peachylynnie

[peachylynnie]

Would you love me if I were a worm?

Sylus x gn reader | A stupid, short drabble that got stuck in my head while peeling potatoes yesterday, no warnings

“Sylus, would you love me if I were a worm?”

Sylus doesn’t even look up from the book he’s reading, sprawled on one of the leather couches in his library, the full red moon spilling through the windows and blanketing him in a softly sinister light. “Yes.”

You lift your head and scowl at him from your position stretched out along his long body, hands folded under your chin, resting on his firm stomach.

“You’re not taking the question seriously.”

He lifts a dark silver eyebrow, eyes still not lifting from his book, the gold-rimmed reading glasses he’s wearing glinting in the warm light from the Tiffany lamp next to the couch. “And how did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“If you had actually properly considered it, you would have taken a little more time to answer.”

He finally deigns to look at you over the rims of his glasses. “I gave it the exact amount of attention that such a question deserves.”

“Why doesn’t it deserve more attention? I want to know your answer.”

“And I gave you my answer.” He returns to his book. It’s some pretentious title, about the sociology of ingroups and outgroups, the banality of evil.

“How can I take your answer seriously if you don’t think about it properly?”

He sighs. Looks over his glasses at you again. “You’ve been spending too much time with the twins.”

You sit up, leaning against the armrest of the couch opposite of Sylus. He frowns as you move away. “I don’t think I spend enough time with them, actually. They’re hilarious.”

His frown deepens. “I’m hilarious.”

“No, you’re a pretentious edgelord who won’t properly consider my question.”

“You speak so sweetly to the twins. Where’s that honey when you speak to me?”

“Honeypot’s empty until you tell me why you’d love me if I were a worm.” You prod his thigh with your bare foot.

He sighs again, sets the book on the side table. He takes your foot in his hands and begins to rub it, thumbs gently pressing into your arch. You suppress a moan.

“I’d love you if you were a worm because even as a worm, you are still you. I’d love you in any universe, in any world, in any timeline, in any form.”

You stare at him for a moment. “Now I feel bad about being mean to you.”

“As you should,” he gloats. “How will you make it up to me?”

“No, no. I’m not done.” He continues to caress your foot, one hand drifting up to your ankle, circling it between his thumb and forefinger. “You may love me as a worm, but what would you do with me? And would you seek out company in other people, since I couldn’t provide it to you as a little wiggly worm?”

“I would construct the most extravagant terrarium with all of the most luxurious provisions that a little worm’s heart could desire.” He pauses. “I’d also have to construct some sort of grate to protect you from Mephisto.”

You shudder, thinking about what it would be like to be a worm facing down Mephisto’s ruby stare. “I’d probably just be happy in some dirt,” you say, giving him your other foot. He takes the hint and begins to rub it too.

“Tch. My worm deserves only the finest in compost and enrichment activities in their terrarium. I wouldn’t be happy with just giving you some dirt.”

“Of course, and we must keep his royal snobness happy.”

“See? This is why I love you,” he smiles, just a little. “Even though your tongue is so sharp with me.”

“You’re avoiding the question about seeking other company,” you say, sinking lower into the couch as you enjoy the foot massage.

“What’s the point in answering what is clearly a trick question? You will not be turned into a worm. This whole discussion is a waste of time we could spend doing more interesting things.” He gives you an exaggeratedly lascivious once-over.

“I could be turned into a worm! Modified protocores have resulted in weirder shit happening!”

Sylus sighs yet again in resignation.

“I would miss your human company terribly, but there’s no replacing you,” he says smoothly.

You scowl at him again. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Darling, I was fine with my own company until you came into my life. I was fine with my own hand until you came into my life. I’d miss your company, and your sharp tongue, and your blow—”

You jerk one of your feet out of his hands and prod him in his stupid sexy abs. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

“I don’t think you do,” he says, sliding out from under you, dropping to his knees on the plush rug in front of you. He lifts one of your legs over his broad shoulder. “I think a demonstration is in order, of all the things I’ll miss that are irreplaceable, should the unthinkable happen and your lovely human form is reduced to that of a worm. I’ll start.” He lifts your other leg over his shoulder and looks up at you smugly.

You look down at him, heart so full with how much you love him that it hurts. “Promise you’re not lying?”

“When have I ever lied to you, beloved?”

You tilt your head. You think he really would love you if you were a worm.

“I’d love you if you were a worm too, Sy.”

“Oh good, I can stop losing sleep at night,” he says, voice dripping sarcasm. You punish him by tightening your thighs, squishing his handsome face between your knees.

He laughs a little breathlessly. “If you’re trying to encourage me, it’s working, kitten.”

You laugh and release him. “Deviant,” you say affectionately.

“Your deviant,” he says, leaning forward, big palms gliding up your thighs. “Whether you’re a human or a worm, that won’t change.”

[peachylynnie]

sylus: check it out! i got us matching bracelets!

mc: are those handcuffs?!

sylus: never leave me.

[peachylynnie]

Hello and good morning~ I was listening to RED by taylor swift while working and suddenly ALL I could think of was the Sylus series (and how MC thinks she was rejected). 💙❤️ Think this song fits them so well

I have been meaning to answer this ask since you sent it, but it gave me a little Scenario that I had to carry around in my head until I could figure out how to work it into a story. Your ask, in combination with a post by @leaderincrows about wanting to see Sylus collared and gasping pathetically, led to this story. I hope the result is enjoyable. Thanks so much for sending this ask, and I'm sorry it took 8 million years to answer!

Goodcat code, or how you learned to care for your catboy | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Your crimelord boyfriend disappears for a week, you make yourself sad listening to breakup songs, you learn that he got turned into a catboy, you get assigned a mission on the worst cruise ship ever, undercover shenanigans ensue. Loosely based on the Sylus memory Goodcat Code.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, sylus x mc, second person POV, some Sylus POV MC is referred to by they/them pronouns, intended as a placeholder for your preferred pronouns. Established relationship, can be read as a standalone. This story contains: profanity, activities of a sexual nature, violence, probably too much internal monologue and not enough action, too many feelings and not enough sexual activity, inappropriate use of a tail, an argument with your boyfriend, a happy ending.

You wonder if it’s because you trounced him in kitty cards the last time you played.

The silence. 

For the past week, your phone has been pinging with constant notifications but none with My Sy listed as the sender. Just work, spam, Xavier asking if you want to go to the bookstore the next time you’re both free, Tara spamming you with pleas to go to some shitty club where her latest favorite indie EDM DJ is playing—why she thinks that her insistence that “He looks just like Skye, I promise!” is enough incentive for you to wade through loud, sweaty, touch-feely dancers as you can’t help constantly checking the exits, while simultaneously making sure a molly-rolling Tara doesn’t abscond to the bathroom with a mistake waiting to happen, while being subjected to mediocre beats from her artist-of-the week, is beyond you. “Skye” is gorgeous, yes, but you’d rather admire the real thing up close than squint through a fog-machine haze to look at a cheap knock-off.

Maybe Sylus’s snobbery is rubbing off on you.

Then again, Tara doesn’t know how up close you get to examine Skye on a regular basis, so perhaps you’re being unfair, because you’re in a terrible mood, because you haven’t heard from him for a week now.

Because maybe you won’t have the chance to see “Skye” up close ever again. Because all you have is a deafening silence from him, and it started the day after you wiped the floor with him at the kitty cafe playing kitty cards.

Could something so petty cause him to finally lose interest in you, the way you've feared ever since you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that Sylus may be romantically interested in you?

It’s not your fault that the longer you spend time with him, the more you have unraveled his mysteries. If he doesn’t want to be so easy to beat, he needs to try harder to be less predictable. You never would have thought, when you first met him, that you’d ever think the words “predictable” and “Sylus” in the same sentence, but the mercurial man is like clockwork when it comes to kitty cards.

He always, always offers you the chance to go first. Why on earth would you say no, and then lose the chance to play your inevitably shitty, low-value cards in the matching colored cups, just to prevent him from playing one of his inevitably high valued cards in the matching cup?

He grumbles, tries to give “helpful” advice about being patient and gambling on drawing a higher value card instead, all the while doing the exact same thing when it’s his turn and he has a shit hand. The condescending hypocrite. You stew a bit thinking about it.

And then, you’ve long since learned that the arrogant bastard is cheating while you play. He somehow marks the cards—you don’t know how. Something to do with his evol? He refuses to admit it outright, so you doubt you’ll ever know. But what you first thought was a generous habit of offering to give you two  of his cards for one of yours, actually turns out to be an opportunity for him to offload his low value cards and give himself a chance to poach your higher value cards. You refuse his offers now.

And lastly, you’ve figured out that for all of Sylus’s skill, brilliant brain, and talent at strategy, the man has a few weaknesses that you are ruthlessly willing to exploit to gain the upper hand to beat him despite all of his dirty tricks.

Namely, he’s easily distracted by a few very specific things.

Your mouth being one of them.

So last week, you went first, played your shit cards in the colored cups, refused his offers to trade, and ordered a strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream to enjoy while you played.

He leaned back in his seat at the kitty cafe where he was sitting across from you, manspreading as usual, arms casually draped over the back of the booth, the picture of casual, smug confidence. The dictionary definition of winner. 

“Do you really have the luxury of splitting your focus between the game and your dessert, kitten? It looks like you need all of your concentration just to keep up, let alone win this round,” he drawled, secure in his five point lead over you. It was his turn, and yet he had time to taunt you.

You just shrugged, holding your cards fanned in one hand, dipping your finger in the whipped cream with your other. You brought it to your lips, pretending to think very hard about which card you’d play next when all of them were crap, and rubbed the cream over your bottom lip.

You heard a sharp inhale from the other side of the table, but ignored it. You “absentmindedly” flicked your tongue out, gathering the cream there before swallowing and biting your lip pensively.

“It’s good,” you murmured, not taking your eyes off your cards. “Not too sweet.”

Silence. It took all of your willpower not to look up to see what his face was doing.  But you heard him place a kitty in a cup, its cute little meow signaling the start of your turn.

You let your gaze flick back and forth between the board and your cards. Good. It was working. He played a low value card in a white cup instead of drawing a new card like he should have.

You put your crap sage card in the last sage-colored cup. Sylus tsked and drew a new card.

This time, you picked up one of the glazed strawberries adorning the shortcake and placed it between your lips, sucking on it gently as you “thought.”

The groan coming from across the table was so low that you almost didn’t hear it over the sounds of the cafe—other players chatting, the meows of the kitties, the clink of cutlery and tableware. But you heard it, even through your tinnitus.

You played another low value card in a matching cup—the last one. Unless he had a six, this round is yours.

You finally dared to look up and find Sylus glaring at you, all while petting a beautiful, tawny colored cafe cat that had apparently settled in his lap while you were busy trying to distract him and beat his ass at this ridiculous game.

“Sy, you know the rules of the cafe—no petting the cats unless we pay extra!” You looked around furtively, forgetting the game, worried that the staff were going to get mad and kick you both out for this breach of etiquette. You pay first, then pet!

“I can’t help it if, unlike some, this particular kitty is straightforward enough to ask for pets from me,” he said pointedly. “Who am I to deny its desires?” 

In response, you popped the strawberry fully into your mouth, closed your eyes, and bit down, letting out a genuine little sound of appreciation for the sweet fruit.

Suddenly there was a disgruntled mewl from across the table. You opened your eyes and saw Sylus with a death grip on the cat where he was previously petting it gently. The cat squirmed, trying to get off of his lap. He blinked and let go of the cat, which then bolted off of his lap like he had just yanked its tail—which he hadn’t, but Sylus’s grip was no joke. You would know.

He watched the cat, a rare apologetic look on his face, before turning to glare at you again. “If we get kicked out, it will be your fault,” he accused.

You just looked back at him innocently. “What on earth did I do?”

“Maybe I’ve been too soft with you, and you’ve gotten too comfortable with me—you grow more cunning by the day,” he said softly, almost like a threat, but he looked… pleased.

“Still have no idea what you’re talking about,” you hummed, taking a big forkful of the shortcake and shoving it in your mouth. 

Sylus just groaned again. He lost every game the two of you played the rest of the evening.

When you parted ways with him, heading back home to sleep while he was heading to a meeting, he pulled you into his arms as you stood by your motorcycle. He breathed in your hair and sighed, and then pulled away, turning on his heel, and walking away without a backwards glance.

And that’s the last you heard from him since that night.

You sit at your kitchen table, staring glumly out into the chill fall night. Your phone lights up, but it’s just Rafayel sending a photo of a little crab brandishing a plastic spork captioned Lol littering humans suck but at least this trash is useful for this lil guy he’s got a sword now

You often wonder why both Rafayel and Sylus sometimes refer to humans as if they themselves are not also human. You text back.

You: he just needs a shield. give him a bottle cap and he can fight wanderers with me 

Fried Shrimp: nope he’s my new bodyguard because you suck too and have been too busy lately to guard my body like you promised

You: you’re perfectly capable of guarding yourself you pyromaniac

Rafayel just responds with a poop emoji.

You consider his text. Rafayel may have a point for once—you have been spending every free moment that you're not working with Sylus lately.

Which is bad. You don’t want him to take over your life. You want to maintain a balanced, a healthy relationship with him, if possible. It would be so easy to let yourself be consumed by his charismatic, overwhelming presence in your life. But what happens when he disappears as quickly as he appeared?

You don’t want to think about it. But that point may have already arrived. You stare at your dark phone again.

You could… call him first. Or send a text. But you’re not to the point where you can bring yourself to contact him first. If he wants to talk to you, he isn’t shy about reaching out for your attention. He calls almost every day. To tell you that you need to expect a package. To complain about his bad luck at a poker game with business rivals. To pester you about when you’ll come visit him again. Mephisto hasn’t seen your face for two days, he’s starting to pout. The twins brought home ten different flavors of syrup for the espresso machine, look at what you’re doing to them, they’re going to get diabetes at this rate.

You don’t think you’re to the point of being able to handle being left on read by this man if you send a text first and he doesn’t answer.

It’s time to wallow. You reach for your phone, pull up your music app, and put Taylor Swift’s RED on repeat.

You’ll give it a few more days, and then you’ll put on Olivia Rodrigo. After another week, it will be Sabrina Carpenter, because you’ll probably have entered the anger stage of grief by then. After that, it will be Hozier, when you finally accept that Sylus will never be calling again and try to find the beauty in everything you’ve lost.

***

“Status report?” Sylus growls into the phone. 

“Boss, I really think that you should reconsider this course of action,” Kieran’s voice is just loud enough for Sylus to be able to hear over the absolute cacophony of the closed cat cafe, which is considerable, even with his double, hypersensitive hearing due to his current… condition.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, I asked for a status update,” Sylus hisses, and then clears his throat. He totally meant to hiss just then. His hissing has nothing to do with his current affliction.

“But I really must insist—” Kieran tries to argue, but he’s drowned out by the cat cafe’s OTTO.

“Caracal Butler! May I remind you that not only is your customer satisfaction rating in the negatives, but you are also not allowed to make personal phone calls on the kitties’ time!” The OTTO hovers menacingly in front of him.

“Oh, I’m so scared,” he responds, voice dripping with sarcasm. Even the robot should be able to discern his disdain.

“You should be,” it says, threateningly.

“Oh? And what are the kitties going to do that’s worse than what they’ve already done.” He flicks some cat hair off of his bespoke tuxedo. The fact that he’s going to have to get it de-haired and dry cleaned if he ever wants to wear it again just adds insult to injury, as he had been hoping to wear it with you to a Linkon City Symphony Orchestra’s performance soon. He had a matching outfit tailored for you at the same time he ordered this tux, so he has resigned himself to getting the damn thing cleaned when this... ordeal is over.

The OTTO jerks him out of his irritation with its nagging voice module. “It is protocol for this kitty cafe to act as a responsible caretaker for the kitties under our care. We require spaying and neutering of all kitties under this roof. You have not yet received such care.”

The threat in response to his sarcasm could not be clearer.

He narrows his eyes at the OTTO and feels his tail swish menacingly as his ears press flat to his hair.

“Come anywhere near my balls and I’ll fill this cat cafe with so many cat toys of the loud, exploding variety that there will be nothing left of either it, the cats, or you except a smoking crater.”

The OTTO flits backwards out of Sylus’s reach.

“Perhaps Caracal Butler may be allowed a limited number of private phone calls on the kitties’ time without repercussions,” it says, tone placating as it drifts quickly to the other side of the room.

“That’s what I thought,” Sylus growls again, and not because he’s been stripped of his evol and cursed with two fucking cat ears and a tail that betrays his emotions no matter how much self control he tries to exert, but because he meant to growl.

He returns his attention back to the phone as his patience wears ever thinner. “Status. Report.”

“Boss, I really must insist—” Kieran tries again, tone incredibly concerned, before being interrupted by Luke.

“Your hunter is listening to breakup songs and mopily staring at their phone every spare moment they get.”

Sylus’s ears swivel around to full attention and his tail thwacks a kitty climbing tower so hard it’s almost knocked off its base.

“Breakup songs? Why—”

“They obviously think you’ve ghosted them,” Luke continues. “Keep this up and you’re gonna lose them.”

Sylus tilts his head. Could you really believe that he’s capable of ever leaving your side before you tell him to leave and mean it? What an absolutely ridiculous notion. His tail swishes thoughtfully. He did not want you to see him like this—stripped of his power, kneeling to these demanding cats like a… well. Like a fucking catboy butler. He has his pride, after all. He was hoping that the curse would fade quickly and you’d be too busy with work and your social life to notice that he has been absent for a little while. And you hadn’t reached out to him either, during this time. He runs his gloved hand along his bottom lip before realizing that he’s been touching cats all day, makes a disgusted face, and taps his temple instead. Why hadn’t you reached out to him? His mind drifts over memories of all of your interactions with him when you are apart and he's been forced to make do with communicating to you via phone and text.

This is not the first time that it occurs to him that you have never, not once, reached out to him first. He is always the one calling you, texting you, sending you packages.

He stops, tail and ears still. He has noticed it, but he hasn't thought about it deeply. He's willing to chase you to the end of time, after all. But now, he wonders what he's missing. He is almost entirely sure that you miss him as much as he misses you when you’re apart. You always pick up the phone. You always respond to texts. As for sending packages, you've grumbled about not knowing what to gift a man who has everything, but he always reassures you that he already has everything he wants, as long as you’re there.

So why is it that you have never reached out to him first? He flicks his ears. It would be nice, if you reached out first, every once in a while. He doesn't require it. But it would be nice. He tucks that thought away for further analysis after the current problem is fixed.

Time to assess the damage, and then engage in damage control.

“What kind of breakup songs?” he asks.

“Currently listening to RED by Taylor Swift.”

Sylus considers. Taylor Swift isn’t as bad as Sabrina Carpenter, or Hozier. Once you start with Hozier, Sylus will really be worried.

“Are you gonna stop being a big scaredy-cat and contact your hunter now?” Luke demands, sounding absolutely done with his ridiculous boss and his equally ridiculous partner.

Sylus values the intel they just provided, so he lets the insubordination slide. This time.

“I will remedy the situation. You’re dismissed from hunter observation detail.”

All he hears are twinned sighs of relief and then the phone disconnecting. He stares at it. What impudent henchmen.

He turns and wades through the meandering cats to the OTTO.

“I’m leaving, but I will be back to fulfill my contract once a personal emergency has been resolved.”

The OTTO, with his previous threats clearly still fresh in its memory, meekly allows him to pass without any fuss.

He steps out into the cold winter evening, the street lights and bright advertisements of Linkon City temporarily blinding him. Normally he would just teleport along rooftops to get to you as quickly as possible in such an emergency, but with this fucking curse, he has to make his way to your home like a regular human. His lip curls in disgust, but then he schools his face into its customary blank, intimidating expression as he notices people passing by gawking at his swishing tail and his cat ears. He’s drawing enough attention to himself without looking threatening while doing it. He quickly strides to where he parked his motorcycle, jams his helmet on his head, and breaks six different traffic laws trying to get to your place as quickly as possible.

***

You’re trying to wallow, snuggled into your bedding with a tray of some sad soup heated up from a can and a chunk of stale bread, when your hunter watch pings. You flick through the new assignment. Some asshole smuggler in biologically modified wanderers code-named “Snowy Owl” apparently needs to be brought down. You slurp some soup while you try to formulate a plan of action for snaring this new target, who has in turn snared many innocent wanderers to then sell them to shady collectors with who knows what kind of intentions for them. 

This is just the sort of thing that you’ve all too easily grown accustomed to discussing with Sylus, due to his spiderweb of connections through the underworld. But isn’t that part of the problem? Where before you would rely on yourself and Association resources to arrange a mission of this kind, now you’re all too comfortable relying on Sylus for help. That sort of sloppiness is unacceptable, and the gaping absence he’s left behind in the last week only serves to drive that point home. You cannot let the blade of your skills dull because of reliance on your all-too-willing-to-help boyfriend. Maybe ex-boyfriend, you think miserably.

You sigh, leaning back, turning up the music that you had previously turned down to focus on the mission details. You’re trying to drown out all thoughts of the man who you need to get out of your head, only to find yourself yelping in surprise and flinging the tray with the soup at the tall intruder who has just silently appeared at the side of your bed—who you hadn’t heard at all, as if they had entered on padded cat paws.

Only to realize halfway through the soup’s trajectory that the intruder is Sylus and he’s wearing a very fancy suit.

All the previous times you have flung tableware containing hot liquid at him, Sylus has been able to dodge the container, if not its contents, because of his evol. But this time he’s struck square in the chest by both the soup and the soup bowl. It hits one big pec with a dull thud and then crashes to your floor. He stands there, dripping soup, looking down at his dress shoes.

“The fuck, Sylus,” you breathe, not because he appeared out of nowhere in your home, again, but because you can clearly see two twitching, incredibly real-looking cat ears—tawny, fuzzy on the insides, coming to a beautiful, regal black point at the top—swiveling through his gorgeous silver hair. As your eyes travel down his long, lovely body, they catch on a flicking cat-tail with the same coloring as his ears. Something about the fur strikes you as familiar, but you can’t quite figure out why.

“Darling. Dearest to my heart. My heart, in fact, beating within the safety of my ribcage. Could you, perhaps, in the future, try to refrain from assaulting me with molten liquid when I surprise you in your home.” His tail swishes, swishes, swishes behind him, and you’re utterly mesmerized. It takes a moment for it to sink in that Sylus is actually here. You want to scramble off the bed, climb him like a tree, the dripping soup be damned, and just hug him. Now that you’re seeing him in person for the first time in a whole week, you are able to actually feel how much you’ve missed him, instead of suppressing, repressing, pretending that the unending ache didn’t hurt so terribly much.

You’re about to launch yourself at him when you remember why you had been feeling this way all week. Where the hell has he been? And why does he have cat attributes now? Well, more than he already had to begin with, you snicker internally, until you remember that you’re still feeling heartbroken and wary of why he has shown up now after ghosting you all week. Are you being melodramatic? Are you being immature? Are you being unfair? Could you have called him to check in, when he didn’t? You eye his ears. His tail. Yes to all of the above, but it doesn’t change how you simply can’t bring yourself to go to him, and instead draw further back, away from him, on the bed.

He apparently doesn’t miss your movement, as his ears swivel forward as you move, and then flatten onto the top of his head as he assumes an aggressively bored expression on his face.

“Not going to answer me?” he growls. Actually growls, like a cat warning a naughty kitten.

You can’t help yourself. “Who’s actually the kitten now, Sylus?”

His tail flicks violently behind him.

“Careful, kitten. Perhaps you’ve forgotten in the past week that this cat has claws,” he says, low and menacing.

You just laugh at him.

“Mmmm, yes, your oh-so-so sharp claws, which are now covered in soup. What are you doing here?”

He narrows his eyes at your unimpressed reaction to his empty threat. “Do I need a reason to visit my heart?”

The more he acts like nothing has changed, as if he didn’t just disappear on you without a word for a week, the more wound up and jittery you feel. “What heart?” you ask, a little petulantly.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You know the answer to that question.”

“Do I? Not a very important organ, if you can survive a week without it,” you grumble.

His ears swivel forward, and his tail starts to… wag, but his facial expression doesn’t change.

You immediately regret revealing so much.

“Ah,” is all he says, but he sounds pleased. 

You look away, out the window. But all you see is Sylus in the reflection, and the dark night beyond. You’ve said too much already. 

“I’m going to change. And then we’re going to talk,” he announces, and it sounds like a purr.

You feel silly as you realize that Taylor Swift is still warbling loudly in your bedroom about loving him but losing him so suddenly, trying to stop when you’re already in free fall, loving him being like the colors in autumn, so bright, just before they lose it all. You flick off the music.

He’s here again. He’s here again, but for how long?

You hear water running in the bathroom as you go to the kitchen to grab some towels and return to your bedroom to mop up the soup, tidying your embarrassingly messy flat along the way. You return to bed and wait for him.

After a few minutes, Sylus emerges from your bathroom clad in one of the soft sweaters and silk sleep pants he keeps in your closet. You can’t help yourself again—you stare at where his tail emerges from under the sweater. The flexible waistband of the pants must have been pushed down a little over his ass to accommodate where his tail emerges. 

He strides to the bed and pauses next to it. “May I?” he asks, tail flicking, ears twitching.

You nod, and he prowls onto your duvet on his hands and knees. Before settling next to you, however, he turns in a circle, once, twice, three times, before sinking down and pulling you into his arms, your back to his chest, curling around you. You let him, feeling the flood of safety and sense of wholeness that you always get when Sylus is touching you. You sigh. All of your worries seem so trite now. Why didn’t you just text him first? Why did you wait for him to reach out first? Why are you like this?

As if reading your mind, Sylus says, “Were you worried this week?”

His arms are wrapped tightly around you, he has one leg shoved between yours, and you feel his tail curl around your bare ankle. Its fur is so, so soft.

You nod.

“Why didn’t you call me, then?”

You don’t want to tell him how afraid you are of him finally not answering. Of him finally losing interest. It sounds so pathetic to even think it, let alone say it out loud.

“I’m sorry about your fancy suit,” is all you can say.

He hums, and his tail wraps tighter around your ankle. “It’s a tuxedo. And it can be cleaned.”

“Fancy suit, tuxedo—pretentious, overpriced pieces of fabric,” you tease him.

“My heart is a heathen,” he sighs into your hair. “It’s a tux that matches pretentious, overpriced pieces of fabric that happen to fit your body perfectly.”

“What use do I have for such fabric?” you ask, turning in his arms, lulled by his familiar humor, his still-unexplained tail wrapped around your ankle. You lie on your side, facing him. His ears twitch in your direction.

“There's a ticket to the Linkon City Symphony Orchestra with your name on it. You should note the date in your agenda.”

“What if my agenda is already full? I haven’t heard from you for a week.”

His ears flatten in his hair. “You’d replace me in just a week?”

You hum a little, reaching up to run a finger along one cat ear. He makes a purring sound, deep in his throat, closing his lovely eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to replace you, even if I wanted to,” you murmur, lost in his presence again, feeling safe now that he’s here again. But the week was long, and you really were afraid he’d left for good, no matter how silly it seems now. “But maybe I thought you had replaced me,”  you admit, marveling at how soft the ear is, how good it feels to caress it between your forefinger and thumb. You want to kiss it, rub your face all over it. You lift your other hand and fondle his other ear.

His tail loosens on your ankle and begins drifting up your bare leg, the fur caressing your skin so gently, until it curls around one thigh and squeezes between your legs, right below where your thighs meet. You shiver at the sensation and forget to pet him for a moment.

“You should have more faith in your pet. Sometimes cats have business in the neighborhood that keeps them away for a few days, but they always come back home.”

“Did your ‘business’ have anything to do with your new accessories?”

He leans, shoving his head against your hands to remind you to keep petting him, and his tail drifts up, up, until it’s nudging between your legs. You gasp softly at the delicious pressure, but have enough presence of mind to keep massaging his ears.

“Yes,” he murmurs, a little breathless. “Like that.” You continue, and he continues teasing you with his tail. It’s not enough. You want more of him.

“How did you get the cat ears and tail, Sy?” you ask, trying to remain focused. 

The tail nudges you a little harder—you can’t help the jerk of your hips which sends you rocking into him, where you’re met with his hard dick under the fabric of his pants. The sensation of his hardness against your front and his tail at your back is almost overwhelming.

“Your fault, kitten. You and that fucking strawberry last week,” he growls again, flexes his hips into yours. “That cat I was petting was unhappy with how roughly I handled it while you cockteased me with your cake,” he gasps as you grind back into him, as you widen your legs to let his tail do whatever it wants, restricted only by your sleep shorts. “The evol kitties cursed me for petting without paying, and for roughing up the cat.”

You can’t help it. Even through the pleasure, you burst out laughing.

“They cursed you with a tail and ears, and that’s why you avoided me all week?” It’s absurd. All that worry, thinking that he’d finally grown bored with you, because he was too, what? Embarrassed? to reveal that he’d been given such adorable attributes. “You mean we could have been doing this all week?” you ask, incredulous, as his tail rubs against your sensitive spots through your shorts, as it nudges you again and again, as Sylus loudly purrs from the pleasure you rubbing his ears and the friction against his big dick is bringing him.

He opens his eyes, half-lidded, lips parted, panting. One of his hands drifts down your back and takes a handful of your ass, pulling, bringing your hips against his cock again. He grinds you on himself, leans forward, licks a swipe up the side of your face.

“The biological markers that were affected by the ears and tail are tied to my own evol—I don’t have my ability to manipulate energy so long as this curse lasts,” he says, breath hitching with the movement of your bodies.

You lean forward, press your forehead against his, share his panting breath. “What does that have to do with not calling me?” you manage, even though all you want to do is rip his pants down, shove down your own shorts, and impale yourself on him.

“Didn’t want you to see me as weak,” he admits. He opens his eyes, looks into yours. He then kisses you with his full lips, soft, slow, in contrast to his tail still nudging you through your shorts at a steady rhythm, teasing, teasing, teasing.

You pull back from his kiss, catch his gaze again. “Even without your evol, you’re still one of the strongest people I’ve ever met,” you whisper.

He pauses, his ears flattening again. “Just ‘one of’ the strongest people you've met?”

You laugh. “I know a lot of strong people Sy. And your new bits are cute, just like you.” His tail firmly nudges you again, once, as if to warn you. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you tease him.

He just groans and kisses you again, his tongue slipping between your lips, his big hands moving to shove down your shorts. “I don’t make threats,” he says, low, smug. “I make promises.”

You roll your eyes, but neither of you talk any more after that.

***

Much, much later, after you’re thoroughly fucked out, muscles pleasantly sore, as Sylus purrs beside you in sleep, one arm flung over you, you lie awake thinking about his admission of worrying about being 'weak' in front of you. Of the vulnerability in his questions—why didn’t you call him if you were worried? Would you really replace him within a week? 

You’ve been so wrapped up in your own insecurities, so busy trying to protect yourself from what you think is the inevitable pain of being abandoned, that you’ve never stopped to consider what Sylus may worry about. What his insecurities may be. He has always seemed so larger than life to you, from the very beginning. Invincible. Solitary and strong. But as you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve also had glimpses of his own tender heart, the same tender heart he warns you about having—a liability in his vicious world. The care he shows the twins, who he insists are just his henchmen but clearly love him like family. His meticulous maintenance of Mephisto, whenever the bird needs parts switched out, cleaning, or upgrades. His habit of masking his true feelings by maintaining a look of boredom, as if revealing such feelings is a vulnerability that even those closest to him could exploit. Even his tendency to cheat at kitty cards—his luck is so bad, and he works so hard to compensate for it in the best way that his brutal life has taught him. In the end, Sylus is just a person, like anyone else. Complicated. Layered. Strong and vulnerable, cruel and kind. You’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about him as something you crave, something you adore, as well as something you fear, a threat to your heart. Not always as just a person, with feelings of his own.

Feelings that include feelings for you, specifically. He has never hidden his care for you, not since those first days of knowing him. Even if he looks indifferent, the words coming out of his mouth are always achingly straightforward, and sweet in a way that sounds sarcastic but you have learned is actually simply the unvarnished truth. His actions—his gifts, his texting, calling, physical clinginess when you’re with him—in the quiet dark, with Sylus’s soft snores next to you, his cat ears twitching even in sleep, you realize how utterly unfair you’ve been to him. How one-sided this relationship has been up until now in a lot of ways.

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to show him how much you care about him too. How safe he is with you, just as he makes you feel safe whenever you’re together. You recognize that you need to do some work on yourself. That it’s not normal to go through life terrified of being abandoned. That the past does not predict the future. You can’t spend the rest of your relationship with Sylus, no matter how long or short it lasts, punishing him for the pain others have caused you.

You roll over in the dark and pepper his face with soft kisses, each one a silent apology for not calling him this week, when he probably needed to be reassured that you still care for the version of him with ears and a tail and stripped of his god-like abilities. How worried must he still be, moving through the world without such abilities, without his customary armor against a hostile world that wants him caged or dead?

As you lean over him, trailing your lips along his skin, his arms snake around you and pull you closer.

“Tell me what I did to deserve this, so I can do it again,” he says, voice raspy from sleep. His tail wraps around your waist.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” you whisper between kisses.

“A hunter’s trade secret?” You can hear his smile in the dark.

“A lover’s inability to properly articulate that all you have to do is continue being you.”

His tail tightens around you, and its end wildly thwacks your back. “That sounded pretty articulate to me. Your words are honeyed—is there a catch?”

You kiss him on his soft lips. His hands run along your hair, down your back.

“Only one way to find out,” you tease.

“I see you’re done pouting. Do I get any other rewards for just being me?” he asks, sly.

“Only one way to find out,” you repeat, nudging his nose with yours.

“Oh, I like surprises.”

“I know,” you say, because you do know that. You know so much about this man already.

He pauses, catches your gaze. “Keep it a secret, okay?”

Yet again, he’s showing you his weakness. Reminding you that he’s taking a risk by being here with you at all, just like you are risking your heart, and everything else, by being here with him. “Your secrets are safe with me, Sy.”

He holds you tighter in response, and you fall asleep in his arms. You don’t dream about anything at all.

***

In the morning, after you’ve made him coffee, after you’ve eaten breakfast and you’ve lounged on the couch with him, watching something stupid on tv while he browses online auctions, you tell him about your Snowy Owl mission. He’s heard of this person, but they’re not colleagues or rivals, moving in different circles. But he knows where to locate them, and you form a plan, inspired by Snowy Owl’s interest in modified wanderers and humans, and Sylus’s twitching ears.

“You want me to act as your catboy butler.” He says it flatly. “Boring.”

You nod. “And I’ll be your owner, willing to sell you to the highest bidder.”

His ears flatten against his hair, despite his bored expression, and his tail whips back and forth, back and forth, slowly. He really hates the idea.

“Do you have a better plan?” you ask.

“Better than you selling me off to someone else? I can think of a few. A carefully placed bomb on the cruise ship, for one.” At your look of discomfort, he continues. “You don’t even have to come. Just check off the mission as accomplished on your little Association to-do list.”

You scowl at him. “I’m supposed to bring Snowy Owl in, not assassinate them.”

“Boring,” he repeats.

“I’m not actually selling you to anyone, Sy. I just need a small distraction, much smaller than a bomb,” you cut him off as he opens his mouth. “While I plant a tracking device with them, once we pinpoint who they are.”

He leans over, rubs his cheek against yours. “What’s my reward for considering this utterly boring plan?” He drags your hand to the base of his tail.

You take the hint, grasping his tail firmly, and he groans. You pull a little, and he lets you, rolling onto his stomach on the couch. You straddle the back of his big, meaty thighs and begin palming his tail, starting at the base where it meets the skin of his lower back, circling your thumb and forefinger around it even though it’s thick enough that your fingers don’t meet. You pull, and pet, over and over again, and his purrs are so loud they start to vibrate the couch.

“Say yes,” you demand. “Put that tux and your new parts to good use before the concert.”

“Fine,” he gasps, as his hips jerk a little, pressing himself into the couch.

“Excellent!” You spring to your feet, heading to the shower. There’s not a moment to waste if you’re going to get this mission over with before his tail and ears disappear.

“Stingy!” he yowls. Literally yowls, like a big tomcat thwarted in his attempt at mating by a mean owner yanking him into the house from the alley where his would-be mate was waiting.

“Consider that the down payment. Upon delivery of your promise, you’ll get the rest,” you say in a sing-song voice, just to further annoy him.

“I want double!” he yowls again, but anything else he might be whining about is cut off when you let the bathroom door close behind you.

***

Sylus has been impeccable for the duration of your agreed-upon mission. Poised, elegant, obedient. He has tolerated you treating him like an object to be admired and dismissed on a whim, even when people approached you not just to express interest in your catboy butler up for bidding, but also when they showed interest in getting to know the mysterious owner of said catboy butler more intimately.

The only indication that he was perhaps not entirely pleased with his code name was a flick of his cat ears and one hard thwack of his tail against the rail of the cruise ship when you first said, “Please fetch me more of the strata, Mister Whiskers,” in front of the other guests on the dining deck.

Furthermore, he only tried to attack and eat one person’s pet parrot, and he dropped the seagulls he kept catching at each ordered “Drop it, Mister Whiskers!” from you every time.

All in all, you think that you’re having a harder time than he is. High tea is over, seagulls have been caught and released, and you’ve already collected a number of business cards and varying degrees of subtle invitations to further discuss your catboy butler. You’ve navigated each diplomatically, and are rather proud of yourself, but your own patience is wearing thin as you stand at a luxurious bar in a small lounge on one of the upper decks of the cruise ship. The floor to ceiling windows give a lovely view of the blood-red sunset over the water—it reminds you of Sylus’s eyes. The evening, and therefore the black market trading, is about to begin in earnest. You’re waiting for a mocktail—you’re on the job, and you are a professional after all—when yet another person sidles up to you. Sylus, who has been standing at a respectable distance from you at relaxed attention, hands crossed behind his back, looking coolly over the people scattered at elegant standing tables, ears swiveling at constant alert, looks toward the newcomer, but he makes no move to come closer to you. It occurs to you that one of the reasons you are feeling increasingly off-kilter is that you are so used to Sylus touching you, draping himself over you, maintaining at least a sliver of contact at all times, that this respectful distance makes you feel like he’s standing on the other side of a great canyon.

You turn to the person who is trying to join you at the bar. He’s handsome. Tall, muscular. Dressed nicely, with subtle style. Nothing like your boyfriend’s flashy jeweled necklaces and bold colors. His blue eyes are startling in contrast to his black hair.

“Hi,” he says, smiling a little ruefully, like he wanted to open with something better, but this is all he could think of. He knows that he’s handsome and can skate by on the bare minimum.

You smile faintly back at him, despite wishing Sylus would come closer. “Hi,” you say. You’re not going to do all the work, dammit. This guy wants something from you, not the other way around.

“You’ve caused quite a stir tonight with your… companion,” he says, dark eyebrows lifting, gaze darting to Sylus and back to you again. “It’s made for more entertainment than usual on nights like these.”

You lift an eyebrow in response. “Oh? How so?”

“Watching the sharks circling and getting into tussles about who will ultimately have your pet.”

Your stomach twists at hearing someone other than Sylus calling him a pet. He’s not your pet. He’s your partner. He’s a whole person—a complicated, vicious, funny, cruel, gentle man. You suddenly hate the appraising look this asshole is giving him. But you’re a professional, damn it. You smile wider, going for seductive, amused, haughty.

“No need to tussle,” you tilt your head. “It’s simple. Offer the highest bid, and congratulations, you’re the owner of a new, obedient, exotic pet.”

The fuckhead eyeing Sylus chuckles heartily, as if what you said isn’t disgusting but the height of rich-asshole humor.

“I like the idea of owning the obedience of such a big, powerful creature. Is he willing to do anything you ask?”

The way his gaze keeps flicking to Sylus, as if he can’t help himself, makes you want to remove his eyes with one of your knives and wear them as a warning to anyone else who dares look at Sylus with such depraved, cruel desire.

“Place the winning bid and maybe you’ll find out,” you say coyly, somehow controlling your homicidal urges. Barely.

“Something to consider.” He shakes his head, as if trying to break the spell Sylus seems to have over him. “In any case, after a while, all these events start blurring together. May I buy you a drink, to thank you for dumping new blood in the water?”

This guy is the pinnacle of rich guy ennui. He probably would enjoy dog fights or hunting other people for sport, anything to break through his privileged, seen-it-all, can-buy-it-all numbness. Despite sharing the same status of filthy rich elite, this piece of shit is everything that Sylus isn’t. You want to hunt him for sport. Your nerves are fraying, and it’s getting harder and harder to maintain your composure.

“Shame, I just ordered a drink.”

He leans closer, invades your space.

“Why not indulge? You can have two drinks. And after, perhaps you’d like to show me just what your cat can do… a sort of preview, if you will.” He leans even closer, tilts his head as if a new thought has just occurred to him. “Is there perhaps a possibility of bidding for the pair, instead of just the butler?”

You realize that he’s propositioning you as well as your catboy butler, but the fury you feel at the idea of using Sylus for this fuckhead’s viewing pleasure overrides even your indignation at the insinuation that you, too, are for sale.

Suddenly Sylus’s warmth is at your back and the effect is immediate. Your murderous rage settles inside of you. You turn to him, lift an eyebrow like the imperious owner you’re supposed to be, slightly irritated at your servant’s interruption of… whatever this asshole at the bar thinks he’s getting away with. “Speak,” you command, imitating the most imperious man you know. Sylus, as he has done the entire duration of your appearance in public on this ship, does not react at all to your obvious inside joke.

“My owner,” he purrs deferentially, dipping his head. “You asked that I escort you back to your cabin at 21:00 in order to properly prepare for the bidding.”

The asshole’s gaze drifts from Sylus to you and back again. “A possessive cat, I see. What will he do, when his owner abandons him to another?”

You shrug, as if you don’t want to pull this guy’s tongue out of his mouth and garrotte him with it.

“As I said, buy him and find out,” you breathe through the nausea, trying desperately to stay in character—you are the same ilk as this guy, here to pawn your broken, loyal manservant onto anyone who can afford him. “But he’s right. Thank you for the interesting … offer, but the auction is about to begin. Tick tock, tick tock.”

“You’re a very good salesperson,” he smirks, as if pleased with the idea of depriving Sylus of his beloved owner and seeing if he can bend him to his will. You can’t see why you ever thought him handsome at all. “A raincheck, then, on the drink, and perhaps your own company.”

You just lower your head slightly, barely suppressing the urge to put this man on the ground and punch his smug smile until he is permanently unrecognizable, and the intensity of your renewed desire to hurt him for daring to even look at Sylus has you reaching for Sylus’s arm for support. He tucks your hand into his elbow and leads you out of the lounge.

When you finally reach your first class cabin on this pretentious floating black market, however, you see the strain that his flawless behavior has placed on your miscreant boyfriend.

As soon as the door closes behind you, he growls, deep in his throat, and spins, grabbing your wrist. He pulls you more roughly than usual through the elegant sitting room—the place looks like the interior designer was trying to recreate the staterooms of the Titanic—to the bedroom. Without letting go of your wrist, he yanks the scarlet velvet duvet and crisp white sheets from the bed and dumps them on the floor. The ocean glitters under the bright moonlight outside the bedroom’s window, the salt scent strong. The bed successfully stripped, Sylus now tries to jerk you onto the mattress, but you dig your heels into the plush carpet, feet dragging because despite your own strength, you can’t match his. You jerk your wrist from his grasp and whirl on him. You are willing to die for him, but you aren’t going to let him manhandle you like this.

“What is wrong with you?” you demand, rubbing your wrist.

“If I still had my evol, you’d be on the bed.” His voice is still calm, but his tail flicks angrily.

“If you still had your evol, I hope you wouldn’t use it on me when you’re this upset,” you glare at him.

He doesn’t respond, just begins to pace. Around the bed. Back into the sitting room. He veers into the bathroom and then returns to the bedroom. The anxious energy he’s giving off is palpable—you’ve never seen him this agitated in the entire time you’ve known him.

The longer he’s quiet, the more concerned you become. 

“Sylus?” you ask, softly. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m Sylus again? Not Mister fucking Whiskers?”

You stare at him. Your boyfriend, who is always up for teasing pet names and playful banter, is looking at you like he’s genuinely angry about the silly code name.

“Sylus—?”

His tail is thrashing back and forth as he continues to pace, ears flat against his hair. “Are you sure you’re interested in hearing how Mister Whiskers is doing now? You didn’t seem to be too interested when you were being fawned over by your suitors.”

You stare at him. At the tension he’s holding in his body, the wild movements of his tail.

“Sylus—”

“This was a boring plan to begin with, and now it’s even less interesting. You already have a mountain of gifts from my bidders—leave. Go through them to see if Snowy Owl has taken the bait so we can get this charade over with,” he snaps, effectively dismissing you. He sits on the side of the bed and puts his head in his hands.

With each harsh word, you feel your insides folding in on themselves. He hasn’t spoken to you like this since he held you captive when you first met. He promised he’d never treat you like that again, but you realize he never promised to never speak to you like that again.

Normally, how he’s talking to you—if it were any other person, you’d be out the door. Gone, ghosted. You speak to yourself cruelly enough every day in your own head, you don’t need that shit from other people. You’re even more shocked that it’s coming from Sylus, of all people. The Sylus who has cared for you so patiently, through all the time you’ve been together since that first auction. Who kills with his bare hands, but touches you with those same hands as if you’re made of glass. Until tonight.

You are tempted to run as the betrayal, confusion, and fear of the inevitable end course through you. To just stuff the gifts waiting for you on the sitting room’s coffee table into one of the big duffels you brought, move to another room, and wing the rest of the operation without Sylus. You can pose as a fucking waiter once you figure out Snowy Owl’s identity. You don’t need him for this mission. And you don’t need him in your fucking life, if this is his true self.

As you’re almost to the door leading to the hallway, reaching for the handle, you suddenly remember your promise to yourself, just a few nights ago—the night Sylus came to your place and you learned why he had gone silent for a whole week.

Your resolution that you wouldn’t give in to your fear at his expense anymore, that you would show him you care for him, just as he has done so for you through all of your time together. Even when he witnessed your worst moments, he did not walk away from you. He stayed, even as you pushed him away.

You think about how he was afraid for you to see him stripped of his power, as if you’d ever think him weak, and think less of him for something outside of his control. If I still had my evol, you’d be on the bed. How unnerving must it be for him to be in this shark’s tank without his ability to protect himself beyond his own body? It suddenly occurs to you that if he gets injured while his power is suppressed, he won’t heal like he normally does. The idea that he could get seriously hurt while here, helping you on a mission that has nothing to do with him, hurts a hundred times worse than the words he just snapped at you.

Weren’t you just furious with that fuck from the cocktail lounge for talking about Sylus like he was an object, instead of a person? Sylus is a human being. He’s not a god. He’s not perfect. He’s just a complicated man, a complicated man who hurt you with his harsh words tonight, but who has steadfastly shown how much he cares for you in the best way he knows how. Who could be expected to act normally, to be their best self, if one were to find oneself fundamentally changed, stripped of a lifetime of skill and ability, experiencing strange new urges, and to top it all off, thrown into a dangerous situation? 

You turn and walk back through the sitting room, to the bedroom where he’s sitting, head still in his hands. You stand in front of him.

“Sylus.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach out, gently grip his chin, and lift his face.

He lets you, docile. His cat ears are drooping.

“Tell me,” you order.

He refuses to look at you. His tail swishes petulantly behind him. 

“Tell. Me.” You tighten your hold on his jaw.

His eyes flick to yours, but he keeps his face turned away. “Caracal’s hate water.”

You gaze into his beautiful eyes, fire-lit gems. “And a caracal is the type of cat that you’ve partly mutated into?”

He nods, just a little movement of his head.

“And I brought you onto a boat, surrounded by water.”

He finally turns his head to face  you, gazing at you but not responding.

“What else?” You relax your hold on his jaw, moving your palm to cup his cheek and bring up your other hand into his hair, running your fingers through the soft strands.

“Each person who shook your hand, who handed you their business card, who leaned too close to you… their stench is all over you.”

You run your fingers through his hair until you reach one of his cat ears and gently begin to rub it. He closes his eyes and he leans into your touch.

“What else?”

“If this plan goes sideways, I won’t be able to protect you.”

With each admission, his shoulders relax. His face softens. But there’s still something bothering him. You search his beautiful face. His tail flicks, flicks, flicks.

“What else, Sy?” You lean down, rest your cheek against his soft hair. His ears are velvet against your skin.

He reaches out and clasps the backs of your thighs to pull you closer to him and rests his forehead against your chest. “Even if it’s just for the mission, are you really okay with letting someone else have me?”

It takes you a moment, but when you realize what he’s saying, you’re floored. 

Sylus has spent the whole evening watching you laugh off multiple peoples’ offers to take over ownership of your catboy butler. He watched you tell that little bitch at the bar, more than once, to buy Sylus to find out how obedient he is, how he’ll react to being parted from his beloved owner. Each time, you responded in character, like the idea didn’t bother you at all. Because that’s what the mission required. 

You realize that this entire ordeal has made him insecure. He wants you to be jealous. He wants you to be possessive of him. The thought never once crossed your mind that he would be bothered by the cover you planned for this mission. He is always so self-assured, only hinting at flashes of jealousy in playful, dismissive terms. And yet he doesn’t want you to be okay with the idea of him being possessed by another, no matter how briefly, no matter how falsely.

You continue to pet him as you let everything he just admitted sink in. The water, other peoples’ scents on your body, his lack of power at the moment, your lack of jealousy at the mere idea that another would have him.

After all the times Sylus has comforted you, cared for you, solved problems for you, it’s now your turn to do the same for him.

You drop your hands and he looks back up at you with such raw longing that you almost can’t step away. But you must.

“Would you like to abort the mission?”

He looks at you in confusion. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is your job.”

You smile down at him helplessly. “Don’t you realize by now that you’re more important to me than my job?”

He sucks in a breath.

“How else could I be with the most wanted man on the planet?”

“The only reason I have been able to repress my instincts through this whole shitshow is reminding myself how important this mission is to you,” he breathes, closing his eyes.

“Your instincts?”

“You have no idea,” he says through clenched teeth. His tail is violently flicking again. You can’t bear to see him so distressed.

“Yes or no. Forget what you think I want. If it’s too much, we leave right now.”

Eyes still closed, ears still flattened to his head, he shakes his head no.

“Okay.” You turn, but he reaches out and grabs your wrist to stop you leaving. You put your hand over his. “Since I can’t remove the ship from the water, I’m just closing the window and the curtains so you don’t have to see it.”

He reluctantly releases your wrist. You do as you promised, and when you’re done you return to stand between his legs.

“What do you need to do about how I smell?”

You don’t have to repeat yourself. He grasps your wrist again, pulling your closer. He grabs the hem of your outfit and pulls, tugging it over your head, lifting your legs one by one to tear off your shoes, tossing everything into the farthest corner of the room, until you’re standing in front of him in your underwear. He then pulls you down onto the bed with him, rolling you under him. He presses his face into your neck and rubs, rubs, his tail wagging behind him, his ears brushing against your skin again, their softness making you want to grab them and pull, pull, the cuteness aggression difficult to contain. You satisfy yourself by running your hands through his hair, gripping slightly, tugging, releasing.

As he rubs his cheeks all over you, he pauses to lick your skin, runs his hands along your shoulders, your arms, your waist.

After a long time, his manic movements slow and he inhales deeply. “You have no idea how hard it was to resist the urge to piss on your shoes while you were talking to that bastard in the cocktail lounge.”

You freeze. “Piss… on my shoes?”

“Didn’t you know? Cats urinate to mark their territory,” he licks your skin again, purrs. “And you’re my territory, sweetheart.”

You don’t even know how to feel about his admission. “Well… I might be willing to die for you, but I draw the line at letting you pee on me. So thank you, for not giving in to your caracal urges.”

He pauses, lifts his head. “Don’t fucking say you’ll die, ever again,” he growls. “I forbid it.”

You laugh, a little breathlessly. You decide it’s not a good time to point out that you will, in fact, someday die. Probably sooner than the average human, with your job. So you just say “Okay.”

He looks mollified and his tail begins to swish playfully again. “So that’s a no on watersports, in the future?”

You scowl at him. “Just try to piss on me and see what happens.”

“That sounds like a challenge. And you know that’s like catnip to this big cat. Are you sure you aren’t actually interested in golden showers?”

All you can do is laugh, and pull him down to you, and kiss him so he’ll shut the fuck up about peeing on you.

After a few minutes of mauling him, you groan and pull away.

“If we don’t want this entire thing to be a waste, we need to check the contacts we made today and finish the mission before the auction is over.”

He rests his head against your shoulder. “I know, but I don’t want to get off you. No one can hurt you as long as you’re under me,” he grumbles.

You stare at the ceiling and run your hands through his hair again, fondling his cat ears. “I survived before I met you, because I’m a fucking badass. I’m strong enough for the both of us, especially for a covert mission like this. We go through the business cards and gifts, pinpoint Snowy Owl’s room, you distract them for ten minutes while I plant surveillance, we get the fuck out before the auction’s over.”

“You and I both know how quickly plans get fucked,” he murmurs into your skin.

“And you and I both know that I am skilled enough to unfuck it. And with you here, even without your evol, it’s going to be okay.”

His tail lifts, curls up your leg.

“Fine.” He rolls off of you reluctantly, and you immediately miss his weight. “But the reward for going along with your plan is now tripled.”

“You can have anything you want, when this is over,” you promise, sliding off the bed and gathering your clothes from the floor.

“Even a golden shower?”

You throw your shoe at him. He just catches it and laughs, relaxed again.

After you’re dressed, the two of you tear into the gifts people sent hoping to gain your favor and therefore an advantage in the auction for your catboy butler. Sylus, the spoiled creature that he is, tosses multiple priceless trinkets aside like they’re trash, complaining about being bored out of his mind. However, he bats at a feathered butt plug before realizing what he’s doing and then tosses it as well. The only other thing he expresses even a passing interest in is a little spray can with DOCTOR SLEEPYTIME printed on the side, with the caption reading, “A stalker’s new best friend! Never worry about your target waking up too early again! Ten fewer side effects than chloroform!” You squint at it. The legal disclaimers are a solid block of text underneath the caption. Apparently, one of the side effects that it still shares with chloroform is death. You don’t comment when you see Sylus slip it into the breast pocket of his tux, not even wanting to know what he has planned for it. Finally, you open a small box and realize that the weird little thing inside matches the description the Association provided you of Snowy Owl’s calling card.

“Got you,” you whisper triumphantly, pawing through the packaging to figure out which room it came from.

Sylus stands, prepared to play his part in this little ruse, but you stop him before he opens the door. “Wait a second,” you say, running to the bedroom, throwing open your luggage in the cabin’s closet, and pulling out what you had hastily prepared in anticipation of this mission.

You return to Sylus with the item hidden behind your back.

“You asked if I’m really okay with the idea of sending you to someone else.”

He just watches you in silence, ears twitching in curiosity, tail swishing behind him.

“Of course I’m not. You don’t know how badly I wanted to slit that fucker’s throat who talked about you like you’re not even a person. I feel sick at the idea of anyone else looking at you with anything less than respect and admiration, let alone as some kind of object to be owned. I can’t even stand the thought that I own you. You are wholly your own person, and I’m just happy that you want me by your side, and allow me to adore you.”

His tail swishes faster the longer you speak, but stills at your last sentence. “But you do own me. Body and soul.”

You swallow through the thickness in your throat. You’re not going to cry at his absurd, devoted answer.

“Then perhaps you will do me the honor of wearing this while we’re apart.” You show him the soft black leather collar. “It can only be placed on you, and taken off you, by a person whose pheromones match those of your owner. Your true owner.”

“So this was your trump card,” he murmurs, tail thwacking against the door so hard that the door vibrates.

You shrug. “You don’t have to wear it.”

He flattens his ears against his head. “Nonsense. Put it on me,” he commands imperiously.

You try to hide your smile, but probably fail. “In that case, I hope it will remind you that I am definitely not okay with sending you to someone else. But none of this is real, and when we’re off this boat, I’m never going to ask you to do something like this again.”

He reaches out and wraps his hand around your wrist. “How many times must we go over this? You can ask anything of me.”

“Just because I can, doesn’t mean I want to.”

Without waiting for his answer, you unclasp the collar and lift onto your tiptoes to thread it around his neck. He growls softly, in annoyance or exasperation, and sinks to his knees in front of you.

As always when Sylus kneels before you, you’re overcome with a sense of wrongness. But he seems to want to give this to you, to drive home the point that anything he has is yours for the taking. You can’t find it in yourself to refuse him by insisting that you could have reached his neck just fine without him having to kneel.

You lay the collar against his neck, thread the end through the buckle, and tighten it. His eyes are half-lidded, the glow of his irises spilling from between his eyelashes. He seems to be enjoying this so much that you tighten it just a little bit beyond what is necessary, just to see his reaction. He lets out a pathetic little gasp, and you loosen it, worried you’ve hurt him. But his chest expands and his ears droop, almost as if he’s disappointed. So you tighten it again. “Yes,” he breathes. 

You stand there, with this gorgeous, half-feral man at your feet, fingering the pendant of the collar. You couldn’t afford the platinum that you think Sylus deserves, so silver had to do. But you did splurge a little to have your initials engraved on the inner side of the pendant, so that it’s pressed against his skin where no one else can see it. Your little secret against his pulse.

“We need to get moving, Sy,” you whisper, regretfully.

He rises gracefully to his feet.

“If you want it taken off, just ask.”

He gives you a disdainful look, his only response a tsking sound on his tongue. He leans down, kisses you, once, hard, and then straightens. He turns, throws open the door, and disappears down the hallway.

The rest of the mission goes off without a hitch. When you arrive at Snowy Owl’s door, you pick the lock easily, slip into the empty room, leave a variety of tracking devices in their possessions, and slip out again unseen.

You return to your room, prepared to wait for Sylus, trying to suppress the worry that he’ll have to put up with yet another handsy asshole all because he doesn't want to jeopardize your mission.

However, when you open the door, you find your big, beautiful cat already lounging on one of the sitting room’s ornate love seats, examining his nails and humming leisurely.

At his feet is the asshole from the cocktail lounge,  bound, gagged, and clearly roughed up, his bloody nose dripping into the fabric of his mouth gag.

“The fuck, Sylus?” you ask.

Sylus rolls his head to look at you, lovely eyes glowing in the light of the tiffany lamps on the tables on either side of the love seat.

“I brought a gift for my owner,” he says, ears twitching between you and the asshole who started to struggle at your entrance, making little pleading whimpering noises. “I could tell how much you hated this waste of oxygen the whole time you had to endure his attention at the bar.”

“A… gift?” you repeat.

“You have no idea the self control it took to suppress the instinct to bring him to you as a corpse, as nature intended, when I was done playing with him. But I assumed that would make my owner mad,” he says languidly, but his tail is flicking in agitation.

“Okay,” you draw out the word, trying to process this… gift. “And Snowy Owl?”

“Passed out in a janitor’s closet in the ship’s casino,” he shrugs. “Doctor Sleepytime is true to its claims. A great improvement over chloroform,” he drawls. “I’ll have to leave a good review on their website.”

Relief floods through you. You’re done. The mission is almost complete. All that’s left is to get the fuck off this floating cesspool.

“Thank you,” you murmur. But you’re still left with the problem of what to do with Sylus’s ‘gift.’ “But Sy, what the fuck am I supposed to with… this.” You can’t help but sneer a little at the asshole still struggling on the ground.

“Whatever you want, my heart,” Sylus responds. “He’s wanted in Linkon City by at least three different agencies. But we could just dump him over the railing and be done with it. In fact, I’d prefer that,” he says, perking up.

You march over to him and slip a finger under his collar.

“No! Bad kitty,” you scold, pulling a little on the leather, intending to simply tease him for his outrageous suggestion.

Sylus just gasps, eyes going half lidded again. You stop in surprise at the clear pleasure your rough treatment is causing him, but he wraps his hand around your wrist and moves your hand again, tightening the collar against his neck once more.

“If I’m a bad kitty, you better keep a tight hold on me to make sure I don’t drag home any other unwelcome surprises,” he says, voice low and rough.

“Oh?” You marvel at how lovely he looks, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open, breathing hard. “Maybe my bad kitty needs to be punished, so he stops suggesting I murder wanted criminals instead of bringing them to justice like a professional.”

The man on the floor who is forced to witness this flirtation struggles harder, his whimpers ranging from disgusted to terrified. You ignore him.

“Oh nooo,” Sylus says, voice dripping with sarcasm. Then he narrows his eyes. “You better make good on your promise. Or are you just full of empty threats?”

You lean down and press the heel of your hand onto his hard cock straining against his zipper, hard. He moans, eyelashes fluttering.

“Get us to the getaway boat without causing a scene and you’ll find out what I’m full of. Or what I’m about to be full of, if you’re a good kitty for me,” you breathe into his ear.

The man on the floor gags a little.

Sylus stands, lifting you in one arm, grabbing a full duffel bag you hadn’t noticed with the other.

“What’s that?”

“Your bad kitty helped himself to a cat treat,” he purrs.

“What kind of souvenir?”

“The loud, prone-to-exploding-if-you-shake-it-too-hard-kind.” He grins at you, canines flashing.

You can’t help yourself. You burst out laughing.

It may have started with trouncing your crimelord boyfriend at kitty cards, but it ended with you learning how to better care for your catboy boyfriend. It also ended with the arrest of both Snowy Owl and the poor bastard who had to listen to you 'punish' said boyfriend from inside the duffel bag that he was stuffed in after Sylus cut the engine of the getaway boat halfway to your destination, too impatient to wait till you both got home to claim part of his reward for being such a good, good kitty.

[peachylynnie]

@lunariadew asked: 'Can you write a poly fic maby like a feel good fic or date night or something with all the boys! I’m greedy and I think there’s not enough poly fics as there should be'

Nothing profound this time around! Just some good old-fashioned shenanigans. I've wanted to do a fic with all the boys for SO long (Infold, hire me to write a sitcom-style show for the guys, PLEASE) I've kept it platonic since it's early stages; it's open to interpretation about how many sparks are flying and between whom exactly..... 👀 But if ppl want more of this, I'm all over it. Platonic or romantic? I'll play it by ear!

Game Night

L&DS Boys X Reader

Summary: The most important men in your life can manage one evening together, right? For you? Please? Pretty please?

Genre: Fluff + humour

Warnings/Additional Tags: f!reader, some swearing, a lil conflict, non-canon (I know some of the guys probably know each-other but we're pretending they don't 😇)

| Word count: 4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Rafayel… what do you think this is?”

The artist stands at your open door, wearing a self-assured smile and one of the flashier outfits you’ve seen him in, and that’s really saying something. Between you is a bouquet of lilies, petals curled like frozen licks of fire that compliment— deliberately, if you had to guess— the warmer fires within his eyes. Those eyes narrow at your question.

“What do you think it is?” he says suspiciously, lowering the flowers.

“…Game night?”

You’re not sure why you phrase it so tentatively. You know what it is; you’re the host. You open your door wider, stepping aside to give Rafayel a better view of the apartment behind you, and the remainder of his smile sinks.

“Hi,” Xavier calls out, and you don’t have to see him to know he’s giving a wholesome sort of wave.

“Hi…” Rafayel answers, barely more than a whisper as his eyes flit between everyone else in the room, because he’s the last to arrive. “Game night, yeah,” he nods assertively, “I knew that.” Then a deep breath: “Can I, like, put these somewhere—”

“Kitchen counter,” you gesture.

“Got it.” He doesn’t have to be told twice.

Closing the door behind him, you watch as he skirts past the lounge and makes for your kitchen, where another bouquet already lies waiting. He zeroes in on it. “Looks like mine’s not the only heart you’re breaking tonight, huh, cutie? What are these—” he pokes at a petal— “daturas?”

“They’re her favourite,” speaks a distinctly low voice.

Rafayel doesn’t look up. He plonks his bouquet on top of the other and winces: “They’re really not, though.”

“He’s right,” you chip in, giving Sylus a sheepish smile, and now Rafayel looks up, beaming.

“She likes roses,” Zayne says, with the calm confidence he’d quote a medical journal. On the sofa beside him, Xavier nods, and you grin at them both.

“Noted,” Sylus chuckles.

Rafayel’s less convinced. “Since when?!”

“Since forever, Raf. I like lilies too, so I didn’t say anything, ‘kay?” You beckon him back to the lounge, ignoring his splutters of disbelief. “C’mere, let me introduce you to everyone.”

The man slinks to your side like a reluctant shadow, and your hands find your hips. “This is Zayne. Xavier,” you point out, putting faces to names; Rafayel’s heard stories about each. Then you nod towards Sylus. “Over there’s Skye.”

From his place by the window, Sylus lifts a hand in greeting.

“So… yeah,” you finish. Oh, wait! “Guys, this is—”

“They know who I am,” Rafayel shrugs, his fame apparently heavy on his shoulders. He glances around the room for validation, but he gets none, so he tries again. “You do know who I am, right?”

“Sorry,” Xavier admits with an awkward smile, glancing back at Sylus: you?

The man has to think about it. You know for a fact he’s traded more than one of Rafayel’s paintings for a profit, but he smirks and gives an even more exaggerated shrug than the artist himself.

Really?

“You’re Rafayel,” Zayne states plainly.

“Yeah! See, I told you, cutie—”

“You slipped on a paintbrush and checked yourself into Akso, right? The nurses still talk about it.”

Rafayel’s enthusiasm drains. He looks conflicted as he mulls over the additional information. “In, like, a good way?” he hazards.

Zayne stares back at him, wielding silence like a scalpel before cutting deeper with a: “…sure.”

You bite back a smile. Leaving the two to discuss the finer details of Rafayel’s notoriety at the hospital, you wander over to the kitchen, where you fish out a vase from the back of a cupboard. You fill it, set it down on the counter, then reach for Sylus’s bouquet. There’s a black satin ribbon; you untie it.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, sweetie?” asks the man himself, joining you discreetly.

The others can’t really hear you— they’re still talking. “What,” you smirk, retrieving your scissors from a drawer, “you worried Xavier’s gonna arrest you?”

Sylus laughs lowly, quietly. “That’s adorable.”

“Good.” You pick up a flower and trim a leaf from the stem. “Because even if he wanted to—” you wave it, just short of his face— “I’d protect you, ok?”

He regards the flower beneath his nose. Smiles smugly. “These can be toxic, sweetie.”

“Really? Whoops.” You put it down, then snatch up a lily from Rafayel’s bouquet. “En Garde!”

“These too.”

“What the hell?”

The flame-red flower drops from your fingers, and Sylus laughs more sincerely. “Stick to roses, kitten. Or…” He moves his hand over his deconstructed bouquet, his Evol pruning the rest of the leaves from the stems. A tendril of it gathers the flowers, delivering them to him so he can hold them out to you with a flourish. “Live dangerously. Who am I to judge?”

You take them, then plop them into the vase. “Cute.”

“I’m here all week,” he grins. “You’d better wash your hands, hmm?”

With a hmph of agreement, you turn to the sink. You spend half a minute, rubbing soap and warm water over your hands, and when you turn back around— still drying them— something is different. The lilies are gone. Sylus is looking at you, innocuous.

“Real mature, Skye.”

He makes no effort to defend himself. You’re about to tell him that his magic better extend to making flowers reappear when your attention is whipped back to the lounge. The voices from that side have raised, so you lean forward on your kitchen island, watching their owners in a sort of stakeout.

“I take it you have a plan,” Sylus whispers, leaning with you.        

You look at him. He looks back. “The plan is for hosts,” you scold, “not guests.” He’s much too close so you step away, reaching for the vase of daturas and holding them threateningly out, like you’re not afraid to use them. “Go back to the guests, deserter.”

Sylus lifts his hands in surrender, smirking in a way that says he knows he’s met his match. You shoo him further, back into enemy lines, then resume your stakeout. Xavier is sharing his own “embarrassing” medical story— talking about a time where he once passed out from exhaustion while fighting at your side, and you think it’s supposed to make Rafayel feel better.

It doesn’t, of course, and even Zayne is gazing down at the floor, self-conscious.

Sylus meets your eyes across the room, signals with a tip of his head: now's a good time for that master plan, sweetie.

Right. Your plan. Your master plan, yeah.

…

“You should have picked the doctor.”

Sylus’s words are near-silent: for you, not anyone else, and you pretend you don’t hear them. “But no,” he carries on, because he knows you can, “you just had to have the artist.”

“It’s Pictionary!” you snap, drawing all eyes in the room.

Lounging beside you, Sylus feigns an amused surprise, as though he hasn’t just been trying to illicit that exact reaction. On the other sofa, Zayne and Xavier stare, taken more genuinely aback. You give a smile of apology.

“Guys, concentrate!” Rafayel clicks his fingers at you. He’s stood in the centre of the space by a large drawing pad, and he goes back to frantically sketching on it. The drawing is… interesting. Abstract. Maybe even beautiful? But you don’t have a clue what it is.

“Thirty seconds,” warns Zayne, studying the little egg-timer he’s guarding.

You tilt your head at the drawing. There’s maybe a— wait, where did those extra colours come from? Where did he even get those pens? Anyway… there’s a circle. “A globe?” you guess. “Earth! No? Umm… oh! The sun! The moon!”

Rafayel shakes his head with every suggestion, adding even more intricate, unhelpful scribbles. Is that a fifth pen?! You nudge your other teammate, calling for back-up.

Sylus regards the drawing listlessly. “A unicorn.”

“What?!” Rafayel’s tone has reached a pitch that almost makes you wince. “No! C’mon, are you even trying?”

“No,” Sylus lilts with a pleasant smile, lifting the drink he’s been nursing to his lips.

You kick his foot. “A bowl of fruit!” you exclaim, determined to make up for the lack of enthusiasm. “A plate? A plate with food? Breakfast! Lunch! Dinner!”

“Time’s up,” Zayne interrupts, and it’s a mercy, really; you deflate with a sigh.

Rafayel puts his hands on his hips as he takes a step back to observe his work. He tucks four fine-liners back into his pocket— purses his lips as though he really can’t see a problem— and he’s keeping you all in suspense.

Sylus is up in an instant, stealing a card from where it’s been discarded on the coffee table. He reads the answer, then rolls his eyes. The original pen was also abandoned, so he plucks it up, then strides to the drawing pad.

He draws an oval. Then a triangle.

“A fish! A fish!” you cry out.

“You’re good at this, sweetie,” Sylus grins. He puts the lid on the pen with a click before dropping it into Rafayel’s hand.

“Is it my turn?” Xavier asks, trying to relieve the tension of the room. He gets up and smiles as Rafayel passes him the pen. “Your drawing is pretty. The composition is really—”

“Don’t,” Rafayel says. “Like, thanks? But don’t.”

“Fair enough,” Xavier chuckles.

You all prepare for the next round: Zayne handing you the egg-timer, Xavier re-organising the stack of prompt cards. Sylus takes a photo of the drawing pad before ambling back over— a moping Rafayel in tow— and they both sink down either side of you. You glance at the latter, giggling. “A fish, Raf? Really?”

“So I didn’t just wanna draw you some basic fish, ok?” The artist crosses his arms with a pout. “But fine, enjoy mediocrity, I guess.”

To your left, Sylus raises his glass in toast to the notion. There’s a noise: Xavier tearing the used page from the pad. You look up. “Xavier, can I have that?”

“Sure.” He brings it over to you.

You look at the drawing again, holding it at arm’s length and rotating it experimentally. You’re seeing a lot, but nothing that screams ‘fish’. There’s a circle, still. Oh! “It’s a fish bowl! Wait, wait, wait— is that Reddie?”

“Yeah!” Rafayel beams.

“Aww!”

The renewed team spirit drops off with Sylus; he’s on his phone, not paying attention. He seems to sense your scrutiny because he peers up, gives a ghost of a smile, then returns to whatever he’s doing. Meanwhile, Xavier is ready for his turn, so he signals for you to start the timer. You give him a thumbs up as you turn it over. “Go!”

He starts drawing.

“A car,” Zayne guesses after all of five seconds. Correct. Next. “A river? No. Oh. A snake.” Yes. “A cupcake?” Also yes. (In fairness, he was never going to struggle with that one.) “A person? Ok. Oh, a scientist, no? Ah, a doctor.” Yes again, and really— what?

Zayne continues to list correct answers, though thankfully, that’s the last of the coincidences. You watch on, vaguely in awe, until you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. You check it casually, aware that Sylus is next to you, looking down at it too.

It’s a text from him: The drawing… Can I have it?

You glance up at him subtly, meeting his eyes and giving a discreet yet firm shake of your head. He frowns. You’re not having this debate here, now, so you let your gaze return to the drawing pad while idly retrieving your drink.

A few seconds later, there’s another text: Found buyer

Then another: Quarter of a mil

You almost choke on that drink.

“Umm… cutie?” Rafayel asks, poking you. He points at the timer you’ve left on the coffee table, and the top half is empty.

“Shit, yeah. That’s time!” you call.

Xavier stops drawing. The small, crude sketches behind him have reached double digits. He looks really proud. “Great! How many was that?”

His eyes find you. Zayne and Rafayel’s, too. Were you supposed to be counting? Uh—

“Eleven,” says Sylus, and it’s way too smug to be a lie.

“Awesome!” Xavier flips the drawing pad over to where you’ve been tallying point totals. He adds eleven marks to one side. “That’s—” he counts both— “ah, thirty-three to nine.”

A silence falls over the room. Unsure of what else to do, you give a half-hearted round of applause and Xavier laughs awkwardly, still humble, despite it all. “I think we’re kinda done with Pictionary, yeah?” you suggest, rising from your seat. “I should probably get started on food, anyway.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.”

The insistence came from Xavier, and you freeze suspiciously; he’s never turned down free food.

“You’ve already done so much,” he explains, “setting this all up for us. You should relax, really! Leave it to me.”

The word ‘relax’ is not synonymous with the image of Xavier anywhere near your kitchen, but he’s looking at you so earnestly, blue eyes brimming with warmth, and what are you supposed to say? No thanks, Xavier— I value my life? Everyone’s watching you. Gods help you. “That’s really sweet, Xavier. Thanks.”

Your fellow Hunter’s smile widens even more. He heads off to the kitchen, a spring to his step that makes your heart sink with dread. “Actually—” you glance at your ex-teammates— “could you two go help him? Zayne and I’ll tidy up over here.”

Rafayel and Sylus do as they’re asked, even though their expressions remind you that cooking is not, typically, a three-man job. It’s tactical, though. You wanted a moment alone with Zayne. “Are you ok?” you ask, once the others are out of earshot. “I know this must all be a lot. The guys can be, well… yeah.”

He knows what you mean, right?

Zayne has slipped away from the couch; he’s crouched on the floor, collecting a few prompt cards that have wandered astray. He glances up at you, pushing his glasses back on his nose. “I’m ok,” he assures with a fond smile. “Thank you, though.”

“You’re welcome.” He hands you the cards and you slot them back into their deck. Then you turn to the drawing pad. “You and Xavier make a good team, huh?”

The doctor straightens to his full height. “Mmm. It helped that we didn’t spend the entire game comparing the size of our… drawing abilities.” 

You laugh unashamedly. The pen’s still at-hand, so you pick it up— reward another point.

Zayne chuckles.

“Food’s gonna be a while.”

You both turn, following the voice back to Sylus, who has apparently decided he’s had his fill of kitchen duty. What was that— a minute? He seems to have anticipated your dissatisfaction, because he’s brought a bribe with him: the box of chocolates that had come with his bouquet. It’s already open and he holds it out, tempting you.

He’s right— you don’t know when you’ll next be eating— so you select a heart-shaped chocolate, popping it into your mouth with a smile and a muffled: “thanks.”

Sylus smiles back. Then he holds the box out to Zayne. “Doctor?”

It takes a nod of encouragement from you to prompt Zayne into taking something. He chooses a white chocolate truffle, mumbles his own thanks, but Sylus doesn’t relent— not yet. He shakes the box slightly, incitingly, and he doesn’t move it away until Zayne takes two more.

Your physician shoots you a surreptitious smile as Sylus falls back onto the couch, content he’s won your hearts, and that he won’t be sent back to the kitchen anytime soon. His long fingers lift another chocolate from the box, and he meets your eyes as he slips it slowly past his lips, humming likes he’s enjoying himself.

You cross your arms, unimpressed. He gives you the least convincing look of innocence you’ve ever seen.

There’s an exclamation from the kitchen: “Hey, where did my flowers go!?” 

Shit. You hastily push the drawing pad aside then scurry over to assist Rafayel. You don’t have a plan, exactly; it’s not like you can help him look for them. “Umm… they’re around, Raf. I moved them somewhere safer, that’s all.”

“Where?”

“Uh—”

“Does it matter?” Sylus speaks from behind you, because he and Zayne are close at your heels. “She said they’re somewhere safe.” He leans on the kitchen island. “Don’t you trust her?”

Rafayel scoffs. “I trust her plenty.”

“So prove it. Drop it.”

“Skye,” you caution, “stop.”

Sylus does stop, but not because you asked. He’s done enough already, hasn’t he? Rafayel is bristling with indignance— a lit fuse— and behind him, Xavier sneakily checks the trash can, looking relieved at what he doesn’t find. He gives you a subtle glance: Where actually are the flowers?

You lift a shoulder an inch: Beats me!

There’s a soft, almost imperceptible crackle, and it draws your eyes to the vase of daturas between you all. They’ve caught light— their petals twisting, darkening, within larger flowers of fire.

“Rafayel!” you gasp. “No, no, no, the fire alarm!”

The torched flowers are encased, all of a sudden, in a fine layer of shimmering frost. Sylus blinks down at them, unmoved by their destruction. Zayne’s hand is still outstretched, snowflakes etched over his palm. Then something… odd happens. The ice doesn’t stop. It spreads over the rest of the kitchen island, to all of your bewilderment.

“Zayne?” Your voice is fraught with worry, but you don’t give a damn about your kitchen.

The man winces, and you so rarely see him out of control. The silver-white patterns have crawled up his wrist, and the ice continues to spread; even Sylus steps back. Sharp, jagged crystals start to form— inching out towards everyone.

“Zayne!” you try again.

His chest rises as he drags air through his teeth; it looks like it hurts, but the ice does stop. The others are still, suspended by momentary uncertainty, and you rush to Zayne’s side, taking his hand.

“What the hell was that?” Rafayel remarks, shaking away his surprise and thawing an icicle that’s way too close for comfort.

“He wouldn’t have needed to use his Evol if you hadn’t used yours.”

It’s Xavier, strangely— you would have expected Sylus. The Hunter’s tone is gentle as always, but there’s something behind it, this time: a frustration that lends an edge.

Rafayel hears it too. “Hey, I’m not the one who started this!” He points to Sylus. “He—”

“Has been lighting fires all evening,” Xavier finishes. “But at least his were only figurative.”

Sylus laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh where you just know he’s vying to make things worse. “Look at that,” he says, “the boy next door can bite.”

Xavier’s eyes sharpen. Beside you, Zayne slips his hand from yours. It’s an instinct you know well. This moment is volatile, and you have to be ready. It could go a dozen different ways; it’s just waiting for a spark.

“Guys,” you manage to get out, “please, just… everyone, take a breath, ok? Everything’s fine, we just have to—”

A spark.

There’s smoke. Actual smoke. “Xavier, behind you!” Zayne alerts.

It’s creeping out of the oven and Xavier turns— eyes wide— to open its door before any of you can stop him. Thicker smoke billows out, filling the air, and you all scramble away from it. The fire alarm triggers. You think Rafayel’s shouting something, but you can’t really hear him. Then Sylus is shouting. Maybe even Zayne. The alarm is piercing your ears and making you dizzy— or is it the smoke?

You feel a hand on your shoulder and suddenly everything changes.

There’s cool air, brushing over your skin, and it’s dark; you’re outside the building. You can still hear the alarm, shrill but further away, and your window is easy to spot: there’s a red light flashing behind it. Sylus leans into your vision, saying your name.

“Stay here,” he tells you, “alright?”

He’s gone in another moment, lost to a flicker of crimson-black darkness.

Gods, you’re so stupid.

…

You sit on a short wall outside of your building, and the street is full of people. You recognise most of them: neighbours. Every single one is mad at you. You’re all waiting for the alarm to cut out— for the all-clear to be given. The fire wasn’t that serious in the end, but there’s still a procedure. You would know; this isn’t exactly your first evacuation.

The guys are safe, which is good, because it means you can kill them later. They’ve all gotten lost in the throng, and your neighbours can keep them. Maybe they’ll kill them for you.  

“Hey, cutie.”

You were staring down at your feet, but you look up at Rafayel’s voice. He’s coming towards you, evoking a sense of déjà vu, because he’s clutching a bouquet of flame lilies. That’s… the bouquet of flame lilies. How?

“Skye gave ‘em back to me,” he explains, chuckling at your expression, and he’s close enough now to hold the flowers out to you. “I don’t know where he was keeping them. His Evol’s weird, huh?”

“Yeah,” you say timidly, taking the bouquet and gazing down into the petals; they still smell sweet.

Rafayel sits next to you, shuffling close, and he leans his head on your shoulder with a tired sigh. You want to be mad at him. You really, really do— but you’re suddenly not.

“I’m sorry, Rafayel.” The admission barely makes it out of your throat.

You feel his head lift. “You’re sorry?”

“I know it was just a misunderstanding,” you speak into the flowers, “but tonight… wasn’t what you were expecting, I get it. I mean, I kinda threw you into the deep end with all this. You didn’t know you were gonna be around other people, and I—”

“Whoa— cut that out, yeah? You’re killing me, cutie. I spend the whole evening causing trouble, and you’re gonna take all the blame? Nope. Not happening. It was a collaborative effort at least, ok?”

You giggle. “Ok.”  

“Good.” His head slumps back down on your shoulder, and yours tilts to rest against it. “Thanks, though. Really,” he whispers, so quiet you almost don’t notice.

Footsteps and familiar voices draw you from the intimacy of the moment. The others are wandering back to you, having finally escaped the veritable mob of your neighbours. They all look tired.

Xavier settles down on the other side of you, and Zayne sits beside him. Sylus takes a seat next to Rafayel with a huff, but he’s not half as unhappy as he’s pretending to be.

All of you sit in silence, gazes flitting between your window— where there are still glimpses of moving figures— and everyone else who’s been evacuated. For the first time all evening, the quiet isn’t tense. It’s peaceful. Easy.

“We’ll do better next time,” Zayne speaks softly.

Next time? You scoff. “Do any of you actually want there to be a next time?”

“I had fun,” Sylus chuckles. He’s taken his coin from his pocket, and he flips it, amusing himself.

“I had fun too,” Xavier grins.

“Cooking again, Xavier?” quips one of your neighbours, as they happen to pass by.

The man beside you laughs, but you can tell it’s forced. Your hand finds his; you give it a little squeeze, letting him know that it wasn’t his fault. His heart was in the right place. It’s always in the right place.

You nudge Rafayel away from you so you can sit up straighter, your free hand rubbing your arm, caressing prickled skin. You’re about to ask for a jacket when something heavy drapes over your shoulders. It’s a coat— still warm— and its owner is stood behind you; you didn’t even notice him get up.

“Thanks, Sylus,” you smile.

All eyes turn to you. What are they—?

Oh.

[peachylynnie]

The pool | ao3 | my fanfic masterlist

Summary: You dream, you do some art, you go for a swim, Sylus destroys part of his office, you discover the hot tub, you're close to catching a clue. A 'morning' in the life at Onychinus HQ. Part 17 of the Sylus series.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV, some Sylus POV MC is referred to by they/them pronouns as a placeholder for your preferred pronouns. This story contains: soft Sylus, embarrassed Sylus, fluff, angst, grief, profanity, mentions of self harm, self-destructive urges, mc with self esteem issues, obscene art, nudity, the twins being the twins

This is what it feels like. Lured to the edge. Balancing on the cliff. You probably know how it ends, before you even realize it's beginning. But the knowing doesn't stop you from leaning, leaning, until the gravity of the inevitable pulls you down into the fall.

Wet cobblestones, moss growing between the cracks. Fallen leaves, slick from the recent rain, gathered in the gutters, piled against the garden wall lining the uneven sidewalk. The scent of damp earth, and the pleasant smell of a wood-burning fire.

Night. Lamplight puncturing the dark at even intervals, marching into the distance. Each lit lamppost haloed by the mist, edges blurred. The muted light bathes everything in warm tones, a sunset’s yellow. Beyond the pools of light—an ocean of night.

Light rain makes no sound as it drifts to the ground, as it coats the hood drawn up over your hair. It would be bone-chilling, if the wind were blowing, but the night’s air is still. You see your breath in puffs of white. You feel like you are the last person on the planet with how quiet the streets are. It is just you, the mist, your footsteps in the pools of light, the eddies of dark between.

You are reminded of the holidays with your gran and Caleb, the way the air smelled in winter, when you would emerge from the metro and walk the last few blocks to your grandmother’s home. Hot, abundant holiday meals, the undercurrent of excitement in exchanging gifts. The scent of pine. 

Winter’s dark nights, softened by the glow of your little family.

You don’t know why you’re walking through this neighborhood, on this dark winter night. It doesn’t matter, really. The woodfire, the leaves, the stillness of the mist. Linkon City’s streets are never this deserted, even in the middle of the night. The solitude is a welcome reprieve from the constant presence of other people, their existence weighing on your subconscious in a way that you only notice when it’s absent—a form of relief, of your breath coming easy for once.

To your left, the high garden wall of a residential building. To your right, a quiet street, stretching forward into the distance, disappearing into the night. On the other side of the street, darkness. You get the sense of open space. The lamplight, though not very bright, is blinding against the black night. No matter how long you stare into the darkness, you can’t discern anything beyond that sense of open space. Like you’re at the very edge of the city. Maybe even the edge of the world. You’re tempted to cross the street to see if you could just let yourself fall and continue falling into forever.

You shake your head. What a strange thought. You have your family waiting. Your colleagues. Your work. A whole life, really. 

But do you? Your footsteps are muted by the slick leaves, the misty night. There is something you’re forgetting—you just don’t know what it could be. You’re on this lovely night walk, with no particular destination in mind. You’ve been walking on this sidewalk for what feels like a long time now, but the garden wall does not end. You do not see the end of the road, no matter how far you walk.

What are you forgetting? A woodfire in a small fireplace. The scent of pine. Plate after plate of food, apple pie.

Why are you tempted to cross the street, tempted to see what endless depths lie on the other side?

You’re forgetting something. Gifts wrapped clumsily but carefully. Ribbons that shine in the light from the fireplace, a string of lights draped over the window.

Apple pie, warm on your tongue.

You stop walking. You listen, straining to hear… something. Something you’re forgetting. You turn and look behind you. Just the garden wall. The leaves piled along the curb. The street stretching into the night. The way back is a mirror of the way forward. There is no end, there is no beginning. There is only the street, the lampposts, the leaves, and the darkness on the other side.

You take a step off of the sidewalk, onto the cobblestoned road. Still no sound. Just the small clouds of your breath. Just the crisp scent of a cold, wet winter day.

You need to see what’s across the street. A muted feeling of fear sweeps through you as you take another step. Just a few more, and you will leave the pool of light from the streetlamp. You won’t be able to see the edge if the world does drop off on the other side. You will simply take a step, and there will be nothing—

You feel like you’re peeking over the edge of a tall building, knowing that the flimsy handrail will give way if you lean too hard. But you can’t stop yourself. You take another step.

You should stop. You have your family waiting, after all.

But you’re forgetting something.

An apple rolls off a cutting board. It hangs suspended in the air, as if time has stopped.

You’re forgetting something, but you don’t want to remember what it is. You take another step.

You are caught between forgetting and remembering, now. What’s holding you back? Perhaps when you reach the edge, you will mirror the apple. You will hang suspended, between forgetting and remembering, and you’ll never hit the ground.

You need to know. Your curiosity would always lead you into trouble. Gran would scold you for it. Caleb would tease you for it. Not the curiosity itself, but the boundary-pushing, the rule-breaking you’d commit to satiate it. You used to have to know, no matter how terrible you knew the knowing would be. Now though—now there are things you do not want to know. But you don't know why you changed. You lean back, slightly, and then sprint out of the safe pool of yellow light. Your feet hit solid ground, echoing on the cobblestones. Until you take another long stride and then—nothing.

You are falling, into the black. You are not the apple. You are deadweight, and you are falling, falling, falling, with your heart in your throat, your stomach turning inside out, so terrified that you can’t even scream.

You’re going to die. The apple, no longer suspended, falls the short distance to the worn wooden floorboards of your grandmother’s house. When it hits, it explodes like a bomb—all sound is sucked from your plummeting trajectory, and all you hear is a high-pitched whine as you continue to fall.

“Darling, wake up,” a deep voice says in the black, right before you splatter onto the unseen ground.

You fall back into your body in terror, only to find that it’s held tightly by strong arms—

Sylus.

He is cradling the back of your head in his big hand, holding your face to his chest. He’s rocking you, as he did in the shower, his cheek resting on the top of your head. The high pitched whining from your dream is coming from your throat, not from the tinnitus in your ears from a bomb exploding.

You gasp.

Sylus lifts his head to look down at you. “Finally awake?” he asks, but not with his usual teasing manner. He’s pale—more pale than usual, and his eyes are wide.

You can’t speak. Part of you still feels like you’re falling. Part of you still feels the impact of when you hit the ground. All of you remembers what you were forgetting in the dream—your family is gone, and they’re never coming back.

You can’t speak, so you just throw your arms around Sylus’s neck and cling to him, burying your face where you previously bit him, where his neck meets his shoulder. It’s not close enough. 

You’re still falling. You’re still hitting the ground. Your family is still gone, and you’re all that’s left.

You push back from him.

“Sylus—” you gasp again. It’s hard to breathe.

He cradles your face in his hands. “What do you need? Tell me.”

You stare into his beautiful eyes. Red is too simple of a word to describe them. They’re the color of red brought to life. They’re the heart of a fire, glowing on a calm winter night.

“Resonate with me?” you manage to ask through your struggling lungs.

He stares at you.

“Please?” you whisper.

He sucks in a breath and drops one of his hands from your cheek, fingers gliding along the skin of your forearm where you’re clinging to his neck. He gently pulls your wrist down, aligns his palm with your own. He slips his fingers between yours, and your hand is swallowed by his. He then clasps it, hard.

Everything fades away.

There is only Sylus’s hand, calloused and rough where it grips yours, Sylus’s heartbeat, fast and hard. You’re sinking into the night, but instead of a starless void like the dream, it is a galaxy under placid waves. Quiet, and strength. So much strength—raw power. Heat. A lava flow beneath, diamond netting glittering above, reflecting the hot glow below. 

You are pure energy—there are no borders, no limits, no restraints. None, except a chain leading from him, stretched taut, anchored in you.

The longer your energy flows into him, and his flows into you, the borders between you and him blur, melt. You are him, and he is you. You can’t tell if this overflowing sense of safety, of want—this yearning threaded with adoration—is yours or his. You are strength incarnate—you can dissolve matter with your mind, disassemble and reassemble atoms, all the constituent parts of a thing, a person. If you were to punch someone right now, they would implode from the force, a collapsing star.

You are aware of all this, faintly. The power of your evol—of Sylus’s evol, your evol, borders rendered meaningless, what’s his is yours, what’s yours is his—-it’s drowned out by the power of hunger, of missing him when he’s right in front of you, an instinct demanding that you grasp him and never let him separate from you again, to taste him, lick and bite, swallow, over and over again, a snake devouring itself, an endless loop of desire mirrored. You are together, scarlet, you are together, ink, particle and wave, solid and liquid—you are not you, he is not him, there is only…

His hand, swallowing yours. A chain anchored in both directions. You are no longer falling. You are no longer hitting the ground. You are no longer the only one left. The emptiness inside you, filled. 

Sylus’s hand. Sylus’s heartbeat. Your heartbeat. Your hand in his. The energy sloshing between you, overflowing—you can teleport. You cling to his neck, hold his hand tighter, and you both dissolve into scarlet-ink mist, swirling up, spilling across his ceiling. The opposite of falling. You feel laughter bubbling up in you, amusement—is it yours? The glee of playful weightlessness? Or his, at your antics with his power? His affectionate indulgence as he waits to see what you’ll do next. You teleport out of his room, bouncing from ceiling to floor—you knock over some edgy modern sculpture. It rolls off a table lining the hallway wall and shatters on the ground—your guilt morphs into more laughter, his again. How could he be mad at you as you ricochet through his home, your home—pick another sculpture to replace it, something you like, this time. You continue, ping ponging through his hallways, destroying more things as you go. Slowly, you get the hang of it, and then you’re a bullet, whooshing through his base until you’re in the greenhouse again. You want to go in, you want to re-materialize on the garden fuck-bed, hand still clasping his, arm still around his neck, but you’re worried you’ll disturb the birds or hurt the plants. You swirl, slingshot back out of the mudroom. Mephisto has been following you, and he squawks in indignation as you rush past him.

You settle for returning to Sylus’s bedroom, where you feel less bad about knocking the pretentious books off his shelves in your reckless enjoyment of this unfiltered power. You re-materialize on his soft, black duvet, arm still wrapped around his neck, hand clasped in his. You’re breathless still, but from the laughter, the joy of reveling in how good it feels to not know where you end and he begins, to not feel so alone—not alone, with the one whose company you crave the most.

You hug him.

He’s silent, as the connection slowly fades, as you let the resonance dissipate. What’s left doesn’t feel empty. You can feel him still, somehow, even though you’re you again, and he is himself again.

You sigh. “Thank you.”

He slings an arm over your waist, as you each lie on your side facing each other.

“Can’t say that I was expecting you to ask to resonate this morning, but you’re very welcome,” he says, thumb soothing along the skin of your waist where your sleep shirt has ridden up.

You’re overcome with relief. You had been so afraid to resonate with him again. The first time had been so overwhelming—no longer hating him, after you learned that he hadn’t killed your family. But still caught in a whirlwind of fear, fascination, trauma. The way he danced with you, the way he handled your panic attack—the only reasons you were able to resonate with him at all so soon after he had treated you so cruelly. You have spent all the time since blocking out that feeling of intimate connection, of drowning yourself in him. It occurs to you that he’s never brought up resonating again, since those long days trying to force you, since you were able to do so once.

You wince. “I’m sorry that it was so abrupt.”

“I told you I don’t want apologies from you. Who said the surprise wasn't pleasant?”

“Okay. Good.” You fall silent, just enjoying his hand on you, the connection that still thrums between you.

But of course he won’t just let you get away with saying nothing about your demand that he resonate with you. “Care to share what brought on the sudden request?”

“Not really,” you mumble, curling in on yourself like a shrimp.

“Mmm,” he acknowledges. His hand slides down, over your hip, curls around the back of your thigh. He tugs a little, and the connection is still so strong that you can’t deny his desire to pull you closer, as if his desire is still yours, and yours, his. You let him pull your leg over his own thighs, and then he rolls. You find yourself lying on top of him, his bare skin under your cheek as it rests over his heart.

He places a palm on the back of your neck, just holding you against him, while hugging you with his other arm.“Were you having a nightmare?” he asks. 

You’ve never told anyone about the night terrors that have contributed so much to your inability to sleep since your family was killed. You feel like you’ve swallowed a knife.

“I woke up because you slapped me in the face as you flailed. I assume you were dreaming about something,” he murmurs, but tightens his hold as you stiffen. “You were making a noise like you were in pain. I didn’t like it.”

You can’t speak. There is a knife stuck in your throat.

“Were you dreaming that Mephisto was trying to steal your ruby earring?”

You jerk your head up and find that he’s staring down at you, his wide mouth lifted in a slight smile. The image of Mephisto trying to pluck your earring from your ear is so ridiculous that you choke a little laugh.

“No? Then perhaps you were dreaming that Luke and Kieran were trying to drag you to karaoke night. You were terrified that you wouldn’t be able to compete against my talent.”

This time you laugh out loud. He frowns a little, as if indignant that you would find the idea of his talent preposterous enough to break you out of your inability to speak.

“It’s not that funny,” he gripes. 

You smile at him. “No,” you manage to say. “I wasn’t dreaming about either of those things.”

“But you were dreaming,” he says softly.

This time, you’re able to nod.

“Were you dreaming about a wanderer attacking you?”

You shake your head.

He’s quiet for a moment. You’re expecting him to narrow it down, to figure out what could possibly cause you so much distress, but he surprises you by not prying further into the details of your nightmares. “Do you have dreams like this often?”

You’re even more surprised when you find yourself answering honestly. “Almost every time I fall asleep.”

He squeezes you tighter and sighs. “Thank you.” 

And then he just… leaves it. You’re so relieved, you just hug him back.

He makes a sound, deep in his throat, that almost sounds like a purr. You drift like that, letting the final remnants of the dream wash away in the scent of his skin, his steady breathing, the stillness of his quiet bedroom.

Eventually his purrs grow louder, more steady, and you realize that he has started to snore. You lift your head and stare into his face. He’s asleep again.

His face is so soft in sleep, you can’t look away. You prop your chin on your hands, folded over his chest, and just enjoy looking at him. His eyelashes sweeping over his pale cheek. The frown between his eyebrows smoothed. His soft lips parted slightly. The insistent rumbles of his snores.

You don’t want to go back to sleep, even though you’d be happy to lie here with him forever. Resonating with him drove the horror of the feelings from the dream away, but you’re not eager to return to the possibility of another nightmare. You slowly sit up, careful not to jostle him. His snoring hitches, stops. But he doesn’t stir.

You sit on the side of the bed and notice that your phone is on the nightstand, plugged in. He must have done it for you, after you fell asleep before the movie even started. You feel a little sad that you still don’t know what his favorite movie is, but soothe yourself with the thought that Sylus is right—you have all the time in the world now, for a little while, to discover as much as you can about him. To satisfy your dangerous curiosity.

As you’re gazing at the phone, you notice that it now has some kind of cute little ribbon on it, and what looks like a cat’s paw medallion at the end of the ribbon. It matches your favorite color, which is also the color of your phone case. It’s adorable, and you’re tempted to reach for your phone to examine it more closely, but you stop before you actually pick it up. Sylus told you that Jenna approved of your leave. She will tell the team about your absence. You’re not ready to read what “you” texted Zayne when Sylus asked for his approval in securing your convalescent leave. Not yet. You don’t want to think about the real world right now. You want to dive into this dream and stay underwater in it until the very last moment. Tara, Xavier, Rafayel—they can live without you. You are convinced that your presence is just a blip on the radar of your friends’ lives. They’ll hardly miss you at all.

You leave your phone on the nightstand, promising yourself that when you do have to pick it up again, you’ll look at the little cat’s paw Sylus clearly gifted you and thank him for it.

You’re a little disconcerted, with the sudden freedom and safety of all the time stretching in front of you, but with Sylus in the bed behind you. You don’t have to do this alone. He told you to assume that he wants to spend time with you. There’s no one else staying at the house, besides Luke and Kieran, as far as you can tell. You can just… live, for a little while. What did he say? Recover, not just survive.

A feeling fills you, but you don’t have a word for it. All you know is that it feels good. You don’t question it. Not right now.

The only question you want to ask is what do you want to do, right now? 

You pad quietly toward the bedroom door, but pause to pick up the books that you knocked off Sylus’s shelves as you teleported, scarlet and ink, sparking mist. You read the titles—they’re all philosophy, psychology. Books to understand the breadth of human existence, the human mind. As if the person collecting them had to start from the very basics to understand what makes people tick. When you pick up the Humanity and Conquer book, you hold it in your hands for a moment, just staring down at it. The ampersand is positioned in such a way that when you first saw the title, you thought it read “Human Anal Conquer,” because someone’s passion was obviously graphic design and some overworked editor clearly approved the cover without even looking at it. You would laugh at the absurd memory, but you don’t want to wake Sylus. You set the book gently back on the shelf and head to the kitchen. There’s no point getting properly dressed if it’s just you, the twins, and Mephisto here.

Speaking of Mephisto, you turn and find him flying quietly behind you as he follows you from Sylus’s bedroom.

The answer to the question of what do you want right now? Coffee. Even if it’s from a pretentious french press.

As you approach the kitchen, you hear the now-familiar voices of Luke and Kieran.

“Oh, that’s the best one so far.”

“Do you really think so? I fail to see marked improvement between this one and the others,” Kieran says mournfully as you stop in the kitchen doorway.

It must still be “early,” in terms of Sylus’s flip-flopped sleep cycle—outside the vast windows looking out over the bleak landscape leading down to the N109 Zone’s imposing city skyline, it does not appear to be night, but rather dusk. You wonder how early it is in terms of Sylus’s morning, if the twins are already awake.

There is a fire burning in the large fireplace on the far wall, and its wood smoke scent reminds you of your dream. Strangely, instead of upsetting you, you feel what can only be the connection to Sylus thrum again, and the memory feels distant already.

You focus on the music drifting through the room instead. Something old, and bluesy, trumpets and piano, a smoky jazz voice singing about lost love. Not the kind of music you’d assume twenty year old dudes would like. But then again, nothing about Sylus and his inner circle is what you would have expected when you looked up into his beautiful face with its cruel smirk for the first time.

Mephisto flies to a perch in the corner of the room and ruffles his feathers before settling.

“I totally think so, you’re getting better and better, man,” Luke says, clearly trying to encourage his dejected brother.

You take in the scene before you, which consists of a very large, professional-looking espresso machine now squatting on the huge, black-marble kitchen island, with Luke and Kieran sitting on black leather bar stools in front of it, surrounded by a bunch of wide-rimmed mugs, each filled with what smells like coffee.

You take a step closer and see that in each mug, the clear outline of a dick and accompanying balls has been drawn in the foam of a latte.

The twins’ heads jerk up in unison as you bark a laugh that sounds more like a seal than human.

“I see Sylus made good on his threat to get a fancy espresso machine,” you say, dabbing at the corner of your eyes because you’re trying so hard to contain more of your insane laughter.

“All thanks to you,” Luke grins. “As you can see, we’re making great use of it!” He proudly gestures towards the dick art Kieran has been making.

“I wouldn’t call it great, but it is certainly amusing,” Kieran sighs, idly stirring a little wooden stir stick in the latest latte dick.

“Did you make all of these?” you ask.

“No, Luke made a few too. Here—” Kieran carefully scoots a mug closer to you, and you gasp when you look down at the meticulous, gorgeous rendering of van Gogh’s Starry Night painting contained in it.

“Now you see how he’s patronizing me with praise for my sad little penises,” Kieran grumbles.

Luke pats his back, even as he puffs a little with pride at your clearly impressed reaction.

“Your penises are awesome, Kieran. You just need to keep practicing if you want them to be photo-realistic.”

You try really hard not to laugh at this strange, earnest back and forth about dick art, but it’s a losing battle. You laugh, softly, but then clear your throat at Kieran’s disappointed expression.

“You’re way better than I am probably. I’ve never made latte art before,” you try to comfort him instead of continuing to laugh at him.

“Luke has never made latte art before either, but look at what he’s already made!”

Luke just nudges him. “You’re a lot better than me at a lot of things. Just think of it as a… an incentive? to practice.”

Kieran smiles at him. “You really are reading your thesaurus.”

Luke nudges him again. “I told you!”

They smile stupidly at each other for a moment, and you’re suddenly struck with a sharp pain of missing Caleb. Although he wasn’t your real brother, his presence in your life, a constant sidekick until your ways parted, you to the Hunter Academy and him to flight school, was a source of comfort long after you grew apart. The shared history alone…

The twins seem to notice your staring, and Luke gestures as the espresso machine.

“You wanna try?”

You shake your head to clear the grief from your thoughts, and it works, a little. “Try?”

“Latte art! You should try to draw something too!”

You stare at him for a moment. Normally you’d be too pressed for time—getting to work, getting to bed, laundry, dishes, vegging out in front of a stupid series if you hadn’t overbooked your rare time off. But Sylus, despite the absurd way he went about it, has gifted you with precious time. You don’t have to be anywhere at all. You can just… be.

“Yeah,” you smile. I do.” Luke whoops and holds his hand up. You stare at it, confused.

“High five, high five, high five,” he chants.

You laugh and slap his hand, hard. 

“Yeah! Okay, okay, fist bump!” he holds out his big fist, but when you make one and reach out to bump his, he slides his under yours and makes a peace sign. “Snail!” he laughs, wiggling his fingers, and your fist combined with his two fingers really do look like a cute little snail. Well, big snail, considering the size of his fingers.

All you can do is laugh again. Kieran gestures you to come over and shows you how to use the fancy as fuck espresso machine that Sylus had overnighted to his place based on your flippant comment. You would marvel at the insanity that is your life right now, but you’re indulging. Like this strange feeling filling you, you don’t question it. 

You just pay close attention to Kieran’s instructions, make a respectable looking latte, and look pensively down into the finished product while clutching a stir stick.

What should you draw?

Your gaze drifts between the dick and balls and starry night, between vulgar and highbrow. You decide not to overthink it and begin by lowering the little pitcher, pouring the concentrated microfoam into the liquid’s surface.

Kieran and Luke’s chatter melts away as you focus on your latte art.

It’s meditative, drawing the stir stick through the thick foam, the curves and swirls following. You could make this your new hobby, you’re enjoying it so much. After a final pour and swirl, you sit back on your stool in satisfaction.

“Oh, you done?” Luke crowds one side of you, while Kieran leans over from your other side. They’re quiet as they observe your handiwork.

“Can you even tell what it is?” you laugh, because you think you did a decent job, but who knows if anyone else shares your vision?

“Hmm, it’s quite lovely, just the design itself. But … is it an orchid?” Kieran tilts his head, his dark curls cascading over his forehead.

“Or a leaf? Like a fancy leaf?” Luke asks, tilting his own head, the mirror of his brother.

You’re about to answer when you yelp instead as a solid warmth materializes at your back, big arms wrap around your waist, and a voice like melted chocolate dripping along your skin rumbles next to your ear. “It’s a vagina, children.”

Luke and Kieran don’t even react to Sylus’s sudden appearance between them, only tilting their heads in the opposite direction as they observe your latte art with new eyes.

“Ooooh, now I see it!” Luke lights up. “And that’s the clit there at the top!”

“Indeed Luke—that’s what made me think it was an orchid!” Kieran turns to you. “You could be the next Georgia O’Keefe!”

You laugh. “You couldn’t even tell what it was. I don’t think I’ll be the next anything, but it was really fun to make.” You turn your head to meet Sylus’s red gaze as he remains leaning over your shoulder, observing your latte. “What do you think?”

He lifts a dark silver eyebrow. “Why this particular design?”

You shrug. “Just trying to balance Kieran’s fleet of dicks with some female representation in your base. Your men could use a different perspective besides the reigning patriarchy.”

“Ooh, that gives me an idea,” Luke lifts a finger like he’s just had the biggest Eureka moment since the discovery of volume displacement and hurries back to the espresso machine.

Sylus continues staring at you. “I suppose I can’t lament your lack of maturity when you were motivated by such a concern for equality.”

“Oh, I definitely also just wanted to draw genitalia like Kieran, but we’re gonna have to drink enough dick with all these mugs. I figured a little variety was in order,” you grin at him.

“You will absolutely not be drinking more than two of these,” Sylus orders. “I didn’t invite you here to have a caffeine-induced heart attack. You may have some green tea after you slurp your pussy and suck down one of these cocks,” he says sternly, but somehow—maybe through the connection that still echoes through you from the resonance—you can tell he’s trying very, very hard not to laugh at his own wordplay. Even when making a joke, he’s smug as hell.

You lean forward so that your mouth is right by his ear and whisper, “You can’t tell me what to do.”

In utter fascination, you watch as he shivers from your breath in his ear, and you feel like the raw power of his evol is still running through you from the realization that you caused such a reaction in his big body.

He turns his head to meet your gaze, so close that his nose brushes yours, lovely eyes fixed on yours. He opens his mouth to respond when suddenly Luke lets out a triumphant cheer.

“In the words of my badass brother, ‘Behold!’” he crows, pushing his mug over to you, Sylus, and Kieran, who is still standing at your side.

You stare down into the cup—and burst out laughing like a hyena.

A very detailed, highly accurate clenched asshole stares back at you.

“But why, Luke?” Kieran cries in horror.

Luke just beams. “Now the… what is the word? trifecta? of naughty bits is complete, and this one’s gender neutral. Everyone has an asshole! We’re not misogynist pigs! Sylus is a feminist and Kieran just likes dicks,” he tells you earnestly, like it’s very important to him that you don’t get the wrong idea about the twins’ stance on gender equality.

Sylus just hangs his head, the soft sweep of his hair brushing your cheek. “Look at what you’ve encouraged in my men,” he grumbles. “Now we’ve got anuses.”

You lay your cheek on top of his head. “I walked in here and Kieran already had an armada of dicks. I didn’t do anything but add a little diversity. Not everything is about your dick, after all.” You can’t help yourself and run your hand through his hair, tracing the shell of his ear with a fingertip along the way. He shivers again.

“I’m having a hard time remembering that,” he says, so softly that you could be imagining it. Before you can think too hard about it, Sylus straightens up and reaches into his pocket, where his phone has begun to vibrate. He remains close as he accepts the call, one arm still wrapped around your waist.

“Speak,” he commands, sounding irritated.

You let your attention drift as he grunts in response to whomever is speaking. The fireplace, the soft lighting, the evening darkening into night outside, Luke and Kieran’s chatter as they begin drinking their creations, insisting that the decorated lattes taste better than lattes without art, the scent of coffee. It all blends together, and Sylus’s warmth at your back anchors you in it. 

“I specifically told you to handle as much as you could without my input. And yet, the very next day, you’re calling me with this mess.” Sylus says softly, menacingly.

You turn to watch his face. He meets your eyes as he listens for another moment, looking increasingly bored.

Which you’ve learned means that he’s having big feelings that he’s trying to mask.

You place your hands on his forearm, slipping them under the sleeve of his soft sweater, and run your palms up to his elbow, and down again. He closes his eyes and exhales a deep breath, his expression softening as he does so.

“Fine. But I’m not coming in person. They will have to accept a video conference. If this happens again, just eliminate whoever is giving you trouble.”

He listens again for a moment. “I don’t care if it ruins another pair of Bontonis. They’ll make more next season. I. Am. Unavailable.”

He ends the call with a jerk of his thumb and slides the phone back into his pocket. He looks at you, his face neutral.

“You will have to entertain yourself for a little while. Aidan has already encountered a problem that requires my personal attention. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

You let your hand fall back down to his wrist and squeeze it gently.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t move, but instead turns his wrist so that the soft underside is facing up, still held in the circle of your loose grip. He puts his other hand over yours. “Are you going to be okay?”

You smile at him, filled with that strange, unnamable feeling, filled with the bizarre conviction that you’re still connected with him somehow, because of the resonance earlier. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I told you. I can handle your big scary men, and your big scary house.” And you mean it. 

He smiles faintly in response and then leans down. You have the insane feeling that he’s going to kiss you goodbye, but before his nose brushes yours, he stops, a funny expression coming over his face. He lets go of your hand and straightens. You let your own hand fall. He stares at you for a second longer, and then spins on his heel and walks out of the kitchen.

That welcome, good feeling drains out of you as he leaves. In its place is… nothing. 

How ridiculous, that you’d think he was going to kiss you, when he has made no attempt to do so, despite all of his physical affection, up to this point.

You stare at the empty kitchen doorway, and that feeling of connection to him drains from you as well.

What’s left behind is… well, it’s what you usually feel like. Nothing has changed, really. Your echoing insides. The knowledge, deep in your bones, that the last of the people who had any understanding of you are dead. The only ones who could possibly love you for you, and not for what you could do for them. The ones who knew you before you became a killer, a sword in the Association’s arsenal.

Nothing has changed at all. It’s only in the comparison that your usual state of being hurts so keenly as you return to it. 

In this moment, staring at the empty kitchen doorway, you’re viciously reminded of why you’re so terrified of even considering the possibility that Sylus could ever care for you beyond an entertaining acquaintance. How will you ever be able to recover after having only a small taste of Sylus’s full attention, a feeling of connection to him through the resonance, when he grows bored and no longer looks at you like he looked at you before he leaned down and remembered whatever made him stop—whatever brought him back to his senses, and sent him ricocheting away from you.

You have always told yourself that you’re a survivor. You can survive anything. You lived, when you shouldn’t have, while Caleb died. And he was the strongest person you’ve ever known. If you can outlive him, even if you shouldn’t have, you can outlive anything.

You force yourself to focus on the emptiness ringing through you. The emptiness that you’ve carried for longer than you can remember your own life’s events. Whatever feeling you had upon waking in Sylus’s arms—whatever connection you imagined with Sylus after the resonance faded—it’s an illusion. What’s real is tolling inside of you right now. Echoing through the hollow halls of your mangled heart, the silent bell of your solitude.

This may be a nice dream to indulge in, but it’s just a dream.

You’ll outlive this too.

You turn away from the empty kitchen doorway. The twins are staring at you.

“I really thought boss would have more rizz than this,” Kieran says, bizarrely.

“He’s too cautious for his own good,” Luke murmurs, sounding sad.

You don’t want to know what they think they just saw. Maybe they’re bored too, and ship you with Sylus because it’s something to do. You wouldn’t be surprised if your pathetic crush on their boss is fodder for some bet, which is why they’re keen on trying to convince you he’s such a great guy. It has nothing to do with you, whether they like you or not, whether they think you’d be a good partner for their boss.

Everything hurts, and you want to run. The feeling that always comes after the self-recrimination is welling up in you. You want to slap yourself for reaching for Sylus this morning, forcing him to resonate with you after your stupid nightmare, letting him in. 

You make a fist and squeeze as hard as you can. Your nails are too short to do anything, even as your knuckles pop from the strain. It’s not breaking your promise to Sylus. It doesn’t hurt, not in comparison to what’s happening inside you right now. He told you to bring yourself to him when you feel like this, but he’s busy with … whatever it is that Sylus does.

“Hey, do you want to drink one of those lattes now?” Luke asks tentatively.

“Or tea? We can also make some tea, if you prefer,” Kieran asks hopefully.

You try really hard to make your face smile, but by the look on the twins’ faces, you probably just look horrifying.

“Thanks guys. I think I’m just gonna—” You actually don’t know what you’re going to do. But you’re going to get out of this room, to begin. “I’m just gonna go.” You turn.

“You’re not going to go, go, right? Like…” Luke pauses, looks a bit constipated. “You’re not gonna run half naked out of the house with no shoes on again, right?”

Kieran hangs his head. “What my brother means is, if you’d like to leave the base, please take the Phantom. It will respond to your face, so you don’t need to worry about a key. Luke and I will swing by and pick it up from your place another time.”

You stare at him. “What do you mean, it will respond to my face?”

He glances at Luke, and then back at you.

“Every room in this house and every vehicle in the garage is programmed to recognize your face and authorize your entry and use.”

“But why?”

He tilts his head. “Did Sylus not tell you?”

You shake your head.

“Because Sylus wanted it that way.”

“But why?” you ask again, completely confused.

“Why do you think?” Luke demands, but Kieran puts a hand on his arm.

“Why would someone give another full access to his valuables, his fortress, and his secrets?” Kieran asks instead of answering your question.

Yes, my beloved?

Words he’s never said to you.

When you wake up, you will remember this, if nothing else.

It’s just a dream within a dream.

You relive him leaning down, a kiss that never happened, him disappearing through the doorway. The twins are still staring at you.

“I’m not going to make you guys chase me down the road again. And I’m still sorry for that. I’m just going to find something to do until Sylus is done,” you reassure them, head too full, chest too empty.

You need to get out of this room and move your body.

You wave and leave them behind, surrounded by mugs full of delicious coffee.

You hear the quiet flap of wings. You don’t even have to turn around to know that Mephisto is following you. It’s fine. You think that you should wander around the grounds one of these early “mornings” before it’s full night and see if you can’t pick up some shiny pebbles to treat Mephisto with. But maybe Sylus’s bird is just as much of a snob as his owner, and he only accepts treats in the form of rubies, sapphires, diamonds.

You want to move your body, but your feet hurt. You have that jittery feeling, where you know you’re really hungry because you haven’t eaten anything, but the idea of eating makes you feel sick. You need to move, first. You remember that the twins had mentioned a pool. You turn to Mephisto.

“Hey buddy.” You hold up your fist, wondering if he’ll get the message.

He flies to you and lands on your wrist, cocking his head as if in inquiry.

“Can you show me where your daddy’s pool is?”

He squawks quietly, and it’s just as grating as when he squawks at full volume. It finally dawns on you that it sounds as if Sylus recorded his own voice making crow noises and set that as the bird’s voice module. It’s uncanny, and jarring, and you think the idea is kind of hilarious, no matter how unlikely.

Thankfully Mephisto can’t read your mind, because he does not squawk in indignation as he would if he knew what you were thinking. He just takes flight again and begins leading you to the part of the house that contains the promised indoor pool.

Finally, he stops and hovers outside a plain black door.

“Thank you,” you nod to him and throw open the door, ensuring that he can fly in after you before it swings shut again. He flies ahead as your breath catches, settling on one of his perches that Sylus must have placed in every single room of the house to accommodate his “not-a-pet,” clearly beloved pet.  

You’re hit with the smell of chlorine, and you inhale deeply because you’re a weirdo and have always enjoyed the smell of chlorinated pools. It’s warm, much warmer than the rest of the house. Instead of the modern decor and ubiquitous black and maroon of the rest of his house, and unlike the colorful, messy tiles of the greenhouse, you feel like you’ve walked into a zen garden. The soaring ceiling is glass, like the greenhouse, with the night sky spilling into the huge space. Pale stone lines the floors, pale wood panels the walls. At periodic intervals, shelves are bit into the walls, each hosting a meticulously cultivated bonsai plant of some kind. There are low cushioned chairs, white fabric and pale wood matching the walls, scattered throughout a sort of sitting area before the pool area begins. And of course, there’s a bar along one wall, the bottles glittering, reflecting the soft lighting built into the floors and lining each wall of the large space. You joke about Sylus’s tendency to drink, but the evidence of it in each room of his house is actually starting to worry you. You shake your head and continue into the room. The stones narrow to a path leading to the pool itself. On either side of the path, pebbles that you associate with zen gardens stretch to the walls, with large rocks—boulders, really, dotting each pebble bed here and there. Along the edge of the pool, the pale stone provides a generous walkway leading in both directions, each ending with a door—one glass, the other solid. Lounge chairs line the walkway. At a glance you can see that through the glass door is a sauna. On the far side of the pool, which is probably olympic sized, floor to ceiling windows provide yet another view of the barren landscape stretching beyond Sylus’s home. 

You walk to the edge of the pool and disturb the still water with a toe. Lighting from the bottom of the pool sends the reflections of the rippling water against the glass, giving the effect of looking at the N109 Zone from the bottom of the ocean, somehow enhancing the view. The water is deliciously warm, where you expected it to be cool. You don’t even want to think about the energy bill required to keep such a huge pool this warm.

The space is so peaceful, with such a sense of soaring space, you want to cry. The whole space is simple—-no recreation of natural waterfalls, no waterslides or multi-level bathing areas. Just a huge, beautiful pool, in a minimally designed space. But every placement of rock, every design choice feels deliberate, thoughtfully chosen. You can imagine that Sylus probably flew in some zen garden expert to personally create the space for him. You could live in just this room for the rest of your life and be happy.

The emptiness, your self-pitying wallowing, the humiliated feeling of having imagined that Sylus would kiss you only for him to get that look on his face like he tasted something bad—you shed it like a second skin. You shed it like you begin to shed your clothes, not thinking about anything else. Just slipping out of your sleep shorts, your sleep tank top, your underwear. You carefully unwrap the bandages from your feet and let them slither down on your pile of clothes. You turn, run a few steps in one direction, ignoring the sting, and then take a running leap into the pool.

Under the water, all is quiet. All is still. You draw your legs up to your chest, wrap your arms around them, and sink to the bottom. Everything else fades away. 

When you run out of breath, you send yourself soaring to the surface, your gasp and the lapping water echoing through the beautiful room. 

You begin to swim, enjoying the stretch of your body, your weightlessness. Time pulls taut, snaps, becomes meaningless, as you leisurely swim laps in this lovely, secluded pool.

***

Sylus is in a bad mood. The only reason he didn’t teleport through the phone to strangle the people Aidan was meeting with during the highly unwelcome phone call that interrupted his latte moment with you was your hand caressing his forearm. He felt the rage slam into him the moment he felt his phone vibrate, his impatience a living, choking thing. But when he felt your calloused fingers drifting along his skin, the rage, the impatience, simply dissipated. What was left was not even a relief—it was like such negative emotions were never there to begin with. He recognizes that your ability to do this to him—to alter his entire mood, to change his course of action without even trying, is a weakness. If you only knew how much power you already have over him. He sighs. He wants you to know, if that means you will never doubt again what you are to him. But he can tell you’re still too scared to fully consider the possibility.

Sylus is in a bad mood, because he knows that he should be in a great mood. All of his plans are in motion. First, he has an invitation to the birthday party of a daughter of a potential business ally that he desperately wants to secure. Second, Aidan will be handling his business moving forward, for the most part. Even aside from your calming touch, Sylus is able to forgive today, because it isn’t Aidan’s fault that the presumptuous fucks supplying him with a certain number of high-grade protocores felt entitled to a face-to-face with the boss. They will be punished for their impudence, in time. But only after he has secured the product. And finally, you’re here, in his home, touching him of your own volition. What else could he possibly want?

He had carried you to his bed after you fell asleep before the film even started, and slept better than he has in years. He can usually manage four, five hours a night, and even then, his sleep is restless. His body is always on alert, even in the safety of his stronghold. But with you breathing softly next to him… he slept like the dead. It’s a testament to how relaxed you already make him that you didn’t end up seriously injured after slapping him in the face while he was dead asleep—his subconscious must have recognized that you were not a threat. Anyone else may have ended up paralyzed, or worse, due to his tendency to reflexively lash out against unexpected physical touch. Like that one time with Kieran. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. He refuses to dwell on it further. It’s in the past, he tells himself. Kieran is fine. And so are you.

Except you aren’t, are you?

Another contributing factor to his shit mood—he didn’t realize you were having night terrors, despite all the time he has already spent at your side while you sleep. How he managed to overlook such an obvious thing when he was plotting how to help you with your insomnia is—frankly, it’s sloppy. He suspects that the dreams involve your family. That your night terrors are tied to your new fear of using firearms. But he could also tell from your face, drained of color when he asked you what you were dreaming about, that you weren’t ready to discuss it. He has learned his lesson well from trying to force resonance with you at the beginning. He will not push you any further than absolutely necessary to get what he wants. You’re here now, in his house. He has the time to draw your fears, your nightmares out of you—to lance the wound and let it drain. 

And yet another reason for Sylus to be in a fantastic mood—even though he regrets the circumstances leading to it, you finally asked him to resonate with you for the first time since the auction. Feeling you filling him, feeling himself fill you. Watching you playfully test out his powers as your own. The joy you felt as you got the hang of it. The rush of being folded so tightly into you as you both were energy, sparking mist careening through the halls of his home. It took a huge amount of self control not to let his true feelings flood into you as the boundaries between himself and you melted in the resonance. You’re not ready yet. But when you are ready, when he can finally resonate with you after you know the truth of his feelings for you, he intends to flood you with them, to drown you so thoroughly in his devotion to you that you will never doubt him or his feelings for you ever again. 

But then he fell back asleep. He was sulking after waking up and finding you gone, irritated at being forced to come looking for you when you should have been right there for him to roll over on top of, to breathe in, to greet the new night with, only to discover you bonding with Kieran and Luke over obscene lattes. Just when he thinks his delight with you has reached its ceiling, you do something new, so effortlessly, and he finds himself floored again. His capacity for pleasure expands beyond what he could have ever imagined. Each new encounter with you is slowly teaching him that with you, there is no limit to how much joy he can experience.

But then the phone call. He was eagerly looking forward to having an uninterrupted day full of just his beloved. He didn’t even have any plans—no dates, no distractions. He wanted to follow you around, even if such wandering ended in simply sitting with you while you read a book. No music, no phone, no games, no diversions necessary, if he could just touch you while you turned the pages. In fact, he’d love it if you read to him. Your voice does things to him that no music can ever truly achieve. Pure, unadulterated peace, hearing you talk. He taps his temple. Well, except when you’re whispering You can’t tell me what to do in his ear. He groans. Oh, he might not be able to tell you what to do, but you can make him do whatever you want. 

Fuck, just thinking about it makes him… sloppy. So sloppy that he almost forgot himself as he was leaving you to go deal with his supplier mess. It felt more natural than breathing to lean down, offer you a kiss, take from you a kiss, feel his lips on yours in a swift moment of goodbye, a promise of soon, I’ll come back to you as quickly as possible.

What would you have done, if he hadn’t caught himself at the last moment, forced himself to straighten, to leave without taking what he has been craving in every free moment since your dream? Would you have welcomed him, as you did in the dream? Or would it set his progress back with you ten steps? Sylus isn’t accustomed to fear, but he fears returning to a place where you don’t reach out to him, stroke his hair, clasp his wrist, all without his bidding. He’s greedy, and he knows it. Now that you’re putting your hands on him, he never wants you to stop.

The dream. He shakes his head. Again, sloppy. He had intended to comfort you, not maul you, when he slipped into your mind as you slept. To say all the reassuring things he was too impatient to wait until you were awake for, and ask you to remember them so that you’d believe him when he said them again in the morning. A little trick. He’ll show you how to do it, when you learn that it’s one of many up his sleeve besides his ability to plumb the depths of a person’s soul for their deepest desires. He hadn’t planned to bait you into saying such sweet things to him. He hadn’t planned to be so overwhelmed hearing your true feelings about him, your true feelings that so closely mirror his own, his kindred spirit, his twin in a different, but no less meaningful way than Kieran and Luke are twins. Hearing you speak his own feelings, admitting you felt the same way, had broken his self control in a way that should be frightening. He marvels again at the irony. You’re so afraid of even considering the possibility that he could love you at all, let alone like this. When he’s the one should listen to Aidan and be afraid of everything you can already do to him if you so will it. 

He wants to kiss you again. His want is a living thing in his mouth. He can taste it, just as he can taste your tongue now, the memory more precious to him than all the protocores on the damn planet.

He will be patient. Until he’s sure that you’ll kiss him back in real life, just as you did in the dream.

He looks down at the bulge in his pants.

He will be patient, damn it.

He is in a shit mood, but now that the video conference is over, and his impudent supplier and his posse think they’ve managed to see the boss in deference to their power play, he intends to get in a better mood. There’s not a moment to waste. Well, at least, not any more moments to waste than those he lost this morning with you already.

Now, to find you. He hasn’t bothered to raise the screen back into the ceiling that he uses for video conferences and when he’s in the mood to catch up on the news in his office, so he pairs his phone with it and pulls up Mephisto’s app on his phone, tosses the phone on his desk. The screen flickers to life, and—he almost falls out of his chair.

You’re in the pool room. In the pool. You’re swimming leisurely, free style, your gorgeous, strong arms cutting through the water with knife-precision, your legs hardly making a splash as they propel you forward. Your glorious, exquisite, mind-breaking, naked ass on full display.

He covers his open mouth with his hand.

Sylus’s brain, with all of its clockwork finesse, perfectly calibrated to calculate every scenario and its multiple pathways to the next possibility, and the next after that, endlessly—its ability to conceive of multiverses, each playing out differently in parallel—his brain is overwhelmed, grinding to a complete halt in the face of your masterpiece of an ass and the question of Why aren’t you wearing a swimsuit when there are twenty swimsuits of various brands, designs and fabric sitting in the closet he made for you?

He can’t help himself. He stares at you, shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He needs to turn off this feed. He needs to turn off Mephisto. He hates that Mephisto is seeing what Sylus is seeing. Which is insane, because Mephisto is a mechanical bird and does not care that he is witnessing a wonder of the world right in Sylus’s pool. A wonder that neither he nor Sylus have permission to see. He shakes himself, steels his resolve, takes one last glance at the screen, at you, and reaches for his phone again.

Just as he’s picking it up, the door to his office bursts open and Luke and Kieran are huffing, panting, struggling to fit through the doorway first. 

“Not! This! Time!” Luke growls, ruthlessly trying to shove Kieran’s face back behind him, as Kieran attempts to sideswipe Luke’s legs from under him with a low kick.

“Boss’s office race game winner is ME!” Luke hops, avoiding the kick, and bodychecks Kieran into the other side of the door.

Sylus’s brain is still non-functioning, because instead of smoothly flicking the app off, he accidentally projects the sound along with the visuals on the screen.

The sound of splashing water is deafening, causing Luke and Kieran to both slap their hands over their ears, wincing, while also pulling their attention to the screen, where you’re still swimming ass-naked through the water. It takes a second, but once the images and sound register, they both whirl around, still squished in the doorway together, the breadth of their shoulders making the squeeze look painful.

“Boss, what the fuck?” Luke yells.

“Have you no shame, boss?” Kieran bellows at the same time.

Sylus curses, gives up trying to use the app, and snaps his fingers. The screen explodes in a mist of red and black which then dissolves into ashen mist.

Now that he doesn’t have to worry about Luke and Kieran being able to see you just as he saw you, he manages to flick the app off his phone screen. He stares down at his home screen, which is a picture of you asleep next to him, so achingly lovely it makes his heart jam every time he uses his phone. 

“Is it safe to turn around?” Luke yells again, causing Sylus to wince.

Sylus just puts his face on his desk.

He hears the rustling of the twins moving in the doorway, and then Kieran’s tentative voice. “It’s safe.”

And then… silence. Deafening silence.

Luke clears his throat. “Look. We, uh. Well, sometimes, when we really like someone… I think?—I mean, I don’t know if I’ve ever really liked, liked someone, you know, but I can imagine, maybe, that like, when we really like someone, we uh… spy on them like creeps with our mechanical crow?”

Kieran sighs. “No, Luke, what you said first is correct. What the fuck, boss?”

Sylus keeps his face planted in the desk. “It’s not what it looked like,” he groans.

“Well, what was it then? Because it sure as hell looked like you were using Mephisto to watch your hunter skinny dipping in the pool,” Luke scolds.

Sylus rolls his head so that he’s facing the twins, who both stand with their hands on their hips, looking at him with such disappointment he wonders if this is what having parents would be like.

“I didn’t realize what kitten was doing when I checked in with Mephisto. I was just about to turn off the feed when you two came bulldozing into my office.” 

“Oooh,” the twins say, in unison. Sylus has long been used to their uncanny mirroring.

He groans again. “Which, may I remind you, yet again—we’ve talked about the no-knocking issue. Now that we have a guest, you really have to remember to knock before you come in.”

They have the decency to look a little sheepish, even as they are clearly looking at him with suspicion.

“So you weren’t being an utter scumbag and getting your rocks off watching your hunter through Mephisto?” Luke asks.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Sylus growls. “I want kitten to know when I’m getting my fucking rocks off.”

“Eww, it’s like imagining our parents doing it,” Luke grimaces.

Kieran just winces, like the thought is unbearable.

Sylus stares at them. “Parents?”

Luke and Kieran look at each other, and then look back at Sylus. “Yeah?”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Well. You’re like. Work dad, right? And your hunter… they’re your chosen mate, right? So that makes them… also our parent,” Luke ticks off his points on his fingers, tilting his head in concentration.

Sylus can’t process this right now. He still has the image of your delicious ass in his head, and now he’s being confronted with sudden parenthood from his henchmen. Despite himself, however, he’s curious. “Would you be okay with… kitten. As… your parent?” He tries very hard to look bored. Why should he care if his employees approve of his beloved? Their opinion won’t change his feelings. They’re his henchmen, not his children. He suppresses a horrified shiver.

“Totally! They’re so fucking badass! And they’re hilarious!”

“And their willingness to play along with us, with the handcuffs and flare gun, with the latte art—I quite like them a lot. And watching them frustrate you, and throw duffel bags full of feathers at you, and shock you with their behavior in our pool, is amusing,” Kieran coughs, and then looks guilty for having admitted all that.

“Yeah, you could have chosen someone who just, totally sucks,” Luke adds. “But your hunter is fun!”

“Noted,” Sylus sniffs, ignoring the relief he is certainly not feeling because Luke and Kieran are his henchmen and not his kids. “We will never speak of this again.”

Luke and Kieran grin. “Sure, boss,” they chirp in unison.

“Was there a reason you steamrolled into my office in the first place?” Sylus ignores their obvious lie and changes the subject.

“Oh, not really. We just wanted to show you Kieran’s latest dick latte. The veins look great.”

Sylus rubs his temples. He has to install a new screen in his office because of his henchmen’s new hobby. A new hobby that they only have because of you, and your expression of interest in an espresso machine. If he wasn’t already aware of how much you’re changing his life, this would be another moment of epiphany.

“Take a picture, and I promise to look later. Right now I need to help kitten find the selection of swimsuits that are available.” Sylus is thrilled to have you swimming naked in his pool. In fact, he’d prefer it. But he wants you to have the option of a swimsuit. He suspects that you just didn’t realize that along with the rest of the things he has arranged to make your stay more comfortable, swimsuits are also among them.

***

You are weightless, and warm. Your arms and legs are growing pleasantly heavy, tired. Muscles well-used. You know that they’ll ache tomorrow—you’re not accustomed to swimming. Your workouts tend to be weightlifting, running. You used to run with Caleb, when you were still both living at your gran’s place. You take the memories and tuck them into a pocket. You don’t shove them down deep, but you don’t want to think about them right now. You don’t want to think about anything right now.

But now that you’ve worked out the anxious, jittery feeling from earlier, you’re really, really hungry. You wonder what time it is. If Sylus is done with his business. If he is, then you’d better figure out if there are any towels in here and get dressed before he comes looking for you. You finish your lap, hand touching the edge of the pool. You lift your head, preparing to haul yourself out of the water—and then squeal like a frightened rodent that’s just been stepped on. “The fuck, Sylus?”

Sylus is stretched out on one of the lounge chairs lining this side of the pool’s walkway. His chest is bare again—it looks like he’s wearing scarlet swim trunks. Two big, fluffy looking towels are on a low table next to him, along with a little bundle of dark fabric. Two cocktail glasses with little pink umbrellas sit next to the towels, along with a bowl full of… pastries? Croissants. Maybe cinnamon buns. Your mouth waters. His arms are folded behind his head, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s humming a little tunelessly, eyes closed like he’s on the verge of napping.

You sink back into the water until it’s up to your chin and just stare at him.

“Hello to you too, darling. Aren’t you getting hungry?” he asks, eyes still closed.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know that you’re probably hungry by now,” he smiles faintly.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Did he watch you swim? Does he think you’re ridiculous, skinny dipping in his big fancy pool, a feral, uncivilized guest? You hadn’t even thought about a swimsuit. You just wanted to move your body, under the silent water.

“And interrupt your obvious enjoyment of our pool? I’m not in a hurry.” 

“How did you know I was here?” you ask, but you know the answer. Like the swimsuit, you hadn’t even thought about Sylus being able to reach you through Mephisto, just as he explained to you that you could reach him through Mephisto. How could you have forgotten months of Sylus’s stalking you through his pet bird? You’ve been here one day, and despite everything, you’re already forgetting to be on your guard.

“Guess,” is all Sylus says.

You scowl at him, but he’s still not looking at you.

“Well? Hungry?”

At his amused words, your stomach growls loudly. The lapping of the water seems to cover it though, because he doesn’t react.

“May I use one of your towels?” you ask, trying to figure out how to get covered up as quickly as possible.

“That depends.”

“On?” You’re so not in the mood for one of his games, but he seems playful.

“Do you want to keep swimming after you eat?”

You stare at him.

“It’s not a trick question. You can do whatever you want. Are you done in the pool, or do you think maybe you’d like to check out the hot tub in the other room? Or use the sauna?”

“There’s a hot tub behind the solid door?” You promptly forget everything else. Drinking a fruity cocktail at what feels like ten in the morning, wolfing down some croissants, and soaking your pleasantly tired body in a hot tub? And since Sylus is wearing a swimsuit…

“Are you going to come, if I want to use the hot tub?”

“Why thank you for the kind invitation. I’d love to,” Sylus’s lips curl further.

“Okay, then I want to use the hot tub. But I’m starving.”

“Can’t have that,” he murmurs. He sits up, eyes still closed, and gingerly pats the side table. You realize that he wasn’t just resting his eyes. He’s respecting the fact that you’re not wearing any clothes.

You want to tell him that he can look all he wants. That out of everyone in the world, he is allowed.

His long fingers find the little puddle of dark fabric, and he tosses it to you. Despite his eyes being closed, it lands right in front of you.

“Neat trick,” you snark.

“Having good hearing helps,” he smirks.

“I wouldn’t know,” you mutter, suddenly painfully aware of your tinnitus ringing in your ears.

“Use me then, whenever you need a pair of ears.”

You stare at him for a moment, but he just serenely waits. You pull the fabric towards you, and it spills out over your hand and down your wrist. A swimsuit. In what appears to be your size.

“Is this some kind of hint? Can’t have your uncivilized guest wandering around buck naked, even if no one else is in the house?”

Sylus cocks his head. “I’m here. The twins are still here.”

You shrug, but realize he can’t see the gesture. “It’s just my body. It barely does what it’s supposed to do these days—I can’t imagine that seeing it is particularly interesting for anyone, let alone you or the twins.”

“Then your imagination is severely lacking.”

You snort. “You’re very good for my ego, insulting my imagination.”

“I would hope it’s good for your ego when I’m complimenting your gorgeous body.”

You pause. What? “There’s no need to mock me.”

“Who says I’m mocking you?”

You take the hint and pull the swimsuit onto your body. Unsurprisingly, it fits perfectly.

“There. You no longer have to shield your eyes from the horrors.” You drip your way to the table, grab the bowl of pastries and one of the cocktails, and then head to the solid door on one side of the pool. 

When you’re faced with the question of how to open the door with your hands full, the tendrils of Sylus’s evol twist around the handle and pull.

“Thank you,” you murmur, before your breath is taken by the sight before you. Where the pool room was a study in soaring, minimal elegance, this room is small. Still with the ubiquitous floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the grounds, but the space is intimate. Steam rises from a pool—not a mere hot tub, but a small pool—tiled in the same colorful tile as that in the greenhouse, with underwater benches circling the edges. Moss-covered stones are piled on one side of the pool and dotted around the small room, where there is space between the large pine trees ringing the pool. You catch a whiff of pine over the scent of chlorine. It’s like being in a sheltered mountain hot spring.

You turn to find Sylus right behind you, looking at you curiously, holding the towels under one arm and his cocktail in one hand.

“All of this luxury, and it belongs to just one man,” you sigh, grateful that you’re allowed access, tormented by the thought of the poverty you’ve seen in the N109 Zone, in Linkon City.

“Well, the twins too,” Sylus shrugs.

“Do you ever have time to spend in here? Or are all these amenities in your base just for show? To be able to say to yourself that you own this, too.”

“I’m about to use it right now. Does that not count?”

You shake your head. “You know what I mean.”

He places the towels and the cocktail on the soft moss next to the pool and turns to you.

“May I?” he holds out his hand, and you give him the bowl of pastries and your own drink. He sets them next to the towels. 

“Come,” he tells you, holding his hand out. You put your hand in his, and he steps into the water, pulling you with him. The water is deliciously hot. Sweat breaks out on your forehead after just a few moments. The water comes up to your waist if you stand, but you let yourself sink until it laps around your neck. Sylus, still with that faint smile, pulls you towards him as he sits on the built-in bench that rings the pool next to where he set the towels, drink, and food.

“It’s true that the more you have, the more you want. I am not immune to being greedy.” He picks up the conversation again as he guides you to him and settles you on his lap.

You can’t help yourself—you wrap your arms around his neck.

“So you’re saying you have all this for show. That you never use it. That it remains here, consuming all this energy to stay hot for an owner who will never come, while children are hungry on the streets.”

“Careful, your tender heart is exposed again, darling,” he murmurs, reaching over to the bowl of pastries, selecting what is definitely a gooey cinnamon roll, and bringing it to your lips. “Bite.”

You stare at him. “And if I don’t?”

“You’ll stay hungry like the children you’re worried about.”

You scowl at him. “How can you not care?”

“It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that some children will remain hungry, whether my hot tub is ready for my kitten when it wants a bath or not. Depriving myself of the pleasures of life does nothing to help them.”

“Your hot tub funds could go towards feeding them.”

“How do you know I don’t have separate funds that go towards feeding them?” He gazes steadily at you. “Bite.”

“Are you saying that you do use your money for good, as well as for personal pleasure?”

“I’m insulted that you think ‘good’ and ‘my personal pleasure’ are mutually exclusive. I derive pleasure from my philanthropic efforts.”

“What kind of efforts?”

He shrugs. “I don’t need to brag, sweetheart. Let’s just say that my interests in supporting the public welfare are varied and expensive, even with the tax write-off benefits. And yes, such interests do include funds that go towards improving the lives of children.”

You eye him, trying to gauge his sincerity.

“Are you satisfied? Will you stop thwarting my efforts to satiate your hunger now? Bite.”

You lean forward and take a big bite of the gooey, soft, delicious cinnamon roll. Your eyes roll back in your head and you can’t help the sound that comes out of your throat, it’s so good.

When you open your eyes again, Sylus is staring at you, the heat of the hot tub causing a luscious pink blush to rise in his pale cheeks, the tips of his ears.

“Again,” he says softly. 

You take another bite. He stares at you while you eat, instructing you to take another bite after each swallow of the pastry. When you’re done, he lifts his thumb which is covered in the glazed icing, sugar, and cinnamon.

“Lick,” he says, his voice low.

The heat of the water, the pleasant fatigue in your body, the calm you achieved while swimming in the quiet for so long, the reassurance that Sylus, for all his faults, also tries to do good in the world—you feel pliant, and willing to do anything he wants. You lean forward again, open your mouth, and wait. Your heart pounds..

His nostrils flare and then he’s slipping his thumb into your mouth. You close your lips around it, and tongue the sweetness from his skin. When there’s nothing left, you still your tongue and wait.

He bites his full bottom lip and a look of regret crosses his face as he slowly withdraws his thumb from your lips. He then runs it along the lip he just bit. He closes his eyes, breathes.

“Why do you think no one would find your body interesting?”

Through your pounding heart, you swallow and  try to look unaffected by what just happened, by what you can clearly feel as you rest on his lap through the thin fabric of his swimsuit. Because he is affected. His body is responding to you again. But for some reason, he wants to play the guessing game instead of… doing anything about it. You think about him leaning down, as if he’d kiss you. You think about him spinning on his heel and walking away instead. 

“It isn’t so much that it’s not enough to pique interest in anyone else. It’s simply that it’s not enough to retain that interest.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “How so?”

You try to look away, but he reaches up and catches your jaw, gently guiding you back to meet his eyes. You sigh. Might as well get it out in the open. “I tried to tell you, when you asked me to help you with dating. I’m the last person you should ask, because even though I have a lot of experience in romantic relationships, they’ve never ended well. I’ve been cheated on more than once. I’m not qualified to be your dating coach.”

His brow furrows as you say ‘a lot of experience,' like he’s sucked on a lemon, before it’s quickly replaced with his customary bored expression. “I’ll take my chances. All I need to know is what you like, and you are best qualified to do that.”

“Why does it matter what I like? What about your beloved?”

He sniffs dismissively. “Why are people so insistent that I repeat myself today?” But before you can ask him what he means, he asks, “What does your… mistakes having cheated on you have to do with you?” Now he looks aggressively bored.

“When it happens not once, or twice, but more than that, it’s pretty obvious that the common denominator is me. So maybe it’s not my body that’s the issue. Maybe it’s just… all of me, that can’t retain their interest, or at least their courtesy of ending things before they seek out someone else to satisfy them.”

“Or maybe the only thing wrong with you is your taste in partners.” His eyes glow in the soft light emanating from under the pool’s water. 

You look at him, this beautiful, dangerous, mercurial creature, your heart aching from how lovely he is, how far away he feels when all you would have to do to kiss him is lean forward, just a little bit, like taking a bite from the cinnamon roll. “Perhaps you’re right.”

His brow furrows. “If they cheated, then they were not for you. You were fated for another. And the one you’re fated for will never stray.”

You’re surprised. Sylus has never struck you as the type of person who would accept fate in determining his life and destiny—such a belief feels too passive for such a strong-willed man. “Do you actually believe in fate? In soulmates?”

He nods. “No matter how much I may resent the whims of fate, I do.”

His answer makes you unbearably sad. “What if you don’t like the one you’re destined to be with? And the person you have no choice in loving—if you’re destined for someone, then it doesn’t matter who they are, what makes them unique. It kind of… removes the idea that the person you love is special, that you chose them because they fit you so well.”

He runs a finger from your chin, up the line of your jaw, until he rests his palm against your cheek and smoothes his thumb along the corner of your eye. “On the contrary, I believe that my beloved is destined for me because they fit me so well—if they were not uniquely them, then they would not be my fate. I can assure you, I have very specific reasons for adoring my beloved. Even if fate gets everything else wrong, it has not failed me in this regard.”

Part of you is breaking at the clear adoration in his voice for his beloved, who can’t be you. 

The other part of you is treacherously whispering in his deep, decadent voice— Yes, beloved? Words you’ve never heard him say to you, but you can hear so clearly in your head.

“Tell me about your beloved,” you whisper.

He leans forward, runs his nose along yours. His tongue flicks out and you feel its warmth along the side of your mouth before withdrawing again.

“You had some sugar,” he says quietly in response to the confused look on your face.

The water laps the sides of the pool with each small movement of your bodies. The scent of pine, of chlorine, of sugar and cinnamon fill your senses. The world is dark outside the windows, but you can’t see anything beyond the panes because of the condensation drifting up the glass from the heat of the pool.

Your heart won’t survive this man. You want to be put out of your misery. You never want to wake up from this dream.

“Tell me about your beloved,” you ask again.

He runs the hand not holding your cheek along your waist, his fingertips trailing goosebumps despite the warmth of the water. “Do you really still not know, darling?”

You close your eyes. “Know what, Sy?”

“That you don’t need me to answer your question. You already know my beloved better than anyone else. But you’re too afraid to admit that you already know who they are. What they want. What would please them the most.”

“How could I possibly know all those things, when I don’t know who your beloved is?” Your thoughts drift to your nightmare. To the streetlamps, and the darkness. The temptation to step off the ledge. You’ve already lost so much. What happens if you accept what he’s been waiting for you to acknowledge for a while now, and you have a brief, supernova moment of happiness with him? And as with real supernovas, the flash will give way to an endless darkness, or worse, a black hole. In either case, you know that the darkness lasts so much longer than that brief, blinding light. What happens when the inevitable result of your terrible choices in partners is repeated, and you have to experience the memory of what it’s like to be briefly loved by him, in comparison to his absence once he grows bored?

“You’re breaking the rules again, darling.”

You open your eyes, and all you see is Sylus. “What rules?”

“You can lie to everyone else in your life, but you will not lie to me. If you can’t admit that you already know the answer to your question, then I’ll wait until you can.”

He too, has started to sweat in the heat of this quiet, almost unbearably warm space. You watch a drop of sweat form at his temple, make its meandering way down his sharp jaw. You can’t help yourself. You lean forward and catch it on the tip of your tongue. 

Salt. Sylus. 

He shudders underneath you.

“I will be patient,” he says, voice strained, as if he’s trying to convince you. Or himself.

“What happens if you get bored, waiting? What if I take too long?” Because you’re not ready. The fear is overwhelming. You gave in to your curiosity in the dream, and the fall would have killed you if Sylus hadn’t called you back to wakefulness.

“You have no idea how long I’ve already waited. In the end, there is only one answer to your question, and that will not change, whether you admit it out loud right now, or fifty years from now. If you must test me in order to believe me, then test me.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” you smile.

“My beloved never backs down from a challenge,” he doesn’t return your smile. He is watching you with such sincerity that it takes your breath away. “But I’d rather, this time, they simply take me at my word.”

“What happens when you tire of your beloved once you have them for a little while, and start to notice all their flaws?”

“I’ve already evaluated the jewel; I’m afraid this particular gem is flawless.”

You snort. “No one is without imperfections.”

“My beloved is not just anyone. They’re perfect to me.”

You’re reeling. You don’t dare believe him. He must be lying. You have no idea why he would lie about this, what he could possibly have to gain, but his honeyed words are too unbelievable. You? Flawless? Perfect in this extraordinary man’s eyes? The absurdity would make you laugh if you weren’t already breathless from the idea that he has meant you, you, you, this whole time. You, his beloved.

“You still haven’t answered my question. What happens when you get bored?”

“I won’t.”

“How can I trust that?”

He lifts a dark silver eyebrow. “Only one way to find out.”

Suddenly, it’s all too overwhelming. The heat of the water. The long, physically demanding swim in the pool earlier. The fact that the only thing you’ve had to eat in the last twenty-four hours is a cinnamon roll. You lean forward, bury your head in Sylus’s damp neck, manage to resist the urge to lick his sweat again.

“Please wait a little longer,” you whisper. You need more time. You need to go on those fake dates with him. You need to see how he treats wait staff at a restaurant when the order is wrong. You need to make more mistakes, like with Kieran and Luke on the roadside, and see what happens the more the reality of you chips away at the pedestal he has inexplicably put you on in his mind, if he’s telling the truth. The edge is already beckoning you. You can’t step over yet, you can’t. You can’t.

“Again, why must I repeat myself so much today?” he gripes. “I already told you, I will wait, for as long as it takes.” He wraps his arms around you and hugs you tightly.

You hug him back, dizzy. From the heat. From the whirlwind of the last forty-eight hours. From the fraying tether you have on reality, after such a short time living in his world of dreams. 

You stand at the ledge. You’re not ready to leap. But you’re leaning, leaning, closer than you’ve ever been. You just hope that when the inevitable happens—when you let yourself fall, Sylus will be there to catch you.

“I promise,” he says, as if he can read your mind. And he says he always keeps his promises.

This is what it feels like. Lured to the edge. Balancing on the cliff. You probably know how it ends, before you even realize it's beginning. But the knowing doesn't stop you from leaning, leaning, until the gravity of the inevitable pulls you down into the fall.

* * *

I said I felt like crawling into a hole for the next four years and then inflict almost 15k words on you dear readers, I'm sorry for never keeping my promises, I'm not Sylus😭. I hope you enjoyed, we're very close to an actual relationship and maybe some real life smooches. I have plans for Noah's return in the next part and some fun activities while MC gets to knows Sylus better and practices imagining what a commitment to the leader of Onychinus would look like, but who knows what will actually come out of my brain when I sit down to write again.

[peachylynnie]

you CANNOT tell me that xavier isn't the FREAKIEST male lead. YOU CANNOT.

[peachylynnie]

the cat butler

word count: 2.4k

synopsis: in which sylus is eager to please you, as always. but this time, as a cat butler.

contains: sylus x mc!reader (they're not dating, but sylus is down bad), references to the cat butler trailer, sylus with cat ears and a tail, suggestive themes, mentions of alcohol, cussing, making out, and stalking(?).

a/n: i wrote this after reading somewhere that the upcoming memory might be our first-ever kiss with sylus. so consider this a prediction of some sort (probably not gonna happen). also, sylus' cat ears suit him so well. do not plagiarize or copy my work. sylus would not endorse plagiarism. enjoy!

“my lady,” a rich yet sultry voice calls. you shift uncomfortably in your sleep, wanting to rest a bit more.  

“my lady,” the voice repeats firmly. still, you dismiss it by grumbling and refusing to open your eyes. 

“my lady.” huh, that's weird. why does that voice sound like…

“my lady.” sylus?!  you burst open your eyes upon recognizing who was calling you. though, not without a startled "oh, god" because sylus was mere inches from your face.  

immediately, you sit up, rubbing your eyes and trying to process what was happening. where were you? how long were you out for? and most importantly, why was sylus calling you "my lady?" not that you had any problem with it, but still. your eyes widen as you find yourself on a velvet sofa in a sleek lounge of some sort. extending your arms in front of you, you stare dumbfoundedly at the tight leather gloves enveloping your hands. confusedly, you look down as you pat your body. a silky red, a-line dress hugged your figure, and you couldn’t help but admire the strings of shimmering pearls that hung around your waist and neck.  

hoping for answers on how you got here and why you were dressed so nicely, you turn to look at sylus, who was kneeling on the ground next to the sofa to meet you at your eye level. you can’t stop the gasp that leaves your mouth. are those cat ears?!

nevermind the fact that sylus was dressed in a neat, scarlet tuxedo that matched the shade of your dress. nevermind the fact that he looked good in a tie—so good to the point you wanted to tug on it. nevermind the fact that he was wearing a clean pair of white gloves that outlined his fingers so nicely. what was with the cat ears?! and a tail, too?! 

"uhm" you start. "what’s with the…?" you point at his head, hoping that he would understand. you couldn’t care less about formulating proper sentences. right now, you wanted answers. where were you? why were you dressed so nicely? why the fuck is sylus wearing cat ears and a tail? and why did the caracal set suit him so well? 

sylus' crimson eyes move up cutely as if he was trying to see the ears for himself. then, they fall back down to you, but not without a chuckle. "they're cat ears, my lady," he answers teasingly. "isn't it obvious?" with that, the ears twitch excitedly. yup, you saw that right. they actually twitched. 

"holy shit," you mutter as you reach to stroke the ears. "can i?" 

sylus smirks as he gives you a single nod, closing his eyes to convey that you are more than welcome to touch him.  

the ears felt incredibly real. the fur was super soft, and you could feel the skin vibrating beneath your fingers. your eyes widen as you pinch the ears gently. they didn't just feel real. they are real. the sheer warmth you felt from touching the exposed skin in the ears told you so. fascinated, you move your fingers to the back of one of the ears to scratch at the fur. sylus purrs and leans into your scratches. you can’t help but giggle at the sight. "who's the kitten now, sylus?" you jest, lifting your free hand to scratch his other ear, causing the man to part his mouth and rest his head against your knee. fuck, your touches felt so good.  

wanting to get actual answers from him, you stop scratching and let your hands rest on your lap. before you can even speak, sylus hisses at the loss of your touch, his brows knitting and a scowl growing on his lips. he grabs both your hands and places them back on his ears. understanding his message, you continue your ministrations, trying to remember certain spots that cats tend to like. 

"as much as these ears suit you," you coo. "this is really weird. want to tell me what's going on, sylus?" you don't remember him contacting you for a new mission where cat props and formal wear would be involved. heck, you don't remember how you even got here. what exactly was going on?  

sylus sighs and raises his head back up before answering, "you purchased me, my lady." his amused gaze meets your bewildered one. “we signed a contract where i would be your cat butler as of today. perhaps you forgot because as soon as you signed the contract, you drank excessively from the bar over there," he juts his head towards the bar behind you. "then, you passed out." 

what in the actual fuck? did he say purchase? what contract? you don’t remember signing any contracts. and since when did you ever drink? no, this can’t be right. you don't even recall coming to this fancy place. let alone dressing up so nicely.  

"you're lying," you nervously say. "there's no one working at the bar, and i don't see any glasses either." for a moment, a look of pride flashes on sylus' face. you always were so observant. one of the many things he loved about you. if only you were more observant of his affection for you instead of being so oblivious all the time. "besides, what's with our outfits? i don't remember putting this on. let alone coming here..." 

sylus laughs endearingly. his signature, billionaire laugh that constantly stirs up butterflies within you. "trust me, my lady, you drank," he insists, grasping your wrist and pressing a fond kiss. flustered by his actions, you try to pull back, but sylus' grasp remains strong. his sharp gaze locks with yours as he continues. "the dress code here is formal. thus, our attire. you walked in looking like this. a wonderful choice, i must say. you look ravishing, and i am honored to have been sold to you because..." sylus leans in next to your face, his hot breath fanning your sensitive ears. "i wouldn't have anyone else as my master."  

you stand up immediately, uncontrollably blinking and blushing from what you just heard. unfortunately, you don’t realize that you are wearing heels, causing you to stumble backward. sylus swiftly stands up, pulling you to him with an arm around your waist, effectively and attractively saving you from your fall. you place both hands on his broad shoulders, trying to balance yourself and catch your breath. noticing that the two of you were basically conjoined by the groin, you avert your eyes away from him.  

"t-thanks," you stammer as you try to get some space by pushing at his shoulders. "you can let go of me now."  

sylus tilts his head, looking down at you mischievously and trying to meet your avoidant gaze. "is that a command, my lady?"  

puzzled by his question, you finally meet his eyes. sylus sighs a hum of satisfaction, relishing in your eye contact with him. "what do you mean command?" you ask. you were too occupied by sylus’ accusations of you drinking to fully capture his previous answers.  

"it's part of the contract you paid for. i am to obey your every command as your one and only cat butler." the man answers eagerly, as if what he had just said was completely normal. almost as if he was enjoying this.  

you blink once. then twice before asking, "i paid for this?" you did not like where this was going.  

"indeed, my lady. five million dollars to be exact. i am quite the expensive cat butler," sylus grins. normally, you would've found his grin cute. some fangs would peek out, and a slight dimple would show. moreover, he was wearing cat ears. which only added to his playful demeanor. but right now, you were mortified because FIVE MILLION DOLLARS?! WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THAT MUCH MONEY?!

"what?!" you struggle against his embrace. "what do you mean five million dollars? not even a rare protocore is worth that much!" you panic as you think about your savings. did you seriously spend all your savings on a cat butler contract and put yourself into years’ worth of debt? oh god, if so, you were fucked. say goodbye to all your years of hard work and saving. 

sylus frowns at your last statement. "are you not satisfied, my lady?"

with your jaw dropped, you look at the man towering over you as if he had said something, for lack of a better term, dumb. which he technically did because who would be satisfied after spending five million dollars on a cat butler contract?! (me). "yes?!” you say incredulously. “who in this situation would be satisfied?! you just told me that i blew all my savings and probably even more for a stupid contract!" 

sylus sighs, pinching his nose bridge with his free hand. while it was one thing to have something related to him get called stupid, it was another to see you so rattled. he had to ease your mind, knowing it would spiral if he didn't act soon. "now, now my lady. there is nothing stupid about this contract. you'd be surprised by the numerous benefits that come with it. which are but not limited to me obeying your every command." 

you don’t know which is worse. the head of onychinus telling you that you spent a sickening amount of money just to see him in a suit with cat features. or the head of onychinus telling you that you were actually benefiting from spending a sickening amount of money just to see him in a suit with cat features. as much as the idea of sylus following orders sounded like heaven, being broke in a matter of who knows how long, or in this case, little, and for a stupid reason at that, was not great. not great at all. your gaze shifts rapidly, distracted with coming up with a solution. "are there any refunds by chance?" you ask meekly. 

a dangerous look passes over sylus’ crimson eyes. with no ill intent, of course. he could never harbor any feelings of malice towards you. but the idea of you wanting a refund bothered him greatly. he was not going to let you get rid of him so easily. his arm around your waist tightens, bringing you even closer to him. lifting his free hand, sylus curls a finger under your chin, tilting your face upwards to meet his burning gaze. you shiver, forced to drown in his deep pools of rubies. feeling a rush of pleasure from finally having your attention on him, sylus moves his hand from your chin and reaches behind you to caress the blade of your shoulder. you can't help but shudder at the sudden intimacy. why did this dress have to expose your back? 

"even if my services were terrible," sylus doesn't cease his feather-like touches on your back, causing you to twitch and pant from sensitivity. "there are no refunds," he rasps as he traces a finger down your spine, prompting a whimper from you. enjoying the small yet addictive noises that leave your pretty lips, sylus smirks. yes, this was how it was supposed to be. you, in his embrace where only he could make you feel good and only he could hear your sweet, sweet sounds.  

"sylus..." you try your best not to moan. "s-stop it." you hide your face in sylus' chest, wanting to muffle your sounds and smother your embarrassment away. "i-i got it. no refunds."  

liking what he hears, sylus ceases his ministrations. he brings his hand back to your chin, gently pulling you away from his chest and slowly tilting your face so that you meet his gaze once more. "i'm glad you understand, my lady," sylus closes in on you, his lips millimeters apart from yours. "you won't be returning me anytime soon."  

sylus smashes his lips against yours, earning a moan from you. with the hand that was on your chin now cupping your face and the arm that was around your waist tightening some more, the two of you fall back onto the velvet couch. you gasp at the impact, causing sylus to slide his tongue in, capturing your own in a heated dance that he seemed intent on leading. you shakily wrap your arms around sylus' neck, trying to keep up with his relentless kisses. out of the corner of your eye, you see sylus' tail desperately swaying left and right. an idea flashes in your head. as sylus continues to swirl his tongue in your mouth, you raise your hand from his neck and gently tug at one of his cat ears. sylus jerks violently, mewling filthily into your mouth. taking that as a sign of encouragement, you continue playing with his ear, causing him to lose himself more and more in your lips, your scent, your everything. 

when the two of you grow in need of breaths, sylus pulls away, panting the same rhythm as you. you had no idea how gorgeous you looked right now. splayed out underneath him in tempting attire that was of his signature color. hair disheveled, cheeks rosy, lips swollen, eyes teary—god, you were going to be the death of him. tenderly moving a stray hair out of your face, the silver-haired man speaks.  

"so, what is your first command, my lady?"

extra:

you inhale sharply as you jolt out of bed. what the fuck was that?  you breathe rapidly as you take in your surroundings. sighing a breath of relief, you find yourself back in your room and your comfy pajamas. tiredly rubbing a hand over your face, you start to agonize over the fact that you dreamt about making out with sylus. not only that, you dreamt about making out with him in cat ears. why? you're not sure what this says about you as a person, let alone your growing attraction to him. did you have a thing for pet pla—you don't let yourself finish that last thought. ruffling your hair in frustration, you fall back onto your pillow, determined to recover from that dream. you decide that you are going to avoid sylus for a few days. 

shifting into a comfortable position, you shut your eyes and wait for sleep to find you, causing you to miss the mechanical crow with glowing red eyes flying away from your window and into the night. sylus, viewing the surveillance screen back at his grand residence, tilts his head in curiosity, a subtle smirk appearing on his lips.

 "what did you dream about, kitten?"

[peachylynnie]

No One But You

Food for the @pixelcafe-network

Sylus lay in a pool of his own blood, clutching the gunshot wound you had carved into his heart, muttering about betrayal and deceit in his final moments.

You rolled your eyes.

“Yesterday’s death was a hell of a lot more creative, Sylus.”

He sat up straight, scoffing. “Can’t help if the source material is unoriginal to start with. The best you could do was a gunshot wound today? Really?”

“That’s because I wasn’t trying to kill you, stupid.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And what do you call plowing a bullet through my chest?”

You crossed your arms. “I call that trying to shut you up. Although, I suppose that didn’t work so well either, because then you prattled on about what a traitor I was and how you never saw this coming. Which, in my humble opinion, was laying it on too thick. You always see everything coming, don’t act like a victim.”

He chuckled and with a snap of his fingers, any trace of his blood or his wound had vanished. “What can I say, I like theatrics.”

“And I like my bosses to be less dramatic and less alive.” 

He stood to meet your gaze, tsking at you as he tucked a finger under your chin. “Now, now, kitten. We’ve been having such a grand time together the last few months.”

You waved his hand away but he caught your wrist. You knew once he had you in his grasp, you weren’t getting out until he chose to let you go so you stopped resisting. He smirked, pleased at your submission.  

Sighing, you grumbled, “Sy- you’ve got a 1 o clock meeting and I’ve yet to thoroughly vet them, so eventually you’ll have to let me go.”

He yanked you closer to him. “I highly doubt my favorite assassin would forget to vet anybody. I’m sure you already had him in your sights long before I made the meeting, am I correct?”

You met his brazen gaze with a fierce look of your own. “I suppose now that you know all my secrets, I really will have to kill you.”

He chuckled and kissed your knuckles. “Looking forward to it.”

Asshole.

He knew that you knew you couldn’t kill him if you tried, because you’d already tried. Many, many times. 

You’d met him months back when you’d attempted to snipe him from a rooftop. You were the best in the assassination business, but something about this cheeky bastard who had the nerve to grin into your oculars right as you pulled the trigger had you feeling like an amateur again. And when he materialized beside you right after you’d supposedly shot him, offering employment rather than retaliation, you knew he wasn’t taking you seriously at all. How could the head of Onychinus allow an assassin to walk right into his headquarters, to eat and drink beside him, to sleep in the room next door, knowing he had a hefty bounty on his head that she intended to collect, and not bat an eye? He was some other beast entirely and you weren’t sure how to react.

Of course it made you feel valued to know that he only entrusted his most important missions to you -he’d say something along the lines of “there’s no one else who can do the job but you” and you’d roll your eyes but oblige him- but he must’ve still thought you were somewhat incompetent if he willingly allowed you to take a shot at trying to kill him everyday. And then there was the matter of his obvious flirting. 

The way he always had your favorite wine laid out for you after a mission -you weren’t sure who he’d tortured for this information- or the way he always made sure to take you on missions with him that involved dressing up so he could admire your figure -not like he wasn’t already admiring it on a daily basis in your usual getup- or even the way he purred his little pet names in your ear, pet names that he didn’t seem to give to anyone else but you. 

Some small part of you even wondered if maybe he loved you. But the rest of you knew that he probably didn’t even know what love was. The rest of you knew that he was probably toying with you. But what was he waiting for? For you to no longer be useful? For you to fall for him? For you to give up on killing him? What did he want? 

The man had the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen but you would never know what was going on behind them. 

And it killed you to admit that he was beautiful. Rule number one of assassination was to not get attached to your target, but here you were, toasting him over dinner every night, admiring the curve of his lips, admiring the broadness of his shoulders, admiring the way his fingers held a wine glass, like you hadn’t spent decades training to be the monster you were known to be, like you were just some school girl hanging onto some jock’s every word. 

He probably knew it too.

He liked to tease you; it was like his own personal form of entertainment. 

He liked to intertwine his fingers in between yours like you hadn’t just used those very same fingers to try and strangle him only moments before. He liked to tuck your hair behind your ear, pinch your sides, pin down your wrists, tilt up your chin, anything so he could touch you. He liked to murmur your name, your real name, the name you hadn’t been called in years, the name you weren’t sure how he’d uncovered, over and over like a prayer, until you had to excuse yourself from dinner because you weren’t used to the gentleness in his voice. And then he liked to repeat the cycle over and over again, until you weren’t sure how you felt anymore, until you weren’t sure who you were anymore. 

“Bastard.” You muttered under your breath.

“Trying to hurt my feelings?” Sylus snaked his arms around your waist. 

“It was never my intention to hurt you, dear Sylus, only kill you.” You responded innocently.

He chuckled, running his fingers through your hair. “That’s my girl.”

God, he couldn’t keep saying this shit to you.

“Not your girl, Sy.” You retorted, shaking him off of you.

“And why not? You could be.” His eyes gleamed mischievously.

In an instant you had a knife pinned to his throat. “Because of this. Because you’re nothing more to me than a target and I’m nothing more to you than a toy.”

He leaned in closer to you, allowing the metal to pierce his skin, drawing blood. “Well if it makes you feel better, there’s no one I’d rather have kill me  but you.”

You laughed at that, withdrawing your knife. “Should I feel honored? And how does one even respond to that- there’s no one I’d rather have toy with me but you? God, work on your lines Sylus, you’re so cliche. You have a 2 o clock meeting, so get to it.” You shoved him off of you.

Grinning, he sauntered off to his next meeting with you guarding his back like you always did. And when his 2 o clock tried to kill him, he kept that same stupid grin on his face as he watched you pin the man underneath you in a matter of seconds, cuffing his hands together so tightly they bruised. 

“Is it appropriate to say I’m feeling jealous right now, kitten?” He chuckled.

You scoffed. “No, Sylus, it is not.”

“And what if I said there’s no one I’d rather have pin me down than you?”

“Still not appropriate.”

The man underneath you groaned. “If you two are going to keep flirting or bickering or whatever this is, could you kill me already?”

You smacked his head with the butt of your gun. “Shut up, we’re trying to talk here.” 

“Feisty. I love it when you talk like that, kitten.” Sylus ran his hand through your hair, the way he always did, admiring the way the strands felt in between his fingers. 

“Funny, I love when you stop talking, Sy.”

The man squirmed beneath you again. “I’m serious, please just kill me already.”

“I said shut up, my god.” You tightened his cuffs. 

But this time the man was annoyed. “He’s toying with you, you’re toying with him, we get it already. A man like Sylus is never gonna truly love you so can you please quit flirting an ki-” 

You shot him in the head. “Did I not say to shut up?”

You had intended to keep him alive for information, but you had to admit his comment hit a little too close to home. You already knew Sylus was never going to love you, but was it that obvious to a random bystander? The thought pissed you off.

Sylus sighed. “And now I’m going to have to get the carpet cleaners in here.”

“You really should keep the company of quieter people.”

“And you should know when a man is baiting you.”

You scoffed, standing to leave. “And what’s that supposed to mean? I know when I’m being played, you do it all the time.”

“You’re so gullible sometimes, kitten. You’d really believe what a random hitman says?” He wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you closer, and tucked one hand underneath your chin, drawing your gaze to him. 

“I don’t believe what anyone says.”

“Yet you’d kill him for saying I could never love you? Interesting way of showing you don’t believe him.”

You glared at him, anger flaring in your gut. You attempted to wrench yourself away from him but he only pulled you tighter against him. “Sylus, let go already. Enough of this. I’m tired.” You snapped.

“Haven’t I already told you? There’s no one else for me but you.”

“Sylus, quit saying shit like that.” 

“Right, you don’t like when I talk. Well then, how about this?” In a matter of seconds, his lips had found their way to yours, molding his passion and persistence into you. 

You bit his lip in annoyance but it only fueled him more.

He chuckled against your mouth and claimed your tongue with his. His hands rested on the small of your back, possessively holding you in place against him. After properly swallowing down your moans and devouring all your desire, he finally pulled away to allow you some breath.

“Fine.” You whispered, still dizzy from his kiss. 

He smirked, nuzzling up against your ear, as he murmured, “Fine what?”

“Fine. There’s no one else for me but you. Happy?”

“Immensely.” 

He kissed you again and didn’t stop kissing you all night.

Taglist: @tbaluver

[peachylynnie]

The right hand, the left hand, the heart of Sylus Qin | ao3 | fanfic masterlist

Summary: Sylus meets with his legal counsel while the twins give you a tour of the base, you wake up from a dream, Sylus wastes some eggs, you attempt to get to know Sylus better, and you have your first 'date' with Sylus Qin. Part 16 of the Sylus series.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV, some Sylus POV They/them pronouns used to describe reader, meant as a placeholder for your preferred pronouns slow-burn friends-to-lovers This story contains: a lot of fluff and patient, tender Sylus, despite the following: MC questioning their sanity, MC with self-esteem issues, MC in the death-throes of fear-driven denial regarding the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Sylus has been interested in them this entire fucking time, Aidan antics, twin antics, a little self-induced MC angst, mentions of violence, profanity, alcohol use, discussions of gray morality

Sylus lets his bedroom door shut behind him, leaving you to dress, preparing to leave you in Luke and Kieran’s hands. His heart—so long an empty cavern, echoing the rapid-fire rhythm of its beat—clenches, jams. You’re just on the other side of the door, and you’re already too far.

The twins are leaning against the hallway wall on either side of the door. As he steps out, their heads snap up.

He pauses. “Show kitten around the base, wherever they want to go. Finish the tour with the guest wing.”

Kieran straightens. “Why the guest wing? Is your hunter not staying in your room?” He’s still hoarse from the previous night, and Sylus makes a mental note to get him some throat lozenges. It was your feral kitten who hurt him, after all, although it’s arguably also Kieran and Luke’s own fault for approaching a seasoned warrior in a notoriously dangerous area like a couple of serial killers. Which the twins are, but not in the typical sense of the term.

“Kitten hasn’t decided where to stay yet,” Sylus answers, secure in the knowledge that you will choose him. But he is serious about wanting to at least offer you the choice—of rooms. Because even if you choose another room to stay in, he intends to find his way there at the end of every day. You sleep much better when he’s around, after all. Even then, you’ll still have a choice—you can always try to kick him off the bed again. He’ll just sleep on the floor.

“Do you want us to fix that?” Luke asks hopefully. “We can flood that floor if you want. Whoops, all the rooms are out of order!” he feigns surprise, poorly. 

Sylus snorts. “I have a feeling that if you tried to flood only the one floor, the whole base will end up underwater.”

“Is that a no?” Luke looks disappointed.

“That’s a no,” Kieran answers for Sylus. “Understood. We’ll show them all the entertainment options we have to incentivize a long stay, before we show them the guest rooms.”

Sylus nods. “Call me, if it looks like kitten is getting overwhelmed. Their last stay here… had unintended consequences.” 

“Oh you mean when you starved them and forced them to resonate with you and threatened to leave them to die?” Luke asks, counting on his fingers and tilting his head.

Sylus sighs. “Yes, Luke. That’s what I mean.”

“Okay, then we’ll tell them all about how awesome you are so that they forget that you can also be a massive asshole,” Luke perks up.

Sylus just looks at him for a moment. Even with his aether core, it took him a while to get used to Luke’s particular brand of practical, blunt straightforwardness. So few people speak to Sylus with such raw honesty and fearlessness that spending time with Luke is always a refreshing palate cleanser after enduring meeting after meeting with intimidated, simpering fools who would turn around and slit Sylus’s throat if given half a chance. He tells himself that’s the only reason he tolerates such insubordination from this half of his right-hand man.

“Oh, that’s a sound plan Luke, well thought!” Kieran agrees, pleased with his other half. 

“Just give them the tour and keep them company until I’m done.” Sylus learned long ago that attempting to corral the twins’ machinations is usually fruitless, but clear instructions tend to keep the fallout from being too disastrous.

The young men nod in unison. Sylus considers continuing to take his sweet time to get to his office, just to further infuriate the undoubtedly seething Aidan who is waiting for him. But then he remembers the last time he had to wade through a bunch of barking human beings at one of Aidan’s munches. He sniffs. He’d much rather get business over with and get back to you as quickly as possible. If Sylus wasn’t already keenly aware of how much your presence in his life is already changing him, he’d realize it now as he swallows his pettiness and teleports to his office, instead of making Aidan wait out of principle.

As he re-materializes in his office, Aidan turns from looking at the wall where a majority of Aidan’s fountain pens have ended up embedded, forming the image of a large happy face.

“How surprising that you didn’t throw them in the pattern of a skull emoji—” Aidan begins, until black-red tendrils materialize around his ankles and sweep him off his feet. They hold him dangling, headfirst. He lets out a little delighted squeal that makes Sylus wince.

“If you’re trying to discourage my insubordination in front of your paramour that you’re undoubtedly about to ream me for, I’m afraid it’s having the opposite effect,” his legal counsel grins happily, wriggling against the evol restraints.

Sylus comes to a stop in front of him so that they’re face to upside-down face, his thumbs hooked casually in his sleep pants pockets.

“Oh, I am aware,”  he says in disgust. “But despite your interrupting a very pleasant moment with kitten, I feel that I owe you an apology for making you miss knitting club. So enjoy my mercy before we get down to business.”  

“And people say you’re a monster,” Aidan continues grinning dopily at him. 

“People are fools,” Sylus tsks. “Oh, before I forget. Speaking of interrupting my moment with kitten… they say that if you ever call them kitten again, they’ll tear out your tongue and make you eat it.”

Aidan’s eyebrows shoot up… or down, depending on your perspective. “They said that?”

Sylus considers lying, but he doesn’t want to mischaracterize you or your words to anyone. “Not the part about forcing you to eat it,” he admits. “But if kitten doesn’t, I’ll make you.”

Aidan just laughs. “I don’t believe your empty threats. My tongue’s too expensive for you to waste like that. Still… removing my tongue, huh,” he continues thoughtfully. “No wonder you’re so obsessed.”

Sylus turns, leisurely making his way to his desk as the evol tendrils bind Aidan’s wrists behind his back, jerk him upright, and then toss him onto one of the black leather couches in the office’s sitting area. They dissipate as Aidan snickers a little breathlessly.

“First the happy face. Now giving me a little treat instead of a lecture. I’ve never seen you in such a good mood.” Instead of sitting up like a proper employee showing deference to his employer, Aidan just stretches languidly across the couch and props his head up on a fist. “Although I’m still pissed that this is how you treat my pens,” he frowns, jerking his head back toward the impaled wall.

“I pay you enough to purchase all the pens you could ever want, plus the factory that makes them.” Sylus sits down at his desk, slouching behind the paperwork still strewn haphazardly over it that he abandoned after receiving the call from Luke informing him that you were running from him again.

“But what you do not pay me enough for is missing knitting club. The grandmas are going to give me hell the next time I go,” Aidan grumbles. 

“I’m sure you can handle it,” Sylus drawls. “Now, if you’re done whining, let’s get through this so that I can get back to kitten.”

Aidan lets out a dramatic sigh and sits up, as if the effort is utterly exhausting. “Have you had a chance to look at the latest draft?”

Sylus flicks the messy stack of papers with his fingers and they go sailing with his evol to Aidan’s lap. Aidan lifts one page, a look of disdain on his face as he holds it so that he can look at Sylus through the neat hole punctured in it as a result of Sylus’s boredom with the pen.

“That’s what I think of the latest draft,” Sylus says.

Aidan tsks. “Good, that was my feeling as well. But you didn’t have to mutilate the damn thing.” He gathers the pages, trying to put them in order. “After I’m finished reprinting it,” he sighs dramatically again. “I’ll redline it and get it to them this week.”

Sylus just nods, staring out into the night through his office’s wall of windows. It’s not too foggy, so the N109 Zone’s skyline glitters menacingly, an undersea predator luring prey in the dark.

“Next order of business: FJB group’s CEO is hounding me again to arrange a face-to-face with you. He’s getting… aggressive.”

“Hardly surprising, considering the type of entitled scumbag he is,” Sylus scoffs. “I’m not interested in his offer. Keep ignoring him.”

“Sylus, I don’t think he’s the type of guy who will simply get the hint and slink back to his hole. Doing nothing will only embolden him.”

“Embolden him to do what? If he doesn’t get the message and tries to approach you directly, just eliminate him. I do not have the patience right now to play games with him.” He has much more interesting things to focus on, now that you’re in his bed, in his home, just down the hall. And this time he’s certain you’re right down the hall, and not sprinting through the night like a panicked deer. A deer capable of taking down wolves, but still, a deer all the same.

“That’s a bad call, and you know it,” Aidan argues. “He is strong enough to have an exclusive grip on the flesh trade. If you remove him, ten other would-be heads of the hydra will sprout and it will destabilize the Zone.That means more collateral damage.”

“An exclusive grip that he has only because I allow it,” Sylus snorts. “And what, more collateral damage than the people he traffics?”

Aidan gapes at him. “What has gotten into you? This is the reality of humanity. People are not going to stop exploiting each other, no matter how much of an iron fist you wield. The only thing you can do is ensure that you think strategically enough to minimize the inevitable harm.”

Sylus frowns. That is indeed what he has always thought. The depravity of humanity is such that eradication of human suffering is impossible, and no one person can save the world. People can  hardly save themselves. Sylus himself has learned that lesson the hard way, over and over. It’s not his responsibility to save everyone. That is something that this version of you simply does not understand, and you’re vulnerable because of it. Someday, if Sylus doesn’t stop you, you’re going to get yourself killed because of your misguided sense of duty to strangers whose fate is being born to suffer. But knowing this version of you… thinking about how hard you take every loss, the way your already broken heart is chiseled further with every person you can’t save… his own assault rifle heart jams again. 

The CEO of the FJB Group is just the type of person Sylus thinks you’d like to bathe your feet in the blood of, even if you hate admitting that to yourself. Sylus would happily string him up, field dress him like the pathetic prey he is, and let his corpse drain for your bathing pleasure.

But since you’re still having a hard time admitting that yourself, he’s worried that if he does, you might get mad. And Aidan’s right. If he kills this fuck, ten others will try to claw their way up to take the empty throne.

“Noted. Just keep ignoring him. If he still won’t take no for an answer, let me know.” Aidan looks relieved, until he continues. “But I’m going to rely on you more for the next few weeks. Handle everything you can without bothering me, unless you want to contact me in a personal capacity. Things are settled enough after cleaning house—I want to focus on personal matters for the foreseeable future.”

Aidan jerks to his feet but takes a deep breath. He begins to pace, hands folded behind his back. Sylus appreciates his self control, as he knows that his litigator’s instinct is to immediately counter-argue his disagreement.

He stops, turns to Sylus, huffs.

“Speak,” Sylus orders, lifting an eyebrow. Seeing Aidan flustered is always amusing, but Sylus is impatient to get back to you. Maybe he’ll be done quick enough to take over the tour himself.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? The risks…” Aidan begins, uncharacteristically hesitant. 

“Whether it’s a good idea or not, it’s happening. The whole reason I’m here is finally in my bed. Everything else is secondary.”

Aidan looks pained. “I still don’t understand your single-minded fixation on this one person. This one person who happens to be a Deepspace Hunter, whose job mandate is to hunt you, in particular, and bring you down. There are literally thousands of other people in the world who would probably be thrilled to be in your bed. Why limit yourself to one, and to one who poses such a risk to everything you’ve built? To your very life?”

“Not all of us have such a low threshold for amusement that just anyone in their bed will do, like you,” Sylus clicks his tongue.

“It’s not about a low threshold of amusement. It’s being open to the possibility that each person you meet is a gift, containing an entire world, and the pleasure is opening the box to see what’s inside,” Aidan retorts, “You’re just a snob, and refuse to acknowledge that other people have rich inner lives, just like you do.”

“Save me your idealistic speeches about free love and the beauty of the human spirit. How you can come from where you’re from, handle the shit you handle in your line of work, openly acknowledge that humans are scum, and yet still enjoy them like little snowflake gift boxes, is simply beyond me.”

“I’m full of imagination,” Aidan sniffs.

‘You’re full of bullshit. You’re just easily bored and like to fuck,” Sylus baits him, knowing that Aidan is actually sincere.

“Excuse you!” Aidan does not disappoint. “How dare you—and what an accusation, coming from you, the man who can get bored in the middle of murdering someone. How do you even know that your obsession can retain your interest in the long run?” Aidan lobs back.

Sylus just smiles, with teeth. His fascination with you was already gigantic before he laid eyes on you again. It has only grown, the longer he gets to spend time with you. Your mix of strength and fragility. The unpredictability of your pleasure and your anxiety. Your blood thirst and your compassion. How can he ever get bored, when he has no idea what the next expression on your face will be? When he has no idea how you’ll manage to misinterpret the obviousness of his devotion to you, his endless patience, his worship?

“Oh god, never make that face again. I’m going to be sick. You’re so in love and I hate it,” Aidan gags exaggeratedly, like a cat hacking up a hairball.

“Then don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” Sylus advises.

Aidan hangs his head for a moment, hands on his hips. When he lifts it, he looks more serious than Sylus has seen him in awhile. “Joking aside, Sylus. How do you know that if things go south between you, the hunter won’t turn on you? This is a huge risk not only to you, but everyone you care about in this organization if you’re taken out.”

Sylus sits heavily back in his chair. He spins it a little, from side to side, as he thinks of how best to answer in a way that Aidan can understand. “I won’t let things go south between us. I will do whatever it takes to make my kitten happy, so that they’re never tempted to turn on me.”

“Even you can’t guarantee that. Love is messy, and it’s so close to hate. Especially when you begin that love with torturing them and using your evol on them without their permission,” Aidan says, wincing, as if he’s regretful about being so brutally honest.

“I have plans in place to protect the people who need protecting, in case I fuck up so badly that my beloved is driven to taking me out. And if it comes to that, I’ll deserve it,” Sylus sighs. He appreciates Aidan’s concern, but every minute he spends expressing that care is another minute that Sylus is kept from being near you. “Let me worry about the risks. Your job is to keep the empire running while I fortify the foundation that will prevent your worries from coming to pass.”

Aidan looks like he wants to say something else, but after a moment, his shoulders slump. “We just got you back. Don’t get yourself in trouble again. And of course. You don’t have to worry about the rest.” He straightens. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some puppy tails to pull.” He flicks a little wave in Sylus’s direction. “I’ll see myself out. Toodaloo!”

Just as he’s reaching the door, Sylus remembers the last thing he wanted to ask of his left hand man.

“Aidan.” Aidan jerks to a halt, and turns around, eyes narrowed, as if he can sense that whatever Sylus is about to ask will be a huge headache. “Set up a meeting with my architect, and get me a list of names.”

Aidan just stares at him for a beat. “Do I even want to know what type of names?”

“Experts in wildlife conservation. Particularly of the sealife variety.”

“You want a meeting with your architect and a sealife conservationist.” Aidan says flatly.

Sylus just stares at him.

“May I ask why?”

Sylus shows his teeth again. “I’ve been informed that the base needs an aquarium for orphaned and injured fish.”

Aidan gapes, but then rolls his eyes so hard that Sylus is worried they’ll get stuck. “I’m thrilled that your hunter makes you so happy. Really. Just thrilled. But I’m starting to get the feeling that they’ll also be the death of me, whether they take my tongue or not.” 

“Spare me your editorializing and just get it done,” Sylus forestalls further whining. He’s getting increasingly impatient to get back to you.

Aidan groans, because he views it as a moral imperative to always make sure that everyone within a five kilometer radius understands the terrible sacrifices he must make as Sylus’s lawyer. “Fine . You’ll have your list by the end of the week. But I’m leaving before you can transmit any more demands from your kitten.” He sweeps out of the room in a huff and the door slams behind him.

Sylus sits for a moment as the door swings shut. He takes Aidan’s concern seriously, but even his furiously spinning mind has a hard time planning for a scenario where you turn on him. Not in this life, at least. He doesn’t want to dwell on the past when the current you, so utterly sweet, so pliant in his arms, all of your spikes withdrawn for him and him alone, is walking around in his lair, with no plans to leave for the foreseeable future. He wants to rest too, while you’re here. He doesn’t want to think about the past, or a future he has yet to secure. He simply wants to be with you.

He doesn’t want to waste another minute. He stands and heads to the door.

* * *

You wake up.

All at once, on a gasp. Your heart is pounding. You’re aching, aching, because you just woke up from a dream you can’t remember and the only things that remain are the feeling of pleasure, of security, of desire reciprocated.

You lie there, eyes still closed, hoping that you’ll be able to re-access the dream—maybe if you can fall back asleep quickly enough, you can pick up the severed thread again, return to whatever was giving you that feeling of a feast when you’re famished, a waterfall when you thirst, the weight of another’s body on you, in you, filling you so completely it eclipses that constant emptiness you carry with you through all of your days.

But despite all of your yearning, all of your effort, you can’t return to whatever you were dreaming about. Only that feeling remains—safety. The certainty that you’re utterly cherished. That all of your worries from last night were simply little nightmares, extinguished upon your waking.

You remember where you are. Who you’re staying with. Who you were anguished about as you imagined him taking another to his bed. It all seems so silly now—you talking yourself into being sad, with no reason at all to believe that he would do so, when you’re the one he has invited into his home, you’re the one he wraps himself around at every opportunity, you’re the one who he insists he wants in his bed.

What a strange sense of double vision, or cognitive dissonance. Wishful thinking. Delusional fantasy. You know that there was a reason you were worried that Sylus would be seeing other people while you stay with him. But you’re now utterly convinced that such a worry is completely unfounded, so absurd as to make you laugh out loud. But you have no idea why you have this certainty now. It feels like someone reached inside your brain and flipped a switch, and though there was a logical reason to worry, you can no longer bring yourself to believe that Sylus would ever want another in his bed.

You feel insane.

You open your eyes, expecting to see the white canopy of the swinging garden fuck-bed above you, but you see the black, ornately carved ceiling of Sylus’s bedroom instead. You are certain you fell asleep in the greenhouse. How the hell did you wind up back in Sylus’s bed? The feeling of unreality intensifies.

You turn your head and feel an immediate sense of calm wash over you as you see Sylus sitting next to you, his glorious chest no longer bare, but clothed in a simple black sweater, his gold-rimmed reading glasses perched on his sexy hooked nose. He has his tablet in one hand. He looks down at you, one corner of his mouth lifted, and you have the most intense sensation that you know what his lips feel like. That you could map his tongue, recognize it by the feel of it in your mouth if you were blindfolded, its heft and insistence between your lips.

You feel insane.

“Finally awake, kitten?” he asks, nonchalantly. He reaches down and brushes his fingertips along your cheek.

“How did I get here?” you ask, trying desperately to push the feeling of being pressed beneath his beautiful body into something soft out of your mind. Of soft silver fur under your hands. His voice— Yes, Beloved?

“The better question is why weren’t you here to begin with?” he snorts softly.

“What?”

He continues to look at you with that amused, barely-there smile. “Not fully awake, huh. Why did you go to the greenhouse when you were tired, when you had assured me that you would stay in my bedroom while you're here?”

You look away, back to his ceiling. The elaborate moulding is as extra as the rest of his place, but it’s so beautiful, you can hardly fault him for his preference for lovely things. If you can afford it, why not surround yourself with beauty? You just wish it wasn’t such an oppressive black. But it belongs to Sylus—he chose it, so you think you could tolerate it forever, given the whisper of a chance.

You don’t want to answer his question. But that sense of security, assurance, safety , remains with you, even as you fail to comprehend where the fuck it could have come from. You feel brave enough to ask the question that was torturing you before you fell asleep. “Can you give me plenty of advance warning if you’re going to invite someone over for…” you hesitate, trying to think of a more mature way of saying “sexy fucking fun times.” Nothing comes. “For fucking? I don’t want to get in the way,” you finish, lamely. But the thought of him actually wanting to fuck anyone else strikes you as so absurd that it doesn’t even hurt to say it out loud. You don’t think you even need to ask this question anymore, because you already know the answer.

But that’s insane. And you’re a lot of fucking things, but you think you’re pretty well-grounded in reality. You’re hyper-aware of reality—the reality of being you, with all of your flaws, your broken pieces barely held together, which is part of your whole goddamn problem. If you were oblivious to your own weaknesses, to the reality of living in such a cruel world while being a walking open wound, you could strut around like a mediocre white man and feel entitled to everything, including Sylus’s exclusive affection.

“Is that why you snuck off to the greenhouse, instead of coming to nap in my bed like we agreed?” He sets his tablet aside. 

“I never agreed,” you mumble, thinking about how he had said that if you found a room you liked better, you had a choice of where to stay. That conversation was left open-ended. There was never a deal.

“A technicality,” he dismisses your protest. “Unless you found a room that you like better?” he asks archly, setting his glasses on top of the tablet and leaning down, running his nose along your cheek. 

Nothing has changed. No room, not even the greenhouse with its life and relief from the oppressive marble halls of his base, is more appealing than any room where Sylus is. You shake your head, and his lips brush the edge of your mouth.

“But you were worried about me bringing other people to my bed, even though I have everything I want right here already,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes against the onslaught of sensations—his warmth, his scent, the feel of his skin on yours. You don’t want to admit it, but now that your bizarre certainty has been confirmed, it feels silly to pretend otherwise. “Yeah. I didn’t want to… I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“So that’s the reason you ran, again?” he asks, sinking lower, getting comfortable on his side facing you.

You just nod instead of answering, and it’s not because you want to feel his lips on your skin again.

“Come to me next time, when you’re worried about something like that,” he demands, but it feels like a plea.

That sense of safety is filling you, making you brave. You want to bottle it so that you can drink it every time you feel insecure in the future, despite how nuts it’s making you feel. “Okay,” you agree quietly.

“Thank you, darling,” he smiles fully, and it’s so soft, you could die.

But hearing him say “darling” is like a gunshot next to your ear while you’re sleeping—you’re slammed into another reality, the sensation of Sylus’s hands on you, gripping your waist—his heavy body pressing yours into warm sand, sucking on his tongue, reveling in the feeling of a part of him filling you up—

You can’t. You can’t. You’re delusional, no matter how real the memory feels.

“Darling,” you choke, trying so hard to sound unaffected. “That’s new.”

“Do you dislike it?” he asks, brushing some hair from your cheek, resting his hand on the side of your head, thumb drifting along the line of your jaw.

You love it. You want him to repeat it, over and over, until you forget your own name. “I suppose it’s better than ‘kitten,’” you grumble.

“But I thought that you were okay with being called kitten, as long as it was me doing the calling,” he teases. 

You scowl at him.

“Then, darling,” he pauses dramatically, like the big drama queen he is. “Was the only reason you ran, again, because you were worried I wouldn’t warn you if I had a guest? Nothing else was distressing you?”

No matter how safe you feel, no matter how assured you are now that for as long as you’re in his home, he doesn’t want anyone else around but you—you can’t bring yourself to admit this to him. You can hardly admit it to yourself. Not wanting him to be with others implies a sense of ownership, and you know that he is not yours. In any way, shape, or form. How can you be possessive of something that doesn’t and never will belong to you? It does not matter how much even thinking that he doesn’t belong to you sends a feeling of wrongness through you that is almost physically painful.

You shake your head.

“No, nothing else was bothering you? Or no, I lose this round of the guessing game?” He watches you for a few moments, the movement of his thumb so soft against your skin. 

“I win,” you say, feeling wobbly, feeling safe, feeling unhinged, feeling invincible. He doesn’t belong to you, he wants you and only you, As if I would ever want anyone else in my bed, now that you’ve been in it. You can hear his voice in your head, saying things that you don’t dare dream of him saying. 

“Not ready yet, then,” he says, and it almost sounds sad. But his face doesn’t change. “Well, there will be other rounds of our game,” he says lightly, a clear transition. He’s letting it go, and you are relieved. “In that case, are you hungry?”

Hell, if you’re in the process of losing your mind, you might as well do it on a full stomach.

“I could eat a horse,” you answer, trying to match his light tone. 

“That can be arranged. But I’m rather attached to the ones in my stables, so we’ll have to outsource your request,” he says, one sharp canine peeking from behind his top lip.

“Sylus!” You’re horrified. “It’s just an expression.”

“I told you that you could have anything. You have only to ask,” he shrugs.

Now you’re horrified and curious. “Have you eaten horse before?” 

The canine gleams in the dim light of the lamp on his nightstand. “There are few things that I haven’t eaten, darling.” His hand moves from the side of your head, down, until he slips one long finger between your throat and his tie still secured there. He tugs, gently. You remember that you don’t have any of your own clothes, and you’re still wearing his. “There are places where eating horse is as customary as eating beef. But I never really cared for it.”

“That’s a relief, somehow,” you say, even though it’s ridiculous to mourn the horses that fed him, when you ate the steak he served you earlier with such enjoyment. It’s all cruel, in the end—the necessity of survival which depends on another’s suffering. Your heart hurts, so you reach up and rub it. His blood-bright eyes follow the movement of your hand.

“My tender-hearted kitten,” he whispers, with that same strange sad tone in his voice. “Sometimes we must do things to survive that deprive another of life. Do you also mourn the wanderers you have to kill?”

You look down at his strong throat, the pale, soft skin there. So thin, fragile, with his fast pulse beating beneath. “Sometimes, when they’re particularly beautiful. When it’s so obvious that they’re only following their nature, and that their violence isn’t a result of cruelty, like people. They’re just made that way.”

“So you don’t regret the people you have to kill?” 

You would like to lie, and say that you regret it deeply. That you’re as generous toward your fellow humans as you are toward wild beasts, to the beef on your plate. But you promised Sylus you’d be honest with him, if to no one else. You shake your head.

“Sometimes, the sense of satisfaction I get when I’m forced to put down someone I know who has done horrible things—” you whisper, closing your eyes. “It’s frightening.”

“Kindred spirits,” Sylus’s deep voice, the warmth of his breath, envelop you. 

Are you and he really so alike? You had snarled at him, when you first met him, that you and he were not the same, that you would never be the same. You had snarled it at yourself, as much as at him. You open your eyes, and his eyes are all you can see. He looks so happy, hearing you admit the worst of yourself. You realize that you hardly know anything about this man. His past. His family. What he was like as a child. His hobbies, if he even has any. All you know is that he is a killer, a businessman. And that he touches you with the tenderness of a man handling something priceless. That’s all. Yet here you are, his hands on you, still gently tugging on a tie wrapped around your throat. Here you are, so attached to him already that the thought of him bedding another feels like your aether core mutilated heart is shredding itself. How did this happen?

You want to know everything about him. You tell yourself that it’s not because you’re ravenous to unravel his mystery, to be sated from the knowing, and cherish him the more for it. You tell yourself that maybe, the more you learn, the more your heart will ease, and familiarity will breed contempt. Maybe you’ll be able to let him go when this is over, if you know all the ugly parts of him, all of his annoying traits like everyone has. You decide to ask him about when the fake dating will start, so that you’ll have an excuse to ask him to share as much as he’s willing about himself with you, as he practices sharing himself with his beloved.

As if I would ever want anyone else in my bed, now that you’ve been in it.

You shake your head. You’re not his beloved. Why wouldn’t he just tell you, if you were?

Would you have believed me, if I had told you that I wasn’t behind your family’s murder?

You close your eyes again. You feel insane.

I expect you to remember what you just said, when this is over.

You can’t. You can’t. If you’re wrong—

You open your eyes again. You’re here now. You’re here now, and he has the tail of the tie clasped softly in his palm, and he’s gently pulling it so that it tightens on your throat, a hair’s breadth, and then releases. It feels good. You want him to pull harder. You want to know everything about him, and forget everything else. You’re in a dream, and you don’t have to wake up yet. You’re not insane. It’s just the certainty one sometimes has in a dream—you know something to be true, even though you don’t know how you know. Sylus wants you, and only you with him right now. You’re going to indulge.

“To be clear, I don’t want you to serve me horse,” you tell him, pulling back a little so that the tie tightens against your throat again. He inhales sharply, but the corner of his mouth lifts.

“As you wish. Let’s go to the kitchen. You can choose something that you do want me to serve you.” He pulls a little harder on the tie and you let out a soft gasp.

You want him to curl it around his fist, pull you to him, devour you in a way you feel like you know, with a strange certainty, that he would. But you can’t tell him that. Not yet. If you’re wrong—

You open your eyes. Sylus’s face is flushed, his bright eyes narrowed on the tie, on your throat.

“I want to go to the kitchen, but I don’t have any of my own clothes,” you say softly, needing desperately to break this spell before you do something that you can’t take back. 

Sylus looks confused for a moment. “Do you need your own clothes?”

“Do you want me to walk around in your oversized clothes the whole time I’m here?”

“I wouldn’t mind at all, but I don’t need it. Did you not find anything to your liking from the selection of clothes in your size in the dressing room?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. “I know you’re spoiled, but I didn’t realize to this extent,” he says, not sounding displeased at all.

“What clothes?”

Something in Sylus’s face changes. “Did you not… explore the dressing room?”

You shake your head. “Mephisto was watching me, and I didn’t want to upset him by touching anything I shouldn’t,” you shrug. “So I just grabbed what I could see.”

Sylus laughs softly. “Why would Mephisto get upset by you touching anything in this house?”

“Because it’s your house, and I’m an interloper, and he squawked at me when he saw me touching your ties.”

“And yet you’re wearing one.” His eyes flick down to your neck again.

“Okay, so I was being petty after he squawked.”

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. “So you thought I didn’t arrange for you to have clothes you’d be comfortable in. And you thought that Mephisto was… surveilling you.”

You’re confused. “Um, is that not the case? And then you sent the twins to show me around to make sure I don’t go anywhere I’m not supposed to.” At his pained look, you rush on. “I get it. You probably have a lot of valuable stuff in here, and just the intel about the layout of your base is probably even more valuable.”

Sylus sighs and drops his hand. “Do you trust me?”

You stare at him. Do you trust him? You let your eyes drift from his beautiful eyes, to his regal nose. His soft silver hair sweeping messily over his forehead. Would you be here, lying in his bed in his criminal headquarters at the pinnacle of the N109 Zone, if you didn’t trust him? He apologized for hurting you when you first met, and promised never to do so again. He’s been nothing but kind to you since those first long days with him. He’s promised never to use his evol on you without your permission. He said that once given, he never breaks a promise. And you believe him. Of course you trust him.

“Yeah, Sylus, I trust you,” you say softly.

“Okay,” he says, sitting up, pulling the tie gently with him so that you come too. You sit, legs tucked under yourself, as Sylus sits on his own knees, and very gently begins to untie the tie. The silk whispers along your skin as it falls away from your throat. He then lifts it slowly, watching your reaction. But you just sit still, letting him sweep it across your eyes as he blindfolds you, securing it at the back of your head. It’s comfortable.

You feel him take your wrist and tug softly, and you go with him. Your feet hit the soft rug, and you follow where he leads, enjoying the warmth of his calloused hand on your wrist, enjoying the mystery of where he’s leading you.

After an unexpectedly short amount of time, he stops. You feel cold as the warmth of his body disappears, and you hear what sounds like doors opening, or cabinets. He returns to you, and his delicious scent fills your senses. He undoes the knot, and the tie falls away.

You’re in his dressing room, towards the back where you didn’t venture earlier. Door after closet door is open, and you see rack after rack, shelf after shelf—clothes that look like the ones you have at home. Athletic wear. Hoodies. Comfortable clothes you would wear on your days off. But also clothing that you don’t have in your own closet—formal wear. Club clothes. Expensive fabrics. Pair after pair of a variety of sneakers, boots, dress shoes.

“New rule. The next time you are faced with two possibilities—when you think that what you perceive could be negative, but could also be positive, try to consider that the positive is true,” he says gently, placing his big hands on your shoulders and leaning down a little to meet your gaze. “I had Luke and Kieran fetch some things from your home that I thought would make you feel at ease here. The earring. The plushie you hug the most often. Your phone charger. Your laptop is in my office. But I didn’t want them to go through all of your things, and they have no interest in invading your privacy. I was hoping you can make do with new clothing that I thought you’d like, as well as your own care products while you’re here. If you’re missing anything, just tell me, and I’ll arrange for it to be sent.”

As he speaks, you feel your eyes getting hot—in dawning horror, you realize that you’ve started to cry. Why the fuck are you crying? You don’t want him to see, but you’re helpless under his big hands keeping you grounded. You take a big, shuddering breath. All of this kindness hurts. But Sylus isn’t done hurting you.

“And Mephisto isn’t following you to surveil you. He’s programmed to greet you, and to follow you in case you need backup and company. If you don’t have your phone on you, you can still reach me, wherever you are in the house, through him. There’s also an app on your phone for you to change his settings if you want. If you don’t like his voice module, you can make him meow.” Sylus slowly pulls you to him, looking down into your face. He thumbs the tears from your cheeks, brings them to his mouth, and rubs the moisture across his bottom lip. He then pulls you closer, hugging you tightly to his chest. “And I sent Luke and Kieran with you to see the house because the last time you were here, you were really scared. Since I had to meet with Aidan, I didn't want you to be alone, but also didn’t want to force you to sit caged in my room until I could show you around.”

You press your face into his chest, breathing against his rapid heartbeat, feeling all the anxiety and sadness of the tour and return to the greenhouse draining out of your body.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your bowed head. “If you’re unsure of my intentions, even after all this—if you consider the positive possibility and can’t quite believe it, then just ask me,”  he says softly into your hair. “There’s no need to torture yourself with me.” He lifts your chin, and his barely there smile lifts his mouth. “That’s my job. And there will be no doubt when I actually intend to torment you.”

You smile through your stupid embarrassing tears, laugh a little wetly. “It’s true. Subtlety isn’t your strong suit.”

“You know that much, at least.”

“How could I miss it?” you ask.

“Good fucking question. How could you possibly miss so much?” he nudges your forehead with his forefinger.

You scowl at him. You feel light. And with the relief, comes the hunger. “Didn’t you promise to feed me? I’m starving,” you gripe, refusing to think about what else you’re missing. 

I can promise you that whomever you’re thinking my 'crush' is, it’s not the person you're thinking of.

The only way he could have promised that is if he knew that you’d never consider yourself a possibility.

And Sylus says he always keeps his promises.

“Well, I can’t let my spoiled kitten get any more hungry,” he interrupts your thoughts.

You shake your head. “It would be terrible if I end up having to eat you because I’m so hungry,” you tease, but he just lifts his eyebrows as if intrigued.

“Would it be so terrible though?” he asks. You pull back and gently push him toward the door.

“Go, make me something delicious while I get dressed,” you order him with a laugh.

“I see how it is— just a little reassurance, and suddenly you’re bold enough to give me orders." He tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his black, worn looking jeans. “Finally,” he says, looking incredibly satisfied, before disappearing in a whoosh of air, scarlet-ink mist, and feathers that float gently toward you before falling to the floor.

You turn, sighing happily at the sight of all of these new clothes stretching before you. You don’t deserve this. You’ve never been a big shopper. Budget too tight, too much ammo and manga to buy instead, when you practically live in your hunter uniform. But you spotted some yoga wear from a brand that is wildly expensive but makes the softest, best fitting shit you’ve ever put on your body. You shake yourself. Indulge. Indulge. Indulge. 

After you’ve checked your bandages and cleaned up a bit in the bathroom, you drift through the base and find Sylus in the kitchen, as promised. Soft lighting from floor lamps and recessed fixtures hold back the N109 Zone’s night stretching beyond the kitchen’s large windows. Soft classical music accompanies the sound of Sylus digging around in the huge fridges, the clatter of a pan placed on the gas burning stove.

“So you’ll be cooking personally for me today? Not your chef?”

“Not my chef,” Sylus confirms. “I’m the the chef today,” he smiles slightly. “Sit.” He points to the bar stool on the other side of the massive kitchen island.

“I can cook,” you protest. At Sylus’s doubtful look, you defend yourself. “It’s true. I can cook. Xavier loves it when I have the time and energy to make something and invite him over, because it’s fucking hard to cook for only one person,” you say mournfully, suddenly worried about how Xavier will feed himself while you’re not there to ensure he eats vegetables along with his ramen. But he survived long before he became your partner. He’s a big boy, you tell yourself. 

“Oh, I bet he does,” Sylus says under his breath. “And I am cooking because I thought you would want to give your abused feet a break.”

You squint at him. “They hurt, but they’re still functioning.”

“Again, just because they’re functioning doesn’t mean you have to use them more than necessary. And I believe you when you say you can cook. But do you actually like to cook? Or do you feel like you have to, because it’s cheaper than delivery?” Sylus asks, breaking an egg into a bowl. “While you’re here, I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t actively enjoy doing. You’re not here to survive. You’re here to recover.”

You’re so touched by his words that it takes a moment for you to get your mouth to answer him. Something’s wrong with your eyes again, and your throat is suddenly tight. You clear it. “Definitely the latter,” you admit, thinking of a million other things that you’d rather be doing than cooking yet another meal. You often wish you could just slurp all your nutrition from a pouch and be done with it. “But I do like baking. That doesn’t count as cooking, because the result is fun.” 

Sylus laughs softly. “Then when you feel up to it, you can teach me how to bake your favorite things, because that’s something I never really do. In the meantime, when chef isn’t here and whatever she’s left behind in the fridge for heating up isn’t to your taste, I’ll cook for you. Deal?”

You watch Sylus’s big hands gently crack more eggs, grind some salt and pepper in the mixture, fling a little bit of butter onto the now hot pan. You could get used to this beautiful creature preparing meals for you. And you could get used to baking delicious things, and feeding each bite to him by hand. You’re here now. You’re going to indulge. “Deal,” you smile. “But while you’re doing that, I need coffee. Can you point me in the direction of your coffee shit, coffee maker, and mugs?”

Sylus pauses. “I don’t have a coffee maker.”

You stare at him. “What do you mean you don’t have a coffee maker.”

“I mean, I have a french press. But I don’t have a drip coffee maker.”

You squint at him. “You have a fucking ice rink in your villain HQ, and you don’t have a coffee maker? You make your coffee, by hand, every morning? Do you also insist on hand grinding the beans with a mortar and pestle every time you want a cup? Are you as much of a coffee snob as a wine snob?”

“Aren’t you sharp-tongued for a kitten who is depending on me for its caffeine fix.” Sylus sounds infinitely amused.

“I’m just consistently in awe of all of this means you have at your disposal, and yet you do nothing with it. And I’m assuming that since you don’t have a normal coffee maker, you’re also too much of a snob to have one of those fancy as fuck espresso machines that can make whipped foam, along with an entire fleet of flavor syrups on tap.” As you talk, you become more distressed. “Oh my god, Sylus. You’re a hipster billionaire. You’re like, the worst of everything wrong with our capitalist society,” you say forlornly. Why can’t you be nuts about a normal man? What’s wrong with a guy with a tidy little flat and a drip coffee maker? A nice accountant whose only crime is jaywalking, maybe a little tax evasion, for a treat, every year when filing. But no, you want to have the stuck up edgelord who can explode people with his mind and who thinks even professional espresso machines are too plebeian for his refined taste buds.

Sylus is just staring at you, an eyebrow lifted. “What I hear you saying is that you want a fancy as fuck espresso machine. Is that correct?”

You sigh in resignation. Your heart wants what it wants. “What you hear me saying is, okay, Sylus, where is the french press, the coffee beans, the grinder I’ll no doubt have to grind them with, and your mugs?”

“The espresso machine will be here when you wake up tomorrow. As for the french press, beans, grinder, and mugs…” he smirks at you as he points to one of the cupboards over the long, black marble kitchen counter.

You slip from the stool and go to open the indicated cabinet, finding the promised french press and tasteful glass jar of whole coffee beans. Of course even his storage containers are fancy and pretty. But you stop short, as you notice Caleb’s gift and the CUNT mug sitting on the shelf next to the coffee supplies.

You blink. You blink, and turn to look at Sylus, who is now busy scrambling the eggs. “You brought Caleb’s mug,” you breathe.

“I told you, I wanted you to have the things here that make you comfortable,” Sylus shrugs, not turning away from the eggs.

You could cry again. The thoughtfulness of this asshole takes you by surprise, every single time. But you don’t want to cry. You want to enjoy. You whip around and march over to Sylus, who is still serenely stirring the eggs. You peek around to catch his eye, ensuring that he knows you’re there. His red gaze flicks to you for a moment, returns to the eggs. You then step behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your head against his broad back.

Your warning must have been successful. He doesn’t throw you to the floor, or even stiffen—his shoulders seem to relax, and he leans back a little, as if trying to sink into your hug. He puts the hand not stirring the eggs on your forearm, as if to hold you there.

“Thank you,” you whisper, squeezing tighter. 

“It’s nothing,” he says, as the scent of butter and eggs, the soft sound of cellos, the dark night and warm lamplight surround the two of you.

“It’s everything,” you counter.

“You deserve to be harder to please,” Sylus grumbles, turning off the burner. He turns, and you try to step away, but he keeps his hold on your forearm until he’s fully facing you. He leans down and scoops you into his arms, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist. He then just stands there, hugging you tightly to him. You hug him back, resting your chin on his shoulder, eyes closed to better soak in the feeling of just holding him, of being held.

“Your eggs will get cold,” he says after a while, regretfully.

You just squeeze him harder. You’ve eaten worse. 

You feel him laugh softly, your chest vibrating with his amusement. “As you wish."

Suddenly, the moment is shattered with a ruckus like a herd of elephants pounding down the hallway, along with a crash, gleeful laughter and yelps.

“Cheater, tripping is cheating, cheater cheater cheater!” Luke roars.

“The first rule of race club is there are no rules in race club,” Kieran bellows, voice closer to the doorway, until suddenly it’s filled with two grown, grappling men, big biceps straining as they each try to prevent the other from entering the kitchen first.

“No… you… don’t!” Luke pants, wrapping his arm around Kieran’s neck in a chokehold and trying to drag him back into the hallway.

“Oww, my throat, Luke, my throat still hurts,” Kieran whines. Luke looks stricken and immediately lets go, only to find himself shoved back further into the hallway as Kieran cackles and comes careening into the kitchen, socked feet sliding along the smooth, marble floor until he crashes into the kitchen island. He lets out a loud whoop, throwing his arms in the air. “Kitchen-race champion, kitchen-race champion,” he chants as Kieran scowls at him from the doorway.

“That was a dirty trick,” he seethes. “You know I wouldn’t ever want to really hurt you.”

“I keep telling you that you’re too gullible,” Kieran smiles at him fondly. “You know all is fair in love and the kitchen race game.”

“Some love,” Luke snorts, and then his eyes widen as he seems to notice you and Sylus behind the kitchen island for the first time. You turn to look at Sylus, but his eyes are on your face, as if he hasn’t stopped looking at you the entire time you’ve taken in the twins’ skirmish, as if what just occurred is daily life at Onychinus HQ and not even worth looking at. You glance back at the twins.

Kieran turns his head to follow Luke’s gaze and then straightens as if at attention. “Oh, apologies boss! We didn’t know you were…” he takes in how you’re attached to Sylus like a koala. “You were preoccupied in here.”

You look back at Sylus, but he just stares at you. Okay, if he’s not going to say anything, you will. “We’re not preoccupied. Sylus was just making eggs.” You cough a little. “Sylus, you can put me down now.”

He just hugs you tighter.

“Eggs? Oh, can we have some? I’m starving after my big stupid cheater of a brother scared the shit out of me by acting hurt,” Luke grumbles, sending Kieran a dirty look. Kieran holds out his hand, and despite his indignation, Luke slides into the kitchen on his socks like an ice skater and takes Kieran’s hand, who then wraps his brother’s arm around his own shoulders. 

“Let that be a lesson. How to fake out your opponent, and how not to be so gullible, even with me.” Kieran reaches over and rubs his fist into Luke’s bouncing curls. Luke ducks his head and sweeps Kieran into a chokehold again, who just laughs. “That’s it,” he crows, and the two tussle like a couple of puppies.

“I can’t make coffee if you won’t let me go,” you say softly to Sylus amidst the racket the twins are making.

“Do you really want to make coffee now?” he asks, turning, setting you on the counter and simply standing between your legs. You’re getting the feeling that he likes this position, because it puts your face a little closer to his if the surface you’re sitting on is high enough.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you ask curiously.

“It’s getting late again. Between the tour and your nap, it’s closer to the time I go to bed now. You’ll be up all night if you have caffeine now.”

“Then why didn’t you say so when I first asked about the coffee?” You tilt your head.

Sylus just looks bored. You’re learning that he does this when he isn’t interested in answering you, when you’re most interested in the answer. Suddenly it dawns on you. “You wanted me to see the mugs.”

He just lifts his hand and fiddles with the hem of the soft long sleeved shirt you’re wearing. “Now you know where they are, in case I’m not around,” he shrugs.

You lean forward, placing both of your palms on his cheeks. He sucks in a breath, but stays still. “Thank you,” you say.

“You’ve already said that, and I’ve already said it’s nothing,” he answers, his stubble shifting under your hands.

“If we’re not going to have coffee, and it’s almost time to go to bed again, what did you have in mind for after we eat?” you ask, running your thumbs under his lovely eyes, indulging, indulging, not worrying about anyone else, not worrying about tomorrow or the day after. There is only today, every day, until this is over.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, leaning in, letting you pet him.

You think about it. You’re still so tired. You think you’ll probably be tired for weeks, until you’ve slept enough to make up for your enormous sleep deficit of the past year, however long that takes. Your feet hurt. You just want to be near Sylus. He’s asking you what you want to do like he intends to do it with you. So instead of worrying if that’s the case, if you’re misunderstanding something, you say what you want.

“I want to start fake dating you,” you say. His eyes widen a little, and then he frowns.

“Fake dating?” Kieran’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and you realize that the twins had stopped roughhousing enough to overhear your conversation.

“What do you mean, fake dating?” Luke asks, looking between the two of you.

“Oh, your boss just asked me to help him practice dating so that he can successfully woo the person he’s in love with,” you say, the picture of cheerful helpfulness. This is already enough. You’re happy to help. And you’re going to indulge the fuck out of pretending that he’s looking at you, instead of imagining the other person he’d like to have in his bed more than you. Because you can’t imagine it’s you. You can’t. Because if you’re wrong—

Kieran and Luke’s mouths drop open. They look at each other, and then look at Sylus.

“What the fuck, boss—” Luke begins, as Kieran says “For someone so intelligent, you can be so stupid—” before Sylus cuts them both off.

“Take some of the prepped meals that chef left in the fridge and then leave us.”

For a second, they both look like they want to argue, but then they dutifully snap their mouths shut in unison, and you get that strange feeling of uncanniness again, like they’re just one person who happens to have two bodies. They efficiently go to the fridge, grab some containers of what must be the prepped meals, and leave you and Sylus alone in the kitchen, now with only classical violin filling the silence.

“Was that a secret?” you ask, feeling bad if you just made Sylus lose face with his employees.

“I have nothing to hide when it comes to you,” he says. “But they don’t need to know every detail of my personal life, even if they may disagree with that statement.”

“Okay,” you say, still feeling bad for some reason. 

He touches your chin, lifts it. “What did you have in mind when you said you want to start fake dating?”

“When we talked about me helping you, you seemed to be okay with the idea of practicing sharing parts of your life with your crush. I was thinking maybe while I’m staying with you, you can already start.” You smile at him, hoping he can’t tell how much you want him to say yes.

“Am I not already doing that?” he asks.

You tilt your head. Okay, so he has invited you into his home, showed you around. But you still know so little about him. “I guess so,” you say. You feel a bit silly now. Maybe you were hoping for too much. Maybe he’d rather get on with his normal routine, and isn’t interested in any usefulness you have to offer at the moment.

You’re suddenly really tired again. You want him to back up, to stop looking so closely at your face. “The eggs are cold now,” you say, trying to keep your hand still, trying to resist the urge to dig your nails into your thigh. He’s right there. He asked you to hurt him instead. You can’t hurt him, so you can’t hurt yourself.

“Then I’ll make new ones,” he says, still watching you like a hawk eyeing a mouse about to bolt from hiding.

You’re not hungry anymore. You hate the yo-yo of your emotions. You want to be as unruffled as the man in front of you. You’re hoping that the more rest you get, the longer you have to recover, you’ll regain some semblance of equilibrium, some resistance to the rawness of the feelings hemorrhaging from your heart. But you know if you won’t eat, your blood sugar will crash and you’ll be left feeling faint.

“No worries. Do you have string cheese or something? Just something to keep me from feeling lightheaded?”

“I'm not feeding you logs of trash cheese while you're a guest in my home," Sylus tsks, probably affronted at the mere suggestion that he would have string cheese in his house. "What else do you want me to share with you about my life?”

“What?” You were just talking about cheese. Now you're being interrogated.

“You said you wanted to start dating. That you were interested in me sharing parts of my life with you. What else do you want me to share with you about my life?” he says slowly.

“Oh. It’s really nothing. You’re right, you are already sharing a lot by having me here.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Huh?”

“I didn’t say I’m already sharing a lot, as if you were asking for too much. I said, ‘Am I not already doing that?’” because I thought I was sharing my life with you by inviting you here and hoping to spend time with you. So now I want to know what else you want me to share.”

“You want to spend time with me?” you ask.

“Why else would I ask you what you would like to do until it’s time for bed?” he asks, gently flicking your forehead.

“Maybe you wanted to occupy me so that you would be free to do whatever you really want to do,” you say, wincing a little.

Sylus hangs his head. Huffs a little laugh. “Your mind is incredible.”

You scowl at the top of his stupid, pretty head. “Okay, if you’re going to mock me—”

“I mean it. Your imagination is impressive if there is any ambiguity in a statement. We've been over this, and you promised to try to choose the positive interpretation over the negative."

You look away, feeling shitty for already breaking your promise. Sylus lifts his head and guides your gaze back to him with his forefinger on your jaw. "Habits are hard to break, I know. So let me rephrase. I would like to spend time with you until bed. How would you like to spend that time?” He places his palms on your thighs and smooths them soothingly up, and down.

The soothing gesture works. You feel the impending withdrawal into yourself, into your protective, sad little shell, reverse at his words, at his touch. You think about all the things you were shown today, and what the two of you could do for a little while together. You’re too tired to read, so the idea of visiting his library is out. You don’t want to work out, obviously, so the gym, the ice skating rink, even the pool—no good. 

“You have a home theater. Do you like movies?”

He perks up. “Yeah, I do.”

“Wanna show me what movies you like? Maybe we can watch one?” You’re casual. The absolute definition of chill.

He eyes you for a moment. “When you say practicing to ‘share my life,’ is this your way of asking to know more about me?”

You shrug like it’s no big deal. Like you’re not terribly eager to know every single thing about him. “If you want.”

“If you wanted to know more about me, you could have just said so. No need to frame it in fake dating.”

“But we made a deal. You wanted to practice—”

He interrupts you. “All right, we can date. But just ask if you have questions. And just assume that I want to spend time with you.”

“Our deal was fake dating,” you try again, because he keeps dropping the ‘fake’ part and it’s doing things to your heart.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, darling,” he lifts one corner of his mouth.

“But that’s the deal—”

“Uh huh,” he says absently, lifting you from the counter with one arm, turning to the fridge, and rifling through it with his free hand. He manages to agilely balance a stack of containers. “There’s a bar in the theater room, so we can get something to drink there,” he happily informs you.

“Of course you have a bar in there, you alcoholic.”

“Now, now, no need to call names,” he says serenely, carrying you and the food into the hall and heading towards the theater room.

Once there, he tosses you gently on one of the super soft, overstuffed in contrast to other furniture in the house, and of course ubiquitously black, leather couches that sits in front of a huge screen on the far wall. The couch is so soft you hardly bounce, just sinking into the cushion with a laugh. He sets the food containers on the low table positioned in front of the couch, between its two chaise lounge sections that stretch out on either side.

He sits down next to you, so close that his big thigh is squished against yours. “The dvds are in the cabinet over there,” he says as he opens one of the container lids. “You wanted to know what movies I like? Knock yourself out.”

You don’t have to be told twice. You excitedly make your way to where he pointed and throw open a dark paneled cabinet door. Shelf after shelf, going all the way up to the high ceiling where you’re certain Sylus can’t even reach, full of dvd after dvd. You run your fingers along their edges, reading titles silently as you go. 

It appears that Sylus is a fan of classic films. You see titles that you’ve never watched, but have heard in passing from cultural references or watching annual movie awards when you’re lucky enough to not be working through them during a particular year. Black and white films. Foreign films with directors you’ve never heard of. As your gaze drifts over his collection, sounds of cabinet doors opening on the other side of the room serve as background noise. The clink of plates, of glasses, liquid being poured.

You don’t think you see one film from the last decade in his collection. But maybe they’re higher up.

“How do you get up to the top? I don’t see one of those fancy library ladders on a wheeled track anywhere. Does the great Sylus Qin resort to using a step stool?” You ask absently, still scanning the titles. He appears to be a big fan of horror movies. You’re also a huge fan of horror, but you can recognize that you’re a bit of a barbarian in that you’ve never watched the true classics. Maybe you can expand your cultural horizons while you’re here. Knowing more about classic film could come in handy while working undercover at pretentious wealthy bastard functions.

Your thought is interrupted as you yelp, having been lifted into the air by scarlet-ink tendrils and carried swiftly toward the ceiling, where you’re now hovering, eye level with the upper shelves of Sylus’s dvd collection. You look back down at him, where he isn’t even looking at you as he is artfully arranging your movie snacks in little bowls and plates.

“A little warning would be nice,” you say drily. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” he teases. “Can’t have you getting bored with me.”

You snort. “That’s my line.”

One moment you’re floating leisurely near what looks like his Russian film section of his collection, and the next you’re being deposited onto his lap as he sinks back into the soft couch.

“The presumption of people insinuating that even the possibility exists that I could ever be bored with you is astonishing,” he grumbles, and your heart hurts a little. Even other people can see how ill-suited you are for this mercurial, privileged man—a man who could have anything and anyone he wants, and has the propensity for boredom that goes along with it. “I don’t like it.”

You just smile at him, because what can you do? “People are wise.”

Sylus scowls like he just sucked on a lemon. “One other person, and he is a silly deviant and has been corrected, just as I’m correcting you.” He places his hands on your shoulders, thumbs smoothing over the skin of your throat. “In no universe could I ever be bored with you.”

“You don’t even really know me,” you say gently, letting your head fall forward under his soft touch. He slides one hand around and palms the back of your neck, squeezing gently.

“Don’t I?” he asks.

“You may know the ugliest parts of me because of your aether core. But you don’t know my daily habits. My annoying quirks. How I brush my teeth. My favorite foods. My fondest memories. My pet peeves when it comes to lovers.” You lean your head back now, baring your throat to him, letting his big hand keep you upright. “And I don’t know yours, either.”

“I know the most essential parts of you to be assured that I’ll never tire of learning about the details,” Sylus answers, shaking you gently.

You open your eyes, lift your head. “But I don’t know the essential parts of you, let alone the details.”

His wine dark eyes look so soft as they meet your gaze. “Don’t you?”

You remember the feeling when you first met him. The voice in your head, urging you to devour him. Insisting with a violence that scared you that he was yours, to consume, to swallow, to feast. The recognition in you when you resonated the first and only time, when you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. You might not have an aether core in your eye, but maybe you do know the essentials of him. His cruelty. His violence. His single-minded pursuit of his goals. His steadfastness as he chases you, over and over again, as you run, over and over again.

I expect you to remember what you just said, when this is over.

You do remember what you said at Amnesia. And you remember a kiss that never happened, the taste of his tongue on yours that you can’t possibly know. You feel insane.

“Do I?” you echo him.

“Mmm,” he murmurs his confirmation. “And now we have all the time in the world for you to satisfy your kitten’s curiosity regarding the details.”

Maybe it’s okay to be a little insane in a dream. 

“What movie do you want to watch?” you ask, leaning forward, running your nose along his, inhaling the scent of his skin.

He exhales, his warm breath soft and carrying the scent of some smoky liquor. “Why don’t you choose?”

“What if you’ve seen it before?”

He turns his head a little, so that his lips brush the edges of your mouth. “I’ve seen all of the films I own.”

“Won’t you get bored rewatching?” You resist the urge to turn your own head, to meet his mouth— you can’t, you can’t, not yet. What if you’re wrong—

 “I won’t get bored. I’ll be watching through your eyes this time.”

“You have so many, how can I choose?”

He smiles faintly against your skin. “What kind of movies do you like?”

You think for a moment. “I like all kinds of genres. Horror is probably my favorite, but only when I’m in the mood. I think the movies I like the best tend to be character driven. When I care about what is happening to the people, what choices they’re making—when I want them to prevail over the conflict. Not just gritty and dark for the sake of being edgy. And I like happy endings unless it’s a horror film. Life is hard enough, without spending it watching depressing Russian films,” you smile against his cheek in turn before sinking into him, resting your chest against his, tucking your face into his neck. His hands drift up and slowly caress your back.

“So you like fairy tales,” he says, but not dismissively. An observation.

“No, you’re the one who likes fairy tales—the original versions. Grim, unlikable characters being taught a lesson. Sad stories where no one wins, to confirm your cynical outlook of an unsalvageable world.” You’re teasing him, a little. But you also think it’s true.

He huffs a laugh. “Judging my taste in films, just as you judge my taste in coffee, wine, home decor, occupation—the list goes on. I’m the one who should be worried that my darling will grow bored with me.” He pauses. “You actually know quite a few details about me already, don’t you think?”

Your mind drifts to all the time you’ve shared with him, all the things you already know about him. Maybe he’s right, and you know more than you think. He has been showing you himself, every minute you’re together. Maybe if you manage to stop navel gazing and wallowing in insecurity, you’ll learn even more.

“In no universe could I ever be bored with you,” you echo him again.

“I'll hold you to that promise,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around you, hugging you tightly. You’re getting so sleepy. If you don’t start the movie, you’ll be asleep before the opening credits are over.

“So pick your favorite movie, Sy. I want to watch it through your eyes.”

His arms tighten even further, forcing a puff of breath from your lips. “In a minute, darling. Stay like this, for a little longer.”

You nod, feeling his rapid-fire heartbeat under your own, slower heart. It’s soothing, in a way that firing a real gun no longer is for you. 

“If you don’t start it now, I’m going to fall asleep,” you mumble, sinking further.

“Then sleep,” he says. So you do.

Sylus holds you in his arms, and for once, his mind is quiet—no churning plans, no tweaking the spiderwebs of action and reaction, force and counterforce, push and pull, either for his business or to draw you ever closer to him. He’s just a man, sitting with his heart in his hands—safe and calm. He misses you, as he always does, when you’re so close but asleep. He considers joining you in your dreams again, just to make sure that they’re as peaceful as you deserve, but decides against it. He skirted the edges of his promise to you by doing it once, even though he remains convinced that it was necessary. You were willing to share your fears with him after you woke up—he just mixed up the order a little bit by reassuring you first and then asking questions second. But he’s unwilling to risk it again.

This is enough, for now. He feels the steady beat of your heart against his own submachine gun rhythm, and his pulse slows, slows, until for once, he feels like he can breathe fully without having to check behind himself, check the exits, check contingencies and backups, check the pulse in your throat to make sure you’re still here, you’re still real, you’re still letting him so close he can taste your skin when he inhales the scent of your neck. You’re in his home, and you just had your almost-first, definitely not fake despite what you tell yourself, date. Watching a movie together, the most cliche, boring date of all, and you fell asleep before it even started. You called him something other than his full name for the first time, and not in a teasing way like crow man or good boy—an endearment, something no one else will ever have the privilege of calling him. It takes him a little while to figure out the feeling that has been spreading through him since you hugged him from behind in thanks for the lousy gift of a couple of mugs you already owned—a feeling like how he has always imagined sunshine would feel on a mild summer day for a normal person.

Oh. He laughs a little breathlessly. He’s happy.

If he wasn’t aware of how much you’re already changing him, he’d realize it now, as he hugs you as tightly as he dares without waking you, feeling as foolish as Aidan waxing poetic about every new person being a gift with a surprise inside. Sylus doesn’t need any other people to maintain his attention—you are the gift, a nesting doll puzzle box, a gift within a gift within a gift, and he’s so fucking happy you’re letting him open each of your secrets, one by one, that he’s dizzy with it. The ratatat of his heart fires, and fires, and fires. For the first time that he can remember, he’s looking forward to tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.

end note: My dear readers, once again I have failed to deliver big toys and action, but the plot has inched along very slightly with Sylus's conversation with Aidan, and hopefully the next part will contain MC having the run of Sylus's place and getting into some trouble with the twins and Noah if I recover from real world events and don't just crawl into a hole and hide for the next four years.

[peachylynnie]

everyone go read @amoscontorta 's sylus series RIGHT NEOW!

hiiiii~ this is the op behind "sick." i just wanted to let you know how much i love your sylus series. you are such an amazing writer and i love how you characterize both the reader and sylus. i especially love the banter they have. you have no idea how excited i got when i saw the notif that you reblogged my post. it was as if my favorite celebrity noticed me or something haha. you do inspire me after all. i hope you have a wonderful day!

hi hi! thank you so much for this kind ask!! I'm so glad you enjoy the Sylus series. And you are so sweet, but I'm in no way a celebrity-I'm pretty sure I'm blacklisted by a lot of the lads fandom for daring to say that i believe we should have more gender options for mc lmao. But i loved your fic, so i reblogged it! i started writing the sylus series because i was craving just the sort of hurt/comfort, sweet interactions that you put into 'sick!' i'm so happy to hear that reading my stuff was also a source of inspiration for you, because the forehead touching to feel mc's fever, the aggression towards the dishwasher, the spikiness of mc, sylus's naked adoration of mc were all really inspiring to me in your fic😭😭 so thank you for reading, and thank you for contributing to the soft sylus fandom!!!

[peachylynnie]

sick

word count: 1.8k

synopsis: in which sylus sneaks into your apartment and finds you sick. yet, you're not resting. why?

contains: sylus x mc!reader (they're not dating but sylus is pining and reader is confused), reader is implied to be in college, slightly obsessive sylus, mentions of violence and sickness, suggestive themes, cussing, and fluff.

a/n: i got sick yesterday. what better way to rest than to write about sylus? do NOT copy or steal my work. sylus WOULD NOT endorse plagiarism :)

you don't want to admit it. you really don't. but you're sick. there's no denying that with how short of breath you are, how nauseous you feel, and the goddamn soreness in the back of your throat that didn't go away with the first sip of water.

"shit…" you mumble as you sluggishly move to empty the dishwasher as your roommate asked. it's bad enough that you were sick, but you were also stressed out of your mind. midterms have been kicking your ass this semester. big assignments have been piling up on your already heavy shoulders. in essence, this was a burnout month, and all that lack of sleep and unparalleled stress had finally caught up to you. in the form of a cold, that is.

"of all the times," you grumble as you struggle to stack the dishes in the cabinet. "why now…" indeed, this was a terrible time to get sick. how were you to complete all your tasks while feeling absolutely miserable? you glance at the microwave clock in desperation. 10:00 PM, it read. although you meant to sigh a breath of relief, you let out a painful cough. maybe you could finish an assignment or two by midnight. that way, you can focus on studying tomorrow, you thought to yourself.

you sniff as you return to the dishwasher to unload the rest of the dishes. as much as you were happy for your roommate leaving for the weekend to finally see her family, you couldn't help but feel resentful. why were you here struggling to do the dishes while she got to have fun? shaking your head at your bitter thoughts, you bend down, trying to grab the utensils from the dishwasher. keyword: trying.

the sudden pair of strong arms that wrapped around you prevented you from doing so. normally, you would've swiftly elbowed the person behind you and turned around to land a hard blow that would have them seeing stars. instead, you exhale shakily. you recognize the mysterious backhugger's scent. the scent of sweet wine and sharp citrus. sylus.

how the hell did he get in? you don’t remember giving him a spare key when you told him your address. you look behind you, angling your head to meet his garnet eyes. "i did not give you my address just so you can sneak in like this," you say, trying your best not to sound like you're dying.

unfortunately, the nasal tone of your voice does not go unnoticed by sylus. instead of offering his usual quips, sylus furrows his brows and unclasps his right arm from your waist. you try not to flinch at the chill of his slender fingers touching your forehead. he frowns. "you're sick."

you immediately avert your gaze. "i'm not sick," you mutter as you try to bend down once more to grab the stupid utensils from the dishwasher. sylus doesn't let go. this time, he spins you around with his left arm, making sure that he can see you properly.

"you're burning up, sweetie." sylus says as flips the hand on your forehead for good measure. "you're sick and you know it."

you roll your eyes, squirming to get out of his grip. you did not want sylus to see you like this. a sick, miserable mess incapable of doing something as simple as emptying the dishwasher. you had an image to uphold after all. being vulnerable with someone like him could mean getting hurt again. last time you were vulnerable with someone… well, let's say you learned your lesson.

weakly, you push at sylus' arm around your waist with your small hands. you try not to think about how minuscule they looked next to sylus' deliciously veiny forearms. great, you're sick, and your mind decides to lust after sylus' arms. you shiver at your thoughts and attempt to push sylus' grip away once more. normally, escaping sylus' hold would be a reasonable task for you. after all, your sparring sessions with him prepared you to get out of sticky situations. but you were sick and exhausted out of your mind. all you could manage was a feeble squirm.

sylus' gaze moves from his hand on your forehead to your eyes. your half-lidded baggy eyes. his frown deepens. you looked extremely fatigued. your face was noticeably pale, and your intake of breath was short. not to mention, sylus could see the slight wince of pain whenever you tried to swallow your saliva. sylus sighs as he removes his hand on your forehead and replaces it with his own. you were neglecting yourself again.

under normal circumstances, you would've shied away from sylus' physical advancements. his hand on the small of your back? an immediate flinch and glare, signaling him to stop. a tap on the crown of your head? a swift jerk of your neck and avoidance of eye contact. instead—again, you blame it on your exhaustion—you tiredly close your eyes, relishing in sylus' cool forehead against your heated one. no resistance to be shown.

you don't see it, but sylus' sharp eyes soften at the sight of you accepting his touch. even with the eye bags and ghastly skin, you looked ethereal. like an angel sent from heaven to save him from his own solitary hell. as much as he wants to savor this moment of you finally giving into his touch, sylus knows what he must do. you're unwell and unrested. you need to be in bed immediately.

"you should be in bed, sweetie." sylus murmurs as he pulls away from your forehead. you try not to sulk at the loss of the soothing chill of his skin. though, not without feeling conflicted because why you would even sulk about him? for god's sake, he was a criminal. he's taken countless lives. not to mention, he choked you upon meeting you, called you a disappointment, and tried to alter you after three straight days of relentless attempts at a forced resonation… just thinking about him drives you nuts and being driven nuts is the last thing you want right now.

"i'm fine, sylus." it was your turn to pull away, trying to put as much distance between you two as his firm grip around your waist would allow. "besides, nothing a little old tea can't fix."

with that, you turn to face the dishwasher and reach for the utensils for the umpteenth time of the night. sylus sighs and pinches his nose bridge with his free hand. as much as he admired your stubbornness, he could not help but resent it at times like these. times when you were in desperate need of a break. before you can grab the utensils, you feel yourself get lifted off the ground effortlessly.

sylus' arm on your waist had moved to your shoulder, and his other arm was hooked under your thighs. he had you in bridal style in less than a second. your eyes widen, realizing the sudden change in positions. "what are you doing?!" you cough painfully. "put me down!"

you do your best to escape sylus' new grip on you by kicking your legs and squirming uncontrollably, but it was hopeless. you were weakened due to your sickness, and sylus was determined to make sure you looked only at him instead of the goddamn dishwasher. one more look at it, and he swears he's gonna break it with his evol.

quickly and confidently, sylus exits the kitchen with you in his arms and arrives at what he guesses is your shared bedroom with your roommate. he tries not to get distracted by the fact that this is his first time in your room. god, the entire space smelled so much like you, he wanted to become one with it and watch you forever and ever. dismissing his intrusive thoughts, sylus gently places you down on your bed and starts to cover you in your blanket.

"wait, sylus," you start, trying to get up. "i have to empty the dishwasher. i have homework, too." sylus tuts as he shakes his head, his messy silver locks following suit. although he doesn't respond, sylus continues to spread out your blanket. you furrow your eyebrows at his strange behavior. "sylus…" you whine. you actually whined. something you never thought you would do, especially in front of sylus. you could feel his intense gaze prick at you like little needles. you avoid his gaze, hoping to hide your flustered state.

adorable. that's what you are. incredibly adorable to the point sylus wants to grab your chin and force you to look at him as he coaxes more and more of your pretty whines out of you.

trying to fight his indecent thoughts, sylus locks eyes with you, a firm yet pleading look on his face. "you need to rest, sweetie," he leans in to adjust your pillow. "you won't get anything done in this state." you try to protest again, but sylus beats you to it. "rest. i'll take care of everything."

well, fuck. how can you say no when sylus, in all of his gorgeous glory, is centimeters from your face, telling you that he will take care of everything and asking you to do the one thing you've been longing to do for a very long time? besides, you felt sleepy ever since sylus took you in his arms. just this once. just this once, you'll allow yourself to be vulnerable with him. so that you can rest, of course. totally not because sylus had a way of comforting you so sweetly and breaking your defensive walls so charmingly.

your labored breathing slows as you cautiously nod. "fine," you yawn. "the utensils go in the very left drawer of the island while the pots and pans go in the stove oven, and…" you can feel sleep beckoning for you as you continue to list instructions. sylus can't help the grin that appears on his face as he watches your cute blinks grow in intervals.

"noted, sweetie." he caresses a stray hair strand out of your face. "i'll make sure everything is back where they belong." like you to him. though, he doesn't say that part out loud. maybe another day. when you are no longer wary of him and are willing to acknowledge his very obvious affection for you. deep in his fantasy, sylus almost misses your cute snores. he chuckles, taking this chance to admire you now that you've fallen asleep.

you truly were an angel. the way your eyebrows furrowed here and there in your sleep. the way your plump lips parted at times. the way your button nose twitched sporadically. oh, sylus loved it all. he could watch you sleep forever. but he had a better task at hand: to take care of you. he assured you that he would take care of everything. and sylus is a man of his words. carefully to not wake you, sylus cups your face with his right hand. closing his eyes, he places a delicate kiss on your forehead.

"rest well, sweetie. i'll see you soon."

[peachylynnie]

adding on to that one theory where the reason sylus is so affectionate and forward with us is because he's running out of time, i would like to point out that one of his soundtracks, feast of desires, has a timer-ticking sound effect...

it acts as the bridge of the soundtrack. i linked the soundtrack here if anyone wants to listen to it. the sound effect starts at 2:32.

i haven't played the game long enough to know what the devs are like. but knowing how much detail and effort they put into zayne, rafayel, and xavier's myths, i don't think the timer-ticking sound effect was put in there for no reason.

and we already know sylus' myth is going to be angsty so...

just food for thought.

[peachylynnie]

no, guys, you don't understand. i have CONCEPTS of a plan!

[peachylynnie]

WE'RE SO BACK WE'RE SO FUCKING BACK

[peachylynnie]

biopsy and bad habits

synopsis: in which sylus breaks your bad habit while you wait for your biopsy appointment.

tw: mentions of anesthetics, injections, stitches, dental stuff, cuts, reader is kinda sensitive, idk if sylus is ooc, recently established relationship, light references to razor's dance, takes place in LADS lore (?), kind of proofread, and first fanfic phew.

rating: fluff, comfort, and a smidge of ansgt

word count: 1.4k

author's notes: i wrote this on the way to my biopsy. i need this man. he seems affectionate in the audio dramas, so i made him affectionate here. 

"you're shaking, love."

your leg stops mid-shake. releasing your lips from the claws of your teeth, you look up at him. even with how harsh the fluorescent lights are, he really was breathtaking.

"i'm sorry. i'm just really nervous right now. who knows how bad the stitches are going to hurt, let alone the injections?" you look away from him, trying to find something—anything that would calm your anxious heart down.

the view isn't helping, really. white walls, white tiles—the whole place was devoid of color. although that is the norm for a medical setting, it brings you no comfort at all. unable to find an outlet for your nervousness, your legs start shaking again. sylus grips your thigh, trying to ease your restlessness.

"it's a biopsy, sweetie. it'll end quickly, and you'll be fine."

this time, you glare at him. nevermind the fact that you're shooting daggers at the infamous leader of onychinus. no, you need to teach your silver-tongued, silver-haired boyfriend a lesson.

"easy for you to say. you DO know how an oral biopsy works, right? they're going to cut off a piece of my mouth and stitch it back together. how am i supposed to be fine?"

"y/n?"

you jerk away from sylus, flinching at your name being called by the dentist. at this point, your whole body is trembling, and you can't help but bite your lips again. as adorable as you look, sylus cannot stand seeing you so afraid. normally, he would relish in your antsy demeanor. after all, he was the one who caused them. seeing your doe eyes widen with fear but also with a lace of excitement whenever he pinned you down was just so damn intoxicating. however, what he saw right now wasn't a cute feline on edge. he saw a poor kitten, quivering uncontrollably with no source of warmth. he had to do something.

sylus frowns at the dentist with his sharp red eyes and juts his chin towards the transparent door the latter walked out of. "give us a moment." the dentist nods and recedes back to their office, taking note of how scared you were.

sylus averts his focus back to you. unable to witness your state any longer, he cups your chin. "y/n."

meeting his scarlet eyes, you can feel your tears threatening to spill. usually, you would flush upon locking eyes with sylus. he really was the most gorgeous man you have ever met. his dreamy pearly hair brought out his intricate ruby eyes. his nose was carefully crafted, and his jaw was just so enticingly sharp that you swear it could cut your own skin. and you were more than okay with that. and yet here you were, on the verge of crying from locking eyes with your boyfriend.

why were you even here? let alone inconveniencing your boyfriend by asking him to accompany you to the dentist? why was this happening to you? one bad x-ray read from your usual dentist, and next thing you know, you get referred to another dentist for a biopsy...

seeing your teary-eyed state, sylus tenses. one can't blame the man. he was used to your brave demeanor, taking down dangerous wanderers as if they were nothing and always prioritizing the safety of others. where was the hunter who dared to tell him what he could and could not do? 

sylus drags his thumb softly along your jaw. "you have faced far scarier things than this." he kisses your forehead tenderly. you blink rapidly, not quite used to his gentle side just yet. "you can do this, y/n" he brings you into a hug. your eyes widen, feeling his muscular arms wrap around you. "i know you can."

the dam finally breaks, and you sob hysterically, reciprocating your boyfriend's warm embrace. "i-i'm sorry," you hic uncontrollably. "i'm j-just so s-scared of the p-pain." if only you could see sylus's smile right now. such an affectionate smile with fond eyes that only you could plant on his face. you can feel him nodding on your shoulder along with his hands patting your back. "it's j-just last time i-i had local a-anesthesia, it hurt so f-fucking bad," you continue.

sylus pulls away, gazing at you lovingly. yes, he was used to your courageous and bold antics that never failed to amuse him. but, he didn't hate this side of you either. there truly never was a dull moment with you.

"i know, sweetie. but, you need to bear through it so that the procedure won't hurt as much." he wipes you tears away. "besides, this biopsy is necessary so that we can know what exactly that thing is on the x-ray."

you sniff as hard as you could. god, you probably looked a mess right now. you could already feel how swollen your eyes were and how moist your lips were from all the snot dripping down. "i d-don't..." you take a moment to wipe your nose. "i don't care about the results."

sylus chuckles. again, never a dull moment with you. every single moment spent with you lit a harsh yet pleasurable flame in his icy heart. now that he has seen both your strong and vulnerable sides, he must keep that flame alive. what better way than to keep you by his side as his lover? perhaps he felt this way the moment you stumbled into the N109 zone that fateful day. no, he's felt this way ever since he first met you, but that is a talk for another day.

"you're worried about some temporary pain rather than the possibility that there might be something wrong with your lower jaw?" sylus raises a brow teasingly. despite the serious potential that there might actually be something wrong, sylus doesn't show his worry. even if there was something wrong, he would use all his manpower and fortune to employ the best of doctors and dentists to ensure you would be fine. after all, he needed his future bride to be alive and well. but for now, he would ease your nervousness in the best way he knew how: riling you up. "your priorities are a bit questionable, sweetie."

your eyebrows furrow immediately. sylus grins upon seeing your defiant side return. all of your tears dried up instantly, and your pout turned into a scowl. it was as if your body was hardwired to react to sylus's relentless teasing. the big, bad boss of onychinus loved the fact that he was the only one capable of causing these visceral reactions.

you took a deep breath. of course his gentle facade wasn't going to last long. what were you thinking? "listen here, you little-"

"y/n?" you jolt out of your seat upon hearing the dentist call upon you.

"yes?" you respond with gritted teeth, ignoring sylus's chuckles.

"i'm sorry but we must start your appointment," the dentist says with a tone of pity.

"right," you take a moment to inhale and exhale. "my apologies," you walk sheepishly towards the office door. oh lord, how long did you delay your appointment. you shouldn’t have let sylus distract you, like he always does.

you look back at sylus before you could enter. he leans back against the small chair with his arms crossed. he looks smug as if he accomplished something. with legs spread wide, he tilts his head to the side. "you stopped shaking, by the way."

blinking confusedly, you ask, "what do you mean?"

sylus chuckles once more, enjoying your curious face. you remind him so much of a kitten. "you stopped shaking and crying, sweetie."

you pat your face several times with your hands. "oh," you murmur, realizing that your hands were absent of salty fluids and your eyes were relieved of their tiredness from swelling up. now that you think about it, your leg doesn't hurt as much from your habit of shaking it like how you would shake mephisto out of annoyance.

you look back at your boyfriend, who looked oh so satisfied with his signature smirk. normally, you would attempt to wipe off that aggravating look on his face. but, instead, you give him a look of gratitude and walk into the office. after all, he did just relieve you of your anxiety and possibly your bad habit of shaking your leg. closing the door, you sigh endearingly. you really can't do without him.

[peachylynnie]

gege, you fucking troll.

[peachylynnie]

OUR GLORIOUS BLUE EYED KING IS BACK?!

"those eyes are unmistakable"