is absurd, and exactly why we can no longer trust your grip on the N109 zone. This dinner is over!"
He turns to leave, only to stop abruptly as he almost runs into the sous-chef. She stands, relaxed, legs spread a bit, one foot in front of the other. It's almost a boxer's stance, if not for the razor-thin sushi knife held, blade down, in her fist.
A knife-fighting stance.
"The meal is not quite over," she says calmly. "I must ask you to return to your seat."
The mutineer sneers as the rest of the patrons stiffen, reaching for holsters and knife sheathes out of instinct, only to remember that they're empty. "This place's neutral status is sacred. How dare you threaten us within its walls? We'll raze you to the ground if you don't stand down this instant."
The sous-chef remains unruffled. "Mr. Qin's house, Mr. Qin's rules."
The mutineer spins around, raising a finger to point at Mr. Qin, but stops, a confused look crossing his face. He lifts his fingers, now trembling, to his lips instead. As if they're already tingling as the puffer fish's neurotoxin surges through his veins. "What the fuck have you done?"
Mr. Qin ignores him, turning instead to the only person who hasn't double-crossed him in the room. "Please, continue. It would be a shame to leave this divine dish unsavored."
With wide eyes, she lifts her chopsticks and slips another slice of fugu into her mouth, as the mutineer drops to the tatami, unable to breathe another word. The remaining patrons begin to slump in turn, some straight backwards with quiet thumps, some sprawling forward onto the table, the cacophony of dishes clinking and drinks spilling rising into a crescendo until the only sound remaining is the quiet chewing of the person left alive at the table.
"Thank you for another lovely dinner, Rin-san," Mr. Qin nods to the sous-chef in appreciation. "My regards to your mother." She nods in turn and slips out of the room. Turning back to the final guest, he waves his hand. "Stay, if you'd like. But when you are done, spread the word of what happened here tonight. I'd rather focus on my Kitten, instead of fools, for the near future."
"Of course, Mr. Qin."
And that, was that.
Your days continue—nights, really, drifting along at the dread dragon's side. The unrest in his domain evaporates, so much steam from screaming kettles boiling empty into silence. Now, when business partners or rivals see the black cat on his arm, the only scent in the air is terror.
Everyone knows black cats bring bad luck, after all.
To them. Not to Mr. Qin.
Mr. Qin's house, Mr. Qin's rules, after all.
This makes you purr, eliciting an answering pleased rumble deep in Mr. Qin's chest. You don't question why, simply reveling in the satisfaction of enemies quivering in fear and your human's pleasure in their amenability to his desires.
One night, months later, Sylus lounges in his huge, standalone marble bathtub. It sits before a soaring window as the N109 zone's sky lightens almost imperceptibly, signaling the coming dawn that this rancid part of the world never sees.
You slink along the rounded edges of the tub, enjoying the challenge of not slipping from either side while still remaining as close to Mr. Qin as possible as he soaks in a place you will not follow, mo matter the depth of your devotion to him. He twirls a glass of wine from languid fingertips, steam rising from the warm water, rippling with every little movement of his powerful body.
"You could join me," he offers, offhandedly. He's not looking at you, instead gazing into the wine before taking a sip. In his scent, a deep interest belies his seeming indifference to any response from you. "If you wanted to change into… something more comfortable."
Continuing to glide along the smooth stone, you ignore him. No way you want to get wet. If you need to get clean, which you do not, thank you very much, as you are already pristine and perfect in every way at (least in terms of hygiene, even if not in temperament), that is what your tongue is for, not a death pool ready to drown you and make you look ridiculous with flattened fur if you do manage to escape.
"Shame." His gaze, which you are pointedly ignoring, is so heavy behind you that it slightly raises the fur along your spine. It remains on you for a beat before he sighs and casts it toward the window and the glittering city below. "Perhaps I am losing my mind, after all," he murmurs, but there is no conviction in this assertion in his scent. Whatever is puzzling him, he is sure he knows the truth of it.
More months pass. You don't know how long you've been with him. Only that he has never stopped showing you the kindness, the care, and the companionship that he offered you from that very first night.
Perhaps you should have seen it coming. Perhaps you should have run long before it was even a possibility.
But how could you know to run, if you didn't think it were possible?
One can't return to the past, after all. Time doesn't flow backwards, no matter how much you throw yourself against the bars of the cage.
What's done is done. Caleb is dead. And with Caleb, your old self died too.
You are a cat, with a dragon-like human who needs to be protected, and cherished, and adored, as he does for his cat.
That is all there is. That is all you need.
Mr. Qin reads aloud to you every dawn before bed, as the morning sun spills over everywhere that is not here, signaling his night, and yours as well.
Whatever he happens to be reading, he reads out loud, with his rimless, gold accented reading glasses glinting in the light of the lamp on the nightstand, some kind of stained glass, Tiffany-style thing, designed to look like a crimson flower with wicked points. His words are the lullubies to your dreamless, peaceful nights curled at his side. By the dawning of the night, you often wake, curled up on his chest instead.
One such night, you wake to find that he is already awake too, staring at you with calm, curious eyes. You have the strange sense that he has been awake for awhile, but for some reason has made no effort to move you aside all the while, no effort to get up and start his version of the day. You've trained him well.
It's as if he's waiting to see what you'll do, now that you're awake too.
You roll a little, crouching on your belly like you're on the hunt for a mouse and want to remain as low as possible. The corners of his full lips lift slightly, the interest sharpening in his ember-eyes. Creeping forward, you brush your nose against his.
He doesn't move, just continues to watch you. There is something about his eyes that is so maddening, if you look into them for too long. Especially his right eye, the same one that glowed so bright, almost blinding, when he took you to the mall. You haven't seen it glow like that since, but you have the urge, all at once to—
you surge forward, as if pouncing on a mouse, and lick his right eyeball.
Both his face and scent reveal shock, fading to surprise, and then amused disgust.
"I don't know what I expected," he laments, a low laugh rumbling through his chest and through your body still crouched on him.
He lifts you into his arms and swings out of bed, and thus your day begins.
That night, he reads The Traveling Cat Chronicles by Hiro Arikawa as you're falling asleep.
"As we count up the memories from one journey, we head off on another." His rich voice is a soothing bass rhythm as he reads. "Remembering those who went ahead. Remembering those who will follow after. And someday, we will meet all those people again, out beyond the horizon.”
The words melt into you, fusing into the marrow of your brittle bones, seeping into spidering fractures you hadn't realized were there. Somehow, these words are comforting. Deep lilac, shot with sunset orange and pink, fills your half-asleep consciousness. But for once, that strange mewling is nowhere to be heard.
All the while, Mr. Qin's voice cradles you, a steady vessel carrying you safely on an endless river free from memory as you drift into dreamless sleep.
The waking is easy.
The waking has been easy, for months now. Maybe over a year?
You don't know how long you've been with him.
You should have seen it coming.
The waking is easy.
Warmth. Smooth skin, soft silver fur under your cheek. Long legs, entwined with yours. Your body rises and falls with his breath as you're draped over his soft, firm, pillowy steel-muscled chest.
The waking is easy.
You should have seen it coming.
The past can't be undone, nor can a leopard change its spots.
A cat who is not only a cat can't stay a cat forever.
The waking is easy.
Red eyes meet yours, crinkling at the corners with such genuine, unguarded joy that they are briefly rendered unfamiliar to you. You've never seen him smile so fully.
"There you are, sweetheart."
You can only live your head, chin resting against his chest, gazing placidly at him, easy in your waking, not suspecting anything amiss. Yet his handsome face with its severe contours, his long nose and the regal profile—it all seems … smaller. Everything about him seems smaller, somehow.
He's still huge, but he's less… giant, somehow.
He's gorgeous, actually. He's gorgeous not just as a sculpture in a museum, but attractive in a way that is physically painful, not just in your chest from your heart squeezing in the face of such artistic, divine beauty, but painful everywhere. His bulk under the entire length of your body. The soft hair along his legs brushing along your own legs. His heart jack-hammering in his chest underneath yours, matching your own jack-rabbiting beat. His skin against yours, silk and electricity.
His skin against your skin.
Not your fur.
You should have seen it coming.
He lifts his hand and brushes his thumb along your cheek. "I knew you'd be magnificent, if I were right." His voice is soft, steeped in awe. "But I hadn't realized just how truly breathtaking reality would be."
You should be able to smell the truth of his words, not just hear it in his voice.
But your nose, the scents in it—muted, and yet more colorful. He still smells delicious, musk and sleep, warmth and citrus, clean sweat. But all the layers of his feelings—
You can't feel his feelings from the way he smells anymore. He's an opaque polaroid instead of a neon mural, and you can only fumble for the clues of his feelings by the crinkling of his eyes, the timbre of his voice, the slowly tightening lines of his full lips as his smile fades into concern.
His soft silver eyebrows draw together, the furrow between them deepening.
"Kitten," he says, cautious. "I'm still me."
You wonder why he's saying this until his other hand joins his first, both palms now cupping your cheeks.
"And you're still you."
Oh.
You're shaking. Rolling tremors, an earthquake under your skin.
He thumbs along the sensitive skin under your eyes soothingly. "Breathe with me." Taking a deep breath, expanding his big chest where its pressed under yours, he coaxes your breath from your body.
After all this time, under his shelter, in his care, sheltering him, caring for him—what can you do but follow where he leads?
He's still him.
Even if you don't know what you are, anymore.
"Mr. Qin," you croak, helpless. Your cheeks are hot, and wet. Moisture slicks the paths his thumbs take, back and forth. The air is thick with its salt.
The furrow between his brow fades, his lips curving in pleasure again. "Surely we're on a first-name basis by now, Kitten, what with you watching me bathe and piss for over a year, and now waking up naked in my bed. Call me Sylus."
You look down, see the truth in the swell of your chest pressed against his own, feel the truth in the silk sheets along your bare back and ass.
Of course. It's not like you can take your clothes with you when shifting from human to animal, animal to human . Any movies or games that depict such idiocy are just censored nonsense.
But that's unimportant. You frown back up at him, the inexplicable tears fading as indignation rises. "If you didn't want company while you were on the toilet, you should have locked the door, Sylus."
He blinks in shock, eyes widening ever so slightly, but recovers quickly. "It took you long enough, but oh, were you worth the wait," he laughs—hearty, breathless, excited.
You don't need his scent to know that he's delighted.
Thank you for reading! there will be a part four with you learning how to human (or trying) and Sylus courting his kitten. I'm having a great time writing this. I'd love to hear what you think in tags or comments! People asked to be tagged so I'm going to try to do that in the comments.
Also, please note that for dramatic effect, everyone was affected by the pufferfish neurotoxin at the same time. This is not realistic at all, so Rin-san convinced her mother to add a little extra 'seasoning' to the sashimi to ensure the dramatic end that Mr. Qin was aiming for. So don't come at me if you're some kind of marine biologist or pufferfish connoisseur. Or actually do, I love all feedback. Okay bye!
Summary: A continuation of the story in which you're a cat!hybrid living in captivity and Sylus kills your owner in a business deal gone sideways. You decide to sneakily follow your savior home without asking for permission. It picks up directly after the events of part 1. This part is the story of your first night with Mr. Qin. word count: ~6,100
Content: fluff, fluff, more fluff. Um, cat!mc/reader is very invasive of Sylus's personal boundaries but he doesn't mind. Sylus uses his aether core eye on an unsuspecting mall employee because he's such a bad man. Etc. A sprinkling of angst as Kitty!Caleb haunts the narrative. Will be continued (and maybe will end if i do it right??) in part 3.
As you nestle next to Mr. Qin's formidable ass, the adrenaline that cursed bird sent spiking through your body with his malicious racket begins to fade.
This has always been your problem. The second you're told that you can't do something without a decent explanation as to why, your hackles rise along with the fur along your spine, and every muscle in your body tenses in defiance. Your heart, clenching in fury, renders you incapable of simply accepting the boundaries, the obstacle, the audacity of whoever told you no.
Even if you weren't that interested in whatever it was to begin with, simply being told you couldn't do it made you determined to prove them wrong.
When you were a kitten, this character defect was obnoxious, but the damage was limited to arguments with Caleb over why you shouldn't cross the super busy road to explore that shadier part of town. Over why gorging yourself on too much fish scored through successful dumpster diving was inadvisable. Over why you couldn't just pick a fight with any old bully when they told you that you couldn't hunt on their turf—instead, you had to be strategic about it, topple the bully from his spot at the pinnacle of his little gang, take over, and then run the gang yourself.
But this character flaw is the same thing that got your brother killed.
If you had just listened. If you had just recognized that your captor's threat was no threat, but a promise.
If you could just control yourself—the defiance at your core—and recognize defeat before it crushed you completely, before it cost you everything.
If you could just accept that sometimes, there's no reason at all. That some things, you just can't have, because the universe is cruel, because you were born with an extraordinary gift into a world filled with men who are eager to twist gifts into curses for their own gain. Sometimes, if you're an unlucky black cat, your demand for freedom is met with a simple, implacable No.
No. I will not let you go. No, it's not your body, or your mind, to set free in museums of lofty artistic ambition, to soar from tree to tree in gently swaying branches, to set adrift across the pages of human ingenuity in all the books you long to read—not anymore.
And the only reason for it?
Because I can.
Because I'm holding the key to your collar, to your brother's collar, and to both your lives.
If you could just accept that a cage could still be a home as long as Caleb was locked in there with you.
You thought you had finally learned your lesson, the night that bastard took Caleb from you.
And yet.
You hadn't even planned on getting any closer to Mr. Qin tonight. You hadn't wanted him to know about your presence in his home at all, until you were thoroughly convinced that your initial instincts about him were true—that his base could be a safe harbor while you figure out what you want to do, now that no collar chokes you. Now that your body, your mind, your life are all your own again. Such as they are, without your only family at your side.
You hadn't intended to reveal your presence tonight.
And yet. You are you, and you have failed miserably in trying to change yourself your whole life. The bizarre mechanical monstrosity passing itself off as a real bird doesn't want you anywhere near its owner?
Ha.
You charge forward, first rubbing your butt all of the bird's master's leg. You hope the the robotic raptor has olfactory sensors in that big stupid beak of his so the next time he gets close to Mr. Qin, he smells your butt all over him. The more agitated the winged demon becomes, the brighter your spiteful glee glows. You balance on Mr. Qin's formidable leg, stretched in front of him under the silky sheets, and prance along that meaty calf, over his slightly bent knee, the nice muscular cushion of his big thigh, before slithering down and taking your time, sweet and slow, in finding the perfect position to curl up next to him.
He's warm, the sheets are soft, and this close to him, your vision blurs, the room spins a little. His scent is so concentrated here in his nest where he's been sleeping, his skin bare, his silver fur flowing across his big pectorals and down, down, to the pungent place where his legs meet his torso.
You're drunk on him. It's headier than catnip. Than boxed wine pilfered from art exhibitions open to the public, poured into plastic champagne flutes and carried in your hand as if it's the most expensive vintage in the world as you gaze thoughtfully, critically, at vibrant paintings on the gallery's walls.
But even through the drug-induced haze of his pheromones blanketing you, you're not so far gone that you don't realize what a huge gamble you just took. You are the intruder here. He said so. The bird has every right to defend his owner from an unknown entity who took advantage of his owner's security oversights to waltz right into his territory and make yourself at home.
You curl tighter into yourself, face tucked into the crook of your hind leg, pretending to be calm as your heart races faster as your adrenaline spikes again.
You can't help the flicking of your ears, listening for any change in Mr. Qin's breathing. For any retaliation, punishment, danger in response to your stubborn, invasive provocation of his bird.
The bird that came first, he said.
You hate that bird.
Mr. Qin's scent doesn't change. No anger, or indignation. The tired amusement remains steady, the fatigue slowly overtaking the amusement. But there's also something else. Something deep, deceptively calm. Calm in the way riptides smooth the ocean's surface, luring inexperienced swimmers into the dark gaps between the foaming waves. Once you're caught in the rip, there is no escape no matter how hard you swim. Only surrender, and the hope that you'll be released when the tide is good and ready to let you go.
It reminds you a little of Caleb, but it makes your heart race for reasons unknown yet entirely unrelated to adrenaline.
You don't know the word for it. You've never smelled it on anyone before.
Inexplicable. Maybe simply instinct. You don't overthink it.
The important thing is that you weren't wrong: your heart rate slows, tense muscles turning liquid.
He's safe.
The room is quiet—even the bird seems to have settled—and soft rain patters against the windowpanes on the other side of the blackout curtains. A chill draft brings the smell of fresh rain, stirring the curtains draped, half-open, around the bed.
After a few minutes, a featherlight touch along the edge of your ear startles you into flicking it. The touch retreats. You miss the touch already. So you flick your ear again.
Nothing.
You flick both ears.
Nothing.
Okay, maybe Mr. Qin isn't as smart as he initially seemed. You're clearly going to have to train him.
Lifting your head, you're startled again as you meet his eyes, banked crimson embers glowing in the dark of the bedroom. He's looking down at you, the hand that must have just touched your ear resting on the soft-looking fur of his bare abdomen.
You crane your neck and run your cheek along the satin skin of his stomach, next to his hand, next to his belly button. He exhales, a little puff of mint-scented breath. Surprised, pleased. You rub your cheek on his stomach again.
Finally, he gets the memo.
Lifting his hand, bigger than your head, half the size of your body, he gently runs his fingers along the top of your head, along the back of your neck, now light and free of any collar, down along your spine to where your tail begins. The callouses on his fingertips catch pleasantly on your fur, subtly tugging. A soft vibration fills the quiet bedroom.
"You like that," he murmurs, and only then you realized that you're purring.
You haven't purred in years. You didn't even realize you were doing it.
You force yourself to stop. To not give too much away. What if he stops because you like it so much?
He withdraws his hand.
You growl.
"Purr for me again, and I'll keep petting you." His voice, sleepy, filled with that warm riptide again.
It's dangerous.
But he's safe.
The deal he offers sounds reasonable. You let yourself purr. His hand moves again. It's not like your captor's hand at all. With every calloused caress, a sense of cleansing follows. As if he's a mother cat, licking you clean. The way Caleb used to do.
Safe, at last. Heart calm, full of sorrow, of relief, you don't remember falling asleep.
You drift awake slowly, as slowly as you had settled into sleep. Cracking open one eyelid, the memories of the day… the night before pad softly back into your waking mind.
Your captor. Following Mr. Qin to his insecure base. The fight with the mechanical crow that ended in your unequivocal victory.
Both eyes open now, you enjoy the view of the bedroom, curtains to the outside world thrown open, the nocturnal cityscape glittering beyond the gently swaying curtains of the bed. Yawning, tongue sticking out before running its long length along your fangs, you revel in the serenity of this quiet place that smells like Mr. Qin. No cage, no dreaded footsteps, no electric shocks coursing through your sore muscles, rattling your bones, leaving you in a puddle of your own piss, tongue almost bitten through.
A pitiful little mewling sound breaks the silence, irritating you.
As soon as you notice it, it stops.
Shaking your head so hard your ears flap, you hop lightly off the bed and go in search of Mr. Qin. His cold absence in the bed must have been what woke you. You have never liked sleeping alone. Curled up with Caleb and taking a nap was one of your favorite places to be in the world, even inside the cage.
You're going to have to train Mr. Qin better. He needs to learn not to leave you in bed alone.
At least there's no sign of that wretched avian, now.
Padding through the bedroom, you follow his scent. Luckily, he's not far. Paw beans further cushioned by the gaudy rugs thrown over the cold marble, your nose leads you to a half open door. You bat it open the rest of the way with a forepaw, finding Sylus standing, legs wide, back to you, burgundy silk pajama pants slung so low on his ass that the top swell of it is exposed under the dimples of his lower back, along with the cleft between his cheeks.
Oh, he's peeing.
You sit back on your haunches, enjoying the view of his broad shoulders sagging in a relieved sigh, drowned by the deafening steady stream against the toilet bowl. You've never understood how men could piss so loudly. Your ears flick along with your tail as you grow impatient. Did he drink an entire lake last night? It's taking him forever to finish.
He shakes his dick (which unfortunately you can't see), pauses, and then leisurely hikes his pajama pants back up over his magnificent ass before turning and jerking to a halt when he sees you sitting serenely in the doorway.
Finally! You refuse to stand and hop about eagerly like an undignified dog, but your fluffy tail gives away your excitement, flicking, flicking, flicking.
"What a bold little intruder," Mr. Qin lifts an eyebrow, momentary surprise melting into dry amusement. "Is no territory off limits for you?" He flushes the toilet before striding to the expansive bathroom counter, marble like the rest of this palatial penthouse, and washes his hands. His eyes meet yours in the huge mirror. "I suppose not, considering how insouciantly you invaded my home yesterday. Now that you've made use of my bed, did you sleep well?"
He asks as if you can understand him. As if you can answer him.
Unease slithers from your tip of your tail to the tip of your nose.
But no. There's no way he could know. Maybe he's just an extrovert and talks to everyone, including creatures like you. He does keep a mechanical crow that sleeps in his bedroom. He's just weirdo.
You pad over to him and wind yourself around his calves, rubbing your scent all over him. Someone needs to protect him from people or animals that would take advantage of his eccentric benevolence. After several passes across his legs, now people will know that he's yours. You're courteous, marking him with a warning. If they ignore it, the consequences are on them.
"I'll take that as a yes." He's a little pleased, a little smug.
You follow him as he saunters out of the bathroom. You jump from chest of drawers, to bookcase, to his desk, as he heads into a huge walk-in closet, always keeping him in view. He swaps out his pajama pants, the silky material sliding down his massive ass, his long legs, revealing a pair of black boxers with gold thread—he's garish down to his skivvies, how extraordinary—with casual jeans, ripped from the knees and up the thighs with little threads hanging at the tears—and then pulls a soft black sweater embellished with a gold embroidered feather motif over his head.
You stare at him, marveling at how he actually matches his underwear to his sweaters. What a peacock.
Hopping down from the tall chest of drawers you were just nosily sniffing, you land light as the feather stitched into his clothing and swish your way over to him, sniffing his jeans (fresh, citrus-cotton scent) and batting at the threads dangling from the ripped fabric.
"Not that I'd begrudge your amusement at my expense, kitten, but be informed that these are limited edition jeans."
You let him know what you think of these jeans riddled with holes by chewing on one particularly long thread until it slips too far down your throat, causing you to hack a little.
"Now, now, no need to hurt yourself in the process of betraying your woeful taste in fashion." The room tilts as he sweeps you up with one arm, draping you over his forearm and wearing you like a furry vambrace, palm flat so you can rest your chin on it and observe your surrounding as he carries you out of his bedroom and ferries you effortlessly to the kitchen.
The room responds to his presence, low lighting increasing in brightness but still not harsh to your sensitive eyes. Mr. Qin carries you to the gramophone, still wielding you on his forearm he crouches, the fingers of his free hand drifting across carefully displayed record sleeves on the shelves underneath. Humming tunelessly, he plucks one from from the collection and agilely plops it one-handed onto the player.
What's new pussycat? WHOAAAA, WHOAAA, WHOAAAAAAA, Tom Jones wails from the gramophone's sound horn.
Pussycat, pussycat
I've got flowers and lots of hours to spend with you
So go and powder your cute little pussycat nose
Flattening your ears on your head, you turn your head, slow-panning to meet the smirking gaze of Mr. Qin.
Pussycat, Pussycat, I love you, yes I do
You and your pussycat nose
You dig your claws through his pretty sweater's sleeve and launch yourself off of his arm, landing lightly on the back of one of his couches, tail up haughtily.
Not only does he have atrocious taste in fashion, his musical tastes also leave much to be desired.
You're so thrilling and I'm so willing to care for you
So go ahead and make up your big little pussycat eyes
Under Tom Jones' bellowing, Sylus snickers behind you. Ignoring him, you spring from surface to surface until you land with only a slight skid on the smooth marble surface of his kitchen island.
You're hungry.
"Not a Tom Jones fan, huh, Kitten?" Mr. Qin inquires. Again, you refuse to look at him.
You're delicious and if my wishes can all come true
I'll soon be kissing your pussycat lips— WHOAAAA WHOAAAAA
It's only at the crescendo of Jones' wailing like a tomcat that the carefully cut steak immaculately plated on a silver platter ornately etched with dragon motifs enters your field of vision.
Ears flicking forward, tail whipping, you can't conceal your curiosity. Or your hunger.
The steak he was cooking last night…
You turn to look at him again just as he lifts the gramophone arm and replaces Tom Jones with a new record, this time something dramatic with cellos. He doesn't return your gaze, just fiddles with the volume, mouth quirked. His profile, with its long, sloping nose, is magnificent.
"Finally ready to eat, Kitten?"
His delicious smell overpowers you so thoroughly that you hadn't noticed the steak at all when you walked by the kitchen island where he had apparently been preparing it just for you last night, nor when he swept into the kitchen with you this morning.
Your tail swishes, swishes. Circling the platter, you bat at it, and it too slips across the slick counter.
"Don't be coy. Go ahead and eat your fill."
Now that you can smell it, the delicious meat fills your nose, overwhelming everything else.
You can forgive him telling you what to do. His ridiculous taste in music, his preening fashion.
To be fair, you would have forgiven him anything, after he removed your collar. After he exterminated your captor.
But now, after he meticulously sliced this perfectly grilled, tender steak, just for you, you would kill for him.
He's never getting rid of you, now, whether he likes it or not.
You lean down, pierce one expertly, thinly sliced piece with your fangs and do exactly as he tells you.
He doesn't let you rest, that first night with him. Belly full of delicious meat, blinking and sleepy, Mr. Qin shrugs into a leather jacket and cruelly carries you in your now-established spot on his forearm out of his penthouse. The mirrors in the elevator infinitely reflect the soft sheen of his silver hair, his broad shoulders, your little black form tucked against his pillowy chest, repeated over and over and over again, as if revealing parallel universes where in every one you are like this, tucked safe in his arms, sheltered by the easy strength of him. His heartbeat is fast and steady under your cheek.
The car ride wakes you up after he tosses you playfully into the passenger seat of one of the many vintage muscle cars with a deafeningly loud engine and roars out of the underground parking garage. The city flows in neon streaks past the car windows. He huffs in surprise as you hop over his hand casually resting on the gear shift and onto his lap, peeking up over the steering wheel.
"Just this once, kitten. We'll get you a seatbelt while we're out tonight."
You stretch your claws our and dig, just a little, into his stupid ripped jeans—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to let him know that you want to be in his lap, forever.
"Non-negotiable," he responds, as if he heard your protest loud and clear and still insists upon his absurd safety measures.
Hmph. You don't need them. You always land on your feet.
The entrance to the luxury mall sweeps up into the night, brightly lit and inviting against the dark. Mr. Qin strides through its automatically opening doors like a king sweeping into his palace, not deigning to look left or right at store after store of expensive, luxury goods, the delicately tinkling fountains, the art nouveau curl of the iron banisters and stained glass windows mimicking French palatial residences. Even when you were free, you never would have dared enter such an exclusive cathedral dedicated to the worship of wealth, of ruthless consumerism, of the 'haves', since you and Caleb were always the 'have-nots.' Both of you had been working hard to improve your circumstances, studying like hell at the library where the books were free and the heating was always on in winter. You had been so close to the university entrance exams when your captor's thugs ambushed you one night returning to your small, cheap but clean apartment tucked in Linkon City's underbelly. Though it was in a run-down part of town, it was still far enough away from the N109 Zone to feel safe.
Mistake.
Maybe it was complacency. Maybe it was the hope for a better life, so close, dangling before you like a mouse by its tail, mesmerizing by virtue of your future, inexorable domination over it—maybe it was that hope which eclipsed your caution. In your arrogance, your gleeful aspirations in being able to own your own library, possess a lifelong entrance ticket to any museum in the city as a benefactor of the arts after making it big yourself, of sculpting with your own hands and claws pieces that would move others the way you stood before the classical masterpieces from long-dead artisans and marveled at the drape of fabric carved in cold stone, of strong forearms clutching glorious swords raised in revolt against corrupt systems of power—
But no. It was your loud yowling about how you didn't want ramen for dinner again, you wanted to shift and hunt for birds and mice, despite Caleb saying it was too dangerous to do it too often, that you had to protect your cover as emo students cosplaying as cats, furry-adjacent but not so obsessed as to attend cons or actually join the furry community.
Your fault.
Always your fault.
That strange mewling has started again.
Mr. Qin pauses. You look up at him curiously, wondering why he stopped walking, only to meet his intense gaze, the furrow between his brows more pronounced than usual, as if he's worried about something.
Swiftly approaching footsteps resound on the glossy floor and drown out the mewling, drawing your attention from Mr. Qin's beautifully sculpted face.
"Sir, Place Vendôme has a strict no pet policy." The security guard's tone is sharp and firm, but respectful, as if he's not sure who, exactly, he's dealing with yet.
"Not to worry." Mr. Qin's scent doesn't change. As always, he's relaxed, slightly amused even when confronted with petty rules. A certain spicy thread joins his normally delicious aroma—fun. He's having fun. "This is my emotional support kitten. I have a license to carry her wherever I go."
The security guard's eyebrows draw together, bright eyes sweeping Mr. Qin from the tips of his shoes to the top of his shining head, and he softens his voice. He must recognize the stupid, limited edition jeans. "Even so, these are our house rules. We would welcome your patronage if you would be so good as to return without your… cat at a later time."
Mr. Qin laughs, dark and low, the spice in his scent layering, deepening, warming like the rising magma of a re-awakening volcano. "While normally I would tell you to fetch the general manager to resolve this little issue, I'm afraid I have more pressing concerns that require my attention tonight."
The security guard's brows knit tighter before relaxing completely, his soft lips parting, square jaw growing lax. Puzzled, you glance back up at Mr. Qin whose right eye is now glowing as bright as molten steel, so bright as to almost blind you. Slowly, it fades back to its normal, ruby glitter, as his standard delicious scent also returns to normal.
"Yes sir, good, sir. Your emotional support kitten license is current, my apologies for disturbing you. Please enjoy a complimentary Kir Royale at La Folie d'Oiseau bar in the penthouse for your trouble after you've shopped to your satisfaction. I will inform all necessary staff to expect you and your elegant companion and to satisfy any desires you may have during your visit today," the security guard gushes euphorically, slow and sleepy, as if he's having the most wonderful dream and can't think of anything he'd like to do more than tell the entire mall that the cat weirdo in the stupid jeans is to be treated like royalty.
"Of course," Mr. Qin answers, gracious, patient. "But only because I'm in a very good mood tonight."
Without waiting for a response, your human sweeps past the security guard and does end up indulging in the Kir Royale himself, while also offering you the bubbly, sweet drink in a little saucer of your own after he acquires what he came here to acquire. As if it's completely normal to offer your pet cat alcohol at an exclusive bar at the most expensive mall in the world. You lap it eagerly, enjoying the fizzing in your belly, the lulling effect of the alcohol. You don't remember the trip back home.
You blink awake as the elevator doors open silently into the foyer of Mr. Qin's penthouse. His footsteps resound down the long hallway on the slick marble floor, the footsteps of a god entering a temple dedicated to his glory. On his arm, you lazily observe the shopping bags drifting beside you, encased in that swirling red and black, sparking mist. They keep pace as he makes his way to what appears to be the heart of his house: the kitchen, the living area, the view of his domain glittering menacingly far below.
As you're approaching the doorway, your ears flick as they're accosted with the unmistakable cacophony of bird screeches.
The shopping bags precede you, momentarily blocking the view as Sylus sweeps into the living area. Following the ear-splitting noise, your gaze is drawn to the huge chandelier sparkles as it looms from the high ceiling above. Two magpies, black and blue feathers brightly sheened under the refracted light, appear to be teasing Mephisto with a ruby the size of a quail's egg. They flit among the tinkling crystals, sending the entire chandelier swaying with their rapid landings and launches, as Mephisto flaps behind them in focused pursuit.
CAW! CAW! CAW!
CHITTER! CHITTER chitter chitter CHITTER!!
As soon as Mephisto seems to close in on one magpie, it tosses its head, sending the ruby sailing through the air. The other magpie catches it, chittering gleefully, dropping elegantly as a ballistic missile as Mephisto agilely swerves from the previous magpie and gives chase.
Mephisto seems to be having the time of his life as he flaps after the magpie now circling the kitchen island.
Mr. Qin heaves a sigh, as if he's used to such a loud spectacle, even as the chandelier sways dramatically above as the second magpie rejoins the other among its priceless layers of crystal and silver.
The bags settle themselves on the kitchen island's counter and Mr. Qin's evol dissipates. He nudges you gently off his arm next to them. As he begins to rummage through the bags and lift the items he purchased out, one by one, you rub yourself along his arm, letting your tail wind around his wrist.
A wand tipped with elaborate, beautiful peacock feathers. Little crystal balls with jingling bells in them. Several hand-stitched plushie mice filled with catnip. Robotic frogs made of a silicone material that hop across the counter when powered on. Carefully gift-wrapped bags of treats, their openings cinched with with an overabundance of scarlet, curled ribbons.
You sniff disinterestedly at each item, puzzled as to why Mr. Qin went to all the effort to acquire these things when you're perfectly satisfied with napping, being held by him, and clawing at his stupid jeans.
"The tower tree designed to resemble the base will take two days to make and arrive," he raises his voice, ever so slightly, to be heard over the birds above.
You turn your back on all the toys, flicking your tail disdainfully.
"Oh, I see how it is," he snickers. "My little kitten couldn't contain her glee as she rampaged through the pet store, but now that I've fulfilled her desires by purchasing every item she deigned to claw at, she's bored already."
Tail flicking dangerously, you spin around and swipe at Mr. Qin's gold-threaded sweater with a curved claw. Still laughing, he grabs your paw, holding it gently and harmlessly against his abdomen. "Keep that up and I'll get you solid gold kitty claw clippers to render your talons a little less dangerous to my wardrobe."
Oh, hell no. You spin again, tail puffed and back arched, ready to show him just how difficult you'll make it for him to get anywhere near your weapons when the vibration of his rumbling laughter rolls through your body again, softening your indignation and causing you to pause just long enough for his big hands to gently cage you. They feel so good on your body, an intoxicating mix of assured strength and dexterous care for your fragile bones, the small size of you in his powerful grip. Yowling in feigned protest, you let him slide you across the counter without a struggle until you're snuggled up against the sweater you just tried to assault.
Your token protest must have finally gotten the attention of the circling birds, because both magpies abandon their play with Mephisto and divebomb toward you and Mr. Qin.
The threat evokes the reaction that such things always do: instead of cowering against the shelter of Mr. Qin's broad body, you jump, swiping at one of the magpies with a claw-tipped paw.
It playfully swoops out of your reach just before contact, while the other takes advantage of your fall back to the counter, flying behind Mr. Qin and… trying to pluck one of his soft silver locks waving gently over his shirt collar with his wicked beak?!
Although Mr. Qin takes the assault in stride and elegantly ducks, causing the magpie to chitter gleefully and flit away again, you will not stand for this!
As the heinous bird swoops back in again for another go at Mr. Qin's precious hair, you leap onto his shoulder and with a vicious swipe knock the magpie away, triumphantly confirming that not a single silver hair was snatched in its vicious beak.
Slinking around Mr. Qin's shoulders, you drape yourself over the back of his neck to shield him from further insults to his person, growling menacingly as the magpies swoop and dive around you, squawking all the while.
Mephisto adds to the ruckus, cawing loudly, zooming back and forth at the periphery of your battle with the magpies in between dropping the ruby, catching it, and flapping up again with the glittering stone in his beak.
The magpies seem completely unfazed, chittering in amusement as they circle and divebomb, always just out of the reach of your razor swipes. A rumble shakes your body pleasantly—Mr. Qin is laughing.
"That's enough roughhousing for today. You're going to give Kitten here a stroke and we just got her." He waves the birds away. "Go get changed. I want an update within ten minutes."
Shockingly, they swoop back into the air in utter obedience, careening across the room and perching on matching atrocities behind a big black leather couch. You had first thought they were some kind of modern sculpture, but apparently the thrusting sculptures resembling ineffective coatracks are actually perches, similar to the cursed crow's perch in Mr. Qin's bedroom.
"I'm used to it, Kitten," Mr. Qin reassures you, reaching back to stroke tenderly along your back, smoothing the fur raised there. "They know exactly how far they can go before incurring my wrath. No need to protect me from my own men."
You purr under his touch, rubbing your face against his throat.
Tail flicking, you wish you could tell him, Men? What men. This is exactly why you need me around, and why you are not allowed to trim my claws. It's the open emergency exit all over again. Having your fur pulled hurts. I know from experience. Even in jest, they should pay you the respect you deserve. Wild animals like those birds can turn on you in an instant. As such an animal myself, I know this all too well. My captor insulted you and incurred your wrath, but from now on I will be your wrath for anyone who dares insult you.
But you can't tell him. Not in this form. And you can't remember any other form. Not really. When you think too hard about it—
that wretched mewling that has been haunting you since you invaded Mr. Qin's territory rings in your ears.
"Kitten—" the amusement leeches from his voice, and your whole body tenses. Has he found the source of that awful, pitiful sound? Is it another intruder, just like you?
You don't care how pathetic such a stray is, Mr. Qin belongs to you now. It's bad enough that you have to share him with several feathered abominations. There's no room for anyone else!
"Boss, the shipment's waiting for your inspection in the armory," a familiar voice pulls your attention to the couch where the magpies were previously perched.
A tall handsome man, nude, whose wiry muscled body is conveniently blocked from the waist down by said couch, grins at you and Mr. Qin.
"And the vermin are exterminated!" Crows another man, a mirror of the first, except one half of his face, neck, and lithe torso are ravaged by wicked scarring. He too is naked, and the scars that twist his grin somehow make him more, instead of less handsome. Like shattered fine china repaired with molten gold.
The men who killed all the assholes who knew you and Caleb were kept in abysmal conditions as cats, let alone as human beings, are the chaotic magpies.
They're hybrid shifters, just like you. You stare at them with huge eyes.
They don't have collars on of any kind. Their scent is gleeful, relaxed, eager. One of them has a buzzing, electric scent where the other smells more calm, mellow, but their scents mingle, morph—as if the electric energy of the one bolsters the other, and the serenity of the other tempers and soothes the first.
Something inside of you aches, recognizing the synergy of siblings who really care for each other.
You force your thoughts away from the ache, focusing instead on the bolstered certainty that Mr. Qin, despite doing business with men like your captor, is absolutely nothing like him. The easy admiration that his men, bird-human hybrids just like you are a cat-human hybrid, is all the testament you need, if you still had any lingering doubts.
No wonder Mr. Qin didn't concern himself with them taking their little game of trying to ruffle his feathers too far. They aren't just semi-tamed birds. And they genuinely love him.
"What part of 'go change' did you two misunderstand?" Mr. Qin rubs his forehead, as if infinitely tired. But his scent remains… amused. Contented. He's not actually annoyed with them, but there is a thread of something… bitter. Just a little, as he glances between your intense stare and the naked men who are clearly twins.
"What was there to misunderstand?" the unscarred one grins. "We went…"
"To the other side of the living room," continues the other, mirrored grin widening.
"And we changed into our human form!" finished the first.
"You knew perfectly well I meant go to your rooms and change not only form, but into clothes." Mr. Qin says calmly. "Begone, and take Mephisto with you."
Mephisto ruffles his feathers from his perch in indignation, but before you can puff up and threaten him into obedience, your vision is blocked by one of Mr. Qin's gigantic hands just as the twins are about to walk past the censoring couch—and before you can see anything really interesting.
You twist a little, gently nipping at Mr. Qin's fingers, but by the time he removes his hand, it's just the two of you in the room.
Well, being alone with Mr. Qin is even better than mirrored muscular-man butt. And they did take the cursed robot bird with them.
As Mr. Qin scoops you back onto your customary perch on his forearm, the bitter, possessive scent fades.
The rest of the night is spent in his armory, a yawning, warehouse-like space spanning an entire floor below the penthouse. He sets you down amidst the large packing crates with some of the cat toys he had bought for you earlier.
Snubbing them, you amuse yourself while Mr. Qin inspects the crates' contents with a joyful, almost aroused scent, by jumping from crate to crate, jostling the heavy weaponry packed into incredibly fun packing foam that you shred to your heart's content. It's like being at an indoor playground with ball pits and foam pits to jump into, with tubes to wriggle through, jungle gyms to crawl all over—the kind you used to sneak into when you and Caleb were children, always through the back exit, propped open by haggard employees on their smoke break. The thought causes that horrible mewling again, but it quickly fades after Mr. Qin pauses in his examination of a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher with an embedded glowing protocore, dropping it carelessly back into the crate and rushing over to you.
He rocks your tiny body in his arms, your head tucked under his chin. His scent is thick and comforting around you, electric, sparking with rage underneath the soothing familiarity of his calm self-possession.
You have no idea where that awful, mournful, humiliating sound is coming from, but you don't snub the reaction it elicits from your savior. You would never admit it, but you don't dislike it at all. You don't understand why he's doing this for you. But you will forgive him anything, after he saved you. You will kill anyone to protect him, after his consistent care and attention to your needs, you who are just a wretched stray. And you'll let him do anything to you now, simply because you know he'll never want to do anything to you that hurts, after seeing how much his men adore him, and the way he uses those big, calloused hands capable of killing with a snap of his fingers to soothe you when that horrible mewling distresses you so. If it makes him feel better to snuggle you with such fierce tenderness, you'll allow it.
For now.
okay so i had a few people ask to be tagged: @mia-menaceinaction @valiantchaosvalkyrie @harmlesscouch @yokoyokai thank you for your interest!
thank you so much for reading and for all the love and support on the previous part of this story! spoiler alert: kitten!mc/reader is going to unintentionally wake up as human!mc/reader in the next part, after some more kitten hijinks, and I'm also hoping to finish it in the next part with roughly the same amount of words. i'm trying to post smaller chunks instead of marathoning the fic, so here we are. i only proof-read it once, please don't stone me for errors. i'd love to hear your thoughts and ideas on this one too in comments or in tags!
Choosing the Dragon - Original
The Choices We Make
A/N: The scene where Sylus and V talk about the fate of dragons in fairytales did not always happen as it did in Chapter 11. The actual idea was him surprising her while she was reading in the library.
It changed due to necessity and flow, but the most important part of that conversation did make it to the final edit.
Please note this scene may have editing issues, due to it being a first draft.
Enjoy!
Word Count: 1,049
A bouncing foot above the back of the couch was the first thing Sylus saw as he walked into the library. Peering over, he found you upside down, book in front of your face. Stepping to the side, he could see that you were almost finished, fingers toying with the last couple pages. It was hard to discern your feelings on the ending, as your eyes squinted in a way that showed you were deep in thought.
He returned to the back of the couch, bending down and resting his weight on his arms as he waited for you to finish. Patience was something he had an abundance of when it came to you.
With a sigh, you closed the book and tossed it to the side of you. And then you screamed - because you had just noticed the smirking man watching you.
Instinctively, you kicked at him, and Sylus easily caught your leg, long fingers wrapping around your ankle and holding it in place.
"We're going to have to get you a bell or something," you groaned, rubbing your hands down your face.
"Oh - and here I thought the book was so engrossing I didn't stand a chance. How was it?" Sylus asked, nodding to the bound tome next to you.
With a shrug, you picked it up, looking at the cover and trying to free yourself at the same time. His arm locked your leg in place so it quit wiggling as you talked. "I mean…it was a good read. The prince got the girl - your typical happily ever after."
Dropping the book to the side once more, you tried to use your other foot to push Sylus' arm off, but all that managed was to get both of them trapped. He was smirking.
Oh - you were playing a game.
"You don't seem thrilled by this ending, kitten. Do you not like princelings?"
"Princes are fine. Plenty of benefits to marriage," you grunted, struggling under his grip "Money, fame, love, I guess…"
"You…guess?"
"We never see the after part do we?" You reached up, trying to pry him off of you with your hands, only to have them slapped away easily.
There was a low chuckle - your favorite kind that pulled the corner of his mouth upward. "Who would you want the princess to end up with, then?"
"I mean, personally," you dropped back to the couch, core tired from holding yourself up and fighting. "I'd stick with the dragon."
The look of shock on Sylus' face was one that would stick with you for a long, long while. You tried your best to memorize it, before it slipped under his mask of indifference. "And why, kitten, would you choose the dragon?"
You squealed as he moved to the side of the couch, dragging your legs with him to the armrest. And then he pulled you forward so that your legs hung over it. "Think about it - shiny things, immediate bonus - Sylus!" He was bent over you, arms caging you in. You pushed his chest, but it was like trying to move a wall.
"Shiny things - that's it?"
With a huff, you finally looked at him. Your breath caught. He was so close to you. Close enough you could see the change in color from his iris to his pupil. "No," you started, and a raised eyebrow instructed you to continue. The heat of a blush was creeping up your neck. "They would be a warm thing to cuddle with."
That laugh again as he watched you try to figure a way out of your situation. "Are you so sure the dragon would let you?"
A huff, you had tried to slip out the gap under an arm, but he moved quick enough that idea didn't work. "Everyone likes cuddles. And - the dragon could eat people I don't like."
"Oh? You speak as if you have tamed the dragon."
You weren't looking at him, still trying to figure out how to escape with the little space between your bodies. You weren't one to give up. And your heart was racing - you felt a little dizzy. "The dragon would like me."
Sylus dropped from his hands to his elbows, leaving only a hair's breath between the two of you. Your breath caught as his head dropped to the crook of your neck, his nose leaving a teasing trail and his words dusting over your skin. "And what if the dragon wants to eat you instead?" His voice was huskier than before. Testing an invisible line neither of you have had the bravery to cross.
Your body hummed at being trapped like this. You couldn't even shake your head. "Dragons don't eat princesses."
"Oh? And why not?"
The silence was no more than a second, but it felt like it was a suspended eternity before you spoke again. "Because the dragon is in love with her."
Sylus' laugh sounded different - muffled where he had nestled himself. "Princesses don't love monsters."
"Princesses love their protectors," you said firmly, wiggling your hands up enough you could make space between the two of you. Enough space you could cup his face, forcing it above you once more so that you could look into his eyes. "That's why I would stay with the dragon." A whisper. An affirmation.
Sylus tilted his head, kissing your palm, but those darkening crimson eyes never left yours.
"Sy-"
The door to the library banged loudly as it opened, causing you to jump and smack Sylus' forehead with your own. Both of you groaned, Sylus standing up instantaneously, rubbing the spot on his forehead. "What?" he snarled, turning toward the intruder.
"Uh…it's the General. He called about cards this evening?" There was an awkward pause. "I can…come back?"
You had already scrambled away from the couch, snagging the book and heading over to the shelf to put it back.
With a sigh, Sylus headed to the door. "No, I'll handle this now."
Once he was gone, you leaned your forehead against the multiple spines in front of you. You needed to do something - your heart wasn't going to be able to continue taking more of these stolen moments. Something needed to be done. And, knowing Sylus, you would need to make the first move.
𖦏₊ ⊹ <series summary> in your universe, sylus is your beloved character in a game you like to play. in his universe, sylus acquires a mirror of the game… and sees you playing. </>
𖦏₊ ⊹ <series cw> sylus x fem!nonmc. mutual yearning. sylus and mc are not in a relationship. </>
𖦏₊ ⊹ <reminder> Kindly respect the time and effort put into this fic. Do not copy, plagiarize, reproduce, feed to ai, or upload this work elsewhere. Instead, reblogs, tags, and comments are deeply appreciated! ♥️ divider by @diviniyae </>
⊹ [masterlist] ⊹ [next coming soon]
Something is not quite right.
There’s this nagging sense at the back of his mind; an instinct, a gut feeling. Not one to ignore his internal warning signals, Sylus slowly taps his finger on the armrest as he ponders it over. Nothing seems out of place, and nothing is missing. And yet, that doesn’t seem to be correct either.
He observes the young woman sitting beside him on his living room couch. Casual clothes, a relaxed posture, lips that always seem to hold a tiny smile.
They had clashed when they first met. Which is an extreme understatement. But slowly, eventually, they came to understand and even help each other with their goals.
He had also initiated a few activities to spend time together: trying a new restaurant, cruising the n109 on his motorcycle, or just casually hanging out at each other’s places. They’ve been growing closer… or at least, Sylus likes to think so. He just couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness.
Her gaze flicks from the tv to Sylus, remote in hand. “Would this movie be alright with you?” She asks.
And there it is. He gazed deeply into her eyes for a few beats, as if trying to look for something. “If you like it, then it’s fine with me.” He replies with a fraction of a smile, then retreats back to his thoughts, turning them over and over in his mind like he often does with a coin.
She’s always polite to him. Which wasn’t wrong, just… lukewarm. She is quite agreeable when she responds to his invitations and goes along with his suggestions. She feels calm, though not the peaceful kind, of gentle sea breezes or a warm cozy evening. But rather in how a room is settled and quiet because it’s… empty.
Has she always been expressionless? He thought back to the few times she’d shown some form of vivacity.
And it’s not just her demeanor, he feels it in himself too. He’d expected a much greater connection than this, considering how they’re supposedly carrying half of each other’s souls.
Restless, Sylus exhales deeply through his nose, then flicks his hand so their linkage appears, a flowing tendril of black and red swirling around their wrists. She doesn’t notice it, too engrossed by the screen.
He rubs his forehead. It’s really her, and yet…
Wait a minute.
His stills, brows furrowing as his gaze sharpens to confirm what he thought he saw a moment ago.
The linkage, though it encircles her wrist, does not seem to fully complete the circle. Rather, one end looks like it is trying to tether to her watch.
His hand tightens on the armrest at the sight. A million questions burst forth inside him, but his observation remains true:
And he wants to give you all the space you want to deal with your emotions before you're ready to talk to him about it.
But as he sits across from you while you ignore him to watch some cliche soap opera that's been ongoing for 10 years with more than 600 episodes and refuse to eat, he can't help himself.
First, he has to rein the laughter in. He schools his features into one of grave seriousness like he's about to interrogate a criminal and in a solemn tone, finally attempts to address you again.
"Psspss, kitten"
It's almost comical how fast your head snaps up, almost identical to a real ball of fur, head snapping around before your gaze lands on Sylus who is trying his hardest not to laugh.
"Did you just-"
"Are you hungry?" Sylus shows no signs of having said something prior to this at all, looking serene but you're sure you heard him.
When you going back to ignoring him, not deeming him worthy of even a response, Sylus tries again.
"Psspss here kitty"
This time, you're sure of what you heard, indignation filling your veins at his audacity as you get up from where you'd been watching your show, aiming straight for your boyfriend, violence clear in your aura.
Sylus, for all his flaws, knows when self-preservation should take charge as he shoots up from his seat, dodging your attack and making a run for it with you hot on his heels.
"I can't believe you would psspss me like I'm some stray-!" You pick up a throw pillow in the midst of your chasing, tossing it straight at the Leader of Onychinus who ducks at the correct time and successfully dodges it.
"I tried to get you to eat with me before-" Sylus ducks again to dodge your attack- two throw pillows thrown in succession- standing up straight before he resumes running around the couch with you right behind "-and you wouldn't acknowledge me"
"Because I'm still mad at you!"
Sylus stops running at that, turning to face you as you attack him with balled up fists that land no damage at all "Be mad at me all you want" He says, long fingers encircling your wrists and holding them right over his heart "But don't skip your meals because of it"
You frown at him "Acting all sweet now won't work after you watched the season finale without me!"
Again, Sylus tries his hardest to hold his laughter in. But you catch the smile threatening to break on his features anyway.
"You're in timeout" You even point to the far wall and Sylus finally ends up grinning because he thinks you're really cute when you're joking.
His smile drops real fast when he realizes you're not.
Two minutes later, he's standing by the wall, fully grown adult, mob boss, one of the most feared beings on the planet, trying to appease his girlfriend but you know it won't be long before he can't help himself.
When you feel something collide with the side of your foot a while later, you peer down to see a bunched up ball of string at your heels.
With Sylus holding the loose end tauntingly.
The moment Sylus sees you bunch up the ball in your fist as you slowly stand to face him, he knows he's screwed.
But he doesn't need saving. He's right where he wants to be.
Chapter Title ♥︎ When The Dream Breaks ♥︎ chapter index
♡︎ synopsis: You return to warmth, to quiet moments and gentle touches - but the night brings a reminder that something beneath it all is deeply, irrevocably wrong.
♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus, vampire!Caleb x fem!reader (separately and together)
⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠
♡︎ tags: finger-ing, marking, unease, a little bit of panic :)
♡︎ word count: 7.3k
♡︎ a/n: “When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one!” - Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
divider by @/drinkthesky
Late morning light filters weakly through a heavy blanket of clouds as you and Rafayel continue the slow walk up the winding path toward the mansion.
You glance sideways at Rafayel walking beside you – he carries your bag, one strap slung over his shoulder, and there is the faintest hint of that familiar, teasing smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
The morning comes back to you – you had woken to an empty bed, the sheets beside you already cool, and a small pang of disappointment had bloomed in your chest. But when you rose and walked into the kitchen, there he was – Rafayel, humming softly under his breath while he prepared breakfast with the same elegance he brought to everything. He had teased you about your sleepy expression, slid a plate toward you with a flourish, and for a little while he had seemed almost like the Rafayel from before – playful, bright, untouchable in that effortless way of his. You hadn’t minded. In fact, you had felt a quiet wave of relief wash through you – if he could smile like that, if he could move around your small kitchen as though the previous night’s storm had passed, then perhaps he truly was feeling better.
Now, as the mansion’s stone facade comes into view, you wonder how much of that morning lightness was real and how much was another of his carefully painted masks.
Rafayel slows his steps just slightly. He glances at you, that familiar half-smile deepening for a moment.
“You wanna turn around and go to Linkon City with me?” he asks suddenly, voice light and teasing. “We could disappear for a week. Maybe two. Let the world spin without us for once.”
You let out a soft laugh. “Maybe some other time. They’re expecting us inside.”
He hums, a light, melodic sound. He doesn’t say anything else as you continue walking.
When you finally reach the grand front doors and step inside, the familiar silence welcomes you again. Rafayel follows you up the stairs to your bedroom without being asked, still carrying your bag.
Once inside your room, you pause for a moment. “Speaking of Linkon…” you say, a touch of nervousness threading through your voice.
You turn toward the wardrobe and open the drawer where you had tucked the gift. Your fingers close around the conch shell you had found while wandering one of the markets there. You feel a flutter of self-consciousness as you turn back to him, wondering if he will find something so simple childish or unworthy of his artist’s eye. Still, you hold it out to him with both hands.
“I saw this while I was there,” you murmur, cheeks warming. “It reminded me of you.”
Rafayel’s eyes widen slightly as he takes the gift from your hands. His index finger traces the delicate ridges carefully, the same way an artist might touch a marble statue. For a moment the teasing mask slips completely. Tenderness blooms in his gaze as he studies the shell.
Then, he lifts it to his ear. His eyes flutter closed. In that instant he looks utterly serene – shoulders relaxed, lips parted just slightly, the faint crease between his brows smoothing as though the distant waves have washed everything else from his mind. The late morning light filtering through the window catches in his purple hair, turning the strands into threads of amethyst and rose.
You lock the sight deep in your heart. It feels rare, precious. For once he isn’t performing. He simply… is. Listening to the sea you brought him.
A small, genuine smile curves his lips as he lowers the shell. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “It’s beautiful.”
Your shoulders relax as relief blooms warm and sweet in your chest.
Rafayel steps closer. The faint scent of bergamot drifts from his skin as he leans in. His mouth meets yours gently – soft at first, then staying there, savoring. His hand settles lightly at your waist, thumb tracing along your side. For a few heartbeats his kiss deepens just a little, the press of his lips growing warmer, while his breath trembles once against you.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His eyes stay closed as the warmth of his exhale ghosts across your lips. Then his lashes lift, and his gaze holds yours, lingering for one long moment.
Without another word, he steps away.
The door clicks softly behind him, and you’re left standing in the sudden stillness of your room, the faint trace of bergamot slowly fading around you.
*
When you step out of your bedroom after partially unpacking, the hallway stretches ahead in heavy silence. The quiet is something you have grown used to in this mansion, yet it always feels slightly odd during the day.
You note, with a small flicker of unease that no one had been there to greet you and Rafayel when you returned. But you brush the thought aside immediately; the others are probably busy with their own affairs, as they often are.
Deciding not to linger in the empty corridor, you make your way downstairs toward the living room, your footsteps the only sound breaking the heavy silence. You wonder idly how the living room looks now after you and Sylus spent that afternoon cleaning it. The memory brings a small sense of satisfaction; at least one corner of this vast house feels a little more lived-in because of your hands.
When you step inside, your eyes are drawn immediately to one end of the room. Xavier crouches before the grand fireplace, his fingers carefully arranging kindling as the flames grow taller, casting flickering amber light across the gentle curve of his profile and the soft fall of his silver hair.
Xavier must sense you before you even take another step, because he straightens by the fireplace and turns, that familiar softness already settling into his expression as his eyes find yours. He closes the distance between you without hesitation.
You barely have time to breathe before his arms are around you.
“Welcome back,” he murmurs against your hair.
You smile against his shoulder, and tighten your hold just a little. “It’s so good to be back.”
You pull away slightly, but neither of you are letting go, “Where is everyone?” you ask, glancing around the room. “The house feels empty.”
Xavier’s expression remains gentle. “Sylus is away on business, Zayne is sleeping, and Rafayel…” He hesitates for half a second, his gaze flicking toward the windows. “He just left… to Linkon.”
You murmur a quiet ‘oh’.
A hollow ache of disappointment settles in your chest as the image comes back to you – Rafayel standing in your bedroom only minutes ago, the pink conch shell resting in his hands, his forehead pressed to yours. You had brushed off his invitation with a laugh, too easily, as though it were nothing more than another one of his passing whims.
And now he’s gone.
As you stand there, still lingering in Xavier’s arms, trying to gather your thoughts, you notice the way Xavier’s gaze drifts – not to your face, but lower, lingering for a heartbeat on the side of your neck and the expanse of skin visible down to the neckline of your dress. The marks Rafayel left last night are still there, vivid against your skin: the largest one blooming just beneath your jaw, dark and unmistakable, surrounded by smaller, fainter traces that trail lower like scattered petals. It had completely slipped your mind to cover them with a scarf or a higher collar, and now the realization sends a rush of heat flooding your cheeks.
For a heartbeat something shadows his expression – a fleeting tension at the edge of his jaw, his eyes darkening like still water beneath storm clouds – before it vanishes beneath another soft smile.
He offers no words about it.
And neither do you.
Instead, you offer him a sheepish smile, hoping it hides the sudden self-consciousness blooming under your skin.
Your gaze drifts toward the grand piano sitting in one corner next to a tall window, its dark surface gleaming almost pristinely – Sylus must’ve given it another thorough dusting while you were away. You gently pull away from Xavier’s hold, and approach the instrument, your fingertips grazing the polished wood.
You turn your head slightly toward Xavier, “Do you know how to play?”
He joins you, standing next to you as his fingers mimic yours. “I do,” he says. “I played this one a little while you were gone… though I fear my skill has grown a bit rusty.”
You smile at his words. A touch of nostalgia drifts through you, the memory of your own fingers once dancing across keys flickering briefly through your mind.
“I haven’t played in a while either,” you admit softly.
Your eyes lock for a moment – and then he reaches out, his fingers brushing yours where they rest on the piano lid before gently taking your hand in his. The touch is warm and careful, sending a subtle shiver up your arm.
“We can practice together some time later… when Zayne isn’t sleeping,” he says quietly.
You smile at the suggestion – and then a soft laugh slips from your lips as you tilt your head slightly. “But it’s okay if the others are sleeping?” you ask.
Xavier chuckles. “Yes,” he says simply.
His gaze holds yours. He steps closer, the space between your bodies shrinking.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers against your lips, the tip of his nose brushing yours.
The words send a wave of butterflies fluttering through your stomach. For a heartbeat you simply stand there, heart quickening as the confession lingers in the air. Then you lean in and your lips meet his in a tender kiss.
His hand rises to cup your cheek, thumb stroking gently along your skin, and you melt into the soft warmth of his lips. You feel yourself softening against him, every careful brush of his lips easing the lingering tension until nothing remains but the sweet, dizzying pull of being close to him again.
Then he pulls back, just slightly.
When you open your eyes, his gaze has dropped to your lower lip.
His thumb follows a moment later, grazing over it with care – over the small wound you gave yourself last night. The touch is light, but your breath catches as his eyes lift to meet yours.
You almost ask if it bothers him – if it feels different, if it’s too rough beneath his lips – but the question never quite makes it out.
He leans in again.
The kiss deepens this time, his tongue slipping softly against yours, one hand cradling your cheek while the other wraps around your waist, drawing you closer until your bodies press together. You rest your hands on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as your cheeks burn hotter. Your knees grow weaker beneath you, a trembling warmth pooling low in your belly, and in that moment you admit to yourself how deeply you have missed this – missed him – how you have longed for even a single moment alone with Xavier, the one who has always felt like steady light in the old shadows of the mansion.
Then, with effortless grace, Xavier scoops you into his arms, carrying you as though you are something precious and weightless. You loop your arms around his neck, a soft, breathless laugh slipping from your lips at how naturally he does this – how he has always carried you this way, as if you belong exactly here against his chest.
With you still cradled in his arms, he steps toward the sofa and lowers himself onto it, settling you gently in his lap so you sit with your side nestled against his chest, the scent of sage and him enveloping you.
He holds you by the waist with one hand, the other rising to cradle the back of your neck, gently tilting your head just enough to kiss you more fully. Your own hands sneak upward, sliding into the soft silver strands of his hair, and you feel the way his body responds to your touch – a subtle tension running through his shoulders, a quiet hitch in his breathing against your mouth.
His grip at your waist tightens, before sliding lower to settle firmly on your hip. The possessive weight of his hand sends a spark of heat blooming low in your belly. The kiss grows hungrier in answer – tongues sliding together, soft sighs slipping between you as you press your chest closer to his.
You shift in his lap, hips moving with curiosity, seeking more of him. A soft moan escapes you when you feel the hard length of him straining beneath you, the firm heat pressing insistently against your backside through his trousers. Heat floods between your thighs at the contact, your core fluttering with aching need.
Xavier breaks the kiss with a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to look at you with heavy-lidded eyes. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are flushed a bright, telling pink, a rare crack in his usual composure that sends another wave of warmth rushing through you.
His hand begins to travel slowly down your leg and he whispers against your lips, “Tell me when to stop, princess.”
You watch as his hand finds the hem of your long dress and disappears beneath it. His fingertips graze your legs, warm and feather-light at first, then firmer as they slide upward, tracing slow paths along your inner thighs that make your muscles tremble and your pulse quicken. His fingers brush against the thin fabric of your underwear. He pauses there, giving you time.
You don’t stop him.
He hooks the material and begins to pull it slowly downward, the lace dragging teasingly along your skin. You lift your hips just enough, allowing him to slide the underwear down your legs until it slips free and is set aside. With the same hand, he brings his fingers to your lips. You part your lips, taking his middle and ring finger into the wet heat of your mouth. Your tongue curls slowly around them, sliding along their length as you coat the digits thoroughly, your gaze never leaving his. His fingertips press warm against your tongue as it swirls slowly around them, curling and sliding along their length so you feel every subtle ridge and the solid weight of the digits.
His fingers, still slick from your mouth, slip beneath the hem of your dress. You part your legs just a little wider for him, breath catching as the cool, wet glide of his fingertips meets the fevered heat between your thighs. Your body reacts at once – a deep, involuntary clench, followed by a fresh rush of wetness that coats his fingertips as he teases you. He starts gently, almost playfully, tracing slow, circling paths around your entrance before gliding lightly over your slit in smooth, repeated strokes – up and down, never quite pressing where you need him most.
Your breathing turns shallow and uneven, hips twitching restlessly in his lap as you fight the urge to chase his fingers. You don’t rush him, though. Instead, you let the slow torment build, savoring the way every light stroke makes your thighs tremble.
Xavier shifts beside you, carefully guiding you until your back rests against the sofa cushions. His hand remains at your waist as he leans over you.
For a moment, you think he’ll kiss you again.
But his lips don’t find your mouth.
They drift lower.
A soft breath leaves you as he brushes a slow line along your jaw, his touch feather-light at first, as though testing something – or perhaps avoiding something – before he settles at the other side of your neck, where your skin is still untouched.
His mouth is warm and slow at first, brushing tender kisses along the side of your neck. Then his lips part and he begins to suck gently on the delicate skin, drawing it between his teeth with the lightest nip. A shiver races through you as you realize what he’s doing – claiming the bare skin of your neck with marks of his own. The thought sends a fresh wave of heat flooding between your thighs, your pulse quickening under his mouth.
The wet glide of his fingertips pulls a quiet whimper from your throat. Every slow circle around your entrance, every gentle stroke over your swollen clit sends sparks dancing through your veins, your legs parting wider on instinct, silently pleading for more.
He teases your entrance, his slick fingers brushing closer and closer until one finger finally slides in. Your walls flutter tightly around the welcome intrusion as he pushes deeper, then withdraws in a smooth, steady rhythm. You clutch his shoulders harder, fingers digging into the fabric.
His mouth leaves the warm trail on your neck and returns to yours. Lips brush together as the kiss grows breathless and desperate, tongues tangling in heated strokes. His breathing turns faster and rougher against your mouth with every thrust, the tension coiling through his body as his hips twitch once, pressing the hard length of him more insistently against your thigh.
Then a second finger joins the first, stretching you fuller, the slick rhythm of his fingers moving in and out filling the quiet space between you. His fingers curl inside, brushing that sensitive spot with every stroke while his palm presses firmly against your clit. Pleasure coils tighter and hotter in your core – a deep, throbbing ache that builds relentlessly, your hips rocking desperately against his hand, chasing the friction you crave.
You’re lost in the sensation, too breathless to return his kisses properly anymore, so you rest your forehead against his, your shaky breaths mingling with his own as you whisper his name over and over like a prayer ‘Xavier… Xavier…’ the sound trembling on your lips. His fingers continue thrusting deeper, rubbing that sweet spot while his palm continues its firm pressure against your clit, the wet, obscene sounds of your arousal growing louder with every stroke.
“That’s it, princess,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and rough, his breath hot against your skin. “I can feel how close you are, how beautifully you’re clenching around my fingers. Let go for me…”
The praise, combined with the relentless moving of his fingers, pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you hard – a sudden, blinding wave of pleasure that makes your back arch and your thighs tremble around his hand. You pull him in for a sloppy, desperate kiss, mouths crashing together to muffle your broken moans as your walls pulse and flutter around his fingers, your release flooding hot and slick over his hand.
He doesn’t stop until the last trembling wave has rolled through you, his fingers slowing but staying buried deep, gently stroking you through the fluttering aftershocks until your body finally softens. Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling in shaky little puffs, and for a long moment the only sound is the quiet crackle of the fire and the faint, wet echo of his fingers still moving lazily inside you.
Xavier watches you with heavy-lidded eyes, the soft flush across his cheeks and the tips of his ears betraying how deeply affected he is. For a long heartbeat he simply holds you close, one arm wrapped around your waist while his fingers remain nestled warmly between your thighs.
Then you feel his body tense. He leans in, capturing your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. His free hand slides up your back to cradle the back of your neck, tongue sliding against yours. You feel the shift in him – the way his breath catches, the hard press of his hips against you, the way his arms tighten as if he means to lay you down completely.
But just as the kiss deepens and your own desire surges, aching for him to continue, he stops.
With visible effort he pulls back, his breathing ragged and uneven. His fingers slowly slip free from your heat, leaving you empty and throbbing.
“Not here. Not like this… I want to take my time with you.” he whispers against your lips.
The words are sweet and aching. Part of you wants to protest – to tell him that you need him fully, right here. But you swallow the plea and nod instead, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
For a long while you simply stay like that, curled in his lap with your head tucked against his shoulder, his arms wrapped around you in a comforting embrace. The fire crackles softly beside you, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. The moment feels tender, sweet, and painfully incomplete.
*
Back in your bedroom, the afternoon light had already begun to fade as tiredness caught up to you. You had only meant to unpack the rest of your things and relax for a short while after lunch, but the moment your head touched the pillow, sleep had pulled you under swiftly.
When you wake from the nap, the room is already wrapped in the deep blue hush of early evening. You sit up slowly on the bed, and you let yourself have a moment of stillness, letting the grogginess fade.
Then, as your mind sharpens, your gaze drifts across the room to your bag. There is still one more thing waiting inside it – the folded letter you had carried back from the cottage.
For a moment you hesitate, a quiet flutter of uncertainty stirring in your chest. Part of you wonders if you should leave it untouched. But the curiosity has grown stronger since your return, heavier than the guilt that had held you back before.
After you retrieve it from the bag, you sit on the edge of the bed and for a long moment you simply stare at it. The quiet of the room presses in around you, the faint creak of the old floorboards and the distant sigh of wind only heightening the heavy thrum of your pulse in your ears. With a shaky breath you finally unfold it.
You recognize the handwriting – it is unmistakably Zayne’s. You remember the same scratchy lines from the note he had left for you on your nightstand. But this letter is different, far more difficult to read, the ink faded in places as though time had tried to erase it, the lines uneven and trembling in a way that speaks of haste or deep strain. Some letters are pressed so hard the pen has dug into the paper, creating thick, angry strokes, while others are thin and wavering, almost ghostly, and in several spots the ink has smeared as if a frustrated hand had dragged across the page before the words could dry. You do manage to read who it was addressed to – Dr. Noah.
You lean closer, squinting in the low candlelight, your heart beating faster as you try to decipher the fragments that swim before your eyes. “Patients…” you manage to make out, the word tight and jagged, followed by “no cure…” and then, further down, “ethical… ” Your fingers tremble slightly against the paper. With every struggling line you read, the frustration Zayne must have felt while writing it seems to bleed into you – your own chest tightening in sympathy. The date is missing entirely, leaving you with no sense of how long ago this was written.
The more you stare at the letter, the more the guilt coils tighter in your stomach, mixing with the frustration of not being able to read it fully. Your throat closes further, a painful lump forming that makes your eyes sting with unshed tears, and by the time you reach the final, smeared lines, you feel as though you have intruded on something deeply private – something that was never meant for your eyes. You lower the letter slowly to your lap, the paper now slightly crumpled from the tightness of your grip, and you sit there in the quiet room, heart pounding heavily.
After sitting in silence for a moment longer, the heavy knot of guilt and frustration refusing to loosen in your chest, you stand up from the edge of the bed. You tuck the letter under your pillow, and move toward the bathroom, hoping that warm water might wash away some of the unease.
You turn the taps and wait as the small furnace in the corner begins to hum softly, sending warm water cascading into the tub. You watch as the bathtub begins to fill with warm water that sends curls of steam rising into the air, carrying the calming scent of lavender oil as you add several drops. When the tub is full, you undress and sink down into the water.
A deep, relaxed sigh leaves your lips, the heat easing the ache left behind by the day’s weight and the lingering echoes of last night. Yet even as your shoulders soften and your mind begins to drift, the guilt remains, a quiet ember that refuses to be fully extinguished.
Then, cutting through the peaceful haze, comes the familiar, faint screech of your bedroom door opening. The sound sends a sudden twist through your stomach that pulls you to sit upright in the tub. Seconds later, Zayne’s voice drifts in from the other side, calling out your name. Your heart gives a small, uneasy lurch. You manage to keep your voice composed as you call back from the bathtub, telling him that you are taking a bath, while your fingers tighten unconsciously around the edge of the tub.
You hear him say that he has brought you dinner, and then the soft clank of ceramic as he sets the tray down. The warmth of the water continues to soothe your body and for a brief moment you allow yourself to relax further, sinking a little deeper until the water brushes against your chin, grateful that Zayne has already thought of your next meal.
Then his voice comes again, softer and further from the bathroom door, the words muffled and indistinct so that you catch only fragments – something about time and sheets – and you replay them in your mind. You think it was probably “I didn’t have time to change your sheets… I’ll be quick.” You nod to yourself as the sentence makes sense to you.
…
Wait…
Did I put the letter back in the bag?
Or did I leave it on the bed?
The question cuts through the lavender-scented calm like a sudden draft. You recall with a sinking feeling how you had placed the folded paper under the pillow in a swirl of emotions that had muddied your decision making.
With your heart pounding so hard in your chest that you can feel it throbbing in your throat, you stand up from the tub in a hurry. Through the panicked haze you remain mindful enough not to slip on the wet tiles, your bare feet finding careful purchase as you step out. You quickly wrap yourself in a thick towel and slip your feet into the slippers.
You hesitate for a moment at the bathroom door, one hand resting on the knob as your mind races through desperate possibilities – maybe he won’t read it, maybe he won’t look at it long enough to recognize his own handwriting, maybe he’ll simply see a stray piece of paper and won’t spare it a second glance because he would never read something private that belongs to you… unlike you, who had done exactly that.
With a shaky breath you finally push the door open.
And there he is – Zayne, sitting on the chair near your bed, the dinner tray placed neatly on the table next to him.
The letter is in his hand, unfolded.
His eyes find yours the instant you step into the room. You see it immediately in his eyes – disappointment.
Your stomach twists sharply, your voice trembling with the effort to stay composed like he is. “Zayne… I – ” The apology sits heavy on your tongue, desperate to spill out, but the guilt overwhelms you, choking the words before they can fully form.
Zayne’s voice is composed, his eyes still fixed on you. “Where did you find this?”
You avert your gaze, looking anywhere but at him – at the floorboards, the unchanged sheets on the bed. You try to swallow, but your throat is too dry. “In the living room… in the desk,” you manage, your voice small. “I didn’t… I mean I tried – ” The words falter again, but you push on. “It’s hard to read – I didn’t understand it.”
When you finally look at him again, the disappointment is still there, a slight frown creasing his brows. Your eyes sting with unshed tears. He nods slowly, glancing down at the letter in his hand. The silence stretches between you, your mind racing with a thousand frantic thoughts while you wait for him to speak first.
He stands up from his seat and says, “I understand why you felt the need to look somewhere else to understand us better.” The understanding and softness in his voice make your eyes sting sharper, a warm prickling rising behind them as you search his face again. He continues, “But I was hoping we had proved ourselves worthy of your trust.”
He starts walking toward the door, and the sight of him moving away sends a sudden wave of panic.
“But if you don’t feel safe here after all – ”
“I do feel safe!”
You move without realizing it, closing the distance between you in a few quick steps – and your hand finds him before you can stop it, fingers wrapping around his forearm. You feel the subtle shift of his muscles beneath your fingers – but he doesn’t pull away.
“I do feel safe,” you repeat, the words tumbling out fervent and trembling, “I – I was curious. I wanted to know more, but…”
Tears blur your vision, warm against your skin as they slip slowly down your cheeks. The room shifts around you as everything narrows to him – to the fact that he hasn’t pulled away, that you’re still holding him there.
The sudden thought of being asked to leave – of losing this place, of losing them – feels just too unbearable.
Through the blurry veil of tears you see Zayne’s eyes soften, the quiet disappointment in them melting away. He reaches into the pocket of his suit vest to draw out a clean handkerchief. He lifts it to your face, gently wiping away the tears that continue to fall, the soft fabric cool and soothing against your flushed skin. The gesture is so kind, so careful, that it only makes more tears spill over.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words barely audible.
Zayne shakes his head slowly, still gently catching your tears with the handkerchief. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says softly, the sound of it easing some of the tightness in your chest even as your heart continues to race. He nudges your chin gently with his finger, tilting your face up so you meet his gaze. “Please don’t cry.” A small, gentle smile curves his lips as your tears begin to slow, the handkerchief now damp in his hand.
You nod. The panic that had gripped you moments ago begins to ebb, leaving behind a trembling calm, and you feel relieved that he is not asking you to leave, that the disappointment in his eyes has softened into care, that the home you have found here with them has not shattered completely in this moment.
Zayne tucks the handkerchief back into his pocket. Then, instead of pulling away, he gently covers your hand with his own – the one still gripping his forearm. His fingers wrap around your wrist and he draws you gently into a hug. You go willingly, your arms wrapping around his torso, hands resting on his back, almost clinging to him as if afraid the moment might slip away.
Your face buries against his chest, the familiar scent of herbs and antiseptic filling your senses with every shaky breath. His hands settle on your back, one palm smoothing slow, soothing circles between your shoulder blades while the other rests at the small of your back. You feel your breathing begin to even out, the tight coil of muscles in your shoulders slowly relaxing under the gentle pressure of his touch.
You stand there together in silence, wrapped in each other’s arms, the only sounds the faint crackle of the fire and the soft rhythm of his breathing against your hair.
Then you are the one to pull away, slowly, reluctantly, your hands sliding from his back as you lift your head to meet his gaze. His eyes are soft again and there is that small, rare smile curving his lips – the one you rarely see but are always happy whenever it appears. You manage a small smile of your own and murmur, voice still a little unsteady, “Thank you for understanding.”
Zayne’s thumb brushes one last time over your cheek before he lowers his hand. “I never wanted you to feel shut out,” he murmurs. “We’ll find a way to talk about this properly… when the time is right.”
Zayne’s gaze lingers on your face for a moment longer – and then it shifts lower.
It drifts slowly down the line of your collarbone and along the exposed skin of your neck and chest. Something in his expression changes. His brows draw together slightly, his jaw tightens, and for a fleeting moment his eyes carry a sharp, almost angry edge that makes your stomach twist with unease.
“Take a seat,” he says quietly. He doesn’t motion toward the bed. Instead, his hand lifts toward the dresser beside you. You hesitate only a breath before obeying. You step back and perch on the edge of it, the cool wood pressing firmly against the backs of your thighs. The damp fabric suddenly feels far too small, leaving far too much of your skin exposed. Your heart beats faster, a nervous flutter rising in your chest as you sit there, bare legs dangling, acutely aware of how vulnerable you must look.
Zayne steps closer until he stands directly in front of your closed legs. His face is now unmistakably serious. You watch the subtle tension in his features, the way his usual gentle composure has sharpened into something almost stern. It makes you nervous, a quiet anxiety curling in your stomach, yet beneath it all you still feel safe. This is Zayne. Even now, with this unfamiliar edge in his expression, his presence feels protective rather than threatening.
He lifts a hand and lets his fingertips trace gently over the marks on your skin – the lingering traces from Rafayel the night before, and the newer, softer one Xavier had left on your neck earlier that day.
“Who did this?” he asks, his voice deeper than you’re used to.
You swallow, the words catching in your throat for a moment. “Um… it wasn’t Sylus.”
A small, nervous chuckle escapes you.
His fingertips continue their slow, gentle path, grazing lightly over the exposed skin. “Are there more?”
The question makes your nervousness bloom sharper, your pulse quickening under his careful inspection. “Why do you ask?”
“I need to make sure none broke the skin,” he replies, calm but firm.
His eyes lift briefly to your face, then drop again – this time settling on the small bruise on your bottom lip. You notice the shift and try to lighten the moment with a lighthearted tone. “Oh, I did that myself, actually.”
Zayne’s gaze moves slowly over your skin one last time before he turns toward your nightstand to retrieve a small jar of balm. The same one he had used to treat the bruise on your forehead.
He returns to the same spot in front of you and opens it, dipping two fingers into the ointment and spreading it slowly across his fingertips. The familiar herbal scent fills your senses.
“May I?” he asks quietly.
You manage only a small nod.
His fingers press against your skin, cool from the balm, and a soft gasp slips from your lips at the sharp contrast. The chill blooms outward, raising faint goosebumps along your chest as he spreads the ointment with careful strokes – first tracing the faint bruises there, then moving higher, following the delicate curve of your neck.
Your eyes remain locked on his hand; on the way his long fingers move, admiring the faint, old scars across the back of his hand and knuckles catching the low light with every gentle pass.
When his fingertips finally reach the fresh mark on the side of your neck – the one Xavier left earlier – a sudden, sharp rush of heat floods between your thighs, making your breath stutter. His fingers stop moving.
At that exact moment, your eyes lift and meet his.
His hazel-green eyes have darkened, no longer serious and clinical. They linger on your lips for the briefest moment before rising to meet yours.
Neither of you speaks.
For one suspended heartbeat, you think he leans in – just the smallest fraction, his face drawing imperceptibly closer. Your lips part slightly, breath shallow, every nerve in your body suddenly attuned to the lingering pressure of his fingers against your neck.
Then he pulls back.
His hand slips away from your skin, leaving behind the faint tingling of balm and the ghost of his touch.
You both straighten at the same time. Zayne closes the lid of the balm and sets it aside. Then he offers you his hand, helping you slide down from the edge of the dresser.
“Get dressed,” he says softly. “And eat your dinner before it gets cold.”
You nod, unable to find more words. You watch as he turns toward the door, leaving without turning back.
The room feels both emptier and heavier once he’s gone.
*
Later, at around two in the morning, you lie in bed, the fresh sheets Zayne changed earlier warm and smooth against your skin. Sleep refuses to come, no matter how tightly you close your eyes or how many times you turn beneath the heavy duvet. Outside, the rain started falling some hours ago, the raindrops tapping harshly on the windows. The room is bathed in the pale, silvery glow of moonlight that slips through the gap in the curtains, casting long, ghostly shadows and turning familiar objects into strange, watchful silhouettes.
Memories swirl through your mind in an unrelenting current, each one rising unbidden and refusing to be pushed away: the sharp sting of guilt from reading Zayne’s private letter and the quiet, piercing disappointment in his eyes that still lingers like a bruise; the heated press of Xavier’s body against yours on the sofa earlier that day, the way his hands had cradled you, the memory of his low voice and the warmth of his breath against your skin sending a traitorous flush blooming across your chest even now; and the desperate intensity of Rafayel’s touch the night before, the way he had clung to you as though you were the only thing keeping him from drowning, his whispered gratitude still echoing softly in your ears.
An exasperated sigh finally escapes your lips and you throw the duvet off of you. You stand up from the bed and decide to go downstairs to make yourself a cup of chamomile tea, hoping the familiar ritual might finally coax your restless mind into the sleep that has been eluding you for hours.
You take slow, careful steps toward the kitchen, the warm wool slippers on your feet muffling each footfall against the floor, while you clutch the edges of your robe and the blanket draped over your shoulders. The night air feels heavier as you descend the stairs, each step sending a faint creak through the old wood that sounds far too loud in the surrounding silence.
You push open the door to the dimly lit kitchen. As you open the door wider and step inside you notice a man standing by the counter, his back turned to you, wearing a simple white shirt and trousers. For a fleeting second your mind supplies the familiar shape – the height, the build – and you think it must be Zayne. But as your eyes adjust, you realize the hair color is wrong, the movements not quite his, a subtle difference in the set of the shoulders and the tension in the posture. And then you notice a white cloth knot resting on his neck, and that his right arm is bent at the elbow.
Your stomach drops.
You don’t recognize this man.
Then a voice breaks the silence, rough and edged with frustration.
“I thought I asked for more than five minutes of solitude.”
You freeze in place, as your mind races to place the voice, the rough frustration in it sending a cold spike of fear shooting through your veins. Your heart stutters painfully in your chest as the figure begins to turn.
The candlelight catches his features as he faces you fully, and for a moment your vision blurs at the edges, the world tilting as recognition slams into you like a physical blow –
Caleb.
Your Caleb.
The boy from childhood summers by the river – the one who taught you how to skip stones across the water, his laughter echoing bright and careless as you tried and failed beside him. The one who would sit with you in the shade of the hydrangea bushes, their heavy blooms tickling your cheeks as you whispered secrets you never dared to speak anywhere else.
The memory comes in pieces – the slow, golden stretch of those days – mornings that began with dew still clinging to the grass, and evenings where the sky melted into deep blues and violets and the two of you stayed outside far longer than you were allowed to, talking about everything and nothing at all.
The boy who grew taller each summer, his voice deepening, his presence becoming something you didn’t quite know how to name. The space between you narrowing, filled with words left unsaid, with glances that lingered just a second too long before being brushed off with easy smiles.
The one who left when he turned eighteen, just like he always said he would.
And still, he stayed – in ink and paper, in careful handwriting that crossed miles to find you.
Until they stopped two years ago.
Without explanation.
And now he stands before you.
What remains is something else entirely – his cheeks are more hollow, the skin beneath his eyes sunken, the familiar warmth of his face replaced by a ghastly paleness.
Your stomach twists with a sickening mix of disbelief and dread.
His eyes widen when they meet yours, his entire body freezing in place as a murmur escapes his lips – your name, soft and broken.
And that is when you see it.
The fangs.
Oversized, sharp, glinting in the candlelight as he speaks.
Your heart lurches into a frantic, thunderous rhythm, pounding so hard it echoes in your ears, your chest tightening with each shallow breath. Your legs refuse to move, every muscle locked in place as a flash of memory surges unbidden from a month ago – that first morning in the mansion, the fleeting, ridiculous thought that had crossed your mind when you woke surrounded by these strange, beautiful men:
Are they vampires?
You had laughed it off then, brushing it aside as exhaustion, as imagination.
Now the words return with cruel clarity.
As you stand frozen, staring at Caleb in horror, the world narrowing to the glint of those fangs and the haunted hollows of his face, you hear rushing footsteps in the distance – hurried, urgent, and growing louder as someone descends the stairs.
