#Love & Deepspace Chapters

[im-jaebongi]

here are all the pics i took of him in the 1st chapter because this man has got me in a fucking GRIP

[starmocha]

Love and Deepspace + Tumblr Text Post ↳ Sylus: No Defense Zone

[rose-tinted-kalopsia]

original post

[tonesip]

Sir, you've got some explaining to do 👉

[kiiseru]

"If I kept you here with me like this...Would you think I'm being too selfish?"

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

LADS LIs:

[x]

[dawnbreakersgaze]

[psycho-pills]

A Second Life for Strays! ฅ (•˕ •マ.ᐟ sylus x reader fanfic // prev // next

౨ৎ⭑˚ RATING; 18+ (mdni)

౨ৎ⭑˚ PAIRING; sylus x afab!reader (not the mc)

౨ৎ⭑˚ SYNOPSIS; you are a soldier reincarnated into the world of love and deepspace, except you're not the mc. she still exists. despite looking exactly like her, you don’t act or sound the same. and to make things stranger, cats follow you everywhere.

౨ৎ⭑˚ GENRE/WARNING; angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, (mutual?) pining, eventual fluff, eventual romance, eventual smut, cursing, graphic descriptions of violence, blood, mental breakdowns, ptsd, death, isekai, reincarnation, cats/cat puns, mc is named serenophe to avoid confusion/reader is not mc

౨ৎ⭑˚ AUTHOR'S NOTE; a gentle reminder: this is written in third-person limited with she/her pronouns. only the prologue is written in second-person. i use the terms [name] [surname] instead of (y/n) (y/ln) because it's easier for me to write. also, i know this idea is kinda weird and outlandish, but i love cats and love and deepspace, so why not combine the two? ;v;

౨ৎ⭑˚ LINKS; ao3 // masterpost

ch. one — a cat-astrophic realization! ౨ৎ⭑˚ word count; 3.9k

Where… She thinks. Where am I?

Her eyes flutter open before immediately squinting from the fluorescent lights above. The constant beeping of the patient monitor spikes in sound as her heartbeat increases. Instinctively, her hand reaches to shield her eyes, only to stop short with a sharp tug. A flash of pain shoots up her arm, drawing her attention to the thin IV tube embedded in her skin. She grits her teeth and lowers her hand, squinting through the blinding lights.

Gradually, her vision adjusts. One eye peeks open, the other still closed in protest. She slowly sweeps over the room. As her surroundings come into focus, her heart rate steadies.

The hospital room is bathed in morning light that filters through the large windows. As [Name] glances toward the windows, long shadows cross the room. Outside, there's a breathtaking view of the bustling, futuristic city below. The overall view of the world is serene, completely unlike the storm of confusion in [Name]'s mind.

The room is comfortably sized. Modern yet contemporary furniture and pale grey walls accommodate the small space. Sleek medical equipment lines the side of the room, but there's a sense of luxury present. Crisp linen sheets, plush chairs, and a vase of fresh flowers on a side table. It's more like a boutique hotel than a hospital room. 

A soft beige blanket covers her body, and the scent of jasmine whiffs up her nose. An unoccupied recliner sits in the corner near the windows, perhaps meant for a visitor; however, the room is isolated. The medical equipment strap to her arm and chest drones on. The rhythmic beeping indicated the steady tracking of her vitals. A small monitor occasionally blinks, recording her heartbeat and oxygen levels.

As she begins to stir, her body drags her down. Everything feels heavy. Her limbs, her eyelids, even her thoughts. There's an overwhelming sense of disorientation like she's floating between worlds. Memories stir, hazy at first, but slowly they sharpen. One after the other, they trickle back—chaos, pain, death. 

Her death.

Her body feels sore, but her head feels worse. She remembers the battlefield. She remembers succumbing to her bullet wound. The sensation of death still lingers like a cold shadow. Yet now, with her eyes fully adjusted, she takes in the pristine hospital room, and it becomes apparent that something is wrong.

I'm alive. 

The thought feels impossible. Absurd, even. And yet here she is—breathing, heart pounding—fully conscious. It was like she finally woke up from a long, deep coma.

With more awareness, she takes in the room. Across from her bed is a small, flat-screen television, turned off, reflecting the room's dusky mood. Besides it, a small door leads to what she assumes is an adjoining bathroom. Everything about the room is carefully designed to be soothing, sterile, and impersonal. However, it's oddly welcoming in a way she can't quite grasp.

Her body protests as she fumbles to sit up, mindful of the tubes and wires attached to her arm and chest. As she adjusts herself, she catches a glimpse of her reflection on the dark, glassy screen of the television. With some effort, she leans forward to take in her appearance better.

Instantly, [Name]'s breath catches in her throat. She pauses. Her reflection stares back at her, but something is off. Her face is hers, but it's not. All of her features are the same. Hair, eyes, mouth, nose… However, everything is just sharper now. Clearer. Her skin smoother, and her hair fuller. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear she looks almost identical to the female lead of her favorite otome game. 

But that can't be right. Can it?

A chill runs down her spine, and her eyes dart downward to her chest. Panic flares in her gut as she remembers the battlefield, the bullet wound that should have taken her life. Slowly, as if afraid of what she'll find, she hooks a finger under the collar of her hospital gown and pulls it away from her body, expecting to see a scar, a wound, anything.

There's nothing. Her skin is smooth, unmarked. No bullet wound, no scar, no evidence that she has ever been injured at all. Her heart stutters in her chest, and the panic she's been trying to suppress starts to rise like a wave, threatening to swallow her whole.

"What the hell is going on?" She croaks.

Her throat feels dry and scratchy, like it hasn't been used in days. A rough cough forces its way up and makes her wince. She tries to settle her breathing, but it's no use. The confusion, the fear—it's smothering her.

Just as she's about to lose herself to the spiraling thoughts, the door to her room clicks open. She jerks her head toward the sound. A man steps in, tall and composed, his black hair framing his face in sharp, elegant lines. His demeanor's cool but professional. There is a slight air of authority that immediately draws her attention.

She blinks, and her stomach drops.

There's no way.

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she stares at him. It can't be. It can't be. But there's no mistaking the man standing before her, his confident stride, the careful way he carries himself. His gaze idles before settling back on his notes. She knows that face, that presence. She can practically hear her heart pound louder as the impossible claws at her.

She glances at the name tag pinned to his coat, just to be sure. Zayne. It's there, clear as day. The doctor with a cold exterior and a reputation for being emotionally untouchable. Yet beneath it all, there's a hidden tenderness. He was one of them: a character she had admired, the one whose storyline was as complex and fascinating as the others.

Her mind reels. Oh, my Gods. This can't be real. 

She blinks several times, expecting his face to change into something else, but nothing happens. He's still there, as composed and meticulous as ever. The exact character she once admired behind a screen now stands right before her.

The disbelief overtakes her. It's suffocating and all-encompassing. How can this be happening? She died—she remembers dying—and yet, she woke up here. Her body tenses. Her muscles tighten as the pieces of her situation fall into place, and realization sinks its teeth into her.

She can't breathe. It's impossible. All of this, everything around her, feels like a nightmare. A twisted dream she can't wake up from. There's no way, there's no way she's been reincarnated. And not just anywhere. In the world of Love and Deepspace, the very game she escaped into for fun is her new reality now.

"You're awake," Zayne says calmly, but verging on something more unreadable. Confusion? Suspicion? He takes a step closer, his gaze lingering on her face longer than a doctor's should. [Name] can tell he's trying to remain composed. However, his eyes hold hesitance, like he's looking at something he can't believe.

Slowly, as if worried she might vanish if he speaks too quickly, he continues, "I'm Dr. Zayne, and you will be under my care for the foreseeable future." His voice is smooth, but his words are cautious.

"And you must be Miss…" He pauses and glances down at the file. His eyes squint as if the name doesn't match what he was expecting. "…[Name] [Surname]."

She swallows, almost choosing silence, but her raspy voice escapes anyway.

"Yes?"

The word barely sounds confident. She's frozen under his gaze, trapped in disbelief. Zayne's sharp eyes roam her face, drifting down to her upper body. It's not the casual assessment of a doctor checking on a patient. No, this look—it's familiar. It's the same gaze she used to see when playing the game, the moments when his character's cold exterior would briefly soften during some of his bonds and memoria. Her stomach churns with anxiety.

What. The. Fuck.

Zayne pushes his glasses up, and his professional mask slips back on. He steps closer to the bed, his expression shifting, but she can sense the tension beneath it. 

"I'm just checking for any signs of concussion or physical injuries," he says. However, it sounds more like he's reassuring himself than her. 

He leans in, and his eyes dart over her face. He scans her features for any signs of bruises or swelling. "Given your condition when you were brought in, we need to monitor for potential head trauma."

[Name] stays silent as he gently lifts the edge of her gown at her shoulder. His fingers brush her skin as he places the cold metal of the stethoscope against her chest. His touch is light and purely professional, but she can't help but feel a rising discomfort. 

Zayne may act like this is routine, but she can see the tension in his posture and how his gaze keeps finding her face. He's trying to hide it, but she can tell—he's scrutinizing her for more than physical injuries. It's like he's trying to fit together puzzle pieces from different boxes.

The metal is cold and harsh. She inhales deeply without him even asking. Then she exhales, and the stethoscope leaves her chest not a moment sooner. He scribbles something down in his notes. Almost hesitantly. 

"Everything seems to be in order. There doesn't appear to be any visible scarring or physical trauma," Zayne mutters. A bit too neutral. As he steps back, his eyes idle on her a beat longer than necessary. "Regardless, we'll run a few more tests to be sure."

She gives a slow nod, observing how his jaw tenses as he adjusts the equipment by her bedside. He's trying to play it cool, but the cracks are there. Something is bothering him, and she knows exactly what it is.

He recognizes her face.

She looks too much like the heroine of the game, the one who's the center of this world's story. [Name] isn't supposed to be here. She isn't the main character of the game. She's something else—an anomaly.

Zayne frowns when he catches her staring at him. He quickly returns to his task, clearing his throat like it can shake off his weariness. "If you're feeling any discomfort, let me know. We'll have the results of your tests soon." He says calmly, but his eyes still carry that hint of confusion.

As he jots more notes on her chart, her mind spirals. This is far more than she expected, far more surreal, terrifying, and overwhelming. She never anticipated finding herself in this situation, least of all being reincarnated into her favorite otome game. But here she is, alive in a world she once thought was fiction. 

Zayne looks at her again, his lips parting like he's about to speak. His face is composed; however, there's a shadow of skepticism beneath. Yet before he can get a word out, the buzz of his pager cuts through the moment. Instantly, the room's atmosphere shifts and his posture straightens.

The hospital's overhead speaker crackles to life, the receptionist's voice urgent: "Code Blue. Code Blue. Paging all medical personnel to surgical room two, please."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he hesitates. Zayne gives her one last look, like he's trying to commit her to memory. When the voice over the intercom repeats the emergency, he finally breaks away. His eyes tear from her face with visible reluctance. 

"Please excuse me," he says with urgency as he prepares to leave. "If you need anything, Nurse Yvonne is down the hall." 

Without waiting for her response, he sharply turns and exits the room. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts. In his absence, the room feels eerily still, like the air is holding its breath. Then, the silence starts to eat away at her. The impossible truth digs into her, and something inside snaps.

In one swift motion, she throws the sheets away from her lower body. [Name] swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands—albeit too quickly. Her legs, frail from disuse, buckle beneath her. She stumbles, catching herself on the IV pole.

The cold metal anchors her as she settles down. Her muscles are weak, but determination propels her forward. [Name] drags the IV stand along as she shuffles toward the attached bathroom. Her steps awkward and sluggish.

Reaching the door, she kicks it open with the bare heel of her foot, too focused on her next task to bother with formalities. She lumbers inside, not even closing the door behind her. The thirst clawing at her throat is unbearable, a raw itch that she can no longer ignore. Like a starved animal, she ducks under the sink. She twists the faucet open and lets the crisp, refreshing water pour into her mouth. The liquid soothes her parched throat, the cool sensation spreading through her body as she gulps down as much as possible.

When finally sated, [Name] wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and turns off the faucet. However, just as she's about to leave the bathroom, her eyes catch something in the corner of the mirror—her own reflection. She freezes, seeing her face a lot clearer in the bathroom mirror than with the television's blackened screen. 

Slowly, she leans closer, her hospital gown brushing against the wet edge of the sink. Her breath catches in her throat as she studies herself. "It’s me," she whispers. "But… Different."

Her fingers rise to touch her face, to trace the contours of her facial features. [Name] turns her face left, then right, her brow furrowing. Despite the striking resemblance to the game's protagonist, there's something off—something that makes it evident that she's different. Something subtle but undeniable. She's not the protagonist, but she's dangerously close. It's like she's staring at a near-perfect replica with slight imperfections that make it clear she's an outsider.

A thought jolts her back to the present. Actually, she thinks, why did Zayne call me by my real name? If I look this much like the protagonist, shouldn't he have called me—

Her mind goes blank. She tries to recall the heroine's name, the one who should be at the center of this world, but… nothing. She can't remember. Her forehead creases as she struggles to dig the name out of her memory. Yet the name remains out of reach, like a forgotten word on the tip of her tongue. [Name]'s mind is foggy; that part of her knowledge yet to recover from her reincarnation. 

The blankness gnaws at her, but she pushes it aside. She can't focus on that right now. Her mind races to piece together what little information she has. Considering Zayne's reaction, he knew she wasn't her despite how closely she resembled the protagonist. That may be why he called [Name] by her real name instead. Yet this realization only poses more questions. How does he know her name? And, more importantly, who had brought her to the hospital? Zayne's words implied that someone dumped her here, but why?

Her thoughts swirl as she steps out of the bathroom, a little steadier now. [Name] is exhausted, mentally and physically, and all she wants is to make sense of this unfathomable situation. She heads back to bed, ready to collapse. But just as she's about to sit down, she stops dead in her tracks.

A plump tuxedo cat is lounging on the sheets. Its round face stares at her with a manner that borders on playful mischief. Its green eyes gleam with amusement at her shock. The sight is so unexpected that she blinks several times in a row.

"Um," she stammers, gesturing the cat away from the bed. "Can you move?"

The absurdity of talking to a cat doesn't even faze her anymore. After everything she's been through, who will judge her? She's all alone in this strange, new reality.

"Sure," the cat replies. High-pitched and child-like.

Her heart skips a beat. The cat just spoke. 

Like everything's normal, the plump creature hops off the bed and waddles to the counter. [Name] stills. Her mind struggles to catch up with the sheer insanity in front of her. She can only watch as the cat leaps onto the counter and grabs a clear plastic bag hidden in the sink with his mouth. The cat drags the bag out, dropping it unceremoniously with a dull thud. The contents of the bag spill out in front of her—her military uniform, stiff with dried blood around the breast pocket. The sight of the uniform jolts her, the memories of the battlefield flooding back too quickly for comfort.

"Change," the cat orders, his tone matter-of-fact. "We're leaving."

Her mind stalls. She doesn't move. She doesn't breathe. All she can do is stare in utter disbelief. It takes a moment before her body reacts at all. When it finally does, she starts laughing. It's loud and hysterical, almost tipping on sobs. She's dreaming. She has to be. It's the only logical explanation for everything. 

"I've officially lost it," she gasps between fits of maddened laughter, clutching her sides as tears sting her eyes. Suddenly, the room feels uncanny, like she's trapped in some B-rated horror movie. She crawls onto the bed with shaky hands, diving under the sheets and wrapping herself in darkness.

She shuts her eyes tightly, curling into herself and willing everything to disappear. A soft chant escapes her lips. Fragile. Desperate. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up."

The silence that follows is almost palpable. Heavy. The only sound is the soft patter of paws on the tiled floor, growing louder as they approach. Suddenly, she feels the bed dip next to her head. The cat's weight presses into the pillow. Before she can react, the tuxedo cat tugs at the edge of the blanket, pulling it back just enough to reveal her face.

"Stop playing around, Human," the cat says impatiently. "We gotta scram before they find you."

Her eyes snap open, her heart hammering in her chest. The weight of reality—or whatever this is—crashes down on her like a tidal wave, leaving her breathless. 

"Who?" [Name] croaks out, barely above a whisper. "Who's coming to get me?"

The cat lets out a huff, a sound that might have been a purr if it wasn't laced with annoyance. "Do you really want to find out?" His tone is sarcastic like the answer should be obvious.

[Name] shakes her head slowly, her body unable to process the fear and confusion fast enough. She barely understands what’s happening, but something deep inside warns her that whoever—or whatever—is coming for her won’t be friendly. Sensing her resignation, the cat sits back on his haunches, his green eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"Good," the cat says with a slight nod. "The name's Spots, by the way. Not that you bothered to ask."

Another silence settles between them, until [Name] realizes Spots is waiting for her to get up. She stills for a moment, weighing her options. 

She could stay here, close her eyes, and hope this dream fades into nothingness. Maybe everything is just a product of her exhausted mind. A hallucination caused by trauma and stress. Maybe, if she holds on long enough, she’ll wake up in the real world, back to the life she knows. However, something tells her this doesn’t end with a simple waking.

The next best solution is that she could believe what’s happening. As impossible and terrifying as it seems, she could trust the cat—or at least trust that he knows more than she does. [Name] could just ignore the absurdity of a talking cat and follow him, because the alternative is facing whoever is coming for her alone. Zayne might return, but even that possibility feels unsettling. There’s too much confusion between them, and she doesn’t know if she could handle his reaction if he discovers what she’s beginning to accept: that she doesn’t belong here.

But Spots knows. He knows something about her situation. He knows what’s coming. And right now, that makes him the only source of guidance she has.

A frustrated heave escapes her as she finalizes her decision.

"Fuck it," she mutters.

Against her better judgment, [Name] slides out of bed, her legs no longer shaky as she drags the IV pole with her. She crouches down to pick up her clothes and combat boots. She glances back at Spots. He's swinging his tail lazily, eyes closed, a Cheshire grin permanent on his fluffy face.

Like ripping off a bandage, [Name] grits her teeth as she yanks the IV tube from her arm. The sharp sting makes her wince, but she pushes through the pain. She's quick to regain her composure. Without hesitation, she slips out of her hospital gown and into her military uniform. The fabric is stiff with dried blood, a cruel memento of her death.

But as she dresses, a disturbing thought begins to nag at her. If this is a dream, then… will she wake up back on the battlefield? Back in the grassy outskirts, far from the perishing city, fighting some meaningless war? Did she really want to go back to that? Can she even go back to that?

Her hand instinctively drifts to her heart, to the spot where the bullet pierced her. Her fingers brush over the dried blood. The hole in her uniform is the only proof of her last moments. She sighs and shakes her head, trying to dispel the unwanted thoughts. No. The mere thought of waking up back there—back in the war—terrifies her more than this new reality ever could.

Moving to the sink, she grabs a paper towel and runs it under cold water. Carefully, she dabs at the bloodstain, trying to clean it, but the water only spreads the mess. A frown tugs at her lips as she realizes her mistake. Spots hop down from the bed, noticing her frustration, and he is far too impatient to wait. He strolls over to her and stretches his paws against her leg, nudging her to pick him up.

Taking the hint, [Name] heaves and scoops the plump tuxedo cat into her arms, holding him close to her chest. Conveniently, Spots’ round body covers the bloodstain on her uniform.

"Ready?" Spots ask.

He gestures toward the closed door with his head, his green eyes narrowing to urge her forward.

Reluctantly, she nods and moves toward the exit of her hospital room. Her hand wraps around the cold doorknob, but then she hesitates. Frozen with uncertainty. Afraid of the unknown guaranteed outside this small, contained room. Her fingers still on the knob as she takes a shallow breath.

"Human," Spots purrs. It's a soothing rumble against her heart. "It's okay. Whatever happens, you have me now. You're not alone in this."

[Name] presses her lips into a tight line, reassured by the cat’s comforting words. Something about his presence, about his gentle confidence, calms her. It doesn’t make sense, but she doesn’t care to question it. Right now, she craves stability, no matter how strange the source. 

Without another word, she pulls the door open and peeks her head out. She scans the hallway. The sterile, quiet corridor stretches out in both directions. Unbeknownst to her, that first step beyond the door will set a chain reaction of events into motion, incidents and experiences that will shift the story she once knew, casting her into a role she never imagined playing.

"Here goes nothing," she whispers, stepping into the unknown.

ao3 // masterpost // prev // next

[villainbait]

Dangerous Intentions II

Pairing: bodyguard!au Sylus x heiress!reader Rating: T | Teen | 16+ Tags: crack, fluff, angst if you squint, tension, mc!reader is a spoiled brat, bodyguard!sylus, bodyguard sylus au, teasing, verbal teasing, playful teasing, canon sylus behavior, playful roughhousing, play fighting, panic attack, reader has a lil trauma response as a treat, Summary: Sylus has been your bodyguard for a few weeks now and you're finally starting to get used to him—or so you thought.   Word Count: 1.4k >>Previous Chapter<<

“If you won’t go to sleep, I’ll just have to tie you to the bed.” Sylus threatens smoothly, uncurling from his steadfast vigil at your window. You freeze from where you had been arranging your latest plushie collection from the arcade you had begged Sylus to go with you to. 

“You can’t be serious.” You side-eyed him as if assessing the danger level of the situation. As Sylus and you had gotten to know one another, you could sometimes tell if he was bluffing. The expression he wore ignited furious alarm bells in your head and you strangled the goofily smiling dinosaur in your hand.

“I’m quite serious, princess.” A smirk curls the corner of his lips and he raises an eyebrow, almost challenging your defiance. Or is it in anticipation of it? 

You knew you had been restless today. Your bedroom was proof of that, the spacious area in complete disarray from your inability to relax. Yet, you had good reason to be on edge. Mid-terms were coming up and you were stressed due to your sporadic attendance, and there was yet another threat on your life. Everything was business as usual, yet you felt tense despite it all being the normal chaos present in your life. It didn’t help that for some reason, you found yourself more aware of Sylus in your room, his presence suffocating you where it usually made you feel safe. Maybe you were finally going insane from not having a minute alone, and his constant shadow a looming reminder of your situation. 

Was your life always going to be like this? 

A soft ringing started in your ears and something akin to panic bubbled up in your throat suddenly and you realized you felt trapped. You felt like you had to push against these imaginary bonds, even if that manifested real ones in the process. Your gaze darted nervously to the bedroom door and Sylus saw the wheels turning in your mind, his eyes narrowing as a single, sharp word fell from his lips. 

“Don’t–”  

Despite the futility of it all, you chucked that annoying stuffed animal that reminded you of him at Sylus’s face with as much force as you could muster. You darted towards the bedroom door, and your fingertips barely brushed the doorknob before you felt Sylus’s arm like an iron band around your stomach, hauling you back and tossing you unceremoniously on the bed; knocking the breath from your body despite the soft landing. 

“This is ridiculous. You don’t even have any rope—“ You struggled to sit up in the tangle of bedsheets, shoving at them in frustration. The triumph of freeing yourself is short-lived as you emerge only to find Sylus there, one gloved hand dragging you towards the headboard by your wrist. 

“Stop struggling sweetie, you’re only making this harder on yourself.” That made you fight harder and he grunted when you landed a kick to his thigh. Unrepentant, you shot him a mutinous, betrayed look. 

“Let me—“ 

A knock sounded at your door, the loud rapping interrupting your angry plea. “Is everything alright?” Both of you froze as the familiar voice to your brother floated from the other side of the door, his haughty aristocratic tone muffled. Sylus chuckled lowly and relaxed when he realized there was no threat, but his bruising grip continued to pin you effectively in place. 

He leaned in close, his voice a silky whisper of encouragement. “Answer him princess, or he might barge in here and get the wrong idea.” 

The thought made you blush and you realized how it would look to anyone who came in. Sylus had your wrists effectively anchored above your head and one knee shoved between yours to keep you from kicking him again. Panicky, you called out, “I-I’m fine, I just saw a spider. Sy–The bodyguard killed it.” It would make your brother suspicious should you be overly familiar with what he would consider “the help” and the last thing you wanted was your father to replace Sylus now that you had become used to him. Plus, he was capable, as much as you hated to admit it. He wasn’t just a pretty face as you once thought, and you had grown attached now. 

You didn’t want Sylus to leave.

“If you say so, sister. Do not stay up too late or you’ll have those unsightly bags again.” Your brother sounds unconvinced but uncaring, so he leaves with that parting advice. By the time his footsteps fade down the hall, you realize what has happened but you find you’re already effectively tied to the headboard. The cry of outrage was subdued but pointed as you tugged uselessly at your bonds. 

“Sylus, you—“ 

The curse you wanted to spit out is strangled in your throat because as Sylus rose from the bed, you felt the hot press of his thigh slide directly between yours; the friction unexpectedly sharp.  You could feel the heating radiating off of Sylus’s body and his chest was almost pressed into your face from this angle. Heat suffused your face and you turned your head away, pressing your lips together as a fine tremor started in your body. You didn’t know whether you wanted to yell, cry, or beg Sylus to touch you again. 

“Sleep well, princess.” He murmurs cheekily and starts to stand up.

“Wait,” you say softly and there was a catch in your voice that made him pause. He turned to face you slowly, his expression that familiar unreadable mask. You hated that mask and when he shut you out from what he was truly thinking.

“You’re not going to leave me like this all night, are you?” You asked plainly, biting your lower lip as you looked at him worriedly.

Sylus scoffed quietly but still didn’t move. “What? Do you want me to read you a bedtime story or something to help you relax?” 

“Yeah.” Your startling honesty shocks him and you realize you’ve stunned him into silence. After a moment of staring at you with silent intensity until you squirm underneath the weight of his gaze, he nods. “Alright, but If I untie you and you play tricks again, I won’t give in so easily next time.”

“I promise, I promise.” 

The two of you curl up against your headboard after he unties you and you find yourself leaning sleepily against his arm. He gently ruffles your hair and his low baritone fills the silence, the bedtime story he weaves is seemingly a classic fairy tale about a princess, a misadventure, and a prince racing against time to save her. Your eyes start to droop at the soft, warm vibration of his body as he speaks in that low monotone. Your slow, even breathing makes him trail off before he stops to look down at your face and finds you finally peaceful in sleep. He wondered if you knew how much you frowned when you were awake, and how burdened by the world you seemed despite how childish and free you pretended to be. 

It’s a shame, he thinks wryly, that you fell asleep before he’s even gotten to the part where instead of the prince, it's her faithful knight who saves her from her perilous misadventure. He watches you sleep for what feels like hours before he can’t take it anymore and allows himself a moment of greed, wrapping his arm around your waist and resting his cheek on your hair. He breathes in the now familiar scent of you and finds himself nodding off, dreaming about how much better you’d smell wrapped up in the scent of him, too. 

When you wake up in the morning, Sylus’s warmth lingers the night before and you wonder how much of it was a dream as he stands at your window, idly watching the sunrise. Rays of light filter through the sheer curtains and when he turns, the light almost makes him look otherworldly for the flash of a moment. His smile carries a touch of warmth or maybe you just foolishly hoped for it, but his greeting was as smooth as the freshest buttercream.

“Good morning, princess. Did you sleep well?” 

[grabby-smitten]

Wdym Caleb has a bite mark on his hand? MC took a bite? MC fought him? Girl? BITE HIM AGAIN!!!! Hahahahaha

[spiderlilypetals]

note:this is legit just my take on it since i didn't get the sense of "friend? you've been inside me" vibe from it. also bc it really gave me flashbacks to the lost oasis card. take it with a grain of salt, if you don't like it, then don't comment and just move on oml.

in lost oasis, there was a kid that MC and sylus were teaching how to fight a wanderer in the desert.

because it seems like MC was like taken aback and also why would sylus let the host say they're just friends when he legit said it in his myth event for us to rethink our choice of words to describe our relationship with him.

also, it genuinely sounds like he was reassuring to MC that what the host meant is that "Sylus and His Friend" is actually the sylus and the kid from the desert.

and... i actually like to hc that sylus went back to help the kid and allowed him the chance to deliver the final blow to kill it, letting the kid avenge his father basically. which i think would've been pretty neat, but yeah... also, i highly doubt sylus would've let it slide if the host mistook MC as his friend; either way, i still stand by His Friend wasn't meant to be directed to MC.

but anyways, here's a piece of the lost oasis card that i recalled, hence, why i was like "ohhh, yeah no, i don't think "His Friend" is MC, but actually the little kid from the desert.

of course i could be totally wrong, but it just makes sense to me, so here's my piece of it.

[calebslittleapple]

feels like home: sticky fingers

After a few weeks apart, Caleb reconnects with his Pip-squeak, only to find that she's pretty beaten up after a mission. Fortunately, Caleb knows exactly what to do to take care of his girl. From one moment to the next, everything changes, and what starts as an innocent interaction quickly evolves into something else entirely... two-shot, post club-interactions, but can be read as a standalone as well (though, this is part of my feels like home series).

Pairing: LaDS Caleb x MC (she/her)

Genre: Smut (with feelings); chapter one is M, chapter two is E; 18+

CW: Codependency; Pip-squeak as an endearment; MC is named "Emme" short for "Emme Sea" lmao; Finger Sucking; sensual massage; Vaginal Fingering; humping

Also on AO3

Complete: Chapter One; Chapter Two

feels like home series page

After that dizzying night at the club, things settle back into the same old, same old, mostly because work’s been insane for both of them. At least, that’s what Caleb’s telling himself.

Naturally, he can’t stop thinking, feeling, reeling over the memory of his sweet girl, his beloved Pip-squeak, coming apart in his arms. Along with that, the way she’d woken early the day after, slipped from bed and made him breakfast.

That was normally his role to fall back into, but it was a domestic kind of sublime to walk into her kitchen, and see her standing there, cooking bacon, while wearing one of his t-shirts—old, stretched out, and way, way too big for her.

Caleb couldn’t put his finger on why, but he liked the way she looked in his clothes. Felt a bit like she was wrapped up in him. The possessive pieces of his heart shifted upon seeing her there, ever so slightly falling into place as if a simple moment like that could make his fractured heart whole once more.

They didn’t talk about what happened, because, of course, they didn’t. But she was different. A little surer in her touch and teasing. Hands lingered as the food was shared between them. Her eyes fell on his lips, the line of his neck, the broad stretch of his chest, which was purposefully emphasized by the two-sizes-too-small tank top he was wearing.

He flexed some, and she noticed that too. What was the point of having a physique like his, if not to show it off to the one person he’d crafted it for? Judging from the way her chewing stopped and how her eyes lingered, his many, many hours spent working out weren’t going to waste.

“See something you like, Pip-squeak?” he teased, but his voice was raspier than he’d thought it would be. Catching her staring was painfully intoxicating.

“Hmm?” she replied while shaking her head a bit. “What did you say?”

Caleb huffed out a laugh. “Pass the syrup.”

Picking up the nearby vessel, Emme quietly cursed as some of the sticky liquid sloshed over the edge and onto her fingers. After setting the syrup down, she stood and started to turn toward the sink, but Caleb caught her up in his gravity before she could move away.

“C’mere,” he murmured.

Shifting on her feet, she cocked her head at him, and Caleb couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes fluttered, just a little, as he let his power roll over her before pulling back.

Caleb held his hand out for hers. “Let me see.”

She swallowed, looked at her sticky fingers, and immediately focused on his lips. Caleb’s mouth curved into a knowing smile, which earned him a pretty pout.

“You’re terrible,” she breathed but held her hand out, anyway.

“Oh, c’mon, Pip-squeak,” he murmured, his warm hand gently skimming along the length of her forearm before curling around her wrist. “I know you like it when I’m bad.”

Her lips parted with a soft sigh that sounded anything but perturbed, pink tongue flicking out to lick her lips as her actions betrayed her thoughts.

“What are you going to do…?”

“You don’t know?” he asked while leaning closer to her hand, slow enough that she could pull back if she wanted.

He needed to prove something to himself, needed to prove that it wasn’t just the alcohol or the strange anonymity of that seedy club. Caleb needed to know that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

He could see it now, in the way she stood there, legs spread just a touch too wide, as if she was imagining what it might be like to fall into his lap and straddle his waist. Or maybe it was in how her hips switched, swaying almost the same way they had while she’d ground herself into his thigh the night before.

No, it was definitely in how glassy her eyes looked and the pretty flush on her cheeks. There was no alcohol coloring this interaction. What other places on her body would flush, he wondered. The tips of her nipples? The soft skin at the juncture between her legs and thighs? What about her ass? As decadently formed as it was, would her ass look even better with a bite mark… or two?

Caleb could feel himself growing hard in his gray sweatpants but was marginally relieved that he wouldn’t need to reach down and adjust himself this time. No distractions. Just her eyes locked on his as he pulled her hand closer and closer.

She didn’t gasp when he sucked her fingers into his mouth—index and middle; warm, sticky, and sweet. No, what she did was much, much worse than that.

Watching for every single reaction, Caleb swirled his tongue before delivering a long, soft suck, and his girl took in a halting breath, fluttered her fingers in his mouth, and fucking whimpered his name.

“C-Caleb!”

Broken, halting, haunting. He wanted to hear her say it again. To hear her say it while he pressed into her from above, while his head disappeared between her thighs, while he did every single thing he’d ever dreamed about doing to her, but dared not do.

They were growing closer and closer to the day when they would dare, and he was doing his best to be patient. He’d draw out every moment so when that day did come, when she finally gave in to her desires and realized that everything she’d been wanting was right before her eyes, it would be after he so thoroughly seduced her that she’d never think of denying either of them.

Ever. Again.

Caleb wasn’t a patient man, but he could play pretend with the best of them. For her, he would make the planet collapse in on itself if she but asked. But all she needed right now was patience and time. As his tongue swirled and his mouth pulled, he lingered there, and let her think of all the other places on her body that would feel oh so good if he ever got his lips, teeth, and tongue on them.

And he would. But, for that moment, he let her go and was not so secretly smug about the sweetly blissed-out look on her face, and the way she stumble-sat into her chair before picking at her food again, desperate to look somewhere, anywhere but at the face of the man she knew the best, and needed the most.

Weeks flew by. She texted, same as always. She called, and he answered on the second ring, same as always. But where once Caleb could soothe himself with the knowledge that he’d be able to see her soon enough, now he is consumed with the memories of their interactions and, more to the point, her reactions.

The clothes she left at his place for use during her visits no longer smell like her, likely because he spends most nights with his face wrapped up in them. The only peaceful rest he’s able to get is when she’s near. When he knows she’s safe. Now, her shirt and shorts just smell like him, and as much as he enjoys leaving his scent all over her space, he wants the same for his home.

Logically, Caleb knows that Linkon is a safer place for her, for a multitude of reasons, but the greedy, dark spaces of his heart want to keep her high in the sky, in Skyhaven with him. He’s smart enough to know how to keep her safe at his apartment. God, he’s done it before. But as good as it makes him feel to know without a doubt that she is safe, he can’t stand the look in her eye at that particular betrayal.

Just one more sin for the consummate sinner. But with her, ahh… It feels like he can find absolution in her arms. No matter how dark he gets, his girl will always be there to pull him back into the light. She promised him, just as he’d promised to always be there with him.

Finally, when Caleb thinks he’s at his wits’ end, he gets a text from Emme asking if he wants to meet up at her place on the weekend. Naturally, he agrees. Even if he didn’t have the time off, he’d have figured something out. He’s so excited about it that he decides to surprise her the night before, which isn’t uncommon for him.

So, with snacks and an overnight bag in hand, he lets himself into her apartment and waits for her to get back home from work. From how she tells it, she’s been overtime on something important. Caleb did some digging and managed to find out it had something to do with Wanderers convening just outside of the city limits.

It’s miserable work, as important as it is, and he worries because that’s who he is. Caleb wouldn’t be Caleb if he wasn’t worrying about his Pip-squeak. He’s just wired that way. And this time, he’s right to be concerned because when she finally gets back to her apartment at just after 2 a.m., she stumbles in.

Of course, she’s not entirely surprised that he’s there—who else would be watching movies this late in her living room, who else would know the security code to her suite, and who else would show up unannounced, like him—but she looks put out, all the same.

He watches her for a moment longer as she pauses at the entrance to her home, leaning against the doorframe as she breathes deep, head hanging heavy, body drooping… He’s moving before she can fall, her body pitching forward into his strong body instead of the floor.

“Whoa, Pip-squeak! What’s wrong?”

She looks up at him, and the dark smudges under her eyes, along with the scrapes on her cheeks and neck tell him everything he needs to know.

“Caleb.” One word spoken, half annoyance, half supplication. It’s all he needs. A moment longer, and she’s swept up into his arms.

“Let’s get you washed, dried, and cared for,” he says, sounding more competent and put together than he feels. In truth, his heart is pounding in his chest, and it’s taking everything he has not to drive over to the Hunter’s Association and ream out whoever is responsible for putting her in the situation that got her in this state.

Not that he’d dare leave her now.

He carries her through the small space of her apartment and walks them both into the bathroom. Her bathroom is cramped on a good day, and with the two of them in there, it’s even worse. She bats at his hands and tries to tell him she can manage on her own.

“I’m not a child.”

“Of course you aren’t, but you’re still my girl. How could I live with myself if I left you alone now? What if you fell in the shower, or worse?”

She frowns, but some of the roughness of that expression is smoothed away as she thinks about it.

“You owe me, then.”

“Oh?”

“Next time you get sick. You call me. You let me in. No excuses.”

Caleb sighs. Of course, she’d bargain for something like that. It’s not in his nature to show weakness, least of all to her, but he’d promise just about anything and mean it to keep her happy.

“Deal. Now, strip.”

She blushes at that, only for her lips to frown again.

“What?”

As Caleb eases her from his arms, she’s unsteady on her feet. “I really… just don’t think I can.”

“Need some help?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but very much feeling like his heart is going to explode.

“Promise not to get mad?”

“No.”

“Caleb!” she exclaims while giving him a halfhearted shove. “There’s just a few scrapes. And I’m sure I’ll be bruised tomorrow. But it’s nothing major, okay?”

“Okay. But you’re going to let me treat your injuries.”

She pouts. “Fine, but it’s mostly just… really sore muscles. I think a Wanderer was trying to tear my spine out…”

He hates the sound of that but manages to transfer some of his anger to the fastenings of her clothes, quickly and efficiently stripping the layers of her outfit from her body until she’s standing there in nothing more than her underthings and the bracelet he gave her.

He loves that no matter where she goes, she’s got a piece of him with her, but he keeps that bit of information to himself. She already has his heart. Any more leverage and she’ll have him following her like a puppy… more than he already does, that is.

Caleb tries to be level-headed about this, but it’s a challenge given how very fuckin’ long he’s dreamed about seeing her like this, albeit in very different circumstances. Still, he loves her, loves her more than he longs for her, even, so he schools his features, wills his body to calm down, and has his Evol prop her up while guiding her roughed-up body into the shower.

And though it’s strange, and not entirely logical, Caleb swears he can feel her pressing back into his gravitational touch, leaning into his power as he works to support her and not lose his damn mind. Maybe it has something to do with her Resonance. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time that their shared connection bridged the gap between fantasy and reality.

Once the shower curtain is closed, his power slips away, leaving her to stand on her own two feet.

“You good?”

“I’ve got the wall,” she says with a sigh. “Can you help me after I’m done?”

“Of course.”

She manages to take off the rest of her clothes. They fall to the floor of her shower with a soft thump.

“Want me to grab ‘em?”

“Everything’s filthy,” she admits. “Guts and blood and gore. I think I’m gonna burn them.”

Caleb chuckles and shakes his head. He’ll get the gore out for her. He’s good at that. Listening attentively, he makes sure to check in with her as she bathes. Truthfully, she’s sounding better, at least, until a soft hiss sounds from behind the curtain.

“Everything alright, Pip-squeak?”

“Just a very, very sore muscle.”

The water stops, and she gingerly peeks her head out from behind the curtain. She’s adorably drenched, and every part of him is itching with the need to care for her. He’s pleased to note that most of the blood is washed away, and doesn’t seem to belong to her.

Guts and blood and gore, indeed.

“I got a towel ready,” he says, spreading it out and turning his head so she can step out of the shower without having to worry about him leering.

Caleb swears she snickers at him, but she ducks into his arms and lets him wrap her in the towel, just the same. She’s swallowed up by an excess of plush fabric, with only her feet and head peeking out from the edges.

It almost reminds him of when she was young, and how after playing with the sprinkler and tiring herself out in the summer sun, she’d complain about being cold, only for Caleb to wrap her up in a towel and help her dry off.

Well, he’s not that boy anymore, and she’s certainly not that girl, and what they are to each other is so much more than childhood friends.

Still, he tugs at the edge of the towel and lifts it so that he’s better covering her neck. “Can you turn around? I’ll dry your hair.”

“The blow dryer is—”

“Beneath the sink, I know.”

With everything ready, he first works at detangling her hair with her paddle brush. Her work’s made a mess of her hair, but he’s good at this—the best, actually. He has to be because the last thing he wants is to cause her any more pain.

After her hair is detangled and pulled back, he slowly runs the blow dryer over it while combing it on low heat. He’d hate to damage her hair. Once her hair is mostly dry, he quickly pulls it into a braid. Another thing that he’s quite good at.

“Hair ties?”

She holds up her wrist.

“Hair ties that haven’t gone through hell and back?” he clarifies while tugging the band from her wrist and throwing it in the trash.

“Medicine cabinet.”

He gets what he needs, ties off her hair, and picks her up again. This time, she squawks a little, but he gently rubs his lips against the top of her head and softly begs, “Please? Let me help.”

And mollified by his words or his actions, she settles and lets her head fall against his shoulder. It doesn’t take long to get to her bedroom, the door of which he gently nudges open with his power.

Caleb settles her on the bed and walks over to her dresser. “What d’ya wanna wear?”

“Mmm, I have some clothes ready in the top drawer.”

Pulling open the heavy wooden drawer, Caleb is surprised to recognize her clothes as his. “I was wearing this the last time I visited.”

“Yeah, your clothes are comfier than mine.”

“The shorts aren’t mine,” he points out.

“Your shorts would slide down my legs. The shirt is big, but it’s sooo nice to sleep in.”

As Caleb tugs the shirt and shorts closer, he can’t help but notice that it still smells faintly of his scent.

“Didn’t you wash this, Pip-squeak?” he drawls.

“Oh. No…” She sounds embarrassed, and he’s just about to tease her for always leaving her dirty laundry for him to do when she soundly sucker-punches him with what she says next. “It still smells like you… So… that’s why.”

That soft admission has the air retreating from his lungs in a wicked rush, words hitting with precision impact. Caleb doesn’t turn to face her. He can’t. His fist is tightly clenched around his shirt—the one that smells like him—his eyes are closed, and his breathing is so erratic that he needs to take a moment to calm himself.

Of course, he keeps her clothes at his bedside when she’s not in his home, but to hear she does the same—no, that she wears clothes that smell like him to bed—makes him feel fucking feral. He is not a good man. Far from it. He is who he needs to be so that he can keep her safe.

But when the reality of her words hits, it shifts his intentions for the evening entirely. He’d meant to put her to bed with a heating pad after checking for wounds, and then go to make her something to eat. Now she’d be lucky if he let her sleep at all.

“Where’s that massage oil that Tara got you?”

“How do you know about that?!” she balks.

“She was bragging about it at your birthday party. She’s remarkably chatty when she’s been drinking.” Tara was remarkably chatty all the time, but she got downright obscene with alcohol. Caleb got the sense that she was intentionally making him aware of the oil, almost as if she was giving him a not-so-subtle nudge.

As if any of this was up to him. Still, the knowledge came in handy. He’s feeling not the least bit smug about it, at least, until she hits him with another jab. “It’s in the drawer of my bedside table.”

Caleb closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and specifically does not think about what that likely means.

He clears his throat, but his voice is still rough when he finally manages to ask, “Can you dress yourself?”

“I can manage. But what are you going to do with the oil?”

Caleb shakes his head, turns, and fixes her with a look. “Massage your legs, silly girl. You could barely stand earlier. They’re gonna be hellish in the morning if you don’t take care of them now.”

“You’d do that for me?” she asks, cheeks still flushed from her shower, and towel wrapped tight. She looks good enough to eat, and Caleb expects that if he doesn’t somewhat sate the beast inside of him, he’s going to make a meal of her sooner rather than later.

Caleb stands before her, bunches her shirt—his shirt—up, and slides the top over her head. “Can you manage the rest?”

She nods, and he turns around to give her some privacy. “The shorts?”

“I can manage,” she replies, but her groans make his stomach twist with concern.

“They’re working you too hard.”

“My job is hard. This is what I signed up for.”

“Then you need to do a better job of taking care of yourself during your days off.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“I think ‘Daddy’ would be more fitting.”

“Caleb!” she squeaks. “Don’t say things like that.” But she certainly doesn’t sound as scandalized as she should…

“All right, all right. I’m sorry. You finished?”

“…Yeah, I got it.”

Caleb turns, tilts his head, and gives her a look. Her hair’s messed up now from the shirt, and she looks tired. A perfect pout greets his smile.

“Poor baby,” he softly croons. “Lay back and let me take care of you.”

He can see her swallow at that, like she’s having a hard time making her vocal cords work. “You’re just taking advantage of my weakness.”

“Naturally. How else am I gonna get you to understand that you need me?”

She huffs at that. “You need me just as much as I need you, Caleb.”

He snorts softly, teeth pressing into his tongue, before he softly admits, “You have no idea… Now, no more stalling.”

Caleb points to the bed, and she dutifully scoots back onto the sheets, albeit slowly and with effort. He manages to dig out the oil from her dresser and pointedly ignores literally everything else that’s hidden away in there because he won’t be able to behave if he does otherwise.

“I guess I should have grabbed the oil,” she starts to say.

He frowns. “Why?”

“Oh… never mind.”

“Something you don’t want me to see in there?”

She nibbles her lip, eyes fluttering softly as she murmurs, “Maybe… maybe not.”

The look she gives him is so coy and tempting that his mind goes completely blank and he utterly forgets what the hell he’d been in the middle of doing. At least, until she points to the oil.

“Are you gonna massage my legs or…?”

“Yeah… yeah. Right. Roll over, Pip-squeak. Lemme see where it hurts.”

She rolls over and Caleb’s eyes trail reverently over the length of her legs. She looks good. Too good. He hates that her coworkers get to even see a measure of this. Of course, he knows it’s insane to want to be the only one who can appreciate her, but his greedy heart feels it just the same.

“You been workin’ out more lately?”

“Hmm? Why?”

“Things look… tight,” he rasps, voice betraying his interest and desire.

Her reply is soft and teasing. “Someone did make me join that squat challenge last month. And here, I thought you had ulterior motives, but you’re acting all surprised.”

Caleb coughs to cover up some of his embarrassment and dispel a measure of his lust. Yeah, he had gotten her to agree to that challenge. Honestly, he’d been grasping for things to say, because he caught her right after a workout and the fine mist of sweat on her brow, along with the gorgeous flush in her cheeks, had him thinking of exercise of a different kind.

And here she’d taken him seriously.

“Gonna be as strong as me soon,” he manages while stepping closer to the bed. Her legs are spread on either side of him, and for one long moment, he doesn’t know what to do, or where to look next.

“Doubt it. Your legs are too long, and your thighs are too strong.”

“Been thinking about my thighs, baby?”

He’s teasing, sweet, and he means to catch her off guard, but she hits back so hard as she replies, “Yeah, your thighs… and other parts of your anatomy.”

Caleb sighs, long and hard. Says a prayer for courage to whoever happens to be listening, the Gods of the earth and the sea and space, or otherwise, and then, he gets to work. He kneels on the floor at the edge of the bed, and he’s tall enough that this gives him a good vantage point. He knows exactly what he wants to do next, and he’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

 “Tell me if it hurts.”

feels like home series page; sticky fingers: chapter two

~~~

Author’s Note:

Sorry, this was so big that I had to cut it into two chapters because I hate editing and I got busy with other stuff. I’ll post the other chapter tomorrow, so you can have something to enjoy (I hope) over the weekend. The second part is spicier :D

I listened to the hipsterist hipster music for this one to get me into the right headspace, please enjoy haha. Also somewhat inspired by what has to have been the most painful massage I’ve ever had in my LIFE (did not have the same ending, there was only pain lmao, but I was like hmm maybe Caleb would be good at massages for MC, and then, PAIN). Also Deeply inspired by that secret times where Caleb takes care of MC when she’s sick. Like GOD DAMN, Caleb. “You’re worried I’ll spoil you rotten. Too late for that!” ??? ARE YOU KIDDING ME????

Also, not that it matters in the slightest, but I wrote this before I learned it’s canon that she likes to keep his clothes around (and wear them???) because they smell like him. They’re just really transparent with how fucking down bad these two are for each other lmao.

Still really fucking obsessed here, guys. Chokehold, I think is a good way to put it. Caleb is a mf bias wrecker, like oh my literal GOD. I swear, some of these are gonna be from MC’s pov, but I’m working through some SHIT rn lol.

I also gave the MC a little name, “Emme” which is short for Emme Sea lmao. I have a challenging time with writing y/n or like using second person present tense. No judgment or anything like that, it just makes it hard for me to think of the characters properly when I’m writing them. ANYWAY, I’ll use it sparingly, but sometimes, it’s just better to have a name lol.

Anyway, thanks so much for reading! And extra hugs for anyone who left a comment. You are the apple of my eye, and thank you for giving me a space to channel this whatever it is? Obsession lmao. I’ve got a few other interludes planned (shower), and I’m taking requests (on tumblr), so either give this/me a follow, or check up on my tumblr :) If you enjoyed, I’d love to hear from you! Or feel free to share with a friend, if you’re lucky enough to have some Caleb-obsessed friends haha.

Don’t forget! I'll be posting any updates as installments (not chapters), so be sure to sub to the series or my user name to get updates on ao3, or just check my tumblr, i'll post here too♥️🍎

[starmocha]

Touring in Love —

21 Days ▪︎ Fluffy Treatment ▪︎ Immobilized ▪︎ Omnipotent Perception

[loveanddeepspice]

𝕋𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔾𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕖

✞ synopsis:  you've come back to the small town you grew up in for a visit. though your relationship with the catholic church and faith in general have been strained since you were younger, you find yourself drawn back to the church... or more specifically... the new priest... you aren't ready to share your secret sin with him... but you may not be able to help yourself.

✞ pairing: sylus x curvy fem!reader

✞ rating:  18+ (minors do not engage)

✞ cw:  religion (catholicism), priest, lapsed faith, adultery, priest kink, suicidal mention, dead parent, sex, masturbation, drugs (marijuana), mentions of other drug use, drinking (more will be added when/if they arise)

✞ disclaimer: this fiction explores a romantic relationship between a lapsed Catholic and an unconventional priest. it is not designed to be inflammatory or critical. catholic authors were asked to participate in the process. we hope you enjoy it, but we know that these topics can be sensitive, so please skip this fiction if it will in any way offend you.

✞ chapter:  9 / 9

✞ co-authors:  redbriony, confuseddoughnut (they do not have tumblr)

✞ ao3 link:  here

✞ chapter synopsis: ’twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved.

✞ index: chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5| chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8 | chapter 9 | This is the last chapter! Please see the end for A/N.

Oddly enough, the initial thought that entered his mind when Y/N's father landed a punch on his face Friday morning was, ‘I deserved that.’

He didn't have difficulty dodging the floor, though, which was a blessing. Rubbing his jaw, he figured he probably wasn't hit as hard as the older man wanted. Stupid idiot, not a real fucking priest, fucking around with his sweet daughter, leading her on. “A real fucking piece of shit.”

As the accusations were hurled at him, his initial thought was, what could the man possibly be thinking?

Father Sylus might have had the same thoughts if the tables were turned, but he wouldn't have expressed them so boldly. Perhaps he understood the situation, and that's why he didn't try to justify himself. He could see where the man was coming from.

Now, standing in the middle of the church office, Y/N's father refusing to look at him or meet his eyes—that struck an awful chord. He kept his eyes downcast as Y/N's father continued his tirade. The words stung, each one a sharp barb, but deep down, he knew there was truth to them. He had allowed himself to grow too close to Y/N, to let his feelings for her blossom into something forbidden and dangerous. He knew that's what anyone would see.

"I trusted you," her father spat, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "I trusted you to guide my daughter, not to take advantage of her. "

Father Sylus opened his mouth to speak. He was hoping to clarify some things, just for the record, and wanted to jump out the window when the words were: "I know this looks bad."

"You got that right." Y/N's dad finally looked at him; his irritation reflected the hell Father Sylus felt.

"Listen to me," Father Sylus made an effort to keep his tone calm. "This is bigger than you, or I, or..."

"Cut the shit, Father." This was Talia who spoke, glaring harshly and leaning against the wall, her finger pointed. The word 'Father' had never been used in a worse way. It was a slap that coiled around his neck, tightened till the muscle there contracted, and struggled against the tension.

"Think of the reputation the Catholic Church already has, going around accusing priests and nuns and bishops of all these -" She hissed, stopping herself. And before she began again, Father Sylus knew what the next words were.

What had to be done to protect the members. Not a fear of anything spiritual. It was the church's reputation as a whole, even if this had nothing to do with what she was speaking about. Even he knew that it wouldn't matter. Father Sylus merely chose not to see the faults, the perverse, or the corrupt except to acknowledge the horror that it was. This never stopped him from helping the people who most needed it.

He had just had dinner with most of them the other day, he had sat across the table with them after seeing a glimpse of life, not having the darkness or the lingering pain that lurked in the depths. Y/N had done that to him, making him believe that one person could do that much for another. Wasn't that what God wanted, too? to heal the blind, the broken, and the battered.

Still...

"What do you intend to do? Go to the local press? The national news channels?" Father Sylus continued, shaking his head slightly, trying not to let the anger get a hold of him. It came from hurt, loss, and a feeling that something was so close to crumbling and couldn't be put back together.

"She's the adult, but I should have never been so blind." Y/N's dad sounded upset and broken, really. It made the whole thing ten times harder.

"I'm calling the bishop, " Talia said, grimacing and picking at her fingers. The way she was unable to still herself was an annoyance. It was the sight of a restless mind struggling for rationale while the chest was heaving for solutions. She obviously did not think before the statement was released and in the air. She did not ponder such moments of stress, as she was like her.

"You can't." Father Sylus shot a look over to her.

"Why not?!" Y/N's dad spat, bristling as he stepped closer to the two. He did not look like he cared for the answer, but the words fell nonetheless.

And Father Sylus didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to put his feelings out there in the open without having them pulled apart, not having them twisted in front of his face.

"It doesn't matter. We all just need to be realistic about this." It fell with the delicacy of a pin dropped on a rug. It could be felt and heard but would not break anything.

It was difficult not to recoil from the words, not to flinch as they were released, a blade striking the target as the man across from him spoke again. "I expected more from you."

Father Sylus swallowed down the guilt, straightening. He had to remind himself it wasn't just about him. There was someone who cared for him dearly, someone he cared deeply for. And he would die before feeling regret eat him from the inside out, as it certainly was trying to do now.

It didn't stop there, however; Talia shoved off the wall and stared wide-eyed. "Why didn't you stop this sooner?"

He sighed, feeling irritated at the insinuation. "Why do you think?"

That stopped Talia short. It was blunt and not entirely his intention. But Talia was his friend. If he could call her that, he trusted that she knew what he meant.

Father Sylus knew they were all human, with their own desires and temptations. Every day, he prayed for strength to resist them, but when he eventually gave in, he did not push away those thoughts. Instead, he had acted upon them.

You learn something from your mistakes. Only this wasn't a mistake. In seminary, Father Sylus was taught to trust himself, that his heart and his mind and God would lead him the right way. He didn't understand back then why the other priests seemed so set in their views, so careful to examine every word and question the meaning behind it. But he was beginning to now, more than ever. A clarity had washed over him like the first rays of light entering a dim cave; it had struck him with vigor.

Talia knew. He saw it in her eyes, how she took a slow breath and glanced at the floor, clutching her skirt in her hands. She wasn't often silent, and it didn't take long for the silence to get to him, nor the stress from both Y/N's dad, and the situation itself.

"It still isn't right." She whispered, and he thought it was supposed to sound harsh, but instead, she only sounded defeated. Her words had lost their bite.

Father Sylus closed his eyes, tilting his head up to the ceiling for a moment, praying that the words would fall straight from his tongue without failure, without a hesitant breath, or pause for composure. His heartbeat grew a little steadier, and his nerves were soothed.

And looking at Y/N's dad then, a soft, disheartened smile graced his face. "I apologize. I know it isn't right; I do. Sometimes you fall in love, though."

A flinch, the man’s eyebrows pulling together, frowning and staring him down. A shadow covering the kind look that was once in his eye. Those pupils widened, taking him in. "What did you just say?"

The heart cannot be controlled, cannot be measured or weighed, and can't even be seen by human eyes unless you cut the chest open and expose it to the cruel outside world. Father Sylus didn't find it so cruel anymore, though.

That was a thought for later. Another time. One day. He had faith in that. For now, though, it was like the ground had begun to crumble, and the cracks were traveling so swiftly, further and further apart, spreading and reaching toward those who stood above.

"You heard me." And his heart shouldn't pound like this, his palms shouldn't sweat, and his stomach shouldn't feel like there was an eel thrashing around. "I don't know what the future holds, or how this will unfold, or how God will punish me for this transgression."

Some color had drained from Y/N's dad, and Talia went beside him, gently touching his shoulder and giving him a stern look—one Father Sylus hadn't yet seen from her. He noted that he probably should have thought about that or how different things were about to be.

"Father," Talia let go of the man, taking a step towards him, leaning in with a shake of her head, hissing. "This is blasphemy."

Father Sylus merely shrugged, figuring she probably never had an excuse to use the word until now, which was why she used it.

"I'm not throwing myself a pity party or turning this entire thing around to act like I'm some selfless martyr, Talia."

Y/N's dad shuffled from foot to foot, "This can't be happening."

The crack in his voice pulled on Father Sylus' heartstrings, making him feel the desperation in his skin, how uncomfortable and conflicted he felt, how ugly and dark the entire situation was, and how deep into the spiral they had all found themselves. But then his mind went to Y/N, thinking about what she was doing and if she was okay, and as much as it killed him, there was hope.

"It shouldn't, but it is." Father Sylus took a steadying breath.

There was a slight shift in the room, and maybe they hadn't expected his response or didn't expect it to be so direct, or maybe they hadn't been told the priest had such a strong opinion on this stuff. Father Sylus wasn't sure, but he knew it was out in the open now, and it couldn't be undone. Maybe it couldn't be fixed either , but he certainly wasn't letting this slip through his fingers.

Y/N's dad was now leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed over his chest, avoiding the gazes of both the priest and Talia. The man could only shake his head and squeeze his eyes shut.

"I'm having a hard time thinking this is real, " he croaked, making Father Sylus only more sympathetic. He understood how frustrating and unsettling the situation was, especially for someone like Y/N's dad, someone who had suffered a loss.

"I am the one who is responsible, and -"

"Nothing is ever cut and dry with her, though. I should have known." Y/N's dad interrupted, making his way towards the office door. "I'm buying her a ticket back home."

Father Sylus swallowed past the lump in his throat, "She's not going to like that."

"Does it look like I care?"

Father Sylus walked forward quickly, going over to stop him from leaving the room, although the effort was pathetic. The others' feet stopped right at the threshold. "You shouldn't. You might never see her again." He wasn’t sure why he said those words exactly, for he himself knew they weren’t true.

Y/N's father stiffened, "Is that a threat, Father?"

Father Sylus held up his hands, realizing how his words had sounded. "No, no, of course not. I just meant... Y/N is an adult, like you said. She makes her own choices.”

"Never again?" Talia echoed a bit too late. Didn't it just seem cruel to leave a puzzle in the middle of the game unfinished? The outcome was inevitable, but the journey, how the road was set, and where it would lead next were so mysterious and overwhelming at the same time.

"I'm trying to make this easy." Y/N's dad narrowed his eyes, shoulders tensing.

"Go ahead, send her back home, push her away, be left wondering why all the time." Father Sylus challenged. It was for more selfish reasons than he wanted to admit to at the moment .

"Don't play that card, not now."

That was the best advice, and Father Sylus took a step back, trying to find peace, "Look, it won't change anything. This town is small and people will talk regardless."

If there wasn't anything more to discuss, if the secrets would be allowed to settle and people would stop breathing them into the air, the wounds might be given enough time to heal. Yes, occasionally getting better with a friendly nudge was much more manageable. But they were all human, after all, weren't they?

"I'm calling the bishop," Talia repeated her earlier statement, but Father Sylus didn't show that it affected him.

"Do what you want."

Talia gaped, at a loss for words, stunned even. This seemed unfair; he had taken more than a second to think about this, something he had acknowledged long before that evening with Y/N came. Sure, some aspects were shocking and made his pulse speed up, and yeah, now that the secret was out, it should have been a relief to confess to Y/N's father about his feelings.

But his own feelings weren't what was important here, and that hurt, maybe more than some would believe it could. He could accept it, though, for her. So that a bit of happiness could seep into her skin and settle in her heart.

Even if that meant giving up one of the things he treasured most. It was disappointing to say the least. Not nearly enough of a punishment. What would happen to him? To Y/N? Now, that would have to be a part of the unknown, his penance that no one else could take. Only he and the Lord could decide upon that. And maybe He already had; maybe this was the judgment, the sins out in the open.

God would decide.

Y/N's father stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him with a resounding thud. Father Sylus flinched at the sound, closing his eyes briefly as he tried to gather his composure. Talia remained, her eyes wide and disbelieving as she stared at him.

You were used to panic. When living alone in your apartment, stress had a tendency to bottle up and fester into something you couldn't quite comprehend.

Sometimes, it would end with a bottle shattered and your body tired and sore, but this felt different. Your father confronting you had felt different. Especially when the emotions in his eyes were not directed at you; instead, they were pained. And when he pressed his lips together and cast his gaze elsewhere, the dull, throbbing pain settled in your chest, refusing to subside.

God, you really were a horrible daughter. Wretched. Narcissistic. The worst. A sinner, a demon, a fool, and an idiot who never thought. At this point, maybe they were a fair assessment, and the words you assumed your father had thought would surely follow you for the rest of your miserable life.

Standing in your room now, you couldn't stop thinking about Father Sylus. You remembered the feeling of his arms, that warm touch, and the depth of his crimson eyes.

And in the silence of your room that night, your suitcase packed and ready to go with the earliest flight your father could book back out west - you did something you hadn't done seriously in a very long time.

When you were younger, you often kneeled in front of the windowsill after your mother passed. Closing your eyes or keeping them open didn't make a difference. Lacing your fingers together and resting your chin on the backs of your hands - you used to pray. For good health, for the pain to fade, just for those stormy emotions in your head to settle.

Who knows, maybe your mom was listening. Kneeling next to you in spirit and pleading for you not to forget her, pleading for you to accept and love yourself. At the time, those moments were meant for her memory. But after getting older and finding a new curiosity about the world, they were soon forgotten, too.

And maybe you were trying to help yourself then. With nothing else to really lose, you resigned yourself to praying for a different outcome, pleading for a change that was in the hands of another.

It was so hard, kneeling there, like the strength to keep your composure was slipping from you. Each breath constricted, and with each time your eyes watered and the tears slipped past, you told yourself to keep strong. Asking someone else for an answer wasn't the best idea; maybe you were hoping for the impossible.

"Hey," you began quietly, biting back the tremble. "I'm- really not one for this. Stuff. And I hope that you're hearing me because..."

You fought to take deep, steady breaths and force the words beyond your clenched teeth. The thoughts were just as difficult to manage, and you had to shut your eyes tightly to calm the trembling within.

"If you could help, I'd appreciate that. Sorry, I don't deserve it, but that's selfish. Um, my-" and you gripped your hands tighter together.

"Can I ask for something, please?" Struggling past the lump in your throat, you swallowed hard. "I know, it's selfish. Prayers aren't really something that should be turned into a list of wishes..."

You knew. God had more important things to be doing than waiting for a scum like you to apologize and plead for help. He would guide the ones who listened, studied His word, did good deeds, and praised Him. You were none of those things; you had fallen off that path long ago.

"So, I'm not really sure if I should, but please, just help me," You cracked. Holding your hand over your mouth and trying to gasp in oxygen, you could hardly control the shuddering; it only made your heart pump faster, and the pain grew tenfold.

"He- Father Sylus - just keep him safe. That's all. I lov - he deserves it. You can't forsake him. If it wasn't for him - I just want him to be okay. I don't deserve anything; I just - I'll ask for this, even if I don't deserve to have that happen."

Father Sylus would listen, and the thought of that broke you. You just, needed someone to listen. Father Sylus deserved the best. God would surely grant him that. And you...

"God, I have never needed help as badly as I do now."

And still, a dark part of you couldn't allow yourself to think that He'd listen. He would pick others because it was the right thing to do—or the punishment. How awful would it be to answer for your deeds, the wrongs, or the filthy stuff that happened over the past few weeks? Maybe this was karma kicking in.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, you opened your eyes, looking out the window at the night sky above. It was illuminated with stars that glittered so greatly that anyone could see the wonders. Did anyone stop to appreciate it, or did everyone just gloss over it without a care or a glance? Was that what it was like to look at your mistakes and not learn, apologize, or regret them?

It was not the future that hurt the worst, no. Nor was the loss, change, or distance. It wasn't even the uncertainty that clawed up your spine and clung to your clothes like dirty water. That seemed the least of your worries because the lack of time and the chance of missed opportunity made the pain bloom somewhere deeper.

The church was quiet as you walked in, the early morning light peeking through the windows. The familiar sensation of wooden floors beneath your shoes, a comfort, a normality, and a sense of guilt. Because you shouldn't have been there, but a coward you were, and the thought of avoiding one last goodbye wouldn't leave you alone.

Because deep down, a sick part of you wished the plane would crash. You weren't even on it yet, either. But the thought of not having to deal with the other options, choices, and consequences, and the pain of letting him go, had made your decision so much easier.

Oh, and like a magnet being attracted to its pole, you saw Father Sylus, looking out his office window.

He looked peaceful, holding the rosary and slowly running the beads between his fingers. He was humming something. All that could be heard was the slight hum, off-tune, but you recognized it.

Do not be afraid; I am with you.

When the humming stopped, you were surprised to realize you had walked to him without making a sound.

"You shouldn't be here." Father Sylus informed you, not bothering to look over his shoulder. Did he already know it was you? The words were not said to send you away. Instead, they held no weight behind them, and if that weren't enough of a giveaway, the soft smile as he turned was enough to confirm it for you.

"Don't worry, I'm leaving." It sounded so different out loud, and his shoulders didn't slouch; in fact, they stiffened. At the sight, your mouth watered, and your tongue started to feel heavy.

"I'm sorry, Sylus." You murmured, reaching forward to brush your hand on his arm; how he jolted made you retract your fingers.

His deep, red gaze finally fell upon you, and the color drained from his face. A shaky exhale fell past his lips as his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"What are you apologizing for? You've done nothing wrong, Y/N."

That couldn't be farther from the truth. But for the first time, you wanted to avoid correcting him. "So you're okay, right?"

There was a pinch to the tenderness; if you looked any closer, you could see him struggle with the answer.

"That's always a little tricky to figure out, isn't it ?"

And his smile was so endearing, and you couldn't stop thinking about the act that had taken place in this very office not long ago. Soaking in his presence and finding comfort in his touch, cherishing his scent. That urge to cry was back, and you stumbled forward, crashing into his side and burying your face into his chest.

"It hurts." You whined, a trembling hand gripping the material of his sweater. You'd always hated yourself for needing others, being weak, and not being able to fix things on your own.

"I know," Father Sylus smoothed your hair back." I didn't want this for you; you were just supposed to be happy."

You pulled back abruptly, eyes wide and a gasp catching in your throat. He grimaced, taking a hand and tapping a finger to his temple. "Everything moves and nothing is concrete, yes?"

"Please say you aren't feeling guilty." As soon as the words left your mouth you chastised yourself.

Father Sylus and his guilt, trying to swallow down the emotions when he should have just let himself have what he wanted.

"I know what it's like to have everything taken from you," you said, "to fall in love for the wrong reasons—with the wrong person."

The reminder shocked him, and his fingers ghosted against the skin beneath your collarbone, sending warm tingles up your neck, almost enough for you to lean against his hand.

"Stop."

And he sounded hurt, that frown appearing again, and when his eyebrows furrowed, well, something about it never failed to have your heart hammering in your chest.

"It shouldn't have happened - everything." Your nails dug into your palms painfully. "If it hadn't been for me - then maybe you could-"

"Stop." His deep voice was a growl, and his hand traveled up to grip your chin, tilting your head so that you were forced to look into his eyes—so sharp, so beautiful. "Don't talk like that. I won't accept that."

Despite the intense gaze, his fingers caressed your cheek so lightly, making your lips quirk up at the affection, relaxing instantly. Then his thumb rubbed gentle circles, and the soft gaze the two of you shared had your face heating up under his attention.

"It was me. I knew what I was doing," he smiled a little sheepishly. "I'll take the blame, the repercussions."

His tender gesture had you biting your bottom lip and closing your eyes to blink away the tears. Why did he have to care? Why did he have to try so hard? What had you done to deserve such admiration and devotion?

"What'll happen to you?" You wondered aloud, because as long as you didn't watch him break, as long as you didn't see the destruction firsthand, it might not hurt as much.

"I'll leave, most likely."

"Where are you going?"

Father Sylus just smiled, leaning in and pressing his lips softly to yours. He kissed you sweetly for a moment, and you pressed into the familiar gesture with everything you had.

His fingers curled into your waist, clutching onto the material of your shirt in a way that had your pulse quickening, and a shaky breath falling from your mouth. When he pulled back, it was too soon. And when he gave you a smile that had your knees buckling, he said something that would stay ingrained in your memory.

"God is everywhere, and therefore so am I."

And while those words did a pretty good job, the promise in his tone, along with that intense stare, had your hands fisting in his sweater, your body becoming jittery, the nerves sending pinpricks under your skin. The intensity is almost too much for you to process.

"I don't know anything about love," you whispered, "or why God makes us do stupid shit.”

"Because He wants to see us fall so that we may rise back up again."

"Then I'm happy, to have fallen for you."

He raised an eyebrow at your statement, and even though you were trembling, both from nervousness and fear, you felt a surprising warmth erupt in the pit of your stomach. A content and comfortable glow settled all around you as the words began to spill from your mouth.

"I myself go because of you, and your...your kind heart, and - oh, and your hair and - and - I love you."

With a huff, Father Sylus pressed another kiss lips , silencing you. Your breathing became somewhat labored. And instead of letting your emotions overwhelm you any more than you could handle, you laughed nervously as you pulled back to get a look at his face.

"California is great this time of year." You added.

"Yeah?" he asked, sounding content but not surprised. In fact, it seemed more as if he'd known what you were about to ask before the words had even left your mouth. You weren't sure if that was comforting or worrying.

But, Goddamnit, it was the best and most incredible possibility you'd ever been given the chance to express. And if this was real, and if it was heaven or hell, or wherever was next, it would matter so much more, so you knew you needed to be selfish just once more.

"I don't have anybody," You told him. “In California.”

And then Father Sylus shook his head and pressed his lips together, and panic erupted in your chest before anything had been spoken. It was this pit in the pit of your gut, churning, the fear mounting, telling you not to get your hopes up because if you were to get it up again, that would mean ripping yourself apart and rearranging everything inside.

"You have plenty of people in your life, Y/N." Father Sylus informed you. "And me, well, I don't have a home, really. Besides, not everyone likes the beach."

You could have cried. After so much stress, worry, and sorrow, you wanted to sink back into his arms and let him hold you forever. "Maybe I'm sick, Father. Maybe I'm broken beyond repair, and no one can fix that but you ."

With a sad smile, Father Sylus' thumb brushed over the tears on your cheek, and you loved how warm he was.

"No, you're not. You are coming home; that's the biggest victory you could have achieved. And just..." He cleared his throat, the emotion seeping in.

What did I do?" You asked.

"You sought to heal your crushed spirit." To calm the quivering, Father Sylus gripped your chin again to make you meet his eyes. "You did that. Not me. Not God. You did that."

"I need you." you urged, pulling on his collar.

"I know," he murmured. His dark and hooded eyes flickered down to you briefly. Those soft lips and mouth open, and that deep voice caught your name on his tongue.

"Say it." you pleaded. "You've given me the confidence, so please-" Your fingers tightened around his , begging him to stop stabbing your heart a little further until it finally broke. "Tell me you love me."

"I love you," he assured. His hand cupped the side of your face, long fingers sliding over the skin, tugging the ear and moving strands of hair. And then he glanced up, the light overhead piercing his orbs, and you thought you saw some tears cling to the ends of his eyelashes.

In those little touches, it was in that moment, and the kindness showed through how his thumb caressed the soft spot behind your ear. And the heat that radiated off of him, giving you every impression of being comforted. Or perhaps it was how your heart pounded erratically, sending sparks behind your eyelids. But either way, it was at that moment you realized something.

This was a test. That’s all it had been.

"I love you," Father Sylus muttered once more. Lips parted open just a bit too long until all that could be heard was the wind howling against the window as winter gradually left its mark.

It took a second, before you were forced to take a deep, slow breath, the shaking of your nerves refusing to leave. "I have to go." When Father Sylus looked at you with those beautiful crimson orbs, you smiled sadly. "I’ll miss my flight."

And he nodded, and you pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth, the sudden reality washing over, taking the ease and settling the ache back into the chest where it had started.

"I heard California is nice this time of year." Father Sylus said.

"Yes," you agreed, chuckling slightly. "The waves are nice. Perfect for when you're excommunicated for sleeping with a parishioner."

"Sounds pretty spectacular."

And it did, and the thought of having him beside you through the change flushed out the pressure of anxiety and sadness . "And the view over San Francisco Bay is spectacular."

You weren't sure what made you say it, or why a sudden burst of confidence swelled. All you knew was, suddenly, with Father Sylus, there were no secrets.

Father Sylus tilted his head, regarding you curiously. He brushed a strand of hair from your face before meeting your eyes, crimson locking with your gaze. "What kind of view are we talking about?"

"Nothing like you've seen before, Sylus." He had to understand , it was an easy realization, really, "Out west, the sunrise is just..."

No lies. No secrets. For all you knew, it could be one of the last times you saw him. Did that still have the same effect, knowing neither of you was being forced away?

"Do I have a chance?" He asked, and you didn't have to think hard about the question to understand its intent.

He trusted you, but would it be enough? Would he be enough?

Would it be enough to see you smile each morning when you caught his attention, his lips quirking up into that beautiful half grin? Holding onto you when you slept, fingers woven in your hair, or feeling your body shifting against his side. Seeing you get ready for work in the bathroom, hearing the song you hummed to yourself. The kind words he would give after seeing you dance without music. Watching you grow happy each time he kissed your skin and marked you and sent shivers up and down your spine. And would those rare moments of passion that allowed you to feel his emotions, bursting from his fingertips and flowing through his mouth and radiating off of his heart, be enough for him to overcome the differences?

Was he willing to ignore the ways in which the two of you were so intrinsically flawed and simply fall in love with the parts that still bore so much trust and content, maybe even peace?

Would seeing your smile every day be enough?

You smiled and rested your head on his shoulder, the silence filling the room with a melancholy aura until you finally spoke.

"You always have a chance."

When you pulled away, there was nothing but an unsettling quietness—just the humming of the clock, the steady breaths, and the wind outside.

It wasn't exactly like you were perfect, or doing anything right. If anything, you were the one who had it the easiest because once you had opened the door, he just had to walk through it. And while it hurt to look upon the uncertainty, the truth was that you were hopeful. A piece of you had slipped through the cracks, and come back, crawling forth to reach the surface.

It wasn't blind or naïve, the hope that held you or had held you this entire time. But it was there, and so were you.

An imperfect man who had made mistakes and wasn't much different than yourself. Once upon a time, you had known, to accept the flaws, the hurt, and the people inside of them. That's all that God wanted from people at the end of the day, right?

A person. A soul. An existence.

That's all anyone could ever be.

Somehow, by the grace of God, you would allow yourself to bask in this feeling of worth, redemption, and mercy, regardless of the fact that a darker part of you would say you didn't deserve to be saved.

But love, even if it doesn't last, will have no other purpose other than what it is. And that's enough.

With one last glimpse, your hands fell into your pockets, and you took a deep, shuddering breath. Your resolve was not broken; it was accepted and resolved, and you glanced up with a confident step to the door, a prayer in your head.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

The End

Tag list: @celestialforce, @readerxyourbabe, @babyx91 A/N:

If listening to author song picks gives you brain zaps, I suggest listening to these if you're a loser like me who stays to watch the credits of a movie: You knew this one was coming, right? Headphones encouraged. SYMBOLISM, my friends. The song mentioned in the chapter, but not specifically mentioned except for one line from it.

I am so incredibly grateful to have had the friends that helped me write a good majority of this. Words cannot express how *sigh* blessed I feel to have had help so my dumb brain could write properly, or word things differently, or remember how Catholicism worked. This probably wasn't the AU anyone wanted, or expected. But here we are, and this has BLOWN UP in ways I didn't expect. It even inspired ART from somebody. I can't believe it. It honestly warms my heart so much at how much attention this has gotten. I myself struggle with a lot of confidence/religious guilt/relationship issues that our MC in this story faces, so I am so happy it's touched others. I wanted this to be a lot longer, but I have ideas for more horrible fics and more horrible AU's, so I need the headspace for that. I am also working on original stuff. And all good things must come to an end. I apologize if this is a cliffhanger for a lot of people, but considering this was written from a 'reader' perspective, I didn't want to twist it too much in a certain direction. So, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to those who have read, will continue to read, and interact with me about this fic. LDS has become such an important game to me and the depth of Sylus as a character makes me want to pull my hair out and also punch him in the face (affectionately). If you enjoy my work, please let me know. Your support means the world. <3

My kofi page if you want to further support me. Never required but always appreciated!

[ryllen]

pov: me super sad on them altering zayne's ENG voice on the recent update

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

Which I will happily contribute to again once Paperfold get their shit together

Sir, you are a treasure. I pray that you know how beloved and appreciated you are by the LADS fandom, how grateful we all are that you exist. Your sultry baritone is the reason why a lot of us downloaded the game in the first place. The way you breathe life and soul into Sylus, making him uniquely Sylus, shows the depth of care and love you have for both your craft and your character.

With every new card, every new event, every new phone call, every new Secret Times, you somehow manage to outdo yourself, which should be an impossible feat considering what an outstanding job you always do with everything. And yet you somehow always find new ways to raise the bar.

Thank you for all that you do <3 may both sides of your pillow always be cool, and may your anonymity always be protected. Losing you would be the same as losing Sylus. No one could ever replace you. And some fans can be very weird and creepy and I don't ever want you to be on the receiving end of that.

Keep on slaying, King 👑❤️