#Substitute Guardian

[ferretoats]

Introducing! Momo and Guardian as Scavengers!

(pretend I didn't spell Guardian wrong in the pic) It is actually kinda hard to turn the companions into scavs- mostly because it's the clothing that makes up a main part of their design... and well not sure if it is even possible to make cloth beyond the explosive kind in rain world. I had to make an exception for Momo, cause they seem like the kind of guy to learn sewing in order to have their hawaiian shirt even in another universe.

Hats and Birds

ALSO the most frustrating thing is that these two have hats- and like- I just decided to mimic the shape of the hat with their horns. I took some inspiration from birds, Momo being a humming bird(colors) and Guardian being a canary (idk my mind went to how canaries were used in mines to detect carbon monoxide, cause they'd be the first to be effected by poisoning. So, I saw yellow on Guardian and remembered how they would be one of the first in line of defense against the rot and would probably die first- which is a bit grim).

Guardian is a master of explosives.

Also yes Guardian is actively wearing explosive/flammable fabric. Whether or not it is actually cannon I'd imagine the fabric being explosive itself or just a catalyst. But basically it is extremely flammable and upon meeting high friction would catch aflame. Gaurdian has already been burned because of this, but at the same time it has prevented creatures like daddy long legs from killing them, because they're essentially a walking firecracker, and so they'd instead be dropped a little worse for wear, but alive.

It is very possible I may change these designs in the future, but only time can tell.

[tirorah]

Wait, Ami, you're...you're in her class. You are! You should know! Do you just not pay attention to who gets cleanup duty? Were you too busy going over trigonometry in your brilliant mind to notice?

Ami and Makoto never get the pronounced dynamic establishment that Usagi and Ami, or Rei and Makoto do. In fact, some scenes featuring the two of them were cut, indicating a deeper dynamic was written but didn't make it into the final product. That's not to say they have no relationship at all, but like Usagi and Rei, it's emphasised less than the other dynamics in this group of four.

But maybe that's okay. Ami and Makoto get along naturally. There's no tension here, just support. It's all very comfortable and I doubt there's much potential for drama between them, which makes it more difficult to generate interesting character moments.

Of course, I'm an old Ami x Makoto shipper at heart and so the fact that these scenes were cut is a personal attack directed at me, myself and I! Release the Ami x Makoto cut!

(There's one cut scene where they've both been working on their knitting projects in the base. Makoto's fallen asleep on the couch and somehow her and Ami's knitting have combined. It's really sweet and I want it in the show proper so bad.)

[thelawfulchaotic]

What is very funny about being a specialist in juvenile law is that I never... actually liked children?

(Ok there is some possibility I am fooling myself about this, given that there has never been a single child client I got to know that I didn't love and root for and 100% support, but.)

I'm not a "kid person." I don't have the gift of running around and imagining with them. I babysat much less than equivalent older-millennial girls.

I just got into court, and I --

Okay, let me back up and talk about my first public defender's office. It was a rural office that covered several geographical jurisdictions, including multiple cities and counties, five total. Each of these had three courts that regularly needed to be covered: a juvenile/domestic court, a general court, and a slightly higher and fancier level of court. They all operated to varied schedules (general court A was on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but general court B was on Wednesdays and Fridays; juvenile court A was on Wednesdays and Fridays but juvenile court B was on Mondays and Wednesdays).

So, fifteen total "courts," and there were... hmm. 8-10 attorneys. And a boss who wanted us to be able to substitute for each other, and thus rotated us through the courts every month. On week 1, I might be doing general court A on Tuesday and general court B on Friday. On week 2, I might be doing general court A on Thursday and juvenile/domestic court A on Wednesday. I might have one day a month where I do general court C.

So on.

The court schedules cases not according to our schedules, but according to police officers. Do you see the problem yet?

Public defenders were fungible. For those who don't know that very academic-specific word, it means that we were exchangeable units. One case could go through four different attorney's hands because it would get continued, show up on someone else's date, get continued again, show up on someone else's date, and so on. Juvenile cases were particularly bad about this because they tended to linger in court for a long time, while the court monitored the juvenile's progress.

Here's another fun problem: the department in charge of things like child protection, custody, etc., would only come to court on Tuesdays. We did not have a spare attorney to cover an extra day on Tuesdays in which criminal cases would happen with children who happened to also have custody issues or a foster care prevention plan in place. They would put the criminal case on the next day, Wednesday. Effectively, this meant that we were not present for the decisions about where our clients went and what programs they would have to do.

So I'm dropped into this, a baby attorney, having watched a DVD about How To Juvenile Law. I feel my training is wildly inadequate, and I'm doing reviews on cases that have never had the same attorney twice. Zero trust between me and the kids, and why would there be?

I complained loudly until my boss gave in and ordered me the several-hundred-dollar Juvenile Practice In This State book, and then I read it cover to cover. I learned a bunch of really interesting things! Like all the stuff we'd been doing wrong!

My boss was shocked. "You actually read that?"

"What did you THINK I was gonna do?"

"Well, you're the juvenile expert now, I guess."

oh shit, I thought. oops. fuck.

But I leaned in, and not in the ambition way. I proposed a way to rearrange my schedule so that I would always be free on Tuesdays for DSS cases. Instantaneously, there was a change in the environment of the court -- before, it was the guardians ad litem, juvenile probation, and the attorney for DSS deciding what to do with kids. Now I was there. Making suggestions. And arguments.

We changed how we did the schedule, and how we put individual cases on that schedule. Keeping them on our days became a priority.

I instituted a weekly detention center visit, for myself. (I made it about half the time.)

I went to trainings. This area of law is wildly unpopular among a lot of public defenders, because it's complicated and sad and you don't get to do jury trials about it. Every new thing I learned just pissed me off. It wasn't that I liked kids. It was that kids deserved better. So I got to take over pretty much everything with regards to juvenile law in the office.

But like, I stumbled on this, I didn't know shit. I didn't have a passion for protecting children. It's just that every bit of law I learned made me go, "What? REALLY? Fuck off!"

[syluses]

father figure

sylus x female reader

he takes you in, he feeds you, he gives you a home when the world around you can no longer make sense of the word- and yet you’re just as much of a grounding force in his life. when the frenzy hits, though, he can’t make heads or tails of anything; all he knows is that you’re a pretty, fleshy thing and he aches to sample it.

content smut/nsfw, daddy kink, dilf/guardian! sylus, so by a stretch it can be pseudocest, noncon, soft! sylus but turns into frenzied! sylus, yandere themes, piv, rough handling, loss of virginity, some angst because of guilt/disillusion, codependency, age gap (but both parties are 18+), biting, dark content, almost 10k words

sidenote i could only resist the catch-22 sylus agenda for so long. it’s not fully canon compliant but its heavily based around it. so yes sylus has his iconic mullet and he’s a lil baby crashout in this. also no this isnt even the sylus bday fic i had in mind but if i dont get that one out in time then this will be the substitute 😣 anways, i hope u enjoy my friends <3

You don’t remember much, growing up. Beyond him, at least.

The world goes to shit with the predators and your parents fade out of the equation- and you’re left alone for much of your youth until an ominous man comes along and takes you under his wing— but only reluctantly.

For a while afterward, you think he still grudges you for the day you, in one way or another, managed to fall under his custody, becoming a knot in his neat web of plans and purposes. Deep down, you got the feeling that he didn’t need you as much as you did him; despite his choosing to keep you around, it was likely more out of guilt than any genuine affection- but you’d decided that was okay.

He saved your life, pulled you from the fire before you could really feel its burn, and you’d be the last to make complaint for your circumstances.

There’d be no circumstances if not for him.

But he tenderizes. It turns to be an open thing, his fondness.

He takes you in when you’re fifteen. Since then- throughout the course of around six years, he’s become softer. Less ambiguous to you. There’s things he keeps under wraps and always will despite the harmless pestering on your end (like questions regarding his work, the silhouettes that trail you both constantly— and the curious glances thrown to the blood on his collar after he returns late in the night). But he’s not longer as obscure to you, his person.

Trust blooms in the parts of you where an impoverished lifestyle of scraping by carved out gaps. And you’re used to hiding- that’s not much different now- but instead of diving for shady alleyways, you find refuge in him.

He’s dangerous. That was established early on; since the first moment you met him, really, knelt before him in fear after grabbing his pant leg for help (an action he mistook for a foolish attempt at pickpocketing), that was obvious.

He’s threatening.

Never to you. Not now.

Sylus is a man of impressive decorum and somehow all the blood coating his hands doesn’t take away from his class— he extends those hands to you, callouses and all, and gives you a patient look as if he’s expecting you to take them.

At sixteen you start calling him dad (more of an accident than anything else- it’s not a conscious thing that compels you to view him as something paternal).

He doesn’t object to it.

Things fall into place in weird ways.

When all the pieces settle, you find yourself looking at a semblance of a home— a safe place that the self-proclaimed beast curated with his own paws through painstaking efforts. (Whether you were fully cognizant of them or not didn’t matter: he tried his damnedest to be what you needed, and could only hope it was enough.)

The two of you are always on the move. He barges into your room panting at night and tells you to hurry and pack a bag, or just outright scoops you up in his arms and tucks you into the car’s backseat seconds before you hear the tires revving off. Your surroundings are perpetually changing around you and yet he remains the same; a citadel, a rock in your life.

Sylus provides an air of safety. Despite it all, the abrupt ‘field trips’ (at least, that’s what he called them when you were a bit younger) taken to ward enemies off your location, the bullets that fling by your periphery on furtive nights out and the red threads that coil behind him like talons- destroying anything before it can so much as harm a hair on your pretty head- you feel safe with him.

Predator or not- he’s good to you, a lighthouse fixed firmly amidst rolling smog and cyclones.

You can’t count a time he’s lost control or been unprepared for a frenzy, and he’s taken the proper precautions to keep you from him whenever he suspects one is coming on. The broken activator just solidifies his vigilance. And he’s instructed you plenty on what to do if he does lose it, God forbid, albeit your agreement to it was utterly uneasy.

He figures he’ll spare you the little horror show, he’d joked just to smooth out the worried crinkle in your brow.

Yet- Figures he’ll spare you your life, is what he doesn’t say, despite it being a shared thought between you both.

He teaches you how to wield a gun early on.

You’d told him you didn’t wanna use it, but something as trivial as guilt had no place in Linkon as it collapsed into decadence and carnal ruin. And something like sympathy, he’d also added, was stupid. An invitation to get yourself killed.

(Silly, that. Silly and hypocritical of the man who takes pity on runts.)

Conversation is kept at a minimum at first, and clipped, but he sprinkles in tips and tricks at self preservation— life hacks in the most literal sense— and he keeps an eye on you. Watching always. He makes sure you’re holding up well and even lets you hold down the fort while he’s gone doing God knows what. It feels like a privilege when he entrusts things to you, no matter how seemingly small.

Sylus is special to you. You love him as a teacher, a protector, a warm chest to snuggle up to on the sofa when you’re restless and can’t sleep but you know he’s downstairs with a cushion waiting—

You love him as a father, too.

Not everything about him is clear to you, though... You learn many things but one you have more difficulty understanding is the way he perceives you.

You don’t know if he loves you as a daughter, or a welcome nuisance, or a stray (because he has a penchant to root for the underdog). At first, you questioned if he even loved you at all.

But you’re older now,… and you see it, the heart he wears on his sleeve to bleed for you. He cares for you. And he’s there for you.

And when he asks you to leave with him- less of a hurried demand now and more of a gentle, imploring breath amidst chittering sounds of crickets and night bugs as he stands as a single shadow against your bed frame—

You take his hand.

✦

Boxes piled in every other corner, the building feels less like a home and more like a warehouse- a very tiny, cozy warehouse, with each of your scents intertwining in the unassuming spaces where you meet.

It’s no feat of architecture- just a small apartment nestled in the innards of the southern district, and it certainly isn’t a product of exorbitant spending (the place is deceptively… humble, for what Sylus can afford), but for what it is, you like it.

You’ve dwelled at several different addresses before, and you expect this arrangement will be more of the same. You stopped mourning over the loss of houses that could’ve been homes some time ago; you bounce between streets and domains like rabbits. However, there’s a strange comfort that builds in your chest as weeks pass and, for this reason or that, your guardian shows no signs of jilting the flat.

One day, he calls you to the living room after you’ve showered, and he sits you down.

You lie in a makeshift cage between his long legs as they hang over the couch, one hand smoothing over your damp hair while the other brushes it through.

He’s never in much of a hurry to speak, so when you reach for the TV remote to fill the silence, and he stops you- you concede to the quiet, knowing whatever he’ll say to break it will be worth some thought.

Still, he seems more contemplative than usual. It warrants pause on your end.

Internally, you consider your belongings- the deliberate choice you made to keep most of them boxed- and find relief in the fact that you’ll have less to pack if Sylus were to inform you right now of another move.

It’s a little sad, but it’s just the way things are. You won’t cry over the hand that you were dealt. If nothing else, you’re just thankful, what with the squeeze this city of sin has on its people, that somewhere along the way, Sylus came to loosen you from it.

You owe him. But he never names his price.

Long, rough fingertips meticulously weaving through your hair, gentle despite the callouses as he twists it into braids, you fall into the belief that he won’t.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you can’t find much in you to debunk it save for the tiny, deep-rooted fear that one day you’d wake up, and- just like your parents on the day of outbreak- he’d be gone. There was plenty of doubts in your head, but most if not all were born from an old trauma, and Sylus seemed… content, weirdly enough, at your side.

It becomes an easier and easier thing to believe that’s where he’ll remain.

“Sweetie,” he eventually says, “I wanted to… discuss something, with you.”

You perk under his hands, spine straightening. You give him a sidelong glance over your shoulder and find his eyes, a sharp red, surprisingly mellow as they flit across the bridge of your nose, reading your expression carefully.

“What’s wrong?”

That (the instinctive response to believe something’s gone amiss) almost brings a wry smile to his lips, but he wets them a moment later and opens them to speak. “Nothing. Not this time,” he explains smoothly. “You… You’re used to moving around, the both of us are. I’m sure it’s been… tiring, at the best of times.”

“Well,” you start as a reply, but find your speech cropped short because you’ve no real way to deny that: it was exhausting. Of course it was. But wherever he went, you’d follow. That’s just how it’s always been.

Besides, if not fixed firmly at his side- you’d be choosing the hell that is overrun, lawless Linkon; to be tossed back into its maw for the predators or, if you’re more fortunate, a not as brutal death by starvation.

Noting your silence- your agreement- Sylus continues.

He ties off the end of the tuft with a colorful band and moves to work on the other, surprisingly deft. He’s only done your hair a million times- but still, his odd expertise in it was as surprising as it was endearing. The fact that you’re twenty-one now doesn’t change this common arrangement- or the mutual fondness the two of you have for it. You like when Sylus dries or does your hair, and evidently, he does too, for whatever reason.

Maybe it’s just therapeutic for him to feel something soft in his hands. He’s better acquainted with the opposite.

“So what if we were to stay?”

The words take a moment to click.

Because you don’t stay anywhere. You don’t stay, you just run and drive and hide. Live life perpetually on the down low. On the run.

Sylus does not settle.

Still, his voice, thoughtful and velvety, rumbles behind you in a continuous, comforting sound and forces you to take what he’s saying seriously.

“This place- you don’t dislike it, do you? It’s nice. Nothing gaudy or impressive. But it’s… homey,” he muses aloud. “Off the books. You’re safe here. Safer than what the other addresses had to offer, at least.”

You ponder it for all of five seconds before answering. And to be fair it’s not actually hard to; an inner part of you assumed you’d be on the move for all your life, but you’re weirdly pleased at the idea of… not being on the move for all your life.

Some anchorage sounds nice.

You tuck your head to your chest. “I… I think I would like that.”

He perks a bit. You feel it in his hands when they pause, done with their task, and one shifts to rest on your crown.

His knees, flanking either side of you, close in. Without thinking, you latch onto one’s calf and lean into it as you grab the remote. This time he lets you.

“Yeah?” He goes, a little breathless. “Are you sure? You realize it’d be a little more… permanent.”

“Okay.”

Sylus looses a sigh somewhere behind you.

“What I’m getting at is that you’re no longer a little squirt in desperate need of me,” he clarifies in a more pointed tone, and you resist arguing that- you have no time to, really, “so if you want to leave, you can feel free to. Don’t think you’re being shackled here by me.”

For as genuine as his words sound, you quickly cotton onto the expectancy that undercoats them- the mite of something that almost makes you believe he’s waiting for affirmation on your end. A rare thing. Usually it’s the other way around.

It pulls a huff from you, though. Peels of laughter rattle from the screen in front of you (he managed to unpack your TV, but as it stands, most of the house is still pretty bare) but you ignore your favorite show for the moment to turn and frown at him.

You grab his knee while you do, saying, “Of course I don’t think that. If anything, I feel like I’m holding you back.”

Scarlet eyes blink and widen, but just slightly. White hair falls over his brow (his locks loosening from gel after a long day) when he gives his head a tilt. After a beat, he laughs at you, a deep, rumbling sound- and pats your head directly after to fix the flustered knot in your brow.

“Well, I guess we’re both wrong then, hm?

He stoops forward to kiss your cheekbone- a chaste, quick thing- and then he gets up with a grunt to head for the hall.

You watch him with a strange flutter in your chest (one that you label affection; not a wrong guess but it also fails to fully encompass just what he means to you) and stare at the wall even as he disappears behind it.

But he calls over his broad shoulder to you, “Don’t sit too close to the screen, by the way. Someone tends to get headaches when watching cartoons.”

Crossing your arms with a pout, you lean your back into the seat of the couch and splay your legs out on the fluffy rug. You’re glad for that being unpacked, but quickly find yourself planning for the following days and all you’ll have to take out and assemble- which admittedly wasn’t much, but it was still enough to trigger your lazy streak.

Sometimes you just want to lounge around all day and do nothing: a fantasy that feels more possible after your guardian’s suggestion.

You holler back, “Oh, just go to sleep, old man.” Distantly, a door opens, but it doesn’t close.

He’ll be out later.

✦

He doesn’t come out later, contrary to your belief, but his open door does make a little more sense to you when it’s deep into the night and you emerge from your own room, scared, and traipse down the hall.

The remnants of a nightmare that felt too-real grip you. Five fingers on, they don’t let go.

But Sylus- the quasi foreboding man who took you in- knows how to pull you from a pinch.

You seek his warmth as the swath of wooden tiles cooling the balls of your feet blends into carpet- that of his bedroom- navigating in total darkness as you enter.

“Sylus-?” You can’t even get the word out before he startles upright and you hear the clink of something steely and dangerous—

“I-It’s me, daddy!” You assuage quickly, voice a frail, shaken sound that’s made even smaller by the dregs of a bad dream that still hangs fresh over your mind.

Even as the images peter out— claws wrapping around your throat, a dumpster rattling as you and other ragamuffins brawl over veritable trash as food, the roar of a predator as it holds you down, saliva dribbling into your ear— the emotions are harder to shake.

You feel dizzy and a little out of place as he lets out a deep sigh of relief, flicking on the lamplight, and blinks heavily at you.

The fingers that have dipped beneath the mattress retract and return to his lap. You observe it with a relaxing of your shoulders.

Some of the tension fades from him too, but not all of it.

He asks, concern entangled with gravely bits of exhaustion, “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

You say nothing, your own voice failing you as you mentally struggle to not only find your thoughts but string them together in a coherent way.

Everything around you was blurry. Felt unstable. A cold, clammy sweat licks up your palms and forehead. The ground beneath you grows a mouth and threatens to swallow you whole- the shadows in the corner ominous and great, watching.

Of course, it was only a nightmare, an unpleasant dream that you’d laugh about and forget easily enough come morning. But right now, it’s not. It’s vivid and horrifying and amalgamating into the atoms of reality to create a special kind of paranoia. It won’t let you sleep tonight.

…Not unless something’s there to hold you, at least.

Sylus’s own voice is groggy, a bit confused. Almost unthinkingly, though, he extends a hand to welcome you.

“C’mere,” he lifts the blanket and you’re instantly drawn to the empty space beside him.

You assume it with eagerness and all but barrel into his chest, punching out a grunt from him before he chuckles faintly, reaching over to pull on the thin, beaded chain. Darkness paints across your surroundings but a small highlight swims in cherry-red eyes as they soften at you.

Strong, lean arms wrap around you, helping you burrow into him without objection.

“Was it a nightmare?” He murmurs just above a whisper, voice warm but rough as the fluffy comforters, the same ones he tucks you both under, hug him back in. “Haven’t had one of those in a while, hm?”

He feels you jerkily nod under the dip of his chin and makes a sighing response. Callous finger pads close around your back and rub little circles there meant to soothe. “S’okay, kitten. It’s over now,” he breathes, languidly pecking your temple with open lips, smearing away the part of your fringe that’s been pasted there by a cold sweat.

He has this weird habit of taking you under his wing despite his serrated edges and the natural intensity of his stone face; right now, you curl up closer to his breast, finding a tenderness he perhaps only reserves for you, and he exhales overhead.

Fears are fast to flee, wrapped up by him. As moments pass, and your erratic heart rate resumes a more normal pace, you sound your gratitude in a low murmur. Vaguely, you wonder if you’d also stirred Sylus from a nightmare of his own upon stumbling into his room, because his own pulse- typically extremely slow- undulates in his sternum.

It thumps against your ear, creating a cadence almost considered fast. A touch uneven and a lot loud.

“…Thank you, daddy,” you mouth against him, nuzzling into his pajamas- a thin, linen shirt that oozes a domesticity you’re hard-pressed to come by.

Beneath your ear— a skip.

“For… for always being there for me.”

It sounds a little sappy, but in the moment, none of that phases you. Evidently- with a low, contented hum emanating from deep within his chest- it doesn’t phase Sylus, either.

You wonder if it’s your imagination or a real, bonafide smile that curves against your head.

“Well, that’s where I belong, isn’t it? At your side,” he murmurs, and after a beat you feel his lips press a kiss to your crown, mild but lingering. “And you belong at mine, if you want it. I’ll always be here for you, sweetie,” he promises, “no matter what.”

Finally, you let your eyes flutter shut.

✦

Weeks pass. They do so pleasantly; slowly, but not in a bad way.

The quiet- mainly the lack of wandering from point A to B all for the sake of anonymity- is a welcome reprieve. Some doubts linger surrounding the agreement you and Sylus came to, but it becomes a more solid idea in your head as days pass without interuption:

This can be home.

So you start acting like it.

When noon hits, you don’t go with Wolfe, Sylus’s most trusted contact, for the usual training session when he swings by- bidding him farewell with a small wave- but instead stay back to work on the house.

Noon comes and goes. The sky turns dusky and your belly howls for food but you pay none of it any mind, too engrossed to care.

Because this is exciting.

You decorate all throughout the day, unwrap furniture from cardboard and feel anticipation swell inside you. You sing and twirl.

Before Sylus returns, you buzz with excitement while picturing his face upon walking in- not to a barren space but to a cozy one- and the rare show of his surprise. It’ll probably be nothing beyond a flare of his eyes or a soft sound of acknowledgement, but you pine for it all the same.

You’d like to make him happy. To make him feel more comfortable, at home. Especially after a long day spent weaseling throughout the blind spots of the city. He’s only allowed so much time to kick off his shoes and relax, and you want to highlight those moments for him.

It’s the least you can do, you think with a small smile, stepping down from a stool to appraise a photo you just hung (one with his hand around your waist, pulling you to his side— a would-be perfect photo if not for the crow that blurs in the corner of the lens).

Focused, you stick your tongue out and square your fingers, closing one eye because that’ll definitely help you make a better judgement on whether or not the frame is straight enough—

It slants sharply when the front door opens and slams.

You jolt, ripped from your small trance as you spin your head towards the entryway, only an iota prepared to run for the hallway and bird dive into the closet- that’s if you even make it in time. Bullets will always be faster than your little legs and if you’re correct in your belief that it’s those shady men who hate Sylus, come to retaliate against him, then there’s no way they’ll deliberate and give you a chance to escape—

Sock-clad feet halt on the floor. The stop in momentum hurls your head inches beyond your axis of balance, but the figure that freezes in the threshold, familiar, tall but hunched over, somehow seems more surprised.

Not at the new touch-ups on the walls and the neat, embellished rooms- no, but at you.

Trudging into the apartment, he looks worse for wear and you take the sight of him in with a different, growing kind of alarm.

Your shoulders ease up, just slightly. It’s not an intruder, a pack of big, unscrupulous men barging in to avenge some grievance related to the assassin who took you in- which is relieving, but the concern is tight in your brow all the same.

When he speaks, his voice is ragged. Half man half animal.

“Sweetie- what are you-?” He cuts himself short to make a sound of displeasure that comes from deep within his throat. Raw, brutal.

“You shouldn’t be here-!” You give a little flinch in response to the ferocity in his tone, phlegm catching in his trachea before he looks down, shakes his head with a hard blink, and stomps into the bulwarks of the apartment.

“Dad, you-?”

Ignoring your startle (perhaps blind to it; you think his mind is on other, more inward matters as something wild glints in his eye- paired with a conflict that worsens with each heaving breath), Sylus grabs your wrist, and he does it tightly.

“There’s no time- I need you to hurry. Help me with my suppressants- now!”

Something clicks in you, then, a distant memory lighting itself from a foggy space of remembrance.

“And kitten, listen to me. If I ever… lose control,” he starts, words a gentle, almost resigned mumble against a backdrop of city sirens and a snarling engine as the car veers into a more secluded road. You stare at his profile with a flicker of unease. But he remains composed, saying as if it’s a topic as simple as the weather, “I need you to handle me,” he glances at you, gaze steady, a brilliant, solid red, even as your mouth opens to bluster out a denial of that possibility.

“But- your suppressants- We can use them—“

“Maybe,” he turns to look out the windshield, at the road ahead. Dust and debris scrape in the wind. Even for the southern district, the place was ratty, but this is where the deal was to be had, and Sylus needed those vials before morning. “But things don’t always go as planned, you know that, sweetie. So… If something ever fails, or I become immune to the dosages— I taught you how to shoot.”

“I- I wouldn’t shoot—!“

He snaps his head over and barks, fingers whiting around the wheel. “You would! You would and you will.”

Startled, your vision blurring despite the hand you close firmly over your breast- as if balling your emotions in your palm, holding them at bay- you swallow. Scarlet eyes ripple, irises dancing around a black orb as it shrinks and becomes frantic. Unease flutters in your chest as his cold instructions turn over in your mind- but for all his hammering of them into you- you don’t bite the hand that feeds. It’s just not in your nature.

You don’t even bite the hand if it asks you to.

Begs.

Noting your shock, the stunned expression that barely masks a confused kind of hurt, your guardian blinks. Sighs and looks away.

Exhaust blows out from the back of the vehicle; you catch it in dark tails from the rear view mirror, in whiffs as the air around you becomes sour and noxious.

“I taught you to shoot,” he says again after a beat. Softer, this time. “When it gets to the point where it really matters,… don’t let your daddy down, okay? Please, sweetie. Just… agree on this one thing.”

For once in a handful of years, not considered easy by any means- but enjoyable at his side- you stare at the man who took you in and find him cruel.

You dip your chin, more out of hurt than anything else, highly uncertain as dread contricts your lungs, and nod.

It does what it was meant for: It placates him. You think it even convinces him.

He’s putting all his faith in it, in that wordless assent you’d given him years ago, for the sake of the present.

Though, Sylus still thinks it’s manageable. That there’s still a shot that this frenzy- triggered by an enhancer after a gloved hand squeezed glass to the point of bleeding, vindictive and bent on getting the last laugh- can be resolved. So you hurry to lay him on the couch as his breathing picks up, scuttling towards his room before coming back with arms full of a briefcase.

You crash to the rug and prop the case on the coffee table, fishing out a syringe before sidling up to him and taking his arm.

With some resistance- and a grunt that sounds more wolfish than man- he lets you, and you line up the needle with his arm. You say a curse under your breath when tears smear across your lids and make fuzzy the room around you.

“Hurry,” he rasps.

Shakily, you dig at the crook of his arm with your thumb to plump up the vein before- with little coordination- you feed the needle in with a sharp breath.

It mingles with Sylus’s as he makes an uncomfortable noise, the glittery fluid disemboguing into his bloodstream.

Split seconds feels like eons.

Time moves slow as molasses and you chew on your lip until something like metal sours your tongue.

Between fingers that tremble wildly just to keep it inside him, steadily injecting him with the suppressant, and a heart that pounds with uncertainty in your ears— given no assurance whatsoever that you’re not too late to pacify him— you don’t realize all the gawking on his part.

The ardency in his gaze, fleetingly tender, as it remains fixed to you. Some unspoken battle happening behind it.

…The darker thing, with a name you can’t assign, is winning out.

He feels it, too; conscious thought lending itself to his baser person— instincts, ugly and primal and overwhelming— all against his will.

“You were supposed to be with Wolfe,” He forces out with great difficulty, sweat beading his temple. He’s hot to the touch, skin like a kiln, baking your fingertips as they hover over him.

Light as feathers, you still feel the burn.

“I would’ve never came.”

Thickly, you swallow, rubbing his forearm soothingly even as the veins there bulge and glow, putting a fright in you that you do well to ignore.

He needs you right now. He needs you and you won’t fail him.

“Shh, shh,” you hush, folding your upper half over the sofa to plant your head against his shoulder.

One hand, between your bodies, gradually plies him with the suppressant; the other slips to the nape of his neck and intwines with his mullet, tugging softly.

He lets out a soft sound at that, temporarily appeased.

“It’s okay, daddy. It’s okay.”

You need it to be true.

For what it’s worth, he does seem just a touch comforted by that.

It’s not lasting.

He’s dangerous, and he knows. He’s losing out to the predator instinct, and he knows and he’s terrified but he remains rigid. Has to.

“I want you to inject all of it into my veins,” a sonorous voice rings at your ear, dry, open lips moving against your head as he smushes a kiss there. You think it’s more subconscious a move than anything as the cognizant trace in him fades out, albeit you still appreciate it.

A large hand, hanging off the couch- shaking not because it’s weak but because it’s trying its best to be- shifts to rest over your back.

He continues, “And then I want you to leave me. If we’re lucky, I’ll pass out and ride it through that way…”

Clenching your jaw, you nod against his neck, under his chin, and bite down on a whimper.

“You’ll be okay, daddy. Tomorrow morning, you’ll be all better. The suppressants w-will make you sleepy, and—“

Something surges in him, then, a growl cutting through your eardrums as you flinch back and he- before the second little vial even reaches the halfway tick- knocks it from your hands.

It collides with the coffee table and shatters.

The rug- the fluffy one you’d happily picked out with him some months back- darkens with a splotch you can’t easily scrub out.

Like an animal in a cage he’s revolted. You’re not naive enough to not see the movement for what it is; no matter how watered down, it’s still a version of it: a beast lunging.

Whatever’s left of his conscience is just barely barring that monster off, but as you fall back on your ass and gape at him, you realize with horror he will not turn out as the victor.

Fear brews in your belly. Butterflies swarm the pit of it, leaving nausea in the wake of their wings as they make quick work of your bravery- or the pretense you held of it.

A drop of blood pricks from the crook of his arm, the syringe made useless as it lay broken on the carpet: you watch it with shock, numbness almost, before looking up to him.

He forces himself to go recumbent, five fingers splayed over his face. The gaps in them, though, reveal grimacing, pearly teeth.

Canines bared no different than a hungry predator, defensive and bold.

Unlike you, very real in their display.

For a number of seconds, you do not breathe. Eyes wide and scared.

“Go,” he croaks out after a moment.

It takes longer than it should to register.

When it does, you gasp as if stirred from a bad dream. It’s precious- the sign he gives that he’s still in control- and you don’t take it for granted. You rise to wobbling knees, frenetically glancing between the dazzling shards and his heaving chest.

You extend a cautionary, worried hand, something in you utterly wrecked at the sight of him- your savior, your shield, your father figure- crumpled in on himself.

“Daddy—“

“Go!”

Silence strobes across the living room, but just for a second. It bites into you where it settles.

Unthinkingly, you turn. His words and their grating tone cut better than any knife ever could. Tears clinging to your lashes, you steel your legs (because they’re gelatinous beneath you), whip around, and start for the front door.

You don’t know where you’ll go apart from Sylus tonight, but that’s all to be figured out later after you calm your nerves down a bit and convince yourself it’ll all be fine—

The couch groans atop its wooden frame.

Suddenly, a hand snatches around your wrist, scorching hot, and when you swirl around, his head is bowed.

A whit of hope strings you along—

“D-Dad?” You breathe, “Are you okay now?”

Scarlet eyes peer up from a silvery curtain of hair, aflame, near glowing, and you let out a gasp.

—And drops you.

“I thought you wanted to help little old me? So…” he muses darkly, “where are you going?”

The reality of your situation takes a second to catch up to you.

Something that can accurately be called fear clamps in your chest— not for what he could be but for what he is now. Some change has happened in him, some sickness taken root, and until it passes, you’ll be victim to the beast that wears your savior’s face.

Stunned, you listen. “Has your father ever left you hanging? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same?”

“Sylus-“

He tuts, a belittling sound. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. C’mere, kitten, sit.” Long fingers entwine around your wrist and you’re reminded of wolf paws trampling over twigs in forests. It’s not unbearably tight a grip, not yet, at least, but he’s certainly applying more pressure than what he generally does.

You wet your dry lip, dread wringing you from the inside out. You feel oddly parched.

“But Sylus- you’re not-“

“Sit,” he suddenly growls, something undeniably dark glittering in his eye.

You’re without opportunity to argue or even try to reason with him, because he yanks you into his lap and loops his arms around your middle.

You liken yourself to a bird in a cage. His limbs your bars and your soft sounds of fear like twittering.

Using the last of your rational thought- your brain losing ground to fight or flight instinct- you try to think back to his instructions (funereal as they were), but find yourself creating other options. Even if you did want to shoot Sylus like he’d made you promise all those years ago, it’s not like you’ve got a gun lying around for it… No, the one he gave you (the one you keep as a token of him, like a locket) is sandwiched between your mattress and its framework.

A-And that’s where it’ll stay. No matter what.

Because you don’t bite the hand that feeds. You don’t bite the hand that feeds even after it pleads to be.

You decide, right then, that it’s better to play dead.

Sat perfectly still in his lap, your plan succeeds for all of half a minute before a hitch appears. To begin with, it was one born out of desperation, with low expectancy- but damn it all you still flinch when you become aware of his teeth and your proximity to them.

Fangs brush against your throat, uncomfortably sharp. It raises alarm in you, but it’s quickly lost in the other warning bells clanging in your skull.

You shiver. To your horror, Sylus chuckles.

“Are you scared I’ll hurt you?” He murmurs, breath searing your neck where it fans against it. It’s labored and fast; the depravity amplified against your earlobe.

Somewhere in you, you find the courage to answer. “A- A little,” you feebly admit. “I couldn’t get all the suppresants in.”

Sylus hums, low and satisfied, but you don’t quite miss the undercurrent of decadence in it- as much as you might want to.

“Good,” he quips. “Frenzies feel so much better without the pushback. You shouldn’t have injected any in me in the first place.”

“But you said-“

“It’s in my DNA to want to bite. It’s a little cruel to keep me from that… don’t you think?”

A debate happens within you, short-lived but tumultuous. You deliberate on answering because really, how can you? What is there to say that can temper him when he’s like this? A predator in the flesh.

And the thing about predators is that, somewhere in the equation, there must be prey—

But no. No- you refuse to believe he’ll succumb to that animalism, not when he’s more or less like blood to you. Your trust for him runs as thick as it, anyway. Blood is thicker than water, and poison, too- so the toxic lilt in his voice means nothing. Nothing at all.

You swallow, unable to offer any real reply. “I- I-“

“No,” he snips, a palm drifting lower. Positively impatient. Ever the obliging, albeit sometimes brusque man, the Sylus you know is nowhere to be found.

“Tell daddy what you really think of him. Think he’s a monster, don’t you?”

Finally, he nips at your neck, cutting himself loose from the self restraint he stubbornly moored himself to, groaning at the softness. Seamlessly, he suckles a hickey into your throat and you mewl.

The single thread of whatever the hell it is that’s keeping him at bay- his buried conscience, perhaps- snaps.

He makes a hot, ferocious sound, pawing at your breast now, drawing a startled yelp from you that his gums throb at. “Should he act accordingly? Hm? Use your words, kitten.”

Words? No. No, you think actions would suit you better- he’s not in his right mind right now and you need to leave like he’d ordered before your image of him, the one you’d put on a precious pedestal, collapses.

Daringly, you get up to try and bolt out again, mind single as your eyes dart to the front door.

If you can just leave the apartment, maybe you can lose him in the weaving, shady paths that are labyrinthine Linkon. Surely, he’ll find someone else, someone deserving (culpable men are not hard to come by here), and make them his glorified plaything instead.

By the time the sun rises, he’ll have woken from this awful, twisted trance—

He lets out a roar, angrily snatching you back onto the couch.

This time, though, there’s no semblance of freedom as he pins you under him, hovering close enough to bump his long nose against yours as he grips your hips tight enough to bruise.

“Nawh, you wound me, sweetie… And here I thought…” he rasps, ruby eyes glossing as the lid droops, blatantly ogling your jostling breast, “You had daddy’s better interest in mind.”

That’s unclear. But yours? Your better interest?

There it is again- blitzing across your frazzled conscience, stark against the dreadful haze: Play dead.

You do.

The blow will come, that’s definite. But if you play your cards right, maybe, a small hope in the back of your head says, you can lessen it.

You go limp beneath him and his hands. Even as they grope your tits through your shirt before he quickly foregoes that charade in favor of ripping open the collar, you remain still. You clamp your eyes shut and bite down on a pathetic sound.

Each and every one of your intentions evade riling him up, and yet your mere presence, pliant but shivering beneath him, does a good enough job at that on its own.

Still, as his energy builds into a devastating force, you’re quietly thankful for the amount you did manage to get in with the syringe. Likely, you realize with a heavy swoop of your heart, the determining factor in your life.

H-How much was it again-? Two vials? Or a vial and a half-?

Briefly, you glance over to the table where the case lay, open but half empty, and contemplate something stupid before the man- beast- above you laughs. Asserts himself in your face.

He’s all you see when he says, “I guess you don’t have your better interest in mind, either. Hm, kitten?”

And you’re all he smells, feels, knows, as he ruts his clothed cock against your thigh and you feel the swollen bulge. You shiver again. He’s really, really hard and is he actually planning to fuck you with that-?

You?

The pleasured, but not close to satisfied, grunt he makes says yes. Yes, absolutely he’s going to fuck you.

Rip off your panties after uncivilly pulling off your shorts and stuff his flushed length inside with a—

—“Fuck, kitty!”

He’s met with resistance.

And you forget your plan completely, terror taking over entirely as you begin to wriggle and plead for him to hold off, to reconsider— you’re a virgin and he’s mean and given your relationship, you two were never supposed to end up parallel to one another on the couch, desire brewing between your naked bodies. Well, you’re naked- or growingly; but Sylus isn’t.

Scraps of leather cling to sturdy, lean muscle, but he’s broiling in them still, skin licked with sweat. Evidently, heat has fried his neurons- his memory of himself- too.

“Please, daddy, I- I’ll—“

Oh, break. You’ll one hundred percent break but you keep from saying it aloud because you suspect it’ll warm his blood all the more. A correct guess, but it’s a little late for taking back what you did say. Sylus cottons onto it and groans.

“Don’t do this, Sylus,” you try to remind him of who he really is, even if your voice is small and untrustworthy. “Y-You don’t have to. J-Just remember who you are- who I am!”

His precious girl.

Once, he’d even said, his treasure.

Your heart stings.

Taking out the engorged, weeping head of him and rubbing it at your mostly-dry entrance (in hopes to prime it after failing to push his way inside), he’s hardly lucid as you babble.

Cute… But unimportant, he decides.

…Yet, he does somehow find it in him to look up, and you do find a trace of… something in him, human-like and guilty, when he does. It’s quicksilver. Gone when you blink.

Your pussy lips try to spit him out but it just works him up further.

The darkness in his gaze returns in tenfold.

He manages a scoff. “Oh, c’mon. Of course I remember~ You’re daddy’s little girl, aren’t you?” He hums meanly, suddenly immune to the wide, kicked look you send him. It’s always done wonders on him before, but you’re met with failure.

“So how come you can’t take his cock? I know you could, if you just tried a little harder. Relaaax. Ease up. From now on, someone’s gonna have to be the calm one between us when I get into my frenzies. You can be that, right?” That sentence instills dismay in you for many reasons, but you have no time to think on them.

He husks, “Now, go on. Help guide me in.”

You don’t reach a hand down between you two like perhaps he wanted, but you do hear a faint squelch right then as he cants his hips forward an inch, and it does make you gasp. Despite yourself, you slick up for him- for God knows what reason, maybe just as self preservation or some deeper, pitiful attempt to please him- and it becomes obvious.

Sylus notes it with a shaky breath that blends with his other labored, ragged ones, and a grin that’d better suit a bastard.

He delves inside, by a small miracle, but you can’t stop from crying when he reaches halfway in and blood rings around the thick base of him. Inwardly, you try to separate the sin from the face, telling yourself between strained breaths that he’s not in control, that this frightening, terribly unfamiliar side isn’t the real him.

You whimper more when you realize you’ll be squinting at him for months to come, losing sleep over the question of, was he helpless to the beast, or hiding it in him all along? Was he a mere victim to the predator instinct forced onto him? or willfully steering it—?

No. No. Because he’s like blood to you. And blood is thicker than water, and poison, and the niggling doubts you feed on until gluttony.

“I-It hurts,” you try when he bottoms out with a resounding groan. Shameless and frenetic. He stoops over you after pressing your legs all the way back to the couch, rough as he purrs in your ear.

“You say it hurts, but your pussy just squeezes tighter around me… So you’d understand why I’d be getting mixed reactions, don’t you?”

He whispers. For the second documented time, you find Sylus cruel. Very, painfully, cruel.

It’s hard to argue with him, even when you know he’s wrong. You think if he was more awake right now, more him, then he’d side with you as well. And yet he’s completely untrustworthy right now, morally black and mean. So, so mean.

That devilish smirk on his blissed-out face might bring on an even sharper sting than his cock as it spears inside you and starts a brutal pace.

Well.

Not quite.

Your eyes flare. So do his, want and pure, unadulterated need zipping between your bodies as his perspiration dribbles onto your collar. He hangs his head into your shoulder and you feel droplets slip between the valley of your breast.

It doesn’t take long for the heat to feel sweltering; sweat running like the Nile between you both.

“Silly little bird. You just- hah, fuck- have no clue, do you? How tempting you are?”

You ignore it all because it’s better to. Maybe ignorance won’t shield you from his hands as they clench around the fat of your hips, but it’ll certainly help you later on down the line when you want to forget and are thankful for the kickstart.

You try to focus on the ceiling, but even that blurs behind him when he leans back some just to stare, moaning at what he sees.

Even beasts can appreciate beauty, he distantly observes.

Those eyes on you, not gentle per usual (albeit sometimes tinged with a harmless tease) but ravenous and sharp- are even harder to ignore. You can’t stop your hands from lifting to push at his face to try to block him out.

All for naught, of course.

With a choked moan, he chuckles. “Ugh- look at you. These little hands keep swatting at me, even though your face is full of pleasure. Fuck,” he curses, his face handsome but a bit unnerving as it dons a more perverted look, eyes half closed, “You feel…. good. I always knew you would.”

No. No. Shut up, shut up—

“You wanna be good for your daddy?”

Yes.

Not like this.

He gathers your unruly hands and cuffs them above your head. “Then lie down and take it. If it hurts as much as you pretend, I’m sure it’ll… feel better that way, if you give in.”

There’s a very small window in between Sylus hovering over you and then Sylus dipping down to bite the fleshy bit between your neck and shoulder: in it, there’s no time to prepare.

Ice tingles in your veins, shock stealing your breath.

It’s the pain, first dull and uncomfortable as his teeth sink in, but then quickly all-consuming, that helps you find the scream.

The scream— a small, broken cry.

It doesn’t make much noise, not enough for any possible neighbors to hear- in Linkon, none would even bat an eye to it, anyway- but he covers your mouth regardless. He eats up the pathetic sounds with rough lips and hungry groans.

You don’t know how much blood he’s drawn, but there’s a little on his teeth that he makes you taste.

“Ngh, you’re delicious,” he heaves after a break. Saliva connects you both in a fleeting strand. “I’m sure your pussy tastes even better- but kitten, I really don’t have the time right now to try it. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?” He chuckles in your ear. You know he does not care for the answer. It’s deep and mean-spirited.

This side of Sylus- this rotten caricature of the man who took you in— All the hurt for it turns to loathing.

“For later,” he decides after a beat, resolved as he ignores your sneer.

You’re used to ambition on his end, but not greed: right now, his goals gravitate more towards selfishness than anything else.

All of it nears its end and quickly.

As he ruts into you, though, frenzied thrusts reaching their mark with loud grunts, it feels more gradual for you… Painfully slow. Seconds might as well be minutes, or hours, even.

It’s feral, the glint in his eye as he reshapes your walls to fit the outline of his massive cock, your virgin pussy spasming around him. Responsively, he gives a twitch, and you swear you feel his balls jump when he pauses- just for a moment- and they rest above your ass.

Sylus looks down at you, breathless and wild, and you shake at the lack of familiarity in his gaze. Ruby red eyes survey you almost frantically, with one intent only- to fuck you within an inch of your life, undoubtedly. Full of need. It’s a bottomless gaze. You think right then that you can’t give him what he wants because he’ll always be left wanting for more.

You’re not an ocean— if he reaches his hand in, he’ll inevitably reach the bottom but that clearly doesn’t stop him from trying to pull everything from out of you anyway.

It scares you. You feel small, mouse-like, but when he snatches your jaw into a sultry kiss, all canines and spit, you realize that even amidst the tumult of his predator state, you still mean something to him.

You’re all he sees. Feels. Understands to want for.

He burns inside you, the juncture of your thighs becoming sticky, gross. He ploughs inside without care for it, chasing his end and choking out moans along the way.

He coaxes some out of you, too.

Maybe it’s out of fear but you suckle on his tongue experimentally and he shakes, damp skin shivering under your finger pads as you dig them into his forearm.

Maybe you can’t play dead, but if all else fails, you can still play nice.

That’s in your best interest.

“F-uck, sweet thing, you’re gonna make me-“ a primal noise rips through his chest and rings in your ears. He lowers himself to your neck again and suckles at the orbs of blood that prick at the surface, lapping away at the small mess he made.

You wonder if after all this is over, you’ll be able to pretend it was just a love-bite, a hickey or something minor. Healable. Something able to be forgiven. Even if that would also be hard to reconcile with, considering you’d never thought he do something like this to you, the precious girl he’d flip Linkon upside down for—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He’s classy, but not now. Cursing up a storm at your clavicle and pounding into you without thought, blunt nails embedding into your hips. Aching to brand himself wherever he can.

There’s no ceremony to it all (though there is a build-up, his pelvis quickening but stuttering against the underside of your bent thighs) when he comes.

He shouts and you scream, holding onto him for dear life as a torrent of something hot and thick floods you. Your legs shake, poor cunt desperately trying to push its intruder out but it flutters when he throbs inside you and quivers. A wisp of pleasure paralyzes you- it’s so good.

Warmth trickles between you; all along the seam of you when he withdraws until only the tip remains, his cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused.

You let your head bounce against the cushion when he slides it all out with a wet ‘pop’, squeezing your eyes shut in shame. But relief joins it, too, your jaw (that had went slack only to howl with delight) closing as you catch your breath.

It’s done. It’s over. You went through the hard part and now you just have to wait the aftershocks of it out until morning, when you’ll finally be given the chance to recuperate and forget the monster your daddy was acting the night before—

Something thick, straightening back to life, nudges at your sopping hole again as it clenches around nothing. Your eyes snap open.

A large, callous palm holds you down, bracing you by the collarbone. He tuts, leaning over you with a dazed but wholly vicious grin.

Far from satiated.

“Ah-ah, kitten. It’s a little early to tap out, isn’t it? I’m far from done with you.”

He drives himself back home, slamming into you with a moan you brokenly mirror.

✦

Morning birds tweet outside the window. Bickering back and forth to one another.

The sheer curtains glow with sunlight as the onset of dawn makes its way in. Rays of it slur together in blocks on the floor.

Sylus’s room, you realize groggily. Not the living room with its new sofa stained with sweat and sex or the rug with its shattered, neon vials.

A strong arm holds lazily to your waist. Warm breath at your ear tickles you into slight wakefulness. The body slotted behind yours isn’t scorching hot like your nerve endings remember, though, almost flinching in response, and his sounds aren’t ragged. No, it’s…

Peaceful.

The events of the evening before come back to you in increments.

Your mind, with the natural want to protect you, chalks it all up to a bad dream.

The ache between your sticky legs and the fat cockhead that sits limply above the cleft of your ass- appeased- says otherwise.

You let out a soft gasp. The man behind you grumbles out a low, noncommittal sound before his lashes flutter over the blade of your shoulder.

“…Baby? What’s wrong?”

He untucks himself from there and is given great pause when his nakedness- and yours- clicks. His limbs harden around you— horrified and confused as every fresh memory from last night comes barreling into him as well.

Stunned, he lifts his head from its perch at your shoulder, but his hand remains above your hip, feather light and hesitant.

Wearily, you turn to meet him when his other hand gently steers your chin to look his way.

He looks tired. Fucking exhausted, the fine wrinkles in his face emphasized under the weight of the night prior. He looks—

Devastated.

“You-…” A sharp, shallow breath beats from his chest. His eyes, wide and unsteady, flit between yours, searching desperately for something he can’t quite find or recognize as you wet your lip to speak.

“Yesterday, I… Started decorating the house. I was excited to show you,” you say without really knowing why. Sylus’s shoulders sag ever so slightly at your apparent calmness, but the fear in his eye remains as he surveys the bruises- all the discoloration in your otherwise supple skin- and blinks.

You inhale shakily, looking down to his chest and all its striations, put on full display in the afterglow of what transpired however many hours before.

It feels wrong to call it a night of love-making, or even a term more raw, unfeeling, as sex. No, it was…

He fucked you within an inch of your life and that was all you really knew. He fucked you until you passed out and then sometime afterwards, apparently snapped out of his trance just enough to carry you back to his bed and sleep the remnant of his frenzy through.

But it wasn’t his fault. Couldn’t have been.

(Whose, then?)

You murmur, “I should’ve went with Wolfe.”

“No,” and there it is again, that fucking snarl, searing you through to the core but before panic can settle, he’s cradling your cheeks and pressing his forehead to yours.

His eyes are intense, but not scary. No, they’re tender and beaten and lovely as his chest shudders and he shakes his head. “No, sweetie. What happened…” he starts, just as unsure of how to label it, “had nothing to do with you. Don’t ever blame it on yourself. Do you understand?”

Blearily, you nod.

You see him in double when he sighs and carefully thumbs away a tear you didn’t realize had formed and fell.

…But Sylus appears a mite uncertain with himself when his eyes fall to your breast before quickly averting, self aware to the point of near pain and definite discomfort. “I’ll clean us up,” he ventures, glancing at you again.

For permission, you realize. To scoop your jelly limbs up and carry you to the shower, bridal-style, where he’ll wash the both of you naked, intimate and-

And should-be alarming.

But it’s not. Not now when you’re still dazed and bruised and his dried cum is caked to your thighs in white rivulets- and he’s just as wounded, but ready to fix. Ready to repaint over the peeling bits of you both in the aftermath of it all. Hang a picture over the hole in the wall of your heart.

“…Okay.”

He wastes no time in picking you up, but he’s gentler than ever when he takes you with him to the bathroom adjoined to his room. It’s awkward: you note that even in the bone-deep fatigue. You can tell he’s trying not to look at all the places instinct tells him he should, and you do well to blot out the sight (and memory) of his softened cock as it dangles between his legs.

The shower starts. Sylus keeps you upright so you don’t fall because your joints will literally fail you otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” he laments as the water pours overhead, holding you against him. He means it in more ways than one. And yet, before you can voice your acknowledgement, and an unsure forgiveness, a small hope stirring in your gut that says this can be moved on from—

His lips press to yours. Chaste but searing; somehow even more world-shattering than last night.

It’s different. He’s… awake.

Jaw slack, you blink at him, water clumping your lashes both. He’s as handsome as a wolf is hungry but- for the moment- domesticated. Even his crow’s feet seem to soften.

“I’ll help you unpack the rest today,” is all he says as he reaches behind you for the soap, gaze unwavering even as you latch onto him and your perfect tits jiggle, his hand dipping below to carefully lather at your marks.

“This house can still be a home. I’ll show you.”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[frudoo]

141 Elementary School AU

Principal Price always initially terrifies the children with his gruff voice, tall stature, and weird facial hair. They learn quickly that he’s a sweetheart, though, keeps his office stocked with candy and coloring books. He never raises his voice at a child, even if they’ve been sent to his office for punishment. He prefers to talk to them about what’s causing their behavior, and if he gets nowhere with that method, he’ll give them quiet time in the corner until they’ve calmed down. Parents and guardians, for the most part, adore him.

     Nurse Simon, like his boss, tends to scare the children upon first meeting them. He’s a huge man, after all, but after the typical fear dissipates, he becomes a favorite. All of the bandages in his office are themed with superheroes, princesses, animals or flowers. He’ll wipe away tears and make sure that not one of his ‘patients’ is embarrassed by their injury or sickness, no matter how big or small. His couch is cozy and he has plenty of blankets that the kiddos can cuddle up with until their guardian comes to pick them up. Parents and guardians are, more often than not, wary of him despite his gentleness with the children.

     Mr. Garrick is easily the most favored staff member amongst both children and guardians alike. He’s energetic, despite his job as librarian, and always matches the kids’ energies. Story time is his favorite part of the week—he sits in the circle with the kids and reads a book to them, beaming at their amusement and little laughs when he uses silly voices for every character. He keeps a bunny as a ‘class pet’ and always lets the children pet her as long as they tell him what their favorite part of the story was. 

     Mr. Tav is a passionate teacher. Even the students who prefer recess over class can find something about his lessons they like just because of the way he teaches it. Very much a hands-on educator—constantly has the children working on either individual or group projects to ensure that they fully understand each subject. Parents and guardians have a love-hate relationship with him because while their children do great in class because of him, he is shit at answering emails. 

     Substitute!Reader who took a job filling in for one of the teachers going on maternity leave. She uses the work as a means to get away from her abusive husband, but always has a smile on her face for the children. Parents and guardians aren’t all that familiar with her, but their kids love her.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

What kinks/fetishes the Thunderbolts have

Yelena/Bucky/John/Ava/Alexei/Bob x fem!reader

warning : +18, mdni, kinks and fetishes are discussed here

Summary : Everyone has their preferences, whether it's their favorite color, genres, music, or even in bed with their loved one. It's human nature; they may have been heroes, but at the end of the day, they were human too. Heroes who all have their own preferences and enjoy doing them with their lover.

info : Finally some smut for the team! I've been wanting to write a John Walker one-shot for days, but I can't get away from them. Have fun reading your favorite ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yelena

Teasing = She loves teasing her partner, which might start during the day with a wink, a kiss, and a touch, and end up in bed at night. Yelena loves seeing her lover try everything to keep control and not throw herself at the blonde. But how could she resist when Yelena gave her so much with every touch of her body before gently smiling and pulling away? Yelena knew her girlfriend's body and she was far from finished with her teasing.

“You're really cute when you're so desperate. I know how much you want me... Come on, one more time and then maybe I'll let you have me”

Lingerie = Yelena loves wearing erotic underwear herself, but she loves it even more when she sees it on her lover. She ran her fingers tentatively over the lace and lacing before kissing her way down the fabric to the center. Her love looked like the most beautiful thing that had ever existed, and she would take her time exploring her.

“You know exactly what you're doing to me, fuck—worse than any black widow”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bucky

Body worship = Bucky loves to take time for his sweetheart, not only during the day, but especially in bed, where it is important to him to take his time. Every part of her body is kissed and touched, his metal arm always holding her body as gently as possible. His real arm takes time to massage her breasts, tracing every little scar, mole, and stretch mark. For him, there was nothing more important than knowing that she was with him, that she trusted him so much.

“Let me touch you, hold you, let me spoil you, please, I need it”

Dress = Bucky is old, but even back then he liked dresses, and that hasn't changed today. He loved it when his lover wore different dresses, waited for him, and he just had to lift the fabric slightly to see how it revealed her skin, how pretty it looked on her body. It did something to the older man that he couldn't prevent, just seeing how the fabric lay on her body.

“Darling, is that a new dress? You know how you spoil an old man”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John

Praise = If there was one thing he always needed, it was recognition and, above all, adoration from his girlfriend. It was so easy to make him blush, to feel how the soldier gave himself more and more to her. The kisses were intense, and the shiver that ran through John's body when he heard her praise was quite visible, as was the fact that he would give her anything she wanted just to hear her praise.

“Honey, is it good? Yes, please, I'm all yours, just one more time, how good am I?”

Shield = John loves his shield, whether it's bent or straight, but he loved it even more when he saw his love with it. From a nice strip show to seeing her press herself against the shield and him having to pull himself together not to take her right then on the bed when she used the bent shield as a pillow substitute to grind against.

“Fuck-I wow, honey, you have no idea what you're doing, so sexy”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alexei

Daddy = Alexei was a hero of the Russian nation and a proud member of the Thunderbolts. But above all, when it came to his wife, he loved it when she called him that. When he held her so tightly that she clung to him, it made him smile when he heard her, out of breath, begging for more, and Alexei gladly gave his sweetheart more of the Red Guardian

“That's right, Daddy, Red Guardian is here to be all yours”

Leather = His suit is made of leather, as is the suit of his beloved, and maybe it was just the way she looked in it. But Alexei loved seeing the material on her, feeling its coolness and warmth, seeing how it hugged her body and showed off all her best features. Oh yes, with every suit he saw her in, Alexei looked forward to a long evening where it was just the two of them.

“Darling, please keep the suit on after the mission, I want to celebrate our victory properly, just the two of us”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ava

Heat/Ice = She was very familiar with different states of aggregation, but above all she loved to bring them into the bedroom. Seeing how her star's breathing quickened when she ran an ice cube over her heated skin through the wax, the rapid breathing and gasping when the wax dripped onto her skin. Ava knew what she was doing and she loved seeing what she could do to her star.

“Good girl, that's it, just two more drops and I'll be all yours”

Hands = Ava loved having her own hands on her partner's body, knowing that even in such an intimate moment, they were together. But above all, she loved her beloved's soft hands, touching them, kissing them, feeling them on and inside herself. It was a feeling of connection and closeness she had never experienced before.

“Just hold me, I want you, I need you... let me feel you, yes”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bob

Pain = The pain inside him was different, it paralyzed him again and again, but the pain he got from his girlfriend kept him alive. Every little slap, every little pat, and every kiss with a bite made him relax, made him know that he was in control. He wanted it that way, and seeing that his beloved would stop anytime he wanted and kiss him and his pain made him feel completely fulfilled.

“I can take it, trust me, just one more hit and then I'm yours”

Cuddling = On dark nights, he just loved lying in her arms, cuddling her with his love, kissing her, and just letting the minutes pass. Just fucking her quietly and tenderly, sitting her on his lap, them being as close to each other as they could be. Bob always wanted her as close to him as possible so he could feel her warmth, her body, and her whole being.

“Ngh—please just stay like this, stay with me, please”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@neska223 , @bribrisposts , @imtherain , @arickaandherfictionalothers , @brisselfshipping , @tallulinha , @anxiousmilflover , @eurydicesxshadow

[mandalhoerian]

SYZYGY PART I: PERIASTRON / PERIHELION ❥ caleb x reader x xavier | 24K | AO3

SUMMARY:

The summer of your life had a name — Caleb. He was August itself, a world of honey-drenched, cloudless afternoons and laughter of gold-saturated old days echoing through the years, clear as sunlight on water. Gravity, pulling you two together. You orbiting around each other, closer, brighter, almost, almost. Until, just like the dandelion puff of childhood dreams or the sudden drop of a swing going too high — he was gone. Then came Xavier. The quiet glow of the moon, silver constellations scattered against the abyss, not demanding your orbit. He was light without heat, steady and luminous, guiding you through the night Caleb had left behind, illuminating all the spaces where once there had been warmth and wonder instead of emptiness. But what happens when the sun rises again to chase away the moon and stars that endured without it? Can the sky hold them both? Can you? Or must one always eclipse the other?

WARNINGS: pseudocest im embarrassed do NOT look at me, this features an underage caleb getting a hard-on because of an underage reader for the first time. it's not sexualized or detailed, and there is no scene of masturbation. i tried to handle it with care and describe it as vaguely as possible and work around it, grieving/mourning, blood and injury, angst, fluff, the everpresent bittersweet undertones, backshots from xavier at the end. this is (going to be) a threesome fic, not a love triangle in which you choose one, so, proceed with caution.

A/N: yeah, uh. remember this post? i'm writing it now. before i knew it though it grew so much, so i had to separate it into two parts. this one is what i call "parallel lines", in which xavier's presence is heavily present in your life with caleb before they meet through you, and vice versa. this concept is like the gift that keeps giving, and i hope you like it as well. what do you want to happen in the next chapter? please don't be shy to interact and tell me what you think, and help me out by reblogging for the second part to come out faster! thank you so much! <33

For as long as Caleb had known himself, he had been jovially tethered to you, less a brother and more an ever-present guardian, a self-appointed fairy godmother who built his purpose around keeping watch over your life.

When school was in session, his days began before the sun even thought about rising — dragging himself out of bed at an ungodly hour to help Gran with breakfast, shaking off sleep with the clatter of dishes and the smell of butter hitting a hot pan. The kitchen was always dimly lit, humming with the indistinct sounds of the world waking up. He'd scrub down counters while eggs sizzled, sweep the floors before the coffee had finished brewing, steal bites of toast in between flipping pancakes.

And then — your lunch. If you wanted peanut butter, he spread it thick. If you swore off carrots for the week, he’d swap them out with a sly substitution, sneaking in a treat when Gran wasn’t looking.

Breakfast was always a battlefield. You, groggy and barely functional, glaring at the sight of anything green on your plate; and him, sighing, coaxing, bribing, bending over backwards to get you to take a single bite of food that didn’t sparkle with sugar.

And then, of course, the walk to school.

You always complained, swearing you didn’t need him to take you, that you could find your way just fine. And yet, without fail, you were right there beside him every morning, rubbing sleep from your eyes, shuffling along in whatever oversized hoodie you’d thrown on that day, your shoelaces untied, the imprint of your pillow still faint against your cheek.

The moment you arrived at the school gates, the dynamic shifted. Caleb wasn’t your gege anymore — he was Caleb Xia, the local celebrity.

Kids greeted him with the awe reserved for a hometown hero, flocking together in the distance to get a glimpse at him, either scattering when he noticed them or waving at him if they were brave enough. Teachers nodded at him in approval, a dependable, responsible older brother. And you? You rolled your eyes, huffing, gave his sleeve a tug that wordlessly said you’re embarrassing me, can you leave already? as he lingered in conversation, half-smirking at your impatience.

The highlights of his school day weren’t the classes or the fleeting moments of downtime between them — it was lunch breaks spent calling you, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he unwrapped whatever quick meal he’d grabbed from the cafeteria. "Did you eat yet?" was always his first question, followed immediately by, "Did you like it?" as if your opinion on the food he packed for you was the most crucial piece of intel of his day. He could practically hear you rolling your eyes through the speaker, muttering around a mouthful of rice or torn bread crust. It didn’t matter — he needed to hear it, to know.

After that, his mind switched gears. Physical training, drills fine-tuned for DAA hopefuls, routines meant to push his endurance to the next level. His uniform stuck to his back, sweat beading along his brow, but he relished the burn, the ache in his muscles a steady reminder of why he was doing this. When training ended, he sprawled out on the bleachers, water bottle pressed against his overheated neck, scrolling through footage of aerospace battleships on his phone. Each sleek design, each launch, every maneuver—it reminded him why he worked so hard. Why he wanted this so badly.

But none of that mattered when late afternoon rolled around.

His friends ribbed him for it, tossing casual jabs his way as they packed up their things. "Ditching us again for babysitting duty?" someone teased. Caleb only smiled from ear to ear and didn't pay any mind to it, pretending the subtle condescension thrown your way didn’t needle under his skin. They didn’t get it. They never did.

Because for him, the best part of the day wasn’t the grind, wasn’t the push toward his future. It was the moment the last bell rang at your school, and he was already there, stationed by the gate, feet bouncing slightly on the pavement, waiting to see you emerge from the crowd.

Nothing compared to that anticipation. The way his breath would hitch for half a second as he spotted you — bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, uniform slightly wrinkled, the sleeves of your cardigan pushed up because you always ran too hot. The moment your eyes met his, and that immediate, effortless way you gravitated toward him, your first words were never hi, always a strange little remark, offbeat and inconsequential.

Like it was a given. Like, of course, he’d be here. Of course, you’d find him first.

And as he fell into step beside you, listening to whatever was on your mind that day, the earlier teasing, the bone-deep fatigue, the sting of training—all of it slipped into the background, tamed into silence.

Some days, your hand in his felt wrong—too loose, on the verge of slipping free if he wasn’t careful, or too tight, clutching at the unsaid hanging between you both. Those were the days when your usual chatter dwindled, when your feet dragged instead of skipping along the sidewalk, when your eyes darted past him instead of meeting his.

Caleb never asked outright — he knew what to do, adjusting, seamlessly redirecting your path before you could even notice, with slight nudge at your shoulder, an easy pivot at the next turn, suddenly you weren’t heading straight home anymore.

The little grocery store on the corner, the one with the faded awning and the chime at the door, became your unspoken secret place. The scent of paper and ink mingled with a faint sweetness the moment you stepped inside — an inviting coziness that dwelled between the shelves lined with pastel notebooks, glittering pens, and delicate origami sets among a handful of aisles, lined with neatly stacked boxes of biscuits, rows of colorful trinkets in plastic bins, glass jars of fruit jellies that caught the light just right.

But it wasn’t the stationery that did it.

It was the back garden, where clusters of hydrangeas bloomed in careful bursts of lavender and blue, their petals shifting with the breeze. It was the way the sun liquidized through the narrow windows, turning the space golden in the late afternoon, a place stitched into memory as a guarantee: no matter how heavy your day had been, you would leave here lighter.

It was the colorful bins of imported candies, the tiny glass jars filled with trinkets shaped into animals and miniature constellations, the usual sequence of browsing through things neither of you needed but always wanted. And most of all, it was you, little by little, softening again, your fingers grazing the spines of journals, your lips quirking upward when he held up a ridiculous cat-shaped eraser wearing sunglasses.

Someone else might’ve called it a routine. Caleb knew better.

It wasn’t a habit. Habits were formed. Not a conscious decision, either. That meant he was aware of what he was doing. No, it was instinct, coded into his DNA, a part of him he never questioned. Taking care of you didn’t feel like a duty he had to go out of his way to perform — it felt like identity.

Caleb dropping to one knee, his uniform pants already scuffed and dirt-streaked from basketball practice, to wordlessly tie your undone shoelaces, his fingers moving with muscle memory before you could even notice they were loose. The sting of fresh scrapes and bruises on his skin ignored in favor of making sure you wouldn’t trip.

Caleb at the kitchen table, the sharp scent of freshly peeled apples mixing with the smell of open textbooks, carving them into little bunny shapes while you scrawled through your homework, utterly absorbed. You never asked him to, but when he placed them next to your notebook, you’d pick them up one by one without looking, popping each into your mouth with the ease of a habit long formed.

Caleb picking out the tomatoes from your sandwiches, his hands moving with an unthinking efficiency, discarding them onto his own plate before sliding your food back to you. Gran had insisted he leave them in, but he never listened. You never ate them, anyway.

Caleb slinging both your backpacks over his shoulder at the end of a long day, even when you huffed about being a big girl now. Even when you swatted at him in protest. He carried them anyway, hitching the straps with a shrug, the weight pressing against his shoulder never once showing in his stride.

Caleb pressing the cool mouth of his water bottle against your arm, nudging it toward you because some noiseless alarm in his brain had gone off, warning him that you hadn’t had a sip of water all day. No words exchanged. If you didn't count the expectant arch of his brow and the silent order in his gaze.

Caleb swiping a thumb across your cheek, brushing away the stray crumbs from whatever snack you had been stuffing into your mouth mid-conversation. His touch was brief, casual, a passing thought given shape — but it lingered for a second before he pulled away, already shifting his focus elsewhere.

It was nothing, all of it. Small, everyday things. Thoughtless, maybe, in his mind. But to everyone else—adults with indulgent smiles, boys his age groaning in exaggerated disbelief — it carried a burden he didn’t seem to know the meaning of. "God, Caleb, you’re setting the bar too high. You know most guys would trade their little sisters for a corn chip, right?"

Caleb’s instinct to look after you didn’t end at the school gates. Even with the separation of campuses forcing distance between you, his presence lingered in ways you never noticed — woven into the small, seemingly inconsequential moments of your day.

It wasn’t about dictation. You hated being told what to do, slipping through the grip of authority as water escapes cupped hands. So instead, Caleb nudged. Steered.

A casual mention of someone’s cool Lumiere pencil case turned into you borrowing their markers, which turned into sitting beside them in art class. A passing remark about a classmate’s awesome Lumiere trading card collection suddenly had you talking to them at recess. The kids who shared their snacks without hesitation, who pulled out chairs without asking, who held their ground when pettiness soured the lunch table — those were the ones Caleb passively nudged you toward.

It never felt unnatural. That was the key. He didn’t force anything, never shoved you in any particular direction. He made it easy.

A suggestion to invite someone over, tossed out so casually it barely was a suggestion at all. A last-minute reminder that some kid — one he had already vetted in the background of his mind — enjoyed the same ridiculous show as you, a convenient spark to get a conversation going.

And if certain kids seemed off, if their teasing had an edge to it, if they tested boundaries in a way that felt a little too familiar to Caleb’s instincts, he never said a word. He didn’t have to. He didn’t fan the flame. He watched them flicker out, one by one, while loyalty of a different kind grew from their ashes.

You never noticed the discreet maneuvering and how he even knew the information about those classmates despite being an upperclassman. You never realized how your world had been subtly, deliberately arranged in a way that kept you surrounded by good people. People Caleb knew would look out for you when he wasn't there.

And that was the point.

No one had questioned it thus far. Neither had he. There was nothing to be questioned.

Until today.

It was hot. The kind of thick, sweltering summer heat that was observable with that wavy, distorting illusion effect. The wooden porch steps beneath him radiated with it, baked through by the afternoon sun, carrying the scent of dry wood and dust. Cicadas droned in the distance, their unrelenting hum pressing in from every direction, blending with the tinny sound of the (probably-not-appropriate) streamer’s voice coming from his phone.

You were sprawled beside him, popsiclle stick half-forgotten in your fingers, red syrup trailing down your wrist in slow, sticky rivulets. Caleb’s eyes flicked to it absently, knowing you wouldn’t notice until it reached your elbow. Your bare feet were pressed against his leg, stealing his shade with the smug contentment of a barnacle that had found the perfect spot to cling. He groaned, giving your ankle a lazy shove, but it was more for show than any real effort to get you to move.

Every so often, you’d lean against him, cheek brushing his shoulder, the heat from your skin seeping through the fabric of his t-shirt. The scent of artificial cherry clung to your breath, mixing with the toasty cotton and the faintest trace of his own shampoo. It was too hot for this. Too hot for you to be all over him, only to wiggle restlessly a second later, squirming back into place and ignoring the stifling effect you were having on him.

He could’ve moved. Should’ve, probably. But he stayed put. Let out a huff, feigning annoyance, all while a stupid grin tugged at his mouth and he waited for you to lean back into him again.

And then the screen door creaked open, and the heavy scent of heat-crisped fabric softener drifted out as Gran stepped onto the porch, hands settling firmly on her hips, and said it.

"You're getting too big to be stuck to Caleb all the time, dear. You're not a baby anymore."

It wasn’t meant to be sharp, wasn’t meant to sting,  but the comment buried itself in Caleb’s chest — sudden and weighty, plunging straight to some unreachable depth, cold settling through him in its wake.

Not a baby anymore.

Obvious. So obvious it should’ve bounced right off him. He was nearly a grown-up, already edging taller than some of the older boys, his limbs stretching out of last year’s clothes. His tank top, once loose, clung to him now, damp with sweat at the collar. His shorts were scuffed at the knees from a summer spent biking too fast, landing too hard. He was supposed to be out on the blacktop, running plays with the high schoolers, scraping his elbows on asphalt, staying out past the first flicker of streetlights without a second thought, anything but orbiting a tagalong presence that turned him into a punchline the moment older boys caught sight of it. And you…

What were you supposed to be doing? Not hanging off of him, apparently. Not pressing your perspiring skin against his in the heat of the day, not reaching for his hand out of instinct, not tilting your head toward him when you laughed, as if his reactions still mattered most.

The stick of his finished popsicle rested on his tongue, sticky-sweet, a lingering taste of artificial apple that felt almost mocking now. His fingers flexed, restless, drumming once against his knee before stilling.

His eyes flicked toward you — kicking your legs lazily against the porch steps.

"Then what is he?" You wrinkled your nose, squinting up at Gran as if the answer should have been obvious. "Just big?"

Gran chuckled, shifting her weight as she leaned against the doorframe, a subdued amusement ushering her voice. "Big enough to start weaning you off a little."

And just that quickly, the pressure behind Caleb’s ribs dragged lower, anchored by unseen hands, coiling everything inside him until it felt strained and scraped hollow.

Weaning you off.

The thought kept tugging at a place he couldn’t name, an ache flowering with sharp clarity, the slow rupture fragility held too long. The thought of you — apart from him, orbiting somewhere beyond his reach — felt foreign, wrong. Not turning to him first? Not following his lead? Where would you even go? And worse — who would you go to?

"That’s dumb," you declared, licking the last of the syrup from your fingers with a casual finality that almost soothed the raw edges of his nerves. "Why would he do that?"

You sounded so sure. So utterly certain, a truth spoken from the bones of the universe. Caleb clung to that certainty, let the bird take perch in his palms, tried to hold faith in it as you did. But then Gran hummed, low, knowing, her tone threaded through with the weariness of someone who’d witnessed this unfold more than once, her eyes fixed on the horizon of a sun bound to set.

She turned to Caleb, fixing him with a look that sat too heavy on his shoulders. "Caleb won’t want you tagging along forever."

His heart, steady a moment ago, suddenly pounded too hard against his ribs. The space between his shoulders burned. He parted his lips to argue, but no words came, his throat tight, thoughts tangled.

"No," you huffed, scrunching your face, clear unhappiness bleeding into your voice. "He’s my gege."

Yes. Exactly.

Then why did Gran sound like that? Why did she act as though this were some carved-in-stone truth, some outcome she’d already filed away — that he’d grow tired of you trailing behind, that he’d ever want to loosen his hold? He didn’t mind it — of course he didn’t.

A flash of heat rolled down his spine, unsettling and sudden, a strange pressure creeping under his skin. His body tensed against it, a shudder running straight through his core before he could stop it.

No. He liked when you followed him. He wanted you there, always half a step behind, always reaching for his sleeve, always seeking him first. That wasn’t weird, was it?

Gran knew exactly what she was doing. The amused curve of her lips, the way she adjusted her stance, arms folded loosely, her gaze genial but knowing—it was the look of someone who had already seen the ending of a story before anyone else even knew it had begun. But she was kind enough not to say it aloud.

"All right," she conceded, her voice easy, lilting, teasing but patient. "If you really think you're okay with being tied to him for life—"

"I am," you declared, not even letting her finish. Not missing a single beat.

It hit Caleb in a flash — everything catching fire all at once from a single spark. His pulse faltered, then surged, white-hot and golden blooming in his chest. A triumphant yes, a relief that tore through him so sharply it left his head reeling, his body thrumming with a force too wild to name, all from the way you said it, so absolute and undisputable. 

But Gran wasn’t done.

"But what if he isn't?" she pressed. "What about when he finds his special someone?"

The concept was an anathema lodged into the gears of his mind. Special someone.

A vague, faceless figure materialized in the space next to him, spectral and wrong. Another girl, maybe. Someone else at his side, standing too close, reaching for his sleeve the way you did now, calling his name with too much familiarity. Someone who would take up space that should be yours — laughing with him over dumb inside jokes, stealing food from his plate, tugging on his hand in crowded spaces without thinking.

Taking care of her. Looking out for her. Ruffling her hair when she did well on a test, cooking for her, walking her home, bringing her gifts without needing a reason—

His stomach twisted, insides a dishcloth wrung tight, and suddenly, the popsicle stick in his grip felt foreign. Slowly, he became aware of the way his fingers had clamped around it, tight enough that splinters had bitten into his palm. Too tight.

The porch creaked as you shifted closer, knees bumping against his, your oversized t-shirt — his, actually, stolen ages ago — hanging off one shoulder, damp with summer sweat. You tilted your head, strands of sticky hair clinging to your forehead, blinking up at him with that wide, guileless stare. Your eyes, bright and searching, caught the light, reflecting flecks of gold.

"Caleb…"

There was concern there, nestled between the syllables of his name. An innocent plea, a tug at a place deep inside him he wasn’t ready to face.

His skin prickled.

"Gran’s being silly, pip-squeak," shot out too fast, too forced, but he grinned through it anyway, stretching his face into an easygoing mirror of comfort. With every fiber of his being, he shoved everything back down — buried it under the feverishness of the day, under the scent of melting sugar in the air, under the sound of your breathing, steady and trusting beside him. His fingers flexed, then relaxed to let him flick the splintered popsicle stick onto the porch steps. "There’s no way I’m ditching you! Come on, are we finishing the episode or what? We’ve got a lot to catch up on."

He slung an arm around you, dragged you close against his side, so offhand in the motion, yet every inch of him rooted in the touch, steadied by it without letting it show. You were sun-drenched and cuddly, the scent of your shampoo still clinging to the damp strands of your hair. You leaned into him without hesitation, fitting against him the way you always had.

And yet.

An unobtrusive force stirred inside him, threading through the bars around his lungs and tightening with merciless intent.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

The sky shifted, brilliant blue bleeding into orange, then purple, the day becoming more breathable as the heat slowly receded. Gran’s voice filtered out from the kitchen window, going on about dinner, but Caleb wasn’t listening. He wasn’t here anymore. His thoughts drifted somewhere further, somewhere he didn’t want to go — somewhere you couldn’t follow.

His thumb rubbed absently at the crook of your elbow, tracing slow circles over the smoothest part of your skin, a mindless habit meant to soothe — himself, that is.

The thought clung to him, a persistent dog at his heels, refusing to be shaken loose. It trailed him through the evening, barking at him nonstop as he moved through the small rituals of routine.

It was there when he set the table, watching you from the corner of his eye as you padded barefoot across the linoleum, the oversized sleeves of your pajama top slipping past your wrists. It was there when you tugged at his sleeve, your voice springy, grabbing his attention as he pulled the dish from the oven. Feed me, your eyes seemed to say, mouth already open, waiting. And of course, he gave in — pressing the edge of a still-hot bite against your lips after he blew on it, pretending not to notice the way your breath hitched as you chewed.

It was there when you nuzzled up beside him later, your body slack with sleep, limbs tangled in the throw blanket you’d stolen from his lap. Your breath tickled his arm, brushing against a presence hiding in Caleb's shadow that had no name yet. The scent of your shampoo — faint now, laced with the salt of dried sweat from a long summer day — lingered between you. He told himself he wasn’t listening to the cadenced exhales, wasn’t matching his breathing to yours.

And then, it appeared as he tucked you into bed. As it always did.

You blinked up at him sleepily, covers pulled high, cheek squished against your pillow. Your room smelled of you, steeped in a nostalgia he couldn’t put into words but had always known. His fingers brushed the edge of your blanket as he lingered by your side.

It was normal.

It was always normal.

And yet, the thought, the one he had spent the entire day trying to drown out, was an ever-present uninvited guest whispering in his ear. 

He couldn’t imagine not wanting you by his side for the rest of his life.

Years later, Caleb would pinpoint this summer, the summer of his fourteenth year, as the point of no return. The death of whatever childhood innocence had once dressed itself as sibling love.

An apple blossom plucked before its time, its petals discarded in favor of a fruit too heavy, too low-hanging, too wrong to belong among the delicate branches of the family tree.

Xavier never saw you cry at the funeral.

You had stood still, wrapped in black, hands flat at your sides, nails pressing half-moon indentations into your palms. The scent of freshly turned earth and incense was more present than any meaningful conversation, the whispers of condolences processed with you nodding along when spoken to, shaking hands, murmuring words that were rehearsed and expected. Your face was unreadable, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the two caskets, one of which was empty, beyond the faces of mourners, beyond here.

He didn’t see you cry when you returned to what was left of home, either. Not when you stood at the threshold of devastation, the scent of charred wood and melted plastic still thick, mingling with the metallic tang of exposed steel. Not when you traced the edge of a broken picture frame with trembling fingers, or when the wind rattled through the skeletal remains of walls that had once held your precious family safe. If grief had a home in you then, it stayed silent, lurking at your back — a ghost suspended in the quiet, waiting to be seen.

No, the first time you let him see you cry was months later.

It didn’t announce itself with thunder and lightning. One moment, the world was steady. The next, the floodgates had opened.

His kitchen was mellow, steeped in the golden hues of a sun too lazy to set just yet, its light stretching long across the counter where you sat. One leg was tucked beneath you, the other swinging idly, the heel of your sock skimming against the cabinet with uniform taps. The room smelled of burnt sauce — nose-stinging, acrid, clinging to the air, a mistake neither of you dared mention, and the pan sat abandoned on the stove, its contents an unappetizing mess of charred edges and failed ambition, but for once, you hadn’t laughed at him yet. That was the first sign.

Xavier leaned against the counter across from you, arms folded, waiting for the inevitable teasing. But it never came.

Instead — your breath caught.

A small thing. Easy to miss. An inhale halted halfway, snagged on a knot buried deep not quite ready to unfold yet.

His eyes flickered toward you as your thumb hovered over your phone screen, frozen in place. The glow of it bathed your face in cold white light, so at odds with the luminescence spilling in through the window. You weren’t looking at him. Weren’t looking at anything, really — dissociating at the screen, your face blank.

And then, without sound, without warning, you folded into yourself. A band snapping into place after being too streched too thin for too long. 

He knew this kind of breaking. Intimately.

It never arrived in a flash, never split a person open in one violent instant. Instead, it crept inward, burrowed deep into the marrow, slowly reshaping the bones from within. He had felt it before, held it before — in another life, in another ending. When your body had gone too still against his. When your breath had slipped against his neck without fear or struggle. A shaky exhale. A barely-there smile. A release so docile and serene, it had broken him more than any scream ever could.

He knew how grief hollowed a person out.

How it made ghosts out of the living, how it made you ache for someone even when they were right there, breathing the same air, sitting an arm’s reach away.

And still — watching you now — it hurt.

You swiped at your face, impatient, determined to wipe away the tears before they could fully form. But your hands betrayed you, trembling in spite of your resolve.

Xavier turned off the burner, the flame vanishing with a muted click.

Gently, he pried the device from your grip. You let him. Didn't resist, no glance upward. With the smallest movement, turning into him, you pressed your forehead into his shoulder, and he wanted nothing more than to fold you into the fabric of his shirt and make your pain disappear into the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

The screen dimmed in his palm, but the voice still filtered through the speaker, sunny and youthful, threaded with a teasing affection that made Xavier’s throat tighten.

"I’ll be back soon. Be good, okay? Or you’ll be doin’ the cooking this time and I won’t lift a finger to help you."

A promise. A joke. A lie, but not an intentional one.

Then — a sound.

Small. Fractured. Hardly more than an exhale, yet enough to leave the raw sting of a wound torn fresh.

Xavier didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he shifted, lowering his chin against the crown of your head, his arms gathering you up in a hold that wasn’t tight, but anchoring, and stayed that way until the light from the window cooled into that dusky shade of evening. Until the edges of both your shadows melted into one.

The same summer that had been the genesis of Caleb’s anxieties about growing apart, you wouldn’t shut up about the summer camp he was sure Gran had sent you to put space between the two of you. Much to his chagrin, you had returned beaming, spirits fiery, enveloped in the incense of lake water and pine sap, and carrying an entire new world in your hands.

He didn’t mind — honestly, he’d always enjoyed listening to you. Every story poured through your whole body: hands carving shapes in the air, feet kicking up at nothing, your voice rising and dropping, transforming canoe races and bonfire songs into tales far grander than they had any right to be.

But this time, the stories weren’t about him.

They weren’t about things you had done together.

Instead, they were about them.

Lian. Cass. Milo. Names that meant nothing to him but tumbled so effortlessly from your lips, light and familiar, were paper planes flung at him, each one carrying a piece of you away. Lian said this, Cass did that, Milo was so funny when—

Your laughter filled the space between you, unguarded and bright, the kind that made your whole body move with it — shoulders shaking, hands bracing against your knees as if you needed to physically steady yourself from the force of the memory. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, your oversized academy hoodie bunching at your elbows, the hem riding up to reveal a sliver of bare skin above your pajama shorts.

Caleb watched, his own smile flickering to life, rehearsed—a performance shaped by all the unspoken rules of moments such as this. He leaned back against the armrest, stretching his legs out beneath the coffee table, socked feet grazing against yours without thought. Yeah? What’d he say? The words left his mouth before he could register them, autopilot kicking in where his thoughts strayed.

You inhaled sharply, hands flailing slightly as you tried to contain your excitement. "Okay, so we were in the mess hall, and Cass dared Milo to chug this absolutely vile shake we made by spinning this random online wheel, right? Like, I’m talking — smelled like feet and regret. Anyway, Milo, being the overachiever that he is, actually considers it, and then — Lian, oh my god — looks at him and goes, ‘I hope your digestive system is strong enough for this betrayal because in spirit, you aren’t.’"

You barely got the last words out before dissolving into another fit of laughter, head tilting back, eyes squeezed shut in delight, hands clapping together — a little cymbal monkey, bright and electric. The sound pacified him, more soothing than memory, homelier than any childhood dream.

Caleb nodded, fingers forming a loose fist on his knee. "Yeah. That’s — uh, that’s funny."

It wasn’t.

The words rang hollow in his mouth, a bite into a fruit that looked ripe but tasted wrong.

This Lian guy — what was his deal? A little too self-aware, wasn’t he? Try-hard humor, the kind that made people laugh at things instead of with them. The type of jokes even Zayne would roll his eyes at.

“You have to hear about this too! One night during campfire stories, Lian started messing with the group by making up these ridiculous prophecies. You had to be there, but trust me, it was so good. He told Milo that he was doomed to trip over a tree root before the week was out and Milo actually did trip! It was insane. So obviously, we decided that Lian was our new oracle and now he gives everyone fake fortunes, like ‘beware the wrath of the cafeteria lady,’ or ‘your socks will mysteriously disappear in the night.’ And honestly? They’ve all come true. It’s freaky. So, everyone thought with his powers, we should overthrow the entire camp and take over as co-rulers, and honestly, I think we could do it."

At one point, Caleb had turned around, elbow braced against the couch arm, temple resting on his knuckles in a half-thoughtful pose, and giving you that look, the one that said he was listening, that you had his full attention — but if you peered in closer, you’d see the way the glimmer behind his pupils had been snuffed out.

"Oh yeah?" His voice came out smooth, too smooth, an autopilot response. "Where’d this revolution come from, exactly?”

"Okay, okay!" You beamed, sitting up straighter, knees bouncing with the effort of holding in your excitement. "So it all started when we got caught sneaking extra marshmallows from the mess hall. Lian was like, ‘This is tyranny, and we must rise up!’ So obviously, we started plotting this whole elaborate scheme to recruit our bunkmates and take control of the schedule board. If we changed the wake-up calls and sneaked into the admin office, we could make it so we got an extra hour of free time every day—”

Your hands waved wildly as you talked, nearly smacking him in the face at one point. Caleb barely blinked, smile thinning out a bit as you continued, oblivious.

"—and then Lian said that if we were in charge, we’d have unlimited access to the snack stash and, Caleb—imagine—unlimited s’mores!"

You looked at him then, eyes wide and expectant, your lips still parted from your last sentence, a pause charged with hope, waiting for him to catch the spark you carried, to match your excitement, to leap in and call it brilliant.

Instead, Caleb nodded slowly, lips pressing together in that familiar, measured way, the one that meant he was choosing his words carefully. "Sounds… revolutionary."

"Right?!" You beamed. "Lian even made a fake list of camp rules with ridiculous demands, like mandatory nap time and designated hammock hours. And you know what? I think he'd make a great leader.”

"Well, I mean, I thought you were supposed to be co-rulers?"

"Oh, we are," you said quickly, leaning back against the couch with a dreamy sigh. "But sometimes I feel like Lian just naturally takes charge, you know? He always has these ideas, and everyone just listens to him. It’s kinda amazing."

“Yeah. Amazing.”

"And Cass invited me to a sleepover this weekend," you announced, letting the words fall — an unassuming meteor disguised as a pebble, trying to slip soundlessly into still water. "Her parents are hosting, please, please, please! Can I go?"

Caleb barely had time to process before his stomach knotted, a visceral, immediate reaction.

No.

The word was right there, balanced on the tip of his tongue, begging to spill out before he could even think. Just no. He wanted to force his authority on you and demand no questions be asked. It was an ugly thing, that instinct. 

His nails dug into the front and back covers of the book in his lap, the spine pressing into his palm, though he hadn't turned a page in over ten minutes.

He didn’t know this Cass. Had never met her, had never had a say in whether or not she was someone you should be spending time with. Hadn’t chosen her for you.

You were watching him, chin propped on your hands, your knees tucked to your chest where you sat at the other end of the couch. Expectant. Certain he would agree, asking only out of habit.

Dark clouds gathered behind his eyes.

He wanted to be selfish. Wanted to refuse, unsettled by how quickly everything around him was tectonic plates breaking and lurching away from one another. Wanted to tell you to stay home, to keep things exactly the way they had always been. That sleepovers weren’t necessary, that you didn’t need to be anywhere else.

But he wasn’t your parent.

He wasn’t your guardian.

But he was your gege. Wasn’t he?

His breath came a little too tight, but he forced himself to smile anyway, reaching out to ruffle your hair the way he always did. The way he should. The way that meant nothing had changed.

"Yeah," he said, swallowing down the frog in his throat. "Have fun."

Your whole face lit up, legs kicking excitedly against the cushions. "I will!"

He forced out a chuckle, the sound barely reaching his ears. "Don't forget to give Gran her parents' contact numbers, okay? I'll drop you off."

That night, long after you had gone to bed, Caleb found himself standing outside your room, barefoot on the floor, staring at the thin ribbon of light seeping out from beneath your door, pale and flickering as your shadow moved beyond it, listening to the rustle of fabric, the muffled shuffling as you rearranged the contents of your overnight bag, followed by the careful scrape of a zipper. 

He had done this before. Stood in this exact spot, staring at the door separating him from you, listening to the mild sounds of you existing on the other side. When you were younger, it had been different — he used to do it just to check, To make sure you were still breathing. A habit formed in childhood, lingering into habit, into routine.

But this time?

The space between him and the door stretched wide, a canyon yawning open where solid ground once lay. He wasn’t checking in. He was stuck watching what they had begin to slip through his fingers, scattering before he could catch and mend it back. 

His fingers twitched at his sides.

He could knock. He could find an excuse — ask if you needed an extra charger even though it was you who usually came asking for one, joke about how you were probably overpacking for one night, tease you about stuffing half your closet into your bag.

He could say something.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, letting the seconds stretch long and thin between you.

And then, with a worn exhale, he turned away, and turned in for the night.

Caleb lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he wasn’t really seeing it. The shadows cast by the faint glow of his bedside clock stretched long and distorted as the numbers ticked forward, marking the slow crawl of time. Sleep never came. He didn’t expect it to.

He wasn't simply daydreaming or overthinking — his mind was being pulled in by an unearthing he hadn’t allowed himself to think about in years. A memory, worn at the edges but still sharp where it mattered.

The stories you used to tell.

Before camp. Before Gran. Before normalcy wrapped itself around your lives, an ill-fitting skin stretched too tight, chafing at every movement. Before you both learned how to live outside the sterile, white-washed walls where childhood had been a sentence, not a season.

Back then, in the cold fluorescence of a place that stank of antiseptic and the inescapable tang of copper, you had been the light.

The dreamer.

The one who could take four walls and write a new reality on them.

"I don’t belong here, my home is up here in the stars," you had whispered to him once, folded and huddled up on the too-thin mattress beside him, your voice hushed to keep secrets from the listening walls. "But it’s okay. He’s coming any day now."

"Who?" he had asked, because he knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

"My knight."

You had said it with absolute certainty, with a conviction so fierce that it almost made Caleb believe it too. "He promised he’d come back for me. But I won’t leave you here. He can take us far away, somewhere safe. Somewhere we don’t have to be afraid anymore."

Somewhere beyond the reach of men in white coats.

Back then, your world had been built on make-believe. On whispered prophecies and stories woven in the dark, each one an attempt to carve hope from the letters making up despair. And Caleb —

Caleb had never put stock in fairy tales, never believed in heroes riding in on white horses, or in distant kingdoms built on wishes and fate. But he had believed in you.

He had believed in the way your voice could dull the sharp edges of the world they lived in that was designed to poke and prod into them, the way you could take what was cold and sterile and fill it with hope, make it bearable. He had listened — really listened — memorized every inflection of your whispered stories in the dark, every frantic hope you clung to with tiny, desperate hands. He let you weave the illusion, let you pull him into that world where escape was possible, where you weren’t stuck waiting for whatever came next, helpless.

Then Gran took you in.

The men in white coats disappeared — gone, dead, buried beneath layers of the Chronorift Catastrophe and things nobody in this household ever talked about again. Life rearranged itself into a curated normal, into the bland routine of home-cooked meals and school bells and summer nights spent sprawled on the porch. And the stories?

They vanished.

The experiments had left fractures in your memory, gaps where entire years had been pried apart and left disassembled. Somewhere along the way, the knight from the stars had slipped through those cracks. Swallowed by time, forgotten, unspoken, lost to the void.

But Caleb never forgot.

The words still lived in the back of his mind, tucked away in the places he never let himself visit. He could still hear your voice, younger, frailer, whispering of a promise made long before you ever met him. He promised he’d come back for me.

For years, that story — your story — had been his greatest nightmare. The experiments and the ghosts in white coats, he could grit his teeth and bear. But the idea that the princely knight you had once spoken of so fervently would come after all?

Caleb had spent endless nights staring at the ceiling, waiting, listening, dreading. He had imagined it too vividly — some older, stronger man arriving in the dead of night, welcoming himself back into your world, with a voice manlier than his to turn your head and hands steady enough to pull you away from him. He had pictured the way you might look at someone the way you looked at him — wide-eyed, breathless, smitten — but this time so enamored that you wouldn’t even glance back.

But in the end, a celestial rescuer didn't arrive.

The nightmares of dramatic abductions he woke up drenched from that involved a grand, sweeping moment where someone took you from his grasp?

They were nothing compared to this.

Time. Life. The idle, inevitable turning point of you growing, changing, stepping further and further outside the world the two of you had built. Not running, not even intentionally leaving him behind — though, moving forward in a way that felt naturally inevitable, while he remained standing in place, watching your back drift further away.

He swallowed hard and turned onto his side, the sheets cool against his skin, but the heat in his chest refused to dissolve.

The knight from the stars was never real.

But the fear of losing you had always been.

Xavier’s apartment smelled like burnt toast.

Which was impressive, considering toast wasn’t even part of the meal.

Xavier’s second attempt at breakfast was going about as well as the first, which was to say: disastrous. The air purifier was whirring uselessly, struggling to clear out the acrid smoke infused into the walls, your clothes, your hair. The sink had already claimed several casualties — half-peeled vegetables, a cracked egg that never made it to the pan, and a bowl of rice that had turned a color rice should never be.

The only thing that had survived unscathed was the jar of honey.

And even that, apparently, was proving to be a challenge.

You sat at the counter, chin propped up on your hand, watching as Xavier wrestled with the lid and not even lifting a finger to help to see how long he could hold on until he wanted to recruit your help with that rare pleading face of his.

His long fingers, pale and deft, snaked around the glass, his knuckles pressing white with effort. The lamplight pooled over the sharp angles of his wrists, catching on the fine bones of his hands, the faint veins trailing up the smooth expanse of his forearms. His skin, impossibly fair, seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. He was all silken precision, all effortless control — except for the slight crinkle kissed between his brows, the faint crease of concentration on his otherwise perfectly composed face.

He twisted the lid one way, then the other, then braced it against his hip with the bearing of someone prepared for battle. The muscles in his forearm tensed beneath the pale stretch of skin, lean and corded, a whisper of restrained strength. His silver lashes lowered, his lips pressed into a flat, determined line.

It was an absurdly regal effort.

And then—

POP.

The lid exploded off like a gunshot.

Honey burst from the jar in a gilded arc, catching the light as it splattered across the counter, his hands, and, most notably, his face.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

A dollop of honey traced a viscous, lazy path down his cheek, catching at the delicate edge of his jaw, slipping past the curve of his mouth. His finely-shaped lips parted slightly in what could have been a sigh, or maybe exasperation. The strands of silver hair that framed his face were damp with syrup, sticking to the flawless cut of his cheekbones, glinting like strands of moonlight caught in amber.

And still, his expression remained blank. Like he didn’t quite register what had happened yet.

You were the first to break.

It started as a tremor at the back of your throat. A choked, strangled sound that barely registered as your own.

Xavier turned to you, silver lake blue eyes impassive.

“Is something funny?” he asked with a pout he was trying to hold back.

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t.

Except—

It was.

The laugh broke free before you could stop it, shaking loose from your chest, raw and unfamiliar. Your shoulders shook. Your head tipped back. It wasn’t a chuckle in the form of a small exhale through your nose that had become your usual lately — it was real laughter, the kind that knocked the breath from your lungs, the kind that you hadn’t felt in so long it almost startled you.

Xavier did not react.

Did not wipe the honey from his cheek.

Did not reach for a towel.

He simply stood there, deep pink dusting his ears, regarding you with an expression that was entirely too resentful. As if you were the strange one. As if he hadn’t just declared war on a honey jar and lost spectacularly.

You doubled over, forehead pressing to the counter as your fists banged soundlessly against the cool surface, struggling to breathe, to ground yourself. And yet, the laughter only came harder.

And then—

Then it hit you.

There were tears in your eyes.

Your breath stuttered, laughter splintering into hush, smaller now, unguarded, tremulous at the edges. The sound wavered, teetering between joy and grief at laughing in the kitchen with someone else at another time, until it fell on its knees somewhere in between.

Xavier didn’t say anything.

He reached for a napkin and, with surgical precision, wiped the substance from his face, and only managed to smear it around more.

You hiccupped, breath still uneven, as he casually put the jar down on the counter, closing a palm on top of it.

“Well, we’ve got honey at least,” he said, leaning in and turning his soiled cheek closer to you. “Do you want it?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you raised a finger and brushed along his cheekbone, collecting honey in a sticky trail as he kept his quiet-twinkled stare on you. As you pulled back your hand, he turned and licked his tongue over it, taking a taste as he contemplated the flavor thoughtfully.

"Good quality," he noted approvingly, his tone matter-of-fact.

His skin was soft. Soft enough that despite the sugar clinging to him, the endearment and tenderness beneath made you lean forward and kiss him where you touched. Lightly. Bare lips pressed against his cheek, feathery and fleeting before pulling away. You tasted honey and sunshine when you licked your lips — golden brightness pooling on your tongue, a sugary daze seeping into your veins.

You looked up in time to catch his double blink of surprise, eyebrows rising delicately to his hairline as his cheeks flushed deeper rose under all the sticky mess. A moment passed between you in silence — a private eternity.

Avoiding you when he was the one who made the move, Xavier immediately went on to clean — like nothing had happened, like he hadn't spilled the heart you had under lock and key all over the cavity of your ribcage. And you sat there, fingers trembling as you wiped your eyes, pretending you weren’t still smiling.

Falling in love had never felt like this before.

It had never crept in through the cracks, never been this tranquil, this steady.

But now, as you watched him move through the kitchen in search of edible food to put in front of you to eat, all awkward grace and clandestine embarrassment, you realized—

Maybe it had been happening all along.

The first time you saw Lumiere, you were too young to understand much of anything beyond the debilitating terror.

The world had cracked apart from the seams, horrors flooding the streets, a wound ripped open, impossible to mend. Sirens screamed through the chaos, their wailing voices swallowed by the greater, more inhuman sounds of the city tearing itself apart. The sky was wrong, a gaping, swirling hole yawning at its center, unnatural and seething, pulsing with a restless, uncanny life.

Buildings folded and twisted in on themselves, steel beams bending, dying fingers straining for help out of reach. The ground trembled beneath your feet, a violent, groaning thing, the earth itself recoiling from the carnage. Wanderers moved through the ruins, bending and warping the space around them, and the air turned dense, distorted, collapsing impossibly inward. 

People ran. A panicked, mindless stampede of scattering birds in the wake of a predator as smoke rolled thick through the streets, pressing its fingers against your lungs, squeezing. The streets had become graveyards. Cars sat abandoned, doors flung open in frozen panic, some crushed beneath fallen debris, others twisted into shapes that no longer resembled vehicles at all, and glass littered the asphalt, catching the firelight in fractured glints only to trip some people up as they were trying to escape.

Within hours, the city had come undone, an ending ripping apart ground and sky alike, undeniable in its finality.

And in the middle of it all—

A spectral shimmer against the bruised expanse of the sky, carving through the ruins in a streak of molten silver, a shooting star torn from the heavens and hurled toward the ground. He moved with the force of a video game character come to life, graceful, otherworldly, his blade carving arcs of light through beasts too vast, too nightmarish to fall to mere guns made by men.

You remembered the moment gloved hands — gentle, strong — had pulled you from the wreckage, lifting you out of the chaos as if you weighed nothing at all. The world around you was still crumbling, still breaking apart in ways too enormous for your small mind to comprehend, but in that instant, none of it reached you. His arms scooped you up protectively, familiar in a way, shielding you from the twisted bodies of cars, from the distant screams, from the flickering, impossible reality of the Wanderers.

Your tiny hands had latched onto his sleeve, frantic for any shape or form of safety, and even now, you could remember the way it felt beneath your fingertips — impossibly luxurious, a sensation that didn’t belong in this world at all. His white coat, unblemished despite the wreckage, didn’t seem to absorb the destruction the way everything else had, it should have been ruined, torn by shrapnel, dirtied by smoke and fire, but it wasn’t. It was perfect. As if nothing — not the crumbling city and certainly not the monsters — could touch him.

He had only looked down at you once, but that was all it took.

Those eyes — deep blue, so calm it felt unreal, still as a lake undisturbed — had met yours, devoid of pity. His hair, the lightest shade of white gold, caught the glow of the firelight, making it near impossible to tell where the light ended and he began. It was almost holy, a glow that stripped away the edges of personhood, leaving behind a figure summoned from the hushed wonder of a fairy tale. A savior carved from light and distance.

And then, without a word, he had pulled you closer and lifted off the ground.

The city fell away beneath you, the fires and spiraling smoke blurring into streaks as the wind roared past your ears, the world that had mere moments ago tried to swallow you whole becoming nothing but a smear of color beneath your feet. Up here, cradled in the cocoon of safety, you were untouchable. Weightless as light itself.

You had never stood this high above it all. Never seen the world stretched out in such vastness. Never felt your chest fill quite the same way.

For a moment, in the middle of catastrophe, it was a dream.

And just as suddenly, it was over.

He descended with effortless precision, the wind dying around you as your feet met the ground, his arms the last thing you let go of. Gran’s trembling hands were there in the next breath, pulling you into a desperate embrace outside the shelter, voice cracking with relief.

You turned to look for him.

But he was already gone.

As if he had never been there at all.

And that was all it took. You were obsessed.

As you got older, fascination twisted into obsession. The internet sleuth in you wasn’t held back by being fourteen, hunting for everything, books, articles, classified reports that had leaked onto obscure message boards, desperate for any scrap of information on Lumiere. Your search history became a shrine to him, spiraling down a rabbit hole of half-truths and speculation that even explaining porn to Gran would be easier.

You scoured forums where people spoke about him in fanatic reverence in endless threads filled with theories and fragmented testimonies. Some claimed to have seen him in the flesh, accounts breathless and disjointed, warped by awe and that phenomenon where one couldn’t exactly convey what they had gone through in perfect storytelling. Others swore he was nothing but a myth conjured by higher-ups to give birth to hope in the chaos of Linkon’s Catastrophe, possibly a constructed hero for the screens, the latter of which you knew better to entertain at all.

You watched every second of available footage, even the grainy, unstable clips filmed on trembling phones, taken from rooftops, from shattered streets, from whatever vantage point people could find before fleeing for their lives. You rewound, paused, analyzed, frames gone over with meticulous care one by one for anything you could find to get closer to his identity.

How he moved, fluid and precise, inhuman even with evol-user standards, the world around him bent in subtle ways as if the reality itself wasn't sure how to hold him, light distorting at the edges of his body.

You traced backtracked his path through the city, cross-referencing footage with satellite images, tracking where he had been, where he had vanished, where the destruction had ended in his wake, taking scraps of information jotted in the margins of notebooks, highlighted documents saved on your drive, timelines reconstructed in frantic detail.

You tried to reconstruct your own memories, too, for anything related to his face, but they slid past your grip, sand slipping loose no matter how tightly you held on — there for a moment, vivid and raw, before scattering into obscurity. Time and trauma had eroded the edges, distorting the details, leaving you with fragments instead of a whole.

You remembered the feeling more than anything.

The glow of his energy swimming around him, a halo of sentient light, illuminating the space between you. It held no bite of fire and no chill of electricity, brushing your skin, a cat bumping its forehead into your hand, then threaded through your bones, a current that knew your shape.

You knew, deep in your bones, that you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. And that fact shaped you in ways you couldn’t explain.

Caleb thought it was hilarious.

“You could’ve picked literally anything else,” he teased, arms crossed as he watched you rearrange your Lumiere fanart posters for what had to be the third time that week, but there was an undeniable awe in the way his eyes swept over the sheer dedication on display. You would roll on the floor and kick your limbs if it meant not doing your assigned chores, but the organization skills invested in Lumiere was nothing short of neat.

You barely glanced at him, too focused on making sure the edges of the posters were perfectly aligned. “And you still would be making fun of me.”

He snorted. “Listen, I support you, but you’ve turned this into a lifestyle.”

His gaze flicked around your room, taking in the full extent of your devotion. The shelves were packed — action figures still pristine in their boxes, rare collector’s items standing proudly on display, books and magazines arranged as meticulously as artifacts in a museum. A limited-edition Lumiere print, framed in glass, hung on the wall, belonging more to a gallery than a bedroom.

He reached over and flicked the head of a small Lumiere figurine on your desk, watching as it wobbled slightly before settling. Then he gestured toward the obscenely priced framed poster you had nearly cried over when it arrived in the mail.

“How much of your allowance have you blown on this guy?”

You turned to him, entirely unrepentant, eyes gleaming with conviction. “Every cent has been worth it.”

Caleb let out a long, dramatic sigh before collapsing onto your bed, bouncing slightly against the mattress as he folded his hands behind his head. His eyes flicked between you and the sheer shrine of Lumiere memorabilia covering your walls, his under-eye puffs creasing somewhere between amusement and mild exasperation.

"You know," he mused, stretching out in a long, languid motion, "if you ever put this much dedication into something productive, you'd probably rule the world by now."

So much dad-talk with this guy.

"You’re just mad I’m putting my energy into Lumiere and not boosting your ego twenty-four-seven," you shot back, rolling your eyes as you took a step back to assess your latest Tetris-like rearrangement of posters. No visible surface of the wall underneath. Perfect.

Caleb hummed thoughtfully, still watching you with the kind of lazy, calculated interest that always meant trouble. Then, after a beat of silence, his lips twisted into a slow, knowing grin.

"Actually," he drawled, tilting his head slightly, "I bet you have some secret Lumiere fanfic account somewhere, don’t you?"

Your heart nearly stopped. "What—"

“Oh, you totally do.” Caleb was grinning now, wide and victorious, a cat circling cornered prey, dragging out the moment for his own satisfaction.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him with everything you had. He dodged effortlessly, laughing as it thudded uselessly against the floor.

“Shut up, Caleb!”

“I’m right, though. I knew it.” He sat up, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought, the way he talked dipping into that slow, calculating tone that made your stomach drop. “Now the question is — what exactly do you write? Reader-insert? OCs? Ooh, or is it those tragic longing glances across the battlefield type deals?”

You peeked through your fingers, glaring from behind your hands. “How do you even know all of this?! You’re — You’re not supposed to know things like this! You’re a guy!”

“Wow. Gender stereotyping? In this day and age? For your information, I listen when people talk. Unlike someone.”

“I never talked about writing!” you shriek cracked in sheer betrayal.

“Please. You definitely have a secret account. Probably one of those edgy usernames, like ‘EclipsedSoul94’ or something.” He snapped his fingers. “Or wait — maybe something romantic. Like… ‘Lightbearer’s Muse.’”

Your entire body locked up.

Caleb’s eyes went wide, and in the split second of silence that followed, you knew you were doomed.

“No. Way.” His voice practically beamed with glee as he shot forward, bracing himself on his hands and knees, body coiled in a posture that needed no explanation — ready to absolutely pounce on the weakness he'd found. “Did I actually get close?!"

You scrambled back, heart hammering. "Shut up!"

He was laughing now, leaning into every bit of your suffering. "Wow, this is even better than I imagined. Really though, what do you write? Self-insert where you get rescued by him again? Maybe a little strangers-to-lovers? C’mon pip-squeak, you can share it with me… Oh, wait — do you make him suffer? Tragic backstory rewrite? I’m thinking angst. Big, dramatic, heart-wrenching—”

"Get out of my room!"

This time, you launched the pillow with actual intent to maim. He caught it effortlessly, barely even flinching, his grin unaffected.

“Oh, I’m going to find it,” he declared, tossing the pillow back onto your bed as he stood. “It’s only a matter of time.” He pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then turned them toward you. “Just remember — you can’t hide from me forever.”

And with that, he was gone.

The second the door clicked shut, you collapsed onto your bed, burying your face into the nearest pillow and screamed.

You were so screwed.

Despite the relentless teasing, the smug grins, the knowing looks whenever you so much as mentioned Lumiere’s name, Caleb never actually tried to talk you out of your obsession. Never scoffed and told you to get over it, never dismissed the endless streams of theories and analysis spilling from your mouth. If anything, he made it worse.

Because instead of shutting you down, he fed into it.

Where everyone else might have tuned you out, offering half-hearted nods and vague hums of acknowledgment, Caleb locked in. Matched your energy in a way that no one else ever would. 

Somewhere along the way, he had started picking things up. Anyone who spent enough time around you would eventually know Lumiere’s name, his signature abilities, his role in the Catastrophe. But Caleb went further. He started stockpiling trivia, hoarding that ammunition, waiting for the right moment to use it against you.

And he did. Mercilessly.

"You know, technically, Lumiere’s first recorded appearance after the Catastrophe is actually three years later, he’s not entirely gone," he had dropped casually over breakfast one morning, flipping through his phone and pretending he wasn’t watching your reaction out of the corner of his eye. "A witness in South End reported seeing a guy with light-based powers interfering in a protocore smuggling ring. No solid proof, but some people think—"

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Or the time you were mid-rant about power scaling inconsistencies in an old debate, only for Caleb to lazily stretch his arms and yawn, "Yeah, but Lumiere’s light refraction abilities could inherently be tied to gravitational fields, so if you think about it, it actually makes sense that his speed varies depending on—"

You had thrown a book at him.

He acted so effortlessly the information seemed intrinsic in his mind, but you knew. He had researched this. Had studied. Absorbed every ridiculous tidbit for the sole purpose of catching you off guard, slipping it into conversation so seamlessly it almost passed for expert knowledge.

And whenever you found out about a rare Lumiere event — an exhibit, a convention panel, a last-minute pop-up experience — Caleb always somehow made time for it. No matter how busy he seemed, no matter how often he claimed there were more pressing obligations, he never let you go alone.

He was the one dragging you out the door before you could overthink it, nudging you along when your nerves made you hesitate, handing over your ticket alongside a long-suffering sigh that turned the gesture into a silent, affectionate duty. And yet, despite all his grumbling, he never actually looked reluctant.

He took you to Lumiere-themed pop-up cafés, sitting across from you in a booth that was entirely too colorful for his tastes, making some sarcastic remark about how even the food was branded. And yet, when the latte art arrived, he took the picture before you could even reach for your phone, angling it perfectly right to catch the aesthetic lighting.

He cringed at the massive life-sized Lumiere cardboard cutouts at events but still held your bag whenever you ran up to one, your grin wide and shameless as you posed beside it. And then, when you weren’t paying attention, he took actual good pictures, ones where you didn’t look stiff or awkward, capturing the moment exactly as it was — your excitement, your enthusiasm, the way your entire face lit up.

He even tagged along to convention panels, sitting patiently through heated debates over Lumiere’s greatest heroic moments, invested enough to seem genuinely involved. You expected him to zone out, maybe nap through the more obscure discussions, but he never did, if anything, he leaned into the arguments with the investment of a man lingering before a soap opera he told his partner he wasn’t interested in, standing up with hands on hips.

And when you shot him a look, silently accusing him of enjoying this way more than he let on, he shrugged.

"Hey, I’ve been forced into this fandom. Might as well commit."

You wanted to argue, call him out on the fact that he was the one feeding into your obsession, not the other way around. But the moment you turned and opened your mouth, he was already flipping through the event schedule.

"Alright," he would lock in. "Where’s the merch booth?"

Caleb had made your love for Lumiere feel valid, important — even if he never let you live it down.

One year, on your birthday, Caleb somehow managed to track down the holy grail of Lumiere merchandise—an original, limited-edition plushie from an exclusive release, the kind of thing that had vanished off the market almost as soon as it had dropped. You had spent so much searching for it, scouring secondhand listings, watching auctions climb into absurd price ranges before vanishing altogether and appearing right back in someone else's hands to be auctioned once more, hands in your hair agonizing over the relic of the fandom hardcore collectors would have sold their souls for.

And Caleb, of all people, had found it.

You still remembered the moment you unwrapped it — the weight of the box in your lap, the crinkle of carefully folded tissue paper giving way beneath your fingertips, the instant recognition as soon as you caught a glimpse of familiar fabric. Your breath had hitched, hands going still, heart a dice jostled loose as it skittered sharply in the hollow of your throat through the realization.

This wasn’t some replica. Not a well-kept version of the later reprints, either. This was the original.

You lifted it gently, almost reverently, fingers ghosting over embroidered details, tracing the edges of the slightly worn tag still attached to its side. It appeared untouched, preserved as a fragment of history—but you knew better. You understood its age, understood the improbability of finding a piece this old, this rare, preserved so perfectly.

You had screamed and made him jump, nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug, your hands shaking as you clutched it close to your chest, running your fingers over the embroidered insignia and the carefully-stitched details. "No. No way. NO WAY! Where—how—? Caleb!"

He ruffled your hair in that annoyingly familiar way, his touch light but lingering a second longer than usual. “It wasn’t even that hard to get.”

You pulled back, still clutching the plushie to your chest, blinking at him in disbelief. “What do you mean it wasn’t hard? Caleb, this thing has been sold out for years. People would kill for it. I would’ve killed for it.”

He shrugged, all nonchalance, feigning indifference to having gifted you nigh-impossibility. “Luckily, you don’t need to, because I know people.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You do not know Lumiere merch scalpers.”

“I might.”

You gawked at him. “Wait. Wait. Did you actually—”

Caleb waved you off, leaning back in his chair, already deciding the conversation was over. The birthday cake remnants still sat on the table nearby, plates half-empty. “Just be grateful, gremlin.”

You stared at him, still overwhelmed, your heart all over the place from equal parts excitement and the dawning realization that he had to have gone above and beyond to get this. And he wasn’t even rubbing it in your face this time, either. Just looking smugly content.

The stove lights flickered against his face, highlighting the grin playing at his lips, but beneath all the teasing, there was the unbearable smother of honeyed fondness that made your breath catch for a heartbeat.

You hugged the plushie tighter, still clutching it like it was the most precious thing in the world. “Caleb.”

He cracked an eye open, raising a brow. “Hmm?”

You didn’t even know what to say. Thank you didn’t seem enough. But you also knew he’d never let you dwell on it too long. He'd always been this — giving, caring, yours, in a way that was so deeply ingrained in your life you sometimes forgot to acknowledge it.

Choked up, you nudged his leg beneath the table with your foot. Caleb, ever the instigator, nudged back, his grin widening as your little game escalated into a full-blown under-the-table foot war. The plates and empty glasses clinked slightly as your shins bumped, his movements slow and infuriatingly confident, while you tried to gain the upper hand.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered instead, trying to mask the sudden hot wave creeping up your neck.

Caleb, predictably, took the bait, his grin widening as he leaned back, stretching his legs out to trap yours in place. “You love me,” he shot back, effortlessly smug, not expecting anything more from you.

And maybe that was what made it so easy to say what you did next, words slipping out before you could think twice. “I’d probably be miserable without you.”

His foot froze against yours.

You didn’t notice, too focused on reclaiming your space in the ongoing foot war, pushing against his shin again with renewed determination. But across the table, Caleb had gone completely still, his smile faltering imperceptively before he recovered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, shaking his head, but his ears were red, his voice lower than before.

Another time, he had stayed up with you all night, camping out in a virtual queue to secure tickets to a Lumiere-themed convention. You had woken up that morning to a confirmation email and Caleb sprawled on your couch, half-asleep with his phone still in his hand.

You had launched yourself at him, tackling him in joy, and even though he had groaned about being used as a human pillow, he had never once pushed you away.

Looking back, you wondered if you had ever truly understood that these memories weren’t just tied to Lumiere. They were wrapped by the safety and happiness of Caleb always making space for your hyperfixations, in the laughter over quirks only he would ever care to indulge.

The things you treasured most had never belonged to Lumiere. They had always belonged to Caleb.

The old town, infested with Wanderers and long abandoned by warmth, was colder than expected — it wasn't the kind of cold that froze people in place. It moved with the wind, restless and alive, biting and electric, static before a lightning strike, unseen teeth grazing exposed skin.

You had felt it before Xavier did.

Even before the wind cut sharper, before the first true gust sent loose debris skittering across the road, you had known, drawn in on yourself instinctively, chin tucked, shoulders hunched, fighting the chill that threaded through your coat as if the layers meant nothing, arms locked tight around your body, gloved fingers bunching up your sleeves, as if bracing for what awaited beyond the horizon.

And then, you had stopped talking somewhere along the walk back, words trailing off until there was nothing but the sound of your footsteps, picking up pace, pressing forward.

Xavier hadn't noticed — not at first.

Not in the way he should have.

He had assumed you were cold—that you, much the same as him, simply didn’t want to be caught outside when the storm hit. Had brushed it off as normal — the logical reaction to impending bad weather.

The place they had taken for the night barely deserved to be called a shelter. It was a husk of a room, abandoned to time, walls bruised by damp stains crawling upward in slow, creeping ivy-shaped tendrils, smelling of old concrete and rusted metal. The single window rattled in protest against the wind, its warped frame allowing the night to slip through in cold, sharp breaths, laced with the damp tang of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

The heater struggled against the chill, wheezing out uneven bursts that never reached past the center of the room. Its hum was a frail thing, swallowed by the rising howl of wind that zipped through the alleyways outside, hissing and whistling through unseen cracks in the foundation.

They had a plan — keep watch in shifts, take turns standing guard. But plans meant nothing when he felt safe enough and wooziness had already sunk its fangs deep, wrapping around his limbs, pulling him down, heavy and relentless, deeper beneath a silent current.

Sleep took him fast the way it usually did. 

At some undefined hour of the night, he surfaced from sleep — not to cold, but to warmth.

His mind waded through the haze of exhaustion, sluggish and unwilling, thoughts tangled in the remnants of whatever half-formed dreams had been unraveling in his head. Instinct kept his body still, his muscles coiled, tight, waiting. The room was silent except for the distant hush of wind through the cracks, the faint coughing of the heater struggling against the damp chill.

And then, awareness seeped in.

Something soft. Comfy. Pressed against him.

It wasn’t from the heater.

It was you.

The realization was a breath held too long, burning his lungs. You had crumpled into him in sleep, your body drawn close as if seeking comfort, heat, him.

Even without seeing your face, he felt it in the way you clung to his shirt in a death-grip. Your knuckles pressed into his ribs, your breath ghosting across his skin in shallow, uneven pulls, whisper-vague, as if shaped from the same dream that carried his secrets.

And you were trembling.

It wasn't violent enough to wake you up, but his senses were sensitive enough that he picked it up anyway, wilted at the thought of whatever had driven you to this.

Outside, the storm had come in full.

Lightning split the sky in flashing white veins, illuminating the window for a fractured instant before plunging them back into darkness, wind howled through the streets, carrying the sharp, sudden crack of thunder. You flinched in your sleep, whining intermittently.

And suddenly, Xavier understood.

His body moved before his thoughts could catch up, an instinctual response written into muscle memory taking the reins. He shifted with a frictionless glide in a motion akin to settling deeper into water without disturbing the surface.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, adjusting to the subtle pull of your body against his. He could feel the way you fit against him, the way you doubled inward, seeking heat, seeking him. The fabric of his shirt tightened under your grip, your fingers still balling the material as if you weren’t ready to let go, even in sleep.

He could have woken you. Should have.

A gentle shake of your shoulder, a reassuring murmur — It’s just a storm. It will pass.

But inexplicably, he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed.

Let you burrow closer, let your breath even out against his collarbone, let the beckon of sleep attempt to reclaim you, no matter how restless it was. The scent of you — faint traces of perfume and the lingering damp chill from the outside — mixed with the slow burn of body heat between you, wrapping the moment in what neither of you would acknowledge in the morning.

He told himself he was only waiting. Just for a little while. Just until you settled.

What came next was barely a sound that he almost mistook it for the wind rattling through the walls.

“Caleb.”

Xavier froze.

A slow, twisting sickness thrashed in his stomach, bitter and ugly, which he had no right to feel.

Outside, the city howled. Wind rushed through the skeletal remains of forgotten buildings, rain lashing against the rattling windowpane in fits of fury, thunder cracking, deep and rolling. 

But inside?

Inside, there was only this.

The press of your body against his. The shape of you molded against his side as if you meant to hold onto him. As if you were reaching for him beyond the instincts to keep snug and the thick haze of exhaustion — but truly, blindly, instinctively.

And yet—

It wasn’t his name you whispered.

Xavier’s jaw locked, his breath shallow. He could have let you go. Could have moved away, broken the moment, shaken you gently awake and told you to take the bed. Could have reminded you, in some unofficial, necessary way, that he was not the one you were calling for.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He let you stay there, let himself absorb the reality of you. Let himself pretend, for a moment, that this meant nothing. That it was only an exhaustion-born slip of the tongue, a dream clawing through the grave that wouldn't survive the morning light.

The storm prowled in late, a hulking beast dragging its belly across the sky, smothering the moon beneath a thick, churning mass, its swollen clouds restless beasts rolling in. Lightning flickered in their depths, a pulse beneath thick, churning skin, illuminating the world in fractured glimpses — a flash of the windowpane, rain-streaked and rattling, a brief glint of an airplane model on the nightstand, the sharp angles of shadows clawing across the ceiling. Then darkness again. The first distant growls of thunder were rolling in low, stretching their echoes across the night.

Caleb barely noticed.

The flickering blue light of the TV played over his face, his body sprawled across the bed in an easy sprawl, one arm slung over his eyes. The hum of voices from the screen blended into the static haze of his thoughts, their weightless chatter filling the space without asking anything of him. A small comfort.

A bolt of lightning ripped the sky in half, flooding the room with a bone-white flash.

CRACK!

A thunderclap split the air, slamming into the apartment with a force that rattled the windowpanes, making the lights flicker, and Caleb flinched, breath caught mid-inhale. 

You were afraid of storms.

It had been years since you’d last crawled into his bed on a night this stormy, but fear didn’t vanish — it just took new forms, wore new masks.

Just as life did.

Once, fear had been the thunder outside your window. Now, it was subtler, more intangible, abstract. Time itself pulling you both in opposite directions was a tide too strong to fight.

His world had grown far beyond the childhood walls that once felt endless. The cracked pavement of your old street had given way to stadium lights, the sharp echo of a basketball on concrete replaced with the chaotic squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood. Grueling practices stole his evenings, high-stakes games consumed his weekends, and the weight of expectation that had begun bearing down on his shoulders was a physical thing. Coaches, teammates, strangers — each of them had carved their own demands into him, shaping him into someone more than the boy you used to know.

And yet, all of it — every late-night practice, every exhausting sprint, every sacrifice — had been a decision made in the seclusion of his own mind.

For your sake.

Because while his world had stretched wide and far, you had remained at the center of it. Home was still in your shadow.

Had it been too much to expect for it to be the same for you?

You were no longer the kid who used to chase after him, feet barely keeping up, breathless and laughing, wide-eyed and weightless and trusting in the way only children could be.

Your hands had once been so small, always grasping, always finding his wrist, his sleeve, the hem of his shirt — any part of him that anchored you. In crowded hallways, you used to be glued to his side as if the press of bodies and the rush of voices would swallow you whole if he wasn’t there to hold you tight.

It was in the way you spoke now. Gone were the sidelong glances in his direction and pausing to gauge his reaction before deciding whether to commit to a thought. Confidence that wasn’t borrowed from him but built on your own ground.

It was in the spaces you carved out, the ones where his presence had become optional instead of assumed. The text chains he wasn’t part of, filled with names and inside jokes he didn’t recognize. The weekend plans you no longer ran by him first, the group outings where he wasn’t automatically included. People who had their own memories with you — memories he wasn’t in. Once, your world had overlapped so completely with his that he never questioned whether he had a place in it. Now, it was expanding, growing branches he hadn’t been there to water.

The signs were everywhere, in details so small they almost felt petty to notice — almost. The way you’d tilt your phone away when typing, in the existence of private social media accounts he didn’t have access to. The way you ordered for yourself at restaurants without giving him that familiar look, the unspoken “you know what I like” that used to pass between you. The way your late-night talks had dwindled, from every time something went wrong to only when it was serious.

Once, you would have knocked on his door in a heartbeat — over a bad test grade, a ruined outfit, a stubbed toe, whatever, anything and everything, whatever excuse let you be near. Now, days passed before he even realized anything had happened at all, and by the time he asked, you had already handled it and moved on. 

And he told himself it was good. Healthy. A natural part of growing up.

But needing him less was one thing.

Needing him not at all — that was something else entirely.

And then there were the looks — the ones he hadn’t noticed at first, maybe even refused to.

The first time he really saw it, open paranthesis — couldn't ignore anymore — close paranthesis, was on the court at seventeen, the burn of the game still fresh in his muscles, sweat rolling down his spine in slow, sticky beads. His heart was hammering from the last play, his breath still unsteady, but none of that mattered the second his gaze flicked toward the sidelines.

You were there, exactly where you always were, standing beyond the edge of the gym floor, your voice still ringing from whatever cheer you’d thrown his way. But he was there too — some near-graduate with too much ego and too little sense, stretching lazily near the bench with a pretense that he wasn’t watching you, when he very much was.

Caleb saw it in the slow drag of his gaze, the way it traced over you like a hand, the up-and-down appraisal that made his stomach fold in on itself hot and tight.

This fossil wasn’t some kid on the playground getting red-faced and tongue-tied, some middle school idiot stammering through a crush while Caleb loomed over him, effortlessly making himself an immovable wall between you and them.

Back then, it had been easy. He never had to try. A single glance, a well-placed hand on your shoulder, a casual, dismissive she’s busy or oh, she’s not dating yet or she’s got a curfew or we’ve got family plans tonight was all it took to send whatever unfortunate boy packing. Those little guys were no real threat — not to him, not to you. They were children. Awkward, unsure, easily intimidated. Easily gotten rid of. 

But this?

This was a whole different game.

Fourteen. His baby pip-squeak was fourteen. And that guy was nearly eighteen. A senior. Already filling out college applications. Already halfway out the door with a look that said I know exactly what I want, and I think I can take it.

Caleb felt the arrival of the crunch time before he fully processed it. The way his body tensed. The slowburn that started in his chest caught its way up the back of his neck and set his entire head on fire. His pulse had just begun to calm, but now it was climbing again for a different reason.

Of course, he didn’t throw a punch and let the instinct detonate into a mistake he couldn’t take back.

Instead, he did what he always did — smiled.

That same easy, sunlit grin that made people relax. That made them believe he was nothing but summer, laughter and good-natured charm. He slung an arm over his teammate’s shoulder, casual as ever, fingers pressing a little too firmly into the guy’s back — friendly, but firm. A little too much weight in the gesture. A little too much control.

A predator playing with its food.

“Oh, man,” he laughed, loud enough to carry, his voice bright and effortless, even as ice sank its teeth into it “You think you can handle her? I live with her. Believe me, you do not want that smoke. She still holds a grudge over a game of Kitty Cards from, like, five years ago.”

His teammate chuckled, but it wavered with the subtle knowledge thrown his way about Caleb’s relation to you. A half-second too slow, a fraction too stiff. Caleb felt it — the subtle crack in his posture, the moment of hesitation.

Good.

Caleb clapped him on the back, kept his grip the right amount of strong, let the force of it push the guy a step forward, off balance. His grin never slipped, easy and golden, smooth as ever.

“Nah,” he added, shaking his head with a laugh. “You don’t want to stoop to her level and be a child with her. Trust me.”

And that was it.

That was the cut. You’re too grown for her, don’t even think about it.

It wasn’t the thunder that rolled overhead yanked him away from the memories but the knock. Barely more than a dull tap compared to the pelting rain.

A flicker of intent, and his evol pulsed through the air, slipping unseen into the metal of the lock. It gave without resistance, the faintest click swallowed by the storm’.

The door eased open, and there you were.

You stood at the threshold, wrapped in the dim glow spilling from the hallway, shadows pooling at your feet. Your sweater, probably stolen from his closet if he had to guess, enveloped you entirely in a hug threaded into fabric, hands swallowed by sleeves too long, the hem skimming the tops of your bare thighs, and for a moment, he didn’t know if it was the storm making the room feel colder or the sight of you standing there, small and uncertain, almost carried in by the wind. Your hair clung to your cheeks, still damp from the shower, no matter how many times he’d told you to dry it properly. The Lumiere plushie — faded from years of love, seams slightly frayed — was clutched tight to your chest, its little embroidered eyes peeking out between your fingers.

For a second, you didn’t move and hovered there, framed by the doorway, uncertain. The flickering light from the hallway cast uneven shapes across your face, catching on the tension in your brow, the way your lips pressed together gave away you were still debating this. Still deciding whether to step forward or turn back.

The storm cracked overhead, a sudden burst of white against the night.

You flinched.

That was all it took.

Before he could say anything, you moved.

A blur of of fear and haste as you darted forward, slipping beneath the blankets in a single, fluid motion, collided with his. You were a mole that wanted to burrow deep to escape the storm itself.

The scent of shower clung to you, damp and cooled, mixing with the lingering sweetness of whatever tea you must have abandoned in the kitchen. Your skin, still chilled from the hallway, met the steady heat of his side, and the contrast sent a shiver through you — a tremor he felt before he heard you talk.

“I hate this.”

The words came muffled, half-buried in the plush fabric of Lumière, your cheek pressed into the space between his shoulder and chest. Your fingers tightened around the stuffed toy, nails pressing into worn seams, but your body had already melted against his. 

“It’s too loud.”

He exhaled, measured and steady, adjusting the blankets in a practiced motion. Tucking you in. Smoothing the covers over your shoulder, pulling them snug around you both, layering a shield against the chaos outside.

But his hands lingered.

Half a second too long. Fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve, feeling the shape of your wrist beneath.

Then he let go.

Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, in the dim hush of the room, you had already begun to relax — breath evening out, shoulders losing their tension. Your weight, solid and real, grounding him in ways you probably didn’t realize.

He swallowed, tilting his head slightly, watching the way your lashes fluttered.

“Didn’t you say you’d be fine since Lumiere would protect you?” he teased with the kind of question meant to earn an indignant huff, a half-hearted rebuttal.

You sighed instead, pressing closer, slotting yourself neatly into the space between his chest and his arm, fitting there naturally, perfectly. Maybe that was exactly where you belonged.

“Lumiere can protect me in here, as well.”

Caleb let out a short, breathy snort, shaking his head, but didn’t push the moment further. The teasing remark on the tip of his tongue faded before it could form, swallowed by the distraction of your breathing against him. Instead, he let his focus drift back to the television, the glow of the screen flickering in shades of blue and white, the sound barely more than a murmur beneath the rain. His eyes tracked the movement, but nothing quite registered. Colors, maybe. Light. A meaningless blur against the weight of you snugly close beside him.

He could feel your heartbeat, a tad bit too fast and off-kilter, beneath the layers of fabric between you. The rise and fall of your breath matched his own, an unconscious sync that had existed for as long as he could remember. The plush weight of Lumière was still crushed between you, your fingers lax around its worn edges. The storm continued, but none of the chaos reached you here. You were safe. You had always been safe with him.

That was the way it had always been.

Since you were small, since the first time a storm had driven you to his room, since the night you’d climbed into his bed without a word and dived beneath his blankets. Caleb had gotten used to it — used to the way you always found your way back to him when you were afraid, as if his presence alone was enough to ward off the things that scared you.

But something was different this time.

It wasn’t the first time he'd become the branch to your koala. Wasn’t the first time his bed had become your refuge against thunder and lightning. But it was the first time he was aware of it—so painfully, keenly aware.

Of the way your body aligned with his.

Of the way your temparature seeped through his clothes, into his skin.

Of the way his own breath felt suddenly too shallow, on the verge of shaking.

The first time in forever that he wasn’t just letting you exist beside him, wasn’t just offering comfort out of habit.

It blindsided him.  A missed step off a curb he hadn’t noticed was there. His pulse stuttered — missed a couple beats, even — before picking up again, faster this time, uneven and unsteady. His breath caught, a fraction too shallow, barely making it past his throat.

Heat bloomed low in his stomach, spiraling, spreading, wrong. A hot and electric rush rising in its intensity, unwelcome in its timing. The front of his shorts grew uncomfortably tight, and panic — raw, visceral, boiling — shot through him before his brain could even fully register why.

His arm, draped around your shoulders in what had always been an easy, thoughtless gesture, suddenly felt rigid. His fingers twitched where they rested against the knit of your top, a tremor he hoped you wouldn’t notice. You were pressed so close, body comfortable and trusting, the scent of your shampoo overtaking all his senses, and would surely linger in his pillow for a while after you left. The steady rise-and-fall of your breathing ghosted against his collarbone, peaceful, unaware, safe.

Safe with him.

(You’re too grown for her, don’t even think about it.)

His stomach twisted, shame lashing through him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw locking tight, willing it away. Not now. Not here, not like this.

But it didn’t go away.

If anything, it sank deeper, worse.

An itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t scratch. A wire pulled too tight. A recalibration inside him in a way he wasn’t sure he knew how to stop.

One of your arms had somehow found its way under his shirt in the process of shifting closer, palms resting on his ribs, barely brushing. The touch was a simple point of contact, yet it may as well have been a live wire pressed against him.

The stuffed Lumiere had been shoved between you at some point, an afterthought, its worn fabric smushed and doing absolutely nothing to create any real distance. Your bare leg had tangled with his under the blanket, knee slotted against his in a way that should have been familiar, routine, but wasn’t — not anymore.

You had melted against him the moment safety sank in, your body losing tension, a breath exhaled into his side. He felt every shift — the twitch of your fingers, once, twice, before stillness sat back down; your breathing turning deep, slow, and even. The small unconscious nuzzle as you nestled even closer, an instinctive surrender, rooted deeply in trust.

It was the kind of thing he would have laughed at, should have laughed at — how absurdly fast you had knocked out, how easily you had given yourself up to sleep as if the storm outside had never existed.

But he couldn’t laugh.

Because while you were perfectly at ease, he was staring at the ceiling, pulse jackhammering, dick rigid with a concept too messy and incomprehensible and unacceptable — and had him going completely, utterly insane.

This can't be happening.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you this way. 

Shouldn’t be feeling this.

Every rational part of him screamed a warning sign and pounded it into his skull. This was you — the same person who he had been sheltering even from his own eyes, the same person who had never thought twice before crawling into his space, his bed, his arms, whenever you needed comfort. And right now — right now — you were trusting him to be nothing but safe.

But safe was the last thing he felt.

His skin was too tight, heat licking up his spine, an uncomfortable, cloying pressure settling in the pit of his stomach that refused to ease no matter how many slow breaths he forced past his lips. The sheets were broiling him, the press of your body against his too much.

Then came the thought — the one he didn’t mean to have, the one he tried to shove down the moment it clawed its way into his brain.

It would be so easy to press your hand down firmer.

He crushed it before it could fully form, but the damage was already done.

Not because of what he was feeling, but because of what he wasn’t feeling. There wasn't the immediate, sharp-edged denial cutting through the fog about being your older brother — having to be your older brother figure. Disgust wasn't there when he reached for it. What he found instead was the slow, creeping horror of homecoming that a shift had happened long before this moment, that it had been shifting for years, and that he had been pretending not to notice.

The worst part wasn’t that it was happening.

The worst part was that he had spent so long convincing himself it never could.

That he had been so certain he had outgrown it. That he had locked it away, buried it, desensitized himself into something safe, into something good, into the person you needed and wanted him to be.

And yet—

And yet.

Here he was with a simmer coming to a boil, every nerve in his body betraying him, his own self-control slipping like it was covered in oil. 

Like he had never locked those feelings away at all.

Like they had only been waiting.

Touch had always been natural between you, woven so seamlessly into the fabric of his life that he never stopped to think about it. It had been there since childhood, an unconscious language of familiarity, of belonging. You’d always looped your arm through his without a second thought, fingers hooking around his sleeve as you walked beside him, grounding yourself in his presence. Slipped your hands into his jacket pockets when the wind bit too sharply at your fingertips. Draped yourself over his back with a huff when you were too lazy to move, trusting him to hold your weight.

He could still feel the way you used to pull at the hem of his shirt when you wanted his attention, a silent, wordless request that he never needed to question. The way your forehead would press against his shoulder when exhaustion hit, your body sinking against his. The absentminded way you toyed with the ends of his hair when he was distracted, your fingers twisting through the strands in loops. He had been used to it. To the gentle, fleeting pressure of your foot nudging his under the dinner table. To the way you never seemed to notice how close you sat, legs pressing together without hesitation. To the weight of your head against his chest when the world felt too loud and you needed silence wrapped in the steadiness of him.

It had always been that way. It had always been fine.

But lately — lately, things weren't quite right.

You were the same. Still wrapping your arms around him after games, still slipping beneath his arm when you needed comfort. Still pressing into his side without hesitation, never second-guessing the space you took up in his life.

But he felt it differently now.

It crept up on him in moments that should have been nothing — the slow drag of your fingertips on the flushed skin of his ribs, the faint pressure of your breath against his skin when you leaned in close. An inarticulate, unbearable awareness.

You weren’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t your gege anymore.

Too much. Too much. Too much that he could collapse into a black hole right here, right now.

Caleb needed to put some distance between him and you before he did something stupid.

But when he stirred slightly, you only sighed in your sleep, nuzzling further into him. The plushie that was basically a barrier between you slipped, letting him feel the press of the plush of your chest against him, your leg sliding firmly between his. He froze, every muscle in his body locking up, sweat beading along his hairline and face absolutely on fire.

No.

He pried your hand from underneath his shirt, the drag lingering on a loop inside his head even after he let go. His hands trembled, barely able to nudge the stupid plushie out of the way, and indirectly taking it out on the thing. 

Slowly, he lifted himself from the mattress, moving inch by inch, muscles taut with the effort of keeping his movements smooth, controlled. Every cell in his body felt raw, hyper-aware of every rustle of fabric, every shuffle of weight. The mattress dipped as he pulled away, but you didn’t stir beyond a faint murmur, too deeply gone into blissed dreamland to notice his absence.

His pulse hammered in his throat as he hovered there, hesitating — watching the way you unconsciously moved into the space he left behind for warmth, unconsciously reaching for something that was no longer there.

He let out a slow, shaky breath before carefully sliding his pillow into your arms instead. It was a well-looked after old thing, worn at the edges, still faintly carrying his scent. The moment it passed the test as his replacement, you hummed — a barely-there sound, sleepy and content — as you pulled it close, nuzzling into the fluff, tucking your face into it the way you had done to him only moments ago.

You didn’t wake. Because as far as you were concerned, nothing had changed.

But Caleb sat there for a moment longer, watching you, fingers coiling into noncommittal fists uselessly at his sides, his breathing uneven in his own chest. The covers rose and fell with each peaceful breath you took, oblivious to the way his world had tilted on its axis.

He swallowed hard, throat dry, and reached to pull the blanket higher over your shoulder. Smoothed it down, lingering where it shouldn’t.

Then, without another sound, he slipped out of the room and spent the next hour standing beneath the icy spray of the shower.

The protofield and the Wanderer had vanished. Help was en route.

Xavier’s leg wound that he’d gotten while protecting you, while not fatal, was severe enough that crimson seeped through his dark pants and pulled between your quivering fingers as you applied pressure.

And the insufferable bastard huffed through his nose, as if this were just another routine mission, another insignificant injury in a never-ending string of perilous nights with barely a flinch crossing his features, the sight of his own blood seemingly less concerning to him than it was to you.

“It’s not as bad it looks,” he repeated, for the tenth time.

The words only worked to ignite an infuriated coil inside, molten and barbed.

Your hands tightened, pushing down harder than you needed to. He barely reacted. Kept watching you, lovable and doe-eyed, his body slack in a comfortable way against the broken wall behind him. The dimness of the failing streetlamps trying to reach into the alley you two were in cast his silver hair in eerie light, making him look even more ghostly than usual.

“Stop saying that,” you said, shakier than a house of cards in a storm, accusing.

His breathing was deep. Slower than it should be. Your brain was running too fast, trying to calculate blood loss, survival rates, anything to make sense of what was in front of you. But all you could see was him, pale under the glow, blurred because of the saltwater pooling in your eyes. Fading smoke. If you blinked, he might vanish completely with the teardrops.

You started digging through your pack, yanking out the field kit with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. You needed to stop the bleeding. You needed to make sure he stayed. Stayed with you.

Not again.

The med kit slipped through your fingers, scattering across the pavement. Your ears rung with the loud noise the metal case made, subconscious plunging you back in that day. 

Not again.

You re-experienced the force of the explosion that had thrown you to the ground, had ripped the breath from your body. The world burned. Heat was a vulture picking at your skin, suffocating, searing your lungs.

Fire, ash, the splintered ruins of what had once been home. And you, crawling through the rubble, hands searching blindly for whatever was left. Your fingers had closed around metal — small, cool despite the heat — the necklace you'd gifted Caleb, half-buried in dust and debris. What remained of him, worn but still legible, pressed into your palm. It was all that was left.

Not again.

Nausea gripped your stomach as your blood-stained hands hovered in the air, fingers twitching with clumsiness of desperation. But this time was different. You weren't grasping for ghosts, sifting through the ashes of an irreparable past. Could still do something. had to do something.

Reaching for the scattered supplies, your wrist was suddenly caught in Xavier's gentle grip, stapling you to the present moment.

“You’re panicking,” he commented.

Yanking your hand away, you retorted sharply, "Of course I'm panicking. You're bleeding out, Xavier."

He studied you intently, head tilted in that familiar, contemplative manner, searching for the traces of what that had pulled this state out of you. Then, with a hint of misplaced levity, he remarked, "This is nothing. A quick nap will fix me."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Your throat tightened. The world swayed for half a second, the ill-timed attempt at reassurance in his words reduced to a cup of water tossed onto a wildfire.

You thought of all the times before, of wounds that hadn’t healed, of a love confession whispered too late. Too late, after the funeral, when you stood before the empty grave, the one filled with dirt and a marker with his name. There had been no body to bury, you got no hand to touch one last time and were granted no real goodbye in the end. You were all that was left, alone, the cold night bleeding your life force, the whisper of your own voice breaking as you knelt, fingers digging into the soil, telling him the words you should have said when he was still there to hear them.

"Please, stop being like that, I can't—" Your voice cracked as you ducked your head, hiding your face from him, palm pressing against your mouth to stifle the words threatening to spill out. I can't do this again.

Xavier let out a fast breath, his posture stiffening in the kind of regret that made people avert their eyes. The joke had fallen flat, misplaced at this time, and he knew it. Another inhale, slower this time, he flexed his fingers against his thigh, then stilled, hovering on the edge of movement, caught between reaching for you and holding himself back.

His gloved hand moved, brushing lightly against your cheek.

He was warm. He was still warm.

Your breath caught. The fear squeezed you dry.

You had waited too long with Caleb, naively believing he'd always be there for you just as he promised, naively believing he was invincible just as he was in your childhood self's adoring eyes.

And now, here, with Xavier bleeding in front of you, you refused to wait again.

You didn’t think. You just kissed him.

It was sudden, too quick, too desperate. He stiffened under your touch, startled — but he didn’t pull away, didn’t break the contact, let you take and take and take because you were drowning and he was the only thing keeping you above the surface.

Your fingers twisted into the front of his coat, pulling him closer, an attempt to hold him together, to anchor him here forever. Your hands were still slick with his blood, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything except the way his breath hitched, the way he stayed perfectly still for a fraction of a second before his hands moved.

One to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. The other against your waist, grounding. He kissed you back cautiously at first, hesitant, uncertain, then increasingly decisive, carefully learning the edges of you, mapping each unsteady breath, every fractured soundfrom your lips.

When your kiss began to tremble, he seamlessly took control, molding his mouth to yours as if this dance were one he had practiced countless times before.

Gentle and soothing, he chased the taste of salt on your lips, breathing the shuddering sound you made down like it was sustenance. He tasted of earth and ozone, clean notes reminiscent of starlight, open skies, and safe, peaceful nights; crisp air after a storm, sharp enough to leave you dizzy, anchoring you in place, in his arms, and beneath his touch. This moment felt safely contained, a shelter where you could fall apart and still be held together.

Everything ached. It hurt too much, it wasn't enough. You wanted him closer. Always closer. Until all you could breathe, until all you could taste was the shape of his name on the roof of your mouth.

You pulled away, gasping against his parted lips, head spinning.

Before you could apologize — for losing control, for being selfish, for needing someone so desperately you didn't stop to consider whether or not that was what they wanted too, or the shape they were in — he tugged you into the curve of his shoulder, resting his cheek against the top of your head. Fingertips grazed along your arm, braille-tracing your scar tissue. His heart thrummed against your ear, strong, steady. Loud.

"It'll be okay," he said. "I'll be okay. I promise."

The words were hushed. Reassuring. Absolute.

Somehow, you believed him.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the panic drained away. Your muscles uncoiled, nerves steadying. The ringing in your ears faded. Slowly, slowly, everything sharpened back into focus.

In the distance, a siren wailed.

"You better be," you said, shaky as a leaf in winter, brittle, thin, the syllables weak against the night. "You can't make me fall for you only to just die like this."

These words had never left your heart before. Swelled there for years, growing too big, but never leaving, never finding their way out into the cold. They had belonged to Caleb once. Caleb, who smiled wide as a sky at sunset and ran faster than a starship and wore kindness for armor. But now the words meant something new. Now you didn't have to keep them locked up inside of you, guarded and afraid of what would happen if you let them loose. The shape of them still fit. Differently, maybe, but they weren't lost, weren't strangled or broken. It was letting a bird free from its cage after years of watching its wings grow frail in confinement.

The wind sighed through the trees. A stray cat hissed. Little glowing spots began floating around in dust particles.

Xavier pulled back abruptly. Stared at you, unblinking, the ink blue of his eyes shining. Evenly. Silent. Still holding you.

For a moment, nothing happened. For a moment, everything stopped. Time slowed around you, caught between one breath and the next. And then—

Light.

Xavier began to glow. A silvery-white miniature star, so brilliant that he illuminated the entire alley. The color bled outward, pouring down his shoulders in rivulets, streaming over his arms, dripping off his fingertips. He seemed to fold in on himself, bowing his head in embarrassment — but all you could do was watch, transfixed, mesmerized.

A nameless sentiment flared within your chest, unfamiliar. You swear you could feel Xavier through your heart, humming right beneath yours, some part of him pressed close against your pulse point. He wasn't bright enough to blind you, bathing your surroundings in starlit brilliance, seeping into the cracks in the crumbling pavement, the shadows cast by overgrown hedges, the empty shell of a playground down the street.

"Xavier..."

"Sorry," he mumbled, covering his face with the back of his hand to hide somehow, shield himself from his own radiance. His ears were red. "This is... not what I meant to do."

You reached out toward him without thinking, fingertips brushing against the fabric of his glove. He froze. Noticing yourself, you hesitated, realizing exactly what you were about to do — touch a star, an impossible thing, a dream — but then his hand twitched, settling firmly into yours in a way that you were almost convinced it was always meant to belong there. His fingers lacing through yours were so secure and confident one would think he'd done this a thousand times. His grip loosened. Tightened. Loosened. Reassuring both you and himself that this was real. This was happening. Neither of you would drift apart and dissolve as morning fog under the light of the sun. You wouldn't blink, and he wouldn't be gone.

Compassion held your hand through it. Comfort. Steadfast support. Starlight in the darkness, chasing away the shadows.

"I love you, Xavier," you told him, echoing the words again, wanting him to hear, wanting him to understand. You placed the shape of them into his upturned palms you pulled down to his lap to see his face clearer, and his grip tightened. "I'm in love with you."

The light emanating from him intensified — a shimmering aura shining around him, radiant, haloed. It pulsed once, twice, before bursting outward in an explosive surge of brightness, scattering sparks in every direction. White orbs of light poured from nowhere, dancing through the empty space between your bodies, suspended in mid-fall. A few fluttered down to land against the backs of your hands covering his.

"Would you be mad if I said that... I must be on the brink of death to imagine hearing these words?" Xavier's confession tumbled from his lips hesitantly. In the starlight, his face looked youthful, vulnerable, younger than you had ever seen before. "Even if this is my brain playing tricks on me before it fails, I'm happy."

Emergency lights flashed against the houses lining the street, likely drawn by Xavier’s radiance burning brightly enough to be a midnight sun, red and blue strobes slicing sharply into your vision. Xavier heard it too, pulling you tighter against him, burying his face against your shoulder, one hand leaving yours only to cradle your head. His embrace didn't diminish the glow, instead, Xavier enclosed you in the shelter of his body — in a protective cocoon, shielding you as though you were the one wounded, vulnerable, needing comfort more desperately than he did.

The ambulance doors opened with a hydraulic whirring sound. Footsteps approached quickly. At least two pairs, judging by the sound. Voiceless words spilled into the alley from the paramedics' radios. The static intermittently cracked between the garbled syllables, distorting some of them into incomprehensibility.

All at once the starlight winked out, plunging the street back into the dark.

"Tell me again once we are home." The words brushed past your ear, carrying an intimacy that made you swallow against the dryness of your throat, made you bury your face more deeply against his shoulder. Home. "Please. So I know I haven't dreamed this up."

Linkon had that early autumn crispness that rose from real soil Skyhaven didn’t have — cool to sharpen the senses, not to bite. The first traces of fallen leaves clung to the pavement, the scent of rain in the cracks of the sidewalks. Caleb adjusted the strap of his duffel bag as he stepped off the tram, stretching his shoulders as he took in the city around him. It was familiar, the building-rich skyline cutting pointy shapes against the evening sky, the low hum of traffic filling the streets, but...

He had been away too long.

Skyhaven had pulled him into its orbit the moment he arrived, swallowing whole whatever life had come before. Days blurred together in cycles of training, flight simulations, and coursework that left little room for anything beyond forward motion. Every morning began the same: drills before sunrise, sweat stinging his eyes, muscles burning as he pushed himself further, faster. Afternoons were a relentless stream of lectures, technical briefings, theory stacked upon theory until the numbers and flight paths blurred in his mind. Even the nights were accounted for — hours spent in the simulator pods, perfecting maneuvers until the glowing interface was burned into the backs of his eyelids.

Skyhaven game him no room to be spontaneous. No empty spaces to fill with last-minute plans or lazy afternoons. His world had been compressed into systems — routine, structure, efficiency. He knew exactly when to eat, when to train, when to sleep. Knew the weight of his rations down to the last calorie, the time it took to shave a fraction of a second off a flight sequence, the precise moment his body would demand rest before pushing past it anyway.

It was such a whiplash to be home, all things considered.

His room at Gran’s place wasn’t really his anymore. It had the same walls, the same furniture, but it was more a museum exhibit than a lived-in space — a carefully preserved snapshot of someone he used to be.

The bookshelves were still lined with old textbooks, pages stiff from time, filled with equations and flight theories he once pored over. The model airplanes he built by hand sat untouched on his desk, their delicate structures gathering dust, frozen mid-flight. Posters, faded from years of sunlight creeping through the blinds, hung at odd angles where the adhesive had begun to peel. It was all still there, exactly as he had left it.

And yet, it no longer felt truly his.

It was more of a storage closet for the past, a collection of objects tied to a version of himself that no longer fit, as if waiting for a version of him that no longer existed to return. But it had a way of creeping in when he least expected it.

Your favorite song playing in the campus coffee shop, cutting through the rigid structure of his day — a gentle intrusion, a knock of your presence on the closed door of his routine, the waft of familiarity drifting through the halls, pulling him back to late nights in Gran’s kitchen; you sitting cross-legged on the counter as he tried to study, chattering about whatever new fixation had taken over your brain that week.

Now, the closest thing he had to those endless summers with you were the five-minute breaks between classes, when he’d glance at his phone and see your name lighting up the screen. A meme, a quick update, a half-formed thought sent without context — small things, fleeting things, but still enough to remind him that you were there.

Sometimes, it was a single reaction picture in response to a text he'd sent hours ago. Other times, it was a wall of text, a full-fledged rant about whatever it was that had clearly gotten under your skin — another debate with some idiot online, a disastrous group project that made you question about how those people had gotten into college at all, an overanalysis of the show you’d decided to watch together. And every so often, an uncharacteristic shyness broke through. A late-night message, typed out but never sent until morning that meant, “I miss you,” in your language.

You ever think about how weird it is that we don’t live in the same city anymore? Like, I can’t just show up at your room and annoy you :(

He always answered, even if it took him hours to find the time.

Because no matter how much distance stretched between you now, the messages kept him tethered to you as a string to a kite.

He pulled out his phone, glancing at the last message and location you had sent him: Meet me at the plaza. We’re hunting.

A small, fond smile tugged at his lips.

The “Find Lumiere” campaign had taken the city by storm. A massive scavenger hunt dedicated to the legend himself, the hero who had saved mankind during the Chronorift Catastrophe ten years ago. Clues were scattered across major landmarks, leading participants on a chase to uncover fragments of his legacy, with tickets to the first screening of the new movie they were making about Lumiere promised to the winners.

Of course you were obsessed with it.

Caleb had never said it out loud, but for the longest time, he had been jealous of Lumiere. Or, rather, what Lumiere meant to you.

It was irrational, of course. Lumiere wasn’t real — not in the way that mattered. And yet, Caleb had spent years competing with the idea of him, feeling that strange, sour feeling whenever he saw you fawning over an image of a man who had saved you in more ways than one when Caleb wasn't there to do so. 

Because, at every age, he wanted to be the one you looked at with the same adoration. He wanted to be the one you admired, the one who made your eyes sparkle the way they did whenever you spoke about Lumiere. He had been your person for so long, the one you relied on, the one you trusted — but even as kids, there had always been that distance, that unreachable part of you that belonged to a random dude you wrote RPF about.

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way to the plaza.

You were already at your rendezvous point, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet as you checked your phone, your expression focused. Your jacket was too thin for the weather, but you never cared about such things when you were excited. Caleb took a moment to take in the way you had changed — taller, more sure of yourself, your hair styled differently than he remembered.

“Didn’t even let me settle in before dragging me around the city?” he teased, stepping up beside you.

Your head snapped up, and the moment your eyes met his, a wide grin split across your face. “Obviously. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event, Caleb. You should be honored I’m making you my partner for it.”

He scoffed but couldn’t help the flush that he coughed away. “Yeah, yeah. So what’s the plan?”

You immediately launched into an explanation, showing him the map on your phone, outlining all the locations where the next clue could be. Caleb listened, but mostly, he got lost in watching you, letting the drum of your excitement take him along the ride.

Maybe you had grown apart. Maybe life had taken you in different directions. But right now, in this moment, it didn’t feel that way. The clock might as well have stopped years ago.

He would never get tired of watching your face light up when you were truly invested. The way it always seemed to catch people off guard, how utterly genuine and open you were whenever you felt strongly about a subject matter. It was honest; it was you.

So it wasn't entirely out of character for him to notice how lovely you looked today that he could lean down and capture your lips with his own. The imagination alone got his mouth dry, throat working hard to swallow as he averted his eyes.

The first clue was hidden near the old Chronorift Memorial, a massive glass sculpture in the heart of the city that stood as a tribute to the devastation. Caleb watched as you practically bounced in place, your breath fogging in the chilly air as you scanned the area for anything that looked out of place.

“Oh! Over there!” You grabbed his arm before he could react, tugging him toward the base of the monument.

Caleb let himself be dragged along, ignoring the way his skin heated at the contact. The crowd gathered around the sculpture was thick, blocking whatever sign you were pointing at. All Caleb could see was you, the shine staining your eyes, your sparkling excitement.

God, he'd missed this. Missed you.

Without thinking, his fingers curled around your wrist, brushing the skin beneath. Your pulse fluttered under his fingertips, beating fast with energy and excitement, and he let himself savor the feeling. He missed seeing you this happy.

"Look!" you cried, reaching up on your tiptoes for balance. "I think I spotted something there."

Caleb followed your line of sight up toward the top of the monument — and sure enough, just below the highest peak of glass sat a tiny object, glinting in the sun.

"Think I can climb up?" you asked aloud, frowning at the structure as you examined the potential footholds. The memorial's glass surface was polished smooth, with no apparent way of scaling the towering mass, though that didn't stop you from trying.

Caleb reached out a hand though to pluck it easily out of the sky, and the object flew towards him. He waved it back and forth over your head. "How 'bout you just ask for it like normal people?"

Your mouth dropped into a dramatic frown. "Rude. If this was a proper game, you would've given me the illusion of a fighting chance before stealing my loot from under my nose."

"I'll make it up to you," he laughed, spinning the prize between his fingers. “You know, I think I’m a little offended. I saved your life, like, a million times growin' up, and you never obsessed over me like this.”

You snorted, rolling your shoulders back in a casual shrug. "Never crossed my mind. Besides, Lumiere wasn’t an asshat."

It was Caleb's turn to scoff. You motioned with your palm held upright. Were you a customer waving down service or what?

"Please. Sire. Kind sire." He shook his head at your antics but gave you the small golden thing anyway. Your face lit up as you took it carefully between your fingers. "Thank you, kind sire. May good fortune bless you upon our next meeting."

It was actually a puzzle, which he guessed would contain a clue leading to the next location.

After solving the puzzle, you gleefully tapped at the digital interface attached to your wrist, navigating the device expertly until the next coordinates appeared onscreen. "Found it. Not far from here actually... should only take us a few minutes to walk there."

And so you continued your treasure hunt together.

Time drifted soft as clouds across the sky, lazy and aimless, broken by quick bursts of purpose. A stroll turned to weaving through foot traffic, hustling in fits and starts as you hunted down your destination and discovered the next hint in line. The setting changed — crowds grew thicker, colors bolder, lights brighter — and yet the pace stayed the same: slow, steady, unhurried. Caleb thought you would have wanted to hurry, but instead, you lingered. Stopping to buy two cups of warming tea along the way. To exchange an old bill for shiny coins. To listen to the music pouring from the doors of a small cafe as passersby filtered in and out.

It was nice.

Really nice, actually.

For a while, Caleb forgot everything beyond the edges of the bubble surrounding you, letting the sounds fade into nothing but white noise.

At one point, when you reached the endpoint, a question suddenly rose to his tongue, breaking the comfortable silence between you.

"Why me?" he asked without meaning to. "I'm not exactly an obvious choice to play tag with."

You lifted an eyebrow at him, glancing over at your map again. "You kidding? Who else would I invite?"

Caleb shrugged, the cold breeze grazing his shoulders, making him fold them in a little bit closer.

"A friend?" He shot you a playful grin that came easier than he thought possible, earning himself a shove. "I don't think we've done this in ages. What makes today special?"

His stomach did a somersault when you hooked your arm around his elbow, holding onto his sleeve tightly.

"What about spending time with Caleb is so horrible to you? We haven't seen each other much these days. I'd love some quality time before you leave again." You nudged his side gently. Sincerity disguised as banter. He caught your tone of affection rather well, so well he couldn't help but feel giddy from your proximity. How small your hand was wrapped around his elbow.

Even with the light atmosphere, how much he had been craving such small intimacy with you was a lightning strike to his head.

And right there, right then, the urge to tell you how he felt nearly burned through him, flames climbing fast and wild, closing in on the boundaries he’d drawn to stay beside you, searing the edges of what he was supposed to be. His body surely would crumble inward and ashes would go everywhere if he kept pretending to be your brother figure for a minute longer. Yet, as much as he was dying to let it all out — because that is how bad he had it for you — there was also the more likely scenario of you finding him repulsive.

Just the idea of a life without you by his side made him sick and dizzy.

No, not today. Not anytime soon. He'd rather be by your side until the end of his days and wear the mask of gege than be hated by you.

So he swallowed down those three words, locking them securely in a chest bound by iron chains, hidden deep in the recesses of his heart. Ignoring the lingering ache that followed, he forced himself to brush off the truth and treat it as nothing more than the joke he desperately wished it could be.

"You could write me letters if you miss me that much, pip-squeak," he teased, nudging your shoulder with his.

You leaned against him easily, swaying with the motion as you bumped into his side. "Pssh."

Then your hand slid up his forearm to stop at the crook of his elbow as you rested your chin on his shoulder. From here, you looked up at him through lashes streaked in amber sunlight, a happy, contented smile touching the corner of your lips.

Caleb's heart expanded — hot and painful and aching. Walking down the sidewalk through the throng of people going about their day as the wind ruffled through your hair, the heat of your palm seeping through the sleeve of his jacket, he felt a sudden, sharp pressure behind his eyes. 

If he closed his mind to everything else, if he ignored the way you smelled like home, if he could make himself pretend that the place your body occupied next to his was sister-shaped, just maybe — maybe — he could convince himself that this was enough. It had to be enough. Because even if Caleb wasn't quite certain when his feelings toward you began, or when they evolved beyond the bounds of familial ties — even if he knew you would never see him that way and loved him when he was your gege, that you would never know this small sliver of reality — he still had you. Right now, in this moment, the person most precious in the world to him stood next to him with your head resting on his shoulder. Smiling, trusting, safe.

And that was more important than any label he could slap on it.

Xavier hadn’t meant to stay the night.

He wasn’t even sure when he had fallen asleep.

One minute, they had been sitting on your couch, drinking tea from mismatched mugs, the only sound between you the low hum of the TV and the lazy crackling of rain against the window. It had been late — too late — and you'd been snuggled up beside him, half-draped in a blanket, the fabric of your sweater slipping past your fingertips as you scrolled idly through your phone.

Xavier had been reading, an old paperback you had lying around for his enjoyment, the spine creased from years of use. He never asked where you got them — books with pages instead of screens — but he liked the way they smelled, the inconspicuous permanence of ink pressed to paper.

The next thing he knew, the morning light was slipping in through the curtains, cool and blue, and you were gone.

He blinked, exhaling slowly as he sat up. The couch creaked under his weight.

He wasn’t alarmed — he never was — but his first instinct was to check for you anyway, a grave, habitual concern that never quite left him. His ears picked up the faint noise of water running. The shower.

He leaned back against the couch, rubbing his fingers over his eyes, then glanced at the time.

6:42 AM.

Too early. But he should go.

He pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders, then went to grab his jacket from where he had tossed it over the chair. He reached for it — then paused.

The bookshelf beside the chair caught his attention.

Not because he had never seen it before — he had been in your place countless times by now, had run his fingers over the neat stacks of old holotapes and datapads, the figurines and the framed pictures —but because one of a drawer, beneath the shelf, slightly open. A few inches, maybe less.

It hadn’t been that way last night. He was sure of it.

Xavier never pried. He had spent too many years keeping his own secrets to go looking for anyone else’s. But he was drawn to that place inexplicably, to the way the papers inside were barely visible, to the way they had been tucked away yet left ajar, and it made his fingers pause against the zipper of his jacket.

Paper.

Actual handwritten pages instead of anything digital. 

Xavier frowned slightly, spine going ramrod straight. His fingers twitched once against his sides, tingling at the tips.

He should walk away.

Instead, he reached down and pulled the drawer open.

The pages inside were stacked haphazardly, some folded, others crinkled at the edges, showing they had been handled too many times, written, held, then discarded — kept, but never sent. The ink had bled into the fibers of the pages in places where the pressure had been too much.

He pulled out the topmost one, smoothing it with his fingers. Your handwriting. He knew it instantly. A little rushed, pressed into the paper as though you had been writing quickly, too quickly.

Then he saw the name.

Caleb.

His grip on the paper tightened.

The words on the page blurred for a moment, but he forced himself to focus. He forced himself to read.

Caleb, I don’t know how to start this, or even why I’m writing it. Maybe because I don’t know how else to reach you. Maybe because if I put it down on paper, it might cleanse me like one of those full body detox things that I would no longer feel so bloated anymore with this poison I’m trying my hardest to hide from him. I still wake up expecting you to be one call away. I still reach for my phone thinking I can send you a voice message while I wait for my takeout to arrive, tell you something ridiculous that happened, or send you a picture of something stupid just because I know you’d call me to laugh about it. But you’re not here, and I’m talking to an empty space where you used to be. You were always the one I counted on. The one who knew me better than anyone. I could say a single word, and you would know exactly what I meant, what I was feeling, what I needed even when I didn't want to say it out loud. And now, months later, without you, I still feel like I’m missing a part of myself. Like something vital has been cut away, and I am expected to keep going like I don’t notice the absence. But I do. Every second, I do. I should have told you. I should have told you a long time ago.

Xavier’s shallow breaths were loud in his ears.

If I had, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I wouldn’t be here, writing this, trying to hold onto something that has already slipped through my fingers. Maybe if I had been braver, if I hadn’t been so afraid of gran and ruining what we had, you would have known just how much you meant to me. To this day, I don’t know how to move on. Everyone thinks I have. That time is the best medicine there is, after all. But how can I, when so much of me is still tangled in you? When every step I take feels like I’m walking further and further away from you, and I’m terrified that one day I’ll look back and realize you’ve faded from my memory, that I won’t remember the sound of your voice, or the way you laughed, or the exact shade of your eyes in the sunlight. But it’s more than that now. It’s not just the fear of forgetting, it’s the guilt of moving on. Of letting someone else hold me, kiss me, love me in the ways I never got to lov I wonder if you would even care. If it would matter to you at all knowing there’s someone in my life now. Would you look at me the way you always did, like a little sister, someone to protect, to guide, and still feel responsible for even in your big age? Would it even cross your mind that I waited and it’s my biggest regret? But I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I love him. I didn’t wait to tell him until after I was forced to lose him. Confessing before it was too late was the best decision I’ve ever made. And I don’t know what to do with that. Because when I’m with him, there are moments, just flickers, tiny fractures in time, where I forget. And then, all at once, it comes back. The missing piece. You. If you were here, if you could read this, I don’t even know what I’d want you to say. I just know that I’d give anything to hear you call me pip-squeak one more time. I need you to tell me it’s okay. That I’m not leaving you behind. That I can love him and still carry you with me. But you’re not. And I have to live with that.

The ink trailed off there.

There was a crease in the page, the imprint of the pen too hard until you changed your mind.

Xavier stared at it.

The paper was fragile between his fingers, and he would have torn it apart if he kept holding it in his state.

Slowly, he put it back, and pressed the drawer shut.

He turned. His feet carried him soundlessly across the floor, toward the hallway, to where he could hear the steady drumming of water against the bathroom tiles, to where you stood facing the shower wall, head bent, your hair falling in thick wet clumps around your shoulders.

You heard his footsteps — of course you did — and lifted your head as he entered. Water cascaded down your back, collecting briefly at the base of your spine before disappearing. Your skin shone, faintly, the steam wisping off the glass, settling in a cloud around your body, clinging to the planes and curves of it. You seemed to glow in that tiny space, a radiant centerpiece amongst white tile. You gave him a tired smile as he approached — inviting, questioning.

"Sorry! Did I wake you?" you asked instead, your face flushed pink from the heat, strands of wet hair stuck against your damp neck and collarbones. Your tongue darted over your lips as you moved beneath the spray of water again, turning away from him to put away the shampoo bottle on the built-in soap tray.

Xavier's hand landed against the frosted glass door. The hinges groaned in protest when he swung it fully open. Your eyebrows rose high onto your forehead when he stepped inside without asking, closing the space between you in three strides, boxing you in against the marble wall. The shock of hot water bearing down on him didn't quite register through the dead focus he had on you.

Your lips parted, breath catching. In surprise? In interest? He wasn’t sure, and right now he didn't care. Something childish tugged at him. Something that didn't care he was fully clothed, the black turtleneck sticking uncomfortably to his skin, jeans tightening with water. All he could think about was how soft you looked despite everything. How good you smelled, flowery and clean, how your wet skin practically sparkled beneath the fluorescent light of the bathroom.

How badly he wanted to etch himself into you, to have his name spill from your lips like fresh ink, blotting out the ghost of a dead man already written in your past.

Water droplets clung to your eyelashes. On impulse, he reached up to brush them away gently, and they fluttered against his knuckles.

"Xavier, what—"

"I had a nightmare," Xavier cut in smoothly, feeling more back in his body, sounding far calmer than he really was. "Will you comfort me?"

"Oh..." The word came out somewhere between surprise and concern, tinted with sympathy. Xavier had to be looking half out of his mind, or too pathetic, standing here as soaked as a drowned rat in front of you while you were naked. He was worrying you. The idea snapped him back to reality, searing through his thoughts, hot oil snapping against bare skin. He immediately wanted to turn tail and leave before you demanded he elaborate. He couldn’t. Couldn't admit this was his version of needing affection. You frowned, reaching out to rest your hand over the side of his neck to draw him closer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Xavier replied without missing a beat, leaning down to bump his nose against yours. Gingerly, unsure if this would be welcomed, he rested his hands lightly on either side of your waist, the water sluicing down his back, comfortably boiling despite the situation. His throat bobbed once, twice, and he dipped his head down, unable to keep himself from admitting what he wanted most from you.

Your touch relaxed. It slid behind the back of his neck, fingers curling inward. He felt grounded again with your palms tracing a path down to his back, one palm pressed flat and firm between his shoulder blades while the other ghosted along his nape. It made goosebumps rise on his flesh, a pleasant sensation only you could provide. And when he bowed forward, your frame folded to accommodate, molding against his broader shoulders perfectly, bringing him into a sweet embrace. One that burned into his memory, thawing him to the bone in more ways than physical.

"Okay... Okay. Let's get you out of these wet clothes first," you cooed sympathetically and kissed him right below his ear. That tender, understanding gesture made Xavier's heart squeeze in his chest painfully. He thought about the letters hidden away in the drawer, if you had done this at all with Caleb, but he quickly banished it from his thoughts and focused on the solid feeling of your body slotting so easily into his and reminded himself you were always meant to be there. Where no one else was allowed. "Then tell me how I can help, okay? Whatever you need."

Fifteen minutes later, Xavier had your front pressed into the condensation-dripping wall of the shower after he'd stripped off all his clothes and joined you.

You were flattened against the chilly surface as your nails clawed helplessly against the slick tiles, eyes were glazed over, lips swollen. One arm looped securely around your midsection, cupping one breast possessively, while the other braced a forearm beside your head and against the wall, trapping you effectively between Xavier and the marble barrier, each thrust pushing you upward on your tiptoes as he grinded insistently against you from behind. His grunts tickling the shell of your ear amidst his deep, staccato breaths as he buried himself up to the hilt, bottoming out deep within your pulsating core, piercing the misty veil surrounding them in an intimate halo.

Everything felt too intense. Too intimate. It shouldn't have been so overwhelming — this wasn't even a new position or angle. But going through that letter of yours had the world was collapsing around him, and the only thing he could hold onto was your body, writhing beautifully between him and the smooth stonework. And maybe that was exactly what it was, he mused vaguely between driving into you from behind while relishing how hot and wet and tight you were around his cock — a sort of catharsis, releasing emotions he never voiced aloud, a purge of anxieties he normally swallowed down through hearing you chant his name incessantly, each moan spoonfuls of honey trickling down his throat and pooling dreamy in his belly.

You were practically keening underneath him now, rocking backwards as best you could to meet every roll of his hips with matching fervor. Your face angled toward him, seeking a kiss which he eagerly acquiesced, both of you moaning brokenly into one another's mouths at the perfect slide of his tongue against yours, tangling almost lazily in comparison to the frantic metronome beat building between you two. Xavier reveled in the sweetness of your taste, licking deeper past your lips with unashamed greediness while enjoying your muffled gasp and subsequent whimpers vibrating on his palate.

There wasn't anywhere else in the universe Xavier would rather be than inside this shower cubicle fucking you senseless until the only thing remaining on your tongue were prayers begging for release and praise echoing throughout the enclosed space, resonating clearly through his ears and straight into his pounding chest.

"Call out my name more," Xavier uttered hoarsely, punctuating each word with a hard slam of his hips that made you choke on your cries of ecstasy. You complied beautifully without question, moans spilling unrestrained from those perfect, kiss-swollen lips alongside declarations of love that had the tempo of his hips speeding up, becoming faster, harder, rougher. "Who's here with you right now?"

"Y—Xavier!"

At this rate, Xavier might end up blowing his load first before being able to feel you tighten around him one last time. The sound of his name in that husky, breathless tone made his balls tingle warningly, pleasure threatening to spill over at any moment. "Again," He growled darkly as his pelvis connected audibly with the supple flesh of your ass. "Who's making you feel good? Who is making you forget your own name right now, hm?"

Your reply came out in between pants. "You, Xavier! Oh god, Xavier! Only you!"

"Yes... Me," he crooned triumphantly, sinking his teeth firmly enough into the meat of your shoulder so you would remember the shape of his mark, leaving red marks that resembled brands branded into your flesh. "Only I can give you what you need, isn't that right? No one else. Nobody else will ever do... I'm the one here... Now..."

[thegoldendoorknob]

RF Guardians of Azuma general tips (Spoiler-Free)

Copying my advice I made for reddit for any GoA community here too-

I updated it because reddit blew up my tips post for a few minutes and scared me lol

Story Tips

Kai, Ikaruga, Kanata, Clarice, and the other Protagonist are unlocked late in the story, so if you're having trouble raising Kai's bond, or you can only find him at night, you aren't far enough in the main quest yet. It seems like a few characters have bond levels locked behind this too, like Mauro...

The main quest expects you to level up towns once or twice before leaving, so you can get an early start before you hit that point, if you want. The 4 Villages are set up to encourage specific builds, from what I've noticed:

Spring - Farming plots

Summer - Shops

Autumn - Rice, Barns

Winter - Fruit, Fishing

Press the R3 button (right stick) or T-Key to switch to overhead view in building mode to make edits much easier.

If you hold down the button (A | X | Left Shift Key) after deleting an object in this mode, you can quickly delete anything you move the cursor over -Odd-Implement-7045

When you are in build mode, the day timer is stopped. Your RP still recharges when you're in build mode, so if you want to get some early levels for Drum Dance without eating food, you can.

When the quest says 'Pray at the Kagura Shrines' after the winter village, the shrines are on these turtle-shaped islands in the sky, not the village shrines. [Thanks AdDecent7641!]

Speaking of, monsters on islands with a tall red tower on them will be around 40-50, since they're involved with a quest later in the game.

There's some parts of the main quest where they'll stop you until you cook something specific or tame an animal. So far I've had to tame a Buffamoo, Cluckadoodle, and a Wolf.*

*You can use Fubuki and Kurama for that quest instead of the Cluckadoole and Wolf, apparently! They even have flavor text if you do -asteriuszenith

Bosses also have weapon weaknesses and elemental weaknesses based on the free weapon and divine instrument they gave you for the region earlygame. Think of it like a Zelda game; whatever tool you picked up, they expect you to use later. It's always possible to go against the flow, though the lost bonus damage is pretty noticeable this time. The weapon weakness (first icon) and elemental weakness (second) will pop up above the boss's health bar when they are hit by them.

Boss dark attacks will slam the party for big damage. I thought I was underleveled my first death, but no, it was the dark element alone blowing up my party. Maybe invest in Dark Defense equipment when you get close to level 50.

Perfect dodging an attack before attacking lets you deal big damage to enemies and boss stun bars. You also charge a lot of spirit gauge by doing them

Suzu is really easy to level bond up on and doesn't faint, so she's a great team buffer for most of the game.

If you're indecisive about who to party, I ran Suzu-Iroha-Ulalaka for almost the ENTIRE game and rarely ever had to equip them to keep up. In the lategame whenever Ulalaka was unavailable, I used Yachio as a substitute until she returned, but any healer is probably fine really.

You won't have access to Monster Barns until you complete Autumn Village, so you may want to chat your favorite characters to Bond lv1 and take them out for a spin until you reach that point. You can check their personal skills by switching to them on the Equipment menu and pressing Y | Square | X | X Key

On that note, when you unlock the 'back row' after Winter Village, the back row gains passive exp. Good for grinding characters and monsters!

Some decorations show random stats like STR, these will increase your stats when you place them in the towns! Later decorations can raise them like quite a lot, so they may be fun to experiment with. Each unique deco can only raise that stat ONCE, so duplicates won't raise the stat again. You can check what town it needs to be placed in, and if you already placed one by looking at the highlighted symbol in the crafting menu. -Haktarius

Speaking of- some decorations also need to be placed in specific villages to get their buffs. They show this with flower icons on the side in the crafting screen. -KainYusanagi

Try to pace yourself- the bond and character locks suck, but this game is deceptively long and easy to burn out on if you rush. To give you an idea- there's roughly 16 to 17 dungeons total over the course of the entire game. 4 for the seasons, 6 for the story after, another 4, then 2-3 more.

General Tips

A lot of recipes are locked behind Frog Statues, make sure you grab any you come across.

In later village levels, they'll unlock more fields for you to build on top of.

If you use the first person bow scope with the Summer Treasure equipped on top of a harvestable crop, it will sickle the crop without using any rp!

If you dash just before falling off a ledge, you maintain that dash speed through the air for GREAT air-time. This is especially helpful and fun when you get the winter sacred treasure.

Negative trait villagers will lower your town stats- evict the ones with only negative traits whenever you can.

A good time to evict negative villagers is right before the day ends- on the next day, if there's any empty slots, 2 or more new villagers will reliably fill them. -Alexaius

It helps to invest a little in logging and mining villagers early on to stockpile materials for builds later.

Fruit trees will always be a plain-colored, green tree. You can find Oranges on some cliffs around the Summer Outskirts and on that small island to the south, Apples behind the purple vines to the west of Spring Village [?], Grapes directly to the right of Autumn Village next to an ore, Chestnuts further to the right side behind all the vine walls, Bamboo shoots are to the right of the castle, and Peaches I don't know where in the overworld they might be, but I found some in a dungeon you unlock after getting Kanata. There's a traveling merchant from higher village levels that can sell saplings later, apparently!

Algester has a visual of my fruit tree directions Here!!

You can find most Golden Vegetable seeds off of islands in the sky, the mushroom master has some gold pumpkin seeds behind his house as an example. You can also buy them off basic seed shops later once a town is leveled enough.

There's a traveling merchant for every region! They will randomly show up next to teleports and appear as a white dot on the map -ego157

Onigiri holes ask for: Onigiri, Salmon Onigiri, Miso Onigiri, Tempura Onigiri, Bonito Flake Onigiri, Greatest Grilled Onigiri (Cook Together with Matsuri) -Haktarius

inkstainedgwyn is starting a Unique Dishes list! You can unlock unique dishes when you are Bond Level 6 with a character.

SEEEECRETSmuahaha has made a simple Gifting Guide for the romanceable characters! Big-Buzz-Jet recently made a more in-depth one Here!

Taming bees for their honey is a pretty good way to make money! Higher level monsters will give you higher level produce for more $$$ as well! -ego157

The DLC swim suits and the default swim suits are different! You can unlock them by reaching bond 2 and inviting them to the waterfall or beach.

Yukata outfits are unlocked on Summer 20th! You get them by attending the firework festival. They can be unlocked a little earlier on Summer 7 if you have Kanata. -Kisaell77, Haddock_Lotus

Higher bond levels also unlock some personal accessories, like Iroha's headband or Kai's mask.

[ellis-the-lightguide]

-He stays silent listening to him, almost falling asleep at some point-

I'm sorry... I just... I'm so useless...

-He admits defeated and gets up. He walks towards Nocturne, showing him the two small bottles-

Which one is it?

A transmission comes in at an incredibly odd time with an equally odd request. There's muffled talking in the background between two figures. One being Nocturne's distinctive, husky voice, and the other a British female.

🏰 - Uhm... You wouldn't happen to have any recipes to spare, would you? Preferably easy ones? There have been some... Unforseen complications...

Recipes? Uh Yeah! Just tell me what you have in hand and I'll sent some to you!

-He says low, his voice sounding raspy-

Is everything fine? I'll drop everything and go if you need me.

[edenspoem]

ugh so one idea ive always had abt succubus reader is like.. being a succubus version of a guardian angel. like u are desperately trying to get ellie laid and its just not fucking happening because shes a LOSER! you try ur hardest to get her into situations for her to finally get some but she's an idiot and fucks it up every time. and so at some point you get so fed up you just fuck her yourself because it won't happen otherwise!!

OHH, YOU'RE A GENUIS. A GENIE ASS. loser!ellie calling you forth at the crux of midnight desperately because she just can't score a girl, whining about "girls just don't like me!" this and "can't you just— make them fall for me or something?" that. so blind to the reality, barefaced in front of her own eyes, that she played a huge part in those interactions— a huge part in ruining them. so late at night, as a pivotal substitute agent, you make her whine for a completely different reason. tbh maybe some succubus strap action? giving her cunt some much needed, much appreciated— pounding. ellie going cross-eyed, rose-faced and slobbery over her own babbles and moans, "uh, uh, uh!" only racking up an aftercare debt that you end up having to repay cause you've vamped so much of her energy that she's a drowsy, limp mess after all that. yessir! ♡

i so have to write this one day.

[luxthestrange]

WHB Incorrect quotes#70 Greatest's Dad in all the realms-

What I truly want to happen...It's a Batlle Royale Between Solomon...Vs Mr.Kim...On the one hand, we got our...Ances-terror who is really into the idea of Mc/You having a Father-Daughter relationship...and then there is Mr.Kim who took care of Mc/You since day one of the orphanage...and totally doesn't already consider Mc his daughter, cuz he ships it M&M(McXMinhyeok)...Wow, Mc you got two dads-

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mc*Is in need of help...from dealing with demons,Angels and needs guidence*...

Solomon:

Haha

Looks like you could use some help From the big king of kings himself Check out daddy's glowing reviews on Yelp~ (Five stars! Flawless! Greater than great!) Oh, with the punch of a pentagram I wap-bam-boom, alakazam Usually, I charge a sacrificial lamb But you get the family rate (thanks dad!)

Mc*Smiles awkwardly and nods*Thanks Solomon!...

Solomon:

Who needs a busboy, now that you've got the chef? (wow) Michelin-tasting menu, free à la carte I'll rig the game for you because I'm the ref Champagne fountains, caviar mountains, that's just a start!-

Mr.Kim*Pushes Solomon away and twirls You around in a silly dance*

Who's been here since day one? Who's been faithful as a nun? Who makes you chuckle with an old-timey pun? Your responible guardian?

Mc*Smiles wider and nods*That's true!

Mr.Kim:

I'm your guy, your day-to-day Your chum, your steadfast Guardian Remember when I fixed that clog today?

Ppyong*Sniffles and hugs Mr.Kim*I was stuck, thank you sir!

Mc*Looks at him with chuckle*Oh you!

Mr.Kim:

I'm truly honored that we've built such a bond~

Mc: aww

Mr.Kim:

You're like the daughter that I wish that I had~

Solomon*Looking at the two, sweat dropping*...uh, what?

Mr.Kim*Brings you in for a hug and pats your head fatherly like,smirking at Solomon*

I care for you, just like a daughter I spawned~

Solo:hold on now!

Mr.Kim

It's a little funny, you could almost call me dad!~

The two face one another with different facts they know about you: your first tooth lost,your favorite food, baby pictures. The Demon Kings just stare back and forth to the madness as you stand between the two men.

Mr.Kim

They say, when you're looking for assistance It's smart to pick the path of least resistance

Solomon: Others say, that in your needy hour There's no substitute for pure summoner power! Who just happens to also be your blood!

Mr.Kim Sadly, there are times a birth family member is a dud They say the family you choose is better~

Solo: what a bunch of losers...

Mr.Kim: Can you butt out of my song?

Solo: Your song? I started this!

Mr.Kim: I'm singing it, I'll finish it!

Solo*Veins popping and grabs the man by his collar* Oh, you tacky piece of–

Before the two men can get into a fistfight, the door opens, and...a strange man with a bird mask, top hat, and a cane appears

Crowley:

It's me, yes, it's me I know you were all waiting for me I'm here, what a gas Took a while, but I'm present at last It's me, it's me CROWLEEEEEEEEEEY!

Mr:Kim:....Who?

Crowley*Looks around,back away out the door*...Whoopsie wrong fandom and wrong mc~...pardon me~

[theaawalker]

Steps to Writing an Enemies-to-Friends Relationship (No Romance or Sensual Tension)

follow for more tips 💋 || request writing tips 💌

1. Establish the Foundation

Define the Conflict: Clarify why these characters are enemies. Is it ideology, personal betrayal, competition, prejudice, or circumstance? The conflict should feel justified on both ends. Set Clear Boundaries: From the beginning, eliminate any hints of romantic tension. No suggestive dialogue, no lingering glances, no "will-they-won't-they" teases. Give Them Equal Strengths: Avoid power imbalances that suggest dominance or attraction. Their friction should stem from their beliefs, goals, or past—not unspoken desire.

2. Shape Their Role in the Story

Decide Their Narrative Purpose: Will they have to work together against a common enemy? Do they grow from rivalry to mutual respect? Determine how their evolving dynamic impacts the plot. Avoid Romantic Substitutes: Don’t use tropes like “angry confessions that turn into vulnerability” unless it’s clearly platonic. Let their growth come from empathy, not emotional seduction. Let Their Bond Matter: Their friendship should hold weight in the narrative. Make it feel just as powerful as romantic ones—without relying on attraction.

3. Build Their Dynamic

Use Natural Conflict-Resolution: Let them argue, clash, and call each other out. Gradually, introduce grudging respect and understanding. Highlight Differences and Growth: Show how their perspectives shift over time. Let their values clash, then overlap, then align. Allow Emotional Honesty (Platonically): Let them share personal experiences or open up over time.

4. Define Their Chemistry

Make Their Interactions Unique: Their banter, teamwork, or verbal spars should be distinctly non-romantic — more like frenemies turned allies or siblings who used to fight. Focus on Respect Over Intimacy: They may not like each other at first, but they come to respect each other’s strength, skill, or heart. Use Physical Space Wisely: Keep physical contact platonic or avoid it altogether. A handshake, a nod, a slap on the back — nothing coded with longing.

5. Demonstrate Their Impact on Each Other

Let Them Grow Together: Show how they push each other to improve. Maybe one learns humility, the other compassion. Create High-Stakes Collaboration: Put them in situations where they have to trust each other. Show how tension gives way to reliability. Allow Disagreements Without Regression: They can argue again even after becoming friends — just without regressing into hatred or falling into flirtation.

6. Develop a Satisfying Arc

Decide Their Long-Term Dynamic: Will they become close friends, uneasy allies, or respectful rivals? Make sure the conclusion fits their journey. Showcase Their Changed Perspective: Their friendship should feel earned. Use flashbacks or contrasts to show how far they’ve come. Avoid Subtext: Don’t write in lingering glances, “maybe if things were different” lines, or vague emotional ambiguity. Platonic means platonic.

Examples of Strong Enemies-to-Friends Relationships

Film/TV Examples:

Zuko & Aang (Avatar: The Last Airbender): From hunted enemies to one of the most supportive friendships in animation.

Magneto & Professor X (X-Men): Ideological enemies who respect each other deeply, even when at odds.

Shrek & Donkey (Shrek): Donkey annoys Shrek into eventual friendship—zero romance, just stubborn growth.

Literature Examples:

Brutus & Cassius (Julius Caesar): Complicated enemies-turned-collaborators, bound by politics, not love.

Nikki Maxwell and MacKenzie Hollister (Dork Diaries): Originally disdainful of each other, they become friends through shared enemies and interests.

Claire Warden & Butch Betcher (The Guardians of Camoria series): Once bitter enemies due to opposing beliefs and temperaments, their mutual goals and personal growth foster a tough-but-loyal alliance rooted in shared trauma and witty banter, not romance.

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thank you, i am farkle :)

thank you @stardustcasti for the request :)

[byoldervine]

How To Always Have Writing Ideas…

For A New Story:

1. Keep a list. Any time you have one of those sudden bursts of inspiration in the middle of writing a separate story, don’t quit your current WIP or pretend you’ll ‘just remember it’, put it into a separate list. You can always go back to this later on

2. Writing prompts. Look them up, use random word generators, pick a random object you can see, whatever helps you come up with any idea at all. Write a few paragraphs. Can it evolve from there?

3. People watch. Go to a public place and make up backstories for the strangers you come across. That man in the hat is using it to hide his elf ears. That woman with the bright pink hair didn’t dye it, she’s secretly the main character of an anime trying to dodge all the tropes and cliches. That toddler is actually a guardian angel reincarnated to watch over their new baby sibling. What brings them to this place? Where did they come from? Where are they going next?

To Continue An Existing Story:

1. Act it out. Say the words aloud, act out what your characters are doing, get props or people to act off of if you need to. See what feels like the most natural progression of the moment

2. Coffee shop AU, or other substitutional one-shot. Good for establishing dynamics between two or more characters, or even just working out a lone character’s day-to-day. Just write a few paragraphs about your characters entering a coffee shop or similar appropriate establishment/ordinary location. What do they do? What do they order to eat/drink? What do they say to each other? How do they treat the staff and other customers? If all else fails, write what they do after they leave, as if it were an ordinary day for them

3. Rubber duck it. This is something programmers use to work out where they went wrong in their code, but I’ve found it can work for figuring out story stuff as well. What you do is get a rubber duck, or any other object of focus, and start explaining your problem to it out loud. In this case you can read your chapter to the duck, or even give it the full run-down of the plot so far. Warning; side effects may include getting frustrated that the problem was right in front of you and subsequently throwing the duck

For Both:

1. Writing graveyards. I talked a bit about them in a previous post, but writing graveyards are basically just the folder you store your deleted scenes in instead of yeeting them into the void. Reread those, see if they have anything you can recontextualise or repurpose

2. Combine ideas. My WIP Byoldervine is a combination of two separate plots I had that I realised I’d be able to combine - twice. I first realised I could put together my ‘angel and demon heroes protecting humans from a war between heaven and hell’ story and my ‘quest through the fantasy realm to find the ingredients to a cure for a dying god’ story into the same universe as two sides of the same story as a duology. Then I realised I could just remove a few characters, tweak a few plot points and mash them completely together into one book. Combining them works wonders and minimises worldbuilding

3. Go out with friends or family. I guarantee that the one time you’ll be flooded with inspiration is when you don’t have an opportunity to write it down

[artificialroux]

͡ ݂ ⊹ 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖, 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐘

౨ৎ annett dawn marrow is the substitute accordionist for the covey's band in district 12, though she takes over fully for billy taupe later on. she is named after a ballad originating years before in ireland. her parents were executed by peacekeepers for rebelling against moving the covey, she doesn't remember them, but she does remember her father teaching her how to use a rifle, which she still carries to this day, illegally.

౨ৎ the name dawn, comes from her fiery locks of wild hair, which resemble the orange sky at sunrise. she is fierce, unadulterated, and protective of the younger members of the covey, since she serves as one of the oldest and almost a guardian of sorts for them. she sews their clothes and takes care of most of the chores, ie. laundry.

౨ৎ annet dawn has caused a few issues with peacekeepers in the past, a few fights one might say during rough bar nights. though, because the covey provide entertainment, most don't end up complaining when a woman beats them up. maude ivory likes to joke that she's like a corn snake, since only lucy gray seems to be able to calm her when she gets her temper going, along with the red hair.

౨ৎ she forms a connection with sejanus plinth when he comes to 12. originally, she distrusts both him and coriolanus, attributing this to the fact they are both peacekeepers and not trustworthy. though once she learns of sejanus's previous district origins, and heavy dislike of the games, she realizes he is able to be trusted.

౨ৎ her ballad goes as follows ;

“in dunlin glen where willows weep, a maiden sang her love to sleep. they called her annet, soft and fair, with foxfire eyes and copper hair. he vowed he'd come when spring was near— but seasons passed, he stayed unclear. she climbed the cliffs in gown of white and vanished with the fading light. now when the dusk is cold and stark, the wind still calls for annet lark.”

౨ৎ tags ; @dippindotties @logansdogmotif @chshiresgrin @glxsyymads

[thegreymarveljedi]

Guardian Jedi

(Hunter x Reader)

Random blurb with inspiration taken from a previous draft lol. I’ve noticed that I do that a lot, but if it works it works right?

This turned out a lot more angsty than I realized at first but I won’t apologize for it. I will apologize that I had to do my boy Hunter a little dirty but for the story it works. TRIGGER WARNING IN THIS STORY!!!! PLEASE SKIP PAST THE SECOND SET OF **** TO AVOID THE TRIGGERS IF THEY MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE!!!

(Divider by @stars-n-spice )

Warnings: ANGSTTTT, (TRIGGER WARNING between****, Skip past the second set to avoid the triggers!!) , nightmares, mentions of torture, blood, gore, mentions of R*pe, implications of death, degradation, hurt/comfort, Hunter doubts himself, brotherly teasing, fluffy ending, love confessions, friends to lovers (Kinda), first kiss.

Words: 3.8K+

TRIGGER WARNING IN THIS STORY!!!! PLEASE SKIP PAST THE SECOND SET OF **** TO AVOID THE TRIGGERS IF THEY MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE!!! (Final warning!)

(Y/N) was woken up by the sound of sniffling, mumbled words almost too incoherent to pinpoint. She turned over onto her opposite side, chopping the noise up to being one of the boys having a weird dream. As she closed her eyes to try and go back to sleep, another round of mumbling brought her out of it. She turned back to face the interior of the camp the squad had set up outside the marauder, gaze falling on each one of the boys to ensure it wasn’t them making the sounds of distress.

As (Y/N)’s eyes flickered around the group, she noted that all were asleep, Wreckers snores making for a substitute lullaby. She smiled as her eyes moved over to Crosshair, the sniper peacefully resting on his back with the blanket resting just above his abdomen and his firepuncher hugged to his chest. She couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head at the prospect that that gun was the only thing that could ever get close to Cross.

(Y/N)’s eyes shifted to where Tech rested on his stomach, for once, actually asleep. It was rare to see the goggled clone sleeping so peacefully, more common to see him fiddling with whatever new project had caught his attention. (Y/N)’s eyes then trailed to Echo who slept on his side, shoulders relaxed and chest rising and falling steadily.

Lastly her eyes moved over to where Hunter lay, one arm thrown over his eyes as the other gripped the edge of his bed roll tightly, knuckles turning white. (Y/N) immediately sat up, finally realizing that the sounds of distress were being made by the sergeant of the squad. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath he sucked in somewhat laboured and short. She immediately stood up, shifting the blankets off her body before making her way over to Hunters sleep sack, kneeling down next to him.

He grunted in his sleep, his body tensing as he let out another round of mumbled words, this time, more clear to (Y/N)’s ears. She tried to shake the sergeant awake but he was in a very deep sleep apparently, writhing away from her touch as his other arm came down to grip his bed roll.

“Hunter?” (Y/N) asked a little louder, still not wanting to be too loud lest she wake the other men around her. She crawled on her knees to place herself close to Hunters head, looking over his body he continued to flounder around.

“Hunter,” she said more firmly this time, trying her best to wake the sergeant before he hurt himself or before he was in too deep to come out on his own. She didn’t want to startle him either, the shock of waking up would do nothing to help the situation.

“Leave ‘em alone!” Hunters voice raised unexpectedly, his back arching as if he was in pain. (Y/N) gasped, never having dealt with seeing Hunter have a nightmare. She had seen it many time with Echo or Wrecker but this was new for her to experience with Hunter.

“Hunter, I need you to wake up,” she said, waiting a moment for his body to become pliant before moving his head into her lap. She did so carefully, not wanting to make his nightmare worse in anyway or have him injure himself. Hunter wriggled in (Y/N)’s hold, apparently not liking the feeling of being moved.

“Hunter come back!” (Y/N) pleaded, smoothing the back of her fingers down his face, feeling the clammy skin and sweat beneath her touch. She cursed under her breath as Hunters voice began to grow louder, his words coming out strained.

“Don’t touch her! Leave her alone!” Hunter’s voice raised, his chest raising rapidly as if he was running a marathon in whatever world he was stuck in. (Y/N)’s eyes went wide at his words, knowing full well that he was now having some type of nightmare that included her. She took a deep breath before placing her hands on either side of Hunter’s head, thumbs on his temples and fingers on his cheeks.

(Y/N) closed her eyes, focusing her energy on Hunter and navigating her way through his subconscious. He was very organized, on the battlefield and in his mind, everything had its place. She delved further in when she couldn’t find anything on the surface, searching for what was causing him so much pain.

-

****

"Don't hurt her please!!" Hunter screamed, watching as the zygerrians continued to beat (Y/N)’s body. Tech had long since passed out, his body not being able to take the torture but he remained steadfast in his plea to Hunter, ‘don’t give them anything’.

Wrecker was on the ground alongside Echo, both men having been beaten and nearly killed but they too had told Hunter not to cave. His eyes then turned to Crosshair who had been thoroughly wounded by their encounter with the slavers, his body slumped and listless where he lay. Hunter could hear the sound of his heart beat but it was slow, almost faded completely. His cheeks were stained with tears as he looked to his baby brother, fearing that he wouldn’t make it out alive.

Finally Hunters eyes moved to where the zygerrians had her tied up and hanging from the wall, her torso bloodied and bruised beyond recognition. Her left eye was swollen shut while her right remained half lidded but unfocused. Her robes had been torn off her body by their claws, what little scraps were left did nothing to hide her body from their assaults.

“STOP IT! Leave her alone!” Hunter was tied up on his knees, doomed to watch as these evil creatures tortured her, raped her, belittled her, tearing her down in every way. Hunter watched helplessly as (Y/N), someone he cared so deeply, so intimately for, was on the brink of death. He was powerless to stop them, to save the women he had grown to…love. That was the word, love. He hadn’t told her his feeling but now it was too late.

"Bitch!" Smack

"Whore!" Smack

"Slut!" Smack

"Monster!" Smack

“You sick bastards!” Hunter growled though his words had little bite to them anymore as he was forced to watch the zygerrians take turns using (Y/N) like a rag doll, abused her, leaving her there battered and broken. They all had such sickening smiles plastered on their furry faces, marking her body wherever they could. Hunter was crying, eyes flitting over his brothers once more, their bodies lifeless on the ground, blood pooling around their bodies.

Hunter could do nothing but cry out, knowing that he had failed his squad, that he had failed as their leader, as their brother. He turned to face (Y/N), watching as she was tormented and abused, her good eye however, remaining trained on him, lips pulled into a very small smile. She whispered something under her breath that only Hunter was able to hear, and it finally broke him.

“It’s not your fault honey. None of this is.”

Suddenly everything around him stopped. The torture had ceased and the Zygerrians were gone, vanished into thin air. Hunter watched hauntingly as his brothers each disappeared next, one by one fading into the darkness along with their blood. He cried out heartbrokenly, chest heaving with every breath he took. Finally his eyes managed to look at the heap of the woman he had cried for, seeing her lay motionless on the ground with her back to him.

The restraints that held Hunter disappeared, releasing him from his stationary position. Without a second thought, he rushed over to (Y/N)’s body that had been thrown to the floor like it was nothing. Hunter fell to his knees beside her, rolling her over so that she lay on her back.

"(Y/N), (Y/N) cyar’ika please! Please stay with me, don't go... y-you can't go!" He pulled her into his lap, brushing her hair from her face, frantically searching for a pulse. Her eyes remained closed but her expression was one of peace, body relaxed and not lingering in pain. Hunter’s frantic search ended when he realized he couldn’t find anything, no pulse, no breathing, no sign of life.

He screamed. Hunter screamed and cried, frantically shaking (Y/N) and hoping to wake her up somehow. Though nothing worked, her body lifeless in his hold, held closely to his chest.

"NO! No no no no! Why! Why her, maker why!" Hunter sobbed, screaming until his head was pounding. He closed his eyes and clung to (Y/N)’s body refusing to believe that she was truly gone. He could hear himself mumbling for her to come back, to come back to him, that he loved her.

****

Hunter opened his eyes to look down at (Y/N) only to see that her body was now gone, a blue light left in her wake. He desperately looked around, watching as the darkness around him faded into something brighter. Hunter looked around once more, only to find himself in a white room decorated by beautiful paintings, furnished with books, a bed and more.

He tilted his head in pure confusion, looking down to find his hands so longer stained in blood. His body had been healed, as if no torture had ever happened, like the maker had cleaned him up. His armour had been replaced with civilian clothing, the material soft and comfortable against his skin.

“(Y/N)?” Hunter called out, hoping to find the woman who had stolen his heart.

"Yes?" He turned around at the sound of her voice, watching as she walked in through a door that wasn’t there before. She stood in the doorway to the room with a smile on her beautiful face, holding a bundle of blankets in her arms.

Hunter’s eyes turned wide as saucers when he saw her, looking as healthy as ever. There were no bruises or cuts lining her body, all evidence of torture vanished as she stood there wearing a soft dress that fit her body well and her usual soft, gorgeous smile present on her face.

"(Y/N)!” Hunter managed to pull himself out of his stunned stupor, rushing toward her and hugging her tightly, as if she would slip away at any moment. At this moment he didn’t care that she was his general, that this was a forbidden romance between them, he didn’t care. All he care about was that she was alive and in his arms, real and unharmed.

"Hi," (Y/N) said softly, dropping the blankets as Hunters arms wove themselves around her, her arms finding purchase on his shoulders. He held her tightly against his chest, one of his hands coming up to cradle her head to his neck, wanting to ensure this was real. He pulled away from the hug, cupping her cheeks in his hands and he looked into her eyes.

“Y-you’re here. You’re okay,” he said breathlessly, tears gathering in his eyes as (Y/N) regarded him with a warm smile and a nod.

“I’m okay Hunter. And so are your brothers. Everyone is okay,” she said, bringing a hand up to wipe away the tears that had begun to spill from his eyes. Hunter let out a relieved sob, arms finding their way around (Y/N)’s waist once more as he buried his face in her neck, breathing in the smell of her perfume.

“I love you so much. I-I can’t go another day without you knowing that,” he said into her neck, his arms tightening around her midsection. He should have been embarrassed to admit his feelings, should’ve known that it was wrong, he knew it was, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t keep denying how he felt about her, about needing her with him all the time. (Y/N) placed her forehead against Hunters, thumbing at his cheekbones as she took a deep breath.

"Hunter... Hunter wake up, come back to me love."

Hunter pulled away from (Y/N) to see her slowly being enveloped in a blue glow, her hands falling from his face. However, her smiled remained, eyes warm as they looked at him, heartbeat steady and in time with his. Her figure dissolved again, leaving Hunter alone in the furnished room, still light and full of life. He sat down on the bed, mind racing a million parsecs a minute, trying his best to remain grounded. Hunter closed his eyes, taking a deep, steady breath, letting his world reset and fade into black.

-

(Y/N) sat with Hunter’s head in her lap, hands holding his face as a blue glow emitted from her finger tips. Her eyes remained shut as she guided Hunter through his nightmare, trying her best to stick only to this instead of wandering the halls of his psyche. She found him trapped in a hell of his own making, watching his nightmare unfold from the sidelines, his brothers strewn across the floor in various states of consciousness while she was mercilessly beaten by the zygerrians Hunter had conjured in his mind.

She did what she could to bring him out, diving deep into his mind to find something that she was sure she wasn’t supposed to find. But she needed to wake him from his subconscious. She took another deep breath before tugging on the string she had found, inserting herself in what she had now understood was Hunter’s deepest desire.

(Y/N) began to feel the fatigue of using so much energy, the force around her screaming at her to pull back. She leaned forward and connected he forehead to Hunter’s, feeling him relax as she spoke,

"Hunter…Hunter wake up, come back to me love."

-

Hunter’s eyes fluttered open, consciousness fighting to stay asleep until he came face to face with (Y/N). His eyes widened a fraction before seeing her smile down at him, her eyes half lidded and her hands now moving away from his face. She sat up slowly, resting her hands on the ground next to her to steady herself, watching as Hunter bolted up immediately once she was out of the way.

Hunter turned to look at her before his eyes surveyed the rest of the camp, noting that the rest of the batch were now looking at the two of them, concerned and curious as to what had transpired while they had been asleep. Before he could utter a word to his brothers, (Y/N) fell forward into him, loosing the strength to stay awake.

“(Y/N)!” Hunter gasped, holding her close and maneuvering her into a less awkward position. Tech was over to the pair in a flash, med scanner out and hovering over (Y/N) where she lay nestled in Hunter’s arms. Echo was by their side as well while Crosshair and Wrecker observed from their respective places.

“She is alright, just fatigued to the point where her body has shut down to reserve what energy she has left. She will be alright,” Tech said quietly as to not alarm his elder brother. Hunter only nodded, his gaze remaining trained on (Y/N).

“You okay sarge?” Wrecker asked from his bed roll, eyeing Hunter worriedly though he only nodded in response, not wanting to get into the nitty gritty of his nightmare.

“It’s okay Hunter. It happens to us all especially with our job,” Echo said, placing a reassuring hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. Hunter looked to the former ARC trooper with knowing eyes, silently acknowledging that he knew what he meant. Echo nodded in response, squeezing Hunter’s shoulder before letting go.

“Let’s get her inside to rest,” Tech said, placing his scanner back on his belt before moving to help Hunter lift their general. Hunter shied away from the goggled man, holding (Y/N) protectively in his arms. He knew that his brothers wouldn’t harm her whatsoever, but after his nightmare, he couldn’t let her go. Instead Hunter looped his arms under (Y/N)’s thighs, one arm behind her back, lifting her bridle style in his arms before making his way up the ramp of the Marauder. He brought her to his bunk, laying her down on the not so soft mattress and pulling the blanket over her.

Hunter stood there for a moment, looking at (Y/N) as she lay there, peaceful and undisturbed. He turned to walk away, wanting to let her rest, knowing that what thoughts were swirling in his mind were thoughts he should be keeping to himself. Though he couldn’t deny the pull of his heart, the warmth that spread knowing she had saved him from a terrible night. Hunter turned back to (Y/N), leaning down and placing a kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes and relishing in the contact that would most likely never happen again.

“Thank you, cyare,” he whispered to her, letting his words linger in the air before he stood up to his full height, turning away and moving back towards the ramp.

-

(Y/N)’s eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the new lighting she found herself in, the comfort of the Marauder’s dim over head lights making her smile. She sat up slowly, noting that she wasn’t in her bunk, but Hunter’s, the smokey scent of fire wood and shampoo enveloping her. (Y/N) removed the blanket from her body, feet touching the cold durasteel of the ship before realizing her boots had been removed. She pinpointed them next to the bunk racks, pulling them on before making her way to the cockpit.

(Y/N) also noted that the ramp had been closed, all crates of supplies they had used for the camp had now been returned to there proper place which told her they were in the air, flying away from the planet they had been on. She made her way to the cockpit, hearing voices from behind the closed door.

“You should tell her.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is forbidden Wrecker. She is our general, a Jedi no less and it is forbidden for them to form attachments.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she has told me before. I was curious about Jedi customs and rules, therefore I asked her about them.”

“Well look at you nerd-“

“Enough! All of you.”

(Y/N) smiled as the door to the cockpit opened, all five sets of eyes turning to look at her, the men quickly standing at attention for their general. (Y/N) only smiled and sauntered up to Hunter, standing chest to chest with the handsome sergeant. His posture stiffened, his eyes never leaving hers as she flashed him a gorgeous smile.

“Can I speak to Hunter alone for a moment?” (Y/N) asked, not even bothering to look at the other members of the batch. The boys didn’t waste a moment to comply, Crosshair and Echo ushering Tech and Wrecker out of the cockpit, the latter wanting to stay to hear the conversation while the former was admittedly trying to explain to Hunter what needed to be done. Hunter face palmed as his brothers left him alone with (Y/N), feeling annoyed with them and anxious for the conversation that was about to ensue.

Their eyes met again and (Y/N) stepped back, taking the copilots seats while motioning for Hunter to sit in the pilots seats. He did so complicitly, avoiding eye contact once he was comfortable in the seat. There was a tense silence surrounding them, silence permeating, the air around them before Hunter let out a sigh, knowing he would need to start the conversation.

"Thank you general. Thank you for pulling me out of that," he said genuinely, a look of pure gratitude crossing his face. (Y/N) only smiled and reached out her hand, tilting Hunters chin up so that his gaze met hers. He went rigid for a moment before relaxing again, finding no judgement or ill intent in (Y/N)’s eyes.

“Please Hunter, call me (Y/N),” she said softly, watching as Hunter relaxed another fraction, his head leaning in to her hold ever so slightly.

“T-thank you gen- (Y/N). Thank you,” he said again his cheeks heating up in the wake of his embarrassment. (Y/N) giggled at his slip up, music to his ears as he watched her face scrunch up cutely. A adoring smile dawned the sergeants lips as he gazed at the Jedi, his body fully relaxing now that he understood he wasn’t in trouble in the slightest.

“You’re welcome Hunter. I was happy to help you,” she said, the smile never leaving her face. Hunter only nodded before another period of silence took over, both parties trying to figure out what to say.

“Did you mean it?” (Y/N) whispered, tucking a stray hair behind her ear as she turned away, this time she refused to meet Hunters eyes. Hunters head snapped up, so fast he thought he’d give himself whiplash, eyes falling onto (Y/N)’s form as she pulled her knees up to her chest. Hunter raked over her frame, trying his best to piece together what she meant before his brain short circuited.

Oh…

OH.

His face went red, cheeks heating up and armour feeling as if it was constricting his every breath. More silence, more awkward tension, more uncertainty and discomfort filled the cockpit, both Hunter and (Y/N) too afraid to speak up. Hunter let out another sigh before moving to kneel in front of (Y/N), carefully cupping her cheek and encouraging her to look at him. She did so with curious eyes, hoping that Hunter would be honest with her about his deepest desire.

“I meant every word mesh’la,” he said. (Y/N) smiled and surged forward, taking Hunter by surprise and connecting their lips. He went still as a board for a moment, his brain shorting out at the contact. It took him another few seconds to react but eventually he did, closing his eyes and leaning in to the kiss. When he allowed himself to enjoy the affectionate contact he couldn’t help but smile, deepening the kiss and holding their lips together.

When it was time to come up for air, neither of them wanted to pull away but breathing was important. (Y/N) and Hunter pulled away from each other with a gasp, lungs filling with the air they had denied them during their kiss. (Y/N) connected her forehead to Hunter’s once more, smiling at the contact that made her heart soar.

“I love you too,” she said with a smile. Hunter chuckled, leaning in for another kiss, cupping (Y/N)’s jaw and taking the lead on it. Both of them knew that this was uncertain territory but they would face it head on, together.

Let me know what you all think of this! I’m kinda proud of this one and I would love to get some feedback from you as readers. Next story is scheduled for March 21st 2025!

[harushinkai-daily]

🍔🍅🍔🍅🍔

Surprise!! I know this blog has been pretty quiet, but I had to celebrate July 1 by filling up the queue and drawing some fanart. I decided to do a quick redraw of a Sailor Moon screenshot, substituting everyone’s favorite kind, bookish sailor guardian (Ami/Sailor Mercury) with everyone’s favorite kind, bookish gogglehead. Now that I think about it, those two would probably be really good friends!

Whoever took this candid shot of Haru (using the ancient medium of… film?!), and the person holding the resulting photograph are both left to the imagination of the viewer.

✨ HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARU!!! ✨

Original screenshot below the cut!