peachylynnie

[peachylynnie]

how to stop the rain | sylus q.

— summary: you just wanted to catch bugs. but the rain had other plans, forcing you to wait it out in your home where another tempest brewed inside, spurred by your unlikely company.

— cw: female reader, female anatomy described, animal crossing au (the animals are human-sized & you don’t look like adorable chibis, just regular-degular people), vanilla-ass, penetrative sex, cunnilingus, fingering, creampie, friends to lovers, jealousy, silliness, romantic dribble, profanity, terms of endearment, consent king, praise, sylus is just a chill dude who likes you, like one bestiality joke, mdni

— notes: fueled by this blurb & this one & @alfredosaws & @asirensrage inspiring me with their comments. as always, thank you for reading, turtledoves.

— now playing: stale cupcakes - sleeping phoenix

It’s raining.

You can’t say you didn’t anticipate it; Isabelle forecasted it in her daily announcement. Still, you insisted on foraging for materials and hunting for bugs, dragging an indifferent Sylus alongside you. 

You were about to capture a monarch butterfly, net poised overhead. Sylus watched you with quiet amusement, leaning against a cedar tree when the first clap of thunder shook the sleepy island. The resulting drizzle quickly morphed into a downpour, chasing the island’s other inhabitants inside. 

“Not a word,” you clipped when Sylus snickered beside you, kneeling to help you gather your tools. You weren’t sure what irritated you more—the rain’s uncanny timing, Sylus’ teasing, or the pretty, cyan monarch fluttering just out of reach of your net. You had been hunting that thing for days!

The pair of you fled the forest as rain pelted down, your curses and laughter intermingling with that of your heavy footfalls splashing in errant puddles. Sylus used his coat as a makeshift umbrella, but it didn’t hold for long. You were both drenched, your clothes matted to you like a second skin, by the time you reached your doorstep. 

Swathed in the pale haze of your entryway, you pant as your mirth peters out. And as the silence of your home takes over, you become keenly aware of how close you are to him. How warmth radiates off his skin, scorching you to the bone. And the scent he carries is reminiscent of bonfires and sea spray, an aroma you’ve learned to associate with home. 

Your eyes slide over the contours of his torso, defined by the wet cling of his shirt. He’s a far cry from unsightly—you first noticed how handsome he was when he appeared on your quiet little island some months back, swept in by the idle drag of the tide. 

Your study ends at his face where your gazes interlock, his scarlet eyes creasing with mirth to match the cant of his lips. “Like what you see, sweetheart?”

You quickly look away as heat creeps into your face, evoking a chuckle from the center of your ruminations. 

“Clothes. I’ll get you some clothes,” you utter, feeling along the wall for your light switch. 

The confined space floods with warm light—your saving grace. You maneuver through your home, drip-dropping onto the hardwood floors in pursuit of your bedroom. With a towel draped over your shoulders, you return to the figure standing in your living space, a dark, regal cutout amid your minimalistic decor. 

You clear your throat, more so to cast away the dreamlike fog that had befallen you. Toss a towel at his head, avoiding the inquisitive arch of his brow as you deposit sweatpants and an oversized shirt into his hands.

“Clothes from an old fling?” Sylus pokes, something new coloring his typically flat tone. 

You shrug as you make for the hallway, ignoring how a bit of you sparkles at the prospect of him being jealous. You are merely friends—you showed him the ropes when he was disoriented and irritable, helping him find a place on the island when he finally accepted that it was his new home. 

As time passed, you found it more challenging to deny your attraction to him. Sure, he appeared rough on the outside. But as he settled into the humdrum of your lifestyle, his rigid edges started to smoothen, and you discovered there was more to him than his sharp quips and shady origins.

You retreat into your room once more, your waterlogged clothes puddling around your feet. You settle on a shower. Its soothing spray eases the tight coil of your muscles. Washes the grime from your skin. When you’ve thoroughly scrubbed off the day’s adventures, you pour yourself into something comfortable, towel-drying your hair before emerging in your home’s main lounge. 

It’s serene here. Warm—you lit some logs in the fireplace to chase away the biting cold the rain ushered in. The pop and fizz of the fire merge with the sound of rain patterning your rooftop. The shower in the guest bathroom sputters to life. Sylus must have had the same idea, his clothes folded in a neat pile atop your dryer. Briefly, you tango with the imagery of him in the shower. Skin flushed from the hot spray, water easing over the ridges of his body, lips parted with a relaxed sigh pushing through them, his back muscles—

You chuck his attire into the dryer alongside yours, deciding that a pot of tea would be a lovely distraction. 

Seated at your dining table, you smile as you watch the rain beyond your window, the warmth of your mug bleeding into your palms. With your finger, you draw nonsensical shapes into the condensation collecting on your windowpane, falling into a bout of normalcy.  

You hardly register the guest bathroom door opening, nor do you notice the figure moving through the quiet tranquility of your abode until he startles you with the click of your electric kettle placed back on its base.

You’re met with a defined, warm ivory stretch of skin panning in. With scarlet eyes tuned to you beneath alabaster locks pasted to his forehead, wet from his shower. He towels off his hair as he slides onto the chair across you, legs crossed, and you owlishly blink as he sips your tea from one of your mugs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

No matter how often you’ve invited him into your home, you'll never get used to this. How massive he is in comparison to your humble kitchen. What audacity he has, making himself comfortable as if it’s his second home. And shirtless, no less. Bloody shirtless and shameless, and your throat grows dry as you force your eyes elsewhere, grip white-knuckled on your cup’s handle. 

“Was the shirt too small?” you ask to assuage your nerves, knocking the ceramic lip of the mug against your teeth. Smooth. Real smooth.

“It was,” he replies with a twitch of a smirk. Perches his elbow on the headrest, and you try vainly to ignore how such a simple movement boasts his bicep. “I don’t necessarily enjoy wearing another man’s clothes, either,” he adds, pensively looking down at his sweats. They’re a snug fit, the hems cinched around his shins. “A small one, at that.”

You sputter into your mug, tea flying every which way. Bite back a smug little smile as you blot your mouth dry with your sleeve. Sylus’ brow quirks. Never mind if the pants don’t quite fit him. He’s jealous, isn’t he?

Who would’ve thought your companion possessed such a trait? And for you, of all people? Perhaps you’re not as friendly as you perceived, and the notion makes you brim with muted glee. 

In all honesty, the clothes are yours. You have a penchant for loose-fitting, oversized things. But you decide to play up this newfound insecurity, feigning nonchalance as you sip from your mug. 

“Who else has been here besides me?” prods Sylus, voice fringed by bitterness. “As far as I've gleaned, we’re the only two humans on this island.”

It’s endearing, really—how up and arms he’s getting, bristling like a wet cat, leaning slightly over the table to interrogate you. Scarlet eyes narrow beneath pinched brows, something of a pout tugging his lips southward. 

You shrug, spurred by his envy. “Who knows? It could’ve been the mailman, Saharah, maybe even—ow!” You flinch, rubbing your forehead. You fix Sylus with a scowl. 

He smirks, leaning back in an easy slouch against your chair after flicking you, arms crossed over a virile chest. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it, sweetie.” 

The term of endearment rolls so effortlessly off his tongue. You forget how much your forehead smarts, your petty greed for revenge. He’s called you his ‘sweetie,’ or some variation of it, for as long as you can recall, rarely addressing you by your given name. 

You sit up in your seat, clasping the steadily cooling mug between your hands. Drum your fingers against the crisp ceramic as a quiet smile rounds your lips, and you chuckle, fondness blooming like lotus petals in your chest. You decide you quite like this side of him, his usual cockiness traded for something fragile, childlike. 

Just when you’ve decided to forgive him and reveal that those pants he’s wearing are yours, Sylus has to open his big, stupid mouth. And suddenly, you don’t feel so bad for giving him the piss.

“You don’t peg me as one for bestiality, so I doubt you’ve done anything with the animals on this island. Unless—”

The rain. When the fuck was it going to stop raining?

—

You’re not entirely sure what leads to it—your breasts, warm and soft beneath the might of his chest, your breaths intermingling as you study each other on your floor.

Perhaps it began whilst seated on your couch, your thighs occasionally touching as you listened to the rainfall, filling the hushed space with idle quips and chatter. Or maybe it started when Sylus draped an arm about the back of your sofa, unconsciously scooting closer, watching your lips form words so intensely. Could it have started when he grabbed your chin, canting your face towards his under the guise of swiping some lint from your cheek?

Or could it have been something long-forming? Something bubbling like sea foam between you, building over the span of six months spent in each other’s company. Playing this silly game of keep-away, like your feelings for each other weren’t branded into your wrists for all the island to see.

Who knows.

You haven’t much time to dwell on the source because his mouth is panning in. Petal pink and soft, dark lashes bowing over peach-tinged cheeks. And you’re quietly awaiting the union of your mouths. Polite as your eyelids shutter, your palms gently perched on his traps. 

He’s kissing you before you know what’s about. Lips a tender yet insistent pressure against yours, sending your heart soaring into the stratosphere. His soft groan vibrates your lips, furls in your chest, your veins pumping liquid fire. You draw away from each other carefully, and your bleary eyes crack open, ingesting the sight of scarlet irises smoldering like liquid spilled over hot coals. 

He sifts through your gaze, wordlessly asking to kiss you again. You don’t deter him, lifting your head to meet him halfway, guided by your arms slowly snaking about his neck. He kisses you again, full-bodied and assured this time, chest deflating as he presses more into you. His lips part, a sweltering tongue easing out, seeking out the slippery glide of yours. When you return his attention, he groans something bitten-off, the sound of it reminiscent of thunder churning in the horizon.  

You lose yourself to the feel of him, to the pressure of his lips and his hips notching between your splayed-open legs. He’s heavy, mooring you to the floor with half his weight settled on his elbow beside you. You don’t complain, feeling so very safe, your fingers gliding between the warm, silken strands of his hair.

The kiss grows more feverish as the seconds pass. And you’re distracted from the devastatingly possessive slant of his mouth when his fingers creep like spindly spider limbs over your body, pushing up your shirt until the supple skin of your side skates beneath his fingertips.

He breaks away with a sticky click. Lips distended, curving into a smile. Affection colors his countenance, a side of him you’ve rarely witnessed, and the sight of it siphons the air from your lungs. 

“We can stop,” he murmurs, voice gritty like sand caught between your teeth. “We can stop if you’d like to.”

“Never,” you breathe, snatching him into another lip-lock.

He laughs into your greedy little mouth, murmuring between each sticky grind of your lips. “Are you sure—” Kiss. “—your ex-boyfriend—” Kiss. “—won’t mind?”

You fix him with a deadpan look at his callback to your baggy clothes, to which he smiles, fragile and unguarded, and you feel it pulling in your chest. 

Silence stretches between you, pulled taut like a bowstring, whilst you scrutinize each other’s faces. The atmosphere grows heavy with yearning and something more nestled in between. Something like love. For a moment, nothing but the distant rain and the violent pulsing of your heartbeats fill the space. Your lips quiver. His eyes fall to your mouth.

Sylus takes your wordless cue, sneaking his arms beneath your waist to draw you closer, and you’re giggling like an enamored adolescent as he hauls you up with him, your ankles intuitively crossing at the divot of his back. He carries you through your home, toeing your bedroom door open before laying you amongst the crisp, doughy comforter of your bed.  

He leaves you breathless and starstruck as you sit up on your elbows, watching the focal point of your affections sluggishly pull the string of his sweats free. He observes you with a mischievous glaze to his eyes, chin tilted up, bottom lip caught between his teeth as the muted glow of your bedroom outlines the rigid contours of his body.

He moves tortuously slow, tugging the waistband of his—your— pants southward, the neat beginnings of a silver trail catching your sight. He maintains some modicum of modesty, his girth prominent yet concealed by the loose hug of his briefs once he’s divested himself of your sweats. 

Your mouth hangs open, throat dry. Something warm spills into your belly, puddling in the apex of your thighs. Your gaze flits back to his, and he moves like a soundless beast through the haze, pushing you back against your mattress with a kiss, your legs instinctively parting to make room for him.

He’s blistering your neck with kisses now, eliciting the cutest little sounds from your throat. Nipping, licking, claiming his way down, concluding his mouth’s excursion at your collarbones. Your fingers rove over the tight chords of muscle in his back. And you sigh, hot and wanton, shutting your eyes with your head thrown back when he bites down, sure to leave pretty splotches of purple flowering on your skin come morning. A marking, a branding, a claim on the off chance that there really is someone else. 

His desire prods the inner cut of your thigh. You burn hot as your hips conduct a shy rhythm of their own accord, undulating off the bed to grind against him. Sylus hisses something sharp, sticky. Exhales all slow like he’s trying to rein himself in. Palms, broad and possessive, mold around your waist, anchoring you down, halting their tantalizing dance.

You whine petulantly, meeting the molten wash of his gaze. 

“Are you sure this is what you want,” he whispers, open-mouthed against the column of your throat. The fragility of his tone makes your heart pinch. “Are you sure I’m what you want?”

You nod vigorously, biting your lip. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more. You’ve often craved this closeness—this level of intimacy with him. You were too afraid to act on your sentiments in case he didn’t reciprocate them. Would rather waste your days quietly pining for him at his side instead of running him off with your feelings.

“Your words, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “Use them.”

“Yes. Yes, I want this, and you. I want you.” 

The words flee from betwixt your lips without nary a thought. And the muggy air of your bedroom shifts again, something of danger tinging it. His lips crook with a smirk. He sits back on his haunches, heavy hands scrubbing down your quads, over your knees and shins to close around your ankles. 

“In that case, sweetling, we should get you out of these clothes.”

You move so comically fast, tearing your shirt from your shoulders, shimmying out of your bottoms and underwear to kick them off. Sylus can’t help but laugh, and heat branches into your neck. He swoops in to capture a pebbled nipple between his lips, corking whatever words of protest you planned in your throat. 

You bow into him on an exhale, fingers sifting through his hair as a pleasant pressure curdles between your thighs. His gaze never relinquishes yours, and having him watch you so intensely makes you throb. It’s as if he’s already attuned to your body, a devilish hand easing down the ripples of your rib cage, past your navel, to cup the radiant heat of your muff.

He groans when he feels you. Sweltering and slick, dribbling into his palm. Two fingers curl inward, stroking through your folds in search of the pucker of your cunt. When he finds it, he teases its sticky perimeter, the tips of his fingers easing in and out with an obscene schlick. He moves to pay similar homage to your other nipple with his mouth, and the sensation of it on you, coupled with the slow press of his fingers and his thumb meticulously circling your clit, drives you to the brink of insanity.

“Sylus, please, just—fuck.”

“Mm?” he hums, tongue swirling about the hardened peak of your nipple in his mouth. 

You clench around him, trying vainly to trap his digits within the warm clench of your cunt. You whine when he draws his hand back, your slick painting your inner thigh like a gooey, translucent brush stroke. He’s going to make you beg—you just know it. 

Swallowing your pride, your inhibitions, your bashfulness, you grab a fistful of his hair, and he shudders, releasing your nipple with a lew pop, all bleary-eyed and panting. 

“Too much?” he exhales, his countenance awash with sleepy desire.

“More. I need more,” you relent, acutely aware of how tightly you’ve gripped his locks. You quickly release him, feeling bad for pulling to the point of pain. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine, sweetheart,” Sylus soothes, taking your hand and guiding it back to the delicate hairs at his nape. “I quite like this side of you. So beautiful when you beg. When you use me like this. Can’t get enough of it.”

His lashes shutter as he kisses down your stomach, agonizingly slow, mouth hovering dangerously close to where you radiate heat. He kisses each inner wind of your thigh. Noses the bulge of your clit, sending pleasant shockwaves rippling throughout your body. 

“Here?” A kiss where outer labia meets thigh. “You want me here, sweetheart?” Another to the other side, the warm musk of your sex causing his eyes to dip into a mysterious shade of garnet.

You nod drunkenly, your fingers twitching in his hair. 

“Words.” Sylus teases your cunt with a flattened tongue, drawing it back into his mouth when you’ve barely registered the sensation.

“Yes, fuck. Right there. Right there.”

He wastes no time licking you open thereafter, his long fingers splitting your cunt wide in an upside-down V. He groans with each swipe of his tongue as if thanking you for the meal. The gratified rumble of his voice, accompanied by the skilled flit of his tongue, pushes you closer toward that slurry edge. Closer to that blissful void where the world falls away, leaving you tenuous and weightless.

“Come for me, sweetling,” he urges against your cunt, employing his fingers to help get you there. They curl and piston, the coiling sensation brewing in your stomach, slowly unwinding. And with a final nudge to your clit with his tongue, the world opens up and swallows you whole, making way for a blissful white, your tendons shaking, lips quivering around the vowels of his name. 

He strokes you through your orgasm. Kisses and licks until the stimulation borders pain, and you pull on his hair, quietly urging him to stop. He reluctantly draws away from your sex, towering over you, chin shining with your nectar in the gray hue of the light filtering in through your curtains. 

Your chest heaves as you greedily suck in oxygen. He strokes soothingly over your skin, watching you with all the fondness of the world. Pinches one of your nipples, and you wince, the aftershocks of your orgasm dragging over you like waves licking the shore. 

When you’ve fully sunk back into your skin, you’re reminded of how painfully hard he is, his girth pressing against your thigh, a dark patch of pre-spend staining the slit of his briefs. 

You sit up quickly, eager to please. Eager to reciprocate, fingers hooking beneath the elastic band, tugging down, and your mouth waters with the prospect of being wrapped around him. Of ingesting the briny edge of his pre-cum, sucking him sweetly into your mouth. But he stills you with a hand clasped around your wrist, a laugh dredged from his chest as if he’s perused the catalog of your thoughts. 

“Later, sweetheart,” he teases, splaying your fingers over his chest, where his heart beats a wild cadence just for you. He holds your gaze, scarlet irises brimming with tenderness. “For now, I want to ensure you truly desire this.”

He’s fucked you within an inch of your life on his tongue, on his fingers, and still, he seeks reassurance as if your mind will change with a sudden bout of whiplash.  

His mouth hinges open with the effort of breathing as your fingers ghost along the taut stretch of skin between his pectorals. Your hand eases down, wrist still ensnared by his pleasantly warm fingers, yet he doesn’t stop you this time when it dips into the slit of his underwear. He watches you as you tug him free, his turgid length slapping against the abdominals, a pretty, pearlescent strand of pre-spend catching in the low light.

Saliva puddles in your mouth at the sight of him. Red, swollen, and pulsing, and you guide your hand to the base of him, evoking a stifled sound and a shiver from his person when your fingers swallow him at the hilt. 

“I want you, Sylus,” you assure with all the conviction of the world. And you stroke him so good, his length hot and sturdy in your palm, twitching with each possessive tug. You’re enamored by the hoarse noises you evoke, each sound seemingly pinched from his lungs as if he fears pleasure. As if he’s never received it. 

Wordlessly, you lean back against your bed, guiding him against your slit. You coat the tip with your slick, sucking your lip between your teeth, watching him with lust-laden eyes as his carefully-constructed resolve crumbles.

“You feel so good here, Sylus,” you laud, shocked by the low gravel of your own voice. How you mustered the courage to praise him, to tease him like this, your breaths collectively catching when the tip prods your opening. “So, so good. Need you…here.”

“Careful, sweetheart,” he bites off, catching himself on his palms, roosted on either side of your torso. Pressing his hips against you, testing the swollen barrier of your cunt. “If you keep talking to me like that, you might start something you won’t be able to finish.”

Your eyes shine with mirth, contrasting the terribly distracting thing you’re doing with your hand—with your pretty, sticky cunt. “Try me.”

Sylus snorts, swatting your hand away. You watch with bated breath as he tugs his briefs down, kicking them off to join your clothes on the floor. He anchors you to the bed with the welcomed weight of his body, his cock dragging through your folds, saturating the shaft with your slick. “Shall I go shake a tree for a condom before we get started?”

You blanch, whacking him on the chest. And he laughs something hearty, throaty, full-blooded, apologizing with a kiss as he feeds his cock into you, pushing into the tight webbing of your cunt. You share an exhale. Exchange a look, his eyes searching for any signs of discomfort as he strokes into you, easing his way home. 

You find he’s massive in more than just stature. And you feel so very full. So complete, shaky breaths in, ankles instinctively locking around his waist.

Once he’s fully slid home, hips rucked up against your pubic mound, he stills, mercifully granting you time to adjust. There’s a crease to his brows. A downward twitch to his lips as he scrutinizes you. You lure him down to kiss away his concern, clenching around him once you’ve settled, signaling for him to continue. 

You swallow each other’s groans as he fucks into you. Steady strokes at first, tempering the pace. Always such a gentleman, putting your needs first, his desires pushed to the back burner. He’s selfless in everything he does. You’ve already had your fill, the tang of your sex still emblazoned on his tongue as he pushes it into your mouth, and your hips surge off the bed, meeting him stroke for delicious stroke. 

He tears away from your mouth, straightening. Looms over you like something beastly, one hand clasped around your ankle, holding you nice and open for him whilst the other eases between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with laser precision. 

His weighted balls knock against the cleft of your ass as he quickens the pace, twitching inside you, panting. Reveling in the love-drunk look on your face, how your mouth hangs open, words left unbidden on your tongue.

“Feels so nice,” he breathes betwixt each knock of his hips. “Never wanna stop. Taking me so well.”

Your hand slides down to press against his stomach, and you crane your neck to watch the union of your bodies. You feel like you’re in a dream, still in disbelief of what’s transpiring. This stranger who had dismantled the barrier you erected around your heart and pilfered it, rocking into you, the headboard cracking against the wall, chorusing with the thunder rolling over the horizon outside. 

That sparkling sensation builds again. Creeping like ivy through a lattice fence. You throw your head back, shutting your eyes. His fingers slip between the interstices of yours, pinning your hands to the bed as he fucks you, driven purely by instinct. By the sensation of you quaking around him, greedily sucking him in, never wanting to let go.

With one final snap of his hips, he comes undone, painting the gummy mesh of your cunt a sticky white, cum oozing down your inner thighs to stain the sheets below. He continues thumbing your clit as he pants, inching you off that plinth with him. 

“Another, sweetheart. Just like that. Give me one more,” he urges, still buried deep inside you. You clench your teeth, rocking your hips in time with the swipe of his thumb. “Give it to me.” Your walls finally shudder around him, phosphenes dancing behind your lids, the world floating around you. 

You come undone for the second time that afternoon, this one lazier than the last, but still all-consuming. He falls against you, your bodies coated in a fine sheen of dewy sweat as you laugh. And you squeeze him in an embrace, ignoring how he crushes the air from your lungs with his weight. You could die happy like this, your affections reciprocated, desire sated.

He unsheathes himself from the hot suction of your cunt once your breaths have evened out. You groan from the extraction, feeling so lonely and empty when he disappears from your bedroom. But he returns shortly after, gently cleaning up the remnants of your lovemaking with a towel, chuckling now and again when you tease him with one of your terrible jokes.

The remainder of your day is spent swathed in his embrace, your hips notched up against his groin, until sleep claims him. His steady breaths tickle the sensitive skin behind your ear. With a smile rounding your lips, you watch the rain fall through the gauzy material of your curtains, lulled into a sleepy haze by its gentle symphony. 

You might not have caught the butterfly you’ve been hunting all week. But you’ve captured something more appealing instead, you think, twisting in Sylus’ arms to admire him, gathering his cheeks in his palms. 

You watch his lashes dance with sleep, stroking the divot between his brows away with the pad of your thumb. You ease in to kiss him, something chaste and loving, and his lips twitch upward against yours. He pulls you tighter against him, murmuring something incoherent before burying his chin into the hollow of your shoulder, a content sigh pushing through his nostrils. 

[peachylynnie]

Good Boy | masterlist | ao3

@wearysparrows and i were talking this morning about dogs and work was really slow, so i just... wrote dog!sylus all day today. @leaderincrows is bursting with ideas for dog!sylus, but I only managed to fit some of them in this time (i'm so sorry, i hope you like anyway!). Maybe there needs to be more dog!sylus, i don't know. So voilà, I present you my very stupid take on the trope -> After a stray dog gets injured helping you in a fight against Wanderers, you take it home with you. Then one day, you wake up and find a man in your bed instead of your beloved dog. sylus x gn reader, sylus x mc. sylus acts like a real dog for 2/3ds of the fic. nsfw, there's penetrative sex, not with dog!sylus but with human!sylus (sylus penetrating), oral for both you and sylus, as a treat. Minor doggy injury, but he's fine. fluff, banter, teasing.

The snow is falling. Fat flakes, thick. The world is still, all sounds muffled under the blanket of snow covering the ground. 

The blood is bright on the snow, against the white. 

Your chest heaves as you stare down at the huge, beautiful dog. Wolf? You’re not sure. You’ve never been able to have a pet, never spent much time with animals. Wolf hybrids are outlawed within Linkon City limits, so you think it’s most likely that the injured animal before you is some kind of large shepherd dog. An albino, going by its red eyes, its long, silky looking thick coat of white fur, blending in with the snow.

Except for the blood.

Your Hunter’s watch alerted you to metaflux fluctuations while you were out with friends, in a park near the restaurant where you were having dinner. They stared, wide-eyed, as you stood up right as the main course arrived. 

“Duty calls,” you said.

Tara looked worried. “Why don’t you call for backup?”

You shook your head. “It’s not that big of a fluctuation. Xav’s sleeping, I’m not gonna wake him up for this.”

She glanced around at the group, gaze lingering on the guy whom she was trying to set you up with. “Okay…” she said, grimacing.

You knew you were going to get an earful for interrupting the blind date that Tara had arranged but you didn’t know you were attending when you arrived, in order to fight Wanderers. It was your night off too, after all. 

The guy seemed nice. Handsome. You just… felt nothing when you looked at him, when you listened to his small talk. You’d rather be out in the snow, risking your life.

Yeah, Tara might be right. There might be something wrong with you.

You were just bored, otherwise.

Without the adrenaline. The rush. The sense of accomplishment.

Most men you met just didn’t get it.

None of the men you met ever made your heart race, the way doing your job made it race.

Now, here you are. In the hushed, falling snow, staring down at the dog that just saved your ass from a surprise second Wanderer, while you were busy putting down the first.

The dog received a nasty swipe to its belly as a reward for its efforts.

It’s lying in the snow, curled in on itself, licking, licking.

You tuck your Deepspace Hunter standard issue firearms into your holsters, barrels still smoking in the cold. Crouch down into the snow, your boots crunching.

“Hey, buddy,” you say softly. One of the dog’s pretty, huge, pointy ears flicks in your direction, but it remains focused on tending its wound, its long tongue pink, its breath puffing in the frigid air.

You inch closer, waiting for a sign of defensive aggression, but the dog seems content to let you approach.

Finally, you’re crouched next to it. You lift your hand, and it lifts its head. It stares at you with its strange, bright red eyes. Bright, like the blood on the snow.

It sniffs your hand, nostrils flaring, and then lowers its head. As if deigning to allow you to pet it.

You stroke your fingers along its long snout, along its cheek. It huffs, closes its eyes.

“Can I see your tummy?” you ask, running your hand from its snout, down its shoulder, to rest on its side.

It lets you. Watches your hand, and then licks it.

You lean further, letting your hand rest on its leg. “I’m going to lift your leg now, take a look at your belly,” you inform it. It doesn’t move, so you take a chance, and do as you promised. 

The dog lets you.

Lifting the dog’s leg, you see it’s a boy, unneutered. You’re surprised. Most pets, unless they’re registered for breeding or are show animals, are required to be neutered or spayed in Linkon City. You wonder if he’s a stray. 

But your attention is caught by the long, shallow gash along his lower belly, where his thick, luxurious fur is the most thin. It’s not deep, but it’s bleeding quite a bit.

“You need to see a vet, buddy,” you tell the dog.

He growls, low in his throat. You still your hand, thinking maybe he changed his mind about you touching him. You lift your hand, but then he nudges it, butting it with his nose, as if demanding that you continue caressing him.

You laugh. “Okay. Okay.” You resume petting him. 

He’s not wearing a collar. There’s no way for you to know if he’s a stray, or has an owner to call, who can help come and collect him, to care for him. Based on how beautiful and healthy he looks, you doubt he’s a stray. But you can’t just leave him here.

You stroke his fur, while slowly reaching into your coat pocket for your phone.

You make a call. The answer is swift. A bit exasperated. You can imagine the man on the other end pinching his nose, nudging his glasses aside as he does so, long-suffering from yet another strange request from you.

“You do realize that I’m a cardiac surgeon, and not a veterinarian.”

You humor him. “Yes, yes. I will make it up to you, I promise.”

There is silence on the line. Then his soft, soothing voice. “There is a new bakery that recently opened. They specialize in macha desserts.”

He knows you hate macha. This is his way of punishing you.

You smile. “I’ll treat you. Come quickly.”

“I will.”

The dog’s eyes never leave yours, the whole time you’re on the phone.

Zayne is as good as his word.

He arrives quickly, striding through the thick snowfall, at home in the frigid cold, seemingly unbothered with his handsome wool coat only partially buttoned, his scarf hanging loosely around his neck.

The dog watches him, with his strange, strange eyes, but doesn’t act defensive. As if he knows that this man is here to help.

Zayne couches down next to you. Sighs.

“What happened?”

“Wanderer claws. No poison, or venom. Just the nasty gash there.” You gesture at the bleeding wound, the white fur crimson now, matted.

“Has he shown any signs of aggression?” 

You shake your head.

“All right, but that’s no guarantee he won’t react when I start working. I’ll sedate him.”

The dog growls, narrows his eyes. You have the funny feeling again that he can understand everything that’s happening to him, what you’re saying.

“I’ll hold his snout,” you blurt. 

Zayne frowns, slightly. “He could bite you. He could have an infectious disease. Absolutely not.”

You turn to the dog. “Focus on me, okay buddy? Dr. Zayne is gonna fix you right up. It might hurt, but you can handle it, right? You’re such a good boy.” You speak low, soft, soothingly. The dog’s ears swivel, flick. He whines when you say Good boy. He inches forward, painfully, in the snow to get closer to you. You rest your hands on either side of his big jaws, stare into his eyes. “Do it,” you tell Zayne. “Please.

All you hear is his frosty silence, before a resigned sigh.

The dog whimpers, but doesn’t snap, or otherwise react, as Zayne cleans his wound, stitches him up. As he wraps the clean bandages around the wound, covering the bloody, matted fur. The dog just looks into your eyes, panting, shows no sign of reacting poorly to the pain.

When it’s over, the dog closes his eyes. You run your hands from his muzzle down his neck, back through his thick fur.

“Good boy,” you say, again, softly. His long, fuzzy tail thumps weakly in the snow in response.

“He’ll need antibiotics. You’ll need to arrange for an actual vet for that.”

You nod. “Thanks.” Then pause. Grimace. “I need one more favor.”

Zayne stares at you, lovely hazel eyes flashing behind his glasses. “Do I even want to know?”

“I came here on my motorcycle, and I want to take him home. Make sure he recovers okay. Find his owner, hopefully.”

Zayne immediately understands what you’re asking and frowns again, more deeply. “No.”

“Pretty, pretty please?” You’re not above begging, wheedling like when you were children.

“The upholstery in my car cannot handle all that—” he waves a scarred hand at the lustrous, incredibly thick fur of the dog, and his long, sharp looking nails.

“I’ll pay for any detailing or damage your car might need, along with the macha bakery!” you offer, desperate. You don’t think any cab in the city will accept your not-wolf as a passenger.

Zayne stares down at the dog. His shoulders sag a bit.

“On one condition.”

You perk up. “Anything.”

“Take my scarf. You’re not even wearing a proper winter coat,” he scolds, sounding infinitely exhausted with your inability to properly take care of yourself. He turns to you, lifting the scarf from his neck and wrapping it gently around yours. It’s warm around your neck, and smells good. “How you think you’ll care for a pet, as well as yourself, is beyond me,” he grumbles. He looks down at the dog. “Come.”

The dog just stares at him. Leans further back in the snow.

“Come, now,” Zayne tries again. Cold, imperious.

“I don’t know if he can walk,” you begin, but Zayne shakes his head.

“His side is injured, not his legs. He can walk.” 

You glance uncertainly at the dog, whose ears are now flattened back against his head. He’s panting heavily, where before he wasn’t. He looks miserable.

You steel your spine. “Okay, I’ll carry him to your car.”

Zayne pinches his nose again, knocking his glasses a little. “No, I’ll carry him.”

He kneels, lifts the dog with a grunt.

You swear the dog looks smug as he rests his head on Zayne’s shoulder, ears pricked up and swiveling again. He watches you as you trail behind them both in the snow to Zayne’s fancy car.

You’re going to have to add Zayne’s drycleaning to the bill of what you owe him.

You thank Zayne, return to the restaurant.

You offer your excuses to your disappointed-looking blind date. You don’t have the heart to refuse to give him your number.

Finally, you make your escape. Break the speed limit to get home before Zayne and your… not wolf.

Zayne carries the dog into your place, sets him down on your living room rug.

He looks down at his fur-covered coat when he’s done, expression unimpressed.

“Bill me,” you say, trying to sound cheerful, as if you’re not already deducting the accumulated costs from your bank account and wincing internally. 

Expensive fucking dog, and you’ve only had him for an hour.

“Do you want to stay? Have something to drink?” you ask, the least you can offer after your doctor’s excessive generosity tonight, even if you now owe him.

He shakes his head. “I have to return to the hospital. But thank you.” He stares down at the dog, who is now sitting on his haunches just fine, breathing normally. His ears are straight up, swiveling, swiveling. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks, absently.

You tilt your head. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He keeps staring at the dog. “There’s something…” his voice trails off. He shakes his head, seems to shake off his thoughts. “Nevermind. Call me, if you need anything.”

“Thank you, again. Let me know when you’re free soon, I’ll clear my schedule for macha,” you say, cheerfully, despite the fact that you hate it terribly. He nods, makes his way to your front door.

“Oh, do you want your scarf?” you ask, suddenly remembering that he insisted you wear it. You begin unwrapping it from your neck. 

He pauses at the door. “No. Keep it, for now. You can return it when we meet again,” he says, strangely. As if he’s actually saying something else. Like it’s insurance to see you again, when he’s your doctor. Of course you'll see him again.

You thank him quietly, and then he’s gone. You hang the scarf carefully on one of the pegs in the wall of your hallway.

You return to the living room and stare at your new friend, who still sits on his haunches, watching you attentively.

“Hey, Buddy. I don’t have anything for a dog. No food, no leash. I’m going to have to go to the supermarket and pick up some stuff for you.”

The dog just listens, watches. You frown. “Okay. I’m going to go now. Don’t eat my shoes.”

You turn, walk to the door. You put your boots back on, and as you do so, you feel a cold nose nudging the back of your bent neck. You shiver.

“Hey,” you say, turning. The dog has followed you to your hallway. You hate thinking of him as ‘the dog.’ 

“Do you have a name?” you wonder out loud.

The dog whines, a little, tilting his head. “I bet you have some regal name. You seem like a very expensive dog, with a rich owner.”

The dog just huffs.

“Maximus,” you say. Trying it out. He lowers his head, bumps your shoulder with his snout. You laugh. “Okay, not Maximus. Uum.” You think. “Charles?”

The dog growls. 

“Okay, okay.” You try again.“Sherman.” 

The dog actually takes a step back, growls more deeply. You laugh even louder. “I should call you Sherman as punishment for being so picky.” He looks unimpressed, bored. But his ears are pressed back against his head. His tail is thumping the floor in agitation.

You can’t bear to see him so put out, so you decide against calling him Sherman even as a joke.

You stare at him thoughtfully. He’s so beautiful, with his soft, long fur. It almost has a pearl sheen, in the subtle lighting of your hallway.

Finally, a name comes to you. You don’t know why, but you say, “Sylus.” A name that you’ve never known anyone to have before. Not anyone you’ve ever met, anywhere, anyway.

His ears flick forward. He approaches you again. Rests his head on your shoulder.

“Oh, we like Sylus?” you tease him, and he lets his tongue loll out, leaves a wet swipe on your ear. You laugh, pushing his head away. “Sylus it is.”

He watches as you finish tying your boots.

As you shrug back into your coat. As you walk out the door. 

He’s there when you return. Sitting patiently, in the same position. As if he was waiting for you to come home the entire time. His tail wags eagerly.

You dump all the shit you bought for him on the hallway floor.

“You’re already the most expensive thing I’ve acquired in a long, long time,” you grouse at him.

You unlace, kick off your boots. Hang up your coat.

You don’t notice that Zayne’s scarf is no longer hanging on the peg in the hall.

You take the huge bag of dog food to the kitchen. He follows you, head low, watching every move you make. You hum, taking a bowl from your cupboard, scoop out some of his food, set it and another bowl filled with water next to your kitchen island.

When you turn, you find him staring at you, ears swiveled toward you.

You stop humming.

He takes a step forward, nudges your thigh. He’s so big, he comes up to your waist. “What do you need, baby?” You run your hands through his fur. You don’t know where the term of endearment came from. It’s just, despite his size, the fact that he looks like an alpha predator, something about him screams ‘big baby’ to you. In the same way you knew that he wouldn’t bite you as Zayne tended to his wound.

You just know. 

Like you know his name should be Sylus.

This dog is making you insane.

He whines softly. Lets out a little ‘awooo.’

You stare at him. He does it again. A sad little, awooo. Then he nudges your hip with his nose.

You suddenly understand that he wants you to keep humming.

You start humming again, and he looks incredibly satisfied. He sits back on his butt, tail thumping on your floor.

From that day on, you hum, every time you’re home. You decide that the next time you have to leave him, you’ll leave music on for him to listen to you while you’re gone.

You have no idea what you’re going to do with such a big dog if you can’t figure out who owns him, but you’re going to keep him if no one else will. Already, the thought of parting from him hurts your heart in a way that shocks you.

Even as he turns his nose up at the dry food you bought him.

Even as he only eats meat leftovers from takeout from the night before.

Even as he lets you bathe him, docilely sitting in your small shower, but then once he’s out of the cabin, he stares you directly in the eyes even as you say No!!!! and he shakes his body, his soaking wet fur, so hard that the entire room and everything in it, including you, is soaked.

You stand, shellshocked, dripping onto your little, soaked bathroom rug.

“Sylus,” you say. Glaring at him. He sits back on his butt. He doesn’t avoid your gaze, like other dogs. He stares right back at you.

You strip out of your clothes, leave them in a sad little pile on the floor. Naked, you kneel down, take a towel and gently rub him down. He licks your arm, your hand. As if to say he’s sorry. You don’t believe it for a second.

When he’s towel dry, you take out your blow dryer.

His eyes close halfway in hypnotized pleasure as you slowly, diligently brush him with the new doggy brush you bought and dry him with the dryer set to low.

When you’re done, he’s so fluffy, his coat so shiny. You want to bury your face in him. You check his stitches. They look fine, even after the shower.

But you’re still naked, and soaked. You shoo him from the bathroom, step into the shower. Wait for the water to warm up again.

You wash your hair, let the water beat down on your sore shoulders. With your job, something is always sore.

However, after a few minutes, you notice that the water isn’t draining. You look down and see a massive amount of white fur blocking the drain.

You hang your head, exhausted at the prospect of cleaning the drain before you can be done for the evening. 

This fucking dog.

Finally, the shower is clean. You’re clean.

You step out of the bathroom, walk naked to your bedroom.

Sylus is lying on your bed. As if he owns the place. His big head rests on his big paws, and he watches you, his ears swiveling, flicking, as you stop and put your hands on your hips.

“Off.” You are not letting this monstrous, furry thing sleep on your bed. You’re already nuts about him, but this is a step too far. “I got you a dog bed. You can sleep on your doggy bed.”

You go to your closet, and you feel his glowing ruby eyes follow every movement you make. As you slip on underwear. Soft pyjama pants. A tank top.

You turn. He hasn’t moved. “Be a good boy, and get off the bed.”

He pretends not to hear you. Just looks away, as if fascinated by the view outside your bedroom window. He huffs, as if bored, tail swishing slowly.

“I spent way too much money on a glorified pillow of a dog bed for you to sleep on, Sylus. You can sleep on your doggy bed,” you insist, trying to infuse your voice with authority.

One ear twitches toward you, but otherwise he doesn’t move.

“I’m not afraid to shove you off, even if you are injured,” you threaten, lying. There’s no way you could do that to him.

He can obviously smell your lie. He just looks back at you. Thumps his tail.

You’re tired. You’ve got a long day again tomorrow, starting with a five in the morning run. You give up.

“Fine. Just for tonight,” you concede, crawling onto the bed. “But you stay on the end of the bed,” you grumble, snuggling under the covers. You switch off the light, and hear a satisfied sigh from your new companion.

You come awake slowly, not from your alarm, but from the warmth. You’re sweating. It’s a bit hard to breathe.

You blink open your eyes, slowly, to find a giant, soft, space heater of a dog curled up against your stomach and chest where you’re lying on your side, his big head resting on the pillow next to yours. He’s snoring softly. Every now and then, his legs move restlessly, as if he’s dreaming about running.

You roll over, peer at your clock on your nightstand. Ten minutes before you need to be up for your run. You groan. Every minute of sleep is precious, and your new dog deprived you of ten whole minutes. 

Well. You’re awake now. You sit up, and the culprit who woke you up early startles, jumps to his feet. You stare at him. He’s a little taller than eye-level with you, as you sit on the edge of the bed.

“Good morning, naughty boy,” you say, dryly. His ears flatten against the back of his head. He takes a step forward, nuzzles into your neck with his wet nose, sniffing. You laugh, pet him. He seems mollified after being jerked awake. As if he has any room to be upset about being woken up early.

You stand, stretch. He jumps off the bed, follows you to the closet. You strip out of your pyjamas, pull on your running things. He tries to follow you in the bathroom when you go to pee, but you shoo him away, shut the door in his face.

When you emerge, he follows you to the kitchen. You shovel down a piece of toast, a sip of water. You dump the last of the leftover meat in his bowl, which he greedily eats. You make a note to get him wet food the next time you go to the store, since apparently your new (probably temporary) dog is a fancy boy.

“I”m going for a run. You stay here and be a good boy, okay?”

You walk to the hallway, and he follows. “No, you’re injured. I’ll take you out to pee and poopoo when I’m done with my run.”

His ears flatten on his head again. He squeezes past you, blocking the door with his bulk.

“Sylus,” you sigh. “You’re hurt. You can’t come on a run with me yet.”

He huffs. Shakes himself, like he shook himself last night in your bathroom. Then, like a king deigning to kneel for a peasant, he lies down and bares his belly to you.

You gasp. The stitches. The angry wound from yesterday. 

Gone. As if they were never there. Just the soft, unmarred skin of his tummy where his fur thins.

You check your Hunter’s watch. No metaflux. You don’t sense any, either. He’s not a Wanderer. He’s just a miracle. You remember Zayne’s strange expression, staring at him yesterday.

You wonder if he’s some escaped medical experiment. 

You resolve to take him to the vet, see if he’s chipped, with his owners on record. If he’s not, you’ll put up posters where you found him.

You don’t want to.

You want to keep him.

But you should do the right thing, and at least make a reasonable effort to find his true owner before allowing yourself to hope that you can keep him. This giant dog, whom you do not have time or space for, to keep properly.

But your heart hurts, when you think about taking him to a shelter. Saying goodbye to him.

“Okay. Okay,” you say. He rolls over, sits up. “I still have to go for my run. I’ll be back to take you out, after.”

He huffs, moves forward, nudges your hip with his nose. He then lopes to the bag of things you got him the day before, and he brings you his collar and leash, clutched in his big jaws, still with the tags on.

You laugh.

“Okay. Okay, you win. Again.” You roll your eyes, surrendering. You kneel, and he lowers his big head, pretty, glowing eyes never leaving yours, as you thread the black and scarlet, gem-studded leather collar around his neck with the empty tag shaped like a heart, clasp it tight. You clip the leash on the collar.

He does a little dance at the door, as if excited, tail wagging. 

He runs with you through the gray, quiet, early morning. The snow hushes your footsteps. He doesn’t falter once, the entire run. 

At the end of your run, as you’re walking to cool down, about to head back to your place, he suddenly dashes forward, jerks the leash out of your hand.

“Sylus!” you cry, trying to run after him. He disappears into an area full of shrubbery and dense vegetation, heavy with snow along the bare branches, the pine needles. You have no idea what got into him. Just as you’re about to get on your knees and try to crawl in after him, he re-emerges. He brings you his leash in his teeth.

“What the fuck, Sylus?” You stare at him.

He huffs. Runs a circle around you, kicking up snow. As if to say, Take the leash, take the leash.

You think back over the run. About how he didn’t stop, once. To sniff. Or to pee.

“Did you need to peepee? Or poopoo?” He just growls, bobs his head with his leash in his mouth. “Oooh, baby’s shy!” You laugh. “You better remember this, when you try to follow me into the bathroom again.” You take his leash from between his sharp, sharp teeth.

He leads the way back to your apartment building. You admire his big paw prints in the snow.

Before you leave him to go to work, you snap a photo of him, staring at you solemnly. As if he’s posing. You leave him with music playing and the curtains open, the door to your indoor balcony open for a view.

At work, you make a vet’s appointment. You print off a bunch of “Found” posters for Sylus for if he’s not chipped, with his cute picture front and center. You do paperwork, patrol the city, laugh and joke with Xavier and Tara.

She gives you the earful you expected, about ditching your blind date. She’s only slightly mollified when you show her the picture of Sylus, who looks like such a big handsome boy in the photo.

You’d rather hang out with your dog, than see that guy again.

But you don’t say that out loud.

This dog is making you insane.

You stop by the store on your way home, pick up an absurd amount of meat to cook, as a backup, you tell yourself. For if Sylus refuses to eat the wet food you’re also buying. Not because you have the bizarre urge to feed him food meant for a king. Meant for a king, and not your stray dog who is the least obedient creature you’ve ever encountered.

You let yourself into your apartment, and are a bit surprised, maybe a little disappointed that your new friend isn’t there to greet you already. You know it’s absurd, to wish he had missed you as much as you found yourself missing him throughout your day.

You kick your boots off, carry your groceries to the kitchen island. You glance around. No Sylus.

You peek on the balcony. No Sylus.

So that leaves the bedroom.

You pad quietly through the living room, and then pause in the doorway to your bedroom, shocked at the chaos before you.

Your dirty laundry basket, knocked over.

All of your laundry spread in a little nest, surrounding your dog.

Your big, beautiful, regal dog, who is lying on his belly the floor in the midst of your dirty clothes, like a sphinx, diligently licking a pair of your underwear meant for the wash that he has trapped between his paws. He’s so absorbed in his current activity that he doesn’t seem to notice you at all.

“Sylus!” you yell. Bellow. Air raid siren level of volume.

The noise seems to rip him out of his meditative licking. He blinks, looks up, pauses. Then he stares you right in the eye and takes another lick.

“No! Naughty! Naughty boy!” You stride forward, intending to yank your underwear from his mouth, but he just… chomps down on the slip of fabric, pulling it into his mouth with his tongue and teeth. Then he tries to swallow. “SYLUS!” 

You drop to your knees next to him and grab his snout. You place one hand on his snout and the other under his lower jaw, and then you try to pry his jaws apart, as he continues to clamp down. “Drop! It!” you order, through clenched teeth. He ignores you, resisting your efforts, but not growling, not snapping at you. Simply...ignoring your insistence.  “Drop it!!!”

He swallows, instead. 

You stare at him, huffing from the effort, as you realize that he has just successfully eaten a pair of your underwear.

You’re really, really glad you made that vet appointment already.

It’s only after he has retreated to your bed, completely unashamed, unapologetic, and you’ve started putting your laundry back in the basket, that you notice Zayne’s scarf amidst the pile of clothes. It’s now completely covered in fluffy, white fur, and it stinks like dog.

You hang your head in defeat.

This dog is making you insane.

You take him to the vet. He’s not chipped. 

“If you’re going to keep him, you’ll have to neuter him.”

Sylus’s ears twitch, and he growls menacingly, deep in his throat. The vet stares at him, a strange look on his face. You say something vague, about making an appointment once you’ve exhausted your options in finding his true owner.

The vet has no idea what breed he is. Suspects he might indeed be part wolf. But without a genetic test, he can’t say for sure. He looks at your dog in contemplation. “A fine animal. It would be a shame if he’s a hybrid, and you couldn't keep him.” His eyes flick to yours. “You’re a Hunter, right?”

You nod, wondering why he’s asking.

“One of your lot saved my daughter from a Wanderer attack, a few years ago. Handsome guy. Bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

You stare at him. “Was his name Xavier, by any chance?” you tentatively ask.

The vet nods. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

You look down at Sylus, who is leaning against your leg, eyes closed. “He’s my partner,” you say quietly.

“Hmm,” the vet says. He puts his tablet down. Seems to come to a decision. “Well, it looks like we’ve already got the genetic test results back about your dog. He’s just a mutt. Mainly shepherd, husky.”

You jerk your head up, stare wide eyed at him.

“Agreed?” he asks.

You could cry. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, not believing that you’re one step closer to keeping your incredibly disobedient, lovely good boy.

The vet shrugs. “Test results are test results. Just take him to obedience training. Make sure he gets plenty of exercise. This type of dog needs a firm hand, and an outlet for excess energy. They can be really destructive if they get bored. Like a bomb going off in your house.”

You snort. Think about your laundry. Your poor underwear, which the vet says was small enough not to present a problem for your giant dog. He’ll just shit it out, later.

“Thank you,” you say, quietly, sincerely. You’re breaking so many regulations—ethics rules, accepting gifts for your work as a Hunter, violating city ordinances, because your dog is clearly not just a dog. But you’re realizing you’d do a lot of shady shit, if it means keeping your good boy.

“No, thank you,” he responds, shooing you and your good boy out the door.

You take Sylus home. He curls up on the couch with you, rests his head in your lap, as you watch tv. 

And so it goes.

Morning runs.

Taking him for walks.

To keep him from going after your underwear again, you take big doggy toys that frankly look like butt plugs and fill them with peanut butter. You freeze them. It keeps Sylus busy all day, licking the peanut butter out of the toy.

You try to take him to a dog park, to interact with other dogs. He ignores them, looking bored out of his doggy mind.

You try to throw a ball for him, play fetch. He refuses to chase it. He just runs around you in circles, nips at your heels. Herds you into running with him. Then he’ll refuse to go faster than a walk, once you get tired. As if he knows.

You try to throw a frisbee for him. That, he likes. He catches it in the air, almost as if he’s showing off. Then he’ll bring it back, but refuses to release it from his jaws. You learn that you have to kiss him on his pretty white head in order for him to give it up. His tail wags furiously, every time you do.

This dog is making you insane.

When you come home, exhausted from a particularly tough battle, or an even more grueling day of paperwork, he waits for you at the door, his beautiful, blood-bright eyes big and excited to see you, his tail wagging so furiously the whole lower half of his body shakes.

You suddenly don’t feel so tired, as you kneel down, press your face into the scruff of his neck. His soft fur smells so good to you, even though he’s just a dog. You no longer feel lonely, or dread coming home to your empty, quiet apartment.

After a while, you resign yourself to hanging up the posters once you get home from work. The last hurdle, before you dare hope that you can keep him.

When you arrive at your place after work, you find Sylus on the balcony. Somehow, the window is open, just wide enough for two crows to perch there. They chatter at your dog. He just huffs in response, but makes no effort to bark at them, or chase them away. 

The entire floor of the balcony is covered with the torn-apart paper strips of what used to be the posters advertising the dog you found, with your phone number on it in case someone is missing their beloved pet.

Your beloved pet.

You wonder if it’s so terrible, to just… accept that you’ll never know who had him before. And that he’s yours now. They should have chipped him, collared him, branded him as theirs if they care about him. You decide to get his tag engraved. 

You put the hanging of posters on the backburner in your mind.

You eat with him. You, sitting at your kitchen island. Him, out of his bowl next to your stool. You snuggle with him while watching movies, TV. You take him for walks, for runs. He’s your constant companion, when you’re not at work.

When Xavier comes over to hang out, to cook and read, Sylus basically crawls into your lap despite your protests and his size, and won’t move unless you promise to make him meat along with the ramen you make for yourself and Xav. Once you’re done and back to reading, he’s back, impersonating a chihuahua instead of the wolf he probably is as he wiggles into your lap.

One evening, you’re dumping more meat into your picky-as-fuck dog’s bowl when you receive a call from an unknown number.

You answer.

“Hey. Um. Hi.” A tentative voice.

You wait. The other end is quiet. “May I ask who is calling?” you prompt, hoping you can just hang up. You hate talking on the phone. It’s never good, when someone is calling you out of the blue. Warn a person with a text, damn!

You’re about to hang up when the other person says. “Hi, yeah, sorry. I’m your blind date. The one from when you had to leave to fight Wanderers?”

You shake your head, shocked. You had completely forgotten that you had given this guy your number. “Oh, hey. What’s up?” you ask, dreading his answer.

“Yeah, hi.” He chuckles nervously. “Thanks for picking up. I was, uh, actually calling to see if you’d like a… if you’d like a re-do. With just the two of us?”

You blink. Try to think of an excuse. 

You think of Tara, her badgering you to live for more than just work. To build new relationships. How much effort she puts into trying to introduce you to people she thinks you might like.

Even though you don’t like anyone. 

Except your friends.

You glance at Sylus, who has lifted his head from his paws, his ears pointed at you, like he’s listening intently.

Except your dog.

Your mind is blank. “Uh, okay,” you blurt, wincing. “When is a good time for you?”

He rattles off some dates. You check your Hunter’s watch, settle on a date, a time, a place to meet.

He sounds excited, like he can’t quite believe you agreed to go out with him again, before you end the call.

You shake your head. How bad can it be? It’s just dinner. You get to eat, and then you’ll let him down gently. Or maybe, who knows? You might feel a spark, a spark that’s been missing for you, for so long. You try to be positive. Maybe this guy will be the one to make your heart race, when no one else has been able to.

You get ready for bed.

Sylus is already curled up next to your pillow, no longer even pretending to initially sleep at the end of the bed like the first night you ordered him to do.

You crawl into bed, lift the duvet for him to slide under, and he curls up against your chest and stomach. You fall asleep easily, as you’ve been able to do, ever since he came home with you.

You come awake slowly. 

Like the first morning you brought Sylus home, something wakes you, but it’s not your alarm.

You’re warm. Really warm.

But instead of the soft fur that you’ve come to expect, waking up every morning with your dog taking up more than his fair share of the bed, you feel smooth, warm… skin?

You turn your head. Look over your shoulder, to the source of the warmth at your back.

You think you might be dreaming.

You must be dreaming.

What else could explain the gorgeous, very human, white-haired, red-eyed man looking back at you from your own pillow, where your dog used to be?

This dog is making you insane.

Are you so desperate for companionship that you can stand, that will make your heart race, that you’re dreaming that your beloved dog is the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your life?

What the fuck would a therapist have to say about this dream?

You’re so, so glad that you don’t have a therapist, and will never, ever have to tell anyone about this fucking dream.

You slowly turn your head again. Close your eyes. Your alarm hasn’t gone off, after all. Maybe you can just go to sleep in your dream, wake up, and pretend this never happened.

You hear a low laugh rumbling behind you, rumbling through you. 

A muscular arm snakes over your side, pulls you back against a warm, pillowy chest. “Is this how you greet your good boy?” A deep voice, rough with sleep but still soaked in amusement, murmurs in your ear.

“My good boy is a big fluffy dog,” you bite out, squeezing your eyes shut harder against the warmth, the muscles, the voice. “I don’t know what the fuck you are, other than a really weird dream.”

A big hand—alarmingly big—lifts from your stomach, where it was holding you tight, and tenderly brushes your hair away from your neck, your ear. The … dream behind you noses into the back of your neck, inhales. “I have fluffy hair. And I think you can feel what I am, without even needing to look.” The dream adjusts his hips. Your eyes open, despite your best efforts, widen as you feel a big—alarmingly big—dick against your ass.

“I am not having a sex dream about my dog,” you declare.

The dream laughs, low, a rich fucker’s laugh. “No, you’re not having a sex dream about your dog,” he says. “Unless you’re into that. And then I can oblige, but it’s still my mind inside your dog, I’m afraid.”

Okay, that’s enough. You whip around in the dream’s arms, stare into familiar ruby-glow eyes, so close to you, sharing the same pillow. “Who the fuck are you?”

One corner of his full mouth lifts. He’s so beautiful, it hurts. Your heart is racing.

“You should know,” he says, eyes drifting from your eyes, to your mouth. He lifts a hand again, runs it along your hair, so, so gently. “You named me, after all.”

You don’t dare hope. Just as you haven’t dared hope that you could keep him, from the moment you saw him launch himself at the Wanderer slinking up behind you, preparing to attack you. As you saw him rip out its throat, and watched, heart in your throat, as he was flung into the soft snow as a consequence.

You’re afraid to say it. To name your insane hope.

This dog is making you insane.

“Why so quiet? You couldn’t stop talking to me, telling me about your day, about your dreams, your fears—telling me what a wonderful boy I am, when I was your dog. Does this form not please you?” he asks, letting his hand fall from your hair. He takes your hand instead, places it on his own hair.

It’s so, so soft. Even softer than his fur. You can’t help yourself. You pet him, brushing your fingers through its shimmering strands.

You finally manage to speak. You don’t want him to ever think that you don’t delight in him. “I didn’t say it doesn’t please me.”

“Then say that it pleases you.”

You think of all the moments you’ve shared with him. All of the things you’ve said to him, as he’s lived at your side, in your house. You wince. Then you think of how he made Zayne carry him to his car.

“You could walk, that first day. Zayne didn’t have to carry you.”

He looks pleased, smug. It’s jarring, seeing the expression on his human face that you felt like you saw on his doggy face. “I was injured,” he sniffs. “Any doctor with an ounce of compassion would have offered to carry your injured pet.”

You scowl at him, ignoring his jab at Zayne. “You intentionally soaked me, in the bathroom, that first night.”

He smiles wider, just a little, a canine tooth peeking out between his lips. “But I didn’t make you strip off all your clothes and groom me while gloriously nude. That was all you, sweetheart.”

You lean forward, bury your face in his warm, strong neck. “You ate my fucking underwear.”

He coughs, the first time sounding a little abashed. “When I’m shapeshifted, certain urges… are amplified. Keep that in mind, if you want me to fuck you as a—”

You jerk back, cover his mouth with your hands. “I do not want to fuck you as a dog, Sylus.”

“Excellent, I’ll fuck you as a human then,” he says, voice muffled from behind your hand, but his subtle smile loud and clear under your palms. 

“Sylus!”

“Yes, owner?” he asks, eyes wide, falsely innocent.

You drop your hands. “Don’t call me owner,” you whisper. “You’re my companion, not my possession. You have been from the day you came home with me.”

“Then say that this form pleases you,” he says, sounding uncertain for the first time.

“How can it not?” you ask. “You’re beautiful.”

He shrugs. “Not everyone sees what you see.”

“You’re beautiful. But you’re a naughty boy,” you say, slipping your fingers under the collar he’s still wearing. It’s loose on his human neck. You pull, gently. He whimpers.

“A very naughty boy,” he agrees, breathless. “How will you punish me?”

“First, by making you wash Zayne’s scarf. It wasn’t nice what you did to it.” You punctuate each word, by pulling his collar a little for emphasis. He grumbles, but looks slightly drunk. Eyes half lidded in pleasure. You continue. “And by interrogating you. Who are you, really?” You have so many questions, even as you feel him, hard and warm, against your stomach. 

He huffs. “Would you believe me if I said that I’m the head of the largest criminal organization on the planet, and I’m the most wanted criminal on not one, but two planets?”

You stare at him. Laugh a little. “You were my dog, and now you’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my bed. I’d believe you if you said you’ve loved me for lifetimes, and have been waiting for me to be reincarnated in order to make me fall in love with you all over again.”

“How convenient,” he says. “Because that’s the other answer to your question.”

You laugh, loudly. 

This dog is making you insane.

“Wanted criminal, soulmate. Irrelevant. You ate my fucking underwear, Sylus.”

He leans forward, nudges your nose with his long, regal snout. He presses a soft kiss to your lips, and your heart races, races. “Is it a crime to want to savor something so delicious?”

“It’s a crime in some jurisdictions to pilfer underwear, yes,” you say, laughing, breathless in turn. You return his kiss. His lips are so, so soft. He makes a little sound of pleasure in his throat.

“Then arrest your naughty boy,” he murmurs. “And teach him what the real thing tastes like, instead of the leftovers.”

“You like leftovers,” you tease, thinking of all the takeout meat you’ve been setting out in his doggy bowl in between the fresh stuff.

“With you, I’ll take what I can get,” he admits. “But maybe if you tell me how to be a good boy for you, you can reward me with a fresh taste.”

Your heart is going berserk in your chest, as you look into his earnest, big, wet, crimson puppy eyes. It doesn’t matter, that he has been lying to you this whole time. That he’s tricked you into revealing so many of your secrets to him, as he wagged his tail for you, kept you warm in bed, as he ran by your side, kilometer after kilometer. Your heart is racing, and you think it recognized him, the moment you looked into his beautiful eyes in the snow.

You tell him how he can be a good boy. He uses his mouth, his big pink tongue, to soften you, make you wet. He licks you, like he licked your underwear. With single-minded, hypnotized focus. You tell him to mind his teeth, when he gets bitey, gently flick his ear to get his attention. His eyes drift between being closed as he savors your taste, and open, eagerly watching your face as he pleasures you, as your body begins to shake, as you gush into his mouth.

You lie there panting for a few minutes, watching him as he licks his lips, his fingers, his palms. Like a dog, licking its paws after making a mess in its bowl.

You suddenly desperately need to return the favor. You roll to your side, sit up. “I want to taste you, too.” He looks surprised, but pleased. He gets up on his knees, takes the back of your head tenderly in his big palm, petting your hair with his other hand. You open your mouth, and he guides his big cock to your lips, smears his own wetness across your lower lip, before gently feeding you his dick.

You have to open your mouth all the way, to allow him in. He moves his hips, little jerks, watching your reaction before sliding deeper, silken along your tongue, ember-eyes glowing under half-lidded lashes. You can’t take all of him, he’s just too big. You suck, use your tongue. Offer your hand, wet and sloppy for your dripping mouth, for him to tunnel through. He helps you adjust your grip. He grunts, with each little thrust. Helpless noises in his big, big throat. He smells so, so good. Skin, and sweat. A bitter tang from his leaking dick.

Finally, he loses patience. “I don’t want to come in your mouth. I want to come between your legs.” He’s panting, hair messy, sweeping over his forehead. “I want you to feel good too. May I? Please? I’ll make it so good for you.” His deep voice has a whiny edge.

You nod, looking up at him, mouth still stuffed with him. 

He slowly pulls out of your mouth, uses his hand on the back of your head to urge you up to meet him, so that you’re kneeling on the bed too. He wraps his big arms around you, hugs you, tightly. Kisses your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Are you sure? How do you want me?”

You lift your hands to his cheeks, kiss him too. His cheek. The corner of his eye. His lips. “You’ve been such a good boy, making me feel good with your mouth. You can have me however you’d like me.”

He doesn’t have a tail to wag right now, but if he did, you think he’d wag himself off the bed. He kisses you, hard, tongue licking into your mouth. He eagerly urges you down, onto your back. He lifts your legs over his shoulders, and you’re grateful for all the mobility, the stretching you do as part of your job, as he splits you wide open, holds you by your ankles, and fucks into you slowly, so slowly at first, before leaning down, bending you in half, filling you hard and fast, over and over again. Sounds come out of you that you’ve never heard before, because you’ve never felt so good, so full before. He fucks into you at an angle that makes you moan loudly, surprised, and he ruts into you there again, and again. “Am I your good boy?” he pants, desperate, in your ear.

“You’re such a good boy, Sylus,” you assure him, turning your head, biting down on his earlobe. “My good boy.” He suddenly comes, hips jerking messily, with a loud whine, a deep grunt. 

After, when your sheets are filthy and you’re both sweaty, cum drenched messes, you rest your head on his big chest, let your fingers circle one pink nipple, sift through the human fur swirling around it.

“Why didn’t you just introduce yourself like a normal person, ask me on a date?”

He snorts. “Oh, hello, my name is Sylus Qin, I’m the leader of Onychinus and your employer’s public enemy number one. May I buy you a drink? Perhaps, fuck you stupid afterwards? Love you for the rest of our lives?” His voice is wry.

You laugh, delight ballooning in your chest at his sense of humor. “Okay, maybe that would have been a little much, and I would have been suspicious. But infiltrating my life as a dog?”

He touches his finger to his lip, tilts his head. “I thought about kidnapping you. Violently trying to jog your memory by re-enacting our contentious first meeting.”

You swat his chest with your hand. “That’s a terrible fucking idea.”

“In retrospect, you are correct. Fortunately for me, the twins talked me out of it. They convinced me that being a cute, cuddly dog would be more… effective.”

You look up at him, curious. “The twins?”

He hums, low in his throat. “You’ve met them. Crows on the balcony.”

You think back, remembering the mysteriously opened window. The “Found” posters, ripped to confetti on your balcony. “The ones who destroyed my posters.”

Sylus nods, strokes his knuckles down your cheek, your neck. “The unnecessary posters containing your personal information, like your phone number, for any random fool to use to call and bother you.”

You sigh. Drift for a while, wondering how you’re going to explain your new dog and your new man in your life to your friends. To your family. “Caleb is going to hate you.”

He smirks. “I’m not worried about your brother.”

You look at him curiously. “You know who he is?”

He leans down, inhales your sweaty hair. Makes a happy noise. “I like to stay informed when I’m interested in a new acquisition. And you’re the most valuable thing I’ll ever acquire.”

You roll your eyes. “Why are you not worried about him? He’s been so weird, since he’s been back. Possessive.”

Sylus gestures at his arm, as if to indicate Caleb’s new augmentation. “I’m good with weapons. I’ll tinker in his arm, give him a little upgrade. Maybe give him sensation back. He’ll love me.”

You stare at him. No one else is supposed to know about Caleb’s arm. It’s like, a state secret. “How do you know so much about upgrading weapons?” you ask, instead of asking how he knows about Caleb.

“Do you really want to know?” He lifts a lovely silver eyebrow. “It has to do with my business. I’ll tell you, but you have to keep it a secret.”

You rest your cheek back on his chest. “Another time, maybe. I’m too tired to process all the shady shit you must do in order to be on the Association’s most wanted list. You definitely fucked me stupid.”

You feel him preen underneath you at your compliment. His invisible tail wags, wags. “Not just on the list, sweetheart. At the top of the list,” he says, smug. “And shady shit… You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, beloved? Like accepting the equivalent of a retroactive bribe from your vet, and breaking all sorts of Linkon City laws to keep your ‘dog?’”

You groan. “I can’t believe you witnessed that.”

“I feel privileged to have witnessed your fall from grace, and all because of me,” he teases you, hugging you tightly.

You just shake your head, close your eyes. Fret about your brother again. “You think you can handle him?”

He scoffs again. “Once he sees how sincere I am, he’ll have no choice but to accept me as your other half.”

You hold your breath. Ask him what you’re dying to know, what you haven’t dared hope, even as you gave in to your racing heart, your affection for him, and loved him with your body, as well as your heart. “So you’re sincere?”

He gently flicks your forehead. “You’re the only person, in any lifetime, that I’d eat out of a bowl on the ground for, beloved.”

You laugh, kiss his chest, right over where his strong, big heart is beating.

In the end, you get to keep him. You let your blind date down gently, but decisively.

You come home one day, and he is eagerly waiting for you, in his human form. You had promised him a treat, after all.

“You’ll have to bend down a little,” you say.

Without hesitation, Sylus drops to his knees, and then places his hands on the floor.

You stare down at him, as he looks up at you, soft white hair, soft red eyes, gleaming in the light.

Your heart is racing again, just from his eyes on you, his scent filling your apartment.

You bend down, thread a new, subtle leather collar around his neck. It will hang on the wall, when he’s using his doggy collar, in his big wolf form. But when he’s a man, out in the world, away from you on business, getting up to no good and causing trouble—as he still occasionally does in your bedroom as he manages to tear the stuffing out of the plushies you’ve caught with other people when you’re away for too long—he’ll wear this one for you.

The one that says good boy on the heart-shaped tag on one side, and your name on the other.

You never do make that neutering appointment with the vet.

[peachylynnie]

Idk if this is a boring one for a mini fic but could you do a little something about mc and Sylus having a first kiss thats initiated by mc?

All In

Pairing - Sylus x f!MC

Word Count - 0.9k

A/N - just tooth rotting fluff

You’re sleepily plodding along through the halls of the Onychinus Base, your bare feet leaving small echoes of pitter patters along the marble floors.

One minute you were sitting up in the living room, waiting for Sylus and the twins to return from something you didn’t want to know details of, and the next you were tucked up in Sylus’s large, empty bed. You swore you had only shut your eyes for a second on the couch, but hours had gone by.

Each of the rooms you pass by are empty and silent, barely even a light shining. It’s three o’clock in the morning, so you know you’ll find him somewhere.

Things between you and Sylus had been more and more domesticated by the day as of late. You seemed to be in ‘beginning of a relationship’ territory, and it was all happening so naturally.

Good morning and goodnight texts when you’re not together. A noticeable increase in physical contact . You even know each other's preferences for how you like your coffee in the morning.

There was a tenderness to him that was reserved only for you, and you felt privileged to be on the end of his admiration.

You reach the door of his office, peering in silently through the open door. He’s sitting at his desk, an elbow perched on the plush armrest of his chair with his index finger curled beneath his sharp jaw. He looks deep in thought, and before you can turn around and head back to bed as to not disturb him, he chuckles quietly.

“I don’t know where you learnt your ninja-stealth skills from, but you might want to seek a refund,” he quietly jests, the rumble of his voice enveloping you like a hug.

You smile sheepishly. “I didn’t think you’d noticed me. Apologies.”

“You’ll never go unnoticed by me, kitten.”

Heat spreads across your face in a fierce blush. It’s something about the way he says it, like there are no truer words in the English dictionary. 

Slowly, you cross the room and round the large desk. “Those weird little bed fairies tucked me beneath your silk sheets again tonight. How strange is that?” 

You perch yourself on the edge of his desk, but your ass doesn’t stay there for even a second before he holds your hips in his powerful hands, bringing you onto his lap.

“Yes, extremely strange. I’ve heard that they’re demanding a pay rise, too,” he murmurs with a slightly raised brow. “Something about a kitten that keeps mewling in front of the living room window, waiting for her companion to come back.”

You poke a finger into his chest with a roll of your eyes, which only serves to entertain him further. He was the only bed fairy around here, and tonight wasn’t his first shift.

“You don’t have to wait up for me, sweetie,” he says as he threads his long, slender fingers through your hair. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Who says I was waiting for you?” you fib. “I’ll have you know that I was actually waiting for Kieran. He owes me ten bucks.”

Sylus tilts his head to the side, an eyebrow raised. “They not paying you enough as a Hunter?”

“Not as much as the twins pay me when they lose all of our bets,” you chuckle.

His crimson eyes drop to your grinning mouth for a mere millisecond before returning to your eyes. It makes your heart flutter beneath your ribs.

There had been only one near-kissing incident recently. Luke walked into the kitchen whilst your back was pressed into the edge of the counter in front of the coffee machine, Sylus standing over you with his lips hovering just above yours. You almost butted him in the mouth in your panic.

Not because you didn’t want to be seen kissing him. You just wanted it to be a moment shared only between the two of you.

Since that morning, though, you’ve been itching for a feel of his lips against yours, but you were adamant waiting for the right moment, or for him to decide that it’s time. 

“How was your outing?” you finally ask, breaking the little tension that had crept between you both.

Sylus cups the nape of your neck, his thump smoothing over the skin. “Dull,” he answers truthfully.

You shift a little to turn yourself more towards him, the movement only bringing you both closer. “In what way?”

“In every way,” he says, his eyes flickering between both of yours. “Things tend to be rather dull when I’m without you.”

He means it, too.

You can see it in his eyes, a sense of deep longing, even while you’re curled in his lap. You’re the sunshine in his cloudy world, breaking through the darkness to show him a beautiful new perspective on life.

You’re a big part of his life now, and he’s just told you so.

It’s impossible to even try to hold yourself back as you go all in, your lips crashing into his with a long overdue kiss. It’s gentle and yet exhilarating, a taste of what’s to come between you as the seed of your new relationship begins to blossom.

He tugs you forward so that you’re as close as you can be in your position across his lap, his hand never leaving the base of your neck.

His lips taste of vintage red, his preferred evening drink, and you’re certain it could make you drunk if you had too much of his exquisite mouth on yours.

He breaks the kiss first, leaning his forehead against yours. “I thought I’d be the one to initiate it first,” he admits quietly, not looking at all bothered by the different outcome.

“I’m sorry—”

“Shh,” he whispers, returning your kiss with one of his own. He doesn’t want to hear unnecessary apologies from you.

You smile sheepishly against his lips, feeling like a giddy teenager again. You could definitely get used to this very quickly.

Every morning, noon and night.

“It felt right,” you whisper as your lips part. “That felt like the right moment.”

His arm snakes around your waist, anchoring you to him as he speaks softly in your ear.

“Everything feels right with you.”

[peachylynnie]

keep it peachy with the love and deepspace boys!

୨୧ sylus! ��wine ➛sick ➛the cat butler ➛garlic ➛gift exchange ➛blackjack ➛ace ➛igloo (new!) ୨୧ xavier! ➛wolf in sheep's clothing ➛igloo (new!) ୨୧ rafayel! ➛old ➛igloo (new!) ୨୧ zayne! ➛glasses ➛igloo (new!)

[peachylynnie]

you make him lose his cool

word count: 900-1k per lead

synopsis: in which you provoke them, and they love it. (inspired by kiss of life's igloo)

contains: fem!reader x lads men (separate, non!mc), established relationship, downbad men, NSFW CONTENT MDNI (i'm talking grinding, oral sex implications, etc), song lyrics, and cursing.

a/n: i feel hot whenever i listen to this song. i hope you do too while reading. i'll write for caleb once he's officially in the game since i'm not familiar with him yet. enjoy! do not plagiarize or translate. lads men do NOT endorse plagiarism. reblogs & comments appreciated.

lads masterlist | tagged: @vvintqz (ik this is technically the reader teasing xavier but u said to tag u when i write xavier so i hope u enjoy)

sylus

Glass room, perfume, Kodak on that lilac (alright)

Slipping on my short dress, know he like that (like that)

there's nothing like getting ready in sylus' bathroom. not because of the sheer size of it (it takes at least a day to explore his residence), but because of how good you look in the mirror right now. you can't help but smile as you step back to get a full look at yourself.

sylus went all out for tonight's auction.

he gifted you a tight-fitting ebony dress, its gorgeous silk straps accentuating your shoulders perfectly. he also gifted you a pair of evening gloves, its velvet fabric wrapping around your arms flawlessly. of course, the dress came with priceless jewels and heels. as you twirl in front of the mirror, the scarlet gems on your ears glimmer, and the cherry kitten heels on your feet click. oh, you look so good, you can kill.

but what seals the deal is the neck accessory he got you.

an intricate, black choker made out of lace. fucking lace. a scoff leaves your mouth when you notice the ruby medallion hanging at the center. his taste is as clear as day.

as you reach behind your neck to clip the choker, the man of the hour walks in. you meet his eyes through the mirror, your hands still at the back of your neck. "sylus."

"miss," he acknowledges in return, an unmistakable smirk appearing on his lips. his eyes trail down your figure. "you look stunning."

"thanks," you giggle as you hook the choker clasp. "you don't look bad yourself."

and you're absolutely right. although he has his usual dress shirt on, his outerwear is completely new. a gorgeous red blazer, adorned with inky brush strokes, sits proudly on his shoulders. moreover, his accessories are new (he's never worn any before). cuffed around his right hand is a sleek platinum watch, spotlighting his forearm deliciously. hanging from his left ear are silver chains, shining unashamedly. you can't help but bite your lips as you admire your lover in the mirror.

yeah, sylus went all out tonight.

catching the hazy look in your glittered eyes, he tilts his head before grinning, "like what you see, sweetie?"

you roll your eyes playfully before returning to the sink. "yes, actually. didn't know you were capable of wearing something other than black."

sylus chuckles as he leans against the wall, arms crossed. "i've worn colors other than black before."

"if you're talking about the two outfits that have the belt around the sleeve," you list nonchalantly as you pick up your lip gloss. "they don't count. they have black on them."

"i'm talking about the red cardigan, sweetie," he counters smoothly, eyeing the lip gloss in your hand.

"ah." you run the wand over your parted lips, enjoying the feeling of gloss on them. "touche," you say, bending over the sink to see if you missed a spot. you do, however, miss the way sylus' fingers tighten around his arms when your dress hikes up. smacking your lips together, you lift the wand to reapply. "but you barely even wear that. so that doesn't count either."

sylus hums, barely paying attention to what you just said. his eyes are transfixed on the wand. he's mesmerized by how it travels across your lips, slathering them with sticky, shimmery syrup, leaving him thirsty for a taste. not to mention the sounds leaving your lips whenever you press them together. sweet, squelching sounds that have him pressing against you in mere seconds, his hands gripping the edge of the sink.

at first, you were taken aback by his sudden proximity. but after feeling something prod at your back, you smile amusingly before placing the wand down. "i'm assuming," you swiftly turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, his eyes widening as you pull him closer. "there's been a change of plans." you slowly lick your lips, collecting some excess gloss. as it drips from the tip of your tongue, you ask with a tilt of your head, "how late are we going to be?"

that's it.

sylus crashes into you, his tongue desperately trying to lap up the excess gloss. his hands haphazardly roam all over your body before lifting you onto the sink, pinning you down as his lips smear your lip gloss everywhere. you moan, trying to match his fervor. the sinful mixing of breaths, saliva, and gloss floods your mind, causing you to wrap your legs around him and bring him closer to you. he welcomes the action, gasping and grinding into you.

by the time he pulls away for air, both of you are left panting like dogs, mouths and chins smothered in sheen.

your eyes never leave sylus' as you wipe your chin, a string of gloss and saliva hanging prettily from your gloved palm. with a groan, he dives into your neck and sinks his teeth into your collarbone. you throw your head back at the pain, whimpering when he soothes the spot with his tongue.

but when sylus traces a finger up your back, you freeze immediately.

why?

oh, because he's unzipping your dress.

"sorry, sweetie," he chuckles into your perfumed skin, savoring your surprised reaction when he drags the zipper all the way down. "we won't be late."

you look at him in confusion, barely processing the silk straps falling off your shoulders.

he leans in and whispers into your ear.

"we won't be going at all."

xavier

your starlight of a boyfriend collapses onto the bed, his legs hanging off the edge and his pants dangling pathetically from his ankles.

Heart attack, IV when I walk the street

Vitamins that D, I'm good, I'm healthy

you giggle at the sight, wiping your lips clean of his release. as you rub a drop between your index finger and thumb, you notice the texture's a bit thick, almost like jelly.

"xavier," you call lovingly, rising from your knees and crawling on top of him. he barely responds; his eyes are screwed shut with beads of sweat trailing down his face, neck, chest, legs, everywhere. shit, what did you do to him? he can't get his chest to stop heaving, his mouth to stop watering, and his ears to stop ringing. he can't do anything. not with the way you looked so pretty on top of him, especially after making him release so intensely in your mouth.

"xavier," you repeat as you cradle his face, making his dazed eyes meet yours. "when was the last time you drank water?"

"water?" he pants. "i'm not sure. why do you ask?"

"well," you show him your fingers. he gulps, flushing a deeper shade of red. "this tells me you haven't been drinking enough water."

you get up to retrieve some water from the kitchen. xavier whines at the loss of contact. although he tries to stop you from leaving, you easily slip out of his weak embrace (he literally got his life sucked out of him; cut him some slack). after you reassure him with a kiss on his forehead, you open the door. "i'll be back soon."

he responds with a whimper before closing his eyes. before he knows it, he falls asleep.

not even five minutes have passed when you return to the room, a glass of water in your hand and a packet of vitamins in the other.

"xavier?" after placing the items down on the nightstand, you sit on the bed to admire the view. there he is, sleeping soundly with his shirt unbuttoned and pants unbuckled, his chest slowly rising up and down and his cute nose scrunching every so often. you almost feel bad when you wake him up. almost. as much as you like watching your boyfriend sleep, he needs his water and vitamins, considering how much energy he uses to fight wanderers.

"wake up, xavier," you coo. "you need your vitamins."

he stirs, peeking one eye open to look at you. cute, you think. "i'm too tired, angel." he whines before closing his eye again. "i'll have some later."

"come on," you chuckle. "at least drink some water. you're dehydrated."

hoping to keep him awake, you litter his face with kisses, repeatedly pecking his adorable features. his droopy eyelids, his button nose, his fluffy cheeks, his moist forehead, his small chin—not a single spot is missed.

his little laughs repay your efforts. before you can continue your bombardment of kisses, his arms wrap around your shoulders, successfully pinning you down to him. you're surprised by how quickly he replenished his strength.

"you're trapped," he points out cheekily. "now we can both sleep."

"xavier," it's your turn to whine. "you need to drink some water. besides," you try to get up but fail miserably due to his tight embrace. "you need to scoot up, and i need to lay down properly if we both want to sleep." still no signs of letting you go.

you sigh before poking at your boyfriend's waist, causing him to yelp.

he immediately lets go of you, rubbing the spot you just touched. taking the chance to escape, you stand up and reach for the glass and vitamins.

"meanie," he pouts. "i thought we agreed to not tickle each other for today."

"that's because you try to tickle me all the time," you retort playfully, opening the packet of vitamins. "besides, i only tickle you as a last resort. unlike you, i'm nice." you pop the vitamin in your mouth and bring the glass to your lips.

"as if." he yanks up his pants and crosses his arms. "last time i checked, being nice means letting your boyfriend sleep peacefully," he quips as he turns away from you, hoping his grumpy little act will coax more kisses from you.

instead, a hand comes into his view and grasps the sheets. furrowing his brows, he shifts back to ask what's wrong but is startled to find your face hovering above his. 

"angel, what—"

you press your lips into his, your free hand gripping his chin. on instinct, xavier opens his mouth, expecting your tongue to greet his. however, his eyes widen when he feels something pour in. oh. he greedily swallows the water and vitamin, his fingers weaving into your hair.

you pull away abruptly, a drop of water trickling down the corner of your lips. before he can say anything, you grab the glass of water and drink from it again, your hooded eyes never leaving his. xavier groans at the sight, his chest heaving for the third time today. and it's barely afternoon. oh, you're going to be the death of him.

he's sure of it when you return to his lips, water flowing into his mouth so sensually as his tongue reaches out for more. this time, you rest your entire body on top of him, allowing him to grab at your hips and thrust upward, desperately rubbing against your clothed core and seeking any type of friction that could relieve him of this growing desire you satiated with your mouth less than ten minutes ago. he never wants to drink water alone ever again.

“a-angel,” he moans when you pull away again. “why?” 

“you need more water, xavier.” you tease with a lick of your lips. “gotta make sure my boyfriend is hydrated, ya know?”

with that, you go to stand up and reach for the glass. however, the room spins as xavier pins you down, your positions switched and your wrists restrained above your head. your eyes widen, realizing you might've pushed your boyfriend too far. 

"angel," dark, cerulean eyes burn into you before glancing at the glass. “that's not enough water.”

rafayel

(heads up, reader doesn't have to be mc but they know about rafayel's identity as the sea god and he calls you his beloved bride)

Yeah, white tippy-toe summer, I make him go dumb, duh

He doubled down on that text, says that I'm the only one

rafayel isn't sure how he got here.

you, on top of his bare chest, nibbling at his neck and dragging a finger down his clenched abdomen.

"c-cutie," he stammers. "someone might see."

he's not wrong. you're at the beach after all. but it's a private beach, one the artist rented for a date. so really, what's the harm in pinning your boyfriend down in the sand and showing him how much you appreciate him?

"you're the one who said this place was private, raf." you giggle before sinking your teeth into him, eliciting a moan. "besides, we both know why you suggested a date at the beach. don't tell me you forgot." you trail your finger along the waistband of his swim trunks. he jolts, his half-lidded eyes meeting your misty ones.

of course, he didn't forget. but considering the current, scandalous situation he's in right now, his memory is a bit hazy. as you twirl the drawstring with your index finger, rafayel bites his lip and tries to remember how exactly he got here.

last thing he remembers is you excitedly texting him about your package coming in.

a package, pft. no big deal, right?

wrong.

he almost dropped his phone when you sent him a picture of the package, more specifically, you wearing its contents.

a gorgeous two-piece swimsuit in the color of his hair. fuck, lavender has never looked so good on you. the way the tight, skimpy fabric hugged all the right places, making you seem so so malleable. the way you posed in front of the mirror, your face bridling with innocent excitement but your body positioned so so temptingly. shit, he hopes this exhibition ends soon because his slacks feel suffocating all of a sudden.

it wasn't long before he spammed you with a hurricane of texts consisting of flattering emojis and praises about how you're the only one he'll ever love (dramatic but heartwarming) and how he would love to take you on a date at the beach as soon as this stupid exhibition is over so you can swim in your new set to your heart's content (totally not because he wants to see the real thing).

yeah, now he remembers. he got himself into this situation. you even tried to stop him.

"uh," he recalls you hesitating through the call. "aren't you tired from your exhibit?"

"nope," he immediately answers, causing you to raise a brow. "not at all, cutie. i'm in tip-top shape. what better place for us to test your swimsuit than the beach?"

"us?" you repeat amusingly. "since when was testing a swimsuit a two-person thing?"

shit, he got caught.

"raf," you giggle at his silence. "if you want to see me wear this in person, you can always just ask, you know?"

"w-what?! no!" he acts as if you insulted his artwork. "i just thought it'd be a good opportunity for us to go on a date and to test the quality of your swimsuit! what if one day you go into the water and it gets untied or something? what if i'm not there to protect you from prying eyes? you can never be careful enough with swimsuits, especially shipped ones!"

"uh-huh," you drawl skeptically. "i'm sure a triple-knotted bikini will SOMEHOW get untied by the waves."

"come on, cutie," rafayel whines. "i know a perfect, private place! i'll even bring the food, the blankets, everything! please?" (he purposely emphasized "private" because no way in the seven seas is he going to let anyone look at you in a bikini)

you sigh before observing yourself in the mirror once more. the bikini DID look good, and you DID buy it for future swimming dates with rafayel. might as well, right? besides, you can't say no to him, especially when he begs so cutely like that.

"fine, raf," he remembers you giving in with an endearing sigh. "send me the address of the beach once you're done. i'll stop by your place to pack your swimming trunks."

and here you are, resting on top of him and drawing figure eights with your fingertips IN his swimming trunks.

he would laugh at the irony if it weren't for your provocative actions. you were the one who brought him his swimming trunks, and now, you were the one making him wish you didn't bring them so he could see how pretty your fingers looked right next to his—

yeah, he definitely got himself into this situation. he has no one to blame but himself for his predicament. it's his fault he's currently twitching and throbbing underneath you as you breathe into his neck and tease doodles into his thighs.

"oh fuck, cutie—" rafayel jerks his head back when you suck on his adam's apple. your mouth felt so good. you felt so good. 

after pulling back with a 'pop,' you trace the red mark with your free hand, admiring your artwork on your artist of a lover. unfortunately for him (fortunately, really), this causes him to squirm uncontrollably. the simultaneous stimulation from your right hand on his thigh and your left hand on his neck was just too much for the lemurian. he swears he's this close to bursting all over the sand like a messy, wet bubble. 

suddenly, you stop, withdrawing both of your hands from his body. 

"c-cutie?" he lifts his neck to look at you but finds himself confused as to why you're sitting up. though, his confusion is quelled when you reach behind your neck. 

oh. 

your hands come into view, each one tugging on the strings of your top.

oh fuck. 

he doesn't even see your top fall. no. he's completely frozen (and hard) when you lay back down on him, smushing your now-exposed chest into his abdomen, allowing him a view that brings roses to his cheeks. (he can feel your nipples rubbing against him).

"oh, god of the tides," you purr with a smirk as you press your ear into his chest, relishing in his rapid heartbeats. "you promised you would test this swimsuit with me." before he can deny your reminder of his mistake from the earlier call, you grab his hand and bring it to rest against your swimsuit bottoms, causing his breath to hitch. "won't you make good on your promise?" 

rafayel swallows shakily before nodding. 

"anything for my beloved bride." 

zayne

doctor zayne, the epitome of calm and control, reduced to this.

Mm, yeah, I make him lose his cool

Yeah, I make him go mmmmmm ah! ah!

a red-faced mess, losing his cool in a rocking chair, thanks to his lover shaving his chin on his lap.

his lover, who just so happens to be wearing a nightgown, a silk, sapphire nightgown with lace ruffles and ribbons that drove the man insane.

to make matters worse (better), your bare thighs were on either side of his hips, caressing and stroking him whenever you would move to shave his chin.

don't even get him started on the fact that you're sitting right on top of his crotch. he prays to any merciful soul out there that you don't feel him growing down there-

he inhales sharply when you reach behind him for a towel, your chest mere millimeters from his face.

"you okay, zayne?" you ask with faux concern.

"yes," he clenches his jaw. it's taking him everything to not dive in and lick, suck, bite—anything to relieve him of this torment. "please hurry."

"hurry?" you pout with a tilt of your head. "but why?" you lift his chin to wipe some excess shaving cream. "do you not want me to shave you?"

"no, darling. it's just—" his hands fly to your waist for stability when you place the towel back in its place. shit, every time you lift yourself onto your knees to reach behind him, the chair moves more and more, resulting in a pattern where when he leans back, you press into him, and when you lean back, he presses into you. it's not helping that this pattern deliciously resembles a certain rhythm in bed.

"it's just?" you repeat to him, stroking his jaw to inspect for stray hairs.

he doesn't say anything. how can he? he can't just spill about how badly he wants to kiss your sweet lips, squeeze at your delectable chest, rip your enticing nightgown apart, and take everything you have to offer. no, he can't. not when you approached him so innocently with a cute smile on your face after he came home, asking if you could shave him. (he almost fell to his knees when he saw what you were wearing). not when you look so beautiful gazing at him from above, handling his skin with addictive yet gentle touches, and glowing underneath the moonlight from the open windows. shaking his head, he grips your waist with renewed resolve.

"it's nothing," he closes his eyes. "please continue." he would rather drink alcohol than misinterpret your innocent intentions.

except there was nothing innocent about your intentions at all. you admit, it's fun to tease zayne like this. the way his lips would chase after your fingers whenever you traced them, the way his eyes would falter whenever you leaned in, the way his breath would hitch whenever you moved your hips, oh it all made you feel wanted. and who could want more than a gorgeous, capable doctor who looks at you as if he's going to die if he can't have you?

you. you want more. you WANT him to have you, take you, right here on this rocking chair. you thought teasing him with a few shifts of your hips and some purposeful closings of distances between his face and yours would relay the message. but no. he's either completely oblivious or has the will of a steel that's been fortified ten times over. because even though he's made it incredibly clear that he wants what you want (his blushing cheeks and shortage of breaths are hard to miss), all he's done is sit there and take your teasing.

you frown, retracting your hand. what's it going to take for doctor zayne, the epitome of calm and control, to give in?

a lightbulb flashes in your head.

"hang on, i missed a spot," you lie, lifting yourself up once more to reach for the shaving cream next to you. "i'll make this quick."

and with that, you slam your hips down.

he groans out loud, eyebrows furrowing and fingers tightening around your hips. he still hasn't opened his eyes though.

"are you sure you're okay, zayne?" you ask innocently, twisting left and right. "i'm worried about you."

"w-why," he starts hoarsely, his fingers gripping for dear life, trying to stop you from moving so damn much. "why would you be worried?"

"oh, i don't know," you smear shaving cream all over his jaw before trailing your fingers down to his neck. "you just seem so…" you slowly trace a heart on his collarbone, eliciting a pretty gasp from him. "out of it."

zayne's eyes jerk open, glaring at you with unprecedented focus. you smile cheekily before pressing yourself deeper into him, eager to bear witness to what he'll do and say since he finally opened his eyes.

though, your smile doesn't last long. in an instant, his hands pin yours behind your back, causing your back to arch and your lips to part.

"i'm starting to think," he secures your wrists in his right hand and brings his left to his face, wiping away the mess you made. "you're doing this on purpose."

you grin. finally. he finally got the message. unable to hide your excitement, you lean in next to his ear and whisper, "what are you going to do about it, doc-tor?"

he inhales sharply, yanking your wrists.

"perhaps," he growls. "it's time you get a taste of your own medicine. prescribed by yours truly."

[peachylynnie]

i accidentally posted a fic early, and my heart sank to my ass

[peachylynnie]

Sylus: we should be partners

Mc without turning around to face him: you mean, like partners in crime?

Sylus hunched over like he's in physical pain while clutching his chest with a strained voice: yeah like partners in crime- that's precisely what i meant-

[peachylynnie]

erm! baby’s first proper smau! this one is for the ppl out there that get that sinking feeling in their gut when they don’t use their own money ! but a bit more light hearted. flashlight part based on the fact my flashlight broke in the middle of my walk at like 6:30 (its winter so it was pitch black out)

sylus x gn!reader (or mc, probably)

ignore the last image being stretched strangely i had to edit it to fit in the image bcz i didnt want an image that was mostly blank space

[peachylynnie]

keep it peachy with the love and deepspace boys!

୨୧ sylus! ➛wine ➛sick ➛the cat butler ➛garlic ➛gift exchange ➛blackjack ➛ace (new!) ୨୧ xavier! ➛wolf in sheep's clothing ୨୧ rafayel! ➛old ୨୧ zayne! ➛glasses

[peachylynnie]

blackjack

word count: 1.5k synopsis: in which you pique sylus' interest with a game of blackjack. contains: sylus x fem!reader (not mc, first time meeting), sylus is lowkey messed up, alcohol consumption, cursing, violence, and gambling (know the rules of blackjack). a/n: yes, this will be a series. it's not obvious in this part but this story was inspired by the cover art of the ml and fl from tears on a withered flower, an adult webtoon. do not copy or translate my work, sylus does not endorse plagiarism. reblogs and comments are appreciated. next chapter | lads masterlist

sylus is bored. inconceivably fucking bored.

on his right is sherman, a greedy, corrupt imbecile who thinks he can get away with promising counterfeit protocores. on his left is sherman's lackey, a two-faced, ambitious moron who thinks he can improve his boss' hideous image by claiming the so-called protocores were "hard to find." and in front of him is a pitiful dealer who not only fumbles the cards every time he tries to shuffle for a new game of blackjack but also loses every single round to the point no one is afraid to hit more than once.

unfortunately for sylus, dealing with people like sherman and his minion is a daily occurrence. after all, he runs the n109 zone, a wasteland filled with scums of the planet who are not only shallow to the point a fucking newborn can tread the depths of their hearts but also manipulative of the lives of the weak solely for the sake of monetary growth.

exhaling an irritated sigh, he reaches for his glass of gin fizz, causing a series of flinches from the men at the table. normally, sylus would revel in the effect he has on people. he never would have gotten this far if it hadn't been for his steel-like business ethic and unwavering confidence. but again, he's bored, severely bored of the constant mingling with shitty people at shitty lounges. though he supposes this lounge isn't bad, considering how pleasant the fizz tastes on his tongue. at least the alcohol will help him get through another dull round of blackjack.

"ha!" sherman laughs as he collects more chips. "this table is quite lucky. i have never played against a dealer with such buttery fingers."

the dealer winces before apologizing meekly. sylus makes a note to tip him later.

"agreed," the lackey continues his ass-kissing. "i feel bad for the table next to us, though. that lady dealer has been ruthless all night."

sylus doesn't think much as he brings his cup to his mouth and averts his attention to the table beside him. however, his tongue never makes contact with the fizz. it lingers on the rim of the cup instead. furrowing his brows, the silver-haired man takes a closer look at you, the supposed ruthless lady dealer.

there you were, clad in a crisp dress shirt with a tight button-up vest on top and a pair of sleek trousers. but never mind what you're wearing (it's what all the employees of this lounge have to wear, but you looked good); you're new. sylus has never seen you before, and that astounds him because this is the n109 zone, the very domain he is in charge of. even if he has never met every single person in this place, he sure as hell has seen them through records. it's his job as the head of onychinus. but you, you're new, a fresh new face he has never seen on any digital or physical records.

but what astonishes the man even more is your winning streak. in the last three minutes sylus has been staring at you, you haven't lost a single game of blackjack. moreover, your hands have been impressively consistent, only flipping twenties or immediate blackjacks.

however, what catches sylus' eye the most is your face. not because of your undeniable beauty (he can think about this later) but because of your expression. in the last four minutes sylus has been staring at you, you never showed an ounce of emotion. your lips never quirked when you won. your eyes never flared when the men at your table accused you of cheating. heck, you didn't even react when one of them dared to grab you by the collar of your shirt and shake you violently with demands to give him back what he lost.

taking a quick sip of his fizz, sylus stands up and strides over to your table. firmly gripping the outstretched arm of your aggressor, he gives him a subtle yet threatening smile. "is there a problem here, sir?"

"s-sylus?!" the man immediately lets go of you, trying to release his poor arm from sylus' unrelenting grip. "i didn't realize you were here."

sylus tilts his head, recognizing the man's face. "mason? the last time i saw you was when you tried to strike me a deal with fake protocores."

gulps can be heard around the room.

"i must say," he continues, tightening his grip. "it's one thing to try and deceive me, but it's another to harm an innocent person just because you're losing sorely."

"s-she's not innocent," mason squawks. "she's cheating! she has to be! she hasn't lost once tonight. besides, she's the dealer. she must have been tampering with the cards!"

sylus faces you, still not letting go of mason. "miss dealer. you have been allowing these men," he nudges his head towards the pigs at your table, "to shuffle the cards before each round, correct?"

"yes," you answer calmly, not a single quiver or tremor to be heard. "each person at this table has shuffled before a round. it is protocol to allow customers to shuffle." smoothening your collar and vest, you gesture to the table with a hand. "also, i have been using two decks of cards, which not only ensures a faster game but also prevents cheating from both the dealer and the customers."

sylus frowns. you didn't even look at him while answering his question. not a single look of acknowledgment was spared. your eyes never left the poker table, and that bothered sylus greatly. he doesn't know why. but what he knows for sure is that he wants your eyes on him. he wants to break your focus so fucking badly. he wants to see what kind of face you would make when he beats you in a game. it's only fair. after all, you satiated his boredom the moment he laid eyes on you. 

"you heard her." he says as he thrusts mason to the ground. "i'm afraid you are simply terrible at cards. now, i suggest you leave before i break your arm."

"what?! but she's-" sylus stomps on the man's arm, eliciting a terrifying scream. cradling his now-shattered arm, mason hunches over in agony, his wails of pain never ending. 

sylus rolls his eyes as he pulls a seat to your table. "any time now, mason," he snaps.

glancing up at you, the silver-haired man can't help but tut. still no reaction from you. just a formal pose of a hand folded over the other and resting on the stomach. seriously? he just crushed a man's arm in front of you, not to mention a man who's been troubling you nonstop, and you don't even blink? by no means does he expect gratitude. it's the n109 zone, after all. but given the indisputable fact that you're new here, surely you must be unaccustomed to spontaneous violence. but no, you just reach for a deck of cards and start shuffling, never acknowledging the man, the fucking head of onychinus, sitting in front of you.

"excellent display, sylus!" sherman chirps, pulling a seat next to him as mason and his men scamper away. "mason, that moron. never able to accept a loss."

"indeed," his lackey joins as well, causing sylus to sigh in frustration. oh right, the imbecile and his ass-kisser were still here. "accepting losses is vital to surviving in the n109 zone. wouldn't you agree, miss?" 

no answer. you just keep shuffling the cards. first a riffle shuffle, then an overhand shuffle. sylus quirks a brow, mildly impressed by how fast your fingers move. finally, you speak.

"your bets, gentlemen?"

sylus blinks. you looked at him. you finally looked at him. and it wasn’t with any flaming desire to win big against the one and only head of onychinus. no, it was with sheer boredom, as if he was just another one of those insignificant nobodies in the n109 zone. he can't help but chuckle. he can feel the excitement coursing through his veins. oh, he can't wait to see your reaction when he bests you. it’s only fair he returns the favor, right? he’ll gladly satiate your boredom as you did for him. and he is dying to see what kind of face will make. will your unmoving, bewitching eyes flicker? will your smooth, crystalline voice falter? will your expressionless, winsome face finally contort? oh, the man is raring to find out. 

it seems sylus, the man who was bored to tears less than ten minutes ago, is confident tonight will be the most entertaining night of his life.

next chapter

[peachylynnie]

ace

word count: 1.7k

synopsis: in which sylus defies all logic and odds, just for you.

contains: part 2 of blackjack, sylus x fem!reader (non mc, first time meeting), slightly obsessive sylus, alcohol consumption, cursing, mentions of weapons and violence, and gambling (know the rules of blackjack).

a/n: in blackjack, you want to get as close as you can to 21 without going over. to bust means to go over 21. to stay means to stay with the cards you have. you can tap for more cards or wave to stay. a natural (best outcome) means you immediately get 21 with your initial cards. but, you don't have to get to 21 to win. so long as the dealer has a worse hand than you, you win. essentially, it's a game against the dealer, not the people you play with. reblogs & comments are appreciated.

previous chapter | lads masterlist | next chapter

sylus has never lost in blackjack before.

he's mastered every gambling card game for the sake of business deals and corrupt clients. and yet, here you are, spitting at his mastery as you flip another twenty, forcing him to either stay at his nineteen or risk a bust. and sylus never stays or busts in blackjack.

while your hands question almost every statistic and probability out there, your expression is what truly does it for him. even though you've only been winning, you haven't shown a trace of happiness or any other emotion normally present at a poker table. there's nothing when your opponents raise their bets, nothing when you win their bets, and infuriatingly nothing when your silver-haired opponent leans on the table and gazes at you hungrily after you take his chips for the umpteenth time tonight.

chuckling to himself, sylus can't help but think, what's going on in that pretty little head of yours? what will it take for you to look at him with half the interest he's looking at you with right now?

"because the lounge closes in less than thirty minutes," you gesture to the clock, snapping the silver-haired man out of his thoughts. "this will be the final round."

you hand a deck of cards to sylus, signaling him to shuffle. he takes it from you, trying not to shudder when his finger grazes yours.

sherman and his lackey groan upon checking how many chips they have left. "and here i thought blackjack was the easiest game against the house," the former complains as he lights a cigar.

"perhaps," the latter starts carefully, "we can wager something different this round." he shares a knowing look with his boss before turning to sylus. "what do you think, mr. sylus?"

sylus sighs as he finishes shuffling the deck. that idiot messed up his shuffle. great, now he looks like an idiot to you. "what would you like to wager?" he huffs as he places the deck in front of you.

"the deal, sylus," sherman snaps. "if i win, we have a deal."

sylus laughs mirthlessly, shaking his head. seems like the imbecile finally decided to drop his friendly act. "and what will your little employee wager?" he asks with faux curiosity.

"that depends on the lady in front of us, mr. sylus," the man in question answers before licking his lips at you. "say, miss dealer. if i win, how about you accompany mr. sherman and me back to a hotel nearby? we promise you'll be thoroughly compensated."

the head of onychinus stands up swiftly, his hands curling into fists. he should have seen this coming. the knowing look sherman and his lackey shared earlier wasn't just a shot at trapping him into a deal; it was an attempt at you and who knows what nauseating desires. before he can pummel the two men into the ground, you speak.

"i'm afraid that won't be possible, gentlemen," you pick up a chip and flip it between your knuckles. "the main objective of blackjack is to beat the dealer, not to win exclusively." your eyes never leave the chip. "for example, what will happen to your wagers if only i win?" you place the chip down. "in other words, multiple wagers are useless in blackjack due to its main objective."

sylus smirks as he sits down, pride blooming in his chest. not only were you good at blackjack, but you were also good at navigating your way in and out of technicalities. oh, he's definitely buying you a drink after this. you earned it. besides, he's curious to know what a talented little lamb like you is doing in the n109 zone. maybe a drink or two will soften you up and lay your mind bare.

"what would you suggest, miss dealer?" sherman questions angrily, his eye twitching. "you're impossible to beat, and unfortunately," he chucks a gun onto the table, "i'm not walking away without a deal."

sylus tenses. you don't flinch.

"change the main objective," you eloquently respond as you reach for the deck of cards sylus shuffled. "the three of you will play against each other, and whoever gains a blackjack or the hand closest to it will have their wager fulfilled." you fingers never slip as you pass out the cards. "while a tie may be possible, the likelihood will be drastically reduced, as you will no longer be playing to beat me." your braid your fingers and rest them against your stomach, your eyes unwavering. "you will be playing to win."

while sherman and his lackey mull over your proposal, sylus takes a sip from his glass, his eyes glued to you. what could you possibly gain from this? no bets you can profit from have been placed. not to mention your choice to stay out of this round just cost you your chance to prevent sherman and his lackey from fulfilling their profane desires. his brows furrow, no longer enjoying the feeling nor taste of fizz on his tongue. this entire night you've only led him in circles, forcing him to deal with your unpredictable actions and signature indifference. does he hate this? fuck no. your antics give him a sense of desire, a drive—something he's been severely lacking for a while.

but, sylus' patience is wearing thin. he swears if he can't get you to look at him with anything but that damned emptiness, he's going to force his way into your eyes until they are filled to the brim with nothing but him, him, him.

"mr. sylus?" sherman's lackey snaps him out of his thoughts. "your wager?"

"ah," sylus places his glass down, ignoring the cracks forming on it from how tightly he was gripping it. "if i win-"

he pauses, noticing something.

"miss dealer, why did you give yourself cards? i thought you weren't playing," he inquires with a tilt of his head.

"i gave myself cards to stay true to the dealing rules of blackjack," you answer calmly, extending your arm towards sherman's cards to begin the game. "don't worry, mr. sylus. i won't be playing this round, only dealing. my cards are facedown, after all."

sylus inhales sharply. you said his name. you said his name for the first time. and fuck, did it feel so good to hear it on your tongue.

"stay or hit, mr. sherman?" you option the man. he has an ace of spades and a seven of hearts, giving him eighteen. the man takes another puff of smoke before tapping the table. "a hit," you confirm before flipping a four of clubs. the man curses loudly, sputtering on his cigar. "too high," you declare as you immediately move on to his lackey.

"stay or hit?" you repeat. the lackey has an ace of hearts and an eight of clubs, giving him nineteen. the man sighs before waving a hand. "stay," you confirm before turning to sylus.

you still upon seeing his cards. a ten of diamonds and a nine of spades, bringing him to tie with sherman's lackey. so much for the likelihood of a tie being dramatically reduced. you exhale before asking, "stay or hit?"

"hm," sylus hums. he could technically stay and walk away with a tie. sherman won't be selling him fake protocores since he lost, and his lackey won't get his way with you since he tied. besides, hitting would be risky since the chances of getting a two are barely one percent, and the chances of getting an ace are either four or two percent, depending on what you have.

sylus tilts his head, realizing something.

"miss dealer, may i look at your cards?"

"i don't see why not," you say after a few seconds, ignoring sherman and his lackey's complaints.

"thank you, miss dealer," he purrs, reaching for your cards. "you won't regret it."

you don't say anything. you just cross your arms and lean against the table, resuming your unconcerned demeanor.

sylus grins after flipping your cards. an ace of diamonds and a ten of diamonds. you had a fucking blackjack. for the nth time of the night, you drew another natural. there's no way he's letting you go after this, not after you reduced his chances of getting an ace from four to two percent.

at this point, you've already realized why sylus wanted to see your cards. he was trying to gauge his chances of getting an ace, but since you had the third one from the deck, his chances were now fatally low. not to mention, his chances of getting a two were also low, meaning staying was the best option. you reach for his cards, hoping to clean up and get the fuck out of the n109 zone because you know from the depraved looks he's been giving you, prolonging your stay would be dangerous.

but what you don't know is the type of person sylus is. he's the type of person to spit in the face of fate, probabilities, and every distinct concept known to dictate humanity. people don't call him a "relentless conqueror" for nothing. unfortunately for you, this man has found something he relentlessly wants to conquer: your fucking attention. he makes that very clear when he taps the table.

and god, is he glad he decided to hit because you finally reacted to him.

your once-indifferent eyes were now faltering with uncertainty. your once-crossed arms were now hanging loosely at your sides. your once-relaxed voice was now quivering as you asked, "i'm sorry, a hit?"

sylus runs a finger upon his lips, trying to control his manic grin. oh, you looked utterly confused, and he was all for it. never has he seen such a beautiful and enticing sight: you, pushed to the absolute brink with your eyes bewitchingly transfixed on him, trying to figure out why the hell he would hit when his chances of winning are painstakingly low.

"yes, sweetie." your brows furrow when he calls you that. "a hit," he confirms with a teasing smile.

you gape at him (yes, keep looking at him like that; fill your eyes with him and him only) for a few more seconds before reaching for a card. people just really like to gamble, you reason. there's no way an ace can come out of this. however, your lips can't help but part when you flip over the card.

an ace of clubs.

he won.

[peachylynnie]

It's Nothing

Sylus x AFAB!Reader

Inspired by my late as fuck period and joking with my friend that I was the next virgin mary. Not proofread cuz I want to post it but I'm tired of looking at it

Warnings: pregnancy scare, menstruation, period fic, anxiety, overthinking, lack of communication, communication, silly, cuddling, kissing, swearing

Word Count: 1,450

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

"Sweetie? What has you so distracted lately?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all! I was just, uh- thinking about work, that's all!"

"You're a terrible liar. Tell me what's wrong."

"It's-" You falter, searching desperately for an excuse and coming up woefully empty "It's really nothing, Sy. I'll tell you at some point, just..."

"... Just not right now." He sighs, but nods, dismissing the subject. A frown lingers on his face as he turns back to the movie. "I trust you, sweetie," he says after a long pause, when it seemed the topic had been dropped completely.

The guilt sinks down into your stomach, but you bite your tongue and cuddle further into his side. The rest of the night remains tense.

You want to tell him. Admit what's on your mind. Finally release this stress from your body. But you can't! Because... what if he leaves you? And maybe you're just being paranoid for nothing - but you can't take that risk, not with Sylus, of all people.

Your period is over a week late. That's not terribly unusual, but it is suspicious given the fact you've stopped using protection in the bedroom. Well, not necessarily stopped, since you're on birth control, but things get heated and he's finished inside of you without a condom. So... what if your birth control didn't do its job 100%? You know there’s a small percentage of it failing, so what if this time is the time it chooses to be ineffective?

Dr. Zayne is the only person you've told about your fears, when you went in for a checkup and nervously asked if he could run a pregnancy test for you. You're not sure if being your childhood friend made the next line of questioning about your sex life more or less awkward. You do know that that test came back negative... But Zayne said after the fact that it could be too early to tell.

So all you can really do now is wait until you do or don't get your period again.

You know it bothers Sylus a lot, your secrecy. You two have both progressed so far in learning how to trust each other, even with the stupid things. This just... doesn't feel like one of those stupid things. You've only just put a name to the relationship, you don't want to ruin that now when things are so new and nice.

So you hold it in. You try your damndest to put it on the back burner and show him as best you can that everything is fine and that you still love and trust him.

You wake up with your body's internal clock. With the N109 Zone being so dark, knowing when day is is a bit tricky. But, Sylus is asleep beside you, laying on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow. He doesn't have a shirt on. A wide expanse of tan skin and rippling muscle is left exposed as the blankets all pool around his hips.

You smile to yourself, albeit a bit mournfully. You're glad he's still sleeping beside you, even if you've both been a bit rocky lately. It's all your fault - you know. You'll make it up to him somehow. You have to.

Slowly, as quietly as you can, you slip out of bed and creep to the bathroom...

"Sy!" You see him startle out of sleep, hand already wrapped around the gun under his pillow as he sits up, searching for the danger.

"What is it?" he asks sharply. You run and jump onto the bed, landing partially on top of him. He tosses the gun onto his nightstand and lifts you by the waist to reposition you into his lap as he sits up properly. "What's got you so excited?"

"I'm not pregnant!"

He blinks up at you with a frown. You grab his shoulders like an excited kid, looking at him expectantly. He feels like he’s skipped several chapters into a book and the plot twist reveal isn’t making any sense. "What are you talking about, sweetie?"

You're practically vibrating in his lap with energy. It's the most light he's seen in your eyes for the last week and a half. It's... relieving. "I'm not pregnant! We haven't been as careful with protection lately and then my period was supposed to come, but it didn't, so I had a pregnancy test done, but Zayne said it could be too early to tell when it came back negative, so I've been waiting and waiting to know if I really am and-! And I'm not! I'm bleeding again, Sylus! I'm not pregnant!"

He shakes his head, brow pinched with a pained expression. "That's the 'nothing' you've been distracted by all week?"

"Um..." You grin sheepishly. "Yeah?"

He takes a moment, eyes closed and lips drawn into a frown. That guilt that settled in your stomach during your movie night returns, doubled in intensity. You got over-worried and kept secrets from your boyfriend, when you could have just told him from the start how weird it was that your period is late and how worried you are about what it could mean.

"Sy...?"

"Mmm."

"Are you mad at me?"

He finally opens his eyes. The expression eases slightly as he shakes his head with a sigh. "Have the cramps hit yet?"

You shake your head. "Um, no?"

Suddenly, his arms are wrapped around you and your world tilts on its axis. A heavy weight settles above you. Sylus's nose presses against your neck. "Good. Let's stay here for when they do."

You try to wriggle loose. He tightens his hold around you and nips at your skin sharply. You jolt, but it stops your struggling. “Why do we have to stay here for my cramps?”

“Because, sweetie,” he sighs. You’d think he’s annoyed, if it weren’t for the way he runs his nose along the column of your throat and eases his weight fully onto your body. “When your cramps start, you’re going to want a heating pad and a massage. And since you hate my massages-“

“I do not!”

“-it’s better if I just lay here and provide all the heat you desire.”

His logic isn’t faulty… And, honestly, having him so close to you again, without the barrier you built between you both, is really, really nice. So, you relent. You wrap your arms around his neck and begin playing with his hair. He lets out a contented hum, pressing a kiss to your pulse.

“So… you’re not mad at me?” you ask again.

“No, I’m not mad. I was… worried. Suddenly you were pulling away from me with no explanation and no warning. I thought…” You gently pull on his hair to remove his face from your neck. He follows with no resistance, resting his chin on your chest as he looks up at you with such serious eyes, tinged with sleepiness and lingering concern. “I thought you didn’t trust me anymore.”

You frown at the admission. For over a week, he thought you were pulling away because you didn’t trust him… “I guess I didn’t help any, keeping my worries a secret…” He doesn’t agree, but you see a slight quirk in his brow. “I’m sorry, Sy. I didn’t… I just… This is so new. I was worried that if I was pregnant, you’d be upset or leave me or something.”

He scoffs. “I’m not so easily scared off, kitten.”

“And I know that now.” You lean forward and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. His eyes flutter shut, furrow in his brow relaxing. When you pull away, they open to look at you once again. “I promise, from now on, I won’t keep secrets like that from you anymore. You’ll be the first to know if I’m worried about anything.”

He grins slightly. “Thank you, sweetie. I promise to be just as honest with you.”

He lifts himself up just enough to capture your lips. Your mouths move together in a languid dance, sealing the deal you two have just made. It lasts several minutes. Neither of you really ever want it to end, but Sylus needs his sleep and you’re going to need all his love and care when your uterus decides to rain hellfire on you to make up for lost time. He pulls away slowly, trails light kisses down your jaw, and tucks himself back into your neck.

Everything feels so much more secure now. Despite all your fears, the relationship has grown stronger. And you know, you’re both going to be okay.

-

Bonus:

“Is the thought of having my kids that terrible?”

“You know that’s not why I was worried, you asshole.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry

[peachylynnie]

Author Recommendations

This post will be updated as I remember more people - I never saved anything about what I read. If you want yourself removed from this list - let me know! No problem! But keep in mind this list was made for me to keep track of my favourites and as acknowledgment of people that I look up to, as I strive to be as good as them. Also, if I did, I interacted with you using my main blog, not this one. DM me if you need anything. Thank you, all!

@plutotheplum Has amazing chemistry while writing any character. She brings out genuine interactions without feeling too unrealistic, you'll read without realizing how into it you are, like in a trance. Everytime I read something that takes me out instantly, I know it's hers. @rose-tinted-kalopsia Is a very sweet person with a very obvious Xavier preference, her blog is beautiful - she makes it very impressive how much effort she puts into it - and everything she writes is in-character and cherry-picked to tug at your heart. Also, she's constantly panicking and that's very cute. Take a look! @dollgxtz Is an incredible writer with a gut-wrenching ongoing series called 'His watchful eye', responsible for me kicking my feet at 3am when I should be sleeping. Her writing makes me think she shouldn't be posting it for free. Also a sweetheart. @comatosebunny09 Currently on semi-hiatus, they only write for Sylus - keep that in mind. Their blog is amazing, very organized! Everything they write leaves you wanting more, so even though they have a lot of available stories, you'll read it all in no time. @monster-effer I really hope she starts writing more. The way she does it is very unique, in a way that everything is well-described, but nothing is too much to read. It is all very natural - you'll know what i'm talking about when you take a look at her blog! @peachylynnie Well. One day I decided to binge on her blog and accidentally left too many comments - sorry guys I'm addicted to supporting talented people - and her work makes me squeal EVERYTIME for a reason or another. God, it's all so good! (╥﹏╥) @h4venpha We have another Sylus fan here, and they write him extremely in-character. I like all of their works with no exception, always making me turn off my phone to recollect myself. I'd read everything they write even if they were a worm. (writing in wormish).

[peachylynnie]

So I had one holiday prompt that I couldn't include in the big holiday prompt fic I posted last week, and I also have been receiving some really sweet and cute ideas that weren't exactly requests, but the ideas were so nice that I wanted to write something for them. I've gathered them into one story that I hope isn't disappointing. I had intended to do separate, cute little drabbles, but I had a bad day the other day and somehow uh, really dark angst happened, and then I used the ideas people sent for the comfort half of the fic? So please forgive me for just... taking it as dark as you can go before including the sweet, cute ideas that people requested. I hope you like the result anyway, although please read the content warnings. Several of the people who sent requests/ideas apologized for doing so, as if sending the ideas was 'too much', but you don't have to apologize for sending asks. My requests are open, and I like seeing everyone's ideas even if I don't end up being able to write for them, or if I tweak them a little to make them work for the story that comes out of my brain despite my best laid plans to stick to an outline.

The river | ao3 | masterlist

It's Christmas Eve, you're at the end of your rope after an absolutely awful year, and you decide to end it all after pushing everyone in your life away. Sylus pulls you from the brink and convinces you to keep going.

Sylus x fem reader, Sylus x mc, hurt/comfort, angst, grief, banter, fluff. CW: attempted suicide, depressed thoughts, NSFW, Sylus penetrating reader (this is not sex ed, do not follow these idiots' example, no discussion of condom or birth control, this is fantasy and we're not going to worry about that in the fic)

Ask #1 You asked to keep sending silly little ideas for you to write so I thought I'd give my own request! After Caleb and Gran (supposedly) die it's pretty much canon that MC refuses help from their friends and isolates themself in certain ways. I always imagine MC sometimes sees Sylus as "the only one they have left" since he is the only one who goes out of his way to check up on MC. But MC kinda grows to resent this and has a moment when their drunk/really going through it and basically ask Sylus why he doesn't leave them be so they can just rot away in peace. Sorry if this is too lengthy or I'm overstepping! Brain worms are getting to me

Ask #2 Okay, so random thoughts here, but do you know that superstition that’s like, “the places where you have moles on your body show where your lover kissed you in a past life”? But like… can you imagine what it would be like if MC had a mole in the exact spot where Sylus bit her during Abyssal Mark (cus I have one there lol) and then that superstition randomly gets brought up, only for MC to show him that mole and Sylus is just s h o o k??? N e way that’s my random thoughts lol (sorry if this is a lot 💀)

Ask #3 I love the way you write the MC and I find myself relating to them at least 99% of the time. Sometimes I just imagine them giving Sylus one of those "Do you like me? Circle yes or no!" Love letters to Sylus because they are terrified of rejection -> i wrote the MC in this story really, really depressed, so if this didn't hit the spot for you in terms of fear of rejection, let me know, and I can include your prompt in another story idea I had before this one that's a lot lighter and sweeter before I got hit by the angst truck that this fic turned out to be. just let me know!

Ask #4 the last holiday prompt! -> idk if anyone sent it yet but from the xmas prompt list, i would love to see what you do with number 8 -> I'm so sorry that this is what I did with it, I hope you like it anyway😭

Thank you everyone who has sent me ideas! If you've sent me a request and I haven't answered it yet, it's because I'm still intending to do something with it.

Here you are. Again.

At the end of a long day. A long week. A long year. 

A long rope.

It’s the dark, this time of year. 

Maybe. 

You’re restless. You’ve passed through the Deepspace Hunters Association doors for the last time this year. Empty days of leave stretch before you.

Normally, it would still be light out, leaving this early. But not now, this deep into the year—it’s already full night, as you leave work early.

The bright lights of the building pour over your upturned face as you look back, just once. You don’t know what for. You’ve successfully severed most of the ties you had built before.

Before everything.

Tara, Xavier. After Caleb, Josephine—they reached out, over and over, and you bit their outstretched hands with your sharp, sharp teeth. 

You snapped enough times that they keep their distance, now. 

They’re still kind. 

Tara still comes, sits on your desk, shares tidbits of gossip during the workday. But she no longer invites you along to karaoke, to after-work drinks with other coworkers.

You and Xav work in sync, as you eliminate wanderers. He walks you to your door at the end of the day. But he no longer offers to lend you books. No longer invites you to the bookstore, or to try new restaurants.

You watch his broad back as he walks away from you, down your apartment building’s hallway. He feels as far away as a star in the velvet night sky.

It’s not their fault. You did this.

You wanted this.

You turn away from the warm light beaming from the Association as you leave early, the Christmas lights glittering in the windows, the holiday party you’re skipping still in full swing in the open, sleek company restaurant area on the ground floor. A division-wide shindig, to celebrate the end of the year, the holidays.

The night is cold. Fairy lights, nets of bright pinpricks in the dark night, cover the trees lining the sidewalk. Decorative light displays stretch across the busy road at periodic intervals, over the canals that parallel the streets, the gondolas and tour-boats festive under their own lights, red ribbons flapping in the cold winter wind.

You think about how they never recovered a body.

Only Josephine’s ashes fill an urn, sitting in a cold niche of a quiet columbarium. Caleb’s urn is empty.

You start walking, fast, along the busy sidewalk. People are out shopping, scurrying to tie up last minute errands before the city shuts down for the holiday tomorrow.

You want to unzip your coat. Unzip your uniform. Unzip your skin, your ribcage. Leave all these pieces of yourself behind, for others to puzzle over. To sweep up with the rest of the refuse left over from festive party goers on the street. You want to dissipate in the cold winter air like your breath with each cursed inhale, exhale.

You settle for beginning to jog to the metro station, your feet carrying you faster, faster, your boots heavy on the sidewalk. You see it lit in the distance, but you can’t stand the thought of being underground right now. Buried alive, with all the other people. You sprint past it. 

You’re graceful enough to duck and weave, not disturb anyone else, until the crowds thin.

You’re running, running, the city is streaming past, like the tears from your eyes. Wet from the cold, because you haven’t cried since waking up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s silver chain glittering in the firelight on the walk up to your grandmother’s burning house.

Tears won’t bring a body back.

You don’t know how much longer you can stand this.

The days, one after another. Alarm, moving through the dark to get to work. Moving through the dark to get back to your apartment at the end of the day.

The pain—your only constant, now. The only thing you expect, have to look forward to, day after blurred day. 

An echoing emptiness, like an urn without ashes. An emptiness that feels so full that your skin could burst with it.

You think about your apartment. The festive city outside its windows. The half-opened bottle of wine in the fridge, the only thing in it.

You veer from your neighborhood. Keep running. You’re sweating under your winter coat, your heavy Hunter uniform. It doesn’t matter.

You run, and run, and run, until you run out of streets, sidewalk.

Just the river, wide and black. There is a bridge, soaring over the water, in the distance. Its lights reflected in the water, along with the urban nightscape. Stars above, stars below.

You could drown in them.

You look at the bridge.

You could drown in it all.

There’s no one left, after all.

Who will miss you?

You slow. Stop.

Your breath is heavy in the quiet air. Fairy lights sparkle here, too. Pretty swooping light displays top each lamppost along the river path. 

You would have gone to identify the body, as you did with Gran. She didn’t look like herself. Not even a sleeping version of herself. They did their best, reconstructing her face. But it wasn’t the stitches, the bruising. It was that she simply wasn’t there anymore. Like a stranger’s body on display. An empty house after the residents have been forced to flee in a night of unimaginable violence. 

But running your hands through her hair, one last time. It soothed something in you. Enough that you could breathe in the cold mortuary air. Could nod. Could watch as they covered her again. As they escorted you out into the bustling hospital hallways, to stand under cold fluorescent lights. To stare vacantly at the wall, until you felt a strange, familiar feeling. You looked up, saw Zayne watching you, at the end of the long hallway. You stared at him, memorizing his beautiful face. His dark hair. His severe, cold loveliness. You let yourself look one last time, and he let you. Through the people filling the hallway, each walking with purpose, they were a blur and he was  across the world, across time, a part of your past that should never have reappeared in your present. It hurt too much, to look at his beautiful, distant face. He left you behind, once. He should have stayed gone. You can’t stand to experience the loss again, the loss you felt every time he listened to your heart, expressionless, a stranger with a beautiful, familiar face from your past, a past in which Caleb was still alive. 

You looked at Zayne one last time, across a bustling hallway in a place full of life, of death, and he let you. You then turned, headed to the reception desk. You switched doctors, hospitals.

You blocked his number, so you’ll never know if he sent you a text, tried to call and ask why, after. He let you walk out. Which is as it should be.

You wanted this.

The water churns under the whipping wind, the fast current. It looks so cold. Cold enough to numb. Cold enough to finally put out the fire that’s been burning in you, ever since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace shimmering in the flames.

You think of running your hands through his hair. Something the fire robbed you of—it would have been your first time, your last time. He would pat your head. Call you pipsqueak. Ignore your protests to not mess up your hair, to not treat you like a little kid. But he would always duck out of the way anytime you tried to return the favor, tease him, tousle his hair. His pretty brunette hair that always looked so soft. Now you’ll never know how soft it really was.

You look at the water. You look at the bridge. The car headlights meteors streaking along their guardrail-gated orbit.

You think about going home. Waking up tomorrow, Christmas Day. The silence. You think about going back to work. Killing wanderer after wanderer. Wondering which one will be the one to finally kill you.

The days blur. The constant emptiness echoing inside your apartment, inside your ribcage.

You look at the water. You look at the bridge. You imagine running your hands through Caleb’s hair for the first, the last time. A tender goodbye you’ll never have, because they never found his body.

There’s no one left to miss you.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You fish it out.

Rafayel no longer calls, or texts you words. He just sends photos, every once in a while. Mundane details of everyday life, rendered extraordinary through his artist’s eye. Paintings he’s working on. A foreign landscape. Leaves glistening with dew. The moon, waxing full.

You haven’t answered in months. You look at each one, tuck your phone back in your pocket.

You look back at the water. Think about taking a photo of the reflected stars, the thin crescent moon in the black waves, think of sending him one last response. But even you’re not that cruel. You don’t want him to realize later, that he was the last one to say anything to you.

You don’t open his text. You block his number. Tuck the phone back into your pocket.

You start to walk toward the bridge. As you walk, you keep your eyes on the path, its edges. Decorative, smooth stones line the walkway along the river embankment. You pick them up, here and there, as you walk. Slip them into your coat pockets.

Eventually you run out of room in your coat pockets, add more to your pants pockets. 

You turn your eyes back to the bridge, looming now.

You think of your empty fridge. Josephine’s empty face. An empty urn.

You’re ready to scoop out what’s left of you, leave it behind on the sidewalk, smoldering as the cold night finally smothers the endless fire, the only thing left inside you. Maybe it will warm someone else, in passing. A last good deed, from you to someone in the world.

A metal staircase, leading up, up, into the black sky, mirroring the dark river, your heavy boots echoing. The cars are loud. If you close your eyes, they could be the rushing waves of an ocean, instead of a river of traffic, above a river of water.

You keep your eyes open. You’re not going to pretend that you’re not doing what you’re doing, now. You’re not at the ocean, its pure salt air drifting through your hair, now whipping around your face. You’re on a busy, exhaust- and oil-stained commuter bridge on the night before Christmas, having cut your ties with everyone you have always known never wanted or needed you in the first place. What’s the difference if a wanderer kills you tomorrow, or if something kills you today? Just empty time, blurry days, photo frames without pictures.

The guardrail isn’t so high as one would guess. It’s an easy step up. An easy step over. You stand, looking back over the city where you were raised. The city that contains all the past versions of yourself, from the moment you were pulled screaming into life from a mother whose face you’ll never know, through to now, an empty shell of a person. If your fellow hunters could see inside you, they’d mistake you for a wanderer and put you down, like the scientists who experimented on you, your own grandmother, did years ago.

Since learning that Gran was one of the people who fucked with your heart, you have often resented that she and her colleagues weren’t successful in finishing the job years ago, when they had the chance.

But now you wonder, standing over a dark, freezing river that reflects what’s inside you now, maybe they did finish it. You just didn’t realize it. Not till tonight, as you look down in the mirror of the rushing water, far below.

Even now, the tears won’t come.

What use are tears, when they can’t bring a body back. When they can’t wash it clean. When they can’t lovingly touch it, one last time, soft strands of hair under your fingers.

Your tears, your heart, your suffering, your existence—useless, for the entirety of a life you can only half remember.

You wonder if it’s the dark, tonight. Why tonight, and not yesterday? Why not six months ago? 

Because it took that long to sever the ties binding you here?

Now you are assured, no one will miss you. It will take days before anyone even notices your absence because of your holiday leave.

You hope that they’ll assume it was a wanderer. Bad luck. Wrong time, wrong place. A modest little plaque on the wall of heroes, even though you know you’re no hero.

In the end, it doesn’t matter why it’s tonight, and not any other night.

No need to be dramatic, pretending there’s meaning in the meaningless.

You put your hands on the guardrail, the metal colder than your freezing hands. You lift a heavy booted foot. Take a deep breath. 

It’s so cold. It will be over before you know it. You’ve read that from this height, it’s the impact, and not the drowning.

You’ve always had dreams of flying. 

You lift your other foot, arms thrown wide for balance, just for a moment. The world feels so big, here at the end. The stars above, the stars below, the doubled crescent moon. You’re ready to drown in it all.

You only have one hope.

I don’t want to be reborn.

You breathe, empty your mind of Tara’s earnest smile, Xavier’s soft laughter, Zayne’s steady hands, Rafayel’s flashing violet eyes. Josephine’s empty face. Caleb’s soft, untouchable hair.

You let yourself fall.

You’re flying. Your heart is soaring. Your heart is seizing. The relief, the terror, mingle. You can’t scream, even if you wanted to.

You’re flying and it’s everything you ever dreamt, until it’s not.

Your body jerks, abruptly. Your hair whips down, lashes your face. You grunt with the impact against… nothing. You’re suspended over the water, drifting in the air. The wind tugs at your stone-weighted coat.

You twist away from the water, craning your neck to look up, up, back at the bridge.

You have withstood the uselessness of tears for almost a year now. But now, you want to cry so badly the pain of the need steals your breath.

You knew he was cruel. You knew he was merciless. You knew that he hated you. You just didn’t realize how much, until now.

You hang suspended over a dark, rushing river, wrapped in scarlet and ink tendrils, looking up into the sneering face of the one person you refused to think about as you made your final decision tonight, at the end of your desolate, half-remembered life.

His evol begins to lift you, away from the merciful impact, the numbing water. You, your past, your heart, the memories and despair and stones filling your pockets seem weightless, wrapped in his power.

His usual mask of bored indifference is gone. He is finally showing you his true face, what he must always feel when he looks at you—fury and disgust.

He says nothing, as he pulls you from the depths, back into the world. As he sets you gently back on your heavy feet on the sidewalk in front of him. His evol evaporates, winter breath in the wind.

He looks at your face with his wine-dark eyes. Looks at the water. Flicks his gaze back to your face.

You will not cry in front of this man. This man who hates you so much he won’t even let you seek the peace of death. Death, which has always been too good for you, but not for the people you loved the most.

You clench your jaw as the fire re-ignites in your chest. The flames you had tried so hard to scoop out, to leave behind.

You don’t want to feel this much anymore.

If you speak, you know you’ll cry. You can’t stand it.

Maybe, with enough repetition, he’ll get bored. He gets bored so easily, after all.

You turn, try to launch yourself over the guardrail again.

This time, it’s not his evol, but his arms that wrap around you, pull you back from the fall.

You struggle, throwing your elbows, kicking, throwing your head back, hoping to catch his perfect nose, break it under the hardness of your stupid, useless skull.

He says nothing, just holds you tighter, wraps one arm around your waist, the other over your chest, his big hand cradling the side of your face, pressing your head back into his own chest, as he hunches over you, an immovable wall of warmth. As you fight to break free of his hold, you are wrapped in his scent—cloves, gun oil. 

Sylus.

Eventually, you tire yourself out—despite all of your strength, it is no match for his. He holds you against himself easily, as you pant, lungs burning with the effort, the sweat warm once again under your Hunter’s uniform. You become aware of a whimpering, the keening of a wounded animal.

It’s coming from your throat. Your eyes burn. You go limp in his arms.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. A voice like warm liquor in your veins. You think he’ll let you go. You prepare, hoping you can get to the guardrail again. Maybe this time he won't be so fast. But instead of releasing you, getting away from you as fast as he can, the arm around your waist moves up, cradling your upper back. He scoops his other arm under your legs, holds you against himself like you’re a delicate princess, if you were anyone else. But because it’s you, he’s probably just holding you like a useless sack of shit that would be too annoying to drop. He begins to walk, his stride steady, brisk.

He looks down into your face. “I bought a dress for you. Silk. A design like stars over a flowing river. That’s the only river you’re allowed in tonight, kitten.”

You stare at him. His breath puffs white in the cold air. The face of disgusted fury is replaced by his usual bored mask.

Why is he doing this to you? He wanted to kill you, just a few months ago. Why not let you do the job for him?

He is the only person in your life who didn’t take the hint. Who kept showing up, after you made it clear that you didn’t want their presence anymore. That you couldn’t handle the ties, because ties become nooses, snapping your neck when the other person leaves you behind.

When he showed up where you were, in a ‘coincidental’ meeting on the street, on a jog, you would turn, move in the other direction. He would match your stride, doggedly pestering you with questions, asking you about your evening or weekend plans, telling you silly stories from the N109 Zone, Luke and Kieran’s latest antics. Sometimes he’d just walk in contemplative silence, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, or jog quietly next to you, never losing his breath, never complaining about the pace.

When you would routinely see him at various restaurants you were headed to in order to pick up takeout, you’d leave your food, immediately turning and hurrying away. When the same food was delivered to your door half an hour later, you’d refuse to answer, letting the confused and irritated delivery man leave. A half hour after that, the same man would be back, yell through the door that he had instructions to leave the food even if no one answered, and then he’d make good on his promise. You were faced with the choice of either letting the food go to waste, or eating it guiltily at your kitchen island.

No matter how many times you told the delivery person of the almost daily packages you received with no return address that you didn’t want to accept delivery, they would always insist that their instructions were to deliver regardless of recipient response. You were welcome to bin the items after receipt, but if you didn’t accept, the packages would just pile so high outside of your door that you couldn’t reach your apartment anymore.

You would accept, and then donate whatever exquisite item was inside to women’s shelters, children’s homes, university museums, soup kitchens, fundraiser auctions. No matter how clear it was that you wouldn’t accept anything from him, Sylus never stopped sending you gifts.

When you were sick, he’d show up personally, barge into your apartment when you were too tired to look at the doorbell camera before answering, a duffel bag gripped in his big hand filled with fever reducing medicine, homemade soup from his home chef, painkillers, hot water bottles, cooling pads, muscle pads, vitamins. He’d lounge on your couch, manspreading, insisting that he wouldn’t leave until he saw you swallow the pills and drink a gigantic glass of water.

He’d wait until you lay back down on your messy bed, until you fell asleep. He’d be gone when you woke again, but your apartment would be clean and your fridge and freezer would be stuffed full of healthy pre-prepared food.

You were half-convinced he was just buttering, fattening his prey before getting bored and mercifully ending its life.

Tonight, you are now fully convinced.

“Did your tongue freeze in your mouth?” he asks, descending the stairs you had just walked up, thinking it was your last time ascending them. “Do you need mouth-to-mouth to warm it up again?”

You scowl at him, at how appealing the idea of Sylus’s tongue in your mouth is, even now. You hate yourself, your traitorous body for being drawn to him, even now. “What’s the point of talking, when you never listen?” you grind out, your throat sore. You hadn’t realized how much your animal wailing had wrecked your throat. At least the tears are no longer so close to the surface that they’re threatening to spill.

“I listen to every word out of your beautiful mouth,” he counters serenely, with that same inexplicable kindness that makes your heart hurt. So at odds with how you know he must really feel about you. “I just listen to more than your mouth in order to hear what you’re really saying.”

“What?” You stare at his beautiful face, the way the lamplight illuminates its sharp features for a brief moment, before the night swallows it again as he moves between lampposts on his way… somewhere. Back the way you just came from.

He spares you a glance. “Your mouth says one thing, while the rest of you is screaming something else.”

You feel the blood draining from your face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

One corner of his beautiful mouth lifts. “Don’t play dumb, kitten. You’re too smart for it to be convincing.”

You were just falling into the river. You were just about to be free. How did you get here again? In this man’s arms, his smug, roguish smile filling you with the unease of being seen. 

“I mean, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more honest about the fact that you want people to fight for you, right?”

You begin to struggle again, shame lancing through you, making your body unbearable to be in. You know it’s weak, to have wanted so desperately that the people you were carving from your life would see what you were doing and stop you, place their hands over yours holding the cleaver, gently push it down, down, until it dropped from your grasp—how desperately you wanted them to step into your space, hold you tightly, just like this man who sees right through you is holding you now. You wanted Tara to keep inviting you out with your ridiculous colleagues, to sing your heart out at shitty karaoke clubs, to forcibly drag you to sleepovers and arcade nights. You wanted Xavier to push himself into your apartment, try to bake something horrible in your oven, sheepishly offer to go to the bakery with you instead when the fire alarm inevitably went off. You wanted Zayne to walk through the crowd to reach you at the other end of the hallway after you identified Josephine’s body, to ask to take your hand, to ask how you were doing, even though you knew you wouldn’t have been able to answer. You wanted Rafayel to keep inventing excuses for you to visit his studio, to keep insisting that he needed you to accompany him to expositions and fancy lunches as his bodyguard. 

But none of them did in the end, and that’s okay. You kept pushing them away, because your terror of their leaving was apparently bigger than your need for their presence in your life, and at least if they were already gone, as they inevitably would be, you’d finally be free. 

But the last person you would want to see this utterly humiliating need inside you, exposing you like this, is the one looking down at you right now with deceptively soft, all-seeing eyes.

You know the feeling, this need, of pulling away and pulling away and then being heartbroken when people finally let you is weak, and pathetic.

You may experience weak and pathetic feelings, but you’re not weak or pathetic. Not at your core. You were prepared to do what was necessary, to save yourself from the pain of your emptiness, the fire raging inside your chest. You weren’t asking anything of anyone. You were doing it all on your own. 

Not a burden. 

Never a fucking burden. 

You clench your teeth, buck in Sylus’s arms.

He just holds you tightly, a straightjacket for the insanity that you’re feeling, the insanity of this man, out of all the people in your life, stripping you of your masks, flaying you so that all of your most tender, shameful parts are exposed to both him and yourself.

“Stop that. You’re just going to tire yourself further, when I need you tonight.”

Of course. The quid pro quo. He helped you with the auction, the Aether Core. Now you owe him. He doesn’t give a fuck if you live or die—he just can’t let one of his assets destroy itself before it fulfills his purpose.

You go limp in his arms. Turn your head away from him.

He continues his train of thought. “No, it wouldn’t kill you to tell the truth to your friends, so you decided to take matters into your own hands, huh? Telling the people in your life that you actually need them wouldn’t kill you, so why bother, right, when you can just jump off of a fucking bridge?” His voice sounds like the night you met him. Controlled anger. Disgust. Accusation.

Then there’s something wrong with her.

You thought you had killed everything inside of you already. The yearning for human connection. The kindness of a friend. Family holding you in their arms. You thought you had scooped out most of it, even as some of it rekindled when he pulled you back from the fall.

But the way you’re hurting now, at the memory of his hate, the reminder that the people you love won’t fight for you even if it would be fighting against you, and that this man, for all of his false generosity, never cared for you from the beginning, that his gifts and his visits were all what you knew them to be, all along—a bored predator toying with its prey before using it and consuming it. 

You let your thoughts drift back to the bridge, push your pain away. Feed it to the fire. When he’s done with you, maybe you won’t even have to jump.

“Just shut up, Sylus. I’ll help you with your problem tonight. Just promise me you’ll toss me over yourself, when you’re done with me,” you tell the night, because you still can’t bring yourself to look at him.

He stops walking. The wind is so cold against your face. You wish he’d snap your neck, right now. You’re so fucking tired.

“Look at me.” His voice is low. Menacing.

You watch the water. Wonder how long it would take if you just walked out into it, without jumping. Just walk in with your stone-weighted coat and let the cold paralyze you, the current pull you under.

“Look at me, my heart,” he whispers. The change in his tone, his bizarre endearment, has you turning your head, looking up into his face. “That is one promise I can never make you.” He looks like he’s in pain. You don’t know why. He leans down, rests his forehead against yours, hunching his big shoulders, lifting your body in his arms so he can meet you. His breath is warm against your lips. “Please don’t talk to me like that.”

You want to snort. It’s rich, coming from him—the same man who is telling you not to tell him to shut up, after all the things he said to you as he starved you, strangled you.

“Please don’t tell me to kill you. To hurt you. That hurts me.”

You stare up into his face. See the sincerity in his eyes. The wind whips your hair. He wasn’t upset that you told him to shut up, but that you asked him to kill you? “What does it matter? Aren’t you going to, in the end?”

“Why would I stop you tonight, if I wanted you to die?”

Of course he won’t answer outright. When has Sylus Qin ever answered a direct question?

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Why bother stopping me, unless you just need to use me and then be done with me? I can’t be that irreplaceable. Just get someone else to put on the dress, and let me get on with my fucking life. Someone who you can train to say just the right things, at just the right time, who’ll look good in whatever fancy shit you want to put her in. There’s gotta be easier idiots than me to serve your purpose.”

He closes his eyes, breathes in the cold night air. When he opens them, you have to look away. You can’t handle whatever is in them. “I know I hurt you, when we first met. That I said cruel things to you. I’m sorry.”

You laugh, even as your heart wrenches at this strange apology. Of course he doesn’t explain what offended him so much about your existence at the beginning. Why he treated you exactly how you deserved. Probably just whatever he saw when he used his Aether Core on you. He saw the echoing chambers of your empty, fucked up heart and was enraged that it was you, and not someone worthy, who would absorb the Aether Core. “There’s never been any need to varnish the truth, Sylus. You almost choked me to death the day we met. You should have fucking finished what you started,” you sneer. “Why does no one ever finish what they start?” You think of Josephine, her researcher cronies. Think of Caleb, his promise to return, the last text he ever sent you. Your fucking parents, who you will never know.

You don’t expect an answer.

And yet, you’re surprised when Sylus wordlessly releases his hold on you. Lets you slip from his arms, sets you back on your feet. You settle in your heavy boots, the weight of your coat, the stones in your pockets, grounding you to the earth.

The lamplight shines in his silver-sheened, wind-tousled hair. His cheeks are red from the cold.

Of course. Of course.

No tool is irreplaceable.

You’re not irreplaceable.

You finally said the right thing, to push him away.

This is it. This is it. This is it. 

Your mind returns to the bridge. Your hand is holding the cleaver, dripping with the blood from the last unwelcome tether to your life.

You try to memorize his face, just as you did Zayne’s, but for some reason looking at Sylus’s face hurts you so much more despite having known him for so little time. Just a sigh, in the timeline of your life. The warm glow of his irises. The softness of his lower lip. The pride in his shoulders, his nose. 

Maybe you didn’t want to think of him before jumping because you had fallen in love with him, despite the fact that any affection he offered was counterfeit—the steady way he breathed next to you on a jog, the way he spread out on your couch, his dry humor, his intelligence, his piercing gaze, his kindness that was actually more cruel than if he had just tossed you out and never bothered to look for you again after the auction.

You knew it was fake. You knew it was calculated. You knew that the reality was, because he had told you from the very beginning—

Don’t tell me that you like me. Is this all so you can get my attention?

Clearly you’ve read too many fairytales.

And yet you had believed, in the bright moments of receiving his kind attention, in the fairytale. Just for a heartbeat. A raindrop, splattering on the ground.

You thought that you couldn’t bear to see what it looks like when Sylus finally tires of you pushing him away, and stops reaching out, as everyone else has. 

But with just a few words, you’ve finally managed to do it. He set the burden of you down, and now he’ll walk away, replace you with some other beautiful, breathing tool.

You learn in this moment that you actually can bear it. You can bear anything, as long as you know that very soon, you won’t have to bear anything at all.

“You wanted the truth?” you say, suddenly, the relief flooding through you that the worst has happened, that you’re now actually free. You think of the fabric of the dress, liquid stars over a night river, and wonder whose body it will caress, with Sylus’s big hand on her waist, his gentle fingers drifting across her collarbone, his forehead pressed against hers, for whatever ruse he needs to run tonight, on Christmas Eve.

He grows still. Watches you carefully, as if searching your face for a trick. You look back at him steadily, scooping everything inside you out, letting it splatter onto the sidewalk, here along this dark riverbank.

“Will you give it to me?” he finally asks.

“As a parting thank you gift, for cutting me loose.” You nod. Take a shuddering breath of the frigid air. “Here is me telling you the truth: you should treat the woman who ends up wearing the dress you got with more gentleness than you did me at the beginning. You could have the world eating out of the palm of your hand, if you skip the cruelty at the beginning and just treat people the way you treated me in the last few months. She’ll do anything for you, I think, if you do. Because somehow you made me love you, despite our beginning. I could bear to cut everyone else loose but you.” You laugh, and the sound is like icicles snapping, shattering on the ground. “Thank you for doing it for me, instead. It’s probably the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

You smile at him. 

You don’t know why you’re surprised that he just frowns deeply, brow furrowing. 

Well. That’s okay. You never expected him to be pleased to see your face, smiling or not.

“Good luck, Sylus.”

You turn, begin to walk back the way you came, for the second time tonight. Your thoughts are already at the bridge. You’ve been falling for months now. Soon you’ll finally hit the crystal water and shatter. 

You hope you won’t be reborn.

“You said you love me.” His deep, low voice is carried by the wind.

You stop, turn your head. “Stupid, huh?” you ask, wondering if he wants to pour salt into the wound you just willingly exposed to him.

“Why would you love someone who treated you the way I did?”

You turn fully, face him across the night, one last time. “You’re so fucking funny. I’ve always appreciated men who can make me laugh.” You shrug. “And I’m a pathetic fool. You pretended to be kind, and I lapped it up like the thirsty dog I am.”

He tilts his head, takes a step towards you. “That’s all?”

You take a step back. You don’t need him and his pretty face, his delicious scent any closer to torment you.

You offer him more truth. “Of course not.”

“What else?”

You sigh. “What does it matter? We’ll never see each other again.”

He shakes his head. “Indulge me.”

So salt, it is. You press your fingers into the most tender part of yourself, peel yourself wide open. “Your cleverness. How sweet you can be when you want something—strangely pliant, for such a big, powerful man. The self confidence you have. I could say, do anything and you did so well pretending to never be embarrassed of me. You made me believe, very briefly, that you really wanted to be with me, do anything, go anywhere, just because I was there. It’s quite impressive, really. I can see why you’re so good at business. You’re competent. You’re beautiful to look at.” You pause, shake your head in turn. “But you already know all that. You know why you’re loveable. You made me feel cherished in a way that no one ever has, even as I was pushing you away. But honestly, those are just parts of you. They don’t fully cover what it is about you that makes my heart ache when I look at you. I love you because you’re you. Even hearing your name makes my heart race. Seeing your shoes in my foyer, because they were on your feet. The curve of your wrist, because it belongs to you. I know it’s pathetic, and stupid.” You shrug again. “Can’t help it, though.”

He stares at you. 

You prod him. “Is that enough?”

“How can you ask if that’s enough, when it’s everything?”

You look at him in confusion. “Huh?”

He takes a step towards you, frowning. “Are you only telling me all this because you think I’ve finally given up and allowed you to push me away, because I set you back on your feet?”

You take a step back, as he takes another step forward.“What do you mean ‘I think’ you’ve given up?” You squint at him.

“Did you only tell me all this because you’re going straight back to the bridge to try again?”

You take another step back at the intensity of his face, his question. “What does it matter? You don’t have to worry about what happens to me after this.”

He takes two steps. “You tell me you love everything about me, and then you plan to fuck off and leave me alone again?”

Okay, this was a mistake. You don’t know why he’s mad, but he’s mad again. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what else to say. You’ve been sorry your whole life. This is yet another miscalculation. You should have just left. What did you think would happen if you told him how you feel? That he’d be happy about your pathetic heart bleeding pitifully for him?

He strides over to you, his long legs outpacing your own. “If you’re sorry, don’t fucking do it.”

“What?”

He looks down into your face, so close you can smell him again, you can see the fine lines around his eyes as he frowns. “If you’re really sorry for loving me, for ever meeting me—which are the only things you have to be sorry for, then make it up to me by staying. Don’t leave me. Don’t push me away anymore. Just stay, and love me.”

You huff. “Are you really that desperate for help tonight?”

He lifts his hands, places his palms on your cheeks, his long fingers dipping into your hair. “No, I’m desperate for you tonight. It’s Christmas—I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do. I want to spend it with you. You made me watch you jump off of a goddamned bridge. What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?” He sounds so upset. You’ve never seen him like this. The fear is naked on his lovely face.

“What the fuck are you talking about? What does it matter? You said you could get someone else for the dress, for tonight.” You’re so confused. Why is he acting like this?

“I didn’t say any of that. You suggested that I replace you with someone else, I set you on the ground to make sure you were looking at my face, that you were listening to my words when I told you that you’re irreplaceable. That no one else will do. That after watching you almost die, I can’t continue being cautious and trying not to frighten you away anymore.”

“You… what?” 

“You love me. Right? You weren’t lying?” he looks uncertain, like he can’t quite believe it.

You can’t bring yourself to lie. The truth is out. You’re witnessing the fallout. There’s no point in backpedaling. “Yeah.”

He nods, once, decisively. “Okay. That’s enough.”

You sigh in relief. Maybe he’ll let you go, finally, finally.

He checks his chunky watch, the platinum flashing in the lamplight. “There’s still time.”

“Time for what?”

“For my plans tonight. Come.” He closes the distance, sweeps you into his arms again, cradles your body against him like something fragile.

“What plans? Listen—” you start to argue.

“No. Now it’s my turn to speak, and for you to listen.” he squeezes you tightly. “Today was the last day you spend alone. If you can’t live for yourself, then you can live for me, until you remember why you want to live for yourself again. No matter what you say, or what you do to get rid of me, it’s not going to work.”

You can’t even process what is happening. “What are you—?” you begin, but he cuts you off again.

His voice is strained, rough. “You love me. So you have to take responsibility. You have to stay.”

You don’t know what to say. 

I’m desperate for you tonight.

You can’t believe this. He hates you. He has hated you from the beginning. He was so kind to you because he wanted to use you for something he never bothered explaining to you. He needs you for your resonance, your amplification of his powers.

You’re irreplaceable. No one else will do.

Because of your resonance?

I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do.

He carries you along the wind-swept riverbank, through the frigid night. Stars above, stars below.

You made me watch you jump off a goddamned bridge.

You didn’t think anyone was left to care.

You were so careful, severing ties like arteries, so that you wouldn’t leave the world with more pain than you found it. It was already bleeding so much.

You just were so tired of bleeding with it.

As if sensing the turn of your thoughts, Sylus carries you to the edge of the river’ embankment, where the concrete falls away, drops into the water.

He sets you down again, but doesn’t let you go. His big hands slide down the outside of your coat, dip into your pockets.

He pulls out a smooth stone. Turns it in his hands.

“I’ll never understand how someone so light can weigh so heavily in me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.”

His ember eyes flick back to yours. He hands you the stone.

“This is your conviction that the world won’t miss you, if you’re gone. You will hold it in your hand, one last time. And then you will throw it in the water.” He wraps your cold fingers around the stone. Somehow, his fingers are still warm.

You grasp it, look up into his face. You see yourself in them. It hurts, to be seen so clearly. You’re so ashamed. “How did you know?”

He closes his eyes, shakes his head a little. Opens them. “I looked into your soul, the day we met. I know you’re too soft-hearted in this life to kill yourself if you thought it would hurt someone else. You don’t carry that spite, anymore.”

In this life.

Anymore.

You can’t bring yourself to ask him what he means. You only know that once again, Sylus Qin has seen inside you, has seen you, in a way no one else ever has.

“But I don’t think anyone would miss me. I made sure of it.”

He huffs. “You’re a fool, if you actually believe that. The people you’ve pushed away still love you. But if you can’t believe that yet, then you can’t pretend to yourself that you’re disposable anymore, if for no other reason than I’m standing here now, telling you that I would miss you.”

You think of Tara, sitting on your desk, nudging a steaming latte she got for you on her way to work toward you, asking if you’ve heard the latest about Simone and Andrew.

You think of Xavier, walking you to your door at the end of a nasty wanderer encounter, reaching out, brushing a bit of mud off your cheek, then smearing it across his own cheek. See, we match now.

You think of Zayne, waiting across a busy hallway, patient, letting you choose to approach him, and respecting you by letting you walk away.

You think of Raf, the beauty he shares with you with every photo, the funny strings of emoji that don’t demand an answer.

“How do you know, that they would miss me?” you ask Sylus quietly.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time, sweetie. Do you think I haven’t seen your friends’ faces when you walk away from them?”

You clutch the stone in your hand. “I don’t think I can change my thoughts, my conviction, just like that.”

“You love me, so you have to try. Throw it. Every time you try to drag it back up, I’ll remind you that you threw it away, and you can let it stay at the bottom of the river.” He reaches up, caresses your cheek with his fingertips.

You want to cry. You want to cry, because you’re so afraid. If you let yourself believe that people love you, you have to stay, for them. You have to feel, every day, the weight of grief, of existence, the pain of being alive, of being inside yourself, your body. The hollowness will return, even with your friends, even with Sylus filling most of it.

It’s like he can read your thoughts as his eyes devour your face, as his fingers tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “I won’t let you pretend, anymore. You love me, and I will not survive if you aren’t here with me. So you have to stay. We don’t have to accept that life is a curse. We can fight back. Make it something better.”

“I’m scared,” you say.

His eyes are so tender, as he watches your mouth form your biggest truth, set it free in the night. “I will protect you, until you can protect yourself again. There’s nothing to be afraid of, if we’re together.”

You want to believe him. Your heart beats painfully behind your ribs. The moon is a sharp crescent in the sky. 

But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.

“You’ll really stay?”

He finally smiles, a faint Sylus smile that feels like a grin. “I told you. Today was the last day you’ll ever be alone. You can’t get rid of me now, no matter what you do, or say.”

You turn, holding the stone in your cold hands. You think of all the lies you’ve been telling yourself, about your friends, your place in their lives, because you were so tired of living with an unnameable grief, one you carried inside you long before Caleb and Josephine died, but whose loss compounded, made unbearable the original sorrow.

And I will not survive if you aren’t here with me.

You don’t know why he feels this way. Does he love you too? He hasn’t said so. Can he even love you, in the way you love him?

Does it matter? 

It’s enough, that he says he’ll stay. That he wants you to stay alive. That he’ll help remind you, when the whispers drift back in your mind, telling you that you’re just a burden, that no one actually loves you, would miss you when you’re gone. When the hollowness echoes so loudly it’s all you can hear.

You lean back, lift the stone, throw it as hard as you can, as far as you can, into the rushing river.

You don’t hear its splash over the wind.

You turn back to Sylus.

He dips into your pocket again. Pulls out another stone. “Your guilt, for having lived. For having been born.”

You take it from him. Let your mind drift. Feel along the contours of your memories, the jagged, missing pieces, all the way back to when it fades to black. You throw the stone.

You don’t see it sink to the riverbed.

He dips into your pocket again. “Your shame, for needing others. For being human, and imperfect. For not being able to do it all alone. For wanting to be loved.”

You take the stone. “Is it really okay?” you ask, helplessly. There’s no point pretending everything he is saying isn’t true. “To want these things, when I haven’t earned them?”

He steps closer to you. Places his hands on your shoulders, draws you in. “There is no okay, or not okay. There is no crime and punishment, no transgression, no sin. How can it be shameful, to want what you were born to want? Why does love have to be earned, instead of just given?”

You lean into him, press your face into his chest, his thick wool coat soft against your skin.

“I don’t know.”

He reaches into your pocket, places a stone in your other hand. “One for your shame, one for the idea that love must be earned. Throw them.”

You lean back again, and it’s already too far away from him. But you throw each stone, and they disappear under the cold water.

“That’s enough, for now. We’ll take the rest home.” He draws you back into his arms. Lifts you without effort, stone-filled pockets and all. The weight of all of you.  “When you have thoughts of shame, of guilt, of not being loved, we’ll come back. You’ll throw them again. Until they’re all gone. We’ll gather other stones, when other feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.”

Sylus carries you along the path back to the road that snakes along the river. His motorcycle gleams under a bright lamppost.

He settles a helmet on your head, checks to make sure it’s secure. Puts his own on. You sit behind him, cling to him. Rest your head against his broad back, close your eyes. The motorcycle is loud, and he drives it carefully through the busy, holiday bustling streets, until he reaches your apartment building. He holds your hand as he leads you through the front doors, as he stands quietly beside you in the elevator, his red, warm eyes never leaving your face in the elevator mirrors. He leads you to your front door, waits patiently while you unlock it with your cold finger.

In the hallway, he kneels at your feet, unlaces your tall boots while you look down at him, the soft fall of his silver hair, his big, nimble fingers working the laces.

He then removes his own boots. His coat. He’s wearing a garishly bright Christmas sweater, with prancing reindeer. He hangs his coat on a peg in the wall. He turns, slowly unzips yours. Eyes flicking between the zipper and your face. He gently lifts it from your body, again like it’s weightless, even though it’s still filled with stones. He pulls it from your arms, hangs it next to his.

He pulls you further into your place.

The first thing you notice is the warmth. It’s so warm, like someone came in while you were gone and turned on the heating.

The next thing you notice is the Christmas tree. The one you didn’t get this year, because the thought of the holidays without Caleb and your grandmother was unbearable.

Beautifully, tastefully decorated. Silver and gold, twinkling lights. Its pine scent fills your place.

Sylus moves to a record player on one of the cabinets along your living room wall. A record player that wasn’t here before you went to work today. He fiddles with the arm, and suddenly Joni Mitchell’s River fills your house.

It’s coming on Christmas

They’re cutting down trees

They're putting up reindeer

And singing songs of joy and peace

Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

He walks back to you. “Is this okay?”

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

Whoa I wish I had a river I could skate away on

The music flows around you, paralyzing you. You stare into his face, into the warm glow of his eyes. How could you have missed this? The way he’s looking at you now? Through all the long months since the auction?

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

The words wash over you, through you. The scent of pine warms you, memories without form filling you with the sense of home, safety, love.

I made my baby cry

I'm so hard to handle

I'm selfish and I'm sad

Now I've gone and lost the best baby

That I ever had

Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

He takes your hands in his, thumbs across your skin. “Is it too much?”

You think of how cold it was, standing on the guardrail of the bridge. 

You were running toward the bridge, while Sylus was filling your home with warmth.

What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?

You think of him spreading out on your couch, as a fever raged through your body. You think of your freezer, filled with food. You think of the takeout boxes, still steaming, sitting in front of your closed door.

You think of him hanging delicate ornaments on a fragrant tree. 

I made my baby cry

You shake your head, the enormity of what almost happened filling you. The enormity of the choice you made, that you enacted, until Sylus pulled you back from the rushing dark.

You start to shake.

“Kitten?”

“It’s not too much,” you say, teeth chattering. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

He stares down at you, seems to make a decision. “Shower. Now.”

You nod, moving away from him, but he follows. 

Inside your small bathroom, he takes up the entire space. He peels off your hunter’s uniform, tosses it beyond the open bathroom door. His gaze flicks from your undershirt, your underwear, to your face. “Do you want me to leave?”

You think of the dark water, an impact that never came. Sylus plugging in the record player, choosing a record with one of your favorite Christmas songs on it. Placing it delicately on the turntable.

“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again.”

He smiles a little. “I mean, leave the bathroom.”

“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again,” you repeat.

He stares into your eyes. Nods. Lifts your undershirt. He reaches behind you, unhooks your bra with the same agility that he unlaced your boots. He lifts it from your body, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales.

You shiver.

He tosses the bra behind him. Kneels. Pulls your underwear from your hips, down your legs. You step out of them. He stands again.

He leans over, his ridiculous, festive sweater soft against your cheek, as he reaches past you to turn on the shower faucet. As he messes with the knobs until steam begins to fill the small space. He nudges you forward, past the sliding glass door and into the small shower cabin, letting the hot water pour over you. You turn, watch him through the clear glass. He picks up your underwear, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales as he did with your bra. His eyes close for a moment, and then open. He tucks the little slip of fabric into his pants pocket, sits on the closed toilet, rests his elbows on his knees, and continues to watch you.

You let the hot water flow over your tired, cold body. You stare at Sylus’s face, let it fill your vision, blot out the rushing river, the impact that never came, the idea of everything you would have missed, if he hadn’t pulled you out. Everything you would have missed, in such a short amount of time. What else would you miss, if he hadn’t caught you? If he could give you so much within an hour, how much would you have missed in a day? In a week?

What have you been fighting, this whole time? 

Just yourself. 

You think of the stones at the bottom of the riverbed, instead of your body. Your conviction that you’re not loved, your guilt, your shame, instead of you.

You stare at the man who handed you each one, and told you to get rid of them, instead of yourself. The man sitting in your tiny bathroom, filling it with his big body, his even bigger presence, staring at you, staring at him.

You stop shaking.

Reach for the body wash, lather your hands. Run your hands along your body, under your armpits. He frowns, eyes on your hands. You palm your breasts, dip between your legs.

He lowers his head, eyes still on your hands, rests his full lips on his long steepled fingers.

You finish lathering your body, let the water wash it away. He’s too far away, even this close, on the other side of the glass.

As you turn off the water, he stands, lifts one of your towels from the rack. Holds it out for you. You step into it, him, let him wrap it around you. He turns you both, so that you’re looking in the bathroom mirror, which is mostly fogged.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, soaking in his warmth at your back, the steam of the bathroom. 

You have a question, a question you can’t bring yourself to say out loud yet.

You reach out with one hand. Trace a finger through the fogged mirror.

Sylus watches you, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

Letters, a question.

Do you like me? Circle yes or no

Sylus smiles again, lifts an eyebrow. He reaches out, takes your hand in his. He circles no with your finger.

You frown, heart sinking, but Sylus just whispers, “Patience, kitten,” and flattens your palm across like. Guides your finger again, just above the erased like, drags it through the moisture in an elegant script.

love

He then gently sets your hand down. Lifts his own, circles with one long finger, yes.

He watches your reaction in the mirror.

You had no idea.

This whole time, you had no idea, even though he was showing you, with every ‘chance’ encounter, his pestering you with questions about work, life, his silly stories about the N109 Zone. His packages at your door. Fever medication, a big glass of water shoved into your hands.

You think of the rushing water, what almost happened. What you almost missed.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe you still hated me?”

He looks down at you now, away from your reflection in the mirror. His eyes trail your face, down your curved neck. He palms the back of your neck, his thumb drifting along the side, over a mole there.

“Have you heard of the myth that where we have moles is where someone kissed us in a past life?”

Even if so much has changed between you in just the last few hours, you’re reassured that Sylus Qin still can’t answer a straightforward question with a straightforward answer.

You shake your head. “No, I had never heard of that.”

Sylus smiles, and it looks a little sad. He leans down, presses the softest of kisses against your skin, the mole there. “Like most human legends, it’s a pretty lie. Not quite true.”

You laugh. “I could have guessed as much.” You tilt your neck, enjoying the press of his warm lips on your skin for the first time.

He opens his mouth, runs his teeth over where he just kissed you. Bites, gently.

You shiver again. Press your neck into, instead of away from his teeth.

He bites harder.

You gasp.

“I was afraid I’d frighten you with the enormity of my feelings for you, when in your mind, we’d only just met,” he murmurs against your neck, his saliva, the indentation of his teeth hot on your skin.

He bites again, presses himself into your ass through the towel. You realize he’s hard.

You forget about the last part of his sentence. Had you not only just met?

You lift your hands, let the towel unfurl from around your body, let it drop to the floor.

You almost died tonight.

What have you been fighting this whole time?

Just yourself. 

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

You turn in his arms. He’s breathing hard, cheeks pink.

“You love me?”

He closes his eyes. Opens them. Shakes his head. “Love isn’t intense enough.”

“Adore me?” You lift your arms, wrap them around his neck. Pull his face closer to your own.

He shakes his head again. “Still not enough.”

“You won’t survive without me?” You lift on your toes, his soft sweater almost unbearable against your sensitive nipples.

He nods. “You’re getting closer. Can’t breathe without you. When I saw you jump…” He swallows, thickly. “You might as well have pulled me down with you, beloved. If it ever gets to be too much again, take me with you. I’ll never leave you alone again. Promise me the same,” he demands, big, calloused hands running up your naked sides, the fabric of his dark jeans rough against your body, where your thighs meet, as he helplessly nudges against you again with his hips, his hard dick behind his zipper.

I'm so hard to handle

I'm selfish and I'm sad

“I wouldn’t have known, unless you told me,” you breathe against his lips. “Promise that you’ll tell me how you’re feeling from now on, and I’ll promise to take you with me if I can’t leave the stones in the riverbed, even with you here.”

His voice is deep, rough like the fabric of his pants against your sensitive skin. “Deal.” He closes the distance, presses his soft lips to yours. Licks into your mouth.

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

His hands drift down your sides as his tongue dips into your throat, as he swallows your noises of pleasure, just from kissing him, his hands on you. He grips your ass, urges your legs around his waist. He carries you out of the tiny, steaming bathroom, manages not to knock you against the doorway, or into any furniture on the way to your bedroom, even as he continues to kiss you, as your hands in his soft hair probably block his peripheral view. He lays you down on your bed, the puff of your duvet. It’s so warm in your place that you’re not even shivering. You watch as he pulls his cheerful sweater and undershirt over his head, tosses them to the floor. As he unzips himself, hastily yanks down his pants and boxers, his socks. He blankets you with his big body.

You wrap your arms around him, pull him tightly to you, arch your breasts into his chest. He leans down, runs his nose along your cheek, inhales the scent of your hair at your temple. You just feel each other, for a long stretch of time. His soft chest hair against your skin, the silken skin of his dick between your thighs where he just leisurely rubs himself against you, as your palms run down the muscles of his back, the line of his spine. You’ve refused to think of him like this, ever since he wrapped his hand around your throat. You couldn’t bear his beauty, through all the long months that followed. You fled, every time your heart raced at the flash of silver as he approached you, met you where you were, over and over and over.

But now he says he has loved you, through it all. That he’ll never leave you alone again.

You let yourself feel him, under your hands, under your tongue, as you lick into his ear, feel him shiver. As you squeeze your thighs together, offering him a tight, snug space for him to keep pleasuring himself, as you feel your own wetness begin to coat your inner thighs, his cock, the longer you feel him on top of you, inhale the scent of his skin, the ever-present gun oil, the cloves, his clean sweat underneath it all.

After a lifetime, or only a few minutes, he leans down, says softly into your ear. “I want you. Tell me you want me too.”

“Can’t you tell?” you ask, bucking a little, squeezing him with your legs again.

He makes a low, pleasured sound in his throat. “I want to hear you say it. You’ve gone through a lot tonight. I need to know you actually want this. That you’re not just—” his breath hitches, as you move your hips again, as his dick slips between your wet, soft places. “That you’re not too tired to say otherwise, not thinking straight.”

“Use your Aether Core on me. Then you’ll know that my body is telling you what my mouth would, if I said the words.” You smile at him, teasing. 

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

You had wanted to fly. You had settled for flying for a brief moment, before shattering. 

But Sylus is offering you constant flight, under, over, along his crow’s wings.

You think of the rushing water. The tide of cars behind you, the wind whipping your hair. You almost missed this. You don’t want to waste any more time.

He lowers his forehead to yours, breathes, speaks against your saliva-slick lips with his own. “I don’t want to use my Aether Core on you. I want the words in your mouth, in your heart. I want your free will, your freely given consent. I almost lost you because I tried to force you, at the beginning. You believed I hated you, this whole time. Don’t ask me to force you again, my heart.”

You understand. You accept his request, his demand. “I want you, Sylus.”

He exhales, shifts above you, slips his wet cock between your legs, slides into your body with gentle, firm, graceful waves of his hips.

You whine, the feeling of fullness layering into the pleasure of the warmth of his skin, the taste of his tongue. For once, the feelings inside you threatening to burst out of your skin are so good, instead of painful, so pleasurable, that you can barely stand it. 

He kisses you, his velvet tongue big, heavy in your mouth. You suck, whine again as he lifts a hand, palms your breast, begins to thrust into you.

You are filled with him. His warmth. The size of him.

You widen your legs, wrap them around his thick ass. Urge him with your own body to move faster, to fuck you harder. He gives you everything you want. Just the pressure of his body against yours has you coming, the release bright, sudden—you shake with it.

Your pleasure seems to trigger his. He grunts, roots into you, buries his teeth in your neck, bites where he bit you before, over the mole on your neck. The sting makes you clench, and he whimpers, groans, comes with a jerk of his hips.

He slows, still filling you, still pleasuring you, as he lifts his head to look into your eyes.

You stare at each other, breath mingling, warm between you. 

You smile at him. 

He smiles at you. Nudges your nose with his.

“Can we do that again?” you ask.

He laughs, low and surprised. “Yeah,” he says, kissing you softly. “Just tell me, and I’m yours, anytime, anyplace.”

“I’m telling you.” You move your hips, feel his cum drip drown your ass. Feel him gasp at your movement.

“Now?” He’s surprised again.

“Problem?” you grin at him. 

“Fuck no.” He kisses you, hard. Slips out of you. Flips you over, lifts your hips with one big hand, pressing his other between your shoulder blades.

He presses his cock back between your legs, the slide easy and wet, and fucks you until you come again, until he blankets your back with his sweat-slicked, matted-hair chest.

“Was that enough, your highness?” he teases.

“I’m telling you,” you pant, wondering what he’ll do. 

“As you wish,” he murmurs, before flipping you again. Before watching your face as he slowly, leisurely works himself, his cum into you, makes you come again. 

In the morning, the sky through your windows is heavy, dark, gray. You wake slowly. Turn your head, find Sylus’s sleeping face next to yours on the pillow. He’s lying on his stomach. You take in the dark sweep of his lashes, his generous mouth, slightly parted.

You slip out of the bed, use the bathroom. You wander into the living room, gaze at the Christmas tree, its twinkling lights.

It’s Christmas.

Caleb and your grandmother are dead. 

But you’re still alive.

Your body aches from Sylus’s efforts, but it feels good. For once, it feels good to be inside your body. To breathe deeply.

You think of riverstones, sinking deep in the riverbed.

You know that the feelings tied to them will try to rise, clawing to the surface again.

We’ll gather other stones, when your feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.

Your eyes drift to the top of the Christmas tree. It’s empty.

“I thought we should finish it together.” Sylus’s warm arms wrap around you from behind. He leans over your shoulder, kisses your cheek softly. “Do you want to do the honors?”

You smile, wrapping your hands over his forearms around your waist. “You’re taller.”

“Use me as much as you like, kitten.” He turns, grabs a pretty golden glass tree-topper from your kitchen table, hands it to you. He lifts you up onto one shoulder, easily, and you fit it gently over the highest point of the tree. He holds you against him, as he lowers you. You slide along his body, until he sets you gently on your feet again.

You both stand, admiring it for a moment. It’s beautiful, like the rest of the decorations.

You hug him, look up into his face.

“Merry Christmas, Sylus.”

He smiles down at you, ruby eyes twinkling with reflected light from the tree. 

You would have missed this moment, and all the moments like it, if Sylus hadn’t stopped you last night. You shudder, hug him more tightly. 

You know your feelings will return. That no one person can solve a lifetime of wounds. But you promised him that you’d try. That you’d stay. You can only do your best.

You hear your phone vibrating, reluctantly pull away from him, head to your coat in the hallway where you thought you left it last night, but Sylus stops you. He points at your kitchen island. Your phone is lying on the counter. You look at him in confusion, but go to check it.

You’re shocked at how many missed texts you have.

From Tara.

Xavier.

Your eyes widen.

Zayne, who you thought you had blocked, months ago.

Rafayel, who you’re sure you blocked last night.

Each one is a response from a text you never sent. Telling them Merry Christmas. Telling them you love them. Telling them you hope to spend time with them soon.

None of them shame you, call you out on your behavior of the last year. Even Zayne simply suggests that you try a new bakery, that you’ve been in his thoughts, that he’s relieved you felt comfortable enough to reach out. Rafayel sends a bunch of firework emojis, suggests blowing shit up on the beach for New Year’s.

You turn to Sylus.

He looks steadily back at you, silver hair sleep-tousled, wine-bright eyes glowing.

Your eyes feel hot, and you realize you’re crying, the tears fat on your cheeks, dripping down your neck. 

This is the first time you’ve cried since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace bright in the reflected fire.

Sylus walks over to you. Leans down, licks the tears from your cheeks with his warm tongue, one after the other. He kisses you, ignoring your suddenly snotty nose, your morning breath.

“If it’s too much, we can take it slow. We can throw more stones in the river. But please answer your friends. You need them. And you’re a fool, if you can’t see that they need you too, if that makes you feel better about your own need.”

You continue to cry as you wrap your arms around Sylus’s neck. As he gently sways with you, to music that isn’t playing. He hums, and you think it’s Joni Mitchell’s The River, but you can’t be sure. You smile against his chest.

A thought occurs to you.

“Last night, you said there was still time. That you had plans for us, a pretty dress for me. What did we miss?”

Sylus sighs, holds you closer against himself. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stop, look up into his face. “What did you have planned, Sylus? Are you sorry we missed it?”

He smiles at you. “Oh yes, so sorry I got to spend all night fucking you instead of going to a holiday concert featuring the organ.” His voice drips sarcasm. “But we can go tonight, if you’d like to make it up to me.”

You laugh, bury your face back into his chest. “And here I had planned to suck your cock while watching a black and white Christmas film marathon tonight,” you say forlornly. You smile into his chest as he chokes. “Oh well, the concert it is.”

He just laughs, rich and deep, and continues to sway you slowly in your living room.

“Merry Christmas, my heart,” Sylus says against your hair, in your pine scented apartment, as snow begins to fall outside your windows, as your phone continues to vibrate, filled with the love of your friends.

Here you are. Again.

You’re so grateful, to be here, again.

[peachylynnie]

keep it peachy with the love and deepspace boys!

୨୧ sylus! ➛wine ➛sick ➛the cat butler ➛garlic ➛gift exchange ➛blackjack (new!)

୨୧ xavier! ➛wolf in sheep's clothing

୨୧ rafayel! ➛old

୨୧ zayne! ➛glasses (new!)

[peachylynnie]

glasses

word count: 1.2k synopsis: in which you wear zayne's glasses. contains: zayne x mc!reader, slightly posessive zayne, whipped zayne, mentions of violence, slight angst, and fluff overall. a/n: i really like zayne's glasses (the frameless ones). do not copy or translate my work. zayne does not endorse plagiarism. reblogs and comments are appreciated :) lads masterlist: here

zayne doesn't expect you to be awake when he comes home. given how late he leaves his office, he's not surprised to find you fast asleep in your adorable pajamas with your mouth open and legs splayed by the time he arrives at your shared bedroom. though, there are times when he finds you awake, either treating your wounds from another day of hunting wanderers or sitting outside on the balcony to gaze at the stars. but, those times are rare. (not to say he doesn't appreciate them; he's in awe of how strong you are whenever you ramble about taking down a wanderer as he bandages you up and how the stars don't even compare to how stunning you look whenever he joins you at the balcony).

point is: zayne doesn't expect you to be up so late at night (morning at this point) when he walks in. so, he's surprised to find you awake... in his glasses.

the prodigious doctor freezes in place after closing the door. there you are, legs crossed on the couch with a book in your hand and your eyebrows furrowed as you flip a page, causing his glasses to tilt on the bridge of your nose. oh, god. he can feel his knees buckling. not from the eight-hour surgery he just finished, no. but from the gorgeous sight in front of him. his glasses looked so good on you.

"darling?" he calls breathlessly.

you yelp, causing the glasses to nearly fall until you swiftly catch and adjust them with your fingers. he thinks it's the most seductive thing you have ever done (besides the time you insisted on shaving his chin on a rocking chair). "zayne?!" you stand up immediately, abandoning the book on the couch and rushing to him to wrap him in a hug. "how long were you standing there for? i didn't notice you at all!"

"was the book that interesting?" the man questions as he returns the hug, careful not to apply too much pressure. he doesn't want to break his glasses after all. not because they're his, no, not at all. but because he wants to see you wear them more often.

you look up at him from his chest and nod. his heart soars at the sight. the glasses...they bring out the light in your eyes.

"oh? thanks, zayne." you giggle. ah, he said that out loud. his ears grow red as he averts his gaze to the side.

"ahem," he coughs. "why are you wearing my glasses, anyway? do they match your prescription?"

"yes, actually!" your beam. "i couldn't find my glasses earlier, so i decided to use yours." you lean playfully to the side to see his face. zayne can't help but smile upon meeting your eyes. they really did look good on you, and he couldn't be happier to hear that his prescription matches yours. "i hope you don't mind," you say sheepishly. "i was only going to use them for tonight. i'm sure my glasses are lying around here somewhere." at that, you twist left and right to scan the living room.

"no need," he says almost immediately. he really doesn't want your eyes to leave his right now, not with you wearing his glasses so mesmerizingly. you look at him with curiosity when his hands slide up your neck and stop at your face, gently cooling your cheeks.

"are you alright, zayne?"

he nods silently and presses a delicate kiss to your forehead. "i'm alright, darling." caressing your cheek with his thumb, the man adds, "and i don't mind. not at all. wear them whenever you like. i have some spares back at the office."

"oh, okay." you're taken aback by how eager he sounds. it's almost as if he wants you to wear his glasses, and his glasses only.

except that's exactly what the man standing before you wants. to continue to wear his glasses whenever you please. the idea of you enjoying a book while donning his glasses fills him with an immaculate sense of pride. he takes it even further by imagining the faces of all the interns who dared to gawk at you with starry eyes whenever you visited him at his office. he's sure once they see you with his glasses, they'll get the message.

"but i still have to look for mine at some point," you yawn. he takes note of how his glasses slide down whenever you scrunch your nose. "they weren't exactly cheap, you know?"

"i'll help you look for them in the morning," he says as he guides you to the bedroom (lies, he's going to hide them). your sleepy eyes look even more adorable with his glasses on; oh, he swears he can feel himself melting (and that says a lot given his evol).

"thanks, zayne," you say sleepily as you settle under the covers. "you always take care of me, you know that?"

"i'm your primary care physician. it's my job to take care of you," he answers as he sheds his coat and hangs it in the closet.

"you're also my boyfriend, remember?" you grumble, shifting onto your side.

"no, i forgot," he replies monotonously.

you jerk your head back, shooting him a glare. him and his dry humor.

zayne remains unfazed as he joins you in bed. "you should remember this too," he murmurs your name. "you don't ever have to thank me for taking care of you." pulling the covers up to your chin, he adds, "i will always take care of you." you open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it. "not because i am legally obligated to do so, but because i love you. please remember that."

you blink, taken aback by his words. it's not often you get to see zayne so honest and close to you like this. due to your busy schedules, tender moments like these are hard to come by. determined to make the most of this, you cup your lover's face and plant a kiss on his lips. indulging in the much-needed warmth your lips provide, zayne deepens the kiss, his hands finding your waist.

after pulling back for air, you throw him a cheeky smile. "thanks, zayne."

he looks at you unamused. "what did i just say?"

you laugh before shifting onto your back, ready to sleep. sparing him one last glance before you close your eyes, you say, "i love you, zayne."

"i love you too," he whispers as he watches you drift off peacefully. it doesn't take long for him to turn and reach for the pull chain on the lamp. except he notices something.

you forgot to take his glasses off.

chuckling to himself, zayne carefully removes them from your face. as much as he loves how they suit you perfectly, he wants you to be comfortable. after placing his glasses on the nightstand, he returns to your side and notices another thing: the small dents on your nose bridge left by the pads from his glasses.

unable to stop himself, your lover admires them by gently tracing his finger over them. it seems there are many ways to show that you are his and he is yours. he's delighted his glasses are one of the ways.

after finally pulling the lamp chain, zayne presses one final kiss to your forehead.

"goodnight, darling."

[peachylynnie]

keep it peachy with the love and deepspace boys!

୨୧ sylus! ➛wine ➛sick ➛the cat butler ➛garlic ➛gift exchange ➛blackjack (new!)

୨୧ xavier! ➛wolf in sheep's clothing

୨୧ rafayel! ➛old

୨୧ zayne! ➛coming soon!