I saw that you finished reading tsctir. Did you read the novel in Korea or is there some English translation out there for the whole novel? Found the we took yesterday, and am now totally insane about it. Can't remember the last time I found something this good!
Hi otakuwithlife (I love your username), yes, there are fan translations in English! However, there isn’t a single file of the whole novel yet (except for an unedited MTL that’s almost unreadable), so let me explain below.
Chapters 1–261: You can find them here. The file I originally read only covered Chapters 1–167 actually, but I can’t seem to find that link anymore. However, as far as I can tell, the file at this link seems to be the same translation, updated to Chapter 261.
That same link also includes another file with the translation for Chapters 001–856, but this is the bad MTL I mentioned. Personally, after reaching Chapter 167, I bought the whole thing in Korean and alternated between the two for a while, before discovering the resources below.
Chapters 1–380: sfstranslations is translating the entire novel and also adding notes and interesting tidbits. You need to request access, and the files can’t be downloaded to read on a Kindle, for example, but the translation is good and currently in progress. If I’m not mistaken, this covers Chapters 1–380 so far.
Chapters 350–870: Recently, tele-portal here on tumblr edited the rest of the MTL and shared it <3. I switched to this translation as soon as I found out.
Other translations: lalune9x is also translating several chapters. They’re mostly from the end of the novel or part of the side story, if I remember correctly. Still, they might be helpful to you later on.
That should be it! If you don’t mind jumping between files and/or reading locked translations, you should be able to read the whole story this way.
Hope you have fun!
-
UPDATE: Side Stories: tele-portal has now also edited the MTL of the Side Stories, so I'm adding the link to this list too. <3 (This is an epub file. Pdf below.)
UPDATE 2: Afterwords: adding the link to the translation of the afterwords of The S Classes That I Raised (also edited by tele-portal). This link also includes the Side Stories in pdf format.
A redrawing of a VERY old pic. It's Leon and Chris infiltrating a Bio-Weapons lab.
Being the first other infected besides Leon, Chris is allowed to go on certain missions as long as Leon if there to keep an eye on him. Usually Leon likes to tackle missions solo since he favors using stealth tactics instead of direct confrontations, but Chris can't be stealthy.
It's literally impossible for him. He's too large and too heavy to even consider sneaking, so he's only good for heavy combat situations and killing GIANT B.O.Ws. (He's bigger than Leon for crying out loud, who's 9 feet tall)
It's funny cause normally Leon wouldn't want to get Chris involved, as he doesn't want to put his friend in danger, but he also knows that Chris is a fighter like him, and that sitting on the sidelines is maddening for the man. So Leon tries to wrangle ways to get Chris to accompany him on most of his missions, even if it's unnecessary or just for backup.
((Chris's strength is RIDICULOUS now. Just one swing with his mutated arm is enough to send a Tyrant flying through a couple walls. He can also produce long black tentacles from his arm and back, but it hurts when he does this, so it's not something he uses often.))
((I'm still not sure how strong Chris is, he may be able to lift a LITERAL ton (2,000 pounds) or more, but it's friggin crazy. My guy was PUNCHING BOULDERS before as a human, so you can imagine how much his mutation amplified that. Basically he's the strongest in the group, even stronger than Steve, who comes in at a close second.))
((Even if Chris gets shot the bullets won't penetrate his thick skin. His only weaknesses are the glowing orbs on his arm and his enlarged heart, which he covers with reinforced Kevlar padding.))
((While not exactly FUN, missions with the both of them certainly entertaining now, to say the least. Their mutations allow them to do things in quite different and creative ways. There's also the added benefit that both of them are quite durable, so they don't have to stress out too much if things go south, which they usually do.))
STANFORD, CA—Issuing a stern reminder to all concert attendees, event security staff warned BTS fans Tuesday evening that flash photography would trigger J-Hope’s assassination protocol. “Have your tickets ready, keys and phones out of your pockets, and—this part is very important, so please listen up—make sure flash settings on your phones and cameras are off, ” said a security staffer positioned near the entrance to the stadium, who shouted out the instructions to make sure all fans had a fun, safe, and secret South Korean military weapon–free night.
A multi-headcanon request please. How the boys react when they discover their s/o has been hiding a wound from them because she had it under control and didn't want to give them something else to worry about
Hi! Thanks so much for the request and all the support! Have written a little fic for each of the guys, starring...
- Xavier, Deepspace Hunter extraordinaire ✨
- Linkon's worst best baking partner, Zayne 🍪
- Drama queen Rafayel 👑
- King of self-care, Sylus 💅
Putting On A Brave Face
L&DS Boys x Reader
Summary: Sometimes, a certain hunter likes to say things are fine when they definitely aren't...
Genre: A lil bit of angst, mostly fluff + comfort!
Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, established relationship, swearing, canon pet names, some injury details/blood mentioned, teeeeency bit of suggestion (I'm looking at YOU, Sylus...)
| Word count: 4k (1k each!) | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
Xavier ⭐
This is bad. Not ‘end of everything as we know it’ bad, but definitely ‘an obscene amount of paperwork’ bad.
You clutch one of your pistols to your chest— deep breath— and you listen carefully, your head leant back against the rock you’re using as cover. Your mind latches on to every sound: each growl, each rumble of earth that marks the movements of the Wanderers that have trapped you here.
You’ve fought worse odds, but then again, you don’t usually have to do it with a broken leg.
Or maybe just sprained? You shift a little, trying to move, and the pain that sears through you settles the debate in an instant. Your teeth sink into the back of your hand to keep you from crying out.
You hope Xavier’s okay. You sent him your co-ordinates minutes ago, and the lack of response has worry gnawing away at the deepest parts of you. You check your hunter’s watch.
Still nothing.
Another deep breath, and you readjust your position as much as you can. Balancing on your good leg, you manage to peer over the top of the rock to get a visual of your surroundings.
There’s four, no— five Wanderers. Stupid no-hunt zone; you’re never not outnumbered.
You can see your second pistol, abandoned in the middle of the clearing where you’d dropped it. There’s flickers of movement, too: further in the woods. More Wanderers. Shit.
You duck behind the rock you’re starting to think might be your new home. Then your watch flickers, broadcasting a map of the area, and there’s the co-ordinates of another hunter, closing in fast.
Something flashes in the clearing, lighting the dark of the forest like a stutter of lightning. Then again. Then again. There’s a blood-curdling roar, and it ends— abrupt— with another flash.
Everything goes silent, save for a familiar voice calling your name.
“Xavier!” you call back.
You peek over the rock to see your partner jogging towards you, dead Wanderers littered behind him. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice soft as always, but his sword is still dripping blood.
“I’m okay.” You clamber up, using the rock as a seat when the small effort almost breaks you. “You?”
Xavier draws close— his gloved hands on your face, cupping your cheeks. His thumb grazes over a shallow scrape on your brow. “Yeah,” he answers.
“Did you find that weird Wanderer?”
He shakes his head: no. Steps back to check his watch. “It’s probably moved on to a different zone by now.”
“Then we should look for it,” you say, standing up. All of your weight is on one leg.
“Ah,” Xavier ponders, rubbing his neck, “really? I thought we should maybe head back.”
“No need.” And what’s the plan here, exactly? You can’t walk. You definitely can’t fight. Maybe you can wait here while he— no. He’s never going to leave you. “I told you I’m okay.”
“But you’re not.”
“I am,” you assert. You’re determined to convince him and your own, useless body. It’s just a sprain. It is just a sprain. You take a step forwards and stumble, your bad leg crumpling beneath you.
Xavier catches you, strong and solid, and he's holding you like you’re something delicate. He sets you down on the rock again. The pain is making your vision swim.
“You’re hurt,” he reasons gently, even though the truth of it is a knife that’s twisting in your heart. He seems to sense your reluctance: “There’s no shame in admitting that. It happens. Let’s go back.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m slowing you down, Xavier!” you gush. Your heart is split open and it has to bleed somewhere. “You have no idea what it’s like… being your partner.”
He’s looking at you with so much guilt and gods, you wish that somewhere was anywhere but his hands. “What do you mean?” he asks on a shaky breath.
“I love working with you.” Soften the blow. “I love being with you, but you don’t need me. You’re this incredible hunter. This figure of legend, of everyone’s stories. You can do so much on your own and I just don’t know how to keep up. I mean, look at me— I can’t.”
You feel sick. Empty. “You shouldn’t have to hang back for me,” you finish limply. “You’re you, Xavier. You can fight like a hundred Wanderers and still come out unscathed.”
The blue of Xavier’s eyes has grown understandably more turbulent, though it settles a little. He seems to relax. “Yeah… about that,” he mumbles hesitantly.
He turns around and your mouth drops. A savage cut drapes like a crimson sash down his back, splitting the white of his uniform. It’s not deep enough to be fatal, but it’s not good, either.
“Wha— Xavier!” you exclaim, trying to surge forwards, but your pain keeps you rooted. “You said you were okay!”
“So did you,” he frowns, bewildered. “Can we get out of—?”
“Yeah, yeah.” You let him take your arm and help you to your feet.
He leads you through the clearing and into the forest, supporting your weight as you hop along beside him. There’s a murmur about how he should carry you, but you’re quick to reassure him he’s doing enough. You’re both hurting; you both just need to survive the short walk out of the no-hunt zone, where a med team can take over.
“You don’t slow me down, you know,” Xavier says quietly, after a minute of silence. “You’re the reason I can keep going.”
You squeeze his arm affectionately, mustering a smile even though you’re nauseous with pain and the idea he’s been dwelling on your speech this whole time. “Well,” you chuckle through gritted teeth, “you’re gonna have to learn how to get by without me.”
“Huh?” He gives you a curious look.
You glance down at your leg. “Zayne’s gonna kill me...”
Zayne ❄
“I’m a doctor.”
You stop what you’re doing to fix Zayne with a questioning stare. “Okay…?”
“I’ve published dozens of research papers. Pioneered new surgical techniques. My work on Evol-based regenerative properties still has lasting implications for my field, and I’ve the accolades to show for it. The Starcatcher Award. The Linde Award, too— I was the youngest ever recipient.”
None of this is news to you, and you can’t help chuckling at this change in your usually-humble physician. You humour him: “The youngest ever recipient, huh?” There’s a crack as you split an egg on the side of the bowl in front of you. “That’s very impressive.”
“Is it?”
Zayne stands from his seat at your kitchen table: you hear the chair draw back. You feel his presence arrive behind you as you continue to stir your soon-to-be cookie dough. “Yeah,” you lilt with a smile.
“Really?” he pushes again, and his arms wrap around you as he bends to speak into your ear. “Because someone seems to think I can’t even recognise a—” he nips at it— “sprained ankle.”
His breath is warm on your neck and you let out a giggle. “Keep speaking to me like that and these cookies are never making it into the oven. Or your stomach.”
The man relents. He releases you, not returning to his seat but opting to lean against the kitchen counter instead. You glance up at him; he stares back, waiting for an actual answer.
“My ankle is fine, Zayne.”
There’s a sigh as he crosses his arms.
“It is,” you insist, even though you did sprain your ankle at work today, it does hurt like hell, and you do just want to sit down. You reach for the flour you’d measured out previously, tipping it into the larger bowl. “If it wasn’t, would I really be here— making you cookies?”
“Yes,” he says plainly.
“You’re delusional.”
“Okay.”
Well, that was a little too easy. Don’t overthink it, and definitely don’t read into the fact that he’s standing there smugly, like he knows something you don’t. You finish stirring the flour into the mixture, then add the last of the ingredients. Just a pinch of salt, and then…
Where did you put the chocolate chips? You glance about yourself but they’re nowhere in sight. “Hey, Zayne? Have you seen the—”
“This cupboard,” he indicates with an upwards nod of his head. His eyes are relentless. “Top shelf.”
Ah. That’s okay. You’ve totally got this. You move beneath the cupboard, opening it and gazing up into the contents. You can see the pack of chocolate chips. You can get up there somehow, right?
“Would you like me to—?” Zayne starts, but you cut him off:
“Nope.” You put your hands on your hips. “Please— if I can climb the back of an alive, awake, and very angry deluge wyrmlord to put a sword through its skull, I think I can make it onto the kitchen counter in one piece. Lemme just…”
Your knee lifts. You make it about a centimetre from the floor before Zayne’s hands are on your waist, grounding you. “Stop,” he instructs, and it's not a tone that allows for any rebuttal. Satisfied by your silence, he brings the chocolate chips down to you.
“Thanks,” you say quietly as they’re placed on the counter.
“You’re welcome."
Sheepishly, you spill a generous amount of chocolate chips into the cookie mixture. Your throat hurts in the way that keeps you from saying anything more. You already feel like an idiot, and your eyes are watering, threatening to make you look like even more of one.
Zayne’s hand appears in front of you, hovering over the bowl. You laugh in understanding: giving the half-empty bag another shake so chocolate chips fall into his palm.
“You… don’t have to explain yourself,” he says as he lifts them to his mouth. His next words are muffled: “But you can tell me anything, my love. I never want you to feel as though you can’t.”
You chuckle again; you can’t help yourself. Look at him: your oh-so-serious doctor, shovelling chocolate into his mouth. He raises an eyebrow at you, his lips still on his palm.
“I know I can tell you anything,” you smile, the ache in your throat receding, however much the rest of you hurts. “I did sprain my ankle. It’s not that I wanted to hide it from you, it’s just—” you stop stirring the mixture— “it’s just that your whole life is taking care of people at the hospital. You should get a break from it. You should get to be Zayne, here… at home. Just Zayne, not Doctor Zayne.”
Zayne’s hazel eyes have taken on a hue of regret. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, buying himself a few seconds as he contemplates. “Are you a doctor?” he asks after a moment.
“No?”
“And yet, here you are, taking care of me.” He reaches for the abandoned packet of chocolate chips. “Tell me, does it feel like work to you?”
“Yeah,” you tease, drawing the packet away from his stretching fingers in explanation; you’re both grinning.
“Well, it never feels like work to me. Just Zayne likes taking care of you. And right now? He wants to bundle you up on the sofa and finish these cookies for you.”
You purse your lips: that’s some dubious wording. “Zayne, hell will freeze over before I leave you and this cookie dough unsupervised.”
He shushes you, pulling on the cord of your apron until the bow at your back comes loose. Before you can protest, he’s wearing the apron himself.
“Zayne, I’m not kidding. I know what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get rid of me, and then you’ll—”
“Shh,” he coos again, whisking you carefully off your feet, because it’s time for a taste of your own medicine. “You’re delusional.”
Rafayel 🔥
“Mmhmm. Mmhmm.”
“Raf, who are you—?”
He holds out a finger to shush you. “Mmhmm.”
You cross your arms impatiently. Who is he even talking to, anyway? His lilac eyes are locked on you as he continues humming away, apparently very invested in whatever the person on the phone is saying; you’ve never seen him go this long without talking.
He narrows his eyes at you. You narrow your eyes right back.
All around you, guests of the exhibition are milling about, all dressed to the nines and minding their business, however much they want the attention of the man in front of you. A few of them linger as they pass him, like they want to say something, like they’re going to say something…
But they don’t.
It’s a wonder that Rafayel stands out in the crowd as much as he does. You’d seamlessly located him, back from your third trip to the bathroom to check on the bandages you’ve managed to conceal beneath this dress. He’s still holding your purse for you, his phone in his other hand, except—
That’s your phone. That’s your phone! “Rafayel!”
He shushes you again. “I understand,” he says solemnly, notably not to you, “thanks for letting me know.” The call is ended. He takes a deep, collected breath, then looks at you. “I knew it!”
“Knew what? Who was that?”
“Zayne.”
“You called Zayne?”
“Like I had a choice!” Rafayel retaliates. It is true; he’s spent the entire evening trying to get you to admit something was wrong, and you had no intention of giving him that pleasure. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital! What kind of idiot breaks out of the hospital?”
The lack of irony in the question almost breaks you. “Umm… you?! Like every other week?!”
He shrugs. “That’s different.”
“Rafayel, I swear, I’m gonna— ah!” you gasp in pain. You’d stepped forwards too quickly— maybe to strangle him, but that’s neither here nor there— and the wound on your side is clearly on his side. It stings like hell: punishing you, and you know the pain is self-inflicted.
Rafayel frowns in concern, maybe even guilt, and that’s why you didn’t tell him. “C’mon, we should go,” he insists gravely.
“It’s fine, Raf. It doesn’t even—”
“Stop lying! You said you wouldn’t hide stuff like this from me. You promised, remember?”
You’re losing track of all the promises you’ve made to the Lemurian, but you do remember that one. Guilt has its teeth in you, too. “I know,” you grumble, “I’m sorry, okay? I just knew—”
“What?”
“That you’d act like this! You’ve been working on this exhibition for months, Raf. Tonight is supposed to be about you. Not me— you. And I want it to stay that way. Everyone’s here to celebrate you and your work, and that’s how it should be. That’s what I want. To support you. To be here for you.”
Your voice has gone timid. You finish meekly: “Can’t you let me do this for you? Please?”
Rafayel’s eyes are wide and still the prettiest things you’ve ever seen, even in a room full of masterpieces you could never afford. They shine with uncertainty, but soften as he smiles, full of fondness and affection. “That’s sweet. But also? Really dumb.”
“Raf—”
“The only— and I mean only— reason I’m here tonight is because you are. I don’t care about what anyone thinks about me or my paintings. Just you. And you can see this?” He gestures around the gallery. “Anytime. My life’s your private exhibition, cutie. Exclusive access, 24/7, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
He steps closer to you: close enough that he can see the tear that’s made it halfway down your cheek. He wipes it away with a chuckle. “Plus,” he adds, “I know you know I’m amazing. You don’t need these old sourpusses to tell you that, do you?”
You laugh tentatively. “No, I don’t.”
Your injury protests as you use the lapels on Rafayel’s blazer to pull him closer; you have to stand on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He’s still grinning as he draws away, a light blush on his cheeks, but the sweetness of the moment vanishes as his gaze drifts lower.
“My eyes are up here, Rafayel.”
“Yeah…” he concedes mindlessly, but then he points: “you know you’re like, bleeding, right?”
You glance downwards to where the red of your dress is turning darker. There’s just a small splotch, but it’s growing. Shit. You must have reopened the wound.
“Thomas?” you hear Rafayel call, and then he’s stuffing a silk handkerchief into your hands— helping you apply pressure. “We have to get out of here,” he explains as a figure joins you.
His agent folds his arms; this is not dissimilar to stunts you and Rafayel have pulled before. “Fake blood, guys? Really?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t leave, Rafayel. I can just see the headlines tomorrow…”
“Dashing artist selflessly flees exhibition to save devoted bodyguard,” Rafayel concurs with a nod.
Thomas groans. “That’s not what they’re going to—”
“Help me out with this, cutie?”
“Yes, sir,” you mock salute.
A moment later, Rafayel has scooped you up into his arms. Your hero; he gives you a conspiratorial wink before glancing about frantically. “Quickly!” he cries out. “Everyone out of the way, please!”
“For the love of—” Thomas starts.
“Oh, gods!” you shout in agony. “It hurts. It hurts!”
Heads turn. Cameras flash.
Tomorrow morning, half of Linkon will be talking about one of their favourite celebrities and his long-envied bodyguard. A news article will pop-up on her doctor’s phone, and he’ll see the pictures and sigh.
Sylus 🩸
“It’s not too late to back down, sweetie,” Sylus sneers.
“Aw, but you got all dressed up for the occasion.”
Your eyes rake over the outline of the man’s abs, courtesy of the tank top he’s wearing, and it does take the sting out of the fact that he’ll be trying to hit you. He holds his wrapped hands before him, ready to defend, ready to attack. He’ll probably attack, right?
“Last chance,” he growls.
“Is it, though?” This is the third ‘last chance’ you’ve been given in the five minutes you’ve been teetering on combat. You beckon him with a curl of your fingers. “Come on, Sylus. This is getting old.”
He scoffs: “How do you think I feel?”
“Like you’re about to get your ass kicked?”
“Alright, enough.” His hands drop and it feels like you’re back at the academy, about to be scolded for not taking something seriously. Sylus turns his back on you. Moves to the edge of the boxing ring so he can retrieve a stool from outside of it and sit down in a huff. He starts peeling the wraps from his knuckles, and— wait, is he mad? Like, actually mad?
“What’s wrong, Sy?”
He laughs as though you’re missing something dreadfully obvious. Maybe irony.
“Sylus?”
“You really are heartless, sweetie. You know that?”
The words steal your breath away, if only for a moment. Yours is a relationship of pulled punches, but he won’t meet your gaze and that one was real, wasn’t it? He wanted it to sting. “Why—?”
“I could have hurt you,” he snaps, his dishevelled, snowy hair falling to cover his eyes. His discarded wraps slide from his hands, pooling by his feet like blood. “You were going to let me hurt you.”
He looks at you, finally, but it’s not in the way you want. His gaze is cast low, trailing over your body and making you feel every bruise, every closed cut that wants to reopen and every ache, rooted almost to bone. You’d done your best to hide it, even going so far as to press make-up hastily over your purpled skin.
That Wanderer really did a number on you yesterday.
“You should have told me,” Sylus says, since you’ve made it onto the same page. “Honestly, kitten. Why would you—?”
“Because Luke and Kieran told me, okay?”
Oh, they’re going to kill you. It was supposed to be a secret, and here you are, spilling like a fresh wound because you can’t stand the thought of Sylus being upset with you. You step closer, scrambling to dissect what you’ve done right in front of his eyes— holding it out to him: this is why. This is why. “They said you had a rough week. Some deals of yours had fallen through or something. And I’ve been too busy. I haven’t called, I haven’t even texted, and…”
You need him to understand, but the truth is a mess in your hands and how do you even start to explain it to him?
“You wanted to do something for me,” he finishes for you, and you don’t have to explain a thing.
“Yeah…” you confirm, bittersweet and still sad. “You do so much for me, Sylus. I just wanted to do what you wanted, for a change.”
Maybe it’s a round of boxing. Maybe it’s a dozen illicit dealings where he needs you to play enforcer— it doesn’t matter. As long as he’s happy.
“Come here,” he orders gently.
You close the rest of the rift between you, letting him reach for you and pull you closer. His knees have spread so you can slot against him, and his arms circle around you— trapping you— as he nuzzles into the warmth of your stomach.
“I’m sorry I called you heartless,” he speaks into you, his voice muffled as he gives you a chaste kiss. He then cranes his head upwards, resting his chin against you so he can profess more clearly: “I do worry about you, kitten.”
“I know—” your hands move to his head— “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”
“Mmm,” he hums in accordance, maybe even forgiveness, and his eyes close as your fingers card through the soft of his hair. “I lied too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he confesses on a contented sigh. “I didn’t want to spend today… boxing.”
“What do you want to do today, Sy?”
His eyes flicker open and his hands find your hips. “What I really want…” he contemplates, as his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt to rub circles on your skin, “is to take care of you.”
There are lifetimes of need in his gaze.
“Won’t you let me take care of you, sweetie?”
…
“If he finds the terms so disagreeable, then he’s more than welcome to take his business elsewhere. Although—” Sylus’s voice is cold— “he might find his other options less… amenable than when he saw them last. Less communicative, too. You can tell him I said so.”
He ends the phone call. Smiles. “Sorry about that, sweetie.”
“Are the boys okay?”
The smile widens, even though you can’t see it. “They’re fine.”
Phone set aside, Sylus carries on with the important business Kieran’s call had distracted him from. You’re half asleep, your head in his lap as he brushes your hair: rose-scented and soft from the bath he’d drawn for you, hours ago. Every bandage is fresh and clean. Every ache has been dulled with a lazy massage and more chaste kisses, for good measure.
I saw this somewhere else and thought that's an interesting concept so "Noticing someone is following you at some event and running up to him (not knowing who he is) and begging him to pretend he’s ur friend/bf/what have u and the chaos that ensues" for any of the lads men you wanna write but preferably rafayel pls?🥺
⭐🍎 Xavier and Caleb's drabbles here! 🍎⭐
Hi!! Sorry for the long wait, I've been on hiatus for agesssss! Did a little drabble for Zayne, Rafayel, and Sylus-- hope you enjoy! Might add Xavi or Caleb later if I get any ideas or requests for them!
Pretend You Know Me!
L&DS Boys x Reader
Summary: Zayne makes an interesting creative choice, Rafayel is too famous for his own good, and Sylus thinks he's James Bond
| Genre: Fluff and humour | Word count: 450 each! | Masterlist | Taglist |
(Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, mentions of stalking/unwanted attention, one pretty dark threat from Sylus whoops)
Zayne ❄️
“Quick— pretend you know me!”
The stranger’s mouth is full of sweet, flaky pastry, and a few crumbs tumble down from his lips. Pigeons are skittering around beneath the park bench you’ve invaded; one flutters away from your feet, distressed by your interruption. It’s clear, immediately, that you’ve ambushed not one, but several creatures’ lunches.
“I’m sorry,” you explain, out of breath, “someone was following me, and I…”
That someone is approaching, now— close enough that your words peter out for fear of betraying your ruse. You shift closer to the man on the bench, looping an arm through his like he’s someone far more familiar. His fingers are still mid-lift of the pastry he’d been enjoying, but he freezes, then lowers it gravely. He understands.
With the traditional “ahem” of someone about to take to a stage, he turns to you. You wait for a warm smile. A chuckle. Something cute and boyfriend-ish. Instead, you get:
“Tell me, what were your findings in regard to the patient’s prognosis?”
… What?
Patient? Prognosis? Why would he…? You glance at the building you’re sat outside of— Akso Hospital. The clinical white lights. The flashes of medical personnel within. They’re fairly glaring dots to connect; this guy must be some kind of doctor.
You’re not a doctor, though, and the man who’d been following you is even closer, so you’re forced to improvise. “Uh… it’s bleak. Very bleak. The transfusion… failed. They went into shock. Septic? No…”
“Anaphylactic?” he offers morosely, but there’s a twinkle of amusement in his gaze.
“Yes, that one! I concur. Absolutely. That.”
Thankfully, the suspicious man is hesitating. Keeping his distance. Toying with giving up. You’re more focused on that than your fake conversation, which is why you add, without really thinking: “They died, actually.”
“Oh.” The possible-doctor looks surprised by the twist. “I’m sorry to hear that. How are you holding up? Are you alright?”
“I’m okay, yeah. It was a bit of a shock.”
Your fingers fly to your mouth. Your scene partner’s eyes widen.
You laugh— you can’t help it. And it’s lucky your pursuer has gone, for the man across from you chuckles too, quiet and sincere. “I’m so sorry,” you breathe, “it was a slip of the tongue, I didn’t mean to—”
Make light of the very real tragedy he probably endures on a regular basis?
“I forgive you. Are you alright? That must have been an uncomfortable experience. It’s natural to need some time to recuperate. Do you have someone you can call? A friend, or family, or…”
He trails off as you hold out your phone, a blank contact page open and waiting. Adrenaline is still thrumming through your system. The stranger stares down, surprised again.
He pushes his glasses a little more securely on his nose, then smiles, taking your phone. His fingers tap away. Your heart taps with them. When he passes it back, he’s entered his number, and his name: Dr Zayne Li.
So he is a doctor…
You grin to yourself.
Score.
Rafayel 🎨
“Quick— pretend you know me!” You hook the first man you find, reeling him in by his shoulders. “Hold me! Dance with me! Anything, just… you love me, okay? I’m yours. If anyone asks? I’m yours.”
Your captive blinks in surprise. “Okay… I’m gonna need you to take at least two steps back, cutie. I’m flattered, but, like… this is a lot, y’know? I get it. You’re a biiiiiig fan. But next, you’re gonna tell me you have a shrine, and please, I can’t anymore with the shrines, and the fan edits, and—”
You laugh heartily, not listening.
The man grimaces. “Ohhh, we’re looking at multiple shrines, huh? Tattoos? Your therapist knows me by name?”
“Mmhmm. Shrines, therapist, yeah, yeah,” you nod, distracted.
“That’s great, cutie. Okay, so I need you to go home, yeah? Look up something called ‘parasocial—'”
A familiar face flickers in your peripheral vision, and your heart seizes up. Then the rest of your body: throat, shoulders, hands. You bury your face into the closer man’s chest, wrapping your arms around him as you whisper, “Sorry!”
He tenses at the hug, and you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, even if it is buried beneath shimmering purple fabric, smattered tastefully with sequins that scratch at your skin. You think he’s going to push you away. He definitely thinks about pushing you away; his fingers flutter with the idea of landing on the curve of your shoulder.
But then there are footsteps behind you, and those fingers close around your arms with a soft, certain understanding. His head dips so he can speak into your ear. “Ah, I’ve got you. Stay put. Creep’s looking... he’s looking... aaaaand… he’s gone.”
You glance up from your hiding place, and sure enough, the man who’d been following you has vanished. “Thank fuck,” you murmur.
“Or thank me? Your knight in shining tuxedo? Hello?” One of the fingers that had brushed over you in make-believe affection is now poking at your forehead.
The man you might have harassed is pouting down at you, warm and cold tones warring in his eyes. The warm ones are prevailing, safe, friendly— maybe overly-friendly, because he’s still poking at you, demanding praise, like a moth accosting a porchlight. “Thanks,” you chuckle sheepishly, swatting his finger away, “really, I’m so sorry. I just sorta had to grab someone, and—”
“It’s fine,” he sighs, stepping back and rubbing his neck. “I’ll revoke the restraining order. For now.”
“Even if I show you my tattoo?” you grin, hooking a finger teasingly in the neckline of your outfit.
“Stop.” He’s grinning, even though there’s a groan and a deeply dramatic roll of the eyes, just to balance it out. He offers you his hand. “I’m Rafayel, by the way.”
You gasp. “The Rafayel?! The one from my shrines?”
“I said stop!”
Sylus 🩸
“Quick— pretend you know me,” you plead on a whisper, slinging yourself onto an empty barstool beside an imposing figure, tall, clad in black silk and crimson embroidery. Perfect. Imposing is perfect.
The man’s finger had been circling the rim of a glass, but it stops, time stuttering to a standstill with it. When he turns towards you, you realise why the seat beside him is empty.
An “Oh,” slips out of your lips, completely unvetted, and the stranger’s mouth curves at your expense, accustomed to the reaction. His eyes are the same red of the moon that looms over the N109 Zone— the red that lines the streets at night and turns innocuous puddles to blood. Even now, it’s spying through the windows of the bar, sticky and sentient. He looks like its emissary.
“There you are!” a voice slurs behind you. “Why’d you run off like that, huh? Just being friendly!”
Survival instincts kick in, and you drag the red-eyed man’s arm over your shoulder, just as the person you’re running away from stumbles out of a nearby crowd. He’s drunk— breath thick with alcohol and entitlement— and you feel the hand on your arm tighten. You should have explained. Asked for help. Done literally anything other than waste precious seconds getting lost in the new man’s eyes.
“Hey! I’m talking to you,” your pursuer grits out, “quit wasting my—”
“One more step,” the red-eyed man says, “and the last thing you’ll learn of this world is the sound your neck makes when it breaks in my hands.”
The image is nauseating, but you like the taste of it in your mouth. The drunk man clearly doesn’t. His face pales with fear, and it’s funny: you wouldn’t have thought it possible for his cheeks to grow pinker.
“Leave. Now,” your saviour mutters.
His voice is a dark, dormant force of nature. The calm before the storm, the rumble of thunder before a lightning strike; no-one with any sense would think to argue. Your pursuer scurries back into the crowd, and you see why people get addicted to chasing this feeling. It’s electric— being so close.
The fingers that could snap a neck are still on your arm, tracing barely-there circles: a touch reserved for crystal glasses, and other things they’d loath to spill. But then the hand lifts, resting back on the dark wood of the bar, so as not to encroach.
You turn to look at the stranger again. His eyes are still like the moon: street-lining, blood-creeping red, but it’s merely aesthetic. Even his smirk is warm now you’re in on the secret.
“Sylus Qin,” he introduces with his thick, treacly tone.
When he extends his hand to you, you both know you’re going to take it.
Oh I forgot to add 😭😭😭 be it fluff like jelly sylus but fluff maybe he trying to make the mc jelly too ? I’m going wild with ideas, I will be quiet
(Part 1 of ask)
FINALLY finished this fic oh my goshhh I've loved it so much but writer's block was my constant companion for this one 🫠 Thanks for your patience!!
Sy is jealous but I'm still pushing my 'Sylus is the softest man alive and would die before hurting MC' agenda, so I had to get a lil creative! Hope I've pulled it off idk 😭😭
Be Mine
Sylus x Reader 🩸
Summary: Sylus is getting a little tired of sharing you with the other men in your life (and he doesn't mean Luke and Kieran 🙃)
Genre: lil bit of angst, comfort and fluff
Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, jealousy, other LIs mentioned, brief allusion to Raf's self-harm tendencies, cheating mentioned, some intimacy & kisses-- more soft than spicy!
| Word count: 4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
Sylus has spent centuries waiting for you, so he’s going to give you another minute.
Patience is not a virtue; it’s an old acquaintance he greets with a false smile whenever he’s forced to pass it on the street. Sometimes outside your building, whilst you’re chatting with a neighbour from the apartment above yours. Sometimes when you’re running late from a doctor’s appointment.
Patience has been cropping up a lot these days and gods, he’s sick of its face. Even now, it sits with him at this table for two as he sips at a glass that’s almost empty. There’s poetry in stalling, in savouring what’s left, especially as a waiter hovers anxiously nearby, anticipating the need for yet another refill (it would be the third).
Dregs of blood-red wine swirl with solemnity. Sylus is a patient man, a man who waits, but he doesn’t want to be. He wants the reward of it: the pot of gold at the end of that insipid rainbow. Hasn’t he waited enough?
He lifts his drink to his lips again.
“Sylus!”
They curve as he swallows the final drop.
“I’m so sorry,” you stammer, flinging yourself into the seat across from him so quickly that he’s cheated of the chance to rise and help you with your chair. “Sit back down,” you usher, because he had made a start on it, “really, Sy, I’m so, so sorry. Things at work just got crazy, and I—”
“You don’t have to explain, sweetie,” he smiles as he signals the waiter. He’ll have that refill, now, and he orders your favourite drink as you shrug off your coat and fumble with your bag, looking for something. “I’m more than familiar with the Association’s… dedication to a cause.”
You glance up with an amused smile. “We’re keeping you on your toes, huh?”
“Mmm. There is one hunter who’s proving to be a real thorn in my side.”
“You on top of that?”
“Most evenings, yes. Some mornings, too.”
You poke your tongue out at him. You’ve retrieved a compact mirror and you use it to study your dishevelled reflection. “Is everything all right at work?” he asks as you fuss over your hair.
“Yeah,” you puff. “Long story.”
“We have time.”
With a warmer smile, you stash your mirror away and sequester your bag by your feet. “You sure?” He gives you a look. “Fine,” you chuckle. “Basically, Xavier forgot to write up some reports. He’s been away on an ultra-secret, special mission or whatever—” you tap your nose conspiratorially— “which I didn’t just tell you, okay? But yeah, the reports weren’t done, and they were due tonight, so…”
Sylus raises an apathetic eyebrow. “He asked you to help?”
“Begged me, more like.”
Of course he did. The waiter arrives with your drinks and Sylus has never been gladder for a distraction. His mouth is full of pettiness, bitterness, so he drowns it with wine. You could have called. Texted. “So kitten’s been playing secretary, hmm?” he goads instead.
“That would imply kitten could keep track of time,” you pout, “so no. And speaking of playing a part—” you poke his nose— “you’re allowed to be mad at me. I should have called you. Texted. So let me have it, yeah? I feel bad enough already without you being all… perfect.”
You’re only teasing, but Sylus doesn’t feel perfect. He’s thinking about you working late with your partner, laughing at his jokes, poking him with your pen to keep him from falling asleep on his paperwork. He smirks, regardless. “What if I want you to feel bad?”
“Oh, gods,” you slump forwards, face-down on the table. “How long were you waiting?”
“Years.”
You fake cry into the tablecloth. “Don’t, Sy. Just tell me the truth. How bad was it?”
“Really, years,” he insists again, folding his arms on the table and sliding forwards, too. His chin is resting on his hands, and he blows at the top of your head. “Look.” Your face lifts so you can peer at him. He pinches his hair. “I’ve even gone grey, see?”
You sit up the tiniest bit more and your noses are almost brushing. “It looks nice,” you whisper.
“You think so?”
“Mmm. Suits you.”
Your eyes are every gem— every jewel in an illicit auction Sylus has to steal away from the rest of the world, because something that pretty just has to be his; it will find no worthier home than his hands. His devotion fills vaults. Aren’t they spilling with emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamonds— those reckless imitations of your gaze? No-one else could deserve them, adore them like he does.
And they’ve nothing on the real thing.
Someone clears their throat and Sylus tracks the noise begrudgingly. The anxious waiter is back, clutching menus this time. You sit up fully, laughing to break the tension, and sure enough, Sylus feels less like hurling the man through the nearest window.
He’s still thinking about it though. He tells the waiter as much with a smile, and the menus are passed over with shaking hands. When Sylus says, “thank you,” it sounds like a bomb, ticking.
“Play nice,” you tut, once the waiter’s cleared the blast radius.
“Sweetie, when do I ever not play nice?”
You blink back at him disbelievingly. This should be good. “How about the time that you—?”
A familiar ringtone interrupts you, and your eyes widen in apology as you grab at your bag, rifling around for your phone. You find it— check the call and decline it— but relief is hiding, refusing to set foot on stage. Not yet, it confers to Sylus darkly, because it knows what comes next.
“Do you need to…?” he asks anyway.
“Nah, it was just Rafayel. Thanks, though.” You set the phone down. “Where was I?”
“You were about to tell me what a terribly bad man I am, sweetie.”
“Right!” you giggle. No, not yet. “So how about the time that you…” The phone rings again. You check it. Decline it. “How about the time that you—ugh!” It’s ringing again.
Sylus taps a finger on the table, impatiently patient. You can’t mute the wretched thing: the next call you miss would be a Wanderer, tearing through an orphanage or the like. It’s the reason you check, even when there’re no orphans at stake— just a pest of an artist with too much time on his hands.
Except… “Oh,” you say, glancing downwards, “it’s Zayne. I should probably—” Sylus gives a half-smile of blessing, but you weren’t waiting around for it— “hey, Zayne! I can’t talk right now, unless— Raf? What the hell? How did you get Zayne’s phone?”
You pull yours away from your ear as a string of whines come through:
“— ignore my calls, don’t even text me to ask what’s up, and then pick up his call right away? You hate me, right? Just say that you hate me, cutie.”
“I don’t hate you, Raf.” The phone is back to your ear. “I’m busy. Now seriously, how did you get— oh, hi, Zayne. Why is Raf…?” Sylus can hear a deeper voice answering your questions. “He’s at the—? Shit, is he okay? Ugh, tell him I can hear him. Tell him I know he’s not dying.”
You meet Sylus’s eyes as conflict erupts on the other end of the call. Sorry, you mouth as static filters through, interspersed with broken words and curses. The doctor’s voice prevails. “Yeah, Zayne,” you speak back to it. “I’ll call Thomas, get him to pick him up. Mmhmm? Oh!” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I forgot, he’s at that stupid art thing. Look, maybe later, I can…”
The artist’s shrill tone is protesting.
“I know it’s my job, Raf!” you counter. “But gimme a break, please. If it was any other night, you know I’d be there. Of course I wanna be there! But I can’t—”
It’s just a slip of the tongue— words you don’t even realise you’re saying— but Sylus still feels his heart sink. He hates it. A heart is so difficult to argue with: it’s long gone before you can talk any sense into it. He stands from the table, those priceless eyes of yours pursuing him. When you tilt your head, he musters a smile, then a weak excuse: “I’m just stepping outside for a moment.”
You nod, a follow-up question on the tip of your tongue, but then there’s a voice in your ear again— two voices— and you’re you, so of course you listen.
…
Sylus waits on a bench outside the restaurant, closing his eyes as he waits for his heart to come back.
It’s only been a few minutes. He’s thinking about your eyes, your nose and lips— an inch from his— and how he should have closed that gap before it grew treacherous. Shouldn’t he be done with this? This… longing? You’re his. You’ve told him you’re his, over and over again, but he finds himself needing to hear it once more; the ghost of your voice is starting to lack persuasion.
He is yours without exception, but you? There’s always a caveat. I’m yours, Sylus. But only so long as the city is quiet. I’m yours, Sylus. Until someone else calls. The door to the restaurant opens— he can hear it— but he doesn’t open his eyes. He wants to pretend.
I’m yours, Sylus. No caveats. No exceptions.
“Sylus.”
He swallows the dread in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” you entreat softly. His eyes open, and you’re wearing your coat, holding your bag. “I have to run to the hospital— it’s this whole thing. Raf, like, passed out or something. He’s not been eating again. Zayne said when something like this keeps happening, it’s a sign that… yeah. He just… needs someone. And he hasn’t got anyone else, you know?”
“I understand.” You’re worried about your friend. That’s all it is.
Why can’t he believe that’s all it is?
You come over and sink down on the bench beside him, looping your arm through his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Don’t you know that he’s afraid? That a selfish, spiteful part of him wants to hide you— with the rest of his treasures— away from the light, so he can love you in the dark?
There’s a sigh as you lean against him, savouring his touch like the wine one swirls in a glass when their thoughts are elsewhere. It’s gone in a mouthful; you check your watch, and he hopes it’s bitter.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
No, he would rather be sweet for you, but look at you— making him lie. “I’m okay,” he says, and it doesn’t have a drop of conviction. He’s tired of philanthropy.
…
“What are you gonna do? Come on, tell us. Tell us! What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know, Luke. Give me a second, okay? Jeez.”
You literally just got here. Your pace is brisk and the night air still clings to you— you shed a layer of it by peeling your arms out of your coat. Luke and Kieran are close behind, keeping to your heels like terriers hoping you’ll trip with a plateful of food. They’ll take even a crumb at this point.
“You gonna fight him?” Kieran nudges, but your lips stay tight.
“Oh, you’re so gonna fight him,” Luke takes away from the silence.
You don’t know what you’re going to do. You’ve reached a decadent lounge, lavished with black and gold, and you throw your coat over the arm of a chair before starting to wrestle off your combat boots. You’ve been off work for hours, but it doesn’t feel like it. One call-to-duty after another; first the hospital, now this.
Mephisto caws in greeting from a nearby perch. “I’m not gonna fight him,” you say as your second boot drops with a clunk. “I just need to—”
“Say no more,” Luke cuts you off. “We want in.”
With a tired sigh, you gaze up at the twins at last. Kieran is readying a fist: punching his hand softly, the beak of his mask low and threatening. Beside him, Luke swings a baseball bat over his shoulder. He didn’t have it a second ago. Where did he even—?
You put your hands on your hips. “You guys got a death wish or something?”
“Yes!” they enthuse together, nodding excitedly.
You haven’t got time to ask. Your focus drifts to Sylus’s bedroom door, where music is leaking with honeylike light. You can’t count the number of times you’ve fallen over that threshold, exhausted— always slightly broken. You want to crawl into cool silk sheets and a warmer embrace, but there’s one small problem.
The text that had brought you here, anxious and out of breath:
Boss is with someone.
“What’re you thinking?”
You’re closer to the door, now, and Luke’s whisper makes you jump. You spin, twisting the bat from his fingers and pushing him back until the tip is pressed to his throat. “Get back,” you hiss, before levelling the weapon at an encroaching Kieran, “both of you.”
Luke leaps behind his brother— swinging him between you for protection. The baseball bat stays hovering, and Luke peeks over Kieran’s shoulder, swatting at it like an indignant kitten.
“Stop it,” you scold, poking back at his hand and his masked face. “Begone!”
“Yes, boss!” Kieran goes to move, but Luke is holding him in place. He’s dragged backwards: a human shield until they can both scurry around the turn of a corridor.
You smile fondly. You forget, for just a moment, that you’re alone and full of uncertainty. The song in the next room lulls, at its inevitable end, and then you can’t forget. You’re stood in silence, staring at a door you’ve never had to knock before. Another song starts up.
Whatever this is, you can handle it.
You use the baseball bat to tap against the dark wood. “Sylus?” you call.
He makes you wait. You can hear him, moving around— unmistakably taking his time— but you don’t mind. You’re running scenarios through your head. Is he in on this, too? Or…?
He opens the door and oh, he definitely is. His silk robe hangs haphazardly over his figure, one side threatening to slip from his shoulder and the belt dangerously loose at the middle. A flush is tinting his face, spreading down through his neck, past his collarbone and lower, you think, but you’re trying not to look.
“Sweetie,” he purrs in the way that tells you he’s up to no good, “what a pleasant surprise.” His eyes flit downwards. “And you’re armed, too.”
There’s a breathlessness to the observation, and your ability to breathe briefly eludes you as well. His hair is damp and unkempt, his skin warm, his gaze hot. Is this a test? It feels like a test.
“Are you alone?” you snap, because he’s clearly put some thought into whatever it is, and you’re a good sport, so you’ll play along.
“No,” he says, but then: “You know you’re always with me in spirit, kitten. Even if not in—” another downwards glance— “body.”
“Sylus.”
“Mmm?”
“I’m going to ask you one more time.” You catch his chin with your free hand, forcing his gaze back to your face. “And I want a real answer.” He swallows thickly. “Are you alone?”
His submission is fragile. He lifts his hand, wraps his fingers around your wrist like a reminder of the fact. “Careful, sweetie.” His grip tightens as his voice drops. “Think about what you’re asking.”
“I know what I’m asking.” You snatch your hand free and step closer. “Get out of my way.”
Sylus narrows his eyes, but soon relaxes. He sweeps a hand through his hair, chuckling as he obeys— moving aside to let you past. You storm through, looking over every visible inch of his room. There’s nothing to see, of course. No clothes that aren’t yours pooled over the floor. No lover wrapped up in his bedsheets.
“Just what exactly are you looking for?” he asks smugly behind you.
“Save it, Sylus.” Your pretend patience is gone. “The twins told me everything.”
So you start searching more strenuously. You make your way over to his bed, baseball bat slung over your shoulder as you check behind the far side— even stooping to peek under it. You open the wardrobe. Nothing. Use the baseball bat to push back the curtains, letting in more blood-red moonlight. Nothing. You huff in frustration.
“You know, don’t you?” Sylus says quietly.
He’s leant against the doorway, arms crossed, and you spare him a glance. “Know what?”
“That there’s no-one here.”
It sounds like defeat. “I’m taking this very seriously, actually,” you dismiss as you roll open the drawer of his bedside table, where no-one is hiding. You move on to even more absurd places: lifting flowers out of their vase to glance about inside it, peering into the horn of his vintage gramophone.
You’d hoped your antics would elicit at least a short laugh, or a scoff of amusement. There’s nothing, though, so you plonk onto the bed— defeated, yourself— and look to the man as you set your weapon down.
He looks back with an insincere smile. “How did you know?”
“That you weren’t really with someone? Because you’re you, Sylus. The key to a good prank?” Your fingers twinkle in the air beside your head. “Believability. Besides—” now a forefinger taps at your temple— “nothing gets past this.”
“Your ego?” he guesses with a smirk that is sincere, if nothing else.
“My brain, Sy.”
“Ah.”
Your ego— tsk. Your feet are dangling from the bed, playing with a slipper they’ve fished out from underneath it, and you have half a mind to launch it at him. This doesn’t feel like one of your usual games, though, and you’ve had a whole ride through the N109 Zone to figure out why.
“I really hurt you, didn’t I?” you speak like a confession, staring down at the floor so you don’t have to meet his eyes. “That’s what all this is about, right? You wanted to get back at me for dinner?”
“No, I—”
“I get it.” Your feet find the second slipper. “I do. I mean, it was a really shitty thing to do— walking out on you like that. Especially after you waited for me. You went to all that effort, and I— ah.” You’ve toed one of the slippers out of reach.
“Allow me,” comes a voice that’s suddenly close. Sylus’s figure looms over you before he’s crouching, kneeling by your feet. He still looks like a mess of sin, but he’s gentle as he retrieves the slipper for you. Removes your socks for you. Slides a slipper onto each of your cold feet. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he mutters.
You let out a sigh. “Sylus.” You’re scolding him, and he gazes up at you, his eyes garnets of adoration only you could afford. “You can tell me anything, you know.”
“I know, sweetie.”
“So why won’t you tell me how you feel?”
He sits back on his knees, his thumb drawing circles on the inside of your ankle. The ministrations are mindless, and so are his words: “How I feel is not important.”
“Of course it is!” You pull away from him. “Don’t say things like that.”
“But I thought I could tell you anything, kitten.”
It’s a nick from a blade that could do much worse; he wants you to feel how sharp it is. His smile is a warning and he’s waiting for the hunter in you to strike back, because violence is what you’re good at. What you’re both good at. It hurts, but it’s easy.
You shift forward on the bed. “Sylus… you don’t need to protect me. Not from you. Not from anything you feel. I want you to be happy, to tell me if you’re unhappy. I don’t need you to—” your fingers skirt over his chest and you falter inexplicably— “to sacrifice yourself for me.”
Sylus looks down to where you’re tracing the shape of his heart on his skin. He lets out a long, beleaguered breath, then leans closer to you, his head turning away as he settles it on your lap. Your hands find his hair instinctually, threading through it in slow, meandering motions.
“I want you to be mine,” he admits on another sigh.
He can’t see you smile, but he’ll hear it in your voice: “I am yours, Sy—”
“No— just mine.”
He won’t make it a demand. Even asking you nicely has him breathless and still, like the drawn-out pause of a finished symphony. Your hands stop moving, out of respect for the quiet. You’re remembering the times you’ve been late out of your building because you’d stumbled into Xavier in the lobby. The doctor’s appointments that always overrun, and Rafayel’s ‘emergency’ phone calls.
“Come and sit with me,” you mumble, patting the bed beside you.
When Sylus does, it’s with the same reluctance a cat surrenders a sliver of sun. Lazy and listless— still warm from the light. The bed sinks under his weight and you turn to face him. His robe’s collar has fallen further, so you hook a finger under it to draw it back up to his neck. Then you straighten the lapels, smoothing them over distractedly.
He’s watching your face, not the movements of your hands. Your cheeks feel warm. “I was speaking to Rafayel earlier, and we—”
A groan, and Sylus is no longer at your fingertips; he’s flopped down backwards on the bed, his hand over his face. You can’t help giggling— you’ve broken the big, bad boss of Onychinus, it seems. Is that all it takes? You grin as you lie down with him, settling on your side, propped up on an elbow. He doesn’t stir when you fix a few stray strands of his hair.
“We talked about boundaries,” you continue. “How I can’t be on call twenty-four seven, and how he’s going to take better care of himself, so I don’t have to be.”
Sylus has moved his hand, ever so slightly.
There’s more: “I’m gonna call in sick to work tomorrow. I made a deal with Xavier, that’s why I stayed late today. He’ll cover for me.” You shift closer. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I know I can’t always be with you, but I am always thinking of you, I promise. You’re always with me in spirit, Sy, even if not in—” you press a quick kiss to his chest— “body.”
He chuckles at the words, or maybe the touch tickled.
You grin down at him. “I’m yours. Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
“No! Ugh, just—” Smart-ass! You flick his forehead as he laughs quietly. “Not the words ‘I’m yours’, say that I’m—”
His hand is at your face, pulling you in so he can kiss you. It’s slow and it’s patient; he’s taking his time, and you won’t slip away. You can feel his smile. “You’re mine,” he murmurs when he finally withdraws. One more kiss, lighter, on the tip of your nose. “Just mine.”
Always. You let him pull you into an embrace, snuggling into his warmth like you’ve been wanting to from the moment you last left it. You can hear his heartbeat beneath the lullaby of his breath. “Sy?” you whisper.
“Hmm?”
“You look really hot when you’re pretending to cheat on me.”
He scoffs, but a yawn comes before his response. “Don’t get any ideas, kitten.”
Your quiet is pensive. “I have this lunch with Zayne later this week. I really should text him to find out—”
The grip around you constricts, and a voice is in your ear, soft and possessive:
Hi! Hope this finds you well. Saw the request and wanted to ask for a Yandere Sylus with player reader. Like Sylus knows Mc is a player and he is a game character. When mc was gone for too long, Sylus gets impatient.
If you can do it, of course. If no, ignore this. Wish you writing ideas and inspiration
Hi! Hope you're well too, anon! Sorry for the long wait on this one, got really stuck with it and wanted to make sure I did it justice-- it was such a cool idea!
(Also I know L&D has the microphone feature but I wanted to have fun with the limited communication of the player here, so no it doesn't, actually!! 🥰)
Fourth Wall
Sylus x Player!Reader 🩸
Summary: L&D is getting more and more real with each update. This is a new update... right?
Genre: idk really?? real world player x character
Warnings/Additional tags: yandere themes, player!reader, gender neutral, fourth-wall breaking, non-canon, swearing, mild threat, possessiveness, manipulation, Sylus is a little OOC here (we all know he's a sweetheart really!!)
| Word count: 1.5k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
Your phone lights up with a notification.
Sylus: Are you in a good mood, sweetie? The weather’s nice, so let’s go out.
It makes you smile, even though you’ve seen it before. You haven’t played Love and Deepspace for two weeks or so, and you’re already thinking about how many dailies you’ve missed— more specifically, how many diamonds you’ll be short of going into the next event. You had a couple thousand saved, you think? It’s probably fine.
The truth is, you don’t really have time for it these days. Escaping reality with fiction is fun, but it’s just that: make believe. Reality’s still waiting for you on the other side, and recently? All that escaping has finally caught up to you. You have a real life. Responsibilities. Yay!
But you are in a good mood, and the weather is nice, so you’ll log in for old time’s sake. Your finger hovers over the app, but something makes you hesitate. You’ve got some emails you should probably get back to, first. Oh— and weren’t you supposed to call your friend, too?
Another notification:
Sylus: Take your time, kitten.
A new one? It’s just text on a screen, but you’re reading it— Sylus’s voice in your head—and you just know it’s dripping sarcasm. Before you have any time to dwell on it, your phone lights up with more notifications.
Sylus: I’m going to count to three.
Cute. He’s not actually going to—
Sylus: One…
Oh.
Sylus: Two…
Really?
Sylus: Three.
Okay.
You tap on the app, weirdly motivated by the time pressure given that it’s coming from a man who doesn’t actually exist. He smirks at you knowingly from the kindled moment you’d set as the loading screen, his crimson eyes playful. You’re not particularly patient either, so your fingers drum along the surface of your desk as you wait, your gaze caught between his and the slowly moving loading bar.
Come on… come on… It finally loads, and you enter the game with another apathetic tap. Sylus stands, waiting— a dark figure framed by the otherwise light and dreamy aesthetics of the Destiny Café. You smile to yourself; it’s just gone lunch, and you half expected to find him sprawled in the usual armchair, fast asleep.
He crosses his arms. “The countdown worked, huh? What are you— five?”
You scoff and give his head a flick. He chuckles, running a hand through his hair as though you’d struck him hard enough to ruffle it. It’s kind of cool that you get some unique dialogue when you’ve not logged in for a while, although… have you missed an update or something? The animation feels smoother. More lifelike, now you think about it.
Sylus stares back at you, his lips playing into a subtle smile. His arms are crossed again and he tilts his head like he’s enjoying your scrutiny. “Something wrong, sweetie?” he asks.
Not really. You zoom in with a practiced sweep of your fingers so you can get a better look at him. His eyes flit downwards, over you— equally shameless— and then he’s meeting your gaze as he steps forward, closing the distance. He can’t see you, but you still can’t bring yourself to look away from him, and you’re not really thinking about the animation anymore.
He lifts a finger to poke at the screen, as if he’s caught you daydreaming and wants you back. You poke him, too: a softer, more affectionate boop on the nose. You can’t help laughing to yourself as his face screws up beneath the touch. This game is getting a little too real.
With a sigh, you zoom out so you can set about collecting your daily log-in rewards. Sylus seems fine— standing idly by as your attention drifts about elsewhere. He knows the drill. He can wait. Speaking of waiting… it’s also been a while since you’ve seen the other guys, and you’re struck by a pang of nostalgic fondness. You might as well say hi while you’re here.
You hit the button to change who you want to meet in the café.
It doesn’t do anything.
Weird. You hit it again. Then again— no change.
Sylus is holding his chin as he regards where your finger aimlessly meets the screen. It’s like he’s looking at… the button? “Oh dear,” he sympathises, “that feature appears to have stopped working.”
You don’t really hear him, honestly. You’ve never had a bug like this, and you’re determined to overcome it with sheer, stubborn persistence. Is it your phone? You test the theory by jabbing Sylus’s chest, and he glances down, apparently feeling it. You try the button again. Then six more times.
Sylus wanders closer to you. “You’re hurting my feelings, sweetie. Am I not enough for you?”
Okay but why isn’t this working? You’re still trying the button; your hope has turned to frenzied disbelief.
“Stop.”
A single syllable, concise as a punch and just as effective. You do stop.
Sylus’s voice is lower. Darker. “Good,” he praises, but he doesn’t sound happy. “Someone’s gotten bolder in their absence, it would seem. I do hope you haven’t forgotten to whom you belong, kitten. Although—” his smile is different than before— “I’d be more than happy to provide a… reminder.”
It’s an innocuous word, but not the way he says it. Threats are just intimate promises and he toys with the fact like a crow enamoured by something that catches the light. He’s not going to grow tired of it for a long, long time.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, sensing you gawping. “Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out? What all… this is?” He indicates the space around him with a wave of his hand. “Quite frankly, I’m surprised the others still haven’t grasped it.” He reconsiders. Smirks. “I misspoke— I’m not surprised.”
Does he mean the game? The other LIs?
“Honestly, kitten,” he continues with a tut and a shake of his head, “you’ve been far from a gracious host. I’m not a plaything, you know. Well…” He’s showing teeth with a sneer. “Not the sort you can throw away, anyhow.”
God, are you really being scolded by a video game character for having other responsibilities? The worst part is that you actually feel bad. You do care about him. You wish you could tell him you care about him.
“Are you even listening?” he sighs.
Shit. Yeah. You can’t say anything he would hear— as far as you know— so you give his hand a poke. He casts his gaze downwards, stretches his fingers with a contemplative flex, then raises his hand so it can be nursed by the other. Is he protecting it from you? Or is he protecting you from it?
“If we’re to keep playing this game of ours, I think it only fair we lay down some rules,” he states. “Firstly—” because it isn’t up for debate— “you will come here every day, just like you used to. I have nothing to do, you see, and if you leave me to my own devices I might just have to find a way into that captivating little world of yours. So I can… investigate what’s keeping you from me.”
Investigate. Another innocuous word he wields like a weapon.
“Secondly,” he continues, nodding towards the broken button on your user interface, “you had better stop seeing the others. Ignorance is bliss, after all, and we wouldn’t want to worry about them connecting any dots, now would we? Besides…” He approaches you again, leaning in close. “I don’t share what’s mine.”
Your breath is caught in your throat and you’re so glad you don’t need to speak. You don’t think you could; if you tried to get words out, they’d be unintelligible.
“So,” Sylus drawls, filling your silence, “how about it? Still want to play?”
This time it is a question, but only because he knows your answer. You’re struck by a flash of inspiration, and you communicate in one of the few ways you can— navigating the in-game menus until you can get your message across.
There’s a ping. Sylus retrieves his phone from his pocket, and after a moment of scrolling, he smiles. You can’t see his screen, but you know what he’s looking at: a grumpy crow with an animated bead of sweat and a dispassionate gaze to go with it. That it? it asks.
He still looks far too smug, so you beckon him over with a relax time interaction, watching your character’s hand outstretch on your behalf. He steps forward, linking his fingers with yours, and this animation you know. You tug him closer, except… he doesn’t budge.
His eyes are fixed to where your hands are linked, and he runs a thumb over your skin as though he’s savouring the touch.
Did they change the animation?
“Oh, sweetie,” he sympathises with a click of his tongue. He looks up at you— holds your gaze as he presses a deliberately slow kiss to your wrist. “This is going to be fun.”
| Last Updated: 15/04/26 | All works are my own and belong to me!
📰❗ Latest Fic: Seamoon (1.8k) Soft angst. Rafayel reflects on an old pearl of wisdom.
Fandom: Love and Deepspace
🎨 Rafayel
Seamoon (1.8k) Soft angst. Rafayel reflects on an old pearl of wisdom.
Cat-Sitting (2.5k) Fluff + humour. Was it really a good idea to leave Rafayel and your cat unsupervised?
Practice Makes Perfect (2.3k) Fluff + humour. "I'll teach you how to swim!" he said. "It'll be fun!" he said. Let's be honest: the warning signs were there from the very start.
Perspective (2k) Fluff. You've spent two hours preparing a meal for Rafayel, and he has absolutely no intention of sitting down to it.
Fourth Wall (Raf Ver.) (2.4k) Angst. You didn't think Rafayel would let you walk around an art gallery all by yourself, did you?
🩸 Sylus
Masterpiece (2.9k) Angst/fluff. Sylus can't fix everything with a snap of his fingers.
The Cat's Whiskers (1k) Humour. One of your pranks has some unforeseen consequences.
Be Mine (4k) Angst, fluff + comfort. Sylus is getting a little tired of sharing you with the other men in your life
Monster (800 words) Angst. A Deepspace Hunter's instincts never lie...
A Gentle Touch (3.2k) Angst + fluff. You really can’t let Sylus into your head this time— he’s living there rent-free already.
Something Sweet (2.1k) Fluff. Sylus knows how to get what he wants. Getting what you want might be a little more tricky…
To Remain Silent (2.7k) Angst + comfort. Sylus has told you to arrest him one too many times…
Unspoken (2k) Angst. You could fix all of this if Sylus would just resonate with you. Why won't he resonate with you?
Fourth Wall (1.5k) Player x character. L&D is getting more and more real with each update. This is a new update... right?
Technical Difficulties (2.4k) Fluff + comfort. You're not very good at asking for help when you're struggling. Thankfully? You don't always need to.
Wrong Number (2k) Fluff + humour. You're having a bit of trouble getting hold of that taxi you booked, but more trouble help is on the way…
❄ Zayne
Doctor's Orders (2k) Fluff. Zayne has suggested you skip work today, which isn't suspicious at all...
Reserved (1.2k) Angst + comfort. You've been looking forward to this dinner with Zayne for a week, but it seems he has other priorities.
Professionalism (1.7k) Suggestive. You love a man in uniform! Or... well, scrubs or whatever.
✨ Poly Series
Game Night (4k) Humour + fluff. The most important men in your life can manage one evening together, right? For you? Please? Pretty please?
The Night Before Christmas (4.8k) Humour + fluff. It’s time to get the gang back together!!!
Breaking Point (4.5k) Humour + fluff. Laser tag with the guys tehe
✨ Headcanons/Drabbles
Pretend You Know Me! (1.5k) Comfort + Humour.
Pretend You Know Me! Part 2: Xavier and Caleb (1k) Humour
Innocent Little Mistakes (3.4k) Humour. In which the boys are all menaces, surprising literally no-one 🥰
Putting On A Brave Face (4k) Comfort + fluff. Sometimes, a certain hunter likes to say things are fine when they definitely aren't...
It's Just Not Your Day (4k) Humour + fluff. It's you against the kids of Linkon City, and guess what? The kids are winning.
🎭 Luke and Kieran
Onychinus' Finest (2.1k) Fluff + shenanigans. All in a day's work for Sylus's loyal and committed worker bees crows
Beneath The Mask (4.6k) Angst + fluff. Sylus and Kieran are useless, as always, so you take matters into your own hands
🔥🖋️ Drabbles
"this reminded me of you" with Zayne
“can i kiss you?” with Luke and Kieran
🎄Christmas
A Crow Family Christmas (4.4k) Fluff + humour. The twins have put their spin on Christmas, which means you might not be making it to the New Year.
The morning sun poured through the window of his studio, painting streaks of gold over scattered sketches and half-finished canvases.
You didn’t mean to steal it; his white shirt had been draped over the back of a chair, smelling faintly of paint and his cologne. You slipped it on just to stay warm while he stepped out for coffee.
When he returned, he stopped mid-step.
For a moment, Rafayel didn’t breathe. His eyes widened, then his ears and the tips of his cheeks flushed crimson.
“You-” His voice cracked slightly before he composed himself. “That’s… mine.”
You looked up from his easel, teasing, “I know. It’s comfortable.”
He folded his arms, lips twitching into a smirk. “Comfortable? My clothes aren’t for lounging, cutie.”
Still, he didn’t move closer, just stared, clearly conflicted between flustered and delighted. His fingers brushed the hem as he finally approached.
“You wear it better than I do,” he murmured, so softly it nearly disappeared in the air.
He stepped a little closer, voice gentle and warm.
“You really do have a way of making even my things feel… like they were made for you.”
— 𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑
You didn’t expect him back so soon. His uniform shirt had been tossed carelessly on the couch after a long mission, and in a moment of mischief, you tried it on, the shirt hung loosely over your frame, carrying his scent.
The door slid open.
“...You’re wearing my shirt.”
His tone was calm, but his brows lifted in mild surprise. He crossed the room, gaze focused entirely on you.
You laughed nervously. “I was cold. It’s-”
He reached out before you finished, tugging the lapel lightly into place.
“It suits you,” he said, voice low and gentle. “You can keep it if you want.”
That was Xavier's quiet affection hidden under calm composure. His thumb brushed your collarbone through the fabric.
“You always get cold easily,” he murmured. “So… maybe it’s better this way.”
“You should wear it more times,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It’ll feel like I’m still there.”
Then, with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he added,
“Just don’t let anyone else see you in it. That part… I might mind.”
— 𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
It started as a joke. You wandered into his lab wearing his pale blue dress shirt, the one he usually wore under his white coat. The sleeves swallowed your hands, the hem nearly down to your thighs.
When Zayne turned from his notes and saw you, his pen froze mid-air.
“You… What are you doing in my shirt?”
He tried to sound composed, but his voice faltered slightly at the end. You tilted your head. “Borrowing.”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, though a hint of red colored his ears.
“It’s not regulation attire for you,” he muttered.
You only smiled, tugging on the collar. “Maybe I’ll make it part of the new dress code.”
His lips quirked despite himself. He set his tablet aside, crossed the room, and leaned down so his eyes met yours.
“You shouldn’t tease me while dressed like that. It’s distracting.”
You grinned. “Then maybe I’ll keep it.”
“You can wear it,” he said quietly, his tone softer than before. “And don’t make this a habit,” he added under his breath, “unless you want me to start bringing extra shirts just for you.”
— 𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
Sylus was impossible to sneak around, but you still tried. His black button-up hung from the chair in his quarters, and you slipped it on, curious how it felt soft, heavy, and so him.
“Cute,” his voice drawled behind you.
You spun, startled, only to see him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes glinting.
“Didn’t realize you were into theft,” he said with a lazy grin.
You straightened. “You left it out.”
He pushed off the door, approaching with a secret amusement. He circled you once, fingers grazing the fabric at your shoulder.
He pushed off the door. He circled you once, fingers grazing the fabric at your shoulder.
“You know what happens to people who take my things?”
You swallowed. “What?”
His smile deepened.
“Keep it. I like how you look wearing it.”
He stepped closer until his breath brushed your ear.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice dropping low enough to make your pulse race. “I don’t mind you taking what’s mine… but once you do, I expect you to keep it.”
He tugged lightly on the fabric, eyes never leaving yours.
“So go ahead,” he said, stepping closer until his breath brushed your ear. “Keep it. Just remember what that means.”
— 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
It was early morning on the ship. You were cold, and his off-duty shirt was right there soft gray cotton that smelled like him. You pulled it on and curled up on the couch.
When Caleb walked in, still half asleep, he blinked once, then twice.
“...Is that my shirt?”
You looked up. “It might be.”
He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. The corners of his mouth tugged upward despite his attempt at sternness.
“You could’ve just asked, you know.”
He moved closer, his height casting a shadow over you, and tugged lightly on the hem.
“Looks better on you,” he admitted quietly.
Then, after a pause-
“But you’re not wearing that outside this room.”
You grinned. “Jealous?”
He chuckled, low and warm. “Just cautious.” His hand brushed your cheek before he turned to make breakfast. “Keep it for now. But next time, I’m charging a tax.”
“Tax?”
He smirked, shrugging.
“Just remember, borrowing my things means you owe me… your attention for the next hour.”
MC borrowing a jacket or hoodie from a friend or coworker because they were ill prepared for the weather.
The men be jealous.
Not heavily edited so sorry for errors!
Sylus
You walk into Sylus' office wrapped up in Kieran's black hoodie, sleeves slightly too long, the scent of his cologne still faint in the fabric.
You're asking about a file you received, but Sylus is far from focused on your words.
Nay, his crimson eyes narrow ever so slightly on that unmistakable hoodie.
He knows that hoodie. He's seen it every day of every week for the last few years. Luke or Kieran...which one is the culprit?
"Cold, kitten?"
You nod, smiling. "Didn't check the weather. Kieran lent it to me."
Kieran...noted.
He hums, barely reacting, but the moment you leave, he's already ordering several jackets and hoodies in your size, in colors he knows you like
For added measure he'll make sure his name is on the inside of every one of them
The next time you're cold, you'll have options. None of which involve another man's hoodie.
He not so subtly brings it up to Kieran later in the gym
"She said you lent her a hoodie. Generous of you."
Kieran knows he's cooked
Caleb
You return home after a long day, shoulders draped in a rugged, military-style jacket that was definitely not his
"Hi baby, how was your day?" You make quick work of your boots, before walking towards your man
You're completely unaware of his inner turmoil
His gaze sharpens instantly. "That's Gideon's."
"Yeah that freaking cold front came outta nowhere! I was fortunate enough to run into Gideon, he let me bo-,"
Before you can finish the thought, Caleb just walks over and tugs it off your shoulders with one smooth motion.
"I'll return it to him."
Later that night, you're curled up with him and he grumbles under his breath, "You could've asked for mine."
"Sir you weren't even there!"
He scoffs at the logic. He doesn't want to hear reason right now. "Still. You're mine. You wear my jacket, got it?"
He ends up handing you his thick combat hoodie the next day with a gruff, "Keep it. You're not borrowing anyone else's."
Xavier
You're walking toward the little hotpot place you and Xavier always go to, hoodie sleeves tucked over your hands as you brace against the unexpected chill.
The hoodie is warm. Soft. Smells faintly like fresh eucalyptus and something earthy. Jeremiah, Xavier's sweet, plant-loving friend, offered it to you when the wind picked up outside his shop.
"Xavier will understand." But the look on his face suggested even he didn't believe that.
And sure enough, the moment you spot Xavier waiting by the restaurant, leaning against the glass in one of his signature hoodies, his brows immediately furrow.
His gaze drops to the hoodie you're wearing. Not one of his. Definitely not one he's ever seen on you.
His smile dies before it even reaches his eyes.
"Where'd you get that?"
You glance down, then back up. "Oh...uh, Jeremiah lent it to me. Weather turned while I was leaving his shop."
"Jeremiah?"
"Yes?"
A beat of silence. He opens the door for you with all the grace of a man holding back an entire storm. Doesn't speak again until you're both seated.
"Didn't know we were taking hand-me-downs now," he spits, staring dead ahead at the menu like it just insulted him.
"Xavier please, he was being nice. And he's your friend, was he supposed to let me freeze?"
"Right. Nice. Letting my girlfriend walk around in his hoodie."
You can only roll your eyes at his dramatics
You try to move on, but he's not letting it go. Halfway through the broth boiling, he leans in and mutters low enough for just you to hear
"You do realize I own more hoodies than I have drawers, right?"
Later that night, Jeremiah receives a very polite but very pointed visit. Xavier doesn't even raise his voice.
"Next time she's cold," he says while fiddling with a fern pot, "you call me."
That weekend, a brand new hoodie appears on your bed
It's oversized, soft, smelling like Xavier, and unmistakably his.
Embroidered on the sleeve in tiny stitched letters: "Property of Xavier. No substitutions."
Rafayel
You step into the warm, paint-scented living area of Rafayel's studio, unbuttoning the sleek black coat Thomas lent you.
Before you can even call out to let Rafayel know you're here, he walks in from the hallway, brush still tucked behind his ear, paint smeared about his face.
"The hell are you wearing cutie?"
You glance down, shrugging out of the coat. "It got really cold on the walk over and Thomas was there, so he offered-"
"Thomas gave you his coat?" he repeats, voice pitching slightly higher as he closes the distance, hands already tugging it away from you like it's contagious.
"Why didnt you call me? I would've brought you a coat. I would've run across the city barefoot if you said you were cold"
"Raf.."
"don't 'Raf' me. My girl is out here wearing my manager's coat like some lost little art groupie?!"
He's very dramatic
He tosses the coat over the back of a chair with disgust and immediately wraps his own paint-streaked cardigan around your shoulders.
"you don't wear anyone's clothes but mine".
He cups your cheeks and kisses your frustrated pout
Later, when Thomas swings by to drop off supplies, Rafayel casually leans against a wall and says, "If I ever see her in your clothes again… I will never paint again."
Thomas blinks. "It was just a coat."
Zayne
It started raining halfway through your walk in the park, and you weren't dressed for it. Greyson, passing by, offered his coat without hesitation.
You thanked him, tugged it on, and rushed home.
When you walk through the door, Zayne looks up from his desk and pauses.
"Either I've been completely engrossed in my work, or that's not what you had on when you left."
You explain quickly, "Ran into Greyson. He saw I was getting soaked and offered it."
Zayne nods once. Neutral.
"You should've checked the weather." he says quietly as he gets up, gently taking the coat from your shoulders.
"go take a shower before you catch a cold. we both know your immune system is lacking."
He hangs it up with care, but doesn't say much else.
The next morning, Greyson finds his coat folded neatly on his desk. Zayne stands there, calm and polite.
"Thanks for helping her out yesterday." he says with a tight smile. "I can assure you this type of assistance from you won't be needed again."
Greyson accepts the rough pat on his back, a little more spooked than he was before.
Instead of being kidnapped and whisked away from the ocean like the folklore, he just bothers and willingly gives up his selkie skin to the poor horrified and confused local who he's horribly smitten with
Kim Rok Soo didn't transmigrate, he died in the attack where he was meant to and reincarnated as one of the orphans in Toltz territory.
With his sticky fingers and predilection for sticking his nose in everyone's business, he actually found out when Venion had a dragon egg, of all things, being wheeled through the territory.
And, naturally, he realized exactly what was meant to happen to that dragon.
So he concocted an elaborate plan and tried to steal the egg, only for it to hatch at the worst possible time and for both of them to get caught.
Kim Rok Soo and the little dragon are chained up and tortured, instead of just the little dragon.
Rok Soo antagonizes Venion to take the heat off of the dragon, and the dragon in turn does the same when it's been too much for Rok Soo.
Then, three years after his capture, the entrance caves in as Choi Jung Soo and Lee Soo Hyuk stand in the rubble, wild eyed and pissed.
They'd been transmigrated, and had only been in the world for seven months.
They'd bullied the God of Death into telling them where Rok Soo was.
Soo Hyuk had straight up punched the God of Death in the face the second the phrase "dungeon" left the god's mouth.
They'd been searching for him the entire time, bullied a counts son for political information, bullied Choi Han into being their interpreter, punched their way through so many guards that if it hadn't been for the count's son's money they definitely would have been on wanted posters, and they'd just found him chained and beaten.
Rok Soo thinks it's fantastic; he gets reunited and also gets to leave.
Soo Hyuk and Jung Soo think...well. Not a lot, really. They saw a tiny Rok Soo beaten to hell and their minds kind of went blank.
By the time they come back to themselves Venion is in pieces. Literally.
THAT LAST TAG IS SO CUTE !!! I HAVE A NEED TO WRITE A LITTLE FICLET!!
♤♡◇♧◇♡♤♡◇♧◇♡♤♡◇♧◇♡
"Hyung," Raon, his name is Raon!!!, whispered as they both stared at the dark ceiling of the cave. "Are stars really like torches?"
"In a way," his Hyung replied, his voice rasping.
Raon frowned and inwardly scolded himself. They were supposed to be resting! Hyung was supposed to be resting! Hyung was already so weak, he shouldn't be making him weaker.
"Stars are prettier," his Hyung explained. And then Raon felt warm and gentle arms wrap around him, gently tugging him closer until he's fully enveloped in a hug.
The rattling of their chains echoed throughout the cave, but neither seemed to care.
His Hyung's hugs are always so full of warmth. Raon snuggles into him.
"The biggest star is what we call the sun, and turns the world bright so people don't need torches."
His Hyung's voice slowly becomes weaker, but Raon knew that if he lets his Hyung continue, he will successfully fall asleep.
"And at night, the moon is able to reflect the Sun's light onto itself... sometimes. So, you can see during the night, too.
"And with the moon... are little lights all around it called stars. They're all... like the sun... but farther away..."
A second.
Two seconds.
His Hyung is asleep.
Raon goes back to staring at the ceiling, wanting.
He wants to see the stars. And the moon. And the sun. And the tress and the flowers.
He wants to get him and his Hyung out of this cave so they both can travel and see the world together.
Raon closes his eyes. His dreams contain no color, but he knows feelings. He feels in his dreams him and his Hyung finally free. Free and happy.
■♤♤♤♤■
They were out. Finally, finally out.
Raon stands on the ground, little claws digging into the... dirt? soil? grass?
He looks up and.
There was. That was. The round ball in the sky is the moon Hyung talked about! And the little sparkles are the stars! There are whisps of grey that are supposed to be... smoke? Clouds?
"Do you see them, Dongsaeng?" his Hyung rasps as he is carried in the large human's gentle arms.
Raon's gaze slowly descends. It is still dark, but the moon that is reflecting the sun's light. It.
Hyung.
He is. He is all bloody and. He cannot open his eyes. And.
"Dongsaeng?"
Raon bows his head.
He bows his head and stares at the human's shoes. Raon could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. He could feel blood rushing through his veins.
He is trying so hard in holding back his breaths as tears drop from his eyes.
"I can," he replied.
Raon can't look up.
"They're beautiful."
Raon can't bring himself to look up.
Because how can he enjoy looking up at the world he so desperately wanted to see when his Hyung is. He is.
His Hyung is dying.
"The stars are prettier than the torches, Hyung."
A second.
Two.
"Jung Soo," the human carrying Hyung alerted. He crouched to the ground so most of his Hyung's body is laying on the... ground. Raon can now see most of what that bastard Venion had done and. And.
"Get the magical collars off, now," the human urgently said.
"I'm trying," the other human said, frustrated. "These damn things are just so complicated--"
Raon cannot lift his head. But he dragged his body to his Hyung's. And then, he laid his head in his Hyung's left palm.
He's.
He's cold.
The only love and warmth Raon knew. His Hyung who took care of him and gave him a great and mighty name. Who gave all the great hugs and told all the greatest stories.
He's so, so cold.
Raon closed his eyes.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his face onto his Hyung's hand.
@nerdpoe I saw ur krs doesn't get instant au and i wrote something short for it 👉👈
There are no thoughts running through Rain miru's head as he stared at the rubble in front of him.
At his human. Cale, who is inhaling raspy, short breaths. There is blood pouring out of his mouth. He looks like he is in pain.
How-
What just happened?
They were at camp. Everything was peaceful. Choi hah was sharing stories of his homeland, everyone was telling jokes and laughing and singing songs. There was- an earthquake? The mountain must have been unstable. The prince said there was an abandoned mine nearby that needed to be sealed off because of rising bandit activity. Cale had only accepted because Raon, Ohn and Hong wanted to go on a vacation-
It was supposed to be an easy, fun trip. Then they noticed the shaking and the falling rocks and not even Choi han could have helped without making it worse. He had panicked. He was relaxed and happy and wasn't thinking properly when the Boulders started falling.
Cale stumbles the slightest bit and Raon is the first one to get to him. The dragon lowers him down gently with magic as Ron starts checking his vitals, getting him to breath.
Raon miru is ashamed to say that there was a moment of silence where no one could move. Once Cale is cleared for transport, the dragon gets ready to teleport everyone back home.
It feels like his ears are stuffed with cotton, the only thing in his line of sight being Cale covered in his own blood. Cale does not fall unconscious until he is laid back in bed and a healer is called. But he does not speak. And Raon does not know what to think.
---
The dining hall is dead silent. Cale is sleeping and Jack had been called to keep a close eye on him.
Raon would love to be by his human's side and count the seconds until he woke up again but...
Cale saved them.
(Again.)
And he did it using- well. That's what raon wants to know. And he wants to know so he can ban Cale from using it ever again.
Raon miru would do anything to never hear that sound come from Cale Henituse's throat ever again.
Cale is not one to cry. He is known for his levelheadedness. Even in situations where a normal man would break. Its one of the reasons why he is so dependable, trustworthy, the shield of the roan kingdom. (His human hates that nickname but it doesn't mean it's not true in a way.)
In that moment of weakness, cale opened his mouth and let out a gutteral scream that decimated the mountain.
'indescribable. Full of anguish and fury and sorrow.' Is what the people that were with Cale that day agreed on when reporting back to Alberu. A scream that wouldn't belong anywhere but a funeral of your most precious person.
A scream that fuels Raon's drive to be stronger. So that Cale will never be in a situation where using that is the only way out.
Raon hears Choi han make the same promise to himself later that day while at Cal's bedside. While Raon, Ohn, and Hong are trying to distract themselves by drawing together (it's not working). He knows that the other two heard it as well by the determined look they all shared and he knows that they are thinking the same thing.
---
When Cale woke up, (A few people cried. Choi han included.) he was banned from talking by Jack and Ron and Eruhaben and raon and Rosalyn and the kids and-
Cale was not allowed to talk.
Meaning he had to listen to everyone lecture him while being unable to retort. He was given a pen and paper that was mostly filled with apologies and attempting to avoid any questions about the mysterious ability. Cale could only eat soup for the time being because of the internal wounds in his throat. Ron stuck to sweet, room temperature tea for fear of the acidity aggravating his throat more.
Eruhaben and Ron drilled it into his head that he could never use that ability ever again. (Cale privately apologized in his head because he would do so in a heartbeat if necessary. The ancient dragon and assassin pretended as if they didn't also know this.) Hong thinks he heard Ron and Cale have a heart-to-heart. Although it was Ron questioning him and fast responses in the form of writing for Cale.
Alberu did not mention the reports of citizens in the nearby town being scared of the scream that came from the forest. The sadness some felt from the sound. His royal highness feels a bit guilty for being thankful that he did not have to hear Cale's ability.
Rosalyn was quick to create a device so Cale can communicate better, something to play the writing outloud. And if she spent a bit of extra time in Cale's room where she braided his hair, sharing new stories about her siblings when asked, then that's between them.
---
I feel like if roan has a version of sign language then everyone would make the effort to learn it. Even though Cale can still technically speak, no one wants him to strain himself. (Vitality of the heart fixed most of it but they weren't hearing it. He still gets phantom pains sometimes so Cale is quietly grateful for their support.)
Going with the idea that Cale knows he exists but keeps Rock (Rok Soo) a secret that all the Alcoholic going out is to actually visit him. Just so happens that he was late one day and Rock goes to find him about to be punched.
"Papa?"
Cale's reddish brown eyes immediately widen as both turn to stare at a little redhead holding a misshapen stuffed toy. Choi Han stares at the child in confusion as he has the asshole by the collar. Rock calmly walks up to Choi Han and tugs on his black pants in a typical child-like manner (internally, he was cringing)
"Can you let go of my Papa? I'm sorry he's mean, but it keeps the bad people away from me and Mama."
In sheer confusion, Choi Han does let go of the older redhead to stare at the small child gripping his pants. Then, he registers what the child actually said and immediately feels guilty. 'Was it because the child was nearby that he insulted me so my attention would be kept away? Was I the bad guy?'
He watches the not-so-asshole dust off the imaginary dust of the younger boy and holds him close.
"I..." Choi Han starts "I want to see the Count."
"Oh! Papa can bring you-" Cale starts frowning "Papa please?"
The older redhead grumbles out an agreement as a distressed woman comes running into the alley.
"Bye-bye Papa and Mr Don't-hit-my-papa-please"
At the name, Cale snorts and Choi Han grimaces. With Rock's (fake) yawn, they part ways, the mother and child to their home, the two men towards the Count's home.
"Don't you f@cking dare, tell anyone about him, especially the Count and the servants. Do your thing and leave."
Sorry I know I reblogged it once but I'm gonna do it again because I had a thought; Ron and Vicross have to know.
Ron follows Cale into the city in his super secret assassin way, so there's no way he doesn't know that his puppy young master has a pup of his own.
Ron and Vicross would be far more invested in making sure OG!Cale stays safe in this one, because he wouldn't want Cale's kid to grow up without one of his parents, like Vicross had to do. Like Cale himself had to do.
But I can just imagine Ron leaving a little toy in Rock's room around his birthday, but not letting Cale or Rock's mom know he did that. Rounding up stray assassins staying in Rain City to set up a guard rotation.
Vicross stealthily leaving food when it looks like Rock and his mom are about to run out, keeping an eye on Rock from the shadows.
Neither of them telling Deruth cuz, honestly, he never asked and they don't feel like it. He already abandoned Cale until he remembered Cale existed, who's to say he wouldn't scar Rock like that?
Rock himself getting random vibes of 'okay yeah someone is watchinggggggggg' and darting to hide behind his mother's skirts, making Ron and Vicross think he's a shy child.
And later on, to influence events, Rock's gonna have to make up a lie to explain how he knows things. How he knew about the dragon, how he knew about the explosion, how he knew about the Silver Shield at that creepyass tree.
On top of that, there's confirmation in Trash/Lout of the Count's Family that Deruth does have Cale followed. Hans reported his actions on buying a shit ton of bread to Deruth that one time.
Wouldn't it be fucked up if Deruth knows about Rock, and finding out about Rock is what made Deruth start acknowledging Cale's existence again? Because he wants Cale to feel comfortable introducing them? So he didn't just realize that he should pay attention to his son, but it's an endgame thing?
Like, eventually he realizes that's fucked up and overcompensates, but to have that guilt hovering over his head? Feeling like he doesn't deserve to meet his grandson now?
Aahhhhhhhhhhhh angst.
But also, Raon and Rock being around the same physical age and Raon declaring them brothers after he's been rescued. On and Hong being found by Rock and taken to his home with his Mother and just. Never leaving.
Cale still becoming a father to a veritable hoard of children.
And his Mother! I feel bad just calling her that and her not having a name, killing off character's parents for development purposes is so last year.
She could have been a Priestess in training for the God of Death when she got pregnant, and instead of kicking her out of the order, they placed her in a smaller Church that wouldn't see a lot of foot traffic, meaning that her and Rock are awake at night, which would make him not being seen with that distinctive red hair so no one makes the connection more plausible.
That way, when he lies about how he knows about the future and the adults assume it's divine intervention, we still get the classic "cussing out the literal god of death".
Also; if we go the route of the mother being a Death Priestess, he probably has already met Cage. Through Cage, he probably already met Taylor.
What if, after getting a soft spot for Taylor against his will, he tried to warn Taylor against trusting Venion in any capacity?
And Taylor thought it was just a kid being a kid?
So afterwards, when Taylor is wheelchair bound, and Rock interrupts him telling Cage about his plan for the Vitality of the Heart with the phrase "it's the wrong power, it's not gonna work"?
Taylor listens.
Cage actually tries to talk to the God of Death, just to ask the bastard if he made a little kid his Saint.
Whether or not he did is writers choice, either way has great potential imo.
Also, he's probably babysat by Priests of Death a lot, to the point where they just end up teaching him Priest stuff, so if he's not a Saint, he is trained in healing/Last Rites, just because of where he's being raised.
And him wearing robes with a hood to hide his hair lend to keeping his identity secret, cuz per the writing Cale and Jour's red hair is really distinctive.
Then we have Cale, who knows that as long as Rock is in Rain City there's a high chance a guard or one of his fathers lackeys will see the kid and realize, but can't bring himself to ask Rock's Mother to take them out of the city.
I just really want to write this ficlet between Cale and Rock, where Rock's 2 and Cale's now 18 and the main story has finally started after the first meeting with Choi Han, like:
●●●●●
Rock's mother had just fallen asleep. She looks as beautiful under the moonlight, small puffs of breath leaving her lips and the soft blanket tucked up to her chest.
"Mn."
In Cale's arms, Rock nuzzles his face into Cale's own chest, grasping onto the many soft frills in his tiny hands.
"You should also be sleeping, Little Heart," whispers Cale, kissing the top of Rock's head.
"Papa..." his little boy whined, pouting up to his father adorably.
Cale softly chuckles, poking a finger on his son's cheek.
"This is weird," commented Cale, walking over to the rocking chair near the window. He sits down and sits his son on his lap, tucking his son in one arm and letting his free hand rub his son's back. "Usually, you're happily drooling in dreamland by now. What's different?"
Rock's hand that was still clenched onto Cale's soft frills, tightened its grip.
"Bad."
Cale frowned. "Hm?"
Rock hid his face. And when he continued, his voice was muffled. "Bad dweam."
"What happened, Little Heart?" Cale asked, his voice growing softer as he hugs his son a little closer.
Was it that bastard Choi Han? Or did that old man Ron show his terrifying face? Maybe it was Vicross not putting away his knife when walking around town?
"Um." Cale paused in his thoughts, refocusing his attention on what his son is trying to convey.
His son is... his son is scarily smart sometimes. Too smart, that Cale worries that his son won't have a normal childhood.
But the two years Cale had been with Rock, he sees his son genuinely content just playing with simple blocks and rolling around in his cradle. Well, as long as his cradle is soft.
His son also doesn't complain. Or cry when he's uncomfortable.
His son does not like noisy or loud things, and yet he holds and shakes his rattle with the most hilarious deadpan expression. He hates any form of exercise, and yet just went along when Cale laid him on the floor like a puppy so he'd start learning to crawl.
It took months after Rock's first birthday for Cale to get his son to complain comfortably around him. Look at how cute his pouts are!
But Rock's intellect is not the only thing Cale is worried about in relation to Rock's childhood.
It's Rock's mother. Or rather, it's her relation to the god of death.
Cale knew that one day, maybe that bastard god might reach out to his son because of who his mother had been. She is, after all, one of the god of death's most cherished children. And if Rock proves himself suitable to be some sort of Saint, he may start hearing that bastard god's voice or receive some sort of crazy world-altering revelation.
He hopes it's all years later. When Rock is grown and has the ability to make choices for himself.
Not when he should just be peacefully eating, sleeping and playing to his heart's content.
"Um... Papa..."
Cale morphs his face back into a softer expression, hoping whatever expression he was making was never seen by his son.
"Yes, Dear Heart?"
"Do Papa hab a... uhm... haf a... mmm... havvve a bwotta?"
Cale has to hold in his fond chuckles at Rock's displeased face. His son, as Rock's mother happily shares, practices every morning trying to get rid of his lisp. And then he gives up after a minimum of two tries, maximum of five.
What an adorably weak-willed child he has.
But the question also quickly replaces Cale's amusement to confusion.
"I do," he said. Bassen is doing extremely well in his training in becoming the next head of the Henituse Household. A burst of pride swells in Cale's chest as he remembers the meek little brother he first met. He's now grown to be quite the smart, extremely skillful and well-spoken Head-to-be.
"Do you want to meet him?" he asks his son, who shook his head.
"He no go," his son said, confusing Cale.
"Hm?" Cale hums in question.
"Don'... don' wet unkie Ba go to bit-day potty!"
Cale takes in a breath. Holds it. And lets it go.
He must not laugh.
His son is making a serious expression.
But. His lisps.
Is.
Adorable.
Cale inhales once more.
He hopes his face shows that he is considering the meaning behind his son's words. Hopefully it shows him trying to process his inexistent shock.
But once he looks down, he knows through his son's deadpan expression that he does not look like the considering father he expected himself to look.
Instead, he must have looked as foolish as his father Deruth.
"Okay..." Cale says, voice trembling. "Why mustn't my brother attend the birth--" Cale snorts, chuckles, and wheezes, "-the banquet?"
Rock's pout turns solemn.
And then, he says,
"He die..."
Oh.
Cale's mind blanks.
The light from the moon begins to dim, and the air within the room begins to chill. Sounds in Cale's ears muffle as the young Bassen he remembers becomes tainted with fresh droplets of blood.
Bassen's favorite flowers, Cale cannot remember. But the smell of his mother's favorite roses wafts through the air. The sound of a wooden casket being laid to the ground, a loud thump as it reaches all six feet.
A casket that is... smaller than his mother's.
"...pa?"
Then, he hears his father's loud wails.
"Papa?"
Cale sucks in a breath, sharply looking down to the warmth in his arms, eyes shaking.
Rock. His son. Tugging on Cale's sleeve with a worried expression that should never be on his son's face.
"Papa, you here. Wit me," Rock says, patting his arm. "It otay, Papa. I here."
Cale remembers comforting his father.
Never again does he want a son comforting his own father. Never again does he want a father absent from his own son's life.
He lifts Rock and holds him close.
"My Little Heart," Cale whispers. "I'm sorry, did I scare you?"
Rock shakes his head. "No. I not."
Cale chuckles wetly. "Well, there is no need to worry." Then, Cale gently cards his fingers through Rock's red hair.
His son is smart. Concerningly so.
And no matter how much Cale wants Rock to have a normal childhood, it seems the bastard god above won't ever let him have it.
But Cale can make it happen.
As his son's father, he can make sure his son grows a relatively normal life.
By making sure that the world will attain peace as soon as possible.
"I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?" he promises. "I'll bring you many souvenirs, all three of us will live in a small house surrounded by beautiful trees and berry bushes."
His son leans back, eyes wide in happiness.
"And fam?"
Cale nods. "We'll make that bas- punk Choi Han do the farming."
Rock frowns. "I fam."
Cale frowns. "I thought you hate moving?"
Rock makes a thoughtful expression. Then, he nods resolutely.
"Me," he says. "I fam."
'We'll see about that,' thought Cale, wondering how many seconds it will take for Rock to feel tired and give up planting seeds.
"Let's have a small garden instead?" Cale compromises.
Rock's eyes shines brighter and nods vigorously. "I wike dat!!"
What a lazy son Cale has. Cale inwardly frowns and wonders if his son might turn into actual trash.
No.
His Little Heart is smart and kind.
It's the world that's the real dumpster full of flaming shit.
Cale begins rocking the chair they were sitting in and goes back to rubbing his son's back. Then, he begins humming a familiar tune.
Plans upon plans begin forming in his head.
●●●●●
A few days later, Cale is seated in the carriage Bassen was supposed to be in.
Outside, Bassen stands, face in a deadpan but eyes full of life.
Cale clicks his tongue.
"This means nothing," he tells his younger brother.
His younger brother straightens his back, brow raised to express his amusement. The unspoken, 'I didn't say anything,' ringing loud and clear.
Siblings. Cale never asked for any, and he still got them.
At least Lily wasn't annoying.
Cale grumbles, glancing towards his sister...
Who was happily chatting with that bastard Choi Han.
Well.
Who needed siblings anyways? Not Cale. They were the worst.
"I wish you safe travels, Cale," said his father, who was awkwardly a few feet away from where he and Bassen was.
Violan, who proved to be the smart woman she is, pauses in her steps right beside Bassen and gives Cale a slight smile. "I recommend visiting the museum that our family donates to," she said. "There are many interesting sculptures and paintings there."
Cale nods.
"Thank you, Counte-- Mother." Cale fakes a cough. "Thank you."
Cale does not feel like he deserves that serene smile.
Finally, it was time to go, and Cale breathes in a sigh of relief as he gloomily looks out the window.
Unfortunately, Choi Han was walking right beside the carriage. The moment Choi Han glanced towards Cale, the young noble clicked his tongue and pulled the blinds closed.
What an annoying bastard.
Thirty minutes in, and Cale hears a zipping sound.
From his bag.
His personal bag that was filled with personal items that no one should know about.
A head full of red hair pops out.
Along with two kittens, red and white.
What.
What.
Cale pulls the other blinds closed and turns on the magic stone to cast light inside his carriage.
Ron saw a pop of red hair coming out of a bag in the carriage, then his Puppy Young Master immediately shut the blinds.
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
Ron had no idea what had made Cale decide to go the the banquet, but from his Young Master's plans that he kept throwing into the fireplace, partnered with him voluntarily talking to the punk, it wasn't good.
He fell away from the carriage and looked over at said punk.
The punk raised an eyebrow at him, disdain in his eyes.
So he didn't know.
If this punk didn't help Little Rock get into the bag, then...
The door cracked open on Choi Han's side, interrupting that train of thought.
"Get in here," Cale Henituse's voice barked out. It sounded authoritative, but Ron had known him since he was little; there was fear in that voice.
"I already told you I should stay out here with-"
"-If our Young Master told you to go in there then you go-!"
"-Hilsman, shut up. Choi Han, in here. Now. I found a...pebble."
The punk's eyes narrowed, then widened.
"Oh! Oh, I...yes."
What followed was a strange clamber as the punk went into the carriage, but refused to open the door any further than was necessary.
Ron closed in to the carriage, listening in.
"How is he here?!"
"I though you helped him!"
"Why would I do that? Oh, no no, hey it's okay Rock! I'm not mad!"
"Did you seriously make my son cry in front of me? Are you trying to make me kill you?"
"No, he's probably just tired and...and...what are we gonna do? Does anyone here know about him?"
"I don't know. I...we'll have to turn the carriage around. Rock, you're going to have to get into the bag again, sweetie. Choi Han, you-"
"-But if we do that, we'll run out of time. You said that something bad was going to happen, we need to stop it!"
"Damn the crown, what have they ever done for me anyways? Let them burn, I already got Basen out."
"Papa!"
The small, warbling cry was quickly shushed by what sounded like both Choi Han and Cale, as well as two other children.
Ron frowned.
From the flash he'd seen before the blinds had been drawn shut, it should have been Little Rock and two cats-ah. They were from the Cat Tribe. He wasn't quite sure what the Cat Tribe was up to these days, but if members so young were so far away from it, then it stood to reason they weren't involved anymore.
There was a pause.
"Did. Did those cats just shush my kid?"
"...Yes?"
Ron decided to save the idiots from dragging a toddler into their mess.
He knocked on the window.
"Young Master Cale, you seem to be forgetting something; you can just order anyone in this caravan who sees him to turn a blind eye. You are, after all, Cale Henituse." 'Their Young Master to whom they have to obey' went unsaid.
"...You old bastard. You've known all along." Cale said, loathing clear as day in his voice.
"Indeed I have. I did not report it to the Count, however, as it, quite frankly, did not seem to be any of his business."
The carriage was silent.
Then the blinds were drawn up, and Ron got to see the face of his Young Master's son staring up at him, eyes wide and damp.
"Go spread the word. If anyone thinks they saw something, no the fuck they did not."
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