#i was going to write more for this but then someone on ao3 was like

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hello, hope you're a having a good day

Could you write something about 141 x reader where the sparring session turns a little too not your usual sparring (if you know what I mean). The reader and them being all sweaty and shit and like the sexual tension that's been there for a while. This idea has been plaguing my mind since forever. Thank youuuu

Haha! Yes! Omg, I love it. Okay, for this, I didn't go full smut. When someone mentions sexual tension, I tend to hyperfocus on that and want to bathe in it. Give me naughty thoughts and flirting-maybe even some actual physical contact that borders on dangerous territory. Give me the yearning! I want to giggle and kick my feet and think about what might happen later.

So, I indulged in that regard! I had lots of fun with this. Thank you so much for sending it in!!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x TF141!Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, knife play, grinding, rough kissing, caught in the act, training, naughty thoughts, mutual yearning

Word Count: 2.4k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Come on. Come at me.”

Soap rolls his shoulders and then brings his fists up in a fighting stance. He makes a “go on” gestured with his hands.

Every muscle in your body is sore. Tired doesn’t even begin to describe how you’re feeling. But you want to best Soap. He’s been on your ass for weeks now—insisting that the two of you should spar together. It’s not the sparring that makes you warm and tingly but the way he suggests it.

Always leaning in. Standing far too close. Bumping your shoulder with his.

Soap waits, but you’re not sure how to proceed. So far, you’ve been completely unsuccessful. As if knowing all your moves, Soap has dodged each blow and kick, effortlessly taking you down to the mat every time you thinking you’ve ensnared him.

Stealth is more your thing. Creeping around in the shadows. Taking out opponents from afar. A sniper scope is your friend. Hand-to-hand isn’t.

You lunge for him and Soap steps back. Fist missing him, you sidestep and go for a jab in the stomach. Soap slaps your hand away, and you want to yell in frustration.

“Sloppy today,” chides Soap, grinning like this amuses him.

It probably does. He’s one for a good laugh.

This time you feign, and Soap takes it, moving in. You’re ready for him, turning out of his swing to duck beneath and then aim for the face. Soap rises to block, and opens a clear line to his groin.

Fucking beautiful.

Lifting your foot, you don’t tap him hard, just enough for his cheeks to go pink. Soap grunts, and you chuckle.

“Shouldn’t have left yourself—”

With an oof, your back smacks against the tumble mat beneath you. Soaps snags your wrists and pins them above your head. You go to kick out at him, but Soap’s knees are between your legs. He shoves them wider.

You’re completely trapped beneath him.

And in a completely inappropriate position.

From where you’re pinned, you notice the small beads of sweat on his brow and how a few pieces of hair stick to his skin. Though his chest is covered by a shirt, it’s snug, with every muscle on display. Those powerful thighs of his press against yours in such a way that you’re imagining nothing between your bodies.

Would he feel this powerful over you if the two of you were elsewhere? Perhaps, somewhere more private. Somewhere without a tumble mat. Somewhere with a bed.

“Can’t harm the goods, love,” says Soap, his voice husky. You’re not sure if it’s from the close contact or from the tap you gave his crotch.

“Then don’t leave them vulnerable,” you reply, almost not recognizing the sound of your own voice. It too is husky as if dipped in desire.

The middle of Soap’s brow scrunches slightly. His gaze travels downward to linger on your lips and then further still until you sense him admiring more than he is observing.

“Soap—”

His gaze snaps upward. “Johnny,” he corrects. “Think we’re on closer terms.”

“Are we?” you ask, as his hips start to relax.

The press of him against you is apparent, and the hardness there is poking at you. Insistent. And you don’t want to ignore it.

Instead, you press upward, grinding against him.

Soap—no—Johnny, makes a sound in his throat.

One moment you’re under him and then you’re in his lap, the two of you sitting up, staring into each other’s eyes. Your heart hammers in your chest, and your hands fists the front of his shirt.

“You—”

“Are we interrupting something?”

You and Johnny turn just as Ghost and Gaz enter the gym. Gaz has a towel draped over his shoulder. The water bottle he holds it half-way towards his mouth before he freezes, gaze locked on you and Johnny.

Ghost cocks his head, arms crossed over his chest.

You’re speechless. Lost. Your mind hasn’t caught up.

But Johnny’s has.

With a twist, Johnny rolls and then lightly tosses you off him as if the two of you were simply practicing and not staring into each other’s eyes.

“You want a go, Lt?” asks Johnny.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“You up for another round?” asks Kyle.

The man is grinning like he could do this all day. You’re sore everywhere—ready to collapse from exhaustion. Hand-to-hand combat is not your thing which is why you’re here in the training room with Kyle.

Yes, you need practice, but you’ve also had your eye on him, admiring him when you think no one is looking. It’s an excuse for some alone time.

“I’d rather eat glass,” you mutter, snatching up your water bottle and drinking the last of it.

“Hate me that much?” he teases.

“So much so that I wanted to spend the afternoon beating your ass.”

Kyle bursts out laughing. He snatches the water bottle out of your hand and aims it at you, squeezing. There’s nothing in it. A few measly drops hit your face and then you lunge for him. Kyle jumps back and extends his arms outward.

“One more round.” He winks. “Come on, love.”

He’s being cheeky, and your blood is pumping.

Kyle tosses your water bottle to the side as you stride forward. His arms go up, and then the two of you are nothing but flying fists and feet. He’s faster, blocking every blow you send his way.

Sweat accumulates on your brow and on the back of your neck, dripping down your spine. You lick your lips, taste the salt from the sweat.

You duck. Swing. Kyle snatches your wrist and twists, pinning your arm behind you. With a sharp jab of your elbow, you nail Kyle in the stomach, freeing yourself.

As you spin to lash out, Kyle is right there, in your space, blocking all movement. You try to step back, to allow space in your next strike, but Kyle rushes in. The two of you are twisted up. Falling. Slamming into the mat on the floor.

You shove and Kyle resists, his strength outmatching yours. With cheek pressed into the mat, you have nowhere to go. You’re completely on your stomach, and all of Kyle’s weight is on you. He breathes heavily, chest heaving. You feel his breath against your skin, and the contact only sends your skin into a shiver.

Your mind drifts, lingering in places it shouldn’t. Worse—Kyle is aroused. His hardness pokes at your ass. But whether he notices or not is unclear.

“You’re improving,” he says.

“I have a good teacher.”

Kyle makes a noise that sounds like agreement. Every muscle is tense, and even Kyle’s hold on you seems laced with something harsh. But then it eases. Softens. His grip loosens enough that you roll onto your side, glancing up at him.

He is so goddamn close. Just a gentle tilt of the head and your lips would meet his. It wouldn’t be that hard. He’s right there.

Kyle blinks, and then his gaze trails downward, lingering on your lips.

“We,” he begins. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

His thumb traces along the side of your throat, and your eyelids flutter with contentment. A little moan escapes you, and you hear Kyle’s sharp inhale.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck it.”

His thumb becomes his whole hand. Holding you in place, Kyle goes all in, claiming your lips with his. It is dominating, and you happily give in to him.

John Price

Your back hits the tumble mat with a sharp slap. The exposed portions of your shoulders and back sting from the contact.

"Again."

Groaning, you push up to a seated position. "We've been at this for hours."

"And you need practice," counters Price.

He's hatless. And shirtless. Only in cargo pants and boots, Captain Price's bare skin glistens with sweat. You won't pretend that the sight of him like this doesn't intrigue you. For months now you've been observing Captain Price in more than just a professional manner. It's hard not to, and the sweat-drenched man before you isn't helping things.

Captain Price runs his fingers through his hair, taking a step back. The casualness to the movement causes your stomach to twist with desire. Your body betrays you, and you have no idea if these feelings are entirely one-sided. Sometimes you think you might gleam a notion of his thoughts, but it always manages to slip through your grasp.

Price offers his hand, and an idea forms.

You extend yours, but don't close the distance. Price is the one that leans forward to do so. It's the perfect opportunity. When your fingers close around his, you tug back, throwing him off balance.

Price tips forward, and you turn to the side as he crashes down to the mat. In one fluid movement, you roll Price onto his back and straddle his stomach.

"Never let your guard down. That's what you always say."

Price's eyes widen slightly before softening. The corner of his mouth twitches into a hint of amusement. It immediately sends heat flaring through you.

"I do," he replies, and it's nearly a coo.

That smirk of his widens into an actual smile, and then it's you on your back and Price straddling. You strike out with an elbow but Price catches your swing, trapping your arms above your head. He bends forward a bit, and it is then that you feel the stiffness against your stomach.

Price makes no move to hide it, and you don’t dare glance downward.

"You need to do better-"

"Captain."

Price immediately recoils, sitting up and releasing your arms. You twist to look behind you, only to find Ghost and Soap standing nearby. Ghost is ever the silent observer, but Soap's head is slightly tilted to the side, the middle of his brow pinched like he's not sure what's happening.

"Meeting starts in five,” says Soap. “Came to find you."

Price coughs and then he's off you, kneeling and offering you a hand again. You don't try to knock him down.

"Just going over some pointers,” replies Price.

"Pointers?" deadpans Ghost and you shoot him a look. He shrugs at you, gaze lingering before moving to his captain.

"Give me ten minutes. Shower. Then I'll be there."

Captain Price gives you a quick glance before walking off with Soap. Ghost crosses his arms over his chest and just stares.

“What?" you snap

"Pointers," he repeats.

"Oh, fuck off, Simon."

He chuckles and turns to follow the two out of the training room.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

"Your posture is terrible."

"That's very helpful, Lieutenant,” you deadpan.

"Are you sassing me?"

"No."

Simon shakes his head and sighs. “Can’t throw a knife accurately if you’re hunched like a goblin.”

“Goblin,” you mutter under your breath. “Asshole.”

“What was that?”

You clear your throat. “Seems easy, Lieutenant. You just throw the pointy end at the enemy.”

Simon grunts and then grabs your raised arm. "You won't hit anything standing like that."

You resist his pull but you're outmatch when it comes to strength. With one hand on your arm and one on your waist, Simon shifts you into position.

"Like this," he instructs, bringing your arm back. "Firm grip. Feet pointed forward." Simon releases your arm but his hand on your waist remains. "Throw. At the target."

You let the knife fly. It strikes just right of the bullseye.

"Again,” nods Simon.

"Really?"

Simon slowly drops his hand from your waist, the tips of fingers lingering a second longer than necessary.

Removing a knife from his boot, Simon flips it end over end. "We could hone your skills a different way."

"What way?"

“Grab your knife and find out.”

Stalking toward the bullseyes, you yank out the knife, joining Simon in the sparring ring. He bends at the knee, crouching into a fight stance. You mimic the movement.

Simon lunges first and you sidestep. But he's quick for such a large man. He moves around and behind you so fast he's almost a blur.

Grabbing your wrist, Simon lightly twists and pins you against his front, the knife tip pointed at your throat.

"Again,” he growls.

Simon lightly shoves you away. You spin. Striking out. He slaps your arm down and raises his own, the knife tip pointed at your throat for a second time.

"Again."

Showing your teeth, you charge at him, barreling into him at the middle. Simon staggers but doesn't faulter. He attempts to toss you off him, but you remain firm, grabbing hold.

This unloads him, his weight toppling with you. The two of you go down. Simon rolls you onto your back, his body pressed to yours, knife at your throat again.

"Better,” he says. “Still needs improvement."

You go to shove him off, but Simon doesn't budge. He remains where he is, and every point of contact is like an electrical spark. Even his face is close, balaclava nearly scratching against your skin. There is not part of him you’re not touching.

Awareness settles in.

Simon is all hardness over you.

"Have any tips you can give me?" you reply.

His gaze slowly lowers to your lips. His hips shift slightly, something stiff poking against your inner thigh.

“I have one,” he murmurs.

Bet I can guess.

“How do you want it?” he continues.

"You're the expert," you reply softly, hooking your leg over the back of his.

It's an invitation, one you aren't sure he'll take.

There’s a brief pause, and then Simon hums in agreement. It’s a pleased sound, one that instantly makes you shiver. Without taking the knife from your throat, he closes the distance, lips pressing against yours through the balaclava.

Heat erupts, the knife in your hand forgotten on the floor as you grab at him, fingers digging in.

It's only a tease. You want the real thing.

"What's the tip?" you ask once he breaks the connection.

Simon answers by grinding his hips against yours.

That one. Got it.

“We should—”

A door slams from somewhere down the hall. Simon’s head snaps up. The knife disappears, and then Simon is pushing himself away, kneeling beside you. His head is turned toward the main doors, but no one enters.

“It’s late,” you say. No one should be coming this way.

He turns back to you. “Your knife skills are shit.”

You groan. “I know. Goblin hunch. Got it.”

Simon snorts, and offers his hand. You take it, and he pulls you into a seated position. “Just a few more rounds,” he says, and then with a husky twinge to his tone, “and then I’ll go make sure the locker room is clear.”

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[amoscontorta]

Wine time with Sylus | ao3 | other stories in this 'series'

Summary: Sylus invites himself over, helps himself to your first aid kit and your kitchen, manipulates you into tasting wine with him, discusses his latest business venture, and gifts you more than one present before he's good and ready to finally leave.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person pov, no use of y/n

This story contains: fluff, banter, angst, mc with obvious self esteem issues, grief, self-destructive behavior, profanity, alcohol use, criminal activity, allusions to violence, sleepy kissing, biting, inappropriate thoughts regarding kitchen tools, the mental gymnastics mc engages in to avoid acknowledging or recognizing feelings on either side should come with their own warning to be honest, one very thirsty mc whose thoughts are NSFW. This part ends with a misunderstanding that you can bet Sylus will not put up with for long.

In the days following Sylus’s latest little… visit, you’re called out more frequently than usual to counter wanderer attacks. You’re barely home, and the few times you stumble home late into the night, you peel your sweat and sometimes blood-stained hunter’s uniform off right in the entryway, promise yourself you’ll do laundry soon, and drag your aching body to the shower. Then you usually spend what little night you have left lying there with your eyes closed, carefully keeping your mind blank as sleep remains elusive. You have to admit to yourself that the few times Sylus kept you company overnight, you slept like the dead, but you refuse to go so far as admitting that you wouldn’t mind if it were more frequent. If you were to admit it to yourself, which you will not,  you only yearn for it strictly for the sake of your sleep schedule, and absolutely not because you’ve come to crave his warm, comforting bulk against your body.

Tonight is no different, but you’re both looking forward to and dreading the next few days, as Captain Jenna has ordered you to take some time off to rest and recover from the brutal schedule you’ve been keeping for months now, capped off by the recent spate of increased attacks. All of your wheedling to let you keep going, that you’re fine, that the people of Linkon need you, that you need the constant distraction, has proven useless. Apparently the frequency with which you are getting injured remains acceptable, but she is finally at the end of her patience reading your barely coherent, misspelled reports with unfinished sentences that you only manage to submit before Association mandated deadlines by the skin of your teeth.

“Go home, get your head on straight, and come back rested … and literate again, please.” She looks back down at the tablet on her desk, trying to dismiss you, but you stubbornly remain at attention at her desk.

“That’s discrimination, Captain. I can be a perfectly functional hunter without being able to read or write,” you protest, while Xavier winces behind you. “I mean, obviously I can read and write, I’m just a little tired, that’s all. Still able to destroy wanderers!”

Jenna’s already formidable expression begins to darken, but you’re not cowed. You open your mouth to helpfully point out that wanderers don’t care about how well you can spell, when you feel Xavier’s gentle hand on your arm. “Come on, why don’t we go together to get some snacks on the way home? I think they’ve started re-issuing that wasabi flavored chocolate bar we tried at the beginning of the year,” he says softly, and Jenna shoots him an appreciative look before proceeding to ignore you both.

You glumly follow Xavier out into the early evening. Rush hour is over, but the sidewalks are still bustling with life. You weave through the mass of humanity, resisting the urge to drop-kick anyone who cuts you off or brushes against you accidentally. I am a role model for the Hunter’s Association, even when I’m off the clock, I am not allowed to arrest someone for bumping into me…. I am not allowed to arrest someone for…

Xavier tries to distract you from your obvious frustration by describing the plot of the latest manga series he’s reading that he thinks you’ll like as you two make your way  home. You listen absently, feeling slightly calmed by his soothing voice, despite its graphic descriptions of violence in the manga that you are pretty sure you’re going to really like.

“Are there any hot guys in it?” you ask as the mass of people begins to thin the closer you get to your building.

“Hot… guys?” he blinks in confusion, his impossibly blue eyes flashing in the streetlamps that have just turned on.

“Yeah. Like that other one we read, Help, I, a lowly office worker, went to sleep and woke up as the Queen’s assassin in the book I fell asleep reading. The main guy in that was super hot.”

“Well, it is by the same mangaka, so you’d probably like the way they draw the main character in this one too,” he says uncertainly, but with a strange expression on his face, like he suddenly doesn’t want you to read it with him anymore.

“Okay, I’ll give it a try. Have you finished the first volume yet? Can I borrow it?”

You’ve reached your building, the trees surrounding the courtyard rustling in the soft end-of-summer breeze.

“…Great,” he says after a brief hesitation. He holds open one of the entrance's doors for you to enter the your building’s foyer. Your boots and his echo on the polished floor as you make your way into the lift. “I’ll be finished by tomorrow. How about we go the bookstore and afterwards you can come over and read since we have the day off? You can start volume one, and I’ll start volume 2. Does that sound good? We can make fancy ramen,” he says, his normally sleepy energy spiking with the idea of adding a boiled egg and some frozen vegetables to the normally plain ramen the two of you consume more often than not while on the go. Xavier’s idea of fancy has always been adorable to you.

The idea of not just sitting in your apartment alone on the first day of your forced leave is a welcome one, and you agree that he can come find you when he’s woken up, so that you don’t risk waking him up. He likes this plan, because obviously, you’re hardly sleeping at all, and he sleeps longer than you ever would have imagined possible for humans until you met him. As the elevator approaches your floor and the doors slide open, you’re about to step out when Xavier’s soft voice behind you has you turning to look back at his pretty face.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours. “I know you feel like you’ve lost everything right now, and that the pain seems unbearable.”

You quickly turn your head—you were not expecting this sneak attack of sympathy and kindness from him. You nod jerkily, trying not to let his warmth sink into you, or else you might start crying.

“It sounds cliché, but with time, even this pain will fade. And you have so much time ahead of you. I can promise you that. One day you’ll wake up, and it will be slightly less unbearable. That doesn’t mean you forget about what you’ve lost. But you can think of it without… without feeling like you’re destroyed again, every time.” He’s looking at you, but you also have the feeling that he’s looking at something else, from a great distance. Knowing how secretive he is, it’s unlikely you’ll ever know what it is he’s seeing.

You nod again, and whatever he sees in you profile seems to satisfy him as he offers you a soft ‘Goodnight,’ and you scurry from the lift to your front door. You tuck away his words, and push them down deep. You know they’re well intended. But you can’t handle crying right now. Not yet. Not yet. So you focus on possible plans for the days stretching ahead of you.

There is a part of you that’s looking forward to possibly being able to rest, it’s true. But the stretch of empty days, without work and battle and the social interaction of colleagues, had been filling you with anxiety before your plans with Xavier were made. But even after tomorrow, you’ll try to make the best of it. You can… try to remember what hobbies you had, before your life blew up. Maybe you can take up a new hobby! Within the span of a few days. Yeah, you can teach yourself to crochet,or make stained glass art, in a day, right? Online videos are super helpful. Maybe you’ll even deep clean your apartment, and go grocery shopping, properly, for the first time in weeks. You’ll buy vegetables that have to be prepped instead of the hottest insta-ramen you can find and slurping packets of applesauce while telling yourself that it counts as fiber, right? You can cook, and bake! You just haven’t in… a really long time. Maybe you’ll bake an entire cake, and then eat the entire cake. Yeah. You have plans, you think to yourself, pressing your fingerprint to the scanner under your flat’s door handle and pushing the door open when it beeps.

As soon as the door closes with a soft whump, you carefully hang up your blades and pistol holsters on your wall-mounted weapon rack, and then you’re furiously undoing the laces on your knee high leather boots, hopping from one foot to the other as you try to kick them off without actually having to sit down and pull them off. You yank off your socks, then shimmy out of your pants, which you also kick off unceremoniously. You’re going to be positive about this little holiday! You’re so close to being comfortable and staying that way for days. You almost rip your buttons in your haste to remove your shirt, and just as you’ve gotten the last one undone, you finally notice the dark, looming figure in the shadows at the end of your foyer.

You’re in your fucking underpants, barefoot, and your weapons are out of reach due to your current strangulation by your own shirt sleeves.

Heart racing, you throw yourself backward against the door, prepared to make a strategic retreat and escape into the building’s hallway to buy yourself some time to free yourself from your shirt, no matter the cost to your pride at being caught out in your underwear, when familiar scarlet-ink tendrils of energy gently wrap themselves around your waist and softly lift you in the air. You find yourself kicking and squirming like a kitten picked up by the scruff of its neck.

“The fuck, Sylus?” you choke out.

“Why are you still struggling, when you can clearly see that it’s me? Cease, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Why are you using your evol on me without my consent?” you retort, wriggling some more for good measure simply because he told you to stop.

“To prevent you from giving your neighbors the show of their lives without even charging admission,” he responds languidly, eyes the color of sunlight filtering through a glass of wine drifting from your probably red, sweaty face down your barely clothed body.

“Oh, they don’t get a free show, but you do?” you sneer, continuing to struggle to no effect.

“Look at yourself,” Sylus commands, and turns his head as if bored. You note absently that he’s wearing a ruby stud earring in his ear... the one that matches the earring in your own ear. So you never bothered to take it out. That doesn’t mean anything—you’re just lazy. You refuse to think about it anymore deeply than that, and then notice that Sylus not only looks bored, but also looks almost… offended? You do as he asks, and see that his evol is wrapping itself around your body in such a way that its bright-dark tendrils are covering all of your exposed, sensitive areas like a fluid robe.

“Oh,” is all you can think to say.

“Oh, indeed.” He continues to look away from you, aggressively bored, but his evol gently lowers you enough so that your bare feet rest on the ground, and then it loosens, but remains swirling around you.

“Then I’ll… just go get dressed.” You begin making your past him, but stop when you see him nonchalantly hold up a large, elegant shopping bag. It’s black, with some brand name you don’t recognize written in flowy silver script. “What is this?” You look from the bag to his face. He deigns to look at you again. Your eyes drift to his other ear, and you see that where it is pierced is empty.

“Wardrobe options,” is all he says, jerking you out of trying to puzzle out this opaque maniac’s intentions. You take the bag from him and quickly walk to your bathroom. No way you’re going to put on new clothes while feeling filthy from a long day and night of annihilating wanderers. His evol dissipates the moment your bathroom door shuts behind you.

It’s becoming a pattern. Thinking the worst of him, only to be proven wrong. But you don’t know how to overcome the cognitive dissonance of Sylus from your first meeting, and this Sylus who seems intent on taking care of you better than you take care of yourself.

You rinse off as quickly as you can in the shower, towel yourself dry, and take a peek in the bag that he gave you. The first thing you see is a black…? You lift it out of the bag, and it unfolds into a very large sweater. It’s thick, the fabric obviously of high quality. You touch it gently, running your hands along a sleeve—is it cashmere? It’s unbelievably soft. It’s probably a nightmare to wash. On impulse, you lift it to your nose, and take a deep breath.

Your suspicion is confirmed. It smells like him. This isn’t a brand new piece of clothing. This is one of Sylus’s own sweaters that he has worn before. The scent of his clean skin, the sharp tang of gunmetal, the bright burst of citrus, probably from some ridiculously expensive shampoo or body wash. The mix sends a thrill through your entire body: after only a few encounters, you already have bone-deep associations with the way Sylus smells. Fear and adrenaline, yes, but also anticipation—and bizarrely, safety. Instead of feeling terrified, you feel the way you would before riding a roller coaster. Yes, you’ll be screaming and holding on for dear life the whole ride, but you are also inexplicably convinced that in the end, you’ll have your feet firmly planted on the ground, safe again. A part of you whispers that it’s safer to avoid the roller coaster altogether—bolts come loose, wheels pull free from the track, tragic accidents happen all the time. But standing here in your humid bathroom, bone-weary from the day behind you, sniffing Sylus’s unwashed sweater makes you feel more alive than you’ve felt in a very long time.

You pull his sweater over your head, and you’re basically swimming it, it’s so big. The collar is big enough that it threatens to fall off one shoulder. But it’s so soft. And cozy. You hug yourself, and peek into the bag again. There are a few more sweaters, each dark with varying degrees of dramatic flair. This is part of Sylus’s wardrobe, after all. But there are also little sleep shorts, like the ones you were wearing the last time he invaded your home. You pick up a pair—no way would they fit on his big ass. You try, so, so, so very hard not to picture his thick cake stuffed into these tiny shorts.

You fail.

Your brain short circuits for a few seconds.

When it comes back online, you lift out a pair, and the fabric glides silkily along your skin. You’re pretty sure these are silk. They’re black, because of course, but they also have little red … happy pomegranates? Dotted along the hems. They’re adorable. You pull them on over your own bare ass and the sweater-shorts combo is probably the softest thing you’ve ever had on your body. The sweater swallows the shorts and makes it look like you’re wandering around without bottoms on.

You look at yourself in the mirror, silently telling yourself that you shouldn’t get on this particular ride. You don’t know where the track leads, and it scares you. What if it ends over a cliff, and the last thing you ever see is Sylus’s triumphant, cruel face looking down at you as you fall? There are other, less risky rides, certainly ones without wanted posters, right? Right? On second thought, you don’t even have to go the amusement park at all. You’re just fine with trying to get some fucking sleep, with continuing to hone your combat skills, with just trying to be a good person despite really liking knives and being an enthusiastic hunter.

But maybe you can just. Be friends with the roller coaster? Like, you don’t have to ride him. IT. THE ROLLER COASTER. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO RIDE THE ROLLER COASTER. You can just, watch it from a safe distance. You might indulge in little fantasies about what it’s like to ride… the roller coaster. And honestly, fantasies are almost always a hell of a lot better than the reality ever turns out to be. Not to mention! Sylus has never directly expressed any desire to ride … your roller coaster. Sure, he shows up unannounced and cares for you in ways that no one ever has, and he touches you a lot for someone who has no physical interest in you, but physical isn’t necessarily sexual, right? Maybe it’s an evol thing, and the way he touches you has to do with why you both find yourself inexplicably connected for periods of time. Like charging a battery. The point is! There will be no tickets to either ride, thank you, you aren’t open for business and he definitely does not have the proper safety inspection certificates in order, so. No.

You nod firmly to yourself in the mirror. This should be fine. You can be friends with Sylus. You don’t have to let him drag you over a cliff. Maybe you can learn a thing or two from him—he seems to be pretty competent at a lot of things that might be useful for certain aspects of your job. Like intimidating people. And exploding people with a thought and twitch of his fingers. And convincing them to do things they don’t want to do by sheer force of obnoxiousness.

Having sufficiently deluded yourself into believing that your plan of action has a chance of success, you slip out of the bathroom and find Sylus in the kitchen, next to a pretty wine glass that you certainly do not recall owning on the kitchen island.

He’s slicing strawberries with a very sharp knife that you do recall owning, because you do spend quite a lot of time sharpening the set it belongs to. They’re not kitchen knives, per se; you actually have them for work and they are really nice to throw. You already had so many knives before you moved into this place that you didn’t see the necessity of spending more money on probably inferior kitchen knives. But the large, really nice butcher block-style cutting board that he’s chopping the fruit on is not yours. And neither are the delicately arranged variety of cheeses, thinly sliced meat, and savory tarts set in puff pastry that fill up most of the cutting board. And lastly, you do not recall purchasing two bottles of what look like red wine sitting next to the wine glass, nor cleaning your kitchen so thoroughly that Zayne could probably perform surgery in here without worrying about risk of infection.

Despite your presence standing at the island before him now, he continues to serenely slice the ever-growing pile of fruit.

“Sylus?”

“Have a seat,” he says, not looking up.

“Oh, why thank you for offering such hospitality to me, in my own home,” you mutter, pulling out one of the wooden bar stools at the kitchen island. You’re about to sit down when you realize that the repetitive chop of the knife has stopped, and you look up to find Sylus frozen with the knife mid-slice in a fat strawberry. His eyes drift from your neck and exposed shoulder, down the soft expanse of sweater, to your bare legs, and then back again. You’re suddenly self-conscious—he’s the one who gave you these clothes. And now he’s staring at you like a wanderer is about to burst out of your chest.

“Did I misunderstand the assignment or something?” you ask, plopping down on the bar stool in the hopes of breaking him out of whatever weird trance he’s apparently glitching in. He swallows, flicks a final look at your shoulder, and then goes back to slicing.

“I’m simply shocked that you actually did as you were told, for once,” he responds, seemingly unruffled again. “You should also put one of the sweaters in your go bag as a backup in the event that your uniform gets destroyed, again, which it does at an alarming rate these days. The Association’s overheads for keeping you clothed must be in the stratosphere.”

“Mm, yes I’m sure you’re very concerned about the costs of doing business for the Association.” You rest your head in your hand, propped up by your elbow on the counter. The two of you sit in companionable silence for a while, with only the snick of the knife filling the space between you. The lights underneath your cabinets are on, emitting a soft warm glow from below, but you notice that he hasn’t put on the harsher, brighter overhead lights. The city’s skyline blinks serenely like an endless fleet of starships in the dark expanse of space through your windows, and a cool breeze wafts in from time to time.

Finally, Sylus is done, and he carefully rinses the knife in the sink and sets it on the counter. He turns back to you.

“No interrogation regarding why I’m here this time?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s wearing a light sweater in a deep grey, of a style quite similar to the one you’re now wearing. He looks domestic, and delicious, and you tell yourself sternly that he is friend shaped, you will not ride the Sylus roller coaster, you will not ride the Sylus roller coaster—

You have to say something. “Oh, are you missing my very effective questioning techniques? Sadly, I left my handcuffs at the office,” you lift your shoulders in a what can you do? gesture, and his eyes follow your bare shoulder again.

“Handcuffs aren’t the only means of restraint available to a truly resourceful hunter,” he says, shaking his head as if disappointed.  “Your lack of imagination is boring.”

“Okay, Sylus. But only because you’re basically begging for it: why are you here?”  You lift a puff pastry and brandish it at him like a knife. “Answer honestly, or you’ll really get it this time!” You take a big, aggressive bite as if to illustrate what he’s got coming to him in case of his non-compliance, and then moan because what the fuck, this is so good, is it goat cheese and honey? And suddenly you’re devouring it, licking your fingers clean when you’re done because you can’t get enough.

“This definitely counts as an enhanced interrogation technique.” His voice is low, and has a rough quality to it that normally isn’t there. You glance up from slobbering all over your fingers and find that he’s staring at you in what is probably disgust.

“Ha, yes, and I’ll keep subjecting you to it until you tell me what you’re doing in my home, again. And how did you even get in? I never got you a key.” You finish licking yourself like an animal and reach for a strawberry. If he’s going to play chef in your kitchen, who are you to refuse to enjoy the literal fruits of his labor? You just live here and pay the damn rent.

He holds up the index finger of his right hand, which is sporting a band-aid that you recognize as one of the same kind you have in your first-aid kit. They’re super cute, with a design of sad little cartoon mushrooms. “I was at my accountant’s, which happens to be in this neighborhood, and I got a paper cut while signing some documents.”

You pause before biting into the berry. “You… came to my flat. With extra clothing, wine, wine glasses, and various appetizers, in order to get a band-aid for your paper cut. Is this a correct summary of events?” You decide you’re not going to wait for him to answer, and take a big bite of the strawberry, feeling some juice drip down your chin. You catch it with your index finger, and then suck the juice off after you’re done chewing.

There is a long pause, and you look up to find him staring intently at your finger. You widen your eyes and wave your hand in the universal gesture of hurry the fuck up, get on with it already? He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply. Apparently you’re so horrifying to witness eating that he needs to seek some zen before he can answer. It’s not your fault that he brought you half of his wardrobe and wine glasses but didn’t think to bring any napkins. “Yes, that is a correct summary of events,” is all he offers.

You look at him.

He looks back at you, occasionally flicking his gaze down to your mouth and back to your eyes. You consider baring your teeth at him just in case he wants an eyeful of the strawberry undoubtedly stuck in them, but refrain because you’re polite.

“Okay. Do you care to explain the motivation behind these events?” you ask slowly, thinking that maybe you will brandish a real knife at him to hurry up this so-called interrogation so you can straight up devour the rest of this charcuterie board that this wanted criminal has inexplicably prepared in your kitchen.

Fortunately, you don’t have to go for the knife, because he begins to speak. “There was a wine merchant that looked rather appealing on the way to your place. Since you revealed a deplorable lack of discernment when it comes to selecting a good bottle of wine the last time you hosted me, I thought I’d do my civic duty for the week and educate the less fortunate on how to choose, and enjoy, a decent bottle of wine.”

“I see.” You nod slowly. “That’s very civic-minded of you. You’re truly a model citizen. And the food?”

“It’s not wise to have a wine tasting without something to eat. Otherwise, you might find yourself making questionable decisions. We wouldn’t want that, would we, sweetie?” he seems to have recovered from his nausea at watching you wolf down food, because he says this with a playful lift of a silver eyebrow.

“Because letting a man whose baggage includes a wanted poster into my home whenever he wants could hardly be considered a good decision, and I made that one while sober,” you sigh. “I see your point.”

“Exactly. Just imagine what kind of trouble you could get into after a bottle of wine on an empty stomach?” He tilts his head to the side, and runs a middle finger slowly over his brow.

You shudder, because his big hands. You can’t pursue this line of thought.

“And the clothes?”

“Now you won’t need to borrow your partner’s clothes in case of an emergency. And I’ll have something to wear at my safe house in case you decide to assault me with beverages again.”

“That was one time. And if you don’t show up, then there’s no chance you’ll be assaulted. Therefore, no need for a change of clothes. And, pardon me, but your safe house? I think you meant, my flat. But what you’re telling me is that the whole reason you were coming to my flat in the first place was to put a band-aid on your boo-boo.”

He lowers his hand and begins running his thumb along his lower lip. “Even a small cut can turn life-threatening if not treated properly. And I wouldn’t want a scar, now would I? It’s not much of a safe house if I can’t make use of it when in danger of lasting bodily harm.”

“Mmm yes, what with your evol that renders scarring impossible for you, we wouldn’t want your paper cut to cause you lasting bodily harm. And you couldn’t acquire a band-aid at a pharmacy, perhaps like at the one next to the wine merchant I’m pretty sure you’re referring to?” You refuse to look at his big thumb pressing into his thick, soft-looking lower lip. You stare up at the ceiling, and consider cataloguing wanderers in your head to stem the sudden urge to vault over the island counter separating him from you and pulling that damn thumb into your own mouth.

“They didn’t have a box containing such cute little designs. I never knew I wanted anthropomorphized fungus to decorate a bandage intended to protect an open wound until I saw your own box.”

It takes you a second to remember what the hell the two of your were discussing when you realize he’s talking about your adorable little mushroom band-aids.

“A wine snob, and a band-aid snob.”

“I prefer the term cultured, but yes, I’ve told you before. Life is too short to waste on the inferior. Your sad little champignons surpass all others.”

He’s done it again. He has hardly even moved this entire time, and has managed to exhaust you to the point of blissful indifference. He shows up unannounced, rifles through your first aid kit, decides what you’re going to wear both this evening and in the future when you need a spare change of clothes, and has prepared an hors d’oeuvre spread worthy of at least a mid-ranged restaurant for you to eat while offering you a wine tasting? Fine. “Okay,” you say, reaching for another one of those puff pastries.

He watches you steadily for a few moments, as if trying to sense a trap. “That’s it?”

You shrug. “Sure. I told you that you could use my house if you needed it. I’ve just learned my lesson: next time I’ll be very careful in drafting the conditions of any deal we make, since your interpretation of certain terms appears to vary wildly from any reasonable person’s.”

“I think I’m quite reasonable,” he examines his nails. “I come bearing gifts, and this is how you show your gratitude? By insinuating that I'm unreasonable?”

Another thought occurs to you. “How did you even get in, Sylus?”

“Ah,” he says, squinting and looking out the window, as if contemplating a very deep philosophical question. “While you were sleeping last time… I took the liberty of adding my fingerprint to your door’s fingerprint scanner.”

What. The. Fuck. “What. The. Fuck.”

“Again, it’s not much of a safe house if I can’t access it without your presence. I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s not like I can’t just use my evol to teleport into your place anyway, but I thought you’d appreciate me coming through the front door. Fewer feathers. You didn’t seem to like cleaning those up the last time I teleported out of your place.”

You just stare at him. How would he even know that you cursed him, loudly, as you were mopping up the mess of blood and feathers he generously left in your entryway after being shot? And then it comes to you. Mephisto. Of course. You pinch the bridge of your nose, and visualize violently shaking that bird until his circuits are rewired.

Sylus continues, ignoring your mounting rage. “Come to think of it, we should probably upgrade your locks, kitten. It was laughably easy to override the system and add my print as authorized for entry.”

Forget riding the Sylus coaster—you think that maybe he isn’t even friend shaped after all. He might just have slid right back to enemy shaped. Frenemy shaped? Where does a frenemy lie on the spectrum of “fuck his brains out” to “polite, but distant acquaintances?” But then you remember that it’s not a linear spectrum, and fucking his brains out is not mutually exclusively to being mortal enemies. You’ve read enough enemies-to-lovers romances to know that perfectly well, so even if he is enemy shaped… you shudder. Why are you like this? You redirect your self-disgust and deflect, like a true emotionally well-adjusted adult:

“Why can’t you be normal? Like, do you do anything like a normal person?”

“Why would I pretend to be normal when I’m so obviously extraordinary?” he scoffs, looking at you like you’re the unhinged one in this little situationship.

 “Sylus.”

“Yes, my heart’s delight?”

You stare at him, and he gazes back at you, leaning leisurely back against your counter, arms folded and long fingers slowly tapping out a rhythm on one bulky bicep. You know that if you remove his authorization on your locks that he will just teleport himself right into your place, and you’ll be endlessly cleaning up feathers. And you also really don’t want your neighbors to wonder who the hell the creep is loitering around your door at all hours of the night and then start asking questions if he actually honors your request not to simply appear in your place on a whim. You did previously offer him a key. Which he declined. Apparently because he was already planning this. You run your hand along the back of your neck in an effort to relieve some tension. “You can’t just let yourself into my place anytime you want. There need to be rules.”

“Fair enough. Provided that they’re not moronic, I can follow your rules.”

“And who decides whether they’re moronic or not?” you ask, knowing the answer.

He just smiles at you, radiating satisfaction.

“Okay. Rule number one—” you begin, only to be interrupted as he lifts a finger.

“I’ll follow your rules, if you promise to taste the wine I brought with me tonight.”

Even though you had already resigned yourself to whatever he had in store for you tonight, you can’t help arguing at this little added condition. “No, the deal is, you can use my flat, with your fingerprint, when you need it, if you follow the rules,” you huff.

He starts shaking his head. “I’m afraid not, kitten. You should have set rules at the beginning of our deal. You can’t just impose new conditions halfway through. A deal’s a deal. I suggest keeping that in mind the next time you have to deal with anyone else less… generous, than myself,” he intones, as if you’re a somewhat lacking student in need of instruction.

“So you’ll follow the rules if I promise to… taste wine tonight?” you ask, hoping that you can catch him out on a technicality and beat him at his own game. He considers for a moment, but must see something in your expression, because his eyes narrow and his smile widens to reveal his sharp canines.

“I’ll follow your reasonable, and not moronic, rules if you promise to taste the wine I brought tonight, with me,” he says.

You need to work on your poker face. You need to get Sylus to teach you how to improve it. Ugh.

“Fine.” If this means more food can happen soon, and honestly, yeah, a glass of wine, you’ll accept anything at this point.

He straightens from the counter and claps his hands once, looking more eager than you think you’ve ever seen him. “Excellent, let’s begin.”

“You didn’t even wait to hear what the rules are,” you protest, watching him fish out a wine corkscrew from his trouser pocket. It looks heavy, with a handsome wooden handle, and the stainless steel flashes under the soft lights.

“Send them in a text, I’ll redline them and return them to you, you can counter, and so on and so forth until we have an agreement. Like any proper contract negotiation. For now, it’s wine time.”

And with that, he sets to work opening the wine, humming a little tune so off-key that you have no idea what melody it’s supposed to be. It occurs to you that you’ve never used a corkscrew as a weapon, but as Sylus uses the small blade to slice through the foil covering the neck of the bottle, and then unfolds the lethal-looking twisted screw and begins expertly driving it into the cork, you realize that it could come in really handy in a fight. And there’s something else that’s really appealing to you—the combination of the contained savagery of the corkscrew, the assured movements of Sylus’s hands, the penetration of the cork—you feel a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the sweater you’re wearing.

“See something you like, kitten?” Sylus’s smoky voice drifts into your thoughts, and you look up, realizing you’ve been unabashedly staring at his beautiful hands, again, and the corkscrew, with undivided focus for the past few moments, and he has noticed.

You clear your throat, and then gesture weakly at the corkscrew. “That’s uh, a very nice looking wine opener.” You nod to emphasize your very normal approval of this very normal household item, because you are not thinking any thoughts about Sylus’s huge hands or screwing or penetration. None.

“Good eye. I’m rather fond of this model. I’ll have one delivered to you,” he says as he firmly pulls the cork from the bottle with a soft pop. He sets it on the counter, and picks up the other bottle.

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that the kind of wine I drink tends to come with a screw cap instead of a cork,” you decline, shaking your head. You can buy your own damn self a corkscrew for tucking into your pocket if you ever find yourself at a wine bar that doesn’t allow patrons to be armed, but you anticipate needing some kind of weapon.

“Refuse me all you want,” he murmurs, and you feel like there’s an implied part of that sentence that he’s just not saying out loud. But then he’s repeating the opening process with the second bottle, and you suddenly find the night view outside your window immensely fascinating, because whatever is continuing to happen in front of you is just. Boring. Utterly sleep-inducing. You can’t look or else you might just pass out from the tedium of it before you even get to taste the wine. And a deal’s a deal, as Sylus is fond of repeating ad nauseum.

After hearing the soft pop of the other bottle, you sigh and turn back to find Sylus holding the wine glass and pouring the first bottle’s wine along the inside of the glass until it reaches the widest part of the bowl. For the first time, you notice that there’s only one glass on the counter. But before you can comment, Sylus begins to lecture.

“Now, if this were an ideal tasting, I’d have brought a decanter to let the wine breathe properly for an appropriate period of time before pouring. We'd also be using a container for spitting each mouthful out in between tastes, to avoid the intoxication and poor decisions I mentioned earlier and interfering with our judge of taste. But since we only have two bottles to try, and it’s just you and me here, I took the gamble that you wouldn’t mind if we were a little less formal.”  

You wait to see if he has any other fun facts to share, but he’s looking at you to confirm that indeed, you can live with not waiting even longer to taste this wine that better have gold leaf flakes in it or something to justify this amount of ceremony and can also live with not… spitting out said wonder wine after tasting it.

But you recognize that Sylus appears to be truly passionate about this, and he’s looking at you so earnestly—you do not have the heart to meet his sincerity with sarcasm, when he's so sweetly trying to teach you something new.

“Your gamble paid off. I don’t mind at all,”  you say, meaning it. He perks up and gives you one of his almost smiles, with just the corners of his generous mouth lifted. He then proceeds to explain, in great detail, what type of wine this is, where the grapes for it are grown, its signature characteristics, what year it was bottled, and how it was received by the international wine community. It’s all actually quite interesting, except once again, right now you’re at the end of a long day, you’ve run the gauntlet of interacting with this unpredictable force of nature walking around in the body of an extremely attractive man, and you feel like you should be taking notes to actually retain any of this information.

After he seems to have informed you to his satisfaction and is looking at you expectantly, you nod. “That is… very fascinating. So how do we go about actually tasting it?” You might be an uncultured heathen, but even before Sylus’s lecture, you knew there are rules when it comes to tasting wine. You just always had other things you needed to learn first, like the weakest spots on a wanderer or human body. Or the best method of sharpening knives for the sharpest edge. Or how to clean guns to prevent jamming. How to affix a scope on a sniper rifle and measure the effect of wind speed and direction on a bullet’s trajectory. Or whether you should use baking soda or baking powder as leavener when baking certain kinds of cake. You have priorities. But tonight, it seems, is the night for you to learn about wine.

Before he answers, he moves around the kitchen island to where you’re still seated on the bar stool and leans down, gently spinning your stool so that you’re facing him instead of the counter. He then pushes the one next to you closer and seats himself. Even sitting, you have to look up into his face. You suddenly realize that the way he has positioned the stools puts him so close to you that his long legs don’t have anywhere to go—he just spreads them so that one is stretched out on one side of you, and the other is between your own, his knee incredibly close to your lap. If you shift forward even a little, you could grind on him.

Why is he doing this to you? What does he want? But then it occurs to you that Sylus has never seemed to either recognize or respect boundaries like a normal person—maybe this is just how he interacts with his friends. Constant, small touches, no sense of personal space. You wonder if he and the twins huddle together on the couch, sharing a blanket, while watching something on television.

So maybe you’re the freak, imagining riding this poor guy’s meaty thigh when he’s only just trying to share his appreciation of a sophisticated beverage with you. You close your eyes. It doesn’t matter whether he’s playing this little game on purpose or not. You refuse to let him see how much his proximity is affecting you, because then he wins. You don’t know what he wins exactly, but you will beat him before you let him have it. You try to think about his big hand choking you, but instead of having the intended effect of reminding you why you should never even consider buying tickets to the safety hazard now wedged between your thighs, it has … unforeseen consequences instead. What has this man done to you?!

You open your eyes, reach across the counter and grab a handful of carefully cut pieces of cheese, and then promptly stuff them all into your mouth at once. When in crisis, cheese is always a good solution. Except for maybe the blue cheese you accidentally mixed in with the Manchego or whatever-the-fancy-fuck he brought with him. Aaaand now you’re going to smell like blue cheese for the rest of the night.

You stare at him defiantly as you chew with puffed cheeks, and brace yourself for whatever is coming next. He side eyes you, face impassive.

You’re expecting some biting comment, but “Well, that’s one way to make sure you’ve eaten enough to absorb the alcohol,” is all he says. He slowly slides the glass with two fingers along the base across the counter until it’s sitting between the two of you. “Whenever you manage to finish inhaling all that dairy, we’ll be sure that we’ve given the wine enough time to breathe.” He pauses. “It occurs to me now that while I was preparing the food, I didn’t think to ask if you’re lactose intolerant.”

You deliberately chew as slowly as you can, making him wait as a punishment for making you feel things that you should not be feeling. When you’ve swallowed, you shake your head. “Fortunately, not one of my many flaws.”

“It’s not a flaw.” He shrugs. “How can anything you can’t control about your body be a flaw? And Luke and Kieran are lactose intolerant, so I always have lactase enzyme tablets on me to avoid… unwanted consequences when they decide to have a cheese tasting contest.”

You cock your head. “A what now?”

 He rubs his middle finger between his eyebrows. “Yeah, they can’t help themselves from making a competition out of every single human activity, so on the nights the chef prepares a cheese board with dinner, they try to outmatch each other regarding who can identify the most flavors of cheeses without cheating by asking the chef or querying Mephisto or searching online. Or asking me, because I’m undefeated.”

You stare at him, and think if there’s ever any universe in which you voluntarily return to the base where Sylus kept you captive for days and touched you like he owned you, hand violently clasped in his, where you were terrified for your life, exhausted and confused… and if you ever have a friendly enough relationship with the chaos twins, you’re going to practice your ass off so that if you’re ever invited to such a competition, you can wipe the floor with them. Their cheese-off sounds fun.

Your train of thought is derailed as it registers how smug the last thing he said was. “You’re undefeated,” you repeat, giving him a chance to redeem himself. “At identifying cheeses by taste.”

“And smell, yes. So I’m not allowed to play anymore. My palate is too refined, and they know they don’t stand a chance.”

Oh, you’re definitely going to start sampling cheese every week. You cannot let this smugness stand.

“Ah yes, his royal snobness and his impeachable palate,” you roll your eyes. “Now, will his grace the Duke of Gouda please get on with the wine instruction?” You would give him a little mock bow, but that would put your face right in his formidable cleavage and you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from motorboating his unfairly huge pecs. Ugh.

He snorts. “Finally, you’re showing me some long-overdue respect.”

You nod gravely, thankful that the aether core in his eye is not currently delving the depths of your depravity. It’s time to focus. On wine.

“So why do you have to let wine breathe before drinking it?” you ask, because you’re focused.

He looks pleased that you’re interested enough to ask a question. “Much like people, it’s good to expose a greater surface area of the wine to fresh air for a while—it allows undesirable scents and flavors to dissipate, so that it tastes better when you do take a sip than if you drink it straight after opening.”

“Well aren’t you wise, philosophizing about wine and people,” you smile. You find yourself being surprised again and again tonight—at his presence, his bearing gifts, his surprisingly sweet attempt to teach you something, his kind takes on lactose intolerance and what people need to be healthy.

“Did you think I only consist of feathers and spite?” He lifts the wine glass by the stem with one hand, and your hand in his other. He gently wraps your fingers around his own.

“Let’s not forget hubris and violence.” You watch as he gently swirls the wine in the glass held between you. His hand is so warm compared to your own.

“If that’s all, then you still have a lot to learn about me,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t seem offended. Almost as if he’s simply determined. To do what, you’re not sure. “I’d tell you that you should always hold a wine glass by the stem so that the heat from your hand doesn’t affect the temperature of the wine through the glass itself. But your hands are so cold—I don’t think that would be a problem for you. But if you want people to think you’re a connoisseur, you should anyway if you’re ever on an undercover mission. Now, before you take a sip, inhale the scent we’ve just released by swirling the wine.”

You do as you’re told, and lean over, hovering just over the edge of the glass and taking a deep breath. The scent of the wine, warm and deep, fills your senses.

You look up at him and smile again. “It smells really good.”

“Of course,” he lifts the bottom of the glass with his free hand so that you can straighten, and guides your other hand to support the glass while slipping his own from around the stem and allowing you to hold it by yourself. Your hand immediately feels cold again. He leans one elbow on the counter, “I chose it for you. I’m not going to let you drink plonk.”

“Plonk?” What a cute word.

“Shit wine.”

“Mmm, not allowing me to drink shit wine, you’re truly a knight in shining armor.”

“I don’t need armor, kitten. Now that you’ve established that the wine hasn’t gone off by smelling it, you can take a sip.”

You’re about to lift the glass to your lips, when he reaches up and runs his fingertips along your wrist to stop you. “As you do, don’t swallow immediately. Roll the wine with your tongue in your mouth, and try to really think about what flavors you can taste: can you detect the oak from the barrels, earth, tannin, fruit or spices? Is it sweet or dry?”

You nod, mouth suddenly dry. But you follow his instructions and take a slow sip, rolling the rich liquid around in your mouth, and then slowly swallow. A familiar warmth spreads from your stomach, radiating out through your body. His blood bright eyes follow the movement of your lips, your throat. “I taste… fruit.” You pause, trying to appear very serious about finding the perfect description of flavor. You take another sip, close your eyes. “Yes, very fruity notes. Grapes, in particular.”

You open your eyes to find him scowling at you.

“Aren’t you the comedian?” he growls. “I’m going to revoke your wine privileges if you don’t take this seriously. How are you going to feel confident if you ever need this knowledge on a mission? Or on a date?”

You just laugh at him and try to turn a little on the stool, lifting your arm to keep the glass out of his reach, but his knee between your legs prevents you from moving, and he easily leans forward, fingers drifting up the length of your arm to then wrap around your own hand on the stem. He carefully pulls it back between the two of you. Your hand feels warm again. Safely wrapped in his.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned my needing to know how to pass as a wine snob on a mission. What kind of missions do you think I’m regularly going on?” You gently lift the glass again, pulling his hand with you, and take another sip. It really does taste so good. You can’t tell if it’s wildly different than the wine you normally get, but you know it doesn’t taste like it’ll leave you with a headache in the morning.

He shrugs. “If we didn’t have to bring the place down when we were at the auction, people would have been watching you at the dinner banquet. What would you have done if people started to notice that you were clutching the wine and swigging it like a drunken toddler and started to suspect that your behavior wasn't matching your cover identity?”

You gasp. “Excuse me, you don’t know how I normally drink my wine!” Who does this bastard think he is? And here you were, thinking he was sweet, sincerely trying to share one of his interests with you. “I don’t need you patronizing me regarding how I’d manage at a formal event or on a date! I’ve been on plenty of dates where I was able to drink wine without driving off my partner.” You try to pull away from him, and the wine sloshes dangerously with your movement.

“Sit still,” he commands, holding your hand tight with his and placing one large palm on your bare thigh. You immediately freeze. “I watched you gulp wine from a mug the last time I was here,” he retorts.

“So you think that just because I don’t care what you think, I can’t read the room and act according to the demands of the situation?” The indignation coursing through you is amplified by the wine spreading through you.

“Then is it fair to say that you didn’t feel the need for any pretense between us last time because you’re so comfortable with me, and not because you’re as civilized as a cactus?” he asks, running his thumb gently back and forth along your inner thigh.

Your brain is being scrambled by his thumb, how close he is to you, his clavicle exposed by the V of his sweater’s neckline, the scent of his warm, clean skin, the wine going to your head after a long exhausting day.

“I’m saying I don’t feel the need to impress you in my own home when you show up uninvited and demand beverages and band aids,” you finally manage. You’re warm. Too warm. “And what’s wrong with being a cactus?”

“Did I say there was something wrong with it? Cacti can survive the harshest conditions on earth and still produce the most beautiful flowers. And they hurt when they stab you.” He smiles like the thought pleases him immensely.

You can’t process this. He says shit like this so easily—he can’t possibly mean it in the way you are trying so hard to deny that you want him to mean it. You refuse to be lured in, only to see the cruel lines of his face when he realizes you have pathetic feelings for him. The man who could as easily rip your spine from your ribcage as offer you a glass of wine, if you lose your usefulness to him. A usefulness you still don’t know the nature of.

You’re suddenly viciously aware of how close he is to you, how he is watching your face with an intensity that makes you feel like the use of his aether core is unnecessary: you’re afraid that he can see everything you’re feeling, and you hate it. You need space. “What are we even doing, Sylus?”

His eyes drift from your eyes to your mouth, and you try very hard to steel your expression, to conceal how utterly raw and exposed he’s making you feel. You can’t tell if you’re successful, when he finally lifts his hand from your thigh and runs the back of his knuckles with such softness along your cheek that it makes you ache. You resist the urge to turn your face and nuzzle his palm.

“We’re tasting wine, sweetheart.” He leans back, pulling the glass of wine you’re still holding with him. He inhales deeply, and then takes a sip, eyes glittering over the rim, watching you. “It is a good vintage. But it’s not the only one I brought.” He guides your joined hands to set the glass on the counter, and then gets up, rounding the counter to rummage in a bag on the floor on the other side. When he stands up, he’s holding another wine glass.

You do a double take. “You brought two glasses?”

He looks from you to the glass in his hand, then back to the glass still on the counter, and then lifts his eyebrows. “Is this a trick question?”

“Why haven’t we been drinking about of separate glasses then?” you demand.

He shrugs. “That glass is for that bottle,” he nods to the glass sitting next to you. “This glass is for this bottle.” He gestures at the other, untasted bottle sitting on the counter. “No need to rinse our glasses in between tastes.”

You want to laugh, and cry. You’re so fucking done with thinking for tonight.

“Okay, Sylus. Whatever you say,” you sigh.

“Oh, I quite like the sound of that,” he smiles, one canine peeking over his lip. “Then you’re going to enjoy the sorbet I brought for us as a palate cleanser.”

He proceeds to go to your freezer, scoop out some of the aforementioned sorbet that has apparently been in there all evening into a bowl, and takes the stool next to you again. This time, he situates one long leg on either side of you, caging you in. He takes a spoonful and offers it to you. “This will help rinse your palate so that you can taste the next bottle without any lingering effects of the other.”

You look from his seemingly guileless face to the spoonful of sorbet. Yup, you’re really done thinking for tonight. You lean forward and open your lips. He slips the lemon sorbet into your mouth. His eyes remain on your lips as he pulls the spoon away, dips it back into the sorbet, and brings it to his own mouth.

After he continues to trade spoonfuls with you until the sorbet is gone, he pours the second glass of wine, and you both take turns sipping it in companionable silence.

“Now tell me. Which one is your favorite?” he asks after you’ve finished the second glass, and return to the first to finish it as well.

“I like them both,” you shrug. “Sorry for not having a more sophisticated answer.” You’re feeling drowsy and loose. He can walk off a tall building for all you care if he doesn’t like your answer.

“They’re both excellent wines. Each one is suited for multiple situations or meal combinations. They’re versatile, just like you are. And I don’t require any particular answer, except your honest one. I think you already know that you don’t need to put on an act for me, ever.”

You rest your elbow on the counter, mirroring his position, and rest your head in your hand. “Why would I pretend with you, if you can just force the truth out of me?”

“I will never do that to you.”

You look away. “You’ve already done it to me once before. What else is there to hide, when you’ve seen the ugliest parts of me?”

“I will not do it again. Not unless you ask me to,” he says so solemnly that you’re tempted to be a fool and believe him. “And is that what you think? That what I saw was ugly?”

You sit up, take the glass from him and knock back the rest of the wine in one gulp. You can't do this right now. You can't think about the the violent hunger, the savage thirst, that his eye brought from the depths of your soul when he forced his way into your deepest, darkest desires the night you met. The extent of how much you wanted to kill him, and make it hurt, when you thought he had killed Caleb and your grandmother. How you still feel that hunger and rage, with every wanderer you kill, every time you hope some dealer in modified protocores resists arrest so you can put them down, with prejudice.

“I’m tired, Sylus. Thank you for the lesson. Now I can successfully fool rich assholes at upscale dens of corruption and unsuspecting dates into believing that I’m a sophisticated connoisseur of overpriced beverages, and swindle them all. And I’ll never horrify you again by swigging wine out of a mug like a drunken toddler. You should invoice the Association for your services. In the meantime, I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

“I see. You’re still on guard, and defensive, when you're drunk too. How fascinating.” He narrows his eyes, not seeming to get the hint that you want him to leave now.

“I’m not drunk. I’m maybe tipsy, and I’m fucking tired. I’m going to bed.”

“All right,” he says easily. He stands and begins tidying up the counter.

“All right,” you repeat, feeling a little dizzy, a little empty. “You know where the door is.”

“As you say,” he says serenely, pulling out food storage containers you also didn’t realize you own and packing the food away.

“Thanks again,” you say, because you are polite, dammit. You make your way into the bathroom and begin getting ready for bed. When you emerge, your flat is dark. The kitchen looks pristine in the streetlight drifting in through the windows. You stare for a moment longer, wondering if maybe he’s finally given up on whatever his agenda with you is after your little emotional display tonight, and he’ll stop coming by now. You’re fine with that. Maybe this is what you’ve needed to do all along. Get drunk and sloppy. Guarded, defensive, he called you. What an asshole.

You pad into the bedroom, yawning, pulling up your phone to look at it as you walk. Maybe you should try listening to audiobooks to try to help with the insomnia. Like, boring ones with deep, sexy voiced narrators who can bore you to sleep like Sylus did the other night. You crawl onto the bed, and then—

“The fuck, Sylus?”

He’s sitting in the middle of your bed, sweater off and replaced by… nothing. Just the expanse of his big, creamy chest. And he’s wearing a pair of silky looking loose, black pyjama pants. An impossibly soft looking line of silver hair drifts from his tight navel, disappearing under his waistband. His gold-rimmed glasses are perched on his nose, like last time, and he’s scrolling through something on his tablet. He glances up at you, but then goes back to his… spreadsheets?

“Haven’t we already been through that little routine tonight?” he asks, and yawns. “I’m getting déjà vu.”

“What. Are. You. Doing?” you seethe.

“Going over the financials from the meeting with my accountant today.”

“Why?” You just sit there on your knees, on your bed, gaping at him like an idiot.

“To ensure that my next acquisition is suited to purpose.”

“What?”

His gaze flicks to you, and he pushes the glasses further up his nose. “Well, I made a promise that I wouldn’t change a thing about my latest business venture, so now I need to ensure that the next chain of businesses I acquire can serve one of the functions I had intended for the arcades.”

“What function is that?” you ask, curious now, despite yourself.

“Well, one of two primary functions,” he amends, tapping his temple thoughtfully with a finger.

“Okay,” you say slowly, inviting him to continue.

“Money laundering.”

You shake your head. “Come again?”

“Oh, I’ll be happy to. Thank you for the invitation. I wasn’t sure I’d ever receive one again, what with your heavily implied dismissal earlier.”

“Sylus!”

“Yes, my most precious gem?”

“What do you mean you intended to use the arcades for money laundering?” You want to cry even thinking about it.

“To be fair, after you asked me so sweetly not to change a thing, I immediately agreed. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“But that’s why you wanted to buy them?” How many times can a heart hurt in one night?

“I said that was one of the two primary reasons I wanted those arcades,” he says, reaching out with one hand and softly stroking your knee.

You look down, watching his calloused fingers drifting so sweetly across your skin. How can this man be so cruel and so gentle at the same time?

“What was the other reason, then?”

“Guess.”

“I’m done playing games with you tonight, Sylus.”

“When was I playing a game tonight?”

“Fine, don’t tell me. Just promise again that you won’t change anything about my favorite arcade.”

He sets the tablet on his lap, and reaches over to grasp your hand. He links your pinkie with his, and lifts it to his lips. “I already promised. And I promise again.” He seals the promise with a brush of his lips, and then rests both of your hands on the bed between you.

You don’t know why, and you will probably never know why, but you believe him right now. It’s clear that no matter what you do, he will not be leaving tonight without great violence on your part, and once again, you’re just too tired to fight him anymore. He reads your body like a damn book, because he silently hands you the glass of water that was sitting next to him on the nightstand. "Even if you're not drunk, but only maybe just a little tipsy," he says, doing an awful imitation of your voice. "You should still drink some water so you don't feel terrible in the morning."

Perhaps because of your easy compliance with his reasonable advice by simply taking the water and drinking it, he seems to deem it safe to pull you into his side. You go down, resting your head on his thick shoulder, and let your gaze wander over his tablet.

“So what are you thinking of buying this time?” you ask, yawning.

 He shifts, lifting your head so that he can wrap his arm around you, repositioning you so that you’re tucked a little closer under his chin, cheek resting against his chest. “A chain of casinos.”

“Casinos?” you laugh softly. “That’s on brand, I guess.”

“Mmhmm.” He runs his fingertips absently along your arm, from wrist to elbow and back again. “Lots of money changing hands. Ideal for functioning as a washing machine for the dirty proceeds from the weapons business, which comes out clean in the pockets of lucky winners.”

“You make your living profiting off the worst in people, you know that?” you ask sleepily, the numbers on the screen blurring.

“They’ll continue being terrible, with or without my involvement. I don’t make them take the bet, or pull the trigger. And if I don't, someone else will put the chip or gun in their hands. Might as well be me collecting the paycheck.”

“Maybe, through the power of friendship, I can change your mind,” you murmur. You don’t think you’ll need that audiobook to fall asleep tonight.

“Friendship, huh?” Sylus asks, but when he looks down at you, he sees that you’ve already fallen asleep. He traces the long sweep of your eyelashes across your cheeks with his eyes, feels your measured, calm breath drifting across his skin. He gently touches one finger to the ruby earring you haven’t taken out yet. The thrill of satisfaction he felt when you answered the door still wearing it would sustain him for weeks. He is absolutely certain that it won’t be the power of friendship that’s going to change him.

He pulls you a little closer into his chest, snorts when he feels you begin to drool onto his pec, and continues scrolling through his tablet.

That night, you dream. You’re walking through your childhood home—but not your childhood home from before your memories, because you will never know what that home looked like. This one, the home from your earliest memories, with its wood panelling on the walls, old-fashioned lace curtains in the windows that you can’t see out of, because it’s pitch black beyond the glass. Hallways lengthening at the same pace as you can walk down them, boots echoing on the polished hardwood floor. You walk and walk, and you can never reach the end. Doors that won’t open, but you know Caleb might be behind them, because in your dream logic, his bedroom is behind every door you pass. You turn the handles, but they remain locked. Sometimes you think you can hear the sound of someone biting into an apple, crisp flesh giving way to sharp teeth, but the door won’t open no matter how hard you throw yourself against it. You hear your grandmother speaking, just around every corner, but you can’t understand what she’s saying. You follow the sound, and every time you think that she’s just around the next turn in the hall, the corridor stretches in front of you again, empty.

You have been in this empty house for years now, and you’re afraid that you’ll never be able to get out. But you’re more afraid that once you get out, you’ll never hear them making these particular sounds again, this slim proof of their existence echoing through the empty hallways.

Slowly, you wake up, and in that endless moment caught between your dream and reality, it’s just peaceful and black—you are coming from somewhere so far away toward something you know will hurt, and you’re not ready to feel that yet. But then a feeling of suffocation is overwhelming you, and you open your eyes to realize you’re literally being smothered by a very big, very warm body.

The relief you feel, the gratitude, that Sylus is still here, that you aren’t waking up alone, again, from the nightmare in your sleep to the reality that the nightmare is real, and you’ll never be able to see your family again, is more overwhelming than your current need for oxygen. Sylus is still here, and the yawning emptiness you were carrying with you for what felt like years during that long dream dissipates in the warmth of his body against yours. You can’t help yourself. Your throw your arm that isn’t being crushed by him over his torso and hug him tightly to you, giving in to the urge to nuzzle his chest and just listen to his steady heartbeat.

You lie like that for awhile, blissfully listening to his soft breathing, when suddenly you realize that pressed so close to him, you can feel every contour of his body, from your chest against his abdomen, his muscular, silk-covered thigh wedged between your legs, and his apparently very, very big dick pressing into your hip.

You freeze, feeling like the creep you have accused him several times of being. He’s just sleeping, and you’ve plastered yourself against him like a vacuum sealed burrito. You have absolutely no business being utterly thrilled that this part of him matches the rest of him in terms of size and intimidation. You will not be taking this joy stick for a test drive. You can get out of this. You’re a very good hunter, and you can evade detection and make a tactical retreat when necessary. And it’s very necessary right now, because you do not want him to wake up and find you attached to him like a love-sick leech.

Slowly, sooo slowly, you slide your arm from where it is slung over his waist, and begin to incrementally scooch backwards, his leg slipping from between both of yours, freezing when he seems to shift a little, and then continuing the slow slide away when he settles again.

You’ve managed to extricate all of your limbs from him, except the one that is currently numb and squashed underneath him. You slowly roll onto your back and contemplate how you’re going to get it out from under him without waking him, when suddenly his arm flops over your waist. You jerk in surprise, eyes flying to his face, but his are still closed. His hand slides from your waist to your hip, and then snakes around to take a big handful of your ass. He makes a little happy noise and then pulls your body into his again. In the process, he has managed to jam his thigh back between your legs. You stare at his face, trying desperately to see if he’s starting to wake yet—how did you even end up in this situation? Then he pulls you even closer, causing his thigh to press deliciously against you. You suppress a whine, because it has been so long since someone has touched you liked this. But of course the person who is touching you is a maniac and is doing so while still asleep. You reach up and pat his cheek to wake him up, simultaneously trying to to pull away from him, but tightens his arms around you again, dipping his head to your shoulder still exposed by his too-big sweater.  You freeze in shock as he inhales deeply and hums, and soft kisses trail from your neck down, and before you can push him away he bites into the meat of your shoulder. The pain, pressure, and warmth of his mouth on your skin have you trying to arch away and into him—you do whine this time, loudly, because it hurts but you want.

Suddenly, his whole body seems to tense. The pressure on your shoulder eases, and he sighs, his breath cool drifting along your over-heated skin.

“Good morning.”

You open your eyes, realizing you’d been squeezing them shut through the last few moments, and meet his sleepy gaze.

"Were you awake?” you demand, terrified of the answer. Because if he was, then what the hell was he thinking, pretending to be asleep? And if he wasn't, was he just dreaming? Was it you in his dream, or was he dreaming of someone else? You don't want to know. You have to know.

“Your rather loud response to my love bite woke me up, I think,” he smiles softly. "I didn't realize that I was... dreaming until then."

“So you didn’t mean to—” you start to pull away.

He tightens his arm around your waist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Sylus, let go. I’m sorry for not waking you fast enough. I was just—I was just shocked. I know you wouldn’t have done that otherwise.” You struggle, but his arm is a steel bar holding you in place.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have,” he agrees, and you feel whatever fragile, tender root that had been growing in the cracks of your broken heart wither, the dry husk drifting away in an autumn breeze. Replacing that faint feeling of hope, you're livid that you do not share the same teleportation ability that Xavier and Sylus have. If you could, you'd teleport in a poof of glittering light or melodramatic feathers. To anywhere else but here.

You nod, and nod, and nod, because he’s not letting you move but you have to do something or else he’ll see it right on your stupid, open face, and you’d rather he slit your throat than see the pain his rejection is inflicting on you. You had lied to him earlier, about not having anything to hide, about always being honest with him. You've been lying to yourself, and to him, ever since you met him.

“What I mean—” he’s looking at you intently, and you want to cover his eyes with your hands, because as always they’re seeing too much, but suddenly, the doorbell rings through your flat.

You both turn your heads to look at the bedroom door at the same time.

Oh. Fuck.

Xavier.

Sylus turns to look back at you, so close that his nose brushes yours. “Expecting company, kitten?”

“It’s Xavier. Shit.” You try to roll away, and this time he lets you. You grab your phone off the nightstand and see that Xavier has already texted you a few times to see if you’re ready to head to the bookstore yet. The texts grow increasingly concerned the longer you don’t respond. The doorbell rings again. “You have to go. Now.”

You turn to Sylus, who is now lying leisurely on his side, head propped up in his hand, silky silver hair cascading across his forehead, occupying the bed like an imperialist force annexing a weaker neighbor’s territory, with no intention of leaving.

“And what are you going to do?” he asks, eyes drifting from your face, to your shoulder, down to your bare legs.

“I need to answer the door and tell Xavier that I’m running late.”

“Late for what?”

“Sylus, I don’t have time for this. You can’t be here. Xavier helped me get into the N109 zone, he spends a lot of time there—he’s smart enough that if he finds out what you look like, he might eventually be able to figure out who you are. You can’t be here,” you repeat, starting to panic. Sylus may not have any feelings for you beyond friendship or a predator toying with its food, but you still don’t want him to get caught because of you.

“You’re not working today. What plans do you have with him?” he asks, completely ignoring your distress.

“We’re going to the bookstore. We were going to spend our first day free just reading manga and eating junk food,” you rush out impatiently.

Sylus just looks at you for a few beats, the picture of lazy boredom on a weekend morning.

“Okay? Are you satisfied? Can you please leave now?” This is good. You can avoid the inevitable, It was a mistake, thought you were someone else, was dreaming about a giant amorous anthropomorphized ruby, you’re not exactly my type, because my type is someone who has their shit together, can identify what fucking region a certain grape was grown in and its exact soil acidity based on the year of the vintage, my type is someone else, anyone else—you reach down and hit yourself hard in the side of your thigh with a fist to get your head on straight, and start heading to your closet, intent on throwing on a robe or longer shorts so that you don't answer the door looking like you're not wearing any pants.

Sylus's irritated voice follows you. “Satisfied? No, I'm not feeling satisfied. But I would advise against answering the door wearing that.”

You jerk to a halt. “Excuse me?” You turn to find him scowling at you.

He waves a dismissive finger at the sweater and silk shirts you’re still wearing. “I think you should change before you answer the door.”

“I look that bad, huh? Thanks for the advice. You need to be gone when I get back.” You turn, hating everything and everyone, and make your way to the front door.

You throw it open, just as Xavier is lifting his hand to ring your bell again. His sky blue eyes, usually so calm and sleepy, widen when he takes in the dumpster fire that you are today.

“Hi, yeah, sorry. I overslept,” you rush out, hoping you can skip this part and go straight to the moving on with your day and your entire life part. “I just need like, fifteen minutes, and then I’ll be ready.”

“Did you get in a fight with a wanderer last night after we go home?” he asks, hand lifting again, this time toward you, as if he wants to touch you, but then thinks better of it and drops it back to his side. He’s wearing the white hoodie that Sylus stole from him. What even is your life right now?

“What? No, I just had some wine and was really tired.” He’s staring at you, brow furrowed now, and it takes a minute to realize that he’s staring at the sweater hanging off your shoulder. You suddenly get a really, really bad feeling. “Why?”

He lifts his hand again, and points, but in a kind of timid way, like a little kid who knows that it’s rude to point but can’t help himself anyway so just points a little so that his mom won’t get mad at him. “It looks like a wanderer bit you.”

You lift your own hand and touch your shoulder, and feel the too-warm skin there, the ache spreading deep into the muscle.

“Oooh, yeah. Yes.” You decide that you need to take acting classes. That is what you will do as your new hobby, on your few days off. You’re going to win the best actor award if it kills you, because if it doesn’t kill you, the embarrassment will kill you instead. And you’d rather die convincing everyone that everything is normal and you’re fine, and not from the embarrassment of the fact that your not-boyfriend, not-fuck-buddy, not-interested-at-all, probably not even your friend anymore Sylus accidentally bit you while fucking asleep and left evidence of it for all the world to see. “I did respond to a really minor alert in the neighborhood last night. It was only one wanderer. Hiding in a trash can of all places,” you laugh, not at all sounding unhinged. Convincing. “Bit me pretty good, but it really was nothing, I had completely forgotten about it. So, still on for the bookstore?” you ask, chipper, eager, well-adjusted!

Xavier stares at your shoulder for a few seconds longer, and then just nods. “Yeah, just text me when you’re ready.”

Bless him. You’ve almost put him back to sleep with your absolutely stellar performance. “Okay, great! See you soon.” You back into your flat again and let the door shut with a heavy click.

Xavier stands outside your door for several moments after you’ve scurried back inside. He thinks about how sharp his light blade is. He thinks about how he’s going to use it on whatever motherfucker thinks that he has the right to mark Xavier’s partner like an animal. And then he yawns, and meanders back to his own flat to wait for your text because he has all the time in the world, and the patience to match it. Xavier is your partner, and he’s not going anywhere, anytime soon. If he murders whatever asshole was in your flat last night right now, that might interfere with your bookstore plans with him.

You stand on the other side of the door for a moment, just trying to collect yourself. You lean against the cool surface, look up at your ceiling. Breathe in the smell of shoe leather, oiled metal. Absently you lift your hand to your shoulder. Why didn’t Sylus warn you before you went to open the door? He even admitted that he wouldn’t have … done that to you if he hadn’t been asleep. Why would he just… and then it hits you. He did tell you to change clothes before you answered the door. The asshole just didn’t tell you why. But he would know by now that you’d actually do the opposite of whatever he says, because he’s not the boss of you. He played you like one of his fucking records.

But why the fuck would he want Xavier to see what happened between the two of you? Does he enjoy your humiliation that much?

You have no idea if you’ll ever have the chance to figure him out, especially if he got the hint that you don’t want to see him anytime soon. You shake your head. Even though you should be exhausted after staying up so late and ending up on the human embodiment of a roller coaster with its wheels coming off despite all of your promises to yourself last night, you feel well-rested. You will survive this. You can survive anything.

You head back to your bedroom to confirm that Sylus is actually gone, because last night proved that whether he actually listens when you tell him to leave depends entirely on his own whims. As you enter, the late morning sunlight spills into the room. He really left. The room is empty. The books and various weapons on your nightstands have been stacked neatly and lined up just so. The clothes that had been left haphazardly hanging off your chest of drawer handles or strewn over the floor are nowhere to be seen. It would be the tidiest your bedroom has been in weeks, if not for the fact that your entire bed is covered in a thick layer of black feathers.

“This bitch,” you breathe.

It’s going to take at least two full size trash bags to clean this mess up.

You decide then and there that Sylus doesn’t have a choice about whether he’s going to see you again. You’re going to bag up these feathers and then tar and feather him with them the next time you see his gorgeous, petty fucking face.

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

i see there's shipping discussion occurring in your ask box so i figure i'll throw in my two cents as well!

i used to be a REALLY heavy shipper, in exactly that shallow "reduce their personalities to the concept of kissing each other" way that tons of people are complaining about. i wouldn't get into ship wars or harass people or anything, but i was totally the kind of person who you couldn't just have a level character discussion with— because i would be pretty intent on just going through the motions with whatever best friend or acquaintance I'd decided they had a huge crush on.

by contrast now my biggest most important "ships" end up all being somewhere between 3-5 people with a lot of care put into the nuances of each connection on the relationship chart— i still refer to them as poly ships (as a shorthand mostly), but of the 3 to 10 different relationships between the characters, i usually only see a few of them as romantic or sexual, with the majority a lot closer to a found family or queerplatonic sort of vibe

honestly i think the biggest reason for the reductive style of shipping was that 1) i wasn't as skilled a writer then as i am now, so i wasn't really sure how to really retain all of the features of a character that i liked, and 2) i wanted the biggest feelings IMMEDIATELY and there's some kind of instant gratification to shipping where the end goal is for them to kiss and you can just draw/write/think about them kissing and you're done.

it's kind of like the instant ramen of fictional relationships to me. it's kind of "one size fits all", low writing skill requirement, low effort, really really fast and easy, and ultimately not really that rewarding at the end of it. and just like how real actual ramen exists separately from instant noodle cups, it IS possible to write a really amazing and beautiful and deep romantic ship fic that successfully plays off of the kinds of people these characters are, but ramen still isn't the end-all be-all of relationships! there are so many different hypothetical dishes that could be made with the same characters!

and my personal favorite is polyqueerplatonic ships for this very reason, because with just a few characters you can get a whole diverse array of interactions and dynamics!!

anyway tldr; i think romantic shipping is fun, and even "cheap" reductive romantic shipping can be fun, but (to return to my instant noodles metaphor) it would be reasonably upsetting to attend an awesome community potluck only to find like 90% cup noodles. and the people serving the cup noodles frown at you whenever you ask if anyone's serving like, gourmet spaghetti or dumplings or something.

so just know that if you're bringing your silly "ouhhh they should kiss" fan works to the fandom, you're appreciated and I'm glad you're having fun, and if you're bringing the super precisely thought-out nuanced relationship fan works to the fandom, you are ALSO so appreciated and additionally i really wish there were more of you in my own fandoms.

flashbacks to the time i looked up a ship that i THOUGHT was pretty popular but it only had like 230 works on AO3 at the time and basically all of them were romantic instead of my hyper-specific one-sided queerplatonic one-sided fully platonic thing i had pictured in my mind....

Okay, as someone who has tried their hand at writing slow burn in the past, I totally get the instant gratification thing. "You know when would be a good time for them to kiss? NOW"

I'd get frustrated at my own characters for not just making out already and I was the one writing them not making out lmao

[ichiwashername-o]

Saw the trailer for Wicked. Loved it. Play come to the Silver Screen. Annnnd...that reminded me, YEARS ago I read a pair of fics that kind of served as a "fix-it" to the Wicked universe. They were a bit dark, but not as dark as the "Wicked Years" books. And then they vanished at some point. So I posted on Reddit yesterday looking for them and someone found them...like yesterday or today I think, and that lead me here. I remember you on FFN. I remember your writings very fondly. I was sad to see them go but now maybe they can be posted to A03 or something? You're as hype for this fandom as ever lol. I was away from it for years. Thank you. I love happy endings and redemption and I remember your stories being two of the best for that.

Thank you for the kind words! And yes, way back when over on fanfiction.net, I went by the username Ichiko Wind Gryphon. Notable fics that I wrote were "Dangerous Secrets," The Fire That Consumes Us All" (that's still such a dumb name and I wish I thought about that title more) and "Cursed Blood."

And in fact, someone (magica12, huge shout-out to you) reached out to me on deviantart and they were able to lead me to an awesome archived website where I could find all of my old deleted fics! It was such a rush of nostalgia. I deleted those fics in a fit of me cringing at my past self and I regretted it ever since, but thanks to them, I can reread all those fics I poured so much time and love into!

I definitely plan on re-uploading them, either on AO3 or fanfiction.net. And when I do, I'll be sure to post about it here! It may take a while, as I'll be pretty busy in the upcoming weeks, but keep your eyes open!

[kieraelieson]

"One Emo Latte, with Extra Soulmates"

All Five Chapters - Or Read on AO3

Roll the Poll fic 1: Janus, Virgil, and Remy in a triad. In a Hurt/Comfort fic with a Soulmates universe and the prompt ‘housing’.

Content warning for kidnapping, fear of death, mild self-injury, quite a bit of cursing, as well as societal and specific poly-phobia.

Virgil’s head nodded and he jerked it upright. He’d hoped the smell of coffee would keep him awake, but he’d been nodding off ever since midnight. 

“Heya, babes,” the barista said, giving him a wry, apologetic smile. 

Virgil knew immediately why he was there. “Two hours again already?” 

Remy nodded, peeking at Virgil over his shades. “Why don’t you head home and get some sleep? You could certainly use it.” 

Virgil sighed, his inhibitions broken down by the lack of sleep and the way his favorite barista had allowed him to nod off in the corner all night, only following protocol when necessary. Namely, that a customer had to buy something every two hours, or else be asked to leave. 

“I’m having… housing difficulties…” Virgil admitted, not willing to share any more. 

Remy put a hand on his hip, considering Virgil. He then glanced around the cafe, confirming that it was empty. He sat down across from Virgil. 

“We may be open 24 hours, but this really isn’t a great option.” 

Virgil nodded. “Yeah, I know. I can— I can just go.”

“Hold on, bitch. I’m not kicking you out. Just trying to help you find a place to sleep.” 

Virgil shrugged helplessly. “I don’t have much cash for a hotel or something.” 

“What about your soulmate?” Remy asked. “I’m sure they’ll be willing to put you up for a night.” He winked at Virgil. “Pretty lil emo down on his luck, I’d tap that too.”

The flirty joke pulled a half grin out of Virgil. “I haven’t met him yet,” he admitted. 

Remy shrugged. “Loads of soulmates are close to each other before they meet. Scribble down the address of the cafe. See if he shows up. Here, I’ve got a pen.”

Virgil took the pen, staring at it doubtingly. 

Remy stood and stretched. “I need some caffeine in me too. I’ll treat you for this one.” 

Virgil’s eyes went wide and he gaped at Remy. “No, you don’t have to do that!” 

Remy just waved a hand dismissively in his direction, already going behind the counter and starting to pull out cups. 

Virgil’s gaze was drawn to the pen again. He didn’t really dare to ask his soulmates for help. Not writing on his skin in public. They too clearly had different handwriting. Were too clearly Two. 

It was the very reason he was out here now. Slipping up and referring to plural soulmates. His roommates didn’t want someone near them with two soulmates. No one did. 

He’d been stopping by this cafe for over a year now, had made friends with Remy. He didn’t want to throw that away on a chance of a bed. He’d manage. He’d be fine. Somehow. 

Maybe he’d try to get back inside the apartment anyway. Just cause his roommates didn’t like it, it wasn’t like they would physically force him out, right? If he just stayed in his room. Kept the door locked. He already wore long shirts and pants. As long as his soulmates didn’t screw him over with writing on his hands or face or something. 

Remy came back, setting a steaming cup in front of Virgil. A to-go cup. 

“Any responses?” Remy asked. 

Virgil forced a smile. “Yeah, um, I’ve gotta get on the next bus, but he’ll meet me.” 

“There you go!” Remy praised. “Have a nice night, practice safe sex, tell me all about it at some reasonable hour.” 

Virgil stood up, taking the cup and laughing along with Remy. He left the cafe, abandoning the warm lit environment for the empty streets. 

Someone entered just as he was leaving. Virgil only got a brief glimpse of him, but he was very unique, especially wearing a hat like that. 

••^*^••

Remy huffed as Janus entered. And just after Virgil left too. He usually got a bit of time to chill on an overnight shift. 

“Oh, and I’m just overjoyed to see you too,” Janus said smoothly, leaning against the counter with an entirely too attractive grin. 

Remy rolled his eyes. “What’s your snakey ass doing bothering me at bitch o'clock in the morning?”

“A man can get a coffee, can’t he?” Janus purred, looking perfectly innocent. 

“Not you,” Remy snarked, already starting to make Janus’s favorite. 

Janus just smiled. 

“Why are you really here?” Remy pushed. 

Janus looked at his wrist, noticeably lacking in a watch. “Oh dear, what time is it?” 

Remy scowled. “No.” 

Janus looked back up at him, all innocence. “No? I genuinely do not have the time.” 

Remy gritted his teeth. “You know someday I will not do this for you.” 

Janus batted his eyelashes. 

Remy shoved his coffee at him. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, bastard. It’s 4:27 am.” 

Janus smirked triumphantly. “I was just chatting with you and sipping my coffee till 5.” 

“Bitch.” 

Janus wiggled his gloved fingers in Remy’s direction, sauntering out of the cafe. “I’ll owe you~”

“You better pay up this time, asshole!” Remy snapped at his back. 

Fucking pretty ass Janus. And fuck his own crush on the man! He’d never have been dragged into all this if he could just keep it in his pants. 

••^*^••

Janus arrived at the location. Why Remus had ever decided they had to meet up here was a mystery. As were most things about the man. 

But. It was within walking distance of that cafe where Remy worked, so he had an easy alias and no license plate to track. His hat kept his face out of view from any cameras he didn’t discover ahead of time and avoid. It was early enough in the morning that both night owls and early risers were likely to be in bed. 

Janus waited outside the apartments, putting himself in the shadow of a large ornamental shrub. Just a few minutes later a car drove up. 

“Heya, Jan!” Remus greeted, throwing open the driver side door. 

Janus grimaced at his volume, snapping in hushed tones. “Would you keep it down?”

Remus rolled his eyes obnoxiously, and then fished out a folder. “I got all the juicy details for you~” 

Janus accepted the folder, flicking through it rapidly just to confirm Remus hadn’t swapped it with some folder of which sex toys he preferred or some nonsense. 

“I appreciate it,” Janus said. “I’ll pay you the usual—“ 

He cut off as there was suddenly a loud crash from inside the nearest apartment. Janus cursed. This was why he would have preferred a different meeting location! 

Remus craned his neck, trying to sneak a peek through the apartment window. “Oh this is perfect! Any suspicious persons’ reports will point right to those guys.”

Janus tensed, despite Remus’s optimism, as yelling continued from in the apartment. It was too muffled for him to tell what was going on, but he didn’t care to know either. 

“We should get out of here,” Janus said. 

Just then, the door to the apartment opened, and someone was pushed roughly out, falling to the pavement. 

“Don’t let me see your freak ass again or I Will beat the shit out of you!” A man from within the apartment yelled, slamming the door shut. 

Janus winced. He did not want to be a part of some domestic dispute. He turned to walk away, even if Remus was going to be an idiot and stay to watch. 

But then the crumpled man on the ground said something that stopped Janus in his tracks. 

Just one word. A simple, “You?” Implying recognition. 

Fuck. 

Janus didn’t know the man from Adam. But he was not allowing someone to see him, in this location, at this time, knowing who he was somehow. No. He could not leave witnesses. 

He turned to Remus. “Help me.” 

Remus, showing off one of his brief streaks of competency, scrambled out of the car and dashed the few feet towards the man. 

Janus slid into the driver’s seat just as Remus pulled the struggling man into the backseat, one hand covering his mouth. He sped out of the apartment complex, taking roads with less cameras and getting out of the town. 

Fuck, what was he going to do now?!

Chapter Two

Virgil was going to die. 

He’d thought he could just slip into the apartment and to his room with everyone asleep, but Roger was still up, and saw him immediately. He confronted Virgil, ruining all plans of laying low as his words quickly became yelling. Virgil tried to defend himself, that he couldn’t help how many soulmates he had, and he hadn’t even met them! But Roger didn’t care. He wanted Virgil out. 

Virgil, with a confidence built only of the coffee he could still taste on his tongue, had refused to leave. He’d thought that, angry as they might get, his roommates wouldn’t actually escalate to physically pushing him out. 

Oh how wrong that was. 

His ribs still ached from the several hits they’d absorbed before he’d been shoved out the door. And his head was spinning and aching from the impact against the coffee table. 

And also the fact that he was going to die. 

That guy with the hat was doing some, some drug deal or something, who knew, and Virgil like a supreme dumbass had opened his mouth. 

Tall, big, and stinky had grabbed him, an arm wrapped around both of his, pinning them to his torso, and the other hand clamped over his nose and mouth. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t get the breath to. All his kicking and wriggling hadn’t been enough before he was pulled into the car. 

And now they were driving away. 

He was So Dead. 

The guy holding him shifted the hand over his face once the car was moving, uncovering his nose so Virgil could breathe freely. He sucked in air, tears beginning to leak from his eyes. 

He was the fucking worst, unluckiest son of a bitch to ever exist. Two soulmates, homeless now, kidnapped. And they didn’t have masks on. No masks meant he could recognize them, and they wouldn’t leave him alive. 

He was going to die. 

He didn’t want to die! 

His whole life he’d been looked down on or bullied for having two soulmates but he’d never even met them! He wanted to at least see them before he died. 

Virgil’s breath came faster, catching in his congested nose and making him panic. He needed to breathe! He couldn’t breathe! 

His chest heaved with sobs and his desperate attempts to get air. 

“Might get loud,” the man holding him said, and then abruptly the hand over Virgil’s mouth was gone. 

Virgil gasped, drinking in the air. Without the cover over his mouth his sobs rang out loud in the otherwise silent car. If he wasn’t so thoroughly miserable and about to die anyway he would’ve been embarrassed, might’ve managed to stop himself, but he just couldn’t. 

“I don’t wanna— Please, don’t kill me!” He forced out between sobs. 

“We’re not going to kill you,” the driver snapped. 

He didn’t know if he could believe it. But even without a single assurance that it was the truth, relief flooded through Virgil. 

“I didn’t see anything,” he blurted. “I-I don’t have a clue who you are. I don’t know what you were doing. I d-don’t know anything. I swear I won’t tell anyone anything!” 

The driver made a frustrated sound. “Just— shut up.” 

Virgil fell silent, other than his breath coming in hiccuping half-sobs. 

“What is our plan, Jannie?” The man holding him asked. 

The driver made a rough, growling sound. “For now, I’m getting us out of town. We’ll have to find a way to manage him without you carrying him everywhere so I can drop you off. I’ll figure out what to do from there. And I’ll need to keep the car.” 

“I’ve got duct tape!” The man said, entirely too happily. 

Virgil squirmed against his hold, trying to get his arms free to— to— to make a nuisance of himself at least. Of the two men, one had recognized his need to breathe, and the other had told him to shut up. He liked his living chances better with both of them than just the one. 

But the man holding Virgil was far too strong for him to fight against, and soon Virgil was pressed down into a car seat, his arms pulled behind his back. He bit back another sob as his wrists were taped together, and then the tape wound around his torso and arms haphazardly. 

“Check him for anything dangerous,” the driver said. “And anything he could use to contact someone.” 

A chill ran down Virgil’s spine. He was gonna die anyway, wasn’t he? 

••^*^••

Janus’s mind had been nothing but a steady stream of ‘Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck’ ever since he’d heard the crash in that apartment. 

Now he had a man tied up in the car, terrified for his life, and no idea what to do with him. 

Now that he had the folder, Janus’s plans had been to buckle down and work on the contents. It would take him days, and that was if he managed to be fast enough. He didn’t have Time for a problem like this! 

And even if he Had time, that still left the question of what was he going to do?? He couldn’t let him go, that was obvious. He definitely wasn’t going to kill him. The only other option seemed to be keeping him, but that wasn’t at all viable long term. 

At least for the moment though, Janus couldn’t see any other options. 

Remus had flipped up the man’s hood over his eyes, so he couldn’t look out and around at where they were as they approached a place where Janus could drop Remus off. He also properly buckled him in before he got out, a thing he ought to have done ages ago. Since then, the man had been quiet. 

Janus drove, looping around and doubling back multiple times on his way to his house. The less the man knew about where they were and how to get back, the better. 

Janus sighed heavily as he parked. His gut was already twisted in knots, his conscience screaming with how much he’d already done to this random person. And here he was about to scare him more. 

He pulled out the gun he knew Remus had hidden in the car, pointing it at the man, held low enough that he could see it under the hood. 

The man stiffened, but Janus didn’t give him time to beg for his life again. He didn’t think he’d manage to hold onto him at all if he did. He was cursed with a bleeding heart and if this man begged again he might just let him go and fuck all the consequences. 

“You’re going to stay quiet.” Janus commanded. “You’re going to come with me into the building, and you’re going to do everything I say.” 

The man nodded rapidly, his breathing getting fast and shallow. 

“I don’t want to bother keeping this gun pointed at you the whole time, but be assured I will always have it on hand.” 

The man nodded again. 

Janus tucked the gun into his waistband, wishing he’d had the forethought to bring a holster. Then he got out of the car. When he opened the back door, the man stayed silent, as he’d been told to. Janus undid the buckle and guided him into the house. 

He breathed slightly easier once he was inside the house with the door locked. 

Now what? 

He couldn’t just start in on work with curious eyes wandering around. 

It was nearly seven now. Maybe he’d make breakfast. 

He knew he was just continuing to push the real problem down the road, but he hadn’t come up with any answers. 

Janus left the man standing in the dining room and started looking through his fridge. He wanted something that would take a bit of time. Push that problem just a bit further before he reached a point where he had to deal with it. 

He finally pulled out some vegetables and started chopping them. He took his time slowly making complex omelets, only looking towards his captive when the man maneuvered his way to the floor to sit. 

Unfortunately, even after the long cooking, Janus didn’t have any better ideas. This was so far out of the realm of what he expected he’d never planned for it, never considered it before. 

He carried the plates into the dining room and set them at the table. He helped pull the man up so he could sit in a proper chair. Then he flipped back his hood. 

It was the first real look he’d gotten at the man’s face. Janus swallowed. His… very pretty face. If he wasn’t careful this would be Remy all over again, only worse because he’d already drug this man so deep into his mess he couldn’t see a way to get him out again. 

Janus’s second reaction was pity. The man was blinking in the brighter light, out from under the shade of his hood, and his face was tearstained and red, streaked with black eyeshadow. Janus also noticed a large bump near the back of his head. 

He gently probed it, concerned as the man winced, trying to duck away from his hand. This was recent. Remus hadn’t knocked him around any. It must have been in the commotion in the apartment. 

Janus went back to the kitchen. He got a cloth and dampened it, then also got an ice pack. 

“If I take off the tape, you will not attempt to attack me or run away,” Janus said. He’d found that in many cases, phrasing questions as statements and statements as questions tended to throw off the other person, and he got what he wanted more easily. 

The man nodded silently. Janus remembered that he’d told him to be quiet earlier. He moved behind the man, cutting at the tape with scissors. “You’re welcome to speak, so long as you aren’t loud.” 

“Thanks,” the man muttered. 

“Are you in pain?” Janus asked, considering whether this was a simple ice and ibuprofen type of situation, or whether he would need to attempt further first aid. 

The man shrugged, picking up the cloth and cleaning his face, then holding the ice pack to the bump on his head. 

Janus rolled his eyes at the non-response. “Would you object to taking painkillers?” 

That prompted a quiet, “No.” 

Janus retrieved the bottle, opening it in plain view so it could be seen he wasn’t switching the pills with anything. He got two cups of water, and then sat down to eat his own, rather cool by now, breakfast. 

“What’s gonna happen now?” The man asked, looking up at Janus. 

His gaze was piercing, possibly even more so because he didn’t intend it to be. Janus feigned nonchalance. 

“I’m not telling you. You’ll find out as it happens.” 

He could see a faint shudder run through the man. He didn’t have a better answer though, for him or for himself.

••^*^••

Remy had been thinking about Virgil ever since he left. He hoped it had gone well, getting picked up by his soulmate. 

It drew his mind to his own soulmates. At a young age they’d come to realize how dangerous it was to be three, and they tried to spare each other the danger. 

He didn’t know either of their names. Didn’t know where they lived. What they did for work. Nothing. He hadn’t even contacted them in several weeks. 

He wanted to. 

The desire built up over the remainder of his shift, and when he got home Remy caved to it. 

He scrawled in sharpie, high up on his thigh where it wouldn’t be easily noticed regardless of what he chose to wear, Heya. How’s it going?

Chapter Three

Virgil noticed the note on his thigh when he used the bathroom. It gave him an idea. A brief flutter of hope. 

His phone might have been taken from him, but if he could manage to contact his soulmates, maybe he could get help. 

He exited the bathroom, and immediately his captor’s gaze was on him, watching as Virgil returned to the couch. He didn’t seem to be unkind. He’d given Virgil food, and painkillers, and hadn’t hurt him. Was even letting him walk around this house without being tied up. 

And it was a house. Not like an abandoned warehouse or a back alley or any of the other scary locations Virgil had expected to end up in. He might… not die?

His captor was still incredibly intimidating though, and was keeping a close eye on Virgil. He didn’t know where to find a pen or a marker, and even if he did, he was sure he’d be discovered with whatever he wrote on his skin. 

But if he did something temporary maybe? 

Virgil tentatively laid down on the couch. His captor watched him do it, but then went back to reading through some paperwork of some kind. Virgil rolled over, facing the back of the couch. 

It made his skin crawl to have his back to the man, but he had a purpose for it. It gave him just a bit of cover, just enough hopefully. 

Virgil pushed his sleeve up. He was going to dare to do this on his arm. He knew his soulmates mostly wore clothes that covered skin, but if any part of them would catch their attention, forearm was a safe bet. 

Taking his thumbnail, Virgil pressed hard into his skin, dragging the nail to make a white line in his skin. The white quickly became an irritated red, but he knew from experience that the red would be gone in just a few minutes. He slowly made more lines on his skin, trying to keep his movements small so he wouldn’t be noticed. 

Help

••^*^••

Remy stared at the faint red lines on his forearm as they appeared. He’d noticed around the time the H was completed, while he was changing into pajamas to sleep the day away. His curiosity quickly turned to concern as the word finished. 

He grabbed a pen, scribbling onto his wrist. 

How? 

As he watched, waiting, the Help faded on his arm. Definitely not red pen. That… that definitely seemed worse. 

In response, he got a slow and scratchy-looking number. A phone number. 

Well. Remy could definitely call. 

The phone rung multiple times, eventually going to voicemail, unanswered. 

“Hey, this is Virgil. I missed you somehow, but just send a text or leave a message and I’ll try and get back to you later.” 

Remy frowned, confused and more than a little unbelieving. Virgil?? What did Virgil have to do with this?? With one of his soulmates? But it was definitely his voice. 

Virgil was supposed to be on a bus right about now, maybe even picked up already by his own soulmate. Maybe Virgil’s soulmate was nearby to Remy’s soulmate? This was all just so weird and confusing. 

Remy next tried texting. 

Hey, everything alright?

The response he got back alarmed him even more, though it didn’t remove any of his confusion. 

Hello. He’s at the hospital. Unconscious, but stable. He was in a car accident. I’m informing his family and work through his contacts, and then turning the phone off. He won’t be able to come in for a few days. 

Remy stared at the text for a long few minutes. So Virgil didn’t have his own phone. He’d never talk like that. And whoever did seemed to think that Remy was someone from his job? And he was in the hospital?!!

Remy wrote on his wrist, just under the how?

 ???

He didn’t have any better ideas of what to write. 

There was no response. Not for a while. 

Then finally. 

Help

Please

Remy started looking online to see if there were any way to track someone based on just a phone number. 

••^*^••

Janus didn’t know why he hadn’t considered that of course the man had a job. They’d both startled when the phone rang, and the man had cringed into the couch, rapidly throwing out any number of apologies for being called by his boss, as if Janus was going to fault him for that. 

Janus had figured out something to send back, and sent it to the top few contacts on the phone just in case before turning it completely off. 

What was he supposed to do now? 

Surely people would begin looking for the man sooner than later. And Janus could manage to whisk him into hiding, but that would be a lot of work. And… he wasn’t sure he could handle it, emotionally. The longer this went on, the worse he felt. 

He wasn’t cut out to be a kidnapper. Certainly not a kidnapper of a random handsome stranger. If he’d hated the man, perhaps he would be managing this better. 

An idea was beginning to form though. An idiotic idea. A stupid, horrible, terrible, dangerous idea. 

If he could get the man on his side, he wouldn’t need to hold him captive. On the other hand, if the man was absolutely against rights for people with multiple soulmates, well, it would be easier for Janus to hate him. 

On the dangerous side, if the man was smart and had an ounce of self-preservation, he’d go along with everything Janus said, at least verbally, and then go straight to the police as soon as he was released. 

The real question was if the danger of that outweighed the twisting in his gut every time he scared the man. Janus was way too fucking soft for this. He should’ve kept Remus here. 

Janus sighed. He was an over-emotional fool. 

••^*^••

Virgil was trying hard to stay calm. It wasn’t working. 

His soulmate had actually called. Really and truly. And then his captor had sent some kind of message in response and had turned his phone off. Virgil hoped he’d convinced him that it was just work calling cause he was late. But he hoped more that his soulmate could actually do something with the little information. 

Only one soulmate had responded to his desperate messages, but with such a short time on his skin, he wasn’t surprised that the other hadn’t noticed. 

His arm tingled unpleasantly, the skin irritated and tender. 

Suddenly, his captor let out a sigh. Virgil tensed as the man closed his folder and turned his attention entirely towards Virgil. 

Virgil carefully sat up. 

“I imagine you are aware that it is possible to have more than one soulmate,” his captor said. 

A tremor ran through Virgil. Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, he wasn’t kidnapped randomly cause he witnessed the deal. He was kidnapped for having two soulmates, this was So Much Worse! And he’d gone and asked one of his soulmates for help!! They’d be pulled into this! 

His captor’s lips pressed together. He continued speaking. “Having multiple soulmates is estimated to occur in 0.67% of people. Though many of those hide this fact, so the percentage may well be inaccurate.” 

Virgil hesitantly nodded. He had to try and stay on this man’s good side. 

“The reason it’s often a hidden fact is that society frowns heavily on those with multiple soulmates,” his captor said, emotion flickering over his face. An emotion Virgil never expected. Something like… grief? 

“Many people don’t know until they run into it that there are laws restricting actions by those with multiple soulmates, particularly if it can be proven that the individual has multiple.” 

Virgil actually didn’t know that. He’d heard rumors, but had always just tried to lay low himself. 

“Because of societal standards, it’s incredibly hard to change these laws… through normal avenues.” 

Virgil swallowed. This sounded an awful lot like telling him about illegal things. He’d be an accomplice. Maybe. He wasn’t entirely sure how that worked. But regardless, he’d never be allowed to live once he heard about illegal plans. 

He couldn’t deny his curiosity, but more than that he was scared. He covered his ears with his hands. 

“I-I don’t know why you’re telling me this!” Virgil blurted. “Look, good for you trying to help us, but don’t tell me illegal shit! The more you tell me the more I can tell police, and I’m not an idiot, I know you can’t just let that go. I don’t wanna end up dead, stop telling me things that’ll make me end up dead!” 

He finally managed to shut himself up. He’d never intended to say all that. He glanced up at his captor’s face, expecting a scowl, or even the gun pointed at him again. But instead there was a sort of pleased shock. 

“Us?” 

Virgil’s face drained of blood. “N-no, I didn’t mean that. I meant to say them. Them.” 

The man grinned. “You definitely said us.” 

“I didn’t!” Virgil protested. “Or I didn’t mean to!”

“You have multiple soulmates,” the man said, his grin widening. 

“I do not!” Virgil yelled, accidentally breaking the ‘be quiet’ rule. “I don’t! I-I-I’m normal! I’m not a—“ his voice cracked, and he swiped angrily at his eyes, which were leaking again. 

The man’s expression softened. “It’s alright,” he said gently. 

“It’s not!” Virgil argued. Why he was being an idiot and getting angry and upset and arguing when the man across from him had a gun he had no idea. But he couldn’t seem to help it. Feelings were rushing up from his chest, pouring out his throat. “It’s not ok! It’s never been ok! People always hate you for it and I can’t… I haven’t even met them!” 

He was crying. He swiped his sleeves over his face. 

“Why does everyone hate me for it? I didn’t even get to meet them. Everyone else gets to find their soulmate! Everyone else gets a happy ever after! Why do they fucking hate me so bad!?” 

At some point the other man had moved from his chair across from Virgil to sitting on the couch next to him. He took the hand Virgil was tugging at his hair with, loosening his grip on the strands. 

“I have multiple too,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, hard to hear over the harsh breaths stuttering out of Virgil’s mouth. 

“I didn’t even get to meet them,” Virgil repeated, the words coming out in a whimper. 

“You should’ve gotten to,” the man said. 

The words seemed to ring in Virgil’s mind, not quite sinking in, but refusing to leave. 

“You deserve to meet your soulmates,” the man said firmly. “You deserve to get to love them. To be near them. Just as much as anyone else.” 

Virgil stared at him, the validation cracking a dam he’d long held within him, emotion flooding out and overwhelming his already strained system. He lurched forward, clinging for comfort to a source he never would’ve considered. 

The man let him cling, even wrapped his own arms around Virgil, gently shushing him and telling him it would all be ok. 

Chapter Four

Janus wasn’t sure how this had happened. But he’d held the man while he cried, and now he had another damp cloth, wiping his face. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this. I guess I just haven’t slept and…” the man trailed off, hugging one of Janus’s throw pillows to his stomach. 

“Would you like me to take you home?” Janus asked. He hadn’t thought it through. But he didn’t regret it either. Regardless of what he chose to do next, this man didn’t deserve to be held captive and scared. 

The man’s face cycled from surprise back to teary. “I don’t have one anymore.” 

Janus pressed his lips together. Well, he had seen the man forcefully kicked out. 

“You’re welcome to stay if you like. As a guest. I won’t force you. Or if there’s somewhere you’d like me to take you?” 

The man’s face scrunched up, clearly caught between gratitude and suspicion. “Why would you do that?” 

Janus gave him a small smile and a shrug. “You’re like me. If I’m going to fight for us, how could I then hurt one of us?” 

“But—but I still saw your weird deal. A-and I can recognize you. I could tell the cops and— you definitely shouldn’t just let me go.” 

Janus’s smile became wry. “I’ll have to take the chance that you won’t.” 

The man just looked disbelieving. 

Janus set down his cloth. “I won’t ask that we start over. I’ve already done more than I expect to be forgiven for. But perhaps we could try introductions? My name is Janus.” 

Despite his disbelief, after a moment the man held out a hand. “Virgil.” 

Janus shook it gently. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Virgil. Would you honor me by being my guest? If you haven’t slept, there’s a bed you’re welcome to use.” 

Virgil rubbed his eyes with his sleeves. “It’s not fair to kidnap someone and then be all nice. Giving off real mixed signals.”

Janus couldn’t help chuckling. “I should not have kidnapped you. I’m truly sorry.” 

Virgil shrugged. “You had to. Someone saw you doing illegal shit. This is the weird part.” 

Janus kept chuckling, something traitorous in his chest doing little flips. “I’m well aware.”

Virgil blinked, slowly, and Janus could see as tiredness began beating his inhibitions. 

“I think… yeah. I might take you up on the bed. Would you…” The spark of fear returned to his eyes for a moment. “Would you put the gun somewhere? Out of reach.” 

Janus nodded solemnly. At some point, he would explain to Virgil that this particular gun was incapable of shooting, but this didn’t seem like the time. 

Janus stood, offering a hand to help Virgil up. Virgil didn’t take his hand, but did follow as Janus directed him to the bedroom. Janus left him alone and went back to work, but he was unable to get him out of his mind. 

••^*^••

Virgil curled up on the bed, feeling awkward about laying in someone else’s bedroom. The exhaustion was tugging at him far more than the awkwardness, however, and he was slowly relaxing. 

His mind was still full of swirling emotions, but fear had retreated to one of the smallest. The man- Janus, was definitely still doing illegal shit, but he was trying to help people with multiple soulmates. He may have kidnapped Virgil, but looking back, about the worst thing he actually did to him was to tie him up with tape and threaten him with a gun. 

Virgil frowned. Those were definitely bad things. So why was his brain trying to say they paled in comparison to what he’d said? Actions were definitely more telling than words. 

But those words. 

You deserve to meet your soulmates. 

You deserve to get to love them. To be near them.

They’d pierced somewhere deep within Virgil, letting light and air in, allowing him to want. And now he couldn’t stop himself from wanting. 

He felt he might owe Janus something deeper and more important than the kidnapping. 

And his mental image of Janus had shifted from the terrifying stranger in an odd hat, and now was all warm chest and soft words. And acceptance. 

They were alike. They both had multiple soulmates. Virgil had never met anyone else with multiple soulmates, at least not knowingly. Having his deepest secret not only known, but shared. It screwed up his self-protective instincts, already putting Janus as part of Us, when he should undeniably be a Them. 

Virgil’s brain flitted over the idea of helping Janus, and he tried desperately to cut off that possibility entirely. He was not about to get himself into criminal business just because a handsome man was just like him and trying to help and… oh fuck he was genuinely considering it. 

Virgil buried his face in the nearest pillow. This was idiotic. This was death wish levels of stupid. He should not be considering this!! He’d just been kidnapped by the man for fuck’s sake! 

••^*^••

It had been nearly an hour of Remy trying to figure out how to use a phone number to track a person. He’d stumbled across more information about Virgil than the anxious man would ever be comfortable knowing could be found on the internet, but no way of tracking where his phone was at the moment. 

And still the minutes kept trickling by. 

There were no new messages. Remy kept his sleeve rolled up, and checked it every few minutes just in case, but nothing. 

He was getting more and more concerned, both for his unknown soulmate, and for Virgil. 

He had one more option, either to help him, or to convince him that everything would be fine. Janus. 

Janus owed him anyway. 

And if he was in the cafe wanting an alibi the night before, he was almost sure to be holed up in his house ignoring all attempts to contact him. So Remy would have to go to him. 

That decided, Remy grabbed one of his emergency cold coffees from the fridge and got into his car. 

Janus’s house was maybe 20 minutes away. Remy kept his sleeve pulled high, glancing away from the road on occasion in case of further messages. 

He unlocks Janus’s door without bothering to knock first. 

“Jay! Gotta problem here.” 

Janus comes quickly around the corner, concern and alarm plain on his face. “What happened? Are you alright?” 

Remy gestures to his arm. “I am, but apparently my soulmate isn’t, and it’s got some weird crazy thing to do with my friend Virgil, and you’d better have some cool illegal way to track a bitch, cause I am not used to being a worrier and I hate it!”

Janus blinked several times at the barrage of words. Remy cursed at his slow uptake. “Come on, Jay! Open your little bag of tricks and help me out here.” 

“Virgil?” Janus asked, apparently painfully slow today. 

Remy groaned loudly. “Yes. I’ve told you about him before. And apparently I’ve got a soulmate near him, cause I was sent his number and a message for help.” 

Janus takes his hand, frowning down at his arm, bare of everything other than what he’d written himself. 

There’s the sound of a door from further in the house, and Remy has only a moment to wonder who Janus has over when a very familiar figure comes around the corner. 

“Remy?” Virgil asks, and then when he sees him, “Remy!” 

Virgil unexpectedly runs forward and grips Remy around the waist. They hadn’t really… hugged before. So it’s strange, but Remy’s concern being suddenly relieved at seeing Virgil unhurt outweighs that. He wraps a protective arm around Virgil. 

“Oh hell, nah. There’s some major explaining to do.” Seeing Janus looking guilty, Remy jabs a finger at him, sloshing the remainder of his drink inside the cup. “You. Talk. Now.”

Janus abruptly looks even more guilty. 

Virgil suddenly gasped, grabbing at Remy’s arm and staring. Before Remy can explain about his soulmate’s messages, Virgil is shoving his own sleeve up, holding it close to compare. 

Remy stared with wide eyes. It was Virgil. Virgil was his soulmate. One of them, anyway. 

“Oh, you lied to me,” he breathed out, not genuinely upset. He understood lying about multiple soulmates. He’d done the same himself many times. 

Suddenly, several things clicked together in his head, and he rounded on Janus. “What the hell did you do?!” 

Janus raised both hands. “There’s a whole story to it, Rem—“

Remy stepped forward, backing Janus against a wall, using his extra few inches to loom over him. “Better start telling then.”

“I’m fine… now,” Virgil said, sounding almost defensive of Janus. 

Remy’s eyebrows shot up. There was some Tea here. And he was Going to be told All of it. 

After a full explanation, Remy stood above Janus, his arms crossed. Janus looked supremely guilty, as he Was. 

Remy grabbed his arm, shoving the sleeve up. As he now expected, his scrawl was on Janus’s wrist as well. 

“I told you we should check if we were soulmates!” He exclaimed. 

Janus just stared with wide eyes, awe taking over his expression. He reached out softly to Virgil, comparing his arm to his as well. 

Virgil was just looking back and forth between the two of them with shock and wonder. 

“Alright babes,” Remy said authoritatively. “This is how it’s gonna go. You,” he pointed at Janus. “Are going to pull out your first aid kit and we’ll check Virgil over for any hurt he got from that asshole he used to call a roommate. Then you’re going to give us your bedroom for a nap, and treat us both to a good lunch when we wake up from a nap. After that, and only after, will we start to consider forgiving you.” 

Janus grimaced, but to his credit, he knew when it wasn’t the time to argue. 

“You,” he turned on Virgil. “Are going to show us everywhere that hurts. Once I’m convinced that you’re properly ok, then it’s nap time. I’ll let you make your own decisions on Janus after. As far as I’m concerned, he’s sleeping on the couch tonight and owes me about a hundred coffees.” 

Janus was starting to look genuinely dejected, and Remy grabbed his collar, pulling him in for a deep kiss. 

“Tonight we talk about being soulmates,” he said more gently. “And how we want to play that.” 

Virgil grabbed Remy’s hand in one of his, and Janus’s with the other. His eyes were shining. He didn’t say anything, but he squeezed both their hands tightly. 

Well! Discovering two of his favorite people were his soulmates. Not a bad day. 

Chapter Five

~one month later~ 

Virgil read the paper carefully, studying each word at a time. He highlighted a line before passing it to Janus. 

“This bit reads oddly.” 

Janus looked at it, and his nose wrinkled. “That bit was original.” 

Virgil scrunched his face up. “That’s been in the law?” 

Janus shrugged, the look of disgust on his face apparent. “There’s a reason I’m changing it.” 

Now that he was a full part of Janus’s operation, Virgil had been told everything. Janus was slowly taking laws and regulations, tweaking them subtly, and getting a man on the inside to swap them with the originals. That man, Patton, was married to Remus’s brother, and they had another partner named Logan who was not yet let in on illegal activity. 

Change was slow. Incremental. It had to be. It couldn’t be noticed, or everything would be ruined. 

But a law here tweaked to be more lenient, a regulation loosened there, and society gradually became less hostile to people with multiple soulmates. Slowly. 

Virgil reached over, wrapping his fingers over Janus’s. Janus smiled at him softly, and raised his hand to his lips. Virgil watched as a small flower bloomed to existence on his knuckle, drawn by Remy. 

He flushed slightly. He still wasn’t ready for the full kisses that Janus and Remy often shared, but he was certain that smaller affections like this filled his heart just as full. 

Janus released his hand, going back to his work. Virgil took the paper back, continuing his own proofreading of the draft. 

••^*^••

Remy often found himself drawing on his skin now. Drawings couldn’t be so easily pointed to different hands, and thus were safe to revel in. Flowers over his knuckles, hearts over his hands, larger more detailed designs covering his arms and legs. 

His night shifts at the cafe were never quite so dull anymore, knowing he could send a bit of art to one of his loves. And many times, one of them would show up. With Virgil, it was often for coffee and long talks, like they had before but deeper, more tender. Janus still wanted an alibi half the time he stopped by, but now there were visits where he’d come to make out if the cafe was empty. 

When his shift was over he’d head back home. Virgil was coming over in the morning. He often split his time between Remy and Janus’s houses, almost like they had a custody agreement over him. 

It was difficult for Remy sometimes, adjusting to a partner who wanted to take things real slow. But Virgil’s softness and cute grumpiness was uniquely special to him, and he looked forward to the day he’d get to kiss him silly. 

Despite the rough time that brought them to realize they were soulmates, none of them truly regretted it, though Janus still apologized if one of them brought up the kidnapping. 

••^*^••

Janus had never felt so fulfilled. 

He’d always believed strongly in the cause, knowing he was a member of the minority he fought for. But it was different somehow, having his soulmates with him. 

Remy and Virgil were so similar and yet so different. Both would snark and snipe, especially as Virgil got more comfortable around him. But Virgil had a softness to him where Remy had passion. Remy had initiative where Virgil had caution. Virgil had gentleness where Remy had strength. Both so unique. Both so precious. Both somehow his. And he theirs. 

He was reaping the very reward he wished to give to everyone with multiple soulmates. And it was sweet. 

Janus subtly shifted position, careful not to wake either of his partners. They’d spent a late night and were now napping, leaving him the most lucky with getting to experience them laying on either side of him. 

They’d started with ‘trapping’ him, each laying over one of his arms to prevent him from working, but it had quickly shifted into soft cuddles as they fell asleep. And despite his earlier protests, he didn’t truly mind in the slightest. 

He wanted to buy a larger house, or at least a larger bed, as this one only barely contained them if none of them tried to roll over. He didn’t make much money, certainly not legally. So it was a rather futile dream, about as futile as his dream to one day marry them. But a man could dream. 

Tagging @snowdice Since I used your Roll the Dice game to start this fic! 🥰

[ladykettlechips]

Update Time~

Good evening from the land of kettle chips, crumpets and scones! This update comes to you guys as a way of apologising for my absence in writing lately. Life is a little more hectic right now and, while I have a right to choose to keep you guys out of the loop and update my fics as and when I please, I have stated before that I like transparency. Though I don't reveal everything, I do want you guys to be somewhat aware of why I'm not updating and where I'm at currently in life. First and foremost, I have healed considerably from the work trauma I experienced. Though I am not fully healed from it, I am doing a lot better mentally these days. It has helped me a lot to stay away from work for a little bit and while I definitely worried about money every now and again, I can confidently say that leaving that place was the best thing for me. Secondly, I have a new job. I have been training for said job recently while also working part-time at another job. Do I think this will be a permanent fixture in my life? Not at all, but for the moment it is ideal in regard to earning money to keep me going in life (and fuelling my addiction to perfume, sweets and travel).

Thirdly: Travel. I have some trips coming up, all planned prior to me leaving the Trauma Job. In the past few weeks I have been focusing on sorting those out, hence why you aren't seeing anything from me writing wise lately. It's been a big focus of mine, especially as one of the two trips I'm taking is very soon.

Fourth: I finished editing a book for someone! I won't be displaying the title or author here because of privacy reasons, but this is something I could have only ever dreamed of, but helping others see their stories grow under my editing is something I have desired to do since leaving University. I truly love editing so much. Thankfully, the person I edited for wants me to help with their future books, as well as help to re-edit their previous books (the beauty of self-publishing!). It was hard work, and life kept me from editing for a while, but I'm so happy to see that the author was happy with me as an editor and that they want to work with me again. Hopefully this spurs me on to look into freelancing down the line.

So yes, this is mostly why I've been quiet in writing. I'm doing bits and pieces here and there, but nothing that will finish a chapter or oneshot. I am sorry for not updating anything on AO3 to a point where some of you might think I've left the fandom, but I haven't. I'm just focusing on things that are happening in my own world right now and prioritising myself for a bit.

Finally, before I sign this off, I sincerely hope that you are all happy and well and taking care of yourselves. Though I am less present, I am aware that there's been some frustrations going on within the fandom right now, but please remember to be courteous of one another and to remember that this is simply a fandom, not real life. Please don't get too upset by rumours, and please don't allow it to affect how you function in real life. It's all well and good to love something so much, but when fandom leaks into real life and affects those who aren't within the fandom or the actors portraying our favourite characters, it becomes unhealthy.

Thank you for reading, precious bean hive. I love you all. LKC

[into-deepspace]

Hello! Hope you're having a great day!

May I request for Rafayel's reaction when MC comes out as non-binary? It's something that's never left my head since I started playing lnds. I can't help but worry if it'd change things for him even though I know it won't (insecurity did a number on me🥹). What if MC wanted to present themes as masc/femme? How would he react?

Sorry if this is too long and complicated and I understand if you don't want to write for this but if you do write it it'd mean the world to me. Thank you for reading this ask🌸🌸

aaa of course!!! dw it wasn't long or complicated at all! i had a lot of fun writing this, and i rlly hope i did rafayel justice here <33 i feel like it ended awkwardly but ah what can u do. anywayyyy:

as you are

rafayel/mc • nonbinary mc • 1.6k • ao3 link requests open, reblogs appreciated! mild hurt/comfort || coming out || tooth-rotting fluff || established relationship

MC stares at themselves in the mirror fixing their hair nervously. In twenty minutes, they’re meeting Rafayel at a cafe, one of their favourites. They’d made the plans several days ago, and have been nervously thinking through every possibility ever since. After all, coming out, no matter who it’s to, is nerve wracking.

“I need to talk to you,” they’d sent him, late in the evening when both of them really should have been asleep. Despite the late hour, typing bubbles immediately popped up from Rafayel’s end. He sends a sticker of a distressed yellow bird, then a message.

Rafayel, 11:48 PM are u breaking up with me :(

A bit frantic, MC typed back a quick response. Of course Rafayel, ever dramatic, would assume the worst.

MC, 11:48 PM No omg?

Rafayel, 11:48 PM DUN SCARE ME LIKE THAT THEN???? Those are FIGHTING WORDS. fighting words i tell u!!

MC sighed, but couldn't help but laugh a bit. It was never a dull moment with him around, one of the things they have always loved about him. They explained that no, they're not breaking up with him, but they did have something a little more serious they needed to talk with him about.

Rafayel, 12:03 AM okayyyy spill the beans cutie wait no serious I Am Prepared To Listen To Your Words. Please Begin.

MC, 12:04 AM Actually, i wanted to talk in person Can we meet @ our usual cafe on saturday

They waited nervously for Rafayel's response, picking at a stray thread in their blanket. But as usual, they had nothing to worry about

Rafayel, 12:05 AM ofc ofc ill buy u a tea and a cake and we can talk <3

They couldn't help but smile at their phone. He was always so sweet, so ready to adjust and accommodate. They just hope he’ll be the same way about this new revelation.

Now, MC has been going by their chosen name for a long while, so long that most people don’t even know the name they were given at birth. They’ve always presented a little more [femme/masc] than their peers, and Rafayel didn’t seem to mind any of that. If anything, he encouraged it, saying that the way they expressed themselves was art in it of itself. But would this, their coming out, be a piece of the puzzle that he wasn’t okay with?

MC sighs, smoothing their clothes one last time and telling themselves that they really do need to get going. Sitting here and stewing in their anxieties isn’t going to make anything better. They grab their bike helmet and make their way down to the street, setting off.

An uneventful drive later, they arrive at the cafe and park, fixing their hair in their phone camera after they take their helmet off. It seems Rafayel hasn’t arrived yet, which means they can go in and order for themselves. Usually, they’re fine with Rafayel paying for their treats, but what if he’s upset this time? What if he realizes he’s spent money on someone he can’t accept.

Just as they’re pulling their card from their wallet to pay for their drink and pastry, an arm wraps around their waist and lips press against their cheek, startling them.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Rafayel says, tone light and joking as he slips their wallet from their hands, tucking it back into their pocket. Ignoring their protests, he turns to the person at the register. “Add a vanilla iced coffee to that please, with… hm, six sugars.” MC can only watch as his drink is added to the total and he slots his card into the reader, looking pleased with himself.

Rafayel takes their hand and walks them over to a table by the window, pulling out their chair for them with a dramatic flourish. Normally, MC would laugh at his antics, but they’re too nervous right now to manage anything more than a tight smile. Rafayel, of course, notices right away.

“What’s wrong, cutie?” he asks, taking their hands as he kneels in front of their chair. MC takes a shaky breath, trying to school their expression into something at least neutral.

“I’m okay,” they say. “I promise.” For a moment, Rafayel tilts his head and searches their face. Then, with a sigh, he stands, pressing a kiss to their knuckles as he does.

“Okay,” he smiles. “We’ll talk once you’ve got something tasty to keep you company, okay?” This prompts a smile, a little more real this time, from MC.

“Okay,” they whisper.

Ever the gentleman, Rafayel goes to retrieve their order, tasting his own drink before adding two more pumps of sugary syrup to it and sprinkling cinnamon across the top. He comes back to their table, setting MC’s portion in front of them. They taste their own drink and nod in satisfaction, cutting a piece of their pastry to place into their mouth.

“Do you want some?” they ask, offering a forkful to Rafayel. With an easy smile, he waves away their question.

“Nah,” he says. “This here is sweet enough.” He shakes his drink, the ice in it rattling as specks of cinnamon swirl around. MC nods, taking the bite for themselves.

They let themselves savor the moment for a bit before speaking. After all, they don’t know if this is something they’ll ever have again. They make their way about halfway through the pastry before they take another long sip of their drink and fold their hands in their lap.

“I have something I need to tell you,” they say, before they can lose their resolve. “...Please don’t be upset with me.” Rafayel smiles, reaching across the table with his palm up, gesturing for their hand. MC obliges, tangling their fingers together, and Rafayel squeezes reassuringly.

“I won’t be,” he promises. “You can tell me anything. I swear.”

MC takes a deep breath. They appreciate that he’s putting his usual jokes and quips aside, sensing the nervous gravity of the moment, but it almost makes them even more anxious. Biting their lip, MC decides it’s better to rip the metaphorical band-aid off in one go.

“I’m nonbinary,” they say simply. “And I’m sorry I’ve been keeping this from you.”

Rafayel blinks for a moment, silent. MC feels their eyes sting.

“What?”

“Uh.” Out of all the scenarios they’d mentally prepared for, this wasn’t one of them. “You know,” they begin, “like, I’m not a guy, but I’m also not a girl. It’s-”

“No, I know what nonbinary means, silly,” Rafayel grins. “Why would you ever think I’d be upset at you over this?” MC feels the sting in their eyes become welling moisture, and Rafayel scrambles to drag his chair around to their side of the table and pull them into a tight embrace.

“I thought you were gonna tell me that you were moving away, or that you lost your job or something!” he says, rocking them back and forth, gently, slowly. With a shaky breath, MC tucks their face into Rafayel’s shoulder, smiling to themselves. But he’s not done, continuing as he pulls them tighter.

“And if you come to me tomorrow and say you feel some other way, or that you want to change your name or buy new clothes or change your hair, that’s okay! MC, I love you no matter what. I promise, something like this is never ever going to come between me and you.” They’re full on sobbing now, the relief that comes with acceptance and the lovely promises spilling from Rafayel’s lips making all sorts of emotions surge in their chest.

Rafayel pulls back, cupping their face with one hand and wiping their tears away with the other. He smiles, a radiant and loving thing, and MC can’t help but give a breathy, relieved laugh as he leans in to place light little kisses along their cheeks.

“I don’t know why I was so nervous,” MC admits. “You never did anything to make me worried about this.” Rafayel shrugs.

“It’s a big thing to tell someone,” he says. “I’m proud of you. I know this took a lot.”

“It really did,” MC acknowledges. Rafayel ruffles their hair affectionately before scooting his chair back over to his side, keeping one of MC’s hands in his own.

“Okay, okay,” he says, buzzing with energy now that the serious moment is waning. “Finish your pastry and then we can go shopping.” MC blinks, surprised.

“We weren’t planning on going-”

“Uh-uh!” Rafayel cuts in, waving a hand in their face and startling a laugh from them. “Shhhh, we’re going shopping. You wanna go buy pretty things with me soooo bad. You would never think of saying no to this lovely face of mine.”

“Oh, my god,” MC laughs, nearly dropping their fork. “You’re so dramatic.” In response, Rafayel gives a pleased smile and makes a motion as if flicking hair behind his shoulder. MC shakes their head good naturedly, taking another bite of their pastry.

They do, in fact, end up out in the shops, and Rayafel buys them a jacket they’ve been eyeing for a long while. The two of them swing their intertwined hands between them as they walk, enjoying each others’ presence. It’s late in the evening by the time they decide to part ways, and even then, Rafayel convinces MC to sleep over at his house.

A couple hours later, laying in bed, MC watches Rafayel’s sleeping face with a soft smile. They never thought they’d be lucky enough for a relationship like this.

[cordeliawhohung]

pet!au tmtiv wip wednesday (:

[necrotic-nephilim]

Do you have any fucked up babscass headcanons? This is vaguely for the ask game but I’m curious. I’ve also had a vision of dick being drawn into their dubiously consensual mommy kink thing, probably unwillingly. I just love the idea of babs being her teacher for everything normal, like yes on some level it is grooming but cass knows everyone’s intentions automatically, could babs really make her do anything she didn’t want to do?

for the ask game!

GOD YES. i love BabsCass. just. so dearly. they're so fucked up. and adding Dick to the mix is *also* so so fun. the concepts of how consent plays into it all when Cass knows everyone's intentions and feelings (sometimes before they themselves do) but Babs still holding clear power over Cass and how vulnerable Cass is emotionally it's just. good soup i tell you.

so, i think it's fun, if in a way, Babs has always been slightly jealous of Bruce. after becoming Oracle by means out of her control, she works with other heroes sure, but she doesn't have a protege. she watched with Dick and Bruce, how close of a bond Batman and Robin is. how Bruce got to shape and mold Dick into the hero he's become and the reverence Dick has for Bruce. there's such a nuance to that relationship, and Babs wants it for herself. the first person to carry on the Batgirl torch is Helena, something she violently disapproves of. so for her to give Batgirl to Cass, that's significant. it's both a sign of acceptance, and a sign of ownership. it's basically her way of saying to Bruce "this one's mine." and thus, their relationship reflects it. because it's easy to seak out a close bond with Cass, who's never had anyone show her love and affection with no strings. Babs' love is unconditional. and Cass wants to bury herself in it. she knows it's romantic and possibly sexual, but Babs doesn't sexualize Cass the way men do. there's no leering comments or objectification. Babs is kind and respectful, so Cass doesn't mind. she even leans into it. there's something nice in being appreciate for something other than how good of a weapon she makes. and Babs' touch is just. something Cass craves. Babs wants to respect boundaries, but Cass is practically crawling into her lap after certain rough missions, just for the companionship.

i think it's fun if the mommy kink starts with Cass. sure, Babs has been carefully guiding Cass toward being comfortable with sexual things. Cass is regularly naked around Babs with no problem, she lets Babs touch her anywhere. but it's when Babs is holding Cass that Cass talks about how she doesn't know who her mother is and she wishes she knew what having a mother felt like. and sure, Cass knows that Babs isn't entirely motherly. not when her hand is resting inside of Cass' pants at that very moment. but this is the closest thing she has. i enjoy the idea of Cass knowing that this isn't normal. sure, she doesn't fully understand relationships, but she knows mother/daughter and dating are different. but it's a two birds one stone kind of thing. she's so convinced she's not going to find enough people to love her to fill all the "roles" in her life, why not combine the two. after all, Dick and Bruce are doing it. so when Cass brings it up, Babs lets Cass call her mommy. it's a soothing thing, more than a kink thing. and it delightfully plays into Babs' hand for how she wants to groom Cass, giving her more control and trust over Cass. it's easy to get Cass to side with her instead of Bruce when she just has to stroke Cass' hair and praise her whenever she does what Babs want. Cass is so used to negative reinforcement that she'll take any kind of positive reinforcement, even if she knows it's slightly manipulative. sometimes, what matters to her the most is just that someone wants to protect and take care of her in the first place.

i love the idea of Dick getting dragged in unwillingly so much. Cass has very high standards for what a mentor/partner/mother figure should look like because of how reverently Babs treats her. and Cass is known for being critical of Bruce's methods. so when Bruce is particularly cruel to Dick, or that have a nasty argument that Cass witnesses and Bruce possibly even hits Dick, that's when Dick gets dragged in. it starts with Babs inviting him to just eat dinner and chill out with Babs and Cass in the Clocktower. then he's being invited to stay the night more and more often so he doesn't have to crash at Wayne Manor when he's in Gotham. the first time he wakes up with Cass sleeping next to him, he doesn't comment on it. he knows what it's like to be so tired you just crash on the nearest bed. it's when he notices that he's being more and more separated from Bruce, that Dick starts to notice something is off. he's never commented on what's going on between Babs and Cass bc well, he's one to talk. but now he's caught between them. Cass and Babs don't even have to talk, they just wordlessly know they're on the same page about bringing Dick into the fold. for Cass, it's genuinely to protect him. she's happy with Babs, and she wants Dick to feel happy in that way too, with someone who's not as emotionally closed off as Bruce. and Cass just wants as many close relationships as she can get. and for Babs, there is genuine attraction there. she and Dick almost flirted with dating before, and nows her chance to have him and finally beat Bruce. and as unwilling as Dick is, it's hard to say no when they're being so gentle with him. he keeps telling himself he's going to set hard boundaries and tell them no, eventually. but Babs has the manipulation down pat, and Cass is so gentle and loving, Dick just gets swept in too deep. they both know he's unwillingly, but to Cass, that's just how love works. you have to be talked into it sometimes because you don't realize you deserve it.

Babs teaching Cass about sex my *beloved*. first, it's just Cass and Babs. Babs showing Cass how she can feel good, how she can make Babs feel good. but now with Dick, they have a whole new person for Babs to see to teach Cass about sex. Dick has to be talked into it by Babs, who paints it as a learning opportunity for Cass. I just. I love throuple dynamics where one person is basically being used as a toy for the dom to tell the third person to use, and that fits them so well. Dick is just a toy, a prop basically. and Babs is guiding Cass through it, teaching her how to make Dick feel good, how to ride him. I like the idea of Babs edging both of them until she feels like Cass has "learned" enough. which is clearly just part of the kink, corrupting Cass. and they all know it, but it's an unspoken thing. even more fun if Babs gives Cass some token form of control, letting Cass control when Dick can come. and to Cass, edging is a natural part of sex, so she also tortures Dick like that, bringing him to the edge and holding him there no matter how much he begs. sometimes, Dick just watches Cass and Babs have sex and learns what they like through that. he learns Babs is a sadist, but she has to be careful with it. Cass views pain strictly as a very negative punishment and the last thing Babs wants to do is lose the trust she has built up with Cass. so she avoids pain for the longest time. it's Dick who notices Babs itching to hurt someone, so to make sure it's not Cass, Dick offers himself. and Cass watches as Babs hurts Dick, and Dick *likes* it. maybe impact play, maybe some CBT, that sort of stuff, just testing the waters of how far Babs can take it with Dick. it makes Cass curious enough to try it, both sadism and masochism. she finds it takes a lot for her to enjoy masochism, but in the right applications, it's nice. there's something about letting herself feel pain, which she was never allowed before. pain is something to be compartmentalized and worked through. so there's something nice about turning her brain off and just feeling. especially if she's being hurt while she's in Babs or Dick's arms, bc she knows she's safe. both of them have become her safe space to explore new things during sex.

eventually, Dick comes to mostly accept being part of the relationship. he realizes he's in too deep when Cass casually calls him her boyfriend in front of Bruce just to make Bruce stutter. they're all adults, so it's not something Bruce can fight too hard. and Dick does have to admit, Cass has a point. there's far less arguing and fighting in this relationship. the grooming practically works better on Dick than it did Cass, bc now he's just accepted it and is going along with everything. he starts initiating sex, with either of them separately or together, just bc he likes giving up control to them. he likes the way Cass is gentle when she's domming, taking control from him without even asking and just taking care of him. and when Babs is in control, she's a little meaner, a bit rougher, but sometimes, he needs that too. sometimes he just likes to watch the two of them, see Cass call Babs mommy while she's crying and begging for anything. it's carnal and just fascinating to watch, even if he doesn't get off to it. seeing how much they love each other and how much they love him makes his head spin, because being with Bruce was nothing like this. Bruce rarely talks about his feelings, rarely said he loved Dick. meanwhile Cass and Babs will say it about a dozen times a day. maybe it's manipulative, but they make it sound so genuine, he can't bring himself to care. and Cass is pleased Dick is finally giving him, letting himself be loved. Babs is pleased to have control of both Dick and Cass. all of them are getting something out of it so really, what's there to complain about?

[daydadahlias]

you can't reclaim a word that's never been used against you

[forcebookish]

okay, looking at the comments on WIPs that i never updated, i have something to say that i'm sure has been said before - and i'm not trying to be mean or ungrateful, i know a lot of people find commenting hard - but generic stuff like 'this is interesting, i'm looking forward to it' or 'i hope this updates soon' is NOT ENOUGH, PEOPLE.

you should treat it like its own fic: what did you like about that chapter? what about it makes you look forward to the rest of the wip? did something stand out in particular? was there a passage you enjoyed? characterization you liked? is there something SPECIFIC that you're looking forward to?

what's its own merit besides what hasn't happened yet? what do you value outside of anticipation?

because otherwise, it kinda feels like what's been posted was just a waste of space, a placeholder, something not good on its own. what kind of encouragement is simply the hope that something happens when what's happened already barely gets a mention?

i spent hours and hours on this, and all you have to say is 'MAKE MORE'?

[mengyan]

not only do i support women’s rights but i also support women’s wrongs. on that note i think danyin should have been allowed to be meaner and beat more people up actually

[shy-sapphic-ace]

Ok ok so here's my casting for my Robin Hood mechanisms AU (+ some random ideas!)

Robin Hood: Gunpowder Tim (she/her)

Maid Marian: The Toy Soldier (she/her)

Prince John: Jonny D'Ville (he/him) (yes I made Jonny play a guy named John) (he'll probably only be referred to as "the prince")

The Sheriff: Marius von Raum (he/him)

Friar Tuck: Ashes O'Reilly (they/them)

Little John: Drumbot Brian (he/him)

Will Scarlet: Ivy Alexandria (he/she)

And I have a few random ideas for songs or stories, with the intro narration called 'The Highwayman' the next song called Merry Men and then the next narration is 'The Maid Marian' and the next song is Lady Love and it's all abt how Robin and his wife love each other very very much (think like Blood and Whiskey), somewhere I'll have the sheriff and the prince sing a gay little villain song, there will also be a part called 'The Heist' where the merry men plan out a heist to steal from the prince and then their daring escape, near the end there will be the whole contest thing where Robin disguises himself to win the archery contest and gets the prize, and at the end the last narration will be 'The Hospital' or something where the nurse who is actually evil (or something, I'm pretty sure) doesn't treat him right and the last song will be Robin singing to Little John about his end and the song will probably be called Where the Arrow Lands (bury me where the arrow lands, my loyal friend / how tragic, how sad, that it's come to an end) (or something like that I'll work on it) AND THEN HE DIES IN HIS ARMS OOOH SO TRAGIC

Yeahh and I'll have to go re-read the lyrics on the mechs' songs because their style of rhyming is different from what I usually use when writing songs so I'll have to change up my style a bit. (I think they write rhymes a/a/b/c/b or a/b/a/a/b something?? idk I've only really listened but I always write a/a/b/b)

Last thing, this miiight be called "In The Woods Of Nottingham" but the title is a work in progress

Sorry if this is kind of a mess, that's just how my brain feels right now I just Need to get some words down or I might explode

[courfee]

start end of the week(ish) snippet

so the very wonderful @messrsage tagged me in this a couple days ago and i finally have my laptop back so youre getting a contextless snippet from chapter 6 of operation wanker now have fun :)

James would say that after years of practice of pulling pranks and having to evade any patrolling teachers he is good at hiding and sneaking around and perceptive enough of footsteps in the dark. Somehow he still doesn’t see the green beam of light hitting him square in the chest coming. Neither does he expect the forearm pressing against his chest, pushing him back into the corner he is hiding in. “Potter.” It’s no more than a whisper but the tone is sharp enough to make James stand up straighter. “Crouch,” James whispers back. Barty is close enough that James can see the angry expression on his face, even in the dim light. “What’s up?” “You tell me. What games do you think you’re playing here?” “Uh.” James looks around through the dark. “Tag?” Barty huffs and presses closer against James. In the back of his mind James thinks that this would be a great opportunity to have some very intense make out sessions. If it wasn’t Crouch that is. He wonders if Remus and Sirius are making use of the dark. He assumes they are, it’s been more than a week since they last got to kiss after all. “Reggie told me to not say anything to you but someone has to and he’s not going to. You’ve been back for nearly a week. So. What exactly has kept you from talking to your boyfriend? And you better give me a good explanation here.” James doesn’t have a good explanation. He also doesn’t have a boyfriend, not a real one anyway, so Barty’s anger is at least a little unjust, but he obviously doesn’t know that.

no pressure tagging @iceprinceofbelair @aithusarosekiller @strwbi-laces @carrythispictureforluck and whoever else feels like doing it

[sisterdivinium]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Category: Gen Relationship: Ava Silva & Mother Superion Characters: Ava Silva, Mother Superion (Warrior Nun) Additional Tags: Character Study

Ava and Mother Superion might have opposite points of view on some things, but they find that sunlight warms both of them just the same.

[prettyboybuckley]

ao3 comments that are nothing more than a demand for a sequel that you're already writing are the fanfic equivalent of your mom telling you to do a chore you were already doing/going to do

like, fine, i'll still do it but now it doesn't feel the same