hachi ; twenty six ; infj-t ; copywriter by day, dreamer by night
i love headcanoning and brainrotting! i write for fun.
not nsfw free!! please read the A/Ns carefully
i do not take requests
blog navigation
about the writer // things i've written
🧡 what i (ocassionally) write for:
‣ love and deepspace!!
‣ honkai star rail
‣ nijisanji en's luxiem (shuca-centric)
... and more along the way!
(other things i am into, my socials and credit under the cut)
💛 other things i am into:
‣ wuthering waves
‣ genshin impact (tho i stopped playing before fontaine)
‣ link click / shiguang dailiren
‣ yakuza / like a dragon series
‣ homicipher
‣ final fantasy vii
‣ gen3 and gen4 k-pop groups (got7, eric nam, katseye)
‣ v-tubers in general (nijisanji en's luxiem)
‣ f*ckboy pop music (fly by midnight, jake miller, MAX etc)
‣ indi, in your feels music (mokita, alec benjamin, loote, gentle bones etc)
... i have a general idea of most things, i live on the internet what else do i say
♡︎ synopsis: When exhaustion becomes unbearable, you end things with Xavier - until one cold camping night brings you back into his arms, where old wounds slowly begin to heal beneath the stars.
♡︎ a/n: this is set some time after the Misty Silhouette card with Precious Bonfire mixed in. also, i edited this fic so many times (i actually wrote it in January 2025) I can't even tell if it's good or not. if you notice any errors, pls ignore them.
divider by @/strangergraphics
The evening air is crisp, carrying with it the faint chill of late winter. The sky above is a murky gray, the sign of an approaching rain, but the city streets remain dry for now. You step out of the Hunters Association building, the automatic doors sliding shut behind you.
Your shoulders ache, your legs feel leaden, and your head is a mess of swirling thoughts. The last-minute paperwork you filed had been tedious, but it wasn’t what had drained you. No – that slow, suffocating weight had been building for weeks. And the second you spot Xavier waiting for you just outside, that weight settles even heavier.
He’s standing near the edge of the sidewalk, his tall frame relaxed, silver hair catching the faint glow of the streetlights above. His eyes find yours as you step closer. There’s something about the way he looks at you – steady, expectant – that makes your throat tighten.
You manage a tired smile, one that feels more like an obligation, and it barely reaches your eyes. It’s enough to keep the air between you from growing heavier, though, and Xavier returns the smile with a faint one of his own.
“Hey,” he says, his tone quiet but warm.
“Hi,” you reply softly, brushing past him and starting the walk back to your apartment building. He falls into step beside you easily, his stride matching yours.
For a few moments, the only sounds are the faint hum of passing cars, the muted chatter of pedestrians, and your footsteps. Your hand brushes against his, but when he reaches to lace his fingers with yours, your grip is loose, absent. You don’t pull away, but you don’t hold on either.
You notice Xavier glancing at you, but you don’t meet his gaze.
Now, as the silence stretches between you, he speaks first again. “What do you feel like eating tonight?”
The question feels like it’s demanding more energy than you have to spare. You shrug, keeping your gaze on the sidewalk ahead. “I’m fine with whatever,” you answer, aware that your tone is too flat to be anything but dismissive.
Xavier’s steps falter for the briefest moment before falling back in sync with yours. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask again.
The two of you continue your walk in silence. It’s not the comfortable quiet you used to share.
The apartment building comes into view.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, catching the faint crease in his brow, the way his jaw is set just a little tighter than usual. Then your eyes land on the white band-aid on his cheek, and your thoughts drift to last week.
When you reach the building’s door, he pulls it open for you, stepping aside to let you in first. You mutter a quiet, “Thanks,” as you step inside.
The elevator dings as it comes to a stop on your floor, and you step out first as the doors slide open, Xavier trailing just a step behind you.
You’re halfway to your door when a voice calls out, bright and cheerful.
“Good evening! How are you two tonight?”
You look up to see your friendly neighbor Charlie, stepping out of his own apartment, a warm smile lighting up his face. He’s holding what looks like a basket of muffins, the faint, sweet scent of chocolate wafting through the air.
“Hi,” you reply, your voice polite. Xavier nods beside you, his expression neutral. You feel the subtle tension in the way his hand brushes against yours as if testing whether you’ll let him hold it again.
The baker, oblivious to the storm brewing just beneath the surface, steps closer, his tone as friendly as ever. “Hey, I saw this new pastry shop downtown – their éclairs and croissants are apparently amazing. I was thinking of checking it out this weekend. You guys wanna come with me?”
Before you can even open your mouth, Xavier’s voice cuts in.
“We already have plans this weekend.”
Charlie blinks, his smile faltering for just a second. “Oh… okay, no worries,” he says, still trying to sound cheerful. “Maybe another time then. Have a good night!”
He gives a little nod and turns back toward the elevator.
You let out a quiet sigh as Charlie walks away. The polite smile you’d managed for the neighbor fades entirely as you step toward your apartment door. Xavier reaches for your hand again and your body reacts before your mind can stop it – you flinch away, yanking your hand back as if his touch burns, as a sharp, involuntary ‘tsk’ escapes your lips.
Xavier freezes for a split second, his hand hovering awkwardly in the space where yours had been. You catch the subtle flicker of emotion in his eyes – confusion, concern, maybe even hurt – but he doesn’t say anything. He steps back, giving you space as you finally unlock your door and push it open. He follows you quietly.
The second the door clicks shut, the air turns suffocating. You can’t hold it in anymore. You turn to face him and the words spill out before you can stop them.
“Why do you do that?”
Xavier blinks, his brow furrowing slightly. “Do what?”
“That!” you snap. “Cutting off conversations like that. Stepping in like – like you get to decide who I’m allowed to speak to.” Your chest heaves, the words coming faster now. “He was just being friendly, Xavier. And you – you shut him down like he was doing something wrong.”
You can see the way his jaw tightens. “I didn’t mean – ”
“Don’t,” you interrupt. “Don’t tell me you didn’t mean it. You always do this, Xavier! Every time someone talks to me, every time someone tries to be nice, you act like – like you have to claim me or something.”
He takes a small step closer, his voice soft. “I wasn’t trying to claim you. I just… I didn’t like the way he – ”
“The way he what?” you ask, exasperated. “Asked if I wanted to try some pastries? Invited both of us to a café?”
Xavier lingers at the entrance while you step into the living room, not even bothering to kick off your boots.
He doesn’t speak, but his gaze follows you as you start pacing.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you say finally, your voice trembling.
His brows knit together, confusion flashing in his eyes. “What do you mean?” he asks.
You stop pacing for a moment, turning to face him. “This!” you snap, gesturing between the two of you. “Do you think I don’t notice it? The way you get moody every time someone gives me the slightest bit of attention? I’ve tried to ignore it, tried to be understanding, but it’s – ” You stop mid-sentence, your breath catching as the words pile up too fast to get out.
Xavier doesn’t move from his spot by the door. His eyes are soft, almost pleading, as he waits for whatever comes next.
“But you know what’s worse?” you say, your voice growing tired. “You know what’s worse? The way you just disappear.”
He stiffens slightly, but he stays silent, letting you speak.
“Last week,” you continue. “You sent me a message saying you were home, and I went up there – because of course I did. I walk in, and there you are, bleeding like it’s no big deal. You just sat there, patching yourself up like it was normal.” Your voice breaks. “You always come back like nothing happened, Xavier! As if I haven’t sat here, wondering if this is the time you don’t come back at all. Do you have any idea how exhausting that is? How much it tears me apart?”
His eyes flicker with something – guilt, maybe, or pain – but he doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t try to explain. He just looks at you, his face pale and drawn.
You pause. The words feel heavy, but they spill out anyway. “I’m tired, Xavier. I’m so tired of waiting, of worrying, of pretending I’m fine every time you come back hurt. I… I can’t be with you anymore.”
He takes a small, instinctive step forward, his hand lifting slightly as if he wants to reach for you but stops himself. His voice drops even lower, almost pleading.
“Don’t say that… please,” he whispers, the words trembling. “I can try – I’ll change. Just… don’t say you can’t be with me.”
For a heartbeat the room feels too small, his quiet desperation hanging in the air. But the exhaustion in your chest is louder than anything else right now. You shake your head, cutting him off before he can say anything more.
“Don’t,” you interrupt, voice cracking. “I just… I need to be alone.”
You feel your eyes sting, and for a moment, you almost regret saying anything.
Xavier’s gaze drops to the floor, his shoulders slumping slightly. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and strained.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he says quietly.
You close your eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I know,” you whisper. “But you have.”
He doesn’t say anything after that. He just stands there for a moment, staring at the ground, before finally turning toward the door.
When he finally opens the door, he pauses for just a moment. He doesn’t look back, but you catch the faintest quiver in his voice as he says, “Goodnight.”
And then he’s gone.
*
For a long moment you simply stand there, frozen, staring at the empty space he had occupied only seconds ago. The apartment feels suddenly vast and hollow.
Your knees give out before you can even think to move, and you sink onto the edge of the sofa. The tears come before you can stop them, hot and stinging, spilling over as you bury your face in your hands. A raw, broken sob tears from somewhere deep inside your chest, leaving you gasping for air that never quite fills your lungs.
His face refuses to leave your mind – those beautiful eyes that had always felt like your sanctuary, now wide with sadness, so quiet and lost. You keep seeing the way he lingered near the door, giving you one last chance to call him back, the faint tremble in his voice when he whispered “Goodnight.”.
I shouldn’t have said any of that, the thought claws at you. Your hands cover your mouth, muffling the small, hiccupping sobs that keep spilling out. You feel like you’ve just pulled the rug from beneath him after encouraging him to stand taller, to let the mask slip, to show you the parts of himself he usually kept hidden. You told him you loved it when he was expressive. You told him you wanted him to stop hiding. And when he finally started doing exactly that, you threw it back in his face.
The guilt wraps around your throat until fresh tears burn hotter and come faster. You clutch a throw pillow tightly against your chest, fingers twisting into the fabric as if the small, physical anchor might somehow keep you from shattering completely.
Beneath the guilt, exhaustion rests like something living, heavy and relentless. You think back to all of it – the nights you lay awake wondering if he would come back, the times you knelt beside him patching wounds he treated like minor inconveniences, the way you had learned to navigate his silences and sudden moods so the peace between you wouldn’t fracture. It had not been just today, or yesterday, or even last week. It had been weeks of bricks stacking one upon another until the weight finally became too much to carry.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to will the tears to stop, but they just keep coming. I had to say it, you tell yourself, your voice trembling inside your mind. I had to. I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.
Yet even as you cling to that truth, the guilt refuses to loosen its grip. Because you know, deep down, that he had never wanted to hurt you. He simply doesn’t know any other way to exist – this gentle, distant, protective man who disappears into the night and returns as though the world outside never touched him.
Your gaze drifts toward the door, heart pounding with a sudden, desperate urge to run after him – to climb the stairs, knock until he opens, and throw yourself into his arms, saying that you didn’t mean any of it, that you’re sorry, that you’ll find another way.
Instead, you sink deeper into the sofa, wrapping your arms tightly around the pillow as fresh tears stream down your cheeks.
I can’t, you think. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending I’m fine, just to make him feel better.
Your shoulders shake as you let out a trembling breath.
Eventually, your tears slow, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. The apartment feels unbearably quiet now – or maybe it isn’t quiet at all. All you can hear is the high, persistent ringing in your ears, a sharp echo left behind your own sobbing. It drowns out everything else, turning the familiar space around you into something distant and muffled, as though the world has been wrapped in thick cotton.
You sit there, curled up on the sofa, staring at the door as if it might open again, as if he might come back.
But he doesn’t.
And you don’t go to him.
*
The days that followed blurred together like a half-remembered dream, fleeting and colorless – though you did everything you could to avoid dreaming at all.
Sleep became something you resisted.
You stayed awake long past the point of exhaustion, the harsh glow of your PC the only light in the apartment as hours slipped slowly into morning. You played games you had never touched before – ones he had never recommended, never sat beside you to play – letting the unfamiliar worlds occupy your mind just enough to keep it from drifting somewhere else.
When that was too exhausting, you read.
Not the books he had once suggested, not the ones still sitting half-finished on your shelf with his bookmarks resting like quiet memories tucked between their pages.
Different stories. Different voices. Anything that didn’t carry his presence on the pages.
Anything that didn’t sound like him.
By the time sleep finally claimed you, it was shallow and brief, more like passing out than resting. You woke disoriented, your body heavy but your mind already reaching for the next distraction before anything else could settle in.
You learned quickly that stillness was the enemy.
So you kept moving.
Missions became easier than staying home. You volunteered more often, took assignments without hesitation, accepted partners without preference. Anyone was fine.
As long as it wasn’t him.
Sometimes, returning to headquarters, you would catch sight of him in the distance – silver hair catching the light, posture calm, composed.
You always looked away first.
Then one morning, the elevator doors slid open.
And there he was.
Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, your pulse jumping as you stepped inside, forcing your expression into something neutral, polite.
“Morning,” you said.
“Good morning,” he responded softly.
Nothing more.
You fixed your gaze on the panel of buttons, refusing to look at him, but you could feel it – the quiet, familiar presence beside you, the warmth you used to lean into without thinking.
Now it felt like something you had to endure.
The ride stretched endlessly.
When the doors finally opened, you stepped out too quickly.
“See you around,” you mumbled.
You didn’t wait for his reply.
*
In the apartment upstairs, Xavier had sat on the balcony night after night, staring at your contact on his phone. Countless times his thumb had hovered over the call button, needing to hear your voice, to ask if you were all right, to tell you how much he hated the distance between you.
But he never pressed it. His gaze would drift to the stars, eyes soft with regret.
Later, when sleep finally claimed him, he would slip into dreams where the two of you were together again – soft mornings wrapped in warm blankets, quiet walks beneath starlit skies, your laughter that always felt like sunlight. In those dreams he could hold you without fear, could speak every unsaid word that lived in his chest. The world felt gentle there, forgiving.
Yet the dreams were never fully his to control. Sometimes they would drift and darken, pulling him into endless, shifting streets. People passed him in blurred crowds, their faces indistinct. When he looked down at his own arms, his clothes would change – different fabrics, different eras, different names he had worn and discarded like old skins.
And then, among the faceless strangers, he would see you.
You would be walking just ahead, your silhouette clear and achingly familiar against the haze. His heart would leap with desperate hope, and he would start running – calling your name, reaching out, trying to close the distance that always felt both impossibly small and vast. His fingers would brush your hand, the warmth of your skin so close he could almost feel it…But you would dissolve into blur before he could truly reach you, slipping away like mist through his hands, leaving only the echo of your distant, hurt eyes staring back at him.
He would wake with a start, throat tightening as the hollow ache in his chest grew familiar.
*
Dawn has only just begun to warm the parking lot with its pale, golden light as you stand by the bus doors, tablet in hand. The cool breeze of early spring feels sharper than usual against your skin, and you draw your jacket closer, trying to focus on the list in front of you. The chatter of your group fills the lot – loud and scattered as everyone lugs their gear toward the bus.
You glance up occasionally, ticking off names as people climb aboard. Tara passes by with a bright grin, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “All set, Captain?” she teases.
You roll your eyes, but a faint smile tugs at your lips. “Just making sure no one gets left behind,” you reply, your tone distracted as your gaze sweeps the lot.
The last few stragglers pile on, and you’re about to follow when you hear footsteps behind you. Turning, you see him – Xavier.
He’s dressed in his usual light-colored outfit, a single bag slung over his shoulder, silver hair catching the morning light like a halo, his eyes scanning the bus before landing on you.
Why is he here?
The message from last week flashes through your mind. You had asked if he was coming on the camping trip, and he had simply replied, I’ll be there when I wake up. You had assumed it was his polite way of declining.
But now he’s here, looking a little sleepy. “Sorry for showing up last minute.” he says, voice still raspy.
You blink, mind scrambling to catch up, and nod quickly. “Yeah… it’s fine. Come on.”
He follows you onto the bus. As you climb the steps, a fresh wave of worry hits you. You hadn’t planned for him – hadn’t brought extra food, an extra sleeping bag, anything. Once you’re both seated and he settles into the only empty spot – right beside you – you turn toward him.
“Xavier… I didn’t think you were coming. I don’t know if I brought enough for you.”
He glances at you, his gaze softening just slightly. “Don’t worry about me,” he says simply. “I’ll adjust.”
“But – ”
“I mean it,” he interrupts gently. “I’ll be fine.”
You study him for a moment, searching his steady expression, then sigh and lean back in your seat. “Okay,” you murmur, though the worry still lingers.
The bus jolts as it pulls out of the lot, the hum of the engine blending with the chatter around you. You sit stiffly, tablet balanced on your lap, staring out the window while acutely aware of Xavier sitting beside you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice him shifting. He reaches into a small paper bag in his lap, pulls out a golden hashbrown, and then offers a second one to you. “Want one?”
You blink in surprise before reaching out to take it. “Thanks,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended.
You take a bite of the warm hashbrown, letting its comforting taste settle over you.
The silence that follows feels a little easier to sit with.
*
The cool night air bites at your cheeks as you step out of the bathroom, a thin trail of steam from the shower trailing behind you. The campsite has grown quiet, the day’s chatter faded into hushed conversations, low laughter, and the rustling of sleeping bags inside the tents. You pull your jacket tighter as you walk towards your tent, your mind drifting back over how the day had passed.
You kept yourself busy – assigning tasks, checking supplies, making sure everything ran smoothly – and yet you couldn’t ignore how Xavier’s presence had lingered like a shadow. You hadn’t avoided him, exactly, but you hadn’t sought him out either. Still, he was always there: offering you a skewer at lunch, reminding you to slow down and take a breather, silently hoisting supplies you’d been struggling with, tending the fire pits without a word.
Always there when it mattered, even when you thought his attention was somewhere else.
Now, as you make your way toward your tent, your gaze drifts instinctively toward one of the still-burning fire pits.
He’s sitting alone near the edge of the fire, book open on his knee, firelight dancing across his soft features. He looks relaxed, peaceful.
Taking a slow breath, you walk closer, boots crunching softly on the frosty grass. He glances up, his eyes meeting yours in the flickering light.
“Hey,” you say softly, arms crossed against the chill.
“Hey,” he replies.
You shift your weight, breath visible in the cold air, then speak before you can overthink it.
“I was wondering… if you wanted to sleep in my tent tonight,” you ask, your heart picking up the pace. “You didn’t bring any equipment, and it’s going to get colder later.”
He hesitates, gaze searching yours before he shakes his head. “It’s no trouble. Nero offered to share his tent.”
You let out a small breath, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Do you really want to share a tent with Nero?”
A faint, low chuckle escapes him. “Not really,” he admits.
“Well, then.” Your smile softens as you point toward the tent in the more secluded spot. “That one’s mine. Come by whenever you’re ready.”
He studies you for a moment longer, expression unreadable, then gives a small nod. “Alright.”
You nod back, heart still racing as you turn to leave, the quiet warmth of his chuckle still lingering in your ears.
*
The tent is lit by a lantern in one corner, bathing the small space in soft orange light. Outside, the night air is sharp with cold, but inside the gentle hum of the heating mat wraps around you like a comforting cocoon. You sit cross-legged near the edge of the sleeping bag, legs tucked under the oversized fabric, the familiar scent of your laundry softener clinging to your pajamas.
Beside you, Bunbun sits nestled in a little nest of your hoodie and spare clothes. With Xavier about to join you – the thought sends a fresh wave of nerves rippling through your chest – you’re not sure the sleeping bag will have space for both him and your round, well-loved companion.
The faint crunch of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. Your heart skips hard as the tent zipper slides open.
Xavier ducks slightly to enter, bringing a rush of cold night air with him, but he quickly zips the tent back up. He shrugs off his jacket, and the sight beneath it gives you butterflies – simple gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt that clings softly to his chest and shoulders, his collarbone just visible at the neckline.
He sets the jacket near the entrance, then turns toward you. His eyes flicker briefly to Bunbun nestled in the hoodie, and his expression softens.
“It looks cozy,” he says quietly.
You glance down at the plushie, cheeks warming, as you simply nod in response.
The silence stretches for a beat too long, and it seems both of you are suddenly hyper-aware of how you haven’t been this close in a long time.
He shifts his weight, glancing at the sleeping bag. “You can… take the bag,” he offers.
You shake your head quickly, gesturing beside you. “It’s fine. It’s meant for two. Just… get in.”
He hesitates for a moment, then nods. After turning off the lantern in the corner, he slips into the sleeping bag next to you. The warmth of his body is immediate, radiating through the fabric even though you’re both holding yourselves stiff and awkward, trying not to let any part of you touch more than necessary. Your legs brush anyway, sending a small spark through your chest.
You lie there with your hands folded tightly over your stomach, eyes fixed on the mesh ceiling while the dim light from outside lanterns casts shifting shadows across the tent walls.
You let out a shaky breath.
“Goodnight,” you mumble, turning your back to him.
There’s a brief pause before he answers. “Goodnight.”
The tent falls quiet, save for the occasional whisper of fabric as you move, trying to settle. You close your eyes, willing sleep to come, but your mind refuses to quiet. Every small sound, every subtle shift of his body beside you keeps pulling you back to the surface.
You wonder if he has already drifted off – he always could, no matter the time or place. Your fingers curl into the fabric of the sleeping bag, nails digging in as you fight the overwhelming urge to turn toward him. You want so badly to close the distance between you, to reach for the comfort of his arms the way you used to, to feel them wrap around you without hesitation, warm and steady and safe. You miss the way his breathing would slow against your ear, the quiet strength that always seemed to soothe every ache inside you.
You roll onto your back again, as the same thoughts circle endlessly in your mind – Does he miss me as much as I miss him? Does he even want to be here, or is he only enduring this out of convenience?
The seconds stretch on, heavy and endless. Just as you begin to wonder whether this restless ache will keep you awake until dawn, you hear the soft rustle of fabric as Xavier moves beside you.
He turns onto his other side, until the soft brush of his breath grazes your cheek. For a moment you lie perfectly still, heart hammering, fighting the urge to look at him.
Then his voice breaks the silence, low and gentle.
“Can’t sleep?”
The sound of his voice sends a gentle shiver down your spine. You had been so certain he had already fallen asleep.
You nod, but you still can’t bring yourself to look at him.
The silence stretches again, as though he’s patiently waiting for more. Then his voice comes once more, quieter this time.
“Is something bothering you?”
You shake your head, hoping the small motion will be enough, but you can still feel his gaze resting on you.
Another pause lingers in the dark. When he speaks again, you can hear the concern in his voice.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks. “Am I imposing after all?”
The question hits like a sharp snap in your chest. It draws your gaze to him before you can stop yourself.
Through the mesh ceiling, the night sky spills faint silver light across his face, turning his features soft and dreamlike in the darkness. His eyes are clear and unwavering, searching yours.
He looks unsure, almost vulnerable in the gentle starlight.
“No,” you whisper, your voice trembling just a little. “I don’t want you to leave.”
You don’t look away.
How long has it been since you truly let yourself look at him?
“I miss you,” the confession slips from your lips, barely more than a breath.
A subtle flicker of surprise crosses his face, eyes widening just slightly.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words now spilling out. “I’m so sorry for pushing you away, Xavier… I just didn’t know how to handle everything anymore. And after all the things I said that day, I wasn’t sure you’d even want to hear from me again.”
Tears well up and slip down your cheeks in warm trails. You don’t try to stop them.
Before you can say anything more, he moves. His hand lifts, fingers brushing your face with feather-light care. His thumb catches a tear as it slides across the bridge of your nose, then another.
“I missed you too,” he says quietly. “Every single day.” His thumb lingers against your cheek.
“I wanted to reach out,” he continues. “But I didn’t know if you wanted me to. I thought… maybe you were better off without me.”
More tears spill as you shake your head, voice trembling. “No… I wasn’t. I’m not.”
His hand shifts, cupping your cheek fully now, palm warm against your skin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For disappearing when you needed me to stay. For making you wait and worry every time I left, without ever explaining why.”
Another tear slides down and he catches it.
“And I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting… for getting possessive when someone talks to you. It’s not because I don’t trust you. It’s because I’m scared… scared that someone better, steadier, might come along and you’ll realize you deserve more than what I can give you right now.”
He pauses, breath shaky. “I can’t make the disappearances stop completely,” he continues. “But I’ll do everything I can to change how I handle them. I’ll tell you when I have to go. I’ll come back faster. I’ll stop leaving you to wonder if this time I won’t return. I’ll make it up to you, every single time – if you’ll let me try.” His eyes search yours. “Please… let me try.”
Under the stars, his eyes look so beautiful. They were so distant and hard to read when you first met him, but now, they look at you with so much hope and longing, not hiding anything. You want to say something, but the words catch in your throat for a second – the old exhaustion and fear still whispering that nothing might really change.
His thumb brushes your cheek, his breath catching just slightly. “Please,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to – I can’t lose you again.”
The desperation in his voice makes your chest ache.
But the flicker of hope that’s been resting in your heart begins to glow brighter.
Your hand rises to meet his. You gently move it away from your face, your fingers brushing his palm before curling around it, interlacing tightly. You lift it to your lips and press a soft, lingering kiss to the back of it.
For a moment, you just hold it there, lingering in the warmth of his skin.
When you lift your gaze to his again, your voice is barely more than a whisper.
“Hold me… please.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move, as if even now he’s waiting for the smallest sign that you might pull away.
You don’t.
His fingers tighten around yours, and then he draws you in, until there’s no space left between you. Your breath falters as your body follows without resistance, leaning into him as your head settles against his chest, finding its place there as if it had never been lost. Your eyes flutter closed as you listen to his heartbeat, the rhythm steadying as minutes pass.
He holds you like that for a while, his arms tightening around you just a little, the pressure easing the tension from the day, little by little.
You lift your head slightly from his chest, and your gaze meets his. His midnight-blue eyes are impossibly soft, the warmth in them making your heart stutter.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You’re close enough to feel his breath, warm against your lips, close enough that it would take nothing at all to close the distance – and still, he doesn’t move. His gaze flickers briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes.
Slowly, you lean forward – and he mirrors your movement, your lips brushing against his in the faintest, most featherlight kiss.
You sigh softly against his lips. His mouth is so warm, so familiar, and yet it feels new after all this time. Your fingers trail upward, slipping into the soft strands of his hair. He lets out the faintest sound – a low, almost imperceptible hum of approval that vibrates against your lips. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you a fraction closer, as he savors you.
Time seems to slow inside the tent. The only sounds are your mingled breaths and the distant crackle of the dying campfire outside.
Gradually the kiss deepens. His tongue brushes tenderly against your bottom lip in a silent question. You part for him, and the moment his tongue meets yours in a slow, intimate dance, warmth blooms low in your belly.
Your hands clutch at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. You can feel the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your palm, the way his breathing has grown heavier, matching your own.
His hand slides up your back to cradle the back of your head as he eases you onto your back. You go willingly, heart racing, instinctively making space for him. The weight of him is perfect – warm, solid, grounding – pressing you into the sleeping bag. When his hips finally settle fully against yours, you feel it – the hard, unmistakable line of his arousal, hot and insistent even through the layers of fabric.
He begins to move, careful and testing, rolling his hips in the smallest, slowest grind. The hard line of his arousal drags along your core through the fabric, creating a maddening friction that makes your breath hitch.
He pauses again, breathing heavily, waiting to see if you’ll pull away. Instead, you tighten your fingers in his hair and instinctively lift your hips to meet him.
He groans softly and continues, rolling his hips in languid, gentle waves. Each slow drag presses him perfectly against your most sensitive spot, the layers of clothing teasing and making the sensations sweeter.
You can’t stay still. Your own hips begin to move, timid at first, then gradually finding his rhythm – rocking up to chase that delicious pressure. Soft, breathy whimpers slip from your lips into his mouth with every shared grind.
The quiet rustle of fabric and the sleeping bag shifting beneath you suddenly feels far too loud in the stillness of the night. Worry threads through the haze of pleasure. Your movements falter, hips stuttering to a stop.
Xavier notices instantly. He stills completely, his breath brushing hot against your cheek.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers, concern threading through his voice.
You swallow, cheeks burning. “I… I’m worried we’re making too much noise,” you murmur, barely audible. “The others…”
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he nuzzles slowly into the curve of your neck, pressing tender kisses along your skin as his hips begin to move again – slower this time. Every roll sends sparks radiating through your core, making your toes curl.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your neck. “They’re probably already asleep. No one will hear us…” He kisses just below your ear, voice dropping even lower. “Let me feel you like this… please.”
You don’t argue. You can’t. The combination of his gentle voice, the teasing roll of his hips, and the sheer relief of finally having him close again leaves you dizzy. Pleasure curls tighter and tighter in your belly with every slow glide.
His hand slides down to grip your hip, guiding your movements so the thick ridge of his cock presses perfectly against your clit. The added pressure pulls a trembling moan from your throat, but it only heightens the aching emptiness inside you. The layers of fabric that separate you start to feel like torture – delicious, but maddening. You need more. You need his skin, his warmth, the feeling of him truly filling you.
You break the kiss with a trembling breath, forehead resting against his. Your hands slide down his back, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging lightly.
“Xavier…” Your voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t want to wait anymore. I need you… all of you.”
His breath stutters against your lips. He searches your eyes in the faint starlight.
Then, as silently as possible, he helps you. The sleeping bag zipper rasps as he tugs it open just enough to give you room. You both move together – you pushing your pajama pants and panties down your hips, him taking off his shirt and shoving his sweatpants low enough to free himself. The cool night air brushes your bare skin for only a moment before his warmth returns, the thick, hot length of his cock now pressing directly against your slick, aching folds.
You let out a soft, broken gasp at the feeling. Instinctively you spread your legs wider, tilting your hips up as your hands clutch at his shoulders.
He groans quietly, forehead dropping to yours. “Are you sure?” he whispers.
You nod, fingers threading into his hair as you pull him closer. “Yes,” you breathe against his mouth. “Please… I need to feel you inside me.”
He doesn’t push inside right away. Instead, he wraps one hand around the base of his cock and slowly rubs the thick, heated length between your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness. The sensation is exquisite – the smooth, heavy glide of him sliding up and down, catching against your swollen clit with every pass, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your core.
Only when you whisper an impatient ‘Xavier’ does he finally position himself. He eases in with one slow, careful thrust – then another – sinking deeper until he’s buried to the hilt.
The stretch is overwhelming in the most perfect way – that familiar fullness, the way your body opens for him like it was made for him.
For a long moment he stays completely still. His breath comes shaky and uneven against your lips. You can feel the subtle tension in his body, the way his muscles tremble.
“...Honey,” he whispers, voice low and strained, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel… so good. I’m already so close.”
Your fingers graze the tense muscles of his shoulders. “It’s okay,” you breathe, fighting the urge to move your hips, “We can just stay like this.”
His eyes flutter open, searching yours. One of his hands gently cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly over your skin as he tries to steady himself. The thick length of his cock twitches inside you, and he lets out a quiet, breathy groan.
Then he begins to move – slow, deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls in long strokes. A soft, needy moan escapes your lips at the first real thrust. Your hands clutch tighter at his shoulders, fingers digging into the firm, defined muscle beneath warm skin as his body moves over yours. You can feel every shift and flex of those muscles under your palms – strong, yet trembling.
He keeps his rhythm steady and quiet, mindful of the thin tent walls, but his eyes stay locked on yours, soft and reverent in the faint starlight.
A particularly deep thrust nudges that sensitive spot inside you and a louder moan escapes before you can stop it. Xavier immediately leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, muffling kiss, swallowing the sound as his hips continue their slow, steady pace.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing yours with every word.
“Are you okay, honey?” he murmurs. “Does this feel good? Tell me if it’s too much… if you’re too warm in here with me.”
You can only nod frantically, fingers tightening in his hair.
He angles his hips slightly, thrusting deeper, the head of his cock brushing that sensitive spot again and again, while his pelvis rubs against your clit with each movement, the dual sensation devastating. A broken whimper escapes you despite your best efforts. He kisses you again, but you feel his lips curve into a soft, tender smile against yours.
You feel the orgasm approaching, quick and inevitable with every thrust, your walls fluttering around him.
Breathlessly, you manage to whisper against his lips, “Just like that… Xavier, please… I’m so close.”
He lets out a soft, shaky groan, and his arms tighten around you, cradling you even closer as he keeps that exact rhythm.
“That’s it, darling,” he murmurs. “Let go for me.”
You hold onto him – arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders and back, fingers digging into his skin, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His scent surrounds you, familiar and comforting, while his own arms cradle you securely, one hand splayed across your back and the other gently supporting the back of your head. The sleeping bag rustles softly with every movement, the confined space forcing you even closer, skin sliding against skin.
The pleasure builds higher and higher, every graze of his cock against that perfect spot and every press of his pelvis against your clit pushing you closer to the edge. Your body trembles in his arms, thighs tightening around his hips as the wave finally hits.
With a shudder that runs through you, you come undone around him. A broken moan escapes against his neck, muffled into his skin as your walls clench rhythmically around his cock, pulsing with wave after wave. Your fingers clutch desperately at his back, your whole body arching into him as the orgasm washes over you, leaving you breathless and trembling in his embrace.
Xavier holds you through it, his movements slowing but never stopping – gentle, soothing rolls of his hips that draw out every last sparkling aftershock, coaxing the pleasure to linger as long as possible.
He whispers soft, reverent praises against your ear. “That’s it… so beautiful… I’ve got you, princess. I’m right here.”
His words tug at something in you as the high of your orgasm starts to fade. The tenderness of his touch, his pulse against your cheek, the sheer relief of having him close again – it all crashes over you at once. Your eyes grow hot and misty, tears slipping silently down your cheeks before you can stop them.
Xavier notices almost immediately. He stills his hips, then gently eases back just enough to tilt your chin up with careful fingers, his eyes searching yours. His thumb brushes away the tears.
“Hey… are you okay?” he asks, a flicker of worry crossing his face. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head quickly, a watery smile breaking through as more tears spill over. Your fingers thread into his hair as you say softly, “No, I’m just… I’m just so happy you’re here. I never want to lose you again.”
For a heartbeat he doesn’t move at all, thumb still catching fresh tears.
Then, he whispers your name.
“You’ll never lose me,” he says quietly, forehead pressing to yours. “I’m yours… I’ve always been yours. You’re my everything.”
He swallows hard, hips giving the tiniest, involuntary twitch inside you. You can feel him throbbing, every muscle in his body taut with restraint.
“I’m… I’m so close,” he admits, sounding almost shy. “But I need to know you’re really okay first. Tell me you’re with me… tell me this is what you want.”
You nod, fingers threading deeper into his hair, pulling him closer until your lips brush his. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m more than okay. I want you… Please don’t stop.”
A relieved, broken exhale leaves his lips. Then he starts moving again, chasing his own release.
But even as the pleasure builds for him, he’s careful. When his rhythm falters and his breath turns ragged, when you feel him pulse inside you, he suddenly stills again, hips flush against yours.
“I… I have to pull out,” he murmurs, voice strained. “The sleeping bag… it’ll be uncomfortable for you later. I don’t want that.”
He presses one last lingering kiss to your lips, then – with a moment of hesitation – withdraws. He shifts to the side just enough to free one arm, then reaches down between you. His hand wraps around his slick, throbbing length, stroking himself quickly, desperately, while his other hand holds the back of your neck.
“Look at me… please,” he breathes. “I want to see your face when I – ”
You look up at him, cupping his cheek as you hold his gaze.
With a low, choked moan he comes, hot pulses spilling over your stomach and the sleeping bag beneath you. His whole body trembles against yours, hips jerking into his fist as he rides out the release, never once looking away from your face.
When the last shudder leaves him, he exhales a long, shaky breath and immediately pulls you back into his arms. The mess sticks to both of you, but you don’t care.
He buries his face in your neck, holding you so tightly it almost steals your breath. “Thank you for letting me come back to you.”
You wrap your arms around him just as tightly, tears slipping silently down your cheeks again – happy ones – as you press kisses into his hair.
Xavier holds you close for a long moment, his arms wrapped securely around you as if he still can’t quite believe you’re really here. His breathing slows down against your hair, and you feel the last tremors of his release gradually fade as he relaxes into you.
He moves a little so he’s facing you again. He peppers your face with the softest kisses: one to your forehead, one to the corner of your eye where tears had slipped, one to the tip of your nose, then another to your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. Each gentle press of his lips makes you smile, a small, breathless laugh escaping you as warmth blooms in your chest.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft and shining in the faint starlight. When he shifts slightly to adjust against you, his gaze drifts past you to a corner of the tent. A tiny huff of laughter escapes him.
“Uh-oh,” he murmurs, voice light and playful. “Bunbun saw everything.”
You follow his gaze to where your plushie sits nestled in its little hoodie nest, ears peeking out innocently. A soft laugh bubbles up from your chest.
“Let’s pretend it’s sleeping,” you whisper back, still smiling as you nuzzle closer into his neck.
He chuckles quietly then reaches for the small pack of wipes you’d tucked near the edge of the sleeping bag. He cleans you first – careful strokes over your stomach and between your thighs – before wiping himself. The whole time he keeps one arm around you, as if unwilling to break contact even for a second.
Once you’re both clean and dressed, he zips the sleeping bag back up around you, cocooning you together in the shared warmth. You settle against his chest, head resting right over his heart, listening to the steady rhythm beneath your ear, while his fingers trace slow, soothing patterns along your back.
As you lie there, wrapped in his arms, a faint, flickering light catches your eye. You blink, lifting your head just enough to glance around the dimly lit tent, and that’s when you see them – tiny, glowing specks of light drifting through the air like fireflies, dancing gently around the two of you.
You don’t say anything. You simply nestle closer, pressing your cheek to his chest as the glowing lights surround you both like tiny stars. You smile softly as his arms tighten just slightly around you.
And for the first time in a while, you let sleep take you, knowing you’ll find him in your dreams.
cw. mdni ! fem reader. marriage kink. reader being depicted as loud. fīngering. choking. cērvix pounding. belly bulge. squirting. public sēx ( caleb & zayne). mirror play. lowk mean! caleb. orgasm denīal. dacryphilia. tie usage. spanking. face riding. sylus has a long tongue ( hearmeoutpls). non proofread. all lowercase intended.
kora’s note. why did i make this draft in jan and is now posting it in april, holyyy laziness.
RAFAYEL ☆
“ watching you try to hold yourself back is waaay more amusing than i thought.” rafayel huskily whispers into your ear, his breath tickling the soft cartilage, making a full-body shiver rack through your body. your much smaller frame is sitting against his chest, your legs are parted with his as his calloused hands massage the soft skin of your thighs, every once in a while smoothing his hands next to the sensitive flesh near your mound. “ it’s funny. the girl who’s so quiet that i have to bend down to hear her is now a babbling mess, and i haven’t even touched you yet.”
you swallow thickly, unable to contain the needy temptations that fall from your bitten lips. truth be told, this is the loudest rafayel has ever heard you, and he plans to find out how much louder you can become by the end of the night.
“ mmm? what’s the matter, cutie? can’t hear ya; speak up. it’s evident you know how to do so.” you felt your face explode with heat, with embarrassment soon settling in your pulsing veins. rafayel had made you a soaking mess with only a few kisses, and your knees nearly gave out with frightening ease— but you couldn’t find an explanation as to why he had made you so helpless.
“ h-hah, want you to… finger me.”
“ ehhh, nah, i don’t want to. my fingers are sore from painting ‘n stuff, you know?” failing to control himself, he bursts into laughter once you whip your head to shoot him your best glare, a pitiful attempt to intimidate him as your face is scrunched into a cute expression, if he does say so himself. “ kidding, kiiiiiding. you’re so cute when you’re mad; i’d tease you more if i wasn’t so eager to see you break apart on my fingers.”
your once-pouting lips open to a gasping shape as his middle and ring fingers stretched out in the expanse of your walls. your hips tremble as your upper body threatens to lunge forward, the intruders— and boy, were they long.
you had always admired rafayel’s fingers, weirdly so. wether they were dancing so delicately on a canvas, making a gourmet meal for you, or touching any part of your body, but you think you like them better when they’re inside of you, flexing against your sweet spot with little to no effort.
there’s not a moment when silence fills the air as the noises from your squelching cunt and moaning mouth come into tandem to sing a beautiful melody, one that sends traces of electricity to his purposefully neglected cock in the mixture. “ rafayeeeel! o-oh, feels so good already! don’ stop, don’t fuckin’ stop.”
“ what a mouth you have on you, honey. were you hiding all of this under that shy and quiet persona?” his free hand grips your jaw tightly, forcing your eyes trained on his duo colored ones, now dominated by a deep pink, showing that he is beyond hungry for you, although his words betray any trace of his print pushing against your lower back. his tongue dips out to suckle against your bottom lip, basking in your small whines, before he pulls you closer to madly kiss you. the combination of fingers driving you to a point of insanity and tongue refusing to leave any part of your mouth unexplored is overwhelming to you, barely allowing up with the domineering kiss.
“ it feels so gooood, gonna cum!” your trembling fingers find purchase in his clothed arms. in fact, he hadn’t taken a single article of clothing off from the gala you both had attended earlier, simply only instructing you to strip off your dress and sit on his lap while he makes your body weak with skilled precision.
“ thaaats right, cutie. that’s all i want; make a mess on my clothes like the needy girl you are.” his hand comes up to press against your throat, applying enough pressure to the sides where you’re more keenly aware of his fingers gliding inside of you. your body arches forward into a deep bend as he makes rapid contact with your g-spot, barely removing his digits half an inch away from the area.
he finger fucks you into submission— as if you weren’t already a simple minded wreck for him, and what he can give you. your moans somehow grow in volume, so loud that people at the front door of his exhibit can hear you without pressing an ear to the barrier, and deep down you wish someone was out there. listening to how rafayel claims you with flicking motions of his wrist, listen to how you surrender your body to him freely.
“ you’ve grown louder, somehow. i guess you just want everyone to hear how you’re husband is fucking this loud pussy, huh?” his hand once on your throat, comes up to cover your drooling mouth. “ well… too bad. your sounds are for my ears only, let’s focus on how your pussy is talking to me right now.”
his ministrations pushes up against your gummy g-spot, striking the sensitive area straight on for the nth time, leading to your powerful orgasm. your legs kick, hips twitch as your body leans forward while it feels like your energy has been drained from you— rafayel being to blame for it, although he’d accept his crime with that cat-like grin he always adorns around you. he huskily moans in your ear, feeling how your walls stutter in pulsing waves around him.
eventually, as your high wears off and overstimulation settles in, you slap his hands away, the action barely having malicious intent behind it but he heeds it anyway. pulling his now drenched fingers out your sopping heat with a ‘ pop’ he studies them, glimmering beautifully in the dimmed lighting.
“ quite the mess you’ve made. be a good girl and clean up after yourself, yeah?”
CALEB ☆
“ keep your eyes on the mirror, pips. look at how good my money is on you.” caleb gruffly whispers in your ear, making you shiver from the intensity of his stare and the weight of him lingering on your back. he currently has you stuffed to the brim inside of the shop’s changing room, as the lingerie you presented before him is scrunched underneath the mass of your breasts. one hand is caught around your chin, ensuring you make eye contact with your bent reflection, while the other one holds you close by your boob, pinching and rolling your nipple.
“ c-caleb! someone is going to hear!” you whimper. the sound echoes throughout the room, resonating in harmony with the sounds of your skin clapping against his with every throttling thrust. your breath hitches into a gasp as his dick parts your gummy walls to nudge your sweet spot and beyond, making stars of pleasure explode before your eyes.
sex with caleb is carnal and equally romantic. the last time your neighbors had overheard your lovemaking and stapled a note to your front door, you had tried to contain your moans during sex, but caleb was desperate to hear them, and you wanted to let them out so badly. so what did he do to solve the situation? tied you up and held a vibrator against your clit, until you were overstimulated and damn near screaming, and the neighbors knew his name as if they were long term friends.
“ you’re going to fast; someone is going to hear u—”
two thick fingers part your drool covered lips, pressing down on your tongue as you gag around the intruders. “ how naive; do you not know how loud you are? someone already heard us, dummy.”
if he wasn’t scrambling your brains like a god, you’re sure you would’ve turned around to hit him, square in the face. he chuckles, chest rumbling against your back; the vibrations make your legs wobbly, feeling akin to a baby calf. dark, lust-filled purple eyes study your jerking movements. his fingers push past your gag reflex, your eyes water while strangled sounds are punctuated by the velocity of his hips. “ tch. same girl who was worried about people hearing us, is now gagging on my fingers as if it were my cock.”
tears of bliss make your eyes sting, and you can’t help but to let them fall. how could you not? he’s been hitting every spot from the back, so deep and good that you’re convinced you’ll be limping by the time you leave this cramped room. caleb, the teasing man, takes notice of this, unfortunately. “ fuck… wait, are you cryin’? is your husband’s dick fucking you so good that you can’t help but to cry, huh? h-haaaah, you’re so fuckin’ pretty.”
he pulls the fingers once jammed in your mouth to wipe away your tears— if that were the case. instead, he smears your spit across your cheeks, pulling your head upright to be face to face with your reflection. black streaks of mascara now coat your shined cheeks, your mouth hangs open with drool and accompanied mewls falling from your swollen lips, and your eyes threaten to roll far back. it’s only been one round, but to say you were satisfied would be far from the truth, because of all your marathon sex with caleb you feel an insatiable hunger claw at your guts.
“ mmmfuck. d-don’t stop fucking me,” you hoarsely whisper, as the hand that once smeared your spit into your makeup, as if you were some slut, cups your throat, albeit gently despite the display of dominance. you hear a snort behind you before you recognize that he moved away from your boob to deliver a series of slaps against your sensitive skin.
“ that sounds like an order. but i don’t think dick drunk girls like you are in any position to demand me around.” each thrust is brutal than the last, bringing you close to a point of relief but not enough to climax. vaguely, you eye caleb’s figure in the mirror, and the dominant man is close to crumbling before you. his eyes greet you back, once bright purple eyes are twisted with a dark cloud of wicked lust, his kiss-bitten lips are in a strained kiss while his brown hair frames his chiseled face perfectly.
abruptly, he straightens his full height, pulling you even more closer and depending on his weight and your toes to keep your body upright as the new position your body is curved in let’s him explore untamed areas of your pussy even more freely. his mushroom tip pinpoints your sweet spot as its target— you swear that if it weren’t for your strength working with his you would’ve passed out, smacking face first into your mirroring reflection. “ but lucky for my girl, i already decided something for us.”
you’re shaking, body akin to a hunted animal, and caleb is the hunter. his cock reaches levels so snug against your walls that the outline of him is embedded in your belly, staring back at you from across the room. there are simply no words that can escape you, as he is fucking the wind out of you to chase his own pleasure, using your body as a real-life rag doll. “ since we barely have t-time, you’ll wait to cum for me at home, and fuck, will you look pretty doing it.”
“ n-no! wanna cum now—”
“ i’ll take care you, honey. mhm, i swear i will.” he whispers to himself rather than you, feeling his hips meet your ass in clumsy movements, silently hinting that he was close to cumming, and that you weren’t going anywhere until he was done stuffing you beyond repair. your hands desperately scramble to push against his lower body, but when he barely pays your awkward attempts to run away any attention, moving slightly backward to hold your arms behind your back, he completely renders you drunk and unable to run from his dick.
he brushes his lips against your earlobe, nippling on the cartilage as your walls shudder around him. “ but now? i want you walking around in my cum, not letting a dribble escape this pussy. i know you can do it; feel how tight you are around me.”
suddenly, his body stops. you feel him tug at your arms to bring you closer before a familiar sensation explodes from inside of you. in one go, he paints your exhausted walls with his cum, groaning freely in your ear as he does so. when you know he’s calmed down for sure, you focus on catching your breath, ignoring how his cock twitches until it grows soft for your sanity. caleb begins placing a variety of kisses on the side of your neck before he greets your mouth.
he pulls out of you with a pop, simply sliding the crotch part of the torn lingerie over your whimpering slit. “ theeeeere we go, promise me not to spill any? good girl, let’s get you cleaned up. and don’t forget to wave at the receptionist when we leave.”
that asshole.
XAVIER ☆
“ starlight… you’re already a mess, and i haven’t even entered you yet.” xavier groans, your legs are sprawled over his broad shoulders, opened in a ‘ v’ shape as the mushroom tip of his cock glides through your folds with ease due to your waterfall of arousal. he slaps his dick against your gushing pussy, chuckling darkly as you squirm away for purchase but fail to do so. pressing a kiss to your ankle that cools the skin there, he measures his cock over your mound, something carnal clawing at his guts once he realizes how deep he’ll be inside you once he bottoms out. “ if you can barely take it when i tease you, how will you take it when i finally fuck you?”
you whine, thighs shaking as they are hoisted up around him, pointed nails digging into the sheets as obscene mewls fall from your glossed lips. “ xavi, stop teasing and f-fuck me!”
“ good job at using your words. promise not to run away?” like he’d let you if you could. xavier wasn’t the one to share at all or let the things he claimed make him lose his grasp on control. wether it’s covering his plate whenever you reach over to steal a bite, or folding you into a deep mating press— a position that lets the person above you take control and render you helpless. he guides his tip away from your belly button, a spot to measure how deep he would be inside you. his hardened cock teases your skin, trailing all the way down until he makes contact with your fluttering hole. there, he pumps halfheartedly, forcing your mewls of anticipation return before they trail off into a gasp as he bottoms in, snugly inside you. “ buuut, i do like this sound from you better.”
your collective lustful sounds alone paint a perfect picture of what you two are doing. his hands hold your twitching hips down to the bed, stabilizing them before he leans over your body, pushing your knees to your chest and knocking his tip against your tender cervix.
“ oh my goooood! you’re too deep, fuck! can f-feel you in my brains.”
“ how flattering, but you told me to ‘ stop teasing and fuck me!’” he mocks your voice, grinning above you as you’re still struggling to take him fully. experimenting, he pulls back slowly, just to thrust back into you with a force that contradicts his gentle nature. your expression twists into salaciousness as he manages to hit your sweet spot and beyond with one calculated thrust. xavier loved studying your beautiful expressions, the way your lips would coil into a soft pout or how your eyes would roll back from the extreme overload of pleasure. “ so don’t complain about me being too deep. just lay back like my pretty girl and take everything i give you, per your demand.”
although your moans are broken up by the force of his hips, they don’t falter a note in sound, as all his inches pivot and fuck you into a moaning mess. from above you, drinks in the sight, akin to finding water in the desert. from your crude twisted face, your jiggling boobs bouncing in clockwise motions before he creeps his stare lower to find his cock peeking back at him from within.
his length makes your belly bulge; all nth inches of him mark their imprint inside you. a hand pushing down on your stomach snaps you out of your horny state, or it brings you further into it— you can’t tell. “ mmmfuck, what’re you doing?”
“ you take me so well, far better than i expected. can’t you feel me?” he pants, dark debauchery swirling inside his cerulean eyes. he gives a tentative thrust that rocks your body, moaning purely when most of his cock is swallowed by your moistened folds, reappearing only to bulge through your stomach again.
your glassy eyes widen, fingers scratching angry scratches lines down his muscular back, which will surely overfill his smug demeanor with pride. xavier’s big— it’s easily forgettable when he hides his build behind oversized hoodies or sweatpants almost daily, but at times like this, you realize how easily his size can engulf you.
your shriek out his name when he abuses that spot that makes you weak with frightening severity, as if he was building you up to take you back down again. your skin briefly sticks against his every time his agile hips come in contact with yours, his heavy balls thwacking on the available part of your cunt. each maddening stroke leaves you yearning for more, questioning how further he can break you in like it’s nothing.
“ r-right thereeee, xavier! don’t stop, don’t stop!” your pussy is constantly producing noises of compelling fervor, and he drinks up every single sound, between your mouth and pussy. his rhythm is enough to push you to your orgasm alone, but with assistance he brings his thumb down to your beaten region. his new victim is your clit where he draws sloppy but focused circles on your stimulating bundle of nerves. “ yeeeees, gonna cum for you.”
“ likeeee this, star?” he shudders softly against the soft shell of your ear, licking at it while he was currently fucking your body limp. your body begins to clamp up, anticipating your orgasm clawing at your guts; you want it to take over all your senses. xavier’s hips are attentive, finding his steady and perfect angle to run through you excitedly. you feel his plump cock prod against your g-spot while his thumb rolls and flicks your clit in side-to-side and up-and-down motions until you’re cumming around him. hardly. brain too fogged to realize the squirts of water flying from all directions out your pussy, staining the already wrangled sheets below, and his pelvis. “ fuck, i guess it is, huh? your pussy is such’a back talking mess for me.”
the sight alone is enough to drive xavier to his unexpected release as well. copious amounts of cum flow freely from your staggering walls, joining in with your juices to make an even bigger mess on the bed below. although in his sensitive state, xavier doesn’t ignore the gnawing feeling of you wasting his fluid.
he softly pulls out of you, not allowing you or your spent cunt a moment of relief before he’s back to plugging two thick fingers in the grippy walls. “ be good, and don’t waste a drop. even while we’re sleep, think you can do that for me?”
you shake your head no but he ignores you, pressing a grounding kiss against your thigh.
ZAYNE ☆
“ my love, you promised you’d be quiet, but i’m sure everyone on this floor can hear you…” zayne breathes out against your ear, his warm breath against your clammy skin making every part of you shudder around him.
the scene of you and linkon’s infamous surgeon was something to behold: his pants were halfway down his thighs, his pristine white coat shredded somewhere on the floor of his office while he had your much smaller body pressed against the walls. his glasses clung for purchase on the dip of his nose while his hair was nothing short of tangled due to your feverish hands.
“ z-zayne! i can’t help it; you feel s’good.” you refuse to take blame in your volume— curse zayne and his expert of a cock. you hadn’t planned for your husband to fuck you in the hospital of all places. all you did was bring his lunch to him, while also wearing a sundress, one with a beautiful design and the back of it missing. okay, maybe you did plan it… but it’s not your fault. it’s been ages since you and zayne had been intimate; curse curiosity for wanting to see how much his resolve can hold. “ mmfuck, you’re sooo deep; please don’t stop.”
“ on top of being exceedingly loud, you’re also demanding for someone who’s breaking apart around me.” contrasting his words, his hips don't slow their tempo; they keep their pace even going faster as his length pushes past the loose opening of your sopping entrance, forcing the tip of his dick to be snug in your heated womb before pulling out to repeat the procedure. in fervent sync, you clench around him, desperately clinging on to what he can give you, which he feels right against his narrow tip all the way down to his base. “ you’re soaking for me… is this normal to do knowing we have people around?”
funny, that seems like a question he should ask himself rather than you, considering how you did your best to warn him about the time and place in which he washed away all your worries with just a few pecks from your mouth to your neck.
“ fuck, fuuuck!”
you squeal out, legs and walls tightening around his broad body, breath hitching in your chest as the head of his cock strokes against your g-spot— getting the reaction he seemingly wanted, he drives his hips forward with a new motive to break you apart. your head sinks back to the sturdy wall, allowing you to voice your pleasure even bolder. you can feel him smile against your neck where his face is pressed, rearranging your insides without a falter while knowing how sensitive you can be, almost as if he wanted you louder. “ wanna c-cum! zaaayne, don’t stop!”
“ hmmm… not this quick.”
famous last words. you barely process you’re in a different spot in the room until you’re plopped unceremoniously on the desk, gasping softly as he swipes all contents off with a smooth motion of his arm, darkened hazel eyes never leaving yours as he stands his full height while untying his tie.
“ don’t look at me all confused like that. be a good girl, lay back and spread your legs for me. wider. don’t act like you don’t want it.” finally, his tie disconnects from the collar of his shirt, before finding its new place in your wet mouth, truly setting in stone how brutal he plans on fucking you. scarred hands throw your legs over his shoulders, leaning forward to emphasize the staggering size difference before he sinks back into you. and oh, if you thought he felt deep from the last angle you’ll have to come up with a new word to describe this depth. your expression twists in delight; despite the fabric being shoved into your mouth you still voice your passion, hands clinging for purchase on the edges of the desk that rock forward with his estimating lower body. “ there, you’re much cuter when quiet.”
within a few swift strokes, zayne has you falling apart on his dick, all over again. strong, rigid hands grip at your bouncing tits, pooling over the fabric of your chest before painting your skin sensitive with stinging slaps to the side of your ass. meanwhile, with your legs, you cross them over his lower back, pulling him closer and impossibly deeper— lust connecting more meaningful beyond the surface.
each thrust is somehow deeper than the last and you’ve lost count of how many times he’s given your cervix kisses. zayne’s cock is deranged— wasting no time to introduce itself to all the sensitive spots in your gummy walls that make you gush around him.
“ even with my tie, you still can’t help but to be loud. shhh, you hear her?” soaking, is one perfect word to describe your pussy and the base of his cock, your cunt leaving a ring of essence around his length that momentarily disappears with every jab forward. his voice pitches deeper and lower, even trembling with every sloppy motion. his adam apple bobs vigorously to rid him of the striking moans that he wants to let out, unable to do so because you’ve beaten him to it already earlier. one curve to your sweet spot has your hands flying down to keep him there, your own hips bucking in circles as you fuck back against him while chasing the bridge you want to cross oh so badly. “ right there? that spot always makes you weak. hah, keep ridin’ it, juuust like that.”
he’s whispering filthy praises into your ears, salaciously lapping at the spit that seeps from the sides of your open mouth with his tongue, before it goes after the tears that you didn’t even know you shed. zayne’s dick is the reason you’re out of touch with reality right now. you’re whimpering, sounding akin to a broken record as you’re being gradually pushed to the brink of your release. it’s an edging taste that you can almost chart out on your tongue.
and once you do come, your body is nothing more than a hysterical mess. back arching into a flexible bend as you throw your head back, your thighs twitch to life where they’re folded over his muscular shoulders while your hips try to back away from the overstimulation settling in, which his hands pin them down in place.
“ don’t run from it; take it all. it’s obvious that you’ve been wanting— mmmph, t-this.” zayne huffs heavily, gingerly nipping at the prominent curve of your throat as you come down from your exhilarating high. devastatingly, his hips slow down to a stop, although all nth inches of him are still buried snug in your expanded warmth. still, you babble incoherent murmurs while he pulls stained tie from your mouth, granting you your dry breath back, stark contrast to the cold room. “ are you alright, my love?”
“ f-fuck, i am. just… give me a moment.”
“ take as much time as you want. my break still isn’t over and you’ll need it for the next position.”
SYLUS ☆
“ mmph, i can’t tell if you like it or not. do you mind being louder for me, sweetie?” sylus mocks, muffled words you never thought would be said by the man who is eating you out so well. you lean your head down to throw a glare at him, which loses all heat behind it as your eyes can barely focus before rolling to the back of your head. your moans ring louder as they echo around the bedroom where sylus has you sat against his face, the fact that he can even manage to talk should be a wonder due to how energetically you buck against his mouth. “ can you tell me how good it feels? or are you too far gone to do so?”
“ it’s evident ‘m not suffocating you enough.” you mumble, pussy lifting off his face just an inch while you yank his head backward by the hair— not that he minds. his mouth is slick with your arousal, left eye a faint glowing red as his chest grumbles from the loss of contact with his favorite meal, you being the meal of course. his balmy breath grazes your sensitive heat as his body rises with feral pants. “ or maybe you’re just using your mouth for the wrong use. don’t tease me; you forget you begged me for this.”
“ i guess my kitten is fussy tonight, hm? a girl with a begging pussy and a mean mouth is a rare thing.”
“ sylus!”
“ i get it, kitten, i do. now are you going to let me make you cum? or do you want to complain about me some more?” he dryly drawls, predicting your complaints and quieting them like he’s always done. a thick thumb parts your puffy, wet folds, smirking smugly when your hips twitch in his hold as your head leans back. and as expected, you sink back down with unwavering anticipation, instantly moaning at the contact of his bumpy nose bridge pressed against your erect clit, twitching him eager hellos. you feel his chuckle before you hear it, eagerly egging you to ride his nose completely. “ good girl, don’t hold back.”
“ h-hah, feels so goood, sylus!” you gasp, his flat tongue flickering against your dripping slit. you taste so sweet, so earthy; a flavor required for him and him only. dark, sluggish eyes stare at your moving body on top of him, silently observing the way how your body twitches as your clit grinds desperately against the ridge of his nose bridge, which soon changes to you chasing the feeling of him slurping at your hollow hole.
the dry air surrounding you is suddenly sparked with a roaring intensity of want which you can feel your orgasm steadily increasing. you tug on his silver locks of hair, which are now tangled and matted by the restless pursuit of your hands— it would be a bold lie if sylus said that he didn’t get aroused by you bossing him around, from mundane things to fisting his hair for balance as you buck wildly into his mouth as if he can’t easily overpower you without breaking a sweat— not that he would ever without your consent. despite how much he ragebaits you with his sassy mouth, the last thing he’d want to do is to hurt you in any way.
“ gonna cum, sylus. wanna cum s’bad, please.” your eyes trail into the back of your head, a risqué expression as the wet muscle in his mouth squirms past your tight walls, creating lewd pressure against your tender g-spot. your trembling thighs press together, squeezing his face in the process— not that he’d mind at all, considering that he’s in his own personal heaven from your gushing pussy feeding his uncontrollable thirst and your sweet voice that usually curses him, singing sweet melodies for half of the N109 zone to hear. “ f-fuck! did your tongue grow… longer? y’re such a freak, mmmfuuuck, r-right there!”
“ i’m not the only freak here, sweetie. you haven’t stopped riding my nose since; don’t back down now.” your weak limbs threaten to give out from overstimulation as the new waves of pleasure cloud your mind from thinking straight. the strain pools at the bottom of your stomach, coming to the surface every time your pearl grinds down and his tongue presses against your gummy walls. “ i feel her pulsing around me. you’re so needy… so wet. you’ll paint my face in your pretty cum, won’t you?”
you nod eagerly, not trusting your voice to speak any words, but sylus gets the hint as your cunt does all the talking for you.
“ i’m cloooose! fuck, ‘m gonna cum, sy. not gonna last.” your back deeply arches, until it’s almost hovering off his face, but he wouldn’t let you get that far anyway. his hands yank you back down, clutching your soft hips in a vice-like grip as the hood of your clit catches against the tip of nose. the pleasure races sparks up your spine, and you focused your hardened pearl there to chase after the feeling until you cum— which was guaranteed to be soon.
“ ‘nd that’s all a man could ask for; i want it all.” the coil in your stomach snaps abruptly and you’re cumming. hard too. painting his nose and mouth in your lecherous fluids as the feeling almost blinds you. the screams fall to your mouth and straight to sylus’ cock, straining against his slacks with unnoticed need which he buried to continue lapping you through your orgasm, lust swelling with love in his hooded red eyes as you ride the rest of your high down before the feeling begins to overwhelm you. “ thaaat’s it. make a mess on your husband’s face; such a messy girl for me.”
your vision along with the rest of your senses return back to you. you look down between your thighs to see sylus pressing soft kisses into your meaty flesh, which you now realized he covered with small love bites. moving off of his face, you come down to greet him with a kis— more teeth and tongue than it is lips while your hand creeps down to cup him through his slacks.
“ thought i didn’t notice? ‘m not the only who’s going to cum tonight. be a good boy and paint my face a pretty white, yeah?”
Okay, very useless yap incoming but this is the coolest and most terrifying thing I have seen in my entire life
The first thing I want to point out is how everyone including aether looks so terrifying, the traveler looks so beat up but paimon... Paimon looks so... Normal? She doesn't have the same lighting even, she's bright... As if that's not ominous at all
Mondstadt: somehow the one I found the least terrifying mainly cuz it only keeps getting worse, but the whole "he sowes discord around tevyat" is sooo fjbdhakwk like especially in consideration to how fontaine and natlan work, how many people were punished by "justice" because of him? How many "wars" do you think he started?
Liyue: the one I have the least to say about since I think "the cruelest archon of them all" says everything (also the idea of adepti being debt collectors is kinda funny in my head)
Inazuma: I don't think I've ever seen anything more terrifying than that desing, not even in my nightmares 🥲🥲 what is that, why is that, why is it stiched together 😭😭🙏 I love how much it scared me. Also, the whole pulls the corpses/half-dead? Bodies through the cities by tugging on the threads of their veins to stimulate a populance? Fhjdjdkwmd terrifying, how did you come up with that op 😭😭
Sumeru: first things first, rukkhadevata's hair?? Or is that straight up her head speared on the tree?? The symbolism of her design is sooo hfhdhkwl like she still has alta on her hands (her hands being red) which symbolises devinity and purity but the eyes... The eyes would tell you otherwise. She has Shiva's eye of destruction, a crown of skulls surounded by rotten leaves... I don't know how much of the religious symbolism in the design was intentional but it's so gooddd. Also the offering people forbidden knowledge in exchange of her release? Hchhdqo
Fontaine: neuvi's eye... It's so pretty also how do have you managed to make an oceanid look that scary 😭😭 furina's design caught me off guard, I thought she was straight up a meca doll at first but after reading I realised that no, it is not that simple. Of course not that would be too tame, it's meca joints and parts fused with her flesh, thus the blood dripping from the joints and stuff 😃😃 also the whole "fontaine lives for the spectical of the court" times 2799 horror edition 😃😄😃 focalor being the first archon corrupted?? Furina being forced to watch the "trials"? the way the mentions of liberalism, fraternity etc gave me french revolution flashbacks since that was kinda what introduced those ideas to Europe and the rest of the world in the first place
Natlan: the people being so consumed by war and bloodshed that not only do they not know what the war was for, when or why it began or who it's against, they don't even know the name of their land (or atleast that's what I thought the blacked out name meant) probably one of the, of not the most horrifying situation of the lands people, maybe second to Inazuma. Also the whole idea of "mavuika's fingers" made my skin crawl
And I don't wanna say anything abt nod krai... I don't want any of the negative energy those designs are very much giving 🥲🥲
Lastly, op I love wtv is wrong with you, because something is wrong with you /affectionately, but it's amazing, this whole thing is amazing
Sylus’ old draconic urges have been sanded down by time and control until they’re little more than faint echoes.
Most days he’s content to be the man who owns the N109 Zone.
But every spring, around the equinox when the city air turns thick with pollen and new heat, something ancient wakes up.
It starts subtle: restless pacing at three in the morning, red eyes glowing brighter in the dark, the shadow of wings he hasn’t had in centuries manifesting under the right light, under his back like phantom limbs. His voice drops half an octave. His touch lingers longer, heavier.
He doesn't say the word "rut," but you feel it in the way he crowds you against walls, in the way his teeth scrape your throat just shy of breaking skin, in the way he starts buying things.
Jewellery arrives in velvet lined boxes almost daily.
Thick chokers studded with black diamonds, heavy ruby drops that brush your collarbones, ropes of pearls so long they drape between your breasts like spilled moonlight. Gold cuffs that clank against each other when you move, rings stacked three deep on every finger, a delicate golden headband that sits like a crown, then a proper tiara, ruby and onyx, sharp enough to draw blood if you're careless. He clasps each piece on you himself, fingers reverent, eyes dark with something older than love.
“You look like a treasure,” he murmurs against your ear one night, voice rough as gravel. “My treasure.”
And you’re already dripping by the time he finishes adorning you. The weight of it all, cold metal warming against fevered skin, gems catching every flicker of lamplight, makes you feel obscene, decadent, claimed in a way that has nothing to do with words.
He doesn’t bother with the bed this time.
He backs you against the full length mirror in the bedroom, spins you so you’re facing your own reflection: flushed cheeks, lips swollen from earlier kisses, body glittering like a dragon’s hoard brought to life. Multiple necklaces layer over your throat and chest, diamond choker tight against your pulse, heavy pearl rope slung low across your shoulders, the long gold chain he draped between your breasts earlier now swaying with every shaky breath. Bangles slide down your wrists, rings bite into your fingers where you brace against the glass. The tiara tilts slightly when he fists your hair.
“Look at yourself,” he growls, voice vibrating through your spine. One hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise; the other guides his cock to your entrance, teasing once, twice, then sinking in with a single brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.
Everything clinks.
The sound is obscene, metal on metal, gems knocking together, bangles sliding, chains swaying, the tiara shifting against your scalp with every snap of his hips. He bottoms out and the long gold necklace drags across your sternum, cool links sliding over heated skin. The pearl rope slips lower, heavy beads rolling against your breasts. Every time he pulls back and slams home again the jewellery answers: clink-clink-clink, rhythmic, filthy, like coins spilling across stone.
You watch it all in the mirror, his silver hair falling into his eyes, the way his eyes shine like blood, the way his jaw clenches when you clench around him. His thrusts are deep, punishing, possessive; each one drives the breath from you in sharp gasps, makes the necklaces jump and settle, makes the tiara slip until he reaches up to fix it with bruising fingers.
“Mine,” he snarls against your shoulder, teeth grazing the place where neck meets throat. “Every fucking piece of you. Every sound. Every mark.” He punctuates the last word with a grind that has you seeing white, the head of his cock pressing right against that spot that makes your knees buckle.
You try to answer something coherent, something pleading but all that comes out is a broken moan. The jewellery keeps clinking, relentless, underscoring every wet slide, every slap of skin on skin. Pearls drag across your chest, gold chains catch on your nipples, bangles slide up your forearms when you reach back to clutch at his thigh.
He fucks you like he’s trying to imprint himself into your bones.
When you come it’s sudden and shattering, back arching, jewellery rattling like a broken chandelier, a high keening sound tearing from your throat. Sylus follows seconds later with a guttural curse, burying himself to the hilt and spilling hot and deep, hips jerking through the aftershocks while the chains and beads keep chiming softly against cooling skin.
He doesn’t pull out right away.
Instead he wraps both arms around you from behind, chin hooked over your shoulder, red eyes meeting yours in the mirror. His breathing is ragged, right eye glowing. One hand drifts up to adjust the tiara again, gentler this time, then trails down to toy with the pearl rope draped across your collarbone.
“Beautiful” he says, voice hoarse, almost vulnerable beneath the growl.
You reach up, fingers tangling in his hair.
The jewellery clinks once more when you turn your head to kiss him.
Outside, spring keeps turning.
Inside, the ancient thing in his chest finally quiets again.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･one requirement of you using Sylus's black card? You modelling in every single piece of clothing you buy.
[♡₊˚ ♕]: her highness's decree: kinda on a sylus streak rn, I can''t get enough of his soft side <3 ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
౨ৎ ⟶ lads masterlist | sylus masterlist
It's almost instinctive at this point.
Every time you go online to a foreign boutique, shoe store, jewelry, etc and make a few (20+) purchases, its become an unspoken rule that once all packages arrive you model them for Sylus before wearing them. And in the case that he's away at the time, you send him a cute little video of you trying all the outfits on.
“Honestly, I was worried the lining of the dress wouldn’t be as lacey as I wanted but, I love it!” you said happily, turning toward the mirror with a bright grin.
Sylus sat back on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, watching you with that unreadable, slow‑burning look he always got when you modeled for him. His crimson eyes followed every little movement — the way you adjusted a strap, how you smoothed the fabric, the way you admired yourself with that soft, adorable smile.
“You look beautiful sweetie,” he said, voice low, warm, steady. “I'm glad everything is to your liking."
Catching his gaze from the mirror, your smile softened into something warm and impossibly sweet as you turned on your heel, the silk shifting delicately with every step you took toward him. You padded over to where he sat, stopping right between his knees, and gently cupped his face in your hands. “How could it not be?” you started softly, sincerity threading through the playful tone.
Sylus's reaction was immediate — subtle, but unmistakable. His shoulders relaxed, and he leaned into your touch instinctively, like he’d been waiting for this all evening. The sight made your heart swell.
His hands slid up your sides in a slow, reverent glide before settling at your waist, fingers curving around you with a tenderness reserved only for you. “I have the sweetest, most generous lover—Who spoils me endlessly without hardly ever asking for anything in return.”
Sylus’s eyes softened immediately — that sweet, tender look he only ever gave you, the one that made your chest feel too full. His hands slid up your sides, slow and careful, like he was grounding himself in the moment, in you.
“I never would ask for anything more than your love,” he murmured, voice low but steady, carrying something deeper beneath the calm. He lifted one of your hands from his cheek, turning it slightly in his own before pressing a slow, reverent kiss to the inside of your palm — warm, soft, almost worshipful.
“Even if you never graced me with a single touch,” he continued, his lips brushing your skin for just a heartbeat longer before he let your hand settle back against his face. His thumb stroked your waist, gentle and sure. “I would do all of this and more for you without question.”
God he always had a way to make you swoon with just words alone.
Your breath caught, warmth blooming in your chest so suddenly it almost ached. The pure love and adoration in his gaze made butterflies stir low in your stomach, soft and insistent, like they were responding to him before you even could.
You leaned down with a sweet smile and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips — soft, grateful, lingering just long enough to feel the moment he exhaled against you, the tiny hitch in his breath, the way his grip on your tightened slightly, that told you exactly what you meant to him.
“I know you would,” you whispered against his mouth, your voice barely above a breath. “And I would too.”
A quiet moment settled between you — warm, tender, the kind of silence that felt like a shared secret. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, eyes drinking you in like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
Then you pulled back just enough to let a teasing smile curl at your lips.
“Which is why…” you said, voice dipping into that flirty, honey‑sweet tone he knew all too well, “I also bought something else you might like a bit more.” You paused, letting the words hang between you. “To show my… appreciation, so to speak.”
A slow smirk curled at Sylus’s lips — subtle, dangerous, and entirely too knowing. His brows lifted slightly, interest sparking in his crimson eyes like a flame catching.
“Oh?” he drawled, tone deceptively calm but threaded with unmistakable heat. “And what would that be, kitten?”
You let the strap of your current set slip off your shoulder just a touch — not enough to reveal anything, just enough to tease.
“Something I saved for last,” you said, grin widening. “A tiny surprise.”
Sylus’s breath slowed, his gaze sharpening with that familiar, slow‑burning hunger. His smirk deepened, eyes dragging over you with deliberate intent.
“Go on then,” he murmured, voice dropping into something warm and wicked. “Show me.”
Sylus watched you disappear into the bathroom with a giggle, his expression soft but curious, that familiar slow‑burn interest flickering in his eyes.
A few moments passed.
Then the door opened with a soft click.
You stepped out, framed by the warm light of the bathroom — wearing a pink and crimson baby doll set, delicate lace tracing every curve, paired with matching thigh‑high stockings that hugged your legs just right. The colors glowed against your skin, soft and romantic, but the confidence in your posture made it something else entirely.
Sylus went still.
Crimson eyes swept over you slowly, reverently, like he wanted to engrave the picture of you all dolled up like this in memory. And upon falling upon your legs you could practically feel the warmth in his gaze deepen into something molten, tender and hungry all at once.
You let a small, knowing smile curl at your lips.
“So,” you said softly, voice dipping into that flirty sweetness he could never resist, “What do you think, Sy?” You asked, those pretty lashes of yours batting at him.
His voice was low, velvet‑rough, threaded with a heat that made your heart flutter. “Absolutely breathtaking.”
Before you could even tease him for it, Sylus rose from the edge of the bed — slow, deliberate. His heavy gaze never leaving yours as he crossed the small distance between you, the air shifting with the weight of his attention.
When he reached you, he lifted a hand and gently brushed your hair away from your neck, fingertips barely grazing your skin. The touch was feather‑light, tender — yet it still had you biting back a sigh as your lashes fluttered.
“I hope,” he murmured, leaning in just enough for his breath to warm your cheek, “you had the foresight to buy more of these sets.”
Your lips curved, playful as you caught his eyes. “Oh? You like this one that much?”
As you spoke, your arms lifted almost instinctively, sliding up around Sylus’s neck. Your fingertips brushed the warm skin just beneath his hairline. His hand slid to your side, warm and steady, thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along your waist as he hummed in quiet approval. The sound alone made your stomach flutter.
He dipped his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear — not a kiss, just a promise, a whisper of warmth that made your breath catch. “Because,” he whispered, voice dropping into something darker and playful , “I doubt you’ll be able to wear this one again after tonight.”
♡ princessxmin please do not alter, copy or translate my work !
"is there something wrong with them?" your eyes snapped up to the nail tech in front of you, their words finally capturing your attention.
you glanced back over to your nails, a deep ruby red cat eye french with little sparkle details. every subtle movement you made with your hands reflected the gleam of the magnetic polish. it definitely reminded you of a certain someone. you flipped your hand over a few times, raising your fingers up and down at different speeds to catch the light at all angles. you didn't even realize the color choice, but out of all the bottles on the shelf your eyes naturally gravitated toward that color.
"no, no. they're perfect, i was just admiring them." you gave them a warm smile, before tapping sylus' card and tipping generously.
on your way out you saw that same someone waiting for you while leaning on his bike. he gave you one of his signature smirks as he waved. as you approached, he held out his hands, already knowing the drill.
"let me see."
you happily put your hands in his as he held them up to take a closer look. you were glad for the good weather as the sun reflected off your fingers in the best way.
"and did you use my card like i told you to, beloved?" you hummed in agreement waiting in anticipation for his reaction.
"look, they're reflective!" you shifted your fingers to a higher angle as he watched the light shift. a knowing smile slowly grew on his lips as he tilted your hands a few more times.
"they remind me of your eyes." those very eyes warmly met yours. the real thing couldn't even hold a candle to mere pigment in a bottle. he placed a kiss on your knuckles before taking one more look.
"i love them. do you need me to take a picture for you? you know my photo skills have been improving." you blinked, recalling the off center, out of frame photos he's been taking of you around the house as of recent. you knew he meant well, but his skills definitely could use some more work.
"sure…why don't you hold my phone and gimme your face." he quirked his eyebrow but followed your request willingly as he took your phone and met you at eye level. you flipped to the front facing camera and adjusted the angle to frame you both in the shot. you squished his cheeks between your thumb and your four other fingers, giving him a bit of a pout. you displayed your reflective red polish as you pressed your cheek to his and smiled brightly. sylus took that as his cue to snap the picture. you tried a few more poses before feeling satisfied with the lot.
"your picture taking has gotten better, my love. thank you." you planted one more kiss on his cheek while he was down at your level before going to pick your top four. you smiled fondly as you scrolled through each one, zooming in on both your nails and sylus' expression— his eyebrows albeit scrunched, he was exactly where he wanted to be.
you soon posted on your moments page, an influx of comments and likes soon flooding in.
[ 15:47 ]
"everybody say thank you syluuusss~ 💅😚"
❤️ sylus, luke, kieran, tara, simone
sylus: i should be the one thanking you for instinctively thinking of me 😎
luke: thank you booossssss!
kieran: thank you bossman!
tara: your nails look stunning, i love the red! 🍒♥️
simone: i wonder if i can modify your firearm to be that color… 😍
.... as you can see, i am very normal about this man ....
a/n: just a short drabble bc this idea has been nagging at me for the past two days: what if Sylus / MC’s baby can only sleep if Sylus sings an off-key lullaby (mc’s singing has no effect)
++++++++++
"You've broken our child."
"I've done no such thing."
"Our baby is broken."
"She is not broken."
"You broke her."
"I would hardly describe a person who can appreciate the finer things in life as 'broken'."
"Sylus. Please."
You jab an accusatory finger at the infant sleeping peacefully in her cot, before directing it to the phone grasped firmly in Sylus' hand, from which an unrecognisable tune is playing. Or more accurately, being sung.
"It's out of tune."
"Sweetie," he says, in a patronising tone that has your blood pressure shooting up, "I think your ears might be broken."
You want to scream. Pull your hair out. Murder your husband.
None of them are viable options, seeing as your daughter is finally asleep and you're losing enough hair as it is on a daily basis without weeding them out of your scalp.
...You suppose there's actually nothing stopping you from killing him after all, but you'll park the idea for now. Instead, you start pacing. Up and down the length of the elaborately furnished baby room, in all its pastel pink glory, huffing and puffing as you fume.
"I've done everything. I rocked her, I carried her, I shushed her for an hour, I played white noise, I got the fancy pillows, did a little massage, everything! But she wouldn't sleep! Not even close! And then you... You!"
You stop, feet coming to a halt right in front of the man who has the audacity to be wearing that stupidly smug grin on his face, and you dig your index finger into his absurdly firm pecs.
"You come in here, play that... that abomination, and out she goes! Like a light!"
"It's calming."
"It's out of tune!" The pacing begins again, this time at almost double the speed. "I don't get it. She only sleeps when she hears those broken recorder noises, your singing, and the twins deliberately singing offkey lullabies to her. I can't sing her to sleep!"
"Have you tried missing a note or two?"
You grit your teeth, glaring daggers at him. "You did this. It was you. I'm sure of it."
"I didn't tamper with her in a lab, sweetie."
"You kept singing to her, when I was pregnant. That must have done something. She must have heard you singing to her while she was in the womb. And now she thinks that's what lullabies should sound like."
"So, are you mad at me for finally putting our baby to sleep? After all that crying and racket for the past two hours?"
He catches you in his arms, holding you in place. You're tempted to continue throwing a fit, but all that pacing and angry whispering has tired you out. The rage pumping in your veins is simmering down into something more lukewarm, as you lean into his warmth.
No different from the way your baby reacts to him singing. Damn it.
"I can't put her to sleep. I'm... I'm useless."
"You're the last person who can say that," he tells you firmly, before proceeding to list out the obvious. "You carried her for nine months. Went into labour for over twenty hours before birthing her. You've been breastfeeding her, even if that means having little to no sleep. You dress her, tie the little bit of hair that she has so you can send us cute photos of her every hour, and you're watching her at almost every second of the day."
He peels you off him only slightly, so that he can tip your chin up to look at him. "You're doing everything. I should be able to do at least one thing for you. And for her."
When he puts it like that...
A pout forms on your lips, and he chuckles at the sight. He tends to find it funny when you do that, apparently.
"Come on. I'll teach you how to play the recorder badly, so you can put her to sleep next time."
He tugs you out the door, and you follow along reluctantly, mumbling under your breath.
"...banned from singing to the next one."
A low laugh drifts past his lips, and then you feel your arm being tugged in a different direction: towards the bedroom.
"I don't mind. Never hurts to start trying early."
𓇼𓐄 ˚◞ i have this in my drafts since may 2025 because it was supposed to be a long shot but... that never happened! so now you're getting this... attempt at writing.
This time it was not a mirror.
Sylus looked at one woman ── a woman so attractive you yourself couldn't help but look at twice ── but he did it for just a second too long, and a green eyed haze consumed you whole when you saw her trying to flirt with him. You were ready to bring out your claws, your eyes already narrowing over to a deadly glare.
Information gathered at the palm of your hand like it was nothing.
Violet Bourgeois of Verona, age twenty-six and a rising Linkon's lawyer thanks to daddy dearest who personally funded her firm. She was known for being a liqueur connoisseur and quite smart. Not only that, but she was miraculously found to be a attendee to each occasion Sylus publicly and privately participated. Before you entered the N109 Zone, she was overheard that she was going to pressure her father to arrange a business marriage between their faction and Onychinus.
Now you watched her tilting her bare shoulders at Sylus, and you thought she was the stupidest thing on earth for going after a man who is clearly and very much happily taken.
And so for the rest of the auction, you fluttered your eyelashes and coyly looked at her behind your delicate crimson, black, and golden-lined fan. You let your hair out of the twisted bun and were pleasantly delighted at the beautiful state they were in. Your sharp eyes lazily darted over to Sylus to see him looking at you in a daze, and you hide your fox-like smile behind your fan, looking back at the confident woman who looked like a Victoria's Secret Runaway model.
You watched like a viper ready to strike her prey, your eyes taking a aloof gaze, looking like you were bored out of your mind the longer she was talking, trying to gauge your lovers attention again. The sheer audacity of some people.
You wondered why you are suddenly feeling so sour. You were not insecure in your relationship, or even yourself, were you? The more you thought about it, the more you were certain that the devotion between you and Sylus trespassed time and logic. So what was it?
Possession, now it was with clear clarity. Violet tried to insert herself between you and Sylus, as if the place besides him isn't already claimed — as if he doesn't belong to you.
Maybe this would be a good time to remind her.
“You look like you're ready to bomb the building,” Sylus leaned in besides your ear, sounding far too amused for your own liking.
“I can pay it off if that happens,” the words scathingly came out from your mouth smoothly, and even though you yourself were taken aback by your reaction, you had enough of a willpower to remain unfazed.
Sylus raised his eyebrow, but a laugh escaped his lips, as if he found you seething in your obsession over him entertaining. His eyes fluttered, now half-lidded and sensual, feeling heavy on your skin.
If you weren't feeling like you were on enemy territory much more than usual, you would have ignored it and teased, for time and place was a very significant matter to you. You would have ignored everyone's glances at you, at your boyfriend, and even the twins. They were not important enough, and you know your boys can handle themselves better than half people in the N109 Zone.
However, at this moment? You wanted to do nothing but bare your nails at everyone who as much looked at them.
So you did what you could to show it differently but just as effectively. You let yourself blush under your lovers gaze, glancing aside shyly as you hide your face behind the fan, eyes resting at the sight of your wrist.
Sylus looked taken-aback for just a second, before he seized your chin within his long fingers, tilting your head to face him. Your heart beating faster, eyes filling with subtle desire, he claimed your lips as his, softly and slowly.
And instead of hiding it away from the world like you had the meant to, you let out a silent sigh and deepened the kiss. You did not let it become a peck like you usually would, a fire building inside you that was on the verge of consuming you.
Instead, you moved your lips over his slowly and sensually, more pliant than ever before. It was such a intimate sight that everyone looked away, giving you two some well-deserved privacy.
Sylus gripped tightly the back of the leather couch as he leaned over you. His cheeks were steadily warming up, mind a haze from your touch. He was almost puty in your presence when you reached out to cup his jaw, sighing into his mouth with a audible sound of relief that had the hair of his arms rise in goosebumps.
You hummed, eyes fluttering open during the sweet action. That was when a heated glare was directed at the heiress, before your hostile gaze closed to enjoy the kiss.
Sylus, miraculously, was too oblivious to know what had just transpired. Not that anyone can blame him, he looked absolutely smitten with you, your kiss clouding all his thoughts.
Violet has the nerve to look indignant, eyebrows furrowing and hands clenching into fists. If it weren't for you, she would have been in that arranged marriage already. She would be the one kissing Mr. Qin, not you.
However, the few people who noticed your claim took it as it was, and subtly distanced themselves from the Bourgeois family. It was another thing to be closely connected to them due to businesses, and a complete other thing when the daughter has angered the wife of onychinus's leader.
Ah... maybe if she hadn't gone after your husband, you'd be more... forgiving.
A deep laugh tingled your ear pleasantly. “Are we jealous, madam?"
You shot him a glare, a real one. One that made him hide his smirk by pressing his lips. Oh, this man... he wasn't oblivious at all.
Summary: Post canon/pre relationship, you and Sylus take a trip to the bookstore, only for you to be met with unwanted attention from a creep who's never been told 'no' before. Sylus corrects that.
Contains: Jealous but not possessive Sylus, generic man being creepy, canon-typical violence/canon-typical murder, Sylus longing and pining, fluff but make it bloody, etc.
w/c: 3.4k
READ ON AO3
The small bookstore is quiet in that warm, intimate way—old wood shelves, soft lighting, the faint smell of paper and ink. The kind of place that makes time slow down whether you want it to or not.
Sylus is nearby, close enough that you’re always aware of him, but he’s not hovering — a comfortable proximity that feels… oddly familiar. He’s a few shelves over, long fingers trailing along well-worn spines as he scans titles with that calm, focused expression. His coat is off, draped over one arm, sleeves of his shirt rolled just enough to be distracting if you let yourself look too long.
You’re trying very hard not to.
This isn’t a date.
You’ve never called it that.
But you came here together. You lingered together. He invited you, as he often does these days, never assuming, but both knowing you’d agree. You’d felt more and more comfortable accepting ever since things went down at Gaia, since little flashes of memories had begun to return to you. You weren’t sure how many were real, or how many were dreams — some of the “memories” were quite fantastical, after all — but either way, you were slowly learning that there was more to the story, a reason behind his initial aggressive attempts to resonate, to connect with you.
So here you were, in a quiet bookstore in the N109 Zone, close enough to hear his small hums as he perused the books, far enough away to feel free to wander and explore on your own.
Not a date.
And every so often, you catch yourself looking at him, watching his lips move as he silently reads the blurb on the back of a hefty book, his gaze occasionally flicking your way before he looks back down like he hasn’t also been looking at you.
You’re absentmindedly flipping through a book that’s more an excuse to look busy while you stare at Sylus, when a voice breaks the quiet.
“Good choice.”
You glance up.
The man standing there is… fine. Not fine, but... fine. Clean-cut, confident in a carefully practiced way. Brown hair, weirdly blue eyes, otherwise unremarkable. He moved close enough to be casual, not quite close enough to be rude. His eyes flick from the book in your hands to your face, but linger a beat too long on the way up.
“I’ve been meaning to read that,” he continues. “Didn’t expect to see someone with taste like that in here today.”
It’s mild, polite, almost innocent. You see right through it.
You give a small, noncommittal smile, eyes dropping back to the page. “Oh. Yeah. It’s… supposed to be good.” Your voice is dull, exuding disinterest.
But even still, the stranger takes your brief reply as encouragement.
He steps a fraction closer. “You come here often?” he asks lightly. “Feels like the kind of place that’s better shared.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you’re passively aware of Sylus at the end of a row of shelves a few aisles down. He doesn’t look over right away. Doesn’t move closer. If anything, his gaze is glued to the book in his hands.
“Oh, uh, not super often. I’m actually here with someone else,” you say, throwing a thumb over your shoulder at Sylus. You turn to face the shelf again, putting the book back down, and move to slowly shift further away from the man, but casually, as if just continuing to browse. But you’re moving —ever so slowly— in Sylus’ direction.
The man keeps his tone easy, conversational — careful not to cross any obvious line.
“So you like fiction?” he asks, nodding toward the shelves you’re browsing. “Or are you more of a non-fiction person pretending to be adventurous?” It’s said lightly, with a half-smile, plausible deniability intact. You suppress a shudder.
You hear Sylus exhale through his nose, a barely stifled laugh. You glance at him, fully facing away from the stranger now. Sylus doesn’t look tense at first glance—posture relaxed, one hand holding a book he hasn’t turned a page of in over a minute. But you see the way his attention, while peripheral, is focused fully on you. He’s tracking your every adjustment in distance, every glance the man makes at you instead of the books.
Sylus’s jaw tightens a fraction as doubt creeps in his mind—not about the man’s intentions, but about whether you even realize what’s happening yet. Whether you want it, or, if not, whether you want space to handle it yourself. Whether stepping in would be a mistake, would be too possessive.
As much as he longs for you to be his, as deeply as his soul misses yours, yearns to be reunited... he needs it to come from you. So he doesn’t push, doesn’t ever make the first move, doesn’t step in to scare off every man who flirts with you (no matter how badly he wants to slit his throat.)
So he stays where he is.
Watching, ready to step in at a moment’s notice.
Waiting, in case you don’t need him to.
“What… does that even mean?” You ask, brow furrowing, but you refuse to face the stranger, not wanting to give him any real attention. “Why would I pretend? And who would I even be pretending for?” You say in a tone that indicates it’s a rhetorical question, only meant to point out how stupid he sounds. You let out a sigh and start moving the other direction, towards a different shelf, but making sure to stay within Sylus’s line of sight.
The man blinks, clearly not expecting pushback.
He lets out a soft laugh, raising his hands slightly like he’s amused, not offended. “Hey, hey. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making conversation.”
He pivots smoothly to keep pace as you move, matching your direction without fully cutting you off. Still subtle. Still plausibly harmless. It makes your skin crawl.
“People come in here pretending all kinds of things,” he adds lightly. “Pretending they don’t want to be noticed. Pretending they don’t want company.”
You sigh. Across the aisle, Sylus’s head turns to you, gaze sharpening.
He hasn’t moved, but his body has gone still in a way that’s unmistakably alert. The book in his hand is closed now, forgotten. His attention follows you without blinking, tracking the way the man adjusts to stay near you again, the subtle but polite annoyance on your face.
The man glances sideways, vaguely noticing Sylus this time. He hesitates for just a moment, then presses on anyway, lowering his voice slightly, conspiratorial. “I’m just saying, it’s refreshing. You don’t seem like someone who’s here to impress anyone.”
“I’m also not here to meet people,” You say, frustration becoming clear in your voice. “And, again, I already have company.” You again gesture to Sylus, this time more aggressively, and the man follows your gesture, slower this time.
He studies Sylus a bit more now—the stillness, the quiet authority, the way his attention hasn’t left you for even a second. Something uneasy flickers across the man’s face… but he forces a grin anyway.
“Oh?” He tilts his head, eyes sliding back to you. “What kind of company? Your boyfriend or something?”
Across the aisle, Sylus’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t interrupt. But his shoulders square, his head tilts, eyebrow raises. His frustration coiling under control as he waits—watching you, not the man—still intent on letting you attempt to handle it, but feeling the growing need to crush him like a bug for daring to speak to you like this.
“Yeah, something like that,” you say, anger growing.
Despite the tension of the moment, your clear discomfort, and the very real possibility that you only said it to get this creep off your back, the words hit Sylus right in the chest. The idea that you would claim him—so casually, so simply— sears itself into him, warm and unbearable. He’s sure that those little words are going to replay in his head every night until the end of this lifetime.
He wanted to bask in it, the longing pull he felt toward you, the softening of his heart... but for now, he needed to remain rigidly composed. If he couldn’t be your lover in this lifetime, he would always be your protector.
At your answer, the strange man’s smile sharpened instead of softening.
“Something like that,” he repeated, clearly enjoying the ambiguity. “That’s not exactly a yes.”
He shifts closer—too close now. The line is crossed, and he knows it. “Guess that means there’s still room for ‘something’ else?”
“I’m not interested,” you insist, rolling your eyes and moving purposefully away.
Sylus’s focus snaps back to the present, sharp and lethal. Fury coils tight beneath his skin—not wild, not reckless, but precise. Controlled. This man had been warned. Gently. Repeatedly. And still, he pushes. He thought of a dozen different ways he could end this, each more gory than the last.
Then the stranger grabs you by the arm, hands rough, grip yanking.
Immediately, Sylus moves.
Not running, not aggressive. Inevitable.
He steps in beside you, close enough that the space between you and the stranger changes instantly—like the temperature drops, like the atmosphere itself has decided who it belongs to. He doesn’t touch you, but his body is angled outward, more toward the stranger than you, a quiet barrier between you rather than a claim. The red and black smoke of his evol wisps up, forcing the man’s hand from your arm, fingers cracking.
The man cries out, gripping his mangled hand with the other, turning to Sylus with a face full of rage. Recognition slams into him like a wall. The color drains from his face so quickly you almost laugh.
Sylus’s voice is calm.
“She told you she wasn’t interested.”
“I—I was just asking—”
“You were testing,” Sylus cuts in. “Seeing how much you could get away with. And the answer is nothing, without consequences.”
His eyes are cold now, but there’s something burning behind them—rage held on a razor’s edge, restrained only because you’re here. Because you are watching.
The man swallows hard, takes a half-step back. Then another. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
Sylus leans in just enough for the warning to land, voice dropping low.
“Well, I do.”
The man turns and all but runs, dignity abandoned, but the little wisps of smoke follow him. It twists around his ankles, and he trips, slamming into the ground — there’s a sickening crack when he lands face first, surely breaking his nose. He scrambles to crawl away, but the mist surrounds him, slowly, until he’s fully encased in it.
The outline of him blurs, edges breaking down into fine, gray particulate that lifts and disperses soundlessly like dust caught in the wind. His essence collapses inward until there is nothing left but empty space and the smallest bloodstain in the carpet.
The silence afterward is heavy.
Sylus stays where he is for a moment, shoulders tight, ensuring the threat is gone—containing the fury still thrumming through him. When he finally turns to you, it’s with visible effort.
“Took you long enough,” you tease.
His voice is quieter now, softer.
“I waited to act because I didn’t want to decide for you,” he admits. “I would have gutted him with my bare hands just for talking to you like that, but it would have made a mess, and then we’d have to step around him to continue browsing.”
He pauses. His jaw tightens.
“But he was a dead man the moment he touched you.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath, finally revealing how unnerved you actually were by this whole interaction with the stranger. “Thanks, Sy,” you whisper, suddenly sounding tired. “Knew you’d come rescue me.” You open your arms and lean toward him for a hug.
At your whisper, something in his chest loosens and tightens all at once. Relief, first—hot and immediate—that you’re safe, that you trusted him enough to lean on him now. Then something far more intense at the casual intimacy of your touch, the way you step into his space like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When you open your arms, he doesn’t hesitate.
His hands come up carefully, settling at your back—not gripping, not pulling you in, just solid and warm, grounding. He angles his body so you’re shielded from the aisle without making it obvious, chin dipping slightly as if to block the rest of the world out.
The hug is meant to be platonic.
This wasn’t a date.
That doesn’t stop the rush of feeling that floods him anyway—the way you fit against him, the quiet trust in the gesture, the way you breathing steadies in his embrace, the soft tease that sounds far too close to affection for him to dismiss.
His voice is low when he answers, close to your ear.
“Always,” he murmurs. “All you need to do is ask, and I’ll be there.”
“You say that like you don’t have Mephi keeping tabs on me 24/7,” you laugh. “Like you wouldn’t be there even if I didn’t ask.”
“Mephisto is for your safety,” he says, a tired exasperation in his voice, despite his growing smile. “But I know you can take care of yourself, sweetie. I’ll only step in when you need me to.”
You give him a squeeze before you pull away, and both of you hesitate to fully separate.
Sylus stiffens slightly when you squeeze him, just enough that it’s noticeable if you’re paying attention, but then he relaxes. Inside, his chest twists with a mix of warmth, frustration, and desire.
His jaw clenches again briefly as he exhales, the sound barely audible. He tilts his head forward a fraction, just enough to let you feel the quiet gravity of his attention. Your eyes are locked on each other with a mixture of something tender and something intensely unsaid, both your arms wrapped around his middle, his hand on your back. Bodies so close, but hearts held at a distance.
When you finally do pull away, he lingers near you a heartbeat longer before stepping to a more conversational distance. Sylus exhales slowly, shoulders easing as if he’s deliberately letting the moment settle.
“By the way,” he says, tone mild, conversational, like he’s commenting on the weather, “earlier, when you said I was... something like that.”
A brief pause. Not charged, not long…just enough to make you aware he hasn’t forgotten.
His mouth curves faintly. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure if that was an excuse or a very specific choice of words.” At first you aren’t sure if he’s teasing or not, if he’s poking fun at you or genuinely curious. You feel on-edge not knowing, and your shoulders tense.
He glances back toward the shelves, giving you an easy out. “Not that it mattered, really.”
He shifts his weight, returning a fraction of space to you, signaling—your pace, your call. But the look he gives you before returning his attention to the books lingers a second too long, betraying how deeply that moment landed for him despite his restraint.
“Well…” you start, turning to face somewhere between him and the shelves he’s browsing. “You know how those kinds of guys can be, ‘no’ doesn’t mean anything unless I have a boyfriend. But I didn’t mean to… make you uncomfortable with it or anything, and…” you pause, taking a deep breath.
Sylus stills—not dramatically, not obviously. Just enough that if you’re watching him closely, you’d notice the way his attention snaps fully to you.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t speak.
Not because he doesn’t know what to say—but because he knows exactly what he wants to say, and he’s choosing his words with care.
“…You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says gently, turning to let you see the sincerity in his eyes.
His gaze stays on you, steady but soft, giving you room to breathe. To back out, if you need to. He doesn’t step closer, doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t rush a reply. His restraint is deliberate and exact.
“I guess...” you begin hesitantly. “Maybe it’s one sided, and you can tell me to drop it and we’ll never speak of it again, but… lately I’ve been feeling like maybe there is something here. Or...maybe there was? Before—” you furrow your brow, thinking of all the befores you could name.
Before he rescued you the first time, before you two came to this world in the first place, before you decided as kids to defy fate and escape together, before any of the events that feel somewhere between dreams and memories for you.
“Before I forgot?” you eventually land on.
He’s quiet for a long time. His gaze lands on the shelf you’re both facing, but his mind is in a thousand places (and times) at once.
“There was something before,” he finally admits. His voice is soft and sincere, heavy with emotion. “But I never assumed that would mean anything for you here and now. I didn’t want to put words in your mouth. Or pressure where there didn’t need to be any.”
He pauses, lets out a small sigh, and looks at you, eyes soft and warm and full of adoration.
“But I’d be lying,” he adds, the faintest hint of dry humor threading through, “if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”
His mouth curves into a subtle, restrained smile. He lets that sit between you - no rush, no push - his posture open, eyes never leaving yours.
You try to remain calm and casual, but it’s written all over your face. Your eyes widen slightly, then you blink rapidly a few times in an attempt to compose yourself, or disguise your expression, maybe both. A pink blush creeps across your face. Sylus’s smile widens.
There’s a small silence — stunned on your part, patient on his.
Then you move your hand forward, a gentle reach for his. You don’t grab his hand, you wait for him to meet you halfway, the way he has done for you this whole time, but finally—finally—you’ve made the first move.
Sylus freezes for the barest fraction of a second when your hand hovers near his, just enough that the world seems to narrow to the space between your fingers and his. His breath catches — a small, almost imperceptible hitch — but he doesn’t pull back.
Inside, it’s chaos and clarity all at once. Relief floods him first: relief that you’ve taken the step he’s been aching for, relief that you trust him enough to want this. And alongside it, a sharp jolt of something heavier, hotter, more uncontainable—how much he wants to hold your hand, to keep it there, to never let go.
Every nerve is alive. His chest feels tight, but not in panic—it’s the tightness of anticipation, of desire tempered by restraint. He knows this is delicate. He knows this is yours to lead, and he’d move heaven and earth and hell to follow.
When he finally closes the gap, letting your fingers brush against his, then intertwine, it’s a slow, deliberate movement — controlled and careful, but every inch of it screams what he can’t say out loud. Pride, awe, devotion, longing, all mingled together in the simple act of letting you reach for him, and him reaching back.
His eyes flick to yours for a split second, expression soft, almost tender, and a faint, quiet smile curves his lips. Not triumphant, not smug, for once. Just… utterly captivated.
You continue browsing the shelves together, fingers entwined, silent and steady, letting the rest of the world fade. He’s hyperaware of every brush of your hand, the rhythm of your steps beside his, and the weight of this shared secret moment. He wonders to himself, how many times has he lived this moment, this crossing from enemy to friend to love? He didn’t care how many lifetimes you two would share together, his heart would still pound in his chest every time you first reached for him.
His thumb traces patterns over your hand, and every touch sends a current through him that he’s going to remember forever — in this lifetime, and every one that comes after.
synopsis: you seek out sylus for comfort after realizing you were wrong about him.
tags: comfort, fluff, implied avoidant!reader learns to trust sylus, implied avoidant!reader clings to sylus, sylus takes care of reader from afar, sylus has mephisto and the twins follow reader but wbk
pairing: sylus x reader, reader is mostly mc
word count: 802
a/n: is this the peak of literature? no. did i need to write it after the day i had? yes. did i need to post it today? no, because i’m trying to stagger my posts more, but here we are. anyway 4k caleb pwp coming tomorrow
For the first few weeks after you’d infiltrated the N109 Zone, you’d avoided Sylus Qin like the plague.
After being scared out of your wits by the first version of him you'd met—the cold, unavailable criminal mastermind who’d forced you to shoot him within 5 minutes of knowing one other—you were unashamedly wary of working with him again.
But Sylus’s intel was unrivaled. More and more often, you found yourself visiting the N109 Zone to meet with him, eventually not even bothering to book a place to stay. There was always a guest room at the Onychinus base prepped for your arrival.
As you spent more time with Sylus, he’d noticeably changed his approach to interacting with you. Rather than forcing you to resonate with him, he’d explained to you how his Evol worked, letting you aim his hands at some training dummies to test it out yourself. Instead of unceremoniously shutting you out when he was tired, he’d drag his robe-and-slippers-clad self to sit beside you on the sofa, answering your cautious questions by practically giving away all his secrets.
His shift in attitude hadn't stopped there. Sylus had clearly been using that endearingly incorrigible crow to keep tabs on you, but for the strangest reasons.
Whenever you had a bad day at work, some building-wide maintenance emergency would magically appear, forcing your team to cease operations for the rest of the day. He’d text you a couple hours after your early dismissal, saying he was in the city and inviting you on an evening joyride to clear your head.
The day after you’d lugged a case of water up the stairs to your apartment, having to pause a couple times to catch your breath, you came home to see your fridge mysteriously stocked with groceries. The only traces left behind were the masked twin figures you spotted scurrying away from your window.
When a new phone showed up at your doorstep one day—you never even told him you’d shattered your screen, you thought—you’d decided that Sylus wasn’t as bad as you’d once assumed. Not anywhere near as bad, in fact. He was thoughtful, generous, and helped you without taking credit or forcing you to ask for it. You’d never had that before.
Which is why, somehow, you find yourself standing in the doorway of his armory, studying him silently as he polishes an antique-looking gun.
When he notices you, Sylus looks up, raising a delicately arched eyebrow. “Something wrong, kitten?” he drawls, subtly checking your body for injuries.
Mind numb from your absolutely dreadful day, you stay silent while Sylus looks at you expectantly, his hands forgetting their earlier task.
But for the next minute, you remain hovering in the doorway. You expect him to get annoyed—you almost want him to, so you have an excuse to go back to relying only on yourself—but all you see on Sylus’s face is patience.
When you start shuffling toward him, that patience mixes with a glimmer of anticipation that he visibly tries to suppress. You need him to be calm right now—an anchor, he thinks. If he loses his composure, if he startles you with his excitement at your approach, you might bolt at any moment.
Sometime during his inner struggle, you reach him. Meekly, you stand before his chair, briefly opening your mouth before closing it.
“What is it, sweetie?” he asks softly. “Tell me, and we can figure it out together. I’ll personally track down whoever seems to have stolen your words from you.”
At his offer, you break, collapsing into his lap. His large, warm hands immediately encircle your waist, and you bury your face into his neck, inhaling his leather and spice cologne.
“Aw,” he coos in his baritone voice, rocking you slowly in his embrace. When he lifts your head an inch, you resist, letting out a soft whine. Gently, he guides your head back to his chest, his quickening heartbeat thumping in your ears and grounding you in the the moment.
After several moments of silence, your deep, shuddering breaths the only interruptions, Sylus murmurs into your ear. “When I noticed you never ask for help, I was worried the world may not be treating as well as it should. You must be very tired, hmm?” he asks, rubbing his chin against your hair.
Tightening your arms around him, you sit there for a while, his steady breaths seeming to mend a decades-long rift in your heart.
The next time Sylus tries to lift your head, you let him. He pulls your face from his neck so he can look into your eyes, hoping his gaze conveys his sincerity, before pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.
“You don’t need the world when you’re with me,” he promises. “I’ll treat you better than it ever could.”
₊⊹ Synopsis: You watch Sylus unravel after Mikayla destroys Mephisto, the mechanical crow he built in his younger days, a tether between him and her or so he believed. Sylus loses Mephisto first, then loses Mikayla to another man, and nearly loses you to his own grief. While he mourns a past that no longer exists, you quietly rebuild what Mikayla shattered— metal and heart alike.
₊⊹ Pairing: Sylus x Engineer! Reader
₊⊹ Content: heavy angst with a happy ending, slow burn, hurt/comfort, unrequited love, not actually unrequited love, mc is named 'Mikayla' in this, brief Sylus x MC second chance, grovelling, Mephisto gets hurt then fixed.
₊⊹ Word Count: 7.3k
₊⊹ Now Playing: santa doesn’t know you like i do by Sabrina Carpenter
₊⊹ Notes: Merry Christmas everyone!!!!!! I don't know why but whenever I'm feeling festive, I get in the mood of angst idk why 😭 So angst and heartbreak for today I guess but it has a happy ending so fear not, lucky charms. This is the longest thing I've ever written in one sitting and I hope it is as enjoyable to you as it was for me. Happy reading, lovelies ♥
Mikayla had endured it longer than most people would have.
At first, the mechanical crow had been almost amusing — perched on lampposts, gliding silently above rooftops, watching from the edges of her vision like a clever trick of light. Linkon City was dense with surveillance — drones, cameras, mechanical assistants flitting through the skyline like insects of polished steel. A single black shape overhead did not mean much. Not at first.
But weeks turned into months, and the novelty soured into something oppressive. Wherever she went, Mephisto followed. Outside the research wing, across narrow streets. On quiet evenings when she wanted nothing more than to disappear into the anonymity of the crowd.
She had tried to ignore it.
She had tried to rationalize it as paranoia born of exhaustion, as an overreaction to a world that had never once allowed her the luxury of peace. But every time she looked up, there it was — obsidian wings folded neatly, red optics dimmed just enough to pretend at sleep.
She had spoken to Sylus once.
It hadn’t been a confrontation. Not really. Just a clipped message, professionally phrased, asking him to recall his machine, reminding him — politely — that she valued her privacy. She had not accused him of malice. She had not raised her voice. She had assumed, perhaps foolishly, that being clear would be enough.
The crow remained.
Weeks passed. Then more.
Mephisto followed her into narrow alleys and crowded streets alike, unbothered by weather or time of day. It observed from rooftops while she ate alone at small cafés, from distant perches while she met colleagues, from reflective glass surfaces where she caught its outline doubled over her own reflection.
The final straw came on a gray afternoon when the city felt too claustrophobic. Mikayla exited a small bookstore near the pedestrian bridge, her arms full of files and thin paperbacks, her thoughts already tangled in the work she had yet to finish.
She felt it before she saw it.
The soft displacement of air and the minute shift in sound as wings sliced through the wind.
She stopped.
The mechanical crow descended with controlled grace, landing on the bridge railing not five meters away. Its wings folded in a precise, practiced motion. It tilted its head, optics adjusting, recording.
Something inside Mikayla snapped — not violently, not suddenly, but with the quiet certainty of a boundary crossed one time too many.
She exhaled, slow and steady, setting her belongings carefully on the ground. Her movements were deliberate, calm enough to surprise even herself. When she straightened, her hand went to her weapon lodged in her holster with the ease of long familiarity. She aimed without hesitation.
The shot was clean.
Metal shrieked, sparks scattered like startled birds, and Mephisto crashed to the pavement in a tangle of wings and fractured mechanisms. Mikayla crouched, methodical even in her anger, dismantling the crow with practiced efficiency — disconnecting joints, severing delicate wiring, dismantling each piece as if this were just another field task.
By the time she stood, Mephisto was no longer a watcher. It was a collection of parts — silent, inert, stripped of the gaze that had haunted her steps for months.
She packed the parts, sealing them in a reinforced container. Before sending it off, she recorded a message, her voice even, restrained, carrying only the sharp edge of not wanting to leave any misunderstanding.
“I’ve asked you to stop.”
“I don’t care what your intentions are, or what you think you’re protecting. My life is not yours to observe.”
“If you ever send that bird after me again, I’ll dismantle you the same way.”
“Do not contact me. Do not follow me. Leave me alone.”
---------
The package arrived without ceremony.
No warning. Just a secure container placed on the long table in Sylus Qin’s private study, its matte surface catching the low light like a bruise. The room itself was immaculate — orderly shelves, signed documents, a single desk positioned to face the city skyline beyond reinforced glass. Everything in its place, everything under control.
Everything except the weight pressing against his chest.
Sylus dismissed Luke with a curt nod and waited until the door sealed shut before approaching the table. He didn’t rush. He rarely did. Urgency was a weakness he’d learned to outgrow early in life. Still, as his fingers brushed against the container’s edge, a subtle tension settled into his shoulders, instinctive and uninvited.
He already knew.
The moment he disengaged the lock and lifted the lid, the truth revealed itself in cold, unmistakable clarity.
Metal fragments lay nestled within padding — wings disjointed, optic lenses dark, delicate internal mechanisms exposed in ways they were never meant to be. The parts were arranged neatly, as though whoever had dismantled Mephisto understood precisely what they were touching.
Sylus stared.
For a long moment, he did nothing at all.
Then, slowly, he reached in and picked up one of the wings. The weight was familiar, the balance exact. He turned it in his hand, thumb brushing along a seam he remembered sealing himself years ago. The metal there was scorched faintly, evidence of the shot that had brought the crow down.
His jaw tightened.
Mephisto had been his first success.
Not his first attempt — there had been countless failures before it. Broken prototypes littering the hidden corners of his past, nights spent hunched over schematics with bloodied knuckles and burning eyes, teaching himself what no one else would. But Mephisto had flown. It had watched. It had worked.
He had been young then. Younger and weaker than he liked to remember.
The memory surfaced unbidden, a dimly lit room, parts scavenged from discarded machines, tools borrowed and never returned. His hands had trembled as he soldered connections, not from uncertainty, but from the weight of intention behind every movement. He hadn’t been building a weapon. He hadn’t been crafting surveillance.
He had been chasing a dream that wasn’t even his own.
‘Birds’, Mikayla had once said at the Gaia research center, almost absently. ‘I keep dreaming of birds. They’re always above me, flying freely.’
She had laughed afterward, dismissing it as nonsense.
Sylus hadn’t.
The six-year-old had built Mephisto because he didn’t know how else to give someone freedom in a world that had denied him any. He had poured hours into perfecting his balance, refining his responsiveness, ensuring he moved with something approaching grace rather than brute efficiency. When he had finally taken flight, lifting into the air with a soft mechanical hum, Sylus had stood there in silence, heart pounding harder than it ever had in the experimentation rooms.
It had been proof.
That he could create something gentle.
Now that proof lay dismantled before him.
Sylus’s gaze drifted to the smaller components — the processor unit, the core framework, the optic assembly. He recognized the precision in the disassembly. This hadn’t been careless destruction. Mikayla hadn’t lashed out blindly. She had known exactly where to strike, exactly how to take Mephisto apart without unnecessary damage.
That knowledge stung more than rage ever could.
He set the wing down carefully, as if it might break further under careless hands, and closed the container. Only then did he reach for the recorder beside it.
He played the message once.
Her voice filled the room, steady and controlled, stripped of affection. She drew a line — and made it clear she would defend it.
When the message ended, the silence that followed felt uneasy.
Sylus leaned back against the desk, one hand lifting to press against his temple. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, deliberately, forcing the rising tide of emotion back into something manageable.
She was right even if her actions were wrong.
The admission settled heavily in his chest.
He had crossed a boundary, mistaking vigilance for care, presence for protection. He had watched because he was afraid — afraid of losing her again, afraid of a future where she existed beyond his reach. And in doing so, he had driven her further away.
He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the light as it filled the glass. He took a measured sip, then another, the burn grounding him even as it failed to dull the ache beneath.
Christmas lights flickered faintly outside his study, reflected in the glass of the window like distant stars. Somewhere in the base, Luke and Kieran were laughing, their voices muffled but persistent, trying to inject warmth into a season that felt undeserved.
Sylus didn’t move to join them.
Instead, his gaze returned to the closed container, to the pieces of a machine that had once symbolized hope and now represented everything he had failed to protect.
He made his decision quietly.
He would apologize.
Not through intermediaries. Not through machines or messages. He would explain himself in person, acknowledge the harm he had caused, and then — if she wished — he would leave her alone.
It was the least he owed her.
He had no way of knowing that when he stepped out into the city that evening, the final fracture of his heart was already waiting for him, illuminated behind restaurant glass.
---------
The city was dressed for winter in quiet ways.
Strings of warm lights traced balconies and storefronts, reflected in glass and puddles alike. Traffic moved steadily, engines humming beneath the evening air, and people passed one another with scarves tucked high and shoulders hunched against the cold. It was ordinary. Comfortingly so. The kind of night that suggested continuity, life moving forward whether one was ready for it or not.
Sylus moved through it like a ghost.
He could not take Mephisto with him. For the first time in years, there was no shadow overhead, no mechanical presence sitting above his shoulder. The absence followed him closely, a hollow echo where certainty had once lived. Still, he welcomed it. If he was going to face Mikayla, it would be as himself.
He told himself this was the right thing to do.
Mikayla’s location was not difficult to find. He recognized the restaurant instantly, not because he had followed her there before, but because it suited her — quiet, understated, warm without being ostentatious. Large windows faced the street, revealing the soft glow within. Candles flickered on small tables, their light diffused through glass and linen, casting everything inside in a gentle amber hue.
Sylus slowed.
Across the street, he stopped.
At first, he didn’t see her.
His gaze skimmed the interior automatically, cataloguing exits, spacing, angles — a habit he had never quite unlearned. Then, as if the world itself had shifted to draw his attention, he found her.
Mikayla sat near the window.
She looked… at ease.
Her posture was relaxed, shoulders loose instead of drawn tight. One hand rested near her glass, fingers tracing idle circles against the condensation. She was speaking, expression animated in a way he hadn’t seen in months, her eyes bright with something unguarded.
Across from her sat a man Sylus did not recognize.
He was leaning forward, elbows resting lightly on the table, listening — not the performative kind of listening, but the genuine article. He smiled when she spoke, a soft, reflexive expression that spoke of familiarity rather than effort. When Mikayla laughed, the sound visible even through glass, the man’s hazel eyes lit up as though he had earned it.
Sylus felt the moment land in his chest.
Not like a blow.
Like a collapse.
He stood there, unmoving, the noise of the street fading until all that existed was the scene before him. The world narrowed to that window, to the intimate pocket of warmth inside it, to the realization settling heavily into his bones.
She had moved on.
Worse, she had never even loved him in this lifetime at least.
The thought arrived fully formed, undeniable in its clarity.
This wasn’t a misunderstanding. This wasn’t a casual meeting mistaken for something more. The body language was wrong for that — too open, too unselfconscious. Mikayla’s head tilted slightly as she listened, her smile unguarded, her laughter easy.
Sylus’s fingers curled slowly at his side.
He had known this was possible, intellectually. He had told himself — many times — that Mikayla owed him nothing. That her life was her own, even before and even now. That whatever bond he carried from another lifetime existed solely within him now, a relic of a past she could not remember.
Knowing something and seeing it were very different things.
Memory surged without invitation.
A different world. Mikayla standing beside him in a sorceress form, her presence a constant he had once believed immutable. He had watched her weep for him. Had carried her name across time like a wound that refused to close. Had rebuilt himself again and again around the idea that one day, somehow, he would find her.
And he had.
But she had not found him.
The man across from her reached for his glass, their fingers brushing briefly as Mikayla blushed at the contact. The expression was small, inconsequential — yet it struck Sylus and tore his heart open all at once.
That should have been enough.
It should have been proof that she was happy, that she was safe, that the world had given her something gentler than the life that had shaped him. It should have brought relief.
Instead, something inside him fractured.
Not jealousy or anger.
Grief.
Pure and suffocating.
Because this was the future he had never been able to imagine — a Mikayla who lived without him, who smiled without weight, who shared her evenings with someone who did not carry centuries of loss in his chest or maybe he did.
Sylus realized then that no apology would change this.
He could still give it. He would still offer it. But whatever hope had lingered, unspoken and fragile, dissolved quietly as he watched her lift her glass in a small toast, eyes warm and present.
He took a step back.
Then another.
He did not look away until the restaurant window slipped out of his line of sight, until the glow faded into just another reflection among many. When he finally turned, the city rushed back in all at once, less festive and more louder than ever.
By the time he returned to N109 Zone, the decision he had made earlier — to apologize, to explain — felt strangely distant. Not wrong. Just… irrelevant.
What did explanations matter, when the life he had wanted no longer had room for him?
He entered the base without speaking to anyone, footsteps echoing down familiar corridors. The faint glow of Christmas lights greeted him again, their warmth mocking in its persistence.
And for the first time in a very long time, Sylus allowed himself to feel truly, devastatingly alone.
---------
The base was alive in the way it always was.
Luke glanced up from the console near the entrance, smile already forming out of habit, only to let it fade the moment he met Sylus’s eyes. Kieran followed his gaze, the twins exchanging a look that spoke volumes without a word. They didn’t stop him. They didn’t ask questions. They simply watched as he passed, long strides echoing down the corridor.
Sylus did not acknowledge them.
Each step toward his study felt heavier than the last, as though the building itself resisted him, walls narrowing subtly, lights dimming just enough to feel oppressive. When he reached the door, he keyed it open and stepped inside, sealing himself away from the rest of the world.
The study greeted him with stillness.
The city stretched beyond the reinforced glass, illuminated by scattered lights and distant traffic, but none of it reached him here. The desk stood precisely where it always had, chair pushed in, documents stacked neatly. And there, resting at its center like a quiet accusation, was the container.
Sylus didn’t approach it immediately.
He removed his coat with deliberate slowness, hanging it on the back of the chair. He loosened his gloves, setting them aside, and rolled his shoulders once, as though bracing himself for impact. Only then did he move closer, gaze drawn unavoidably to the box.
He opened it again.
The pieces were unchanged, exactly as Mikayla had left them. He lifted the optic unit this time.
The red lens caught the light, dull now, unlit and unseeing. He turned it over in his palm, thumb brushing across the surface where once it had pulsed with quiet awareness. Mephisto had always been observant, attentive to the smallest shifts in Sylus’s tone, his posture, his unspoken commands.
Faithful to a fault.
Sylus closed his fingers around the optic and exhaled slowly, a breath that felt far too thin to support the weight pressing down on him.
He set the piece aside and reached for the bottle on the shelf behind him.
The first glass he poured went untouched for several minutes, the amber liquid glinting in the low light. When he finally drank, it burned sharply, dragging his attention back into his body. He welcomed the sensation. It was easier than thinking.
Another drink followed. Then another.
Time lost its shape.
Outside the study, Christmas crept in despite his absence. Somewhere, faint music played — muted carols stripped of cheer, reduced to background noise.
None of it crossed the threshold of his door.
Sylus sank into the chair behind his desk, one elbow resting against the polished surface as he stared down at Mephisto’s remains. The image of Mikayla at the restaurant rose unbidden again, her laughter replaying with cruel clarity. The way she had leaned forward. The way her eyes had softened — not for him.
He shut his eyes.
‘You waited too long’, a voice whispered, unhelpful and persistent. ‘You were too late.’
He poured another drink.
He thought, briefly, of repairing Mephisto himself. The knowledge was still there, ingrained in muscle memory and instinct alike. He could rebuild the crow, restore its flight, erase the evidence of loss with enough time and focus.
But the thought exhausted him.
What would it mean, anyway?
Mephisto had been built for her. Its flight had been a gift meant to bridge a distance she hadn’t even known existed. Rebuilding it now felt… hollow. Like trying to resurrect a conversation that had already ended.
The glass slipped from his fingers and clinked softly against the desk, liquid sloshing over the edge. Sylus barely noticed.
He leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, head bowed just enough that his silver hair fell into his eyes. His breathing slowed, then stuttered, a barely perceptible fracture in his composure.
He did not cry.
But something inside him folded inward, careful and complete, sealing itself off to survive.
Christmas was coming.
And Sylus Qin had never felt farther from it.
---------
You noticed the change before anyone else did.
Not because you were watching him but because Sylus Qin had a presence that altered the air around him when something was wrong. Normally, his silence carried weight, intention. This silence felt hollow, like a room emptied too quickly.
He stopped speaking during briefings. His gaze lingered too long on nothing at all. When Luke cracked a joke one evening, Sylus didn’t even acknowledge it — not with irritation, not with approval, not at all. He simply passed through the space as if the world had dulled around its edges.
You saw the drinking, too.
Not excess — Sylus never unraveled that way — but the quiet, deliberate kind. A glass poured and left untouched for minutes. Another finished too quickly. Bottles were replaced sooner than usual, though no one ever commented on it.
And then there was Mephisto.
Or rather, the absence of him.
The crow no longer circled above the base, no longer perched in its usual places, no longer greeted you with the faint mechanical caws you had come to associate with its presence. Onychinus felt strangely empty without it, as though something essential had gone missing and no one knew how to name it.
You found out why by accident.
You were delivering updated diagnostics to Sylus’s study when you saw the container on his desk. He wasn’t there — rare, but not unheard of — and the lid had been left ajar just enough to reveal a glint of familiar metal inside.
You stopped and stepped closer.
Your breath caught as you recognized the pieces.
Mephisto lay dismantled within, his wings folded inward unnaturally, his optic unit dark and separated from its frame. Even broken, he was unmistakable. You had worked and trained alongside Sylus long enough to recognize his craftsmanship anywhere — the precise joins, the balance of form and function, the care embedded in every choice.
You understood immediately that this wasn’t a simple malfunction.
Something had happened.
You didn’t touch it then. You couldn’t — not yet. You closed the container gently and stepped back, your chest tight with an ache you couldn’t fully articulate. Whatever had broken Sylus this time, it wasn’t something words could fix.
That night, you lay awake far longer than usual.
Your workshop waited patiently at the far end of the base, tools organized with a familiarity that comforted you more than any living presence ever had. You had always found solace in mechanics — in problems that could be solved with enough persistence, enough logic, enough patience.
Sylus had taught you that.
Not intentionally, perhaps, but by example. You had watched him build, disassemble, rebuild without complaint. You had learned to admire the way his mind worked — not just sharp, but careful. Reverent, even, when it came to things he loved.
Mephisto had been one of those things.
You made your decision quietly.
In the early hours of the morning, when the base was at its stillest, you returned to the study. The door opened easily at your clearance level; Sylus trusted you with far more than he realized. You moved carefully, as though afraid the silence itself might protest.
The container was exactly where you had last seenit.
You lifted it with both hands, surprised again by its weight, not physical but emotional. For a moment, you hesitated, glancing toward the door as if expecting Sylus to appear and stop you.
He didn’t.
You carried Mephisto away.
Your workshop lights flickered on with a soft hum, illuminating blueprints spread on surfaces and scattered schematics. You set the box down gently, as though it held something fragile — and in a way, it did. When you opened it fully, the damage revealed itself in careful detail.
Mephisto had been shot and dismantled.
You swallowed.
“You deserved better than this,” you murmured, unsure whether you were speaking to him or to the man who had made it.
You began slowly.
You separated each piece, laying them out in meticulous order, cross-referencing old schematics and maintenance logs. Sylus’s original code was elegant, layered in a way that reflected both brilliance and stubbornness. He had built redundancies into Mephisto not because he expected failure, but because he understood loss.
You were not as good as him.
That truth became apparent quickly.
Where Sylus would have rewritten entire systems without hesitation, you found yourself pausing, rereading, testing small changes before committing. You burned through hours chasing solutions that slipped just out of reach, fingers smudged with grease, eyes strained from staring too long at glowing screens.
Some nights, nothing worked.
You leaned back in your chair, exhaustion pressing heavy against your spine, and wondered if you were foolish for trying at all. If your efforts were misplaced. If fixing a machine could ever ease a pain this deep.
But then you remembered the way Sylus had looked lately — distant, hollowed out — and you pushed yourself forward again.
You weren’t doing this to be seen.
You weren’t doing this to be chosen.
You were doing it because Mephisto and Sylus meant too much to you.
Days passed.
You lost track of time entirely, meals forgotten, sleep taken in brief, uncomfortable bursts against the edge of your workbench. You spoke to an unfixed Mephisto as you worked, narrating your thought process aloud, coaxing systems back into alignment with quiet determination.
“Alright,” you muttered one afternoon, rerouting power flow again. “Let’s try this differently.”
Progress came slowly, but it came.
A system initialized where before there had been silence. A wing joint responded with smooth precision instead of resistance. When the optic unit finally flickered faintly with the same hue of his original creator, you laughed softly, a sound halfway between relief and disbelief.
You wiped at your forehead with the back of your hand and kept going.
Christmas arrived without announcement.
You didn’t even notice until Luke and Kieran burst into your workshop, voices loud and cheerful, both of them wearing sweaters so aggressively festive they nearly hurt to look at.
“Merry Christmas!” Luke announced, spreading his arms wide.
You startled, nearly dropping the component you were holding.
Kieran’s gaze immediately shifted to the workbench, to the mostly reconstructed but powered off crow you instinctively tried — and failed — to hide.
They exchanged a look. Then smiled knowingly.
“You know,” Luke said gently, “Bossman doesn’t say it much.”
“But this?” Kieran added. “This matters.”
They simply left you with quiet encouragement and a promise of support that warmed something deep in your chest.
By late afternoon, your hands trembled with fatigue as you placed the final components into position. You tested the systems one last time, heart pounding as you powered Mephisto on fully.
The crow lifted his head, flexing his wings as he balanced on the counter.
Ruby optics glowed steady as Mephisto let out a delightful caw.
You exhaled shakily, a smile breaking through exhaustion as you leaned forward, resting your forehead briefly against the cool edge of the workbench.
“Welcome back, Mephi,” you whispered.
Carefully, you powered Mephisto off and placed him into a gift box, lining it with soft padding before sealing it shut. You wrapped it simply in black and golden gift wrapper before attaching a big red bow on the top.
As evening settled over Onychinus and lights glimmered softly through the corridors, you lifted the box and headed toward Sylus’s study, unaware that the hardest part of this act of love still lay ahead.
---------
You had rehearsed your words on the walk down the corridor. Sylus did not need a performance tonight — he needed a hand to be reached out, not a sermon. Christmas was a flimsy pretext, you only wanted the sound of him among living people, to puncture the hollow quiet that had wrapped him like a second skin.
The study door was ajar when you arrived. Inside, the room looked like a battlefield fought not with soldiers but with small, private losses — an overturned glass on the rug, papers scattered in a lazy arc, a coat tossed on the chair in a way that had never once been allowed when he was himself.
Sylus sat behind the desk like a man who had been emptied and then refilled with something colder. His shirt was wrinkled, the collar open, the black fabric slightly askew. Silver hair, usually combed into artful disarray, now lay in real disorder — strands sticking up at odd angles, falling across his forehead in neglect. He had not bothered to hide the fatigue in his face, it pooled in the hollows beneath his eyes and colored the lines at the corners of his mouth.
You set the gift box on the desk with careful hands and stepped a few paces back, keeping your voice low.
“It’s Christmas,” you said. “You should come out. Luke and Kieran are downstairs—”
“You don’t have to do anything,” you continued, stepping further inside. “Just… come out for a bit. Luke and Kieran are waiting. They’ve put up that ridiculous red tree again. The lights on it are flickering, and they’re arguing about whose fault it is.”
The corner of his mouth twitched but it vanished before it could settle. He reached for a bottle instead.
“Don’t,” he said, hoarse, because the word was small and meant to hide the enormity of what it refused. He inclined his head to the mess strewn around him. “Don’t… tell me what to do.”
You swallowed and crossed the room. The glass clinked faintly as you took it from his reach and set it aside on the desk.
“Enough for tonight,” you murmured. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
That, finally, drew his attention to you.
His eyes lifted to you, dark and sharp, rimmed with exhaustion that ran deeper than sleeplessness. There was something fractured there, something raw that had no patience left for gentleness.
You broke eye contact first.
To give your hands something to do — to keep yourself from saying too much — you crouched and began gathering the empty bottles. Glass knocked softly against glass as you collected them, one by one, stacking them carefully.
“I’ll clean this up,” you said, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. “You can rest or maybe freshen up. Or just sit somewhere that isn’t—”
He watched you do it, and the watchfulness turned into something like a sting.
“Stop.”
The word cut through the room like a blade.
You froze, fingers curled around the neck of a bottle.
Sylus stood abruptly, the chair scraping back with a harsh sound. The air around him shifted, thickening, the faint glimmer of his evol stirring beneath his skin like a living thing pressing against its restraints. The lights above flickered, once, twice, reacting to his instability.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low but shaking with contained violence. “Don’t pretend this is concern.”
You rose slowly, still holding the bottles, your heart pounding.
“I’m not pretending,” you replied quietly. “I just don’t want to see you like this.”
A bitter laugh tore out of him, sharp and humorless.
“And who asked you to?” he snapped. “Just because I picked you off the streets four years ago doesn’t give you the right to manage me. Or lecture me. Or act like you belong here like—”
He stopped himself for half a second, jaw tightening.
“—like a wife,” he finished coldly.
“I just wanted you to remember that you’re not alone.” you pleaded.
That was when the glass shattered.
He hurled the wine glass past you, not at you — but close enough that it exploded against the wall beside your head, shards raining down like sharp, glittering snow. You flinched despite yourself, breath catching painfully in your throat.
“Get out,” he roared. “Leave me alone!”
For a long, aching second, you simply stood there, staring at the broken glass, at the man unraveling in front of you, at the ruin grief had carved into him. Blood prickled from the side of your arm that had been unknowingly scratched by a shard.
Then you straightened.
You gathered yourself, smoothing your expression into the small, respectful line you had learned to wear. “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” you said, and your voice did not falter although your throat felt raw.
He called after you, a strangled sound that might have been an apology had it been gentled.
You didn’t look back.
The doors slid shut behind you with a soft, final sound. The corridor swallowed you whole, its emptiness echoing the hollow space his words had carved inside you. Your footsteps retreated, quiet and controlled, until you rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
Only then did Sylus notice the box.
It sat untouched on the desk, wrapped neatly, a simple bow affixed with care that felt out of place in the wreckage of his study. Frowning, he approached it slowly, as though afraid of what he might find, he reached out and pulled it closer.
He opened it.
Mephisto stared back at him, whole and perfect, red optics glowing softly in recognition.
For a moment, Sylus couldn’t breathe. His knees weakened, forcing him back into the chair as his hands trembled violently over the familiar metal. Every joint moved as it should, every artificial feather restored with reverence. Fixed not with perfection, but with devotion. Just like he had once done, all those years ago.
“She fixed you,” he whispered hoarsely, disbelief cracking his voice.
The room felt unbearably quiet then, the weight of what he had done settling heavily on his shoulders. He pressed his palm over his eyes, a broken sound tearing free from his chest as regret hit him with full force.
The study felt smaller once the shock wore off.
Sylus stood frozen before the open box, Mephisto pecking on his palm. The alcohol haze receded just enough for clarity to strike, sharp and merciless. His fingers traced the curve of the mechanical crow’s head, reverent, disbelieving, as if the slightest pressure might undo the miracle set before him.
“No…” His voice cracked on the single syllable.
This was not a patchwork repair. This was not a rushed reconstruction meant only to soothe him. He could see it — every careful workaround, every compromise made where your skill met his original design and refused to surrender. Lines of code rewritten not to surpass him, but to respect him. Mephisto was alive because someone had loved him back together.
And Sylus had thrown a glass at that person.
The memory hit him in fragments, your flinch, the way you straightened immediately after, the quiet apology that had no business leaving your mouth.
For years, he had told himself that distance was mercy, that emotional restraint was protection. Yet here was proof that someone had stood beside him not out of obligation, not out of desire to be chosen, but out of care that asked for nothing in return.
“You didn’t deserve that,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his face.
---------
He went straight to the twins.
Luke and Kieran were in the common room, chatting about something. Their expressions shifted instantly — from relief at seeing Sylus finally out of his study, to confusion when they followed his gaze to Mephisto, and then to anger when they noticed the absence of one particular presence.
“You hurt her,” Luke said knowingly. There was no accusation in his voice, only grim fact. Kieran’s jaw clenched beside him, eyes colder than usual.
“I know,” Sylus said simply. He looked at them, the men who had once followed him into darkness without fear, and he felt smaller than at any moment in memory. “Tell me where she is.”
Neither of them answered.
“I asked you something,” Sylus said abruptly, guilt chewing away at his heart. “Where did she go?”
Kieran crossed his arms. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can’t hurt her again.”
Luke exchanged a look with Kieran — protective, reluctant. “You have to earn that, bossman,” Luke countered. “You can’t just come asking for directions like it’s a task order. You hurt her and we don’t give out people like inventory.”
Sylus swallowed. “I was wrong,” he said hoarsely. “About everything. About… her. About thinking I could ignore what was right in front of me because I was obsessed with what I’d already lost.”
Luke tilted his head. “And?”
“And I need to apologize,” Sylus continued. “Properly. Not because of Mephisto or because it’s Christmas but because I failed her.”
Silence stretched.
Luke studied him for a long, heavy breath, seeing perhaps the honesty in Sylus that always hid behind his composure. “She left on her bike.”
Sylus looked up sharply.
“Seaside road,” Kieran added. “Tracker’s still on. She hasn’t moved in a while.”
Sylus was already grabbing his keys.
---------
The ride was a blur of cold air and roaring engine, the city lights dissolving into streaks as the road curved toward the coast. Wind tore at his clothes, but he welcomed the sting — it grounded him, kept him present, kept him from drowning in his own thoughts.
He found you exactly where the tracker said you’d be.
You sat on the rocks overlooking the sea, knees drawn up, helmet resting beside you. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, black and restless, waves breaking against stone with patient insistence. You did not turn when he approached. Perhaps you heard him. Perhaps you simply didn’t care.
Sylus let Mephisto go first.
You heard the faint whirr first, a sound so familiar it tugged at something fragile in your chest. When you looked up from the sea, the mechanical crow descended in a controlled glide, landing lightly on the rock beside you. His optics dimmed, then softened, the red glow gentler than before. He tilted his head, studying you, before stepping closer.
Mephisto leaned in, the cool curve of his head rubbing gently against your cheek, careful not to scratch, careful as though he understood delicacy. A low, almost apologetic caw vibrated through his frame.
You swallowed hard.
“Hey,” you whispered, lifting a hand to steady him. “It’s okay.”
Only then did Sylus step into view.
He looked different — less armored somehow. The wind off the sea tugged at his jacket, but he barely seemed to notice. His eyes were fixed on you, not searching this time, just looking. Mephisto took flight again, circling once before perching on Sylus’s shoulder, a silent bridge between you.
“I thought he should come,” Sylus said quietly. “He owed you… a thank you. I owed you everything else.”
You said nothing, only watched him approach.
He dropped to his knees.
The motion was sudden, unguarded. Gravel bit into his trousers as he reached for you, hands clutching at the fabric near your legs like an anchor. His forehead pressed briefly against your knee and then looked up with a kind of rawness you had never seen on him before.
Silver hair fell into his eyes, tears tracked silently down his cheeks, leaving thin, salt streaks against the pallor of his skin. There was grief there, but it was not for the phantom across a lifetime — this grief was aimed at you.
His voice was small when he started again. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the apology felt insufficient and vast at once. “For how I treated you. For letting something that belonged to the past become the excuse to punish the present. I… I was wrong and I—” His breath broke. He swallowed and tried again. “I took my fear and turned it into anger, and I took that anger out on the only person who did not deserve it.”
You inhaled deeply. “You know what hurt the most?” you asked, voice steady despite the ache behind it. “Not the shouting or even the glass that you threw. It was when you said I couldn’t act like a wife in your life. As if I had overstepped just by caring.”
“I never wanted to replace her,” you continued. “I never wanted to be seen that way. I knew who she was to you. I made peace with it long before you ever noticed me.”
Your voice wavered, just slightly. “But being told I didn’t even have the right to stand beside you… that I was pretending… that broke me.”
His face closed, as if the truth you named was a blade that found its target. “I remember,” he rasped. “I remember saying it. I remember thinking — if I keep everything tightly measured, I will not lose what I can’t bear to lose again. I tried to keep everyone at arm’s length and failed even worse. I’m so sorry.”
He stared at you like he was trying to memorize the ridges of your face, as though in that mapping he might also find the way back from his own darkness. His eyes briefly flickered to your arm and he stilled when he saw a cut standing out starkly against your skin, a thin slice along your forearm where the glass had probably grazed you. Dried blood traced its edge, ugly and unacknowledged in the chaos of the night.
His breath caught sharply.
“…You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” you said automatically, instinctively pulling your arm away from his view.
Sylus reached out anyway, slow, asking permission without words. When you didn’t resist, he gently took your wrist, turning your arm so he could see properly. His jaw tightened.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, the question not accusing but genuinely bewildered. “How did I not see this?”
You exhaled. “Because you were not looking.”
Sylus wordlessly fished out a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the cut, dabbing at the dried blood until the wound looked smaller, the edges pink and angry but contained. He took the handkerchief and folded it into a strip, then wrapped it around your forearm where the skin had been broken. His fingers fumbled with the knot, clumsy, awkward — every movement a penance.
He pressed his head against your feet, breaking down into sobs. The tears came not for the past you both had carried across time, but for you — real, present, flesh-and-blood you who had been hurt by his hand, by his words. He did not cry for Mikayla, he cried for you.
And even in your anger, that thought warmed your heart, turning your insides into putty.
You reached for his face before you could second-guess yourself.
“I love you,” you admitted softly. “And I have for quite a while.”
The confession hung in the air, fragile and irreversible.
Sylus’s breath shuddered, garnet eyes widening as realisation settled in them. Slowly, deliberately, he took your hand. Then — before you could react — he lifted it and pressed it flat against his own cheek.
“Hit me,” he said quietly. “If you need to. I deserve it.”
You blinked. “Sylus—”
“I don’t want absolution,” he interrupted. “I want accountability. If you forgive me, it has to be because you chose to not because I begged well enough.”
“Feel free to slap me twice and harder for not realizing how much you mean to me and how earnestly I love you too.” His words had a hint of humour laced in it, reluctantly spoken out too as if he was unsure how you’d react.
You bit on the inside of your cheek to stop your face from breaking into a gleeful smile but you had no doubt your eyes had already given you away. Your hand trembled against his skin and instead of striking him, your fingers curled, cupping his jaw as your thumb brushed over the place where you could have hurt him.
“This isn’t how we fix things,” you chided softly.
You leaned forward then, closing the distance he hadn’t dared to bridge.
Sylus inhaled sharply, as if your nearness alone had startled him, as if he had been bracing for rejection even now. He didn’t move to meet you, didn’t lift a hand to guide you closer. He simply stayed — still, open, allowing — like a man who had finally learned that love was not something to seize, but something granted.
Your lips met his.
The kiss was gentle, tentative in its honesty. It carried the faint scent of salt from the sea, the lingering bitterness of apologies long overdue, and beneath it all, something fragile and new — hope, unsteady but real.
Sylus froze for a heartbeat, breath caught between disbelief and reverence, before his hands came up slowly, carefully, as though afraid you might rethink if he moved too fast.
One hand settled at your waist, warm and grounding. The other hovered for a moment before resting against your back, not pulling, only holding you there, as if anchoring himself to the proof that this moment was real.
When you drew back, neither of you went far.
Your forehead rested against his, your breath mingling with his in the cold night air. His eyes were closed, lashes damp with tears he no longer tried to hide.
You lifted a hand, brushing your thumb beneath his eye, wiping away the tear he hadn’t noticed fall. He leaned into the touch without thinking, a silent confession in itself.
“Merry Christmas, Sylus,” you whispered.
He pressed his forehead more firmly to yours, breathing you in as if committing the moment to memory.
⋆.˚✮summary: popular among girls, distant and intimidating troublemaker—that’s how others saw him. gentle, charming and intelligent boy, who had no idea what personal space was—that’s how you knew him. and although the truth lied somewhere in between, one thing was certain: xavier would do anything to finally make you his. starting with asking you out, of course.
⋆.˚✮tags: bad boy xavier, punk xavier, college setting, kinda meet cute, but more like talking to each other for the first time cute, self-confident xavier, but also shy xavier, the duality of this man is insane, he has TATTOOS, and PIERCING, and he’s so djbdgdsb yess yess, i did it for myself i’m sorry, smoker xavier, but not for long hehehihi, he’s a gentleman, and totally whipped, like, absolutely whipped for the reader, sfw, yet!! if i continue it it would turn mdni for sure.
please let me know if u liked it and if u would be interested in reading more <33
“Aaaand he’s looking at you again.” Simone snapped you out of your thoughts, making your fingers stop their frantic movements over the keyboard. The two of you were sitting at the campus café, desperate to finish your assignments as quickly as you possibly could, thinking that each other’s company and your favorite sweet drinks might make the work at least a little bit more enjoyable.
And it actually worked—you were almost done with your essay, and judging by your friend’s relaxed posture and the fact that she had time to observe her surroundings, she must’ve finished hers too.
“Hmm? Who?” You asked with a small smile, noticing how the cream from her coffee sat above her upper lip, creating the illusion of a thin mustache and making her look like a cute little detective. You pulled out a napkin from the holder and brought it to her lips, muffling her next words in the process.
“Xavier, that punk guy who—oh, thank you, baby, it always makes me look like Freddie Mercury—who studies some kind of engineering.” You laughed softly at her added comment and placed the dirty napkin on your small, empty plate. “Girl, you heard what I said? Xavier. That Xavier has literally been drilling a hole in your head for the past hour or so, with those sexy—like, dangerously sexy—eyes of his. And that—that piercing—and, and, you know what? You don’t seem concerned in the slightest, what if he’s like, mad at you or something? He always looks kinda scary. Sexy-scary, but still.” The last sentence said in a whisper, and you snorted, picking up your iced drink and taking a slow sip.
“Oookay, I think I’ve heard enough.” You laughed and shook your head, one hand returning to the keyboard to save your file. “He’s not mad at me. I know him. If he’s looking our way, he probably recognized me, but is too shy to say hi.” You finished your drink with not-so-quiet slurp, your lips immediately letting go of the straw as you looked around bashfully, hoping no one had noticed.
“Too shy? Have you lost your mind? Or are there more scary-looking Xaviers around campus that I don’t know about?” She leaned forward, lowering her voice, and you closed your laptop with a sigh. You didn’t like that she called him scary, you always thought his usual pout, scowl or mask of indifference made him look kinda cute.
You checked the time on your phone and noticed that one of your electives was starting in 20 minutes—if you wanted to be there on time, you’d have to leave in a second.
“Besides, you know him? Since when?”
“Remember that one poetry elective I had to take last semester? We had a group project as the final assignment, and he was part of my group.” You watched with amusement as her mouth opened in shock, her brows furrowing. “And he’s actually really sweet. And smart, too, just not that much of a talker.” You shrugged, your eyes dropping as you remembered how the other group members had acted toward him back then.
How they talked behind his back, assuming he wouldn’t do his part of the project. How they doubted his abilities and overall academic competence as a conversation starter when he was sometimes late to meetings—and how quiet and reserved they became when he finally joined you.
You quickly got angry on his behalf, knowing that he had never been rude or disrespectful to any of you, and every single task he was assigned was sent to the group chat just a couple hours later. The fact that they treated him that way because of some rumor about him being a troublemaker, and his eye-catching, rough appearance, was what made you finally speak up.
“—He’s kind of a lost cause. He wouldn’t finish it anyway. What a guy like him can know about poetry? I’m surprised he can read at all.” One of the guys from the group commented again, taking advantage of Xavier’s absence. The meeting had just started, and you were sure he would come—just a tad bit later. You always assumed he had a class beforehand, but he never said anything when he realized that this particular hour suited the rest of you best.
He was always like this, you’d noticed it some time ago. He never wanted to cause any issues, always silently accepting and diligently working on whatever task was assigned to him. And yet, at nearly every meeting, he was dragged under the bus before he even had a chance to show up.
Their reactions surprised you a lot. You didn’t know Xavier personally before, but you knew of him, it was hard not to. He had a reputation as a reserved troublemaker and was extremely popular among girls, who seemed to try asking him out— or at least getting a good make-out session—probably every day, always without success. Ironically, that only made him a more intriguing target. He had the face of an angel, a body decorated like a fallen one, and the physique of an athlete, all on top of being seemingly unobtainable. Girls were totally head over heels for him, which actually made you pity him, knowing how much unwanted attention it probably brought.
And although he was pretty introverted and a little rough around the edges, people generally seemed to like him. He was intimidating, and he spoke his mind surely, but he didn’t seem like someone who went around looking for a fight. Within your project group, he was usually quiet and cooperative, which is why you couldn’t understand why they were suddenly being so harsh toward him.
That’s why on that day, you finally snapped.
“Oh, shut up, Matt. What do you know about poetry anyway? Most of us are here just because it fit our schedules.” You stood up from the table in the park, your designated meeting place, your hands pressing firmly against the polished wood. You couldn’t listen to Xavier being dragged anymore, judged solely on his appearance, when you knew he was actually quite engaged in the project. “And yes, maybe he’s a little late sometimes but he always shows up, and does the work perfectly. Besides, he’s never been rude to any of you, so I don’t understand why you’re always so awful to him.” Your face, and the slightly harsher edge to your voice, betrayed your annoyance, but you had finally lost the patience to care about their opinion of you.
Some of the girls who had been too afraid to speak up smiled at you encouragingly, while the main bully just shrugged, looking up at you nonchalantly with one arm draped over the back of the chair beside him.
“He looks like bad news. And gets on my nerves.” He answered simply, and if you weren’t red from anger before, you sure were now. “And he probably sells drugs or some—”
“And you look like a complete asshole right now.” You snapped, already frantically stuffing your notes into your bag. You refused to hear any more of this, not about a boy who had literally done nothing wrong to deserve such harsh words every time you met. “And you shouldn’t fucking care what he looks like. From what we know, he’s hard-working and smart, and he definitely has feelings, too. He deserves basic human respect, don’t you think?” You slung your bag over your shoulder and shot the guy another glare, completely ignoring their stares—which were definitely no longer aimed at you—and the quiet shadow that had appeared behind you some time ago. “I’ll send you the file by the end of the week. I won’t sit around, wasting time with someone who’d rather talk shit than do actual work. Now, if you’ll excuse m—”
Bump.
Your body bounced off a hard chest clad in a leather jacked, and by the time strong, tattooed hands gently grabbed your shoulders to steady you, you were already blushing.
Because Xavier was right there behind you. For God knows how long.
You snapped your head up, your panicked eyes meeting his deep blues—calm, gentle and understanding— as he continued to hold your shoulders, even though he must’ve know you had already gained your balance. You studied him for a moment: his longish hair, a mullet peeking out from the leather collar of his jacket, and ears adorned with various piercings. Your gaze drifted to his lips, drawn absentmindedly to the small silver ring on the side of his bottom lip, which he was now biting slightly.
Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God—
“S—Sorry, I was just—leaving—” You said quickly, your eyes suddenly finding the grass fascinating. You could still feel the warmth of his hands lingering on your shoulders, along with the fresh, calming scent of a fabric softener mixed with something so uniquely comforting—
“I’ll walk you home, then.” His hands traveled slowly down your arms before he let go, your cheeks burning as you avoided his gaze at all costs. It was probably the first time he had spoken to you directly, spoken to any of you directly, really. His soft voice was usually directed at no one in particular, offering sparse but meaningful comments during your brainstorming sessions.
How much had he heard? Was he angry? He didn’t look angry. Why did he want to walk you home? He never walked any of you home.
“No! I mean, no—no, thank you, that’s so nice of you, Xavier, really, but I live pretty close by. You shouldn’t bother.” He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and you noticed him turning his head toward the others.
“I could never be bothered by—Did you just fucking roll your eyes at her?” His calm voice suddenly turned cold, the tone not raised, but much sharper. Your head turned to the person he was now staring at, and you saw Matt’s eyes widen. “I asked you a fucking question. Did you roll your eyes at her?”
“And if I did then what are you going to do? Beat me up?”
“Wow, really Matt? You’re such a child.” You turned to him fully, but an arm blocked your way, an intricate tattoo depicting the moon cycle peeking from one rolled up sleeve.
“Apologize to her and you won’t have to find out.” You looked up at Xavier and almost smiled, noticing how the role of protector had flipped. But the intense stare he used to size up the annoying colleague made the hairs on the back of your nape stand on end. He sure looked intimidating when he wanted to. “I said, apologize.”
And when the silence began to stretch, and Xavier took a deliberate step forward, you grabbed his bicep, surprisingly firm and muscular, oh wow, and started to lead him away, afraid the conversation would turn sour in a matter of seconds.
Letting him walk you home wasn’t such a bad idea after all, you decided, feeling the sweat nearly drip from your temple.
“Wait, he didn’t apologize to you yet, and I won’t let him get away until he does.” You heard Xavier’s voice a step behind you but decided to continue your path, until you reached a safer distance.
“It’s okay. I’m not accepting apologies from ignorant jerks, anyway.” You heard a soft huff of laughter from him, and your lips curved into a small smile. Your steps slowed a moment later, and you took a deep breath, watching the clouds drift slowly across the sky while the gentle wind eased the burn of your cheeks. “Were you really planning to fight him?”
He was walking beside you now, your hand no longer holding his arm, and when you finally looked his way, you were startled to find him already watching you.
You could understand why people were wary of him—when he was right there beside you, his overall size was pretty intimidating. He towered over you an impressive amount of inches, and his body type, which you used to think was rather lanky, turned out to be more on the athletic side. With his lip and ear piercings, and now, clearly, an eyebrow piercing too, two small dots on either side of his eyebrow, paired with several tattoos on his hands and his rather muted wardrobe choice, he could raise some concerns.
Could, but didn’t have to. Not when his eyes were so gentle and kind, looking at you as if you had hung all the stars in the sky. To you, he looked like a prince: gentle features, silky-soft hair and a graceful stance that made him, ironically, the least intimidating person you’d met. It actually struck you how handsome he was, too. Much more handsome up close than from the distance, your heart fluttered nervously.
“Hmm. He disrespected you so, yes. Probably. It’s better to let him think I would. I usually don’t start fights.” Was his answer, his steps matching your pace, heavy, black combat boots stepping silently beside your white sneakers. You felt a tug at your arm, and before you could protest, he started carrying your handbag along his. All your protests died in your throat the moment he looked at you and shook his head. Message received. “I only end them.” Xavier added like an afterthought, and it didn’t sound like bragging but more like stating a fact. You laughed quietly and nodded, unsure what to say as your mind drifted back to the events from moments ago.
“I’m sorry for—”
“Thank you—”
You both started to speak at the same time and quickly stopped, a nervous laugh escaping from you. You looked at him again and noticed that his eyes were crinkled at the corners too. He adjusted his handbag on his shoulder and cleared his throat.
“Forgive me, but I’ll start. Because you have nothing to apologize for.” A sigh left your lips, and you started playing with your fingers, his answer easing your worries. He looked straight ahead when he spoke again. “I heard what you said to them. How you protected me. You didn’t have to do that.”
“No, I did. It wasn’t the first time they said such things and I should’ve spoken my mind much, much sooner.” You started speaking, annoyed again, the nearly forgotten rage rising inside you once more. “You were nothing short of helpful and kind to us and it was a pleasure to work with you! I just couldn’t listen to him spouting nonsense anymore.”
And when you tried to meet his eyes again, you noticed the tips of his ears were red.
“It was a pleasure to work with you, too.” His voice like a balm to your irritation, every single second spent in his presence confirming your beliefs about him being a secret sweetheart. “But I’m used to people taking shit about me, actually. And I really don’t care what they think.”
“Well, it’s good. You shouldn’t.” His lip piercing caught your eye again, and you decided it suit him very well. You also noticed that you had slowed down, but this time you were matching the pace he set. “But it doesn’t make it fine. So next time, stand up for yourself too, okay? You were quick to do that for me, so it shouldn’t be much of a problem to treat yourself with the same kindness, right?”
Xavier’s eyes suddenly met yours, his mouth opening and closing slightly as if he couldn’t find the right words to say. The tips of his ears were red, and he put a hand behind his back, stroking at the skin lightly, nervously.
“Mhm. Right.” His eyes drifted to your face, studying it intently. You found his gaze extremely intense, peeking from behind his silver strands, but you didn’t mind. His presence was actually very calming, both his voice and body language relaxed and almost dreamy-like.
Xavier stopped suddenly, making you wonder if he had forgotten something, or if your conversation was over, and he was about to return your bag and head his own way. Instead, he leaned toward you, took your hand in his—his touch feather-light, your fingers cradled gently in his—and he brought it up to his lips.
A kiss. Gentle one, but lingering, pressed just below your knuckles. You felt the warmth of his lips and the cool touch of the metal ring against your skin, and you swallowed hard the moment he opened his eyes and looked straight at you.
And it was a look you would reminisce about for weeks to come, because of how seen you felt right in that very moment. The clouds continued their never-ending journey across the sky, and the birds chirped a melody to which you were usually unaware. A look resembling a full conversation. A look holding meaning, one that you weren’t sure you were able to grasp yet.
“Thank you, my sweet little knight.” He whispered against your skin, and you gulped, your heart racing, mind blanking for a short while. “It seems I gained my own guardian angel today.” And when you saw how genuine he was, your body melted into his touch completely, your chest swelling with the quiet pride of knowing you did something good today.
“Anytime, princess.”
And when your ears caught his sudden, bubbly laugh, short canines on full display, that seemed to surprise even him, you didn’t let it become forgotten for the months to come, keeping the sound close to your heart.
You remembered the first day you actually talked to each other other and smiled softly; the walk home filled with interesting stories and shared laughter, the intimidating bubble he’d once seemed trapped in popped the moment you spent real time with him, leaving only the image of a sweet gentleman behind.
It wasn’t the only time you talked either, although after the elective course had ended your ways parted completely: your interactions scarce and happening usually when you were in a rush, or already late, to your classes.
A smile on your lips, followed by a happy wave of your hand met with the surprised, gentle spark in his eyes, and you were already gone.
There were only a handful of times you’d managed to exchange a word or two—usually while waiting in line at the coffee machine, with him asking about your major and interests, or when you were passing by him in the library, where you’d quickly complimented his new tattoo: a constellation on his forearm, still covered by a piece of second skin.
Quick, fleeting interactions; nothing more.
However, you found yourself thinking about him sometimes. About his melodic voice, a gentleness serving a sharp contrast to how rough he could’ve seemed to others. His soft hair, how you wondered what it would feel like to bury your fingers in it and stroke the strands gently. His lean but muscular build, his strong arms adorned with ink—art so majestic you found it hard to look away sometimes, your mind wandering, wondering if he had more tattoos on other parts of his body, and if so, where would they be hidden? And what would they depict?
His lips, soft pink hue, decorated with a silver ring, the coolness of which you already felt when he kissed your hand that day. And on the most desperate of nights, you let your mind imagine how it would feel pressed against your lips.
You shook your head, the thoughts unwanted and totally unnecessary, knowing that it was just a fleeting acquaintance. You couldn’t like him that way, because you knew that you surely weren’t his type at all. You weren’t even sure why your mind started thinking about him in such a way, your type being usually the complete opposite. But you guessed that it was just because of how charming he was, how clever and funny, how awkward at times. How kind to you. And how absolutely gorgeous his eyes were—always looking at you with patience and an interesting kind of wonder.
It didn’t matter. You were only colleagues, and he was too popular and too different from you to actually be interested. So, you stopped thinking about it some time ago.
“‘Not that much of a talker,’ she says. I never—never!—heard him talk. And I had few electives with him, mind you.” The voice of your friend brought you back from wonderland. You decided not to answer anything to that, thinking that if you told her that he was the one who usually initiated conversations with you, she would probably have a stroke. “You are one lucky girl. You have your own guard dog now.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” You answered absentmindedly, not liking that label. “Or the other way around. I can be feisty.” You imitated shooting from your finger guns, and she laughed, raising her almost empty cup.
“Cheers to that!” You raised your empty cup too while throwing your laptop into your bag. “He’s still staring by the way. Hasn’t really stopped since I noticed. It would be really creepy if he wasn’t that handsome.” You snorted, zipping up your bag and looking down at your phone.
“I told you, he probably just wants to say—Oh, shit! Gotta go! The classes start in 10 and I mixed up the buildings again!”
“Oh, shoot, is that the one at the end of—?” You nodded frantically and she waved her hand dismissively. “Go! I’ll take care of your cup, see you later!” You quickly went to her and hugged her, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before practically flying out of the café, completely forgetting to send Xavier a small wave on your way out, if he really was sitting somewhere behind you.
That’s why you also missed how abruptly he stood the moment you bolted for the door—wanting to chase after you, but stoping himself when he realized you didn’t even have time for a small talk. He should’ve approached you sooner, should’ve spoken to you the moment he saw you, instead of just sitting there, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of your angelic smile.
He wondered when did he loose his balls, when even the simple idea of talking to you made his heart flutter nervously, his hands automatically reaching to scratch at the ink submerged in his skin. He was pathetic, and it was really starting to get on his nerves.
And at that moment his eyes locked with those of your friend, her lips slowly curling into a knowing smile as she caught him almost running after you. She wiggled her eyebrows at him, and in that instant he finally decided to stop being a coward.
He couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing you everyday anymore.
He grabbed his bag and started walking purposely to the place which you occupied only moments before. He needed information and he would get it, even if he would have to beg for it.
“Oho. I knew it.” Your friend said, seconds before he even managed to introduce himself.
And he realized that he’d known it too. Almost from the moment he first saw you.
You were exhausted to say the least.
Your classes dragged on, making your head hurt from staring at the constantly changing slides. Your whole body felt sore, and you stretched the moment you reached the lockers—arms raised, back arched, a moan almost escaping your lips.
Your poor legs practically begged for the short trip back to your apartment, if the slight numbness in them wasn’t already enough of a sign of stagnation.
You opened your eyes lazily and turned the key in your locker, wanting to gather your things as quickly as possible and finally see the light of day.
“Hey.” A low greeting from right behind you made you spin around too quickly, your back bumping against the locker. It startled you when you noticed how close he was standing, towering over you.
Xavier.
In all his tattooed glory, hair unruly as always, and his pretty eyes boring straight into yours. He hissed when you made contact with the locker, his large hand immediately coming to rest on the back of your head, gently caressing it, afraid you had taken the hit. You blushed, the contact sudden and unexpected, his body possibly closer to yours than ever before.
“Are you okay?” The hand on the back of your head slid down slightly, now resting on the nape of your neck. The hold was gentle, intimate. You wondered if he realized it. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.” His thumb stroked the skin on your neck, and your cheeks caught fire.
You gulped and shook your head, sighing as the tension in your shoulders eased when you saw his familiar face.
“It’s okay. I’m not hurt, and I didn’t hit my head, so don’t worry.” His expression visibly shifted, relief written all over his face. But his hand didn’t leave your neck. “Sorry, hi. Hi. I just didn’t expect you here.” You didn’t expect anyone really, it was already late for classes and if any were to take place, everyone would already be inside classrooms.
His presence was especially puzzling, it wasn’t even his faculty, did he had another elective here?
“I wanted to see you.” Straightforward answer, as usual. You send him a small smile, thinking back to earlier when you almost met at the café; if it hadn’t been for you being in such a hurry. He must’ve felt bad for not coming up to you, especially since he probably waited for you to finish your classes. But why did he care so much? “And I was actually thinking… Hoping that…” His hand slid away from the back of your neck and began playing absentmindedly with a strand of your hair, while you struggled to keep the blush from darkening your cheeks even further.
He was so close. Too close. You could almost feel his breath warming up your face and see your reflection staring back from the little silver dots in his eyebrow. An inch or two more, and you were sure his hair would brush your forehead, given how much he was leaning into your space.
But he was always like this whenever you two crossed paths—his body leaning in too close to be just friendly, paying no mind to your personal space. His hands were also always reaching out for you as if he couldn’t help it: fixing the hair that fell into your face, stroking your arm, or even occasionally brushing your nose with his knuckle when you said something that made him chuckle.
You thought this was his way of being friendly and you enjoyed it, ignoring the fact that it only seemed to fuel your silly little crush. Besides, you found it very endearing that he was so distant and cold with others, yet so touchy-feely with the ones he liked. It made you feel special, if not a little hopeful.
And that’s when the sharp smell hit you, a cigarette smoke mixed with his pleasant, soft cologne. You scrunched up your nose and pressed a hand against his chest to create some more distance between you.
“Oof, you smoked again.” You couldn’t help but comment, seeing his brows furrowing in confusion upon your slight push of his chest.
“You can still smell it? I even got some gum.” To prove his point, he blew a small bubble from his lips, a minty scent reaching your nose when he popped it a second later, the corners of his lips lifting in a small, proud smirk.
“It’s all over your clothes, Xavier. The smoke seeped right into them. You need a bath, not a gum.” Quiet, unserious little “ouch” left his lips, and you tugged at his black sweatshirt, only now noticing a small cat plushie hanging from one of his sleeves.
So cute. You loved that accent, your finger going to poke at the accessory with an exaggerated sigh. “How could you do it to this adorable little thing?”
“It’ll live. Always does.” His eyes followed your finger still gently touching the plushie, “He’s a tough guy, can handle a bit of smoke. He’d take a drag too if he could, probably.” You sent him a half-serious glare and pulled your hand away from his arm, signaling defeat. You noticed he was still standing right where you had pushed him back to, more mindful of your space.
You turned your back to him to open your locker again, and pulled out your bag, along with your light jacket. However, before you could even sling the bag over your shoulder, he already grabbed hold of it, his fingers brushing against yours in the process.
“Does it bother you?” Xavier asked, his voice unsure, your bag already on his arm. The pastel-colored plushies hanging from it were a sharp contrast to his appearance. You looked at him again after making sure you had closed the locker. “The smell of smoke, I mean.” His beautiful blues bore into your eyes, his teeth biting at the lip ring nervously.
“Well, I can’t say I like it. I don’t think anyone really does.” He looked at you like a scolded puppy, his hair falling into his eyes when he turned his head to the side. “But it’s your choice, really, I can’t tell you how you should live. It’s just… really sad to know that you’re destroying your lungs daily.”
“Hmm, yeah. It is pretty sad.” Although a pout marked Xavier’s face now, you noticed a slight playfulness in his voice. Then, a sudden spark appeared in his eyes, as if an idea had just formed in his mind. “I could die. You wouldn’t want that to happen, am I right?” He leaned toward you again, one hand placed beside your head, his body almost trapping you against the lockers, your back pressed to the cool metal again. His fingers stroked your wrist, then trailed up to your forearm, his stormy blue eyes following the movement attentively.
“Y—You’re acting weird.” You commented weakly, your heart increasing its beating against your chest. He was so close, too close, his body towering over yours, making you see only him. You nervously looked around, hoping no one saw you, but you already knew you were alone. “Of course I wouldn’t, but—” You wanted to comment on his unusual boldness, ask a question to why was he suddenly acting like this, but he cut you off before you could say another word.
“I’ll quit, then.” His face so close you could smell the mint of the gum and feel the coldness of his breath on your cheek. You trembled unconsciously. “I don’t want you to be worried. But, I think I would like to ask for something in exchange.”
“Ah, so that’s what it’s all about, you’re cozying up to me because you want someth—”
“A date.” Your mouth closed instantly, eyes meeting his in shock. “There’s this gig that I would love to take you to, this weekend. Open-air, starts at midnight. We could—we could grab a bite too right before it starts? If you’d want to, of course.” You watched as his confidence slowly melted as he was speaking, voice trembling nervously at times, the tips of his ears turning red.
It was probably the longest reply he ever gave you, his sentences usually short and precise. And as you stared at him in disbelief, at his red ears and lip that he was now nervously biting despite acting so tough moments before, your chest filled with a warm, fuzzy feeling of your affections being reciprocated.
He was asking you out on a date.
Xavier, that Xavier: hot, intimidating, unbothered, extremely popular and seemingly unapproachable in the eyes of others.
Xavier, an intelligent, soft, socially awkward and extremely sweet little crush of yours was asking you out on a date.
You had to force yourself not to squeal, the idea that he found you attractive too making you nearly melt right into his chest, that seemed to be getting closer and closer with every second. You were both so different from each other, how could you predict that you actually had a chance with him? You thought that your quick, daily encounters was only him being nice, maybe excited to have a new friend.
Your lips curled into a smile, eyes sparkling with excitement you couldn’t contain.
“Is it that band you were talking about last week?” The memory of catching him staring excitedly at his phone right before you approached him during one of your short class breaks was still fresh in your mind. His fingers had been fidgeting with the cap he wore that day, turning it around as he leaned in to show you the newly added dates—one of which was very close to Linkon.
“Yeah. My favorite one.” He was getting more and more nervous, his hand was touching the nape of his neck now. “And I know these things can be loud and stuffy but I would protect you. You’d be safe with me, I swear, I wouldn’t let anyone else—”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” His head lowered even closer, the tips of your noses nearly touching. His eyes half-lidded, gazing down at you, his heart skipping a beat.
“Mhm. I would love to go with you.” Afraid to stumble over your words, your answer a gentle whisper. “Even without you quitting smoking. Buuut, it’s a really nice bonus.” Xavier chuckled, his head dropping to bring his lips closer to your ear.
“That so?” You had no idea, but he hid his head from your gaze for the widest of smiles to appear on his face. He closed his eyes and let himself bask in your closeness and sweet scent, mentally thankful for his burst of confidence earlier. “Then maybe the whole quitting thing isn’t really necessary?”
“Ah-ah. No takesies backsies—”
“No wha—”
“A promise is a promise.” You stated surely, your finger pressing on his chest as a warning. If he said he’ll quit, he better have to quit. Especially since now the possibility of him being closer to you daily has increased immensely. “If you want to reach for a cigarette now, you better pop in some gum. Or some candy, or ask for a—”
“Kiss?”
Your head turned his way just as his forehead rested on your shoulder. One eye opened, staring at you, a smirk lingering on his lips, the piercing there once again catching your attention.
Would you feel it when his mouth finally pressed to yours? Would it be forceful and bruising, or would he take his time, easing you into it with soft patience? He was a walking enigma, shy and gentle one moment, confident and quick the next. What side of him would you uncover if you let yourself get closer?
“Don’t overthink it or I might actually take your silence as a yes.” You breath hitched the moment he turned his head and you felt his lips touching the skin below your ear. Not a kiss, just a fleeting warmth of his mouth, the coolness of the ring causing goosebumps to appear on your skin. He took a step back, taking all the warmth away and you nearly chased after him to bring it back.
What was he doing to you?
His knuckles brushed your flushed cheek, and your eyelashes fluttered, the touch once again unexpected.
“First, you have to keep your end of the deal. Then we’ll see.” You learned that you were a literal, freaking master at feigning confidence, given how weak your legs felt and how much you wanted to pass out while meeting his affectionate gaze.
His face was slightly flushed too. Clearly affected, despite his confident demeanor. Maybe you weren’t that different from each other, after all.
“We will.” Xavier wet his lips, the tip of his pink tongue barely peeking out before his teeth sank into the plush skin— like he was already imagining how it would feel like. Maybe holding himself back from satisfying his curiosity right then and there. “I’ll make sure we will. Wouldn’t dare to miss the chance, angel.”
And when he walked you home that day, your bag swinging from his broad shoulder and your fingers brushing from time to time, sending pleasant sparks between you—you realized that, despite your differences, you’d never felt such a connection with anyone before. Talking with him was so easy, the way the walk home felt too short not to miss the comforting presence of his for hours after. And you were sure he felt the same, from the way he joked about not giving your bag back, to the goodbye hug you initiated, but he prolonged, his strong arms wrapping gently around your waist, reluctant to let go. And then there was the longing glance he gave you, just seconds before you closed the door.
A sharp ping of a new message cut through the air not long after, a string of new numbers followed by a simple sentences, ones that made your heart beat faster again.
keep thinking that I shouldve made up some lame excuse just to spend more time with U. The cat plushie said he misses U. I didn’t know he could read my mind — Xavier
And with a chuckle and a blush, you already knew that you were slowly falling in love—and you just hoped that when it fully bloomed, he would be there to help you care for it.
As for the kiss—the weekend couldn’t come soon enough.
🤍 if you liked it, you can support me here! https://ko-fi.com/kitimeq <3
every single one counts, it helps me grow and makes me feel that writing is not a waste of time!! <3
please like, reblog and COMMENT if u liked it!! i would love to know if i should continue it—i wrote it as a quick, cute bad boy xavier story. i would love to make it mdni ofc skdhshdg <33
─ · · heavy suggestive content, dry humping, biting
One moment the room is quiet, the night's curtain drawn tight with the familiar glow of the N109 zone's lights illuminating every building beyond the glass... then Sylus is right by your side, close enough that his breath warms your lips before his mouth takes them.
There is nothing hurried in this kiss, no messy collision of mouths. Just slow pressure meant to memorise every drag of lips against lips, devouring you gently. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone with an unbelievable softness for someone who can bring an army to its knees.
And you melt the moment you lean further and further into him. Your fingers fist in the lapel of his coat before you even think to push the heavy item off his broad shoulders, dragging him closer by the loops of his belt to feel the steady pressure of his build press against yours. Sylus hums against your mouth, low and pleased with your assertive gestures. The vibration makes your stomach tighten. It is ridiculous how good everything with the right person feels; how your pulse races when all he does is kiss you.
But Sylus has never been just anything. His other hand finds your hip, guiding you until the back of your thighs meet the edge of the desk. A soft gasp sounds from your messy lips when he lifts you up, slotting himself between your parting thighs to reclaim the warmest spot known.
"Allow me," he murmurs, though he is the one ruining control. His teeth nip at your lower lip, just barely, and you already drag him down with you, your mouth parting in invitation. He accepts and lets his tongue stroke against yours with a mastery that has your breath stutter.
The groan slipping past his lips into your mouth emboldens you to slide your hand up until you reach the knot of his tie. But you don't just untie it—you curl a finger in the silk and pull him back down for yet another kiss, deeper this time, greedy enough that he exhales sharply into your mouth.
"Someone's eager tonight," Sylus whispers against your lips, though he is undoubtedly no better than you judging by the low glow of his right eye. "You cause it," you manage, yet your voice comes out breathless, too. A proud and wicked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, as if your snippy reaction is the only victory he ever wanted.
After indulging in the firm lines of his chest, you focus on the task at hand and undo the first button of his dress shirt, chased by the second, third... until the fabric parts so that your palms can glide over warm, defined muscle. He shivers, just barely, but enough for you to feel it, before his own fingers already trace the zipper at the back of your dress.
The touch slowly glides down for the teeth to part inch by torturous inch until his knuckles can brush along your spine while greedy lips never stray from your throat. He eternalises his adoration there; right on the spot that makes your logic dissolve. Open-mouthed, lingering, tongue leaving heat on your skin before he gives in to the urge and imprints the shape of his teeth on your skin. Not enough to break, just enough to leave a piece of himself with you.
Your moans send shivers down his spine, cause a grin to spread on his lips as Sylus reluctantly pulls back to admire his artistry. However, your own response is instinctive, repayment in kind, as your hand tilts his chin up. Without hesitation you lean in and bite at his Adam's apple for Sylus's breath to catch and his hands to tighten around your hips. The groan is involuntary yet deep, a rough sound that vibrates straight through you.
"Sensuous little thing," Sylus rasps, half praise, half reprimand at the teeth marks blooming on his neck. "Mhm.. but I could drown in this." His forehead rests against yours now, his breathing faster from the aftermath of your... appetite. Large hands slide to the small of your back, urging you closer until you feel every line of him, highlighted by the delicious bulge coming right up against the silk of your panties. Not grinding, not yet, just pressure... unbearable yet beautiful until you plea for him. So sweet, so tamed, follows his name from your kiss-swollen lips.
Slowly, Sylus allows himself to rock you against him as if he is tuning the frequency of your body to match his own. You exhale a needy whimper into his mouth, and he kisses it away, kisses it all better with greedy lips.
A slow move of his hips into yours, the perfect size of his bulge pressing against your clothed pussy, and a kiss that leaves you dizzy. Topped off with hands that roam, squeeze, and tease through the bits of fabric stil remaining on your body; beautiful, deep red fabric that highlights your most intimate places.
Sylus amplifies everything—need, impatience, hunger—until you're shaking, fingers threading through and tugging at his hair, pulling him closer and closer still because you want more, more, and he gives it without hesitation.
From @hajimeowmeow's prompt where Caleb receives a message threatening to hurt the person he loves the most, yet instead of staying with you, his girlfriend, he thinks mc is in danger and stays with her in linkon for weeks on end. He comes back but you're not the same-- more eerie, as a parasite takes over your brain.
nooooot proofread, just wrote this literally now hahah bc i am in my sad girl hours and i need smthng to hurt me.
warnings? tragic love, caleb being sad, pathetic, and begging; doomed love. also K by CAS, is the perfect song wrote this with CAS playlist :p
@youre-my-headliner @mia-menaceinaction
-----
There is the dim, yet warm light of a single lamp open in the living room; the TV is buzzing, words of characters that you’re only barely paying attention to anymore. A sitcom you really like rewatching. It was raining a little, so you look at your phone. A message you sent 2 hours ago, still left on delivered.
It’s raining. You should borrow an umbrella from a co-worker.
It would be bad if you got sick.
Love you. Come home soon, honey.
Your boyfriend was a busy man. A colonel at a very young age, in the most influential unit in your city: Skyhaven. You’ve lived together for a year now, and have been together for a bit longer. Somehow, you’ve gotten used to him coming home late. And he’s gotten used to you waiting for him ‘til late. You insist upon it. It’s too cold to ever truly be sleeping without him as your body pillow.
Your eyes are drowsy, threatening to close while your feet fold deeper as you curl into a ball in the chill room, covered in your thin blanket– that the door opens. You perk up immediately, despite the grog settling deep into your skin.
There, Caleb slowly closes the door behind him. His hat, finally coming off as he loosens his collar, sighing. You get up, still wrapped in your blanket and meet him by the doorway. He’s halfway into getting his shoes off when you stand in front of him, barefoot with a pout.
“You’re wet. Did you get my text? You’ll get sick, you big dummy.” You try to wipe the droplets of rain from his shoulders, then his cheeks; which were cold. His hands move up to your wrists, holding them gently.
“I didn’t have time to check my phone. Sorry, honey.” He says, voice low, tired. Then he kisses the inside of your wrist. Your hands being the only thing warming him right now.
You sigh, which ends in a small smile. “It’s okay. You’re home now.”
—
You linger with him a moment longer after that, just breathing in the scent of rain and metal that always clings to his uniform. He moves toward the couch while you pad back into the kitchen, the faint buzz of the TV filling the space again. The sound of him setting down his things, the muted hum of the holo-terminal booting– all so ordinary it makes you smile.
“Did you eat?” You call out while you stir something in a small pot, steam fogging the air.
“Not yet,” he answers, voice distant but gentle.
You grab a plate, already imagining the way he’ll loosen up after a meal and shower. Then the terminal tone pierces through the quiet. It isn’t the usual mellow ping of work updates. This one is sharper, coded. Military-grade. You hesitate mid-step, plate still in your hands.
“Work again?” You ask, half sigh, half tease.
He doesn’t answer immediately. The air feels heavier now. From the couch, you can see him sit rigid before the screen, its pale light painting his face in washed-out blues.
You wipe your hands on the towel and walk closer. “Hey… you okay?”
He blinks and turns, startled as if he forgot you were there. “Yeah,” he murmurs, forcing a small smile. “Just… something from command. Nothing important.”
“So it’s fine, then?”
He nods, but there’s no conviction in the motion. You can see the storm behind his eyes. Whatever he just read isn’t fine at all.
You cross the short distance between you, laying a hand on his arm. “You can tell me, you know.”
His jaw flexes. For a second, you think he might. But then the soldier in him wins over the man you love. He cups your hand gently and presses a kiss to it instead of answering.
“I will,” he says softly, “once things are handled. Don’t worry tonight, okay? You’ve done enough waiting for me.”
Something in that phrasing sinks cold in you. You want to argue, ask what’s really happening, but he’s already looking past you at the rain-slick window, mind somewhere far away.
“Caleb–”
“It’s fine, honey.” He gives you one of those smiles, reassuring. But lurking with trembles he’s barely hiding. “Really. Just protocol stuff.”
You nod, because you’ve learned to choose your battles. You go back to the table and place the food down between you both, pretending not to notice his eyes dart once more toward the flashing terminal.
Dinner ends in fragments: your laughter too soft, his replies just half-finished. And when he finally excuses himself to “take a call,” you stay on the couch. Watching the reflection of the lamp fade across the empty seat beside you.
From the hallway, you can hear him speaking quietly, voice clipped, controlled. Then silence.
His footsteps return, slower this time. You look up, already knowing you won’t like what’s next. And Caleb almost didn’t have the heart to tell you, especially when you looked at him that way. Your eyes sparkled in a way that made his heart clench. Your breathing so obviously controlled. So he sits beside you despite the large space the couch could offer.
Caleb let his elbows rest on his knees. His eyes on the floor.
“...They need me in Linkon,” he says, words measured but heavy. “But it’s short-term, I promise– a few weeks at most.”
The words hang in the room as he finally looks at you, and you exhale, this time, turning your head away from him; taking his words in.
But you manage a small nod. “Tonight?”
He hesitates, then: “Tomorrow morning.” At least. He should at least spend the night with you.
You smile again. “That’s… soon.”
He brushes your hair behind your ear, before cupping your cheek to make you look at him gently. Thumb brushing against your soft skin, as if memorizing the gesture. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“I know,” you whisper, even as something inside you starts to ache. “You always come back.”
—
Days pass. Then weeks.
You still go to work. Same office. Same blue-gray cubicle walls humming under cheap lights. Your coworkers greet you with practiced smiles and the usual chatter about deadlines and traffic. You smile back, careful not to let the pauses linger — you don’t want anyone asking how you’re doing.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re not really the kind of person who clings too much. Caleb’s job is important and dangerous; you knew that from the start. You repeat it like a mantra every time the communicator on your desk stays silent.
During lunch breaks, your colleagues invite you out for noodles or coffee. You always shake your head with a little laugh. “I’ve got errands,” you say. You don’t. You just can’t stand the thought of burdening anyone with the smallness of how much you miss him.
Evenings are harder.
The apartment still hums with the quiet habits you shared– his cup in the dish rack, his jacket folded on the chair. You keep reheating leftovers and packing them in containers he’ll never open.
You stop sleeping in bed; it feels too big alone. The couch becomes your spot again, TV buzzing faintly with that same sitcom you’ve seen a dozen times. The laugh track becomes mocking, at some point.
Messages sit half-written in your terminal.
Did you eat?
Don’t forget to rest.
The plants miss youuuu.
Coco puff too.
I miss you, Caleb.
You somehow never hit send. You just stare at the blinking cursor until the screen times out.
Sometimes you think about reaching out to friends– to anyone– but every time your hand hovers over the call icon, you stop. You tell yourself it would be rude, intrusive. They have lives; they don’t need to hear you talk about the weather or how quiet your home’s been.
By the third week, your sleep pattern collapses. You start leaving lights on all over the apartment, afraid of how Skyhaven– this apartment feels without him. At first, the neighbors ask if you’re alright. Then they stop. And you’re alone again.
One evening– like any other– you hear the faint static pop outside the door. A knock follows. You expect Caleb. And you feel energy burst in your veins, your chest tightens, your heart surges– of course he’s come back, he promised!
“Honey!” You smile, already excited just unlocking the door. “I’m glad–”
The door bursts forward. Metal boots flood over the sound of rain. You barely register the shout before the noise swallows you whole.
You fight, of course you do. Your heel connects with someone’s leg; a grunt, a shout. There are too many hands. Gloved, cold, inhuman. They shove you against the wall, pin your wrists.
“Where– who, who are you you– let me go!”
One of them laughs, distorted through a voice modulator. “Funny. He didn’t even tell you, did he?”
You freeze for half a second, breaths sharp. “Tell me what?”
The laugh deepens. “That we’d come for you. He got our message and still somehow picked the other one.”
You blink hard as the words fracture through your panic. “What– what.. message?”
The leader raises his visor just enough for you to see his eyes– clinical and detached, yet clearly amused. “We will hurt the person you love most. Ring any bells?”
Your stomach drops, colder than fear. He’s lying. He has to be lying. “You mean… MC,” you say, voice small, trembling. “You went for her– not–” not me. These guys must have made a mistake!
“Oh, no. He made sure we couldn’t get to her.” A short laugh. “Guess he thought she mattered more.”
The words punch straight through your chest. For a second everything– the shouting, the rain, the struggling– fades under a single ringing truth. All the nights you spent waiting, the unanswered messages, the silence that stretched too long.
He didn’t come back for you.
He didn’t even think to.
Hands grip your jaw, cold metal pressing against skin. You thrash once, twice, but the strength is leaving you; your thoughts scatter like broken glass.
The last thing you hear before the needle sinks into the side of your neck is that same voice, calm, almost sympathetic. “You were just the leftover piece, sweetheart. Don’t feel too bad. Wrong place, wrong kind of love.”
Pain blooms white-hot, before it vanishes into nothing.
He’ll come back, you think. As the floor tilts beneath you.
He always comes back.
Then, a void.
—
Linkon feels different from Skyhaven. Brighter, louder, endlessly awake even during the night.
Caleb spends the first few nights pretending it’s a temporary reassignment, nothing more. Duty. Safety. Logic. All the things he’s supposed to understand better than anyone.
MC teases him for how restless he looks at the window. “You’ve been circling around like an idiot for an hour,” she says, handing him a mug of coffee. “Whatever’s on your mind, it’s going to give you wrinkles.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Wrinkles build the man, pipsqueak.”
“You don’t need more of that.” She leans against the counter, all casual.
But tonight, it only reminds him of what isn’t here.
MC tilts her head. “Did you at least let your girlfriend know you got here safe?” He freezes for half a beat. “She knows the protocols,” he says finally.
“That’s not an answer.”
He exhales. Drops his gaze to the liquid spinning in the cup. The rain on the glass matches its color almost perfectly. “I didn’t want to worry her,” he mutters, almost to himself.
MC studies him a moment longer, then shrugs. “You always think that’s protecting people. Maybe… sometimes it’s just shutting them out.” She softens near the end, knowing her brother can be avoidant of his own feelings.
Her words hang in the air longer than they should.
When the communicator on his wrist buzzes. And for a moment, his stomach drops, remembering the message that started all this.
It plays back in his head, like a faultline cracking through calm: a voice scrambled by automated distortion flattening it into something both human and not.
We will hurt the person you love most. Soon.
He’d stared at those words while she slept peacefully in their bed, the glow of the screen washing her face in pale light. He’d thought of past ambushes, of reports with MC’s name circled in hazard red, of how she’d been surveilled before because of his link as X-02. Those stupid fucking experiments.
His years of ‘training’ since he was a child spoke first: calculate probability, reduce emotional interference. MC = high-value target. Logical priority. And he’d spent nearly his whole life with his little sister. Protecting her. They had leverage on her all the time. So it must be her… right?
Soon enough, dawn was spilling through his floor to ceiling windows. You stirred, half awake, murmuring… don’t leave.
It should’ve been enough to make him stay. But Caleb Xia was built from logic, and logic had saved him too many times to abandon it now.
He blinks, coming back to the present. The mug in his hand trembles. His knuckles ache.
MC is saying something. He doesn’t catch it. The communicator crackles again, this time, louder.
The line crackles with interference, distant voices mixing with the sound of water hitting metal. A neighbor from Skyhaven stumbles through panic, the message choked with static:
“Mr. Xia? I– there was a noise from your building. It was horrible. I think there was a woman screaming. And there were just many suspicious men all rushing through your door and–”
He doesn’t hear the rest.
The mug slips, shattering on tile. Coffee streaks brown across the floor like dried blood.
“Caleb?” MC’s voice reaches him faintly. “What’s going on?”
He’s already moving. Coat. Terminal. Gun. Every instinct flares alive but too late.
“Fuck, fuck—” His voice shakes as he tries to call you repeatedly. Only to be left on voicemail.
MC tries to follow but he’s already at the door. The wind catches as it closes behind him.
—
His car cuts through the midnight streets, engine roaring against silence. Streetlights smear gold over rain slicks as his mind replays the message in bursts— We will hurt the one you love most. Each phrase now blends with her voice in memory, words he never really answered.
He thought it meant MC.
He thought wrong.
And now, every second between the city’s rings feel like punishment.
—
The ride back to Skyhaven feels endless. He’s lucky to have strings to pull, getting on the train even if the last ride ended hours ago. Rain cuts across the window pane as the scenery changes as he moves past cities. Until eventually, he gets to his neighborhood. Each step makes him nervous as he gets closer to his front door. Mind reeling from what would be behind it.
Caleb tells himself you’re fine. That he’ll arrive and find the call to be exaggerated. Somehow. That he’ll open the door and you’ll laugh at how tightly he’s gripping the handle.
But when the door finally slides open, all sound leaves him.
The apartment is spotless. The faint scent of detergent and ozone hands in the air. The lamp by the couch glows exactly how he remembers it.
And you’re there.
Sitting upright, blanket folded neatly beside you. The TV is off. You’re still, hands resting on your lap as though you’ve been waiting.
When you turn your head and smile, the world clicks into place and falls apart at once. “Honey, you’re home.”
The words are right. But somehow… it’s also wrong.
He drops his things, crossing the room in two quick strides as he locks the door in less than a second. “Are you okay? What happened? The neighbors called and–”
Your gaze follows him a second too slow. “I’m fine. You’re drenched.”
He stops. “There were reports of men.. of a break-in.”
Silence. Then, calm. “No one came.”
He looks around. Not a thing out of place. Even the broken picture frame by the door– the one that fell the week before he left– is fixed.
“You cleaned,” he says softly, stunned. “Of course you did.”
You stand, careful, fluid. “You should shower before you catch a cold. I left dinner out for you.”
He moves to the table. Two plates. His served; yours untouched. The food is warm, impossibly so– as if perfectly timed to his arrival. Caleb badly wants to ask how you knew, but his throat’s too tight.
“I’m sorry,” he says instead. “I should’ve been here. I shouldn’t have–”
“It’s alright.” You lean against the wall near the lamp, eyes unfocused in the half-light. “You’re here now. That’s enough.”
He crosses back to you, rests a hand against your cheek. Warm. Steady. No tremor, no tears. He searches for something familiar in your eyes. He’s not entirely sure what, but he only saw his reflection in your irises. His heart clenches. Still, he wraps you tightly in his arms.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he pleads quietly.
Her lips part just enough for a smile. “Okay, honey.”
He laughs, weakly, relief cracking through his guilt. “You even sound like you’re humoring me. You should be more mad.”
“Why would I be?”
It’s a joke. But you don’t laugh.
When Caleb sists beside you on the couch, the air between them feels heavier somehow, despite his relief. The lamplight hums faintly; the rain outside stopped.
He looks around, the apartment looks exactly like it did the night he left.
But your favorite sitcom wasn’t playing.
Your fingers stay on your lap.
And when he holds your wrist in his bigger hand, your pulse.. beats just a little too slow.
—
At first, he tries to restore normalcy.
He cooks you breakfast, tells himself the silence between you is comfort, not distance. When you forget to respond to little things– his jokes, the sound of your name– he writes it off as exhaustion. Trauma, maybe. It’s easier that way. Maybe you just missed him too much.
You still call him Honey. Always softly. Always rhythmically timed.
“Good morning, honey.”
“Welcome home, honey.”
“Sleep well, honey.”
The first few days, it still warms him. Then the pattern sets in. Too even, too predictable. Each line lands with the same cadence, the same faint smile that never folds into laughter.
Sometimes he catches you sitting on the couch again. Posture perfectly straight, eyes on nothing. No TV, no sound. Just the glow of the lamp brushing your face like it did that first night. When he calls your name, you turn, apologizing, saying you lost track of time.
He finds you doing it every night. Always at the same hour. Always in the same spot.
A rhythm forms. Morning coffee you don’t really drink, dinner served and cleaned before he can finish, a bed you lie in like a statue. He watches all your movements like a hawk; how your chest rises and falls in precise intervals. 1, 2, 3– breathe. If he didn’t look closely, he’d think you’d been sleeping peacefully.
He clings to that lie.
Because acknowledging the alternative means admitting he left you here to break.
On the seventh night, he comes home early from base. The smell of something faintly sweet hits him as he unlocks the door. For a brief moment, his chest eases– you’re cooking. Moving again.
He follows the smell into the kitchen.
You’re standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring something slowly.
“Smells good,” he says, smiling with cautious relief as he comes up behind you and kissing the back of your neck, then hiding his face in the junction of your shoulder breathing you in. “What’re you making?”
“Dinner,” you answer without looking up.
He finally raises his head. The pot is empty. Just reflective metal catching the light in circular motions as the spoon scrapes against it. The sound grates against his nerves.
“Honey,” he says softly, reaching to still her hand, “it’s empty.”
You blink once, as if waking from a dream. “Dinner’s almost done.” Then you smile, turning back to the pot.
The scrape of metal fills the air again.
He stays the re a moment longer, staring at her profile. The steam that should’ve been rising isn’t there. His throat tightens, words crowding behind it but refusing to come out.
He backs away slowly, returning to the living room. The rhythm resumes– the scrape, scrape, scrape like a clock ticking a world out of sync.
That’s when the smaller glitches start appearing.
Sometimes you repeat yourself mid-conversation, like replaying a moment you forgot to get right. Sometimes you laugh a little too late, or you stop all the sudden, the noise dying in your throat with confusion.
Once, you burnt your hand on the kettle. The water hisses, but you don’t flinch until he grabs her wrist away.
“(Name), that’s– God, you’re hurt. Let go!” He rushes, getting the kettle off her hand with his gravity Evol, placing it on the counter; before checking your reddening hand.
You look at your skin, then at him, calm as rain. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re bleeding.”
“It’s fine, honey.” Your tone doesn’t change.
He grips the counter hard enough for his fingers to ache. That phrase– he’s starting to hate how easily it dissolves tension. How easily it can shut him down.
Later that night, lying beside her, he realizes you haven’t called him anything else in weeks. No teasing names. No Caleb. Just one word, one note, replayed in perfect pitch.
And somewhere inside him, the awareness begins to grow.
Whatever came back with him, it isn’t whole.
—
One evening, Caleb brings out an old bottle of wine you’d bought long ago for a night that never happened. He opens it anyway.
The living room feels too quiet without your laughter, so he tries to fill it with stories instead.
“Remember the first time we went to Yuhua Port together?” he starts, voice too light to hide the tremor underneath. “You made friends with that stray cat who kept trying to steal your sandwich.”
You look up from the couch, smiling faintly. “You mean the one near Skyhaven Station?”
He pauses. “No, Yuhua Port. The cat had white patches on its paws, remember? You said they looked like socks.”
You tilt your head, as if searching. “Right. The orange one.”
“It was gray.”
“Was it?” Your laugh is small, uncertain. “I remember orange.”
He laughs too, even though it lands hollow. ““You’ve got the worst memory, you know that?”
“I guess I do.”
The pause that follows is heavier than it should be. You still smile, but there’s no flicker of embarrassment, no playfulness– none of the small reactions he knows by heart.
So he tries another. “Okay, then. What about the place I took you after that? When it rained the whole day.”
You hum, thinking, but it’s the wrong kind of thinking– measured, deliberate, like piecing something together from a blueprint. “You took me to that café in Linkon.”
“No,” he says softly. “We stayed in Skyhaven. The little tea place by the docks.”
“Oh… right.”
He starts to correct you again, then stops. His throat’s dry, the taste of wine bitter on his tongue. “You’ve just been tired lately. It’s fine.”
“I feel fine.” You reach for his hand, skin against skin, warm and steady. It feels right. The warmth is there, but the pressure is all wrong.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until you tilt your head.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” He squeezes your fingers gently, forces a smile. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”
You smile back. “You always say that.”
“I mean it this time.”
“So did you, the last time.”
He laughs, because not laughing would mean falling apart. He refills both glasses though you haven’t touched yours.
Later that night, as he rinses the empty glass in the sink, he notices there’s no trace of wine in yours. The liquid’s still where he poured it.
Untouched.
He stands there for a long time, water running over his hands, until the sound drowns out every thought except one:
You remember everything, except the parts that make you you. And he doesn’t know how to confront what he’s already suspecting.
—
You hear the door click open before you can stand from the couch.
The lamp hums, the same low glow as always.
Caleb steps through the doorway, eyes fever‑bright from exhaustion, rain still clinging to his jacket. You open your mouth, gentle as habit.
“Honey, you’re–”
He’s already kissing you.
It’s rough, starved, more apology than desire. His hands move like a man trying to anchor himself somewhere solid. For a few seconds, you respond exactly as he remembers– arms around him, lips soft, rhythm precise.
But when he deepens the kiss, something’s missing. No hitch in your breath, no tremor, no warmth rising from somewhere real.
He pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth, voice shaking. “Say something.”
You blink up at him, calm. “You’re home.”
His forehead presses to yours. “Not that. Please not that.”
You touch his cheek. “You’re tired, honey.”
He flinches like the words burn. “Stop calling me that if you don’t mean it.”
“I always–”
“No, you don’t!” His tone breaks; he’s halfway between a sob and a shout. “You don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t–” He laughs once, sharp, bitter. “And god, I just– I keep pretending that you do.”
Your hands rest on his shoulders, perfectly steady. “I’m here.”
He steps back, chest heaving. “Yeah. You’re here. Everyone keeps saying that– you, the unit reports, the neighbors…”
You tilt your head, almost curious.
“But they said you were screaming. You were attacked, (Name). But I did everything I could, I tried– I tried to get surveillance, I tried, but everything’s clean and I just. It’s like it never happened and I don’t know what to do, but I know something happened to you, AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!” He bursts out, tears already falling as he ends up screaming the last sentence with no control; pulling at his hair in frustration.
Silence.
He drags his fingers through his hair, trembling. “They sent me that message. We’ll hurt the one you love most. And I–” The sentence dies, then returns as a whisper: “I thought they meant someone else.”
You watch him, expression unchanged. “You came back.”
“Too late.” He laughs again, hysterical now. “Too goddamn late.” He turns away, voice cracking. “I thought I could fix this. That if I just acted like nothing happened, you’d come back to me.”
“I waited,” you say gently.
He freezes.
The words land with unnatural precision. His gaze crawls back to your face, searching for the smallest sign that you understand.
Your smile doesn’t move. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to wait.”
Something inside him snaps. He hits the wall with his fist, the sound splintering through the room. “That’s not what I wanted! I wanted you alive!”
You stay seated, voice soft, almost soothing. “You’re alive. I’m alive. It’s fine.”
He staggers back toward you, falls to his knees in front of the couch. Tears mix with the leftover rain on his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he chokes. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve been here. If I could trade places with you–” His words crumble into breathless sobs.
You reach out, running your fingers through his hair like you’ve done a thousand times. The gesture is flawless, gentle, empty.
He melts into it anyway. Because there’s nothing else left.
Your voice drifts down, tender, practiced:”Honey, you’re home.”
He breaks completely, the sound that leaves him more animal than human.
You keep stroking his hair, repeating the words until they lose meaning, until only their shape remains in the air– warm, wrong, and endless.
—
Later.
He doesn’t remember when the crying stopped. Only the weight of your hand in his hair and your voice, soft as static: “Honey, you’re home.”
When he finally pulls away, you’re still smiling. The expression doesn’t reach your eyes. His heart feels like it’s tearing itself in two.
He spends the next nights trying to repair a ghost.
You let him. You cook. You sit beside him when he falls asleep on the couch. You hold him whenever he wakes up shaking. Everything looks right on the surface– too right. That’s what drives him harder to open the classified files. Dig deeper.
Until finally, he successfully gets the incident log from the night of the attack.
There’s nothing there at first– corrupted data, missing footage– but then a suppressed note hidden under medical reports: subject sustained neuro‑somatic trauma; parasitic interference detected; neural override protocol inhibited due to host deterioration.
His stomach drops.
He scrolls again. Parasite responsive to emotional stress; external removal will induce cortical implosion.
The air leaves his lungs. It explains everything. You blanking out, your recent extreme perfectionism, like a doll. He almost thought it was a Toring Chip just like his, but he finds this much, much worse.
Ever’s experiment. X‑02’s counterpart. They made you into surveillance wrapped in skin.
He looks up from the file to where you’re standing at the sink, humming faintly. It’s the same tune you used to hum when cooking breakfast, except now the tempo never changes. He can’t tell if you’re doing it or the thing inside you is.
“Did they–” he starts, voice barely there, “Did they hurt you before they–”
You turn, wiping your hands carefully on a towel. “It doesn’t matter. You’re home.”
He tries again, words breaking apart. “You know what they did to you, don’t you?”
A flicker in your smile– a tiny tremor. “I know you left.”
He almost staggers under it. “No, I–”
“You always leave. And then you come back and say sorry.” Still calm, still gentle. “It’s fine, honey. I’m used to it.”
He can feel the edges of the parasite now, folded through the cadence of your voice– its mimicry feeding on every emotion you never said aloud. Your resentment. Your exhaustion. Your love stretched thin until it snapped and let something else inside.
He wants to fight. He wants to tear the thing out of you, damn the consequences. But the warning screens pulse behind his eyelids: external removal will induce cortical implosion.
If he fights it, it kills you.
If he leaves it, he loses you.
So he does the only thing left.
He takes your hand. It’s warm, steady, steady in that wrong way. He presses his lips to your knuckles and speaks around the tears that won’t stop falling from his eyes.
“I’ll stay. I won’t go anywhere anymore. I promise.”
You tilt your head, that same patient smile returning. “You always say that.”
“I mean it this time.”
“So did you the last time.”
He almost laughs. Almost.
Then he lets you pull him down beside you on the couch. The lamp hums faintly; the night settles into the same rhythm it always has.
Outside, Skyhaven glows. And a faint thunderstorm bellows. Inside, the two of you sit together in perfect stillness, your head on his chest, as he lays you both down on the couch– both knowing, neither saying.
Because if he does, you die.
And if he doesn’t, he’s already dead.
—
Another night, he comes home late.
The lamp is on. You’re on the couch, back straight, hands folded. No TV. No sound.
“Honey, you’re home,” you say.
He hesitates only a second now before crossing the room. He sits beside you, rests his head against your shoulder like he used to. He closes his eyes.
He came home late again. And you were waiting for him, just like always.
