A Final Version Of This Piece! With Perona Now.

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold. 

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug. 

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works? 

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” 

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really." 

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table—framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly—not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say—until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy. 

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter—just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just—vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours. 

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit. 

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you.  Time moves like water carving through rock—gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.)

And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?” 

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by. 

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself. 

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill. 

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter. 

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it. 

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons. 

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical. 

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind. 

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session. 

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I saw you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I wasn't, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I did my TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.” 

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?” 

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from the cringe of it all.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her. 

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.” 

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him. 

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams. 

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

-

-

-

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown. 

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood. 

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight. 

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light. 

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival. 

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clang of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond. 

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.” 

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment. 

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable. 

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unrealized. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her. 

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just so you could feel less alone about your own failures. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake. 

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose. 

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization. 

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her father struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you. 

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark. 

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

.

.

.

.

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it. 

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict. 

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door. 

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point. 

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes. 

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences. 

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him. 

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation. 

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home. 

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

-

-

-

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown. 

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath. 

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation. 

He exhales. Then winces. 

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it. 

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh. 

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left. 

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago. 

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware. 

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago. 

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil. 

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively. 

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer. 

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting. 

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable. 

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere. 

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists. 

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home. 

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

beneath the skin | sylus

— summary: “who was that?” he simply asks, trying to mask the tinge of bitterness in his tone. “talk to me,” he coaxes after you hesitate, gently pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “a ghost,” you say on a shaky whisper, as if admitting it aloud is taboo, like you’ll accidentally conjure him back into existence. — cw: reader is not mc, femme reader, assassin reader, jealousy, stream of consciousness, rekindled feelings, self-indulgent af, not proofread, i’m delusional and wanted to write something about someone trying to steal you away from sylus — wc: ~3k — now playing: bad dream - lexie liu

You’re used to the attention; it’s your job to garner it. So, the occasional stare doesn’t perturb you much. Usually. 

But this one—it feels different. Like the uncomfortable pressure of a needle painstakingly driven beneath your nail, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. 

You try to dance it off. Swivel your hips, smile pretty, a bewitching laugh in your throat as you gyrate atop the bar counter at Lux. But even as you turn to face the crowd gathered at your feet, their hands tossed skyward, bodies sweaty beneath the red sweep of lights and heavy mist, it lingers. Strips you down to bone, leaving you raw and exposed. Vulnerable. Confused. 

You pivot to address your admirer. To get a good look at who or what makes your skin crawl. But what greets you robs the air from your lungs, and you err in your steps, nearly stumbling off the counter if not for the dancer beside you, steadying you with her fingers wrapped around your wrist.

You feel like you’ve seen a ghost. An echo from a past you worked your damndest to suppress. The warmth and color drain from your face. You’re ramrod stiff, mouth spilling open, eyes blooming wide. Your heart careens against your ribcage, seemingly stopping before restarting to thrum double time. 

He reminds you of a forest, eyes the color of wood watching you with unwavering intensity, undisturbed by the bodies swaying and brushing up against him. A sturdy oakwood tree untouched by deforestation and time. It’s perverse in a way, how he studies you, how his gaze softens the slightest bit. How he knows you even with the stretch of years keeping you apart like he’s peeling back the layers of your facade like an onion. 

His hair is feathery. Dark like coffee beans, brushing over sloped shoulders. It’s longer than you remember. Longer than the last time you’d seen him before he died. 

Dead. He’s dead. Been dead for years. 

But as if to drive your delusions home, that telltale beauty mark catches in the strobing light, perched atop full, red lips stretched taut—lips you still remember the texture of, the way they moved against yours, pouring unbidden feelings into the chasm of your chest. 

You forget what it means to breathe. Forget how to exist, the cacophony of the nightclub fading into obscurity around you. Muddled, and you’re stock-still, stricken by something untraceable. Grief? Fear? Rage? Maybe a combination. Whatever the feeling, it causes a prickling sensation to fill your head, and your heart plummets to your feet.

“—alright?”

It’s a faint call. A disordered sound, like your ears are trying to readjust after resurfacing from a pool. It breaks you from the spell he cast over you, alongside the firm press of fingers into your wrist, the tug, and you swivel your head to take in the wary look of your co-worker. 

“H-Huh?” you say when your voice returns. Swallow past the barbs in your throat, lick your lips. Blink rapidly, disoriented, as if snatched from a trance.

“I asked if you were alright?” 

Your lips crook with a shadow of a smile. You pat her hand on your wrist, tamping down the anxiety that swells like a tumultuous wave in your chest. 

“Fine,” you murmur to assuage her worries. She doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t press, letting you go after ensuring you won’t fall. 

You look back, expecting to see those eyes drilling into your soul. Expecting that heavy feeling in your stomach, expecting your breath to abandon you once more and the world to spin beneath your feet. But you’re remiss to see he’s gone, swallowed up by the crowd as if he was never there in the first place. 

With all the stress looming over your shoulders —the missions, the changes to your dynamic with your boss, the newest addition to your family—you’re sure you’re imagining things. Your mind’s playing tricks on you, trying to cope with the weight of your job. With the repressed trauma. The unreturned feelings. Seeking an out. A little reprieve. 

How the hell could a dead man come back to life? And why would he be here, of all places, haunting you like a specter with unresolved business? 

You really should stop drinking before you perform. 

—

It’s a typical Saturday night at Lux. 

Nothing seems amiss; no fights to break up, no opposition to snuff out. 

Sylus is safely tucked in his second-floor office, watching bodies sway behind the one-way, ceiling-to-floor window. 

It’s soundless inside—soundproof walls—save for his steady breathing and the typically erratic thud of his heartbeat. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he stands in a casual slouch, gaze uninterested. He almost wishes something would pop off. A breakup in the monotony, a reason to get his hands dirty. An excuse to flex his fingers, to ruffle the expensive pleat of his shirt. 

He catches sight of you in his periphery. The knock of your hips, how you drag your hands down the devastating curvature of your body. A smirk pulls at his lips. If nothing else, he can count on you to keep him entertained. His gorgeous distraction. His glittering, murderous doll poised to strike at the snap of his fingers.

He leans closer to the crisp glass, static prickling his face, and he’s entranced by that sultry smile. How you shine like a constellation, brighter than Lux’s other dancers, capturing the intrigue and envy of all those subjected to your performance. He falls prey to it, too. Then again, he’s always been a victim. Always been under your spell, even without the influence of your Evol. 

He doesn’t know when it started. The steady creep of feelings, the burning need to protect you. But it’s there, a pleasant, heavy pressure in his chest. A feeling he thought himself long dead to. 

He’s about to leave his office to draw you down from the counter, but—

His amusement peters when you turn and stiffen. When your hands fall listlessly at your sides, and even from this vantage point, he makes out your mouth falling open. He’s closer now, his nose nearly pressing into the glass. He squints, trying to glean what’s caught your attention. The muscles in his jaw flex and strain when he catches sight of a figure clad in white adjacent to you, stiff as stone.

Alarm bells sound in his head. He doesn’t like the way this man watches you. How his gaze lingers too long, and he can feel the tense set of your shoulders as if he’s filling your skin. Irritation thins his lips. He conquers the space between the window and the office’s door in three brisk strides, the swell of music from downstairs flooding inside.

He takes the staircase leading to the first floor two-by-two, urgency powering him forward. But by the time he reaches the floor—by the time he wends through the crowd, pushing towards you, searching above the bodies pressing against him for that haunting streak of white—the figure is gone. Vanished like a breath out as if he’d never been there. 

Sylus’ gaze snaps to you. He’s still a ways off; you hadn’t noticed him. He watches the dancer beside you try to calm you down. Watches as you anxiously sweep an errant lock of hair behind your ear—as you peer over your shoulder in search of something. How your expression dampens when you find nothing, and your shoulders slump.

Something’s got you spooked. 

Sylus stands in the midst of the dance floor for a bit longer, studying you as if you’ll disappear, too, if he looks away for too long. 

He doesn’t like this feeling—this unease curdling in his gut. 

Who and what was that? And why does he feel like it’s not the last of it?

—

It was supposed to be a typical exchange—a simple negotiation for a plot of land on the outskirts of the city. 

You weren’t entirely sure what Sylus intended to do with it, but you usually kept your questions to yourself. He’d fill you in on the intricacies of his plan as he saw fit. 

For now, you stand in good form behind him, hands clasped together in front of you. His secret weapon in case things get dicey. His right hand in case you’re needed.  

He sits in a red leather, pin-cushioned armchair, languidly sipping on his bourbon, his hair standing out beneath the lazy drag of the low light. You’d normally admire him from your vantage point—the line of his shoulders, that wispy sweep of hair, the virility he exudes without trying. But tonight, you’re tight-lipped and contemplative. Straight-backed as you wait for his guests, mind slinking back into the happenings of three nights ago.

You finally began to settle. Excused the specter you saw as a trick of the light, as a product of exhaustion and shitty eating. There was no way he could still be alive—the shadow from your past. And even if he were, he wouldn’t have waited so long to resurface. 

Would he?

“I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, sweetie,” drawls Sylus above the languid croon of the music inhabiting the office. 

He breaks through the noise of your mind, and you blink as if being drawn from a daze.

There’s a teasing fringe to his voice. You don’t have to fully see him to know he’s smirking, that devastating, charming pull to his lips. He turns his head slightly over his shoulder, peering at you. “What’s on your mind?”

You clear your throat, shifting your weight between your feet. He’s caught you drifting off again. He’s good at that, reading your silence, feeling the tension stretching between your shoulders.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?” he says after some time in deliberating silence. 

You know he means to press. He wants to, but he doesn’t—a part of him you admire. He never pushes you past what you’re willing to give. Never pries into your past, never drills into your skull, trying to discern what makes you tick. He very well could, the power of his right eye glowing a sinister shade of red when he cracks into the minds of his enemies. But he’s never used his power on you, at least from what you’ve gleaned, and you respect him even more for being ever patient with you.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie through your teeth. Lips quirk, though the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. 

His mouth hovers around words as if he means to protest. He knows you better than you think. But he doesn’t get the chance to pry when the door to his office swings open, drawing your shared attention to it. 

You watch as a stout man strides in behind Kieran, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looks unassuming. You roll your shoulders back, the tension once coiled in your limbs slowly unfurling. You don’t know what you were expecting. What you were hoping for, and you’re about to relax before another figure strolls in behind the gentleman. Unmistakable, tall, shouldered. 

Your breath catches.

The man’s eyes flick to you, briefly drinking you in. You don’t miss the glimmer of softness, the belying of emotions behind a rigid exterior. You watch him sit in the armchair adjacent to Sylus beside the older gent with glasses, and you can’t fucking breathe.

Yunho. 

His name echoes like an old hymnal—a forgotten praise—in your mind. Something tucked away in the furthest hulls of your subconscious, dredging up memories you’d long since compartmentalized.

Under different circumstances, you might’ve fainted. Instead, you tamp down the swell of fear in your chest. The lump of emotion blocking your throat. The heaviness of your tongue. He’s here—he’s real. He’s not dead, presented as flesh and bone before your very eyes, and you weren’t losing your shit that night at Lux when you saw him.

Your body hums with pressure, with static. You feel dizzy as if your legs could give way at any moment. You feel sick. Yet you maintain your poise, your decorum. You avert your eyes to the floor when Yunho’s gaze flits to you every so often as if he’s trying to convey something. Trying to make up for years of leaving you in the dark, for leaving you to fend for yourself, to pick up the jagged shards of your heart alone when you thought he was mere bone and dirt.

The meeting drags on with an unbearable tenseness. You feel like you’re out of your body throughout. You don’t follow what all three men are on about, too busy battling the static brewing between your eyes and your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of Yunho’s gaze when he thinks no one’s the wiser.

—

He’s grateful when the negotiations conclude, Sylus is. He hates these things—the pleasantries that go into them, the small talk before he can take what he needs.

He shakes the stout man’s hand with a rehearsed pull to his lips, sealing the deal. The land will be signed over to him without incident. Good. He’s been itching to open a new club just for you. Knows you’ve been dying to have something of your own, a place with your name in scrolling Marquee outside.

He reaches over the glass-top coffee table to shake the hand of the younger man who had accompanied the landowner, and it’s like he’s been electrified when their palms meet. It’s a familiar, uncomfortable surge of static pushing up his arm, curling in his chest. 

Sylus stiffens, eyes shooting up. He locks on to irises that remind him of blackened tar pits. Soulless. Yet behind the aloofness lies a heated intensity that would burn through flesh if Sylus were anyone but himself. He’s thrown back to the memory of three nights ago at Lux when he’d caught the same feeling after chasing away whatever spooked you.

Sylus squeezes his hand a little more firmly than necessary, a slight divot forming between his brows. The gentleman’s stare is equally unrelenting, and it’s like he knows something. He doesn’t miss how his gaze flicks over Sylus’ shoulder to briefly take you in before he releases his hand, and both men depart, leaving you and Sylus buried in heavy stillness. 

He’d been doing that quite a bit, that man. Sneaking little glances at you, sometimes lingering while Sylus was deep in conversation. He didn’t like it one bit, the way his gaze felt like it was stripping through your clothes. But he said nothing—you were a far cry from unsightly. It was only natural that other men couldn’t keep their eyes off you, couldn’t contain their intrigue. But this felt…different. 

He rolls the stiffness from his jaw as he stands up straight, hands stuffed in his pockets, still staring at the afterimage of his two guests long after they departed.

The strain in your body was palpable, too. He felt it rolling off you in waves, crashing into his back. Didn’t miss how you shifted your weight between your feet, the rustle of fabric behind him, an occasional tight breath slipping through your lips as unease fell onto your person. 

It’s unlike you to be so out of sorts. So on edge. So he breaks the quiet lull between you by clearing his throat and swiftly turning to face you, a question perched on his tongue. He nears you with measured strides. Paces towards you almost like a predator cornering prey, and the way you glance down to avoid the smolder of his gaze makes something pull in his chest.

“Who was that?” he simply asks, trying to mask the tinge of bitterness in his tone. His expression slackens when you look away, your jaw moving, and you’re squeezing your fingers at your back, so much the tips turn white.

You push out a weighted sigh, your voice shaky and sticky, as if you might cry. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, but you fall silent, unease etching into your features.

He’s close now. So close, your perfume curls around him, the welcomed heat from your smaller frame permeating his skin. He wars with himself for a moment. Turns over his subsequent actions in his mind like an old vinyl before softly pinching your chin between his forefinger and thumb. He tilts your head back until you’re forced to look at him from beneath those ruinous lashes, and the wet gleam of your eyes is enough to make his stomach flip. Make the tendons in his neck pull.

“Talk to me,” he coaxes. Gentle like he’s persuading a lover to reveal the inner mechanisms of their mind to him. He knows you’re not okay. Wants to get to the bottom of your flightiness. Wants to help in any way he can. He’s not used to seeing you so stone-faced and avoidant. 

You relinquish a breath, lips quivering. You search his eyes, and he wants nothing more than to draw you into the circle of his arms. To cover you like a blanket on a winter's day, to absorb you. 

“A ghost,” you say on a shaky whisper. As if saying it is taboo, like it’ll conjure him back into existence. 

Sylus’ brows furrow. He prides himself on not delving into your past life. But, dammit it all, he’s never burned to know about what molded you into the person you are today more.

His gaze falls to your lips as they wobble. He wants to kiss them. Wants to take whatever anguish plagues you into his own body. Wants to kiss away whatever worries you have into oblivion. But he’s not sure how you would feel about that. If you’d push him away and completely shut him off from your heart. He’s made his intentions clear, his feelings for you—at least, he thinks he has. He’s been patient, waiting for you to come around. Waiting for you to want him as much as he yearns for you.

You draw him from the slurry of his thoughts when your fingers suddenly curve around his wrist. Soft, cautious, scorching through layers of flesh. A tired smile rounds your lips. You pull his hand away from your face, glancing down.

“I’m alright. It’s nothing to worry about. I—just need to get a little rest. Clear my head. Don’t worry about me.”

You brush past him without another word, and his fingers are poised at your back when you leave as if to stop you. When the door clicks shut with your departure, his fingers curl inward towards his palm into a loose fist before falling listlessly at his side. 

“A ghost, huh?” he murmurs to no one in particular, the words heavy and acrid on his tongue. He doesn’t notice the smoky threads of his Evol leaking off him, spurred by the ire slowly building in his chest.

like if you save, please

it takes two | sylus & mc

sum: “sylus likes you,” she says offhandedly, toying with the second button of your blouse. you scoff. humor her, lips pulling. “what makes you say that?” “because i like you.”

cw: non-mc reader, female reader, girls love girls, cunnilingus, p-in-v, threesome, fingering, explicit language, clit slapping, oocness, 3.2k of filth, spawned by this ask, not proofread, mdni

now playing: bolero - bathe

Emcee’s smiling, and you know this won’t end well.

It’s mischievous how she sways her hips like that, pushing through Lux’s private room like she owns it. The other dancers part for her like a school of fish as she makes her way to you, slinking away like they know something you don’t.

She plops onto your lap like you’re her throne as the swinging doors slide shut, siphoning the air from your lungs. Drapes her arms around your shoulders, gaze bleeding sin. 

Instinctively, your hands drop to her waist to brace her, and you bounce her on your lap into a more comfortable position. Sink back into the red leather cushions of the loveseat, her body sliding further up your thighs with the shift.

Her smile is infectious. Melts away your surprise, making way for a sly curve of your lips. You get a whiff of her perfume, the conditioner in her hair, as she leans close until your noses bump, hair tickling your collarbones. 

You’ve got a face full of teeth and bad intentions. Her laughter is bewitching, furling in your stomach like the smoke occupying the red-tinged atmosphere, and the other girls trickle out of the room with knowing cants to their lips over her shoulder. 

“I’ve got an idea,” she murmurs beneath the thumping music, blurring back into focus, breath fanning over your already warmed cheeks, your lips. 

You lift a brow, studying her mouth. Back to her eyes. “Really?” you reply, intrigued. Enamored.

She nods slowly, a hand slipping from your shoulder to splay against your sternum. Fingers the second button of your blouse until it slips free.

“Sylus likes you,” she says offhandedly.

You scoff, sticky, disbelieving. She must’ve been drinking, because there’s no way in hell your boss likes you like that. Not when he looks at her like she’s the center of his universe, the star he orbits in slow, methodical rotations. 

Sure, you’ve quietly pined for him for years. Followed in his shadow like an obedient mastiff, ever faithful, ever watchful. But you could never imagine him returning your affections. Not with your hands stained red and scars littering your skin.

You humor her, lips pulling. “What makes you say that?” 

Emcee laughs, throwing her head back, hair spilling off her shoulders, as if you’ve said the funniest shit. You get a look at her throat, the tendons jumping there. Your mouth waters. Thighs twitch beneath her warm weight.

You track the glide of her fingers along your cheek, the slope of your jaw, in your peripheral vision until they curl around your chin, tilting your head back, and you’re faced with irises that bubble like heated liquid. 

“Because I like you.”

You’ve barely time to process the implications on her tongue before she’s pushing it into your mouth. Soft yet insistent. Commanding in a way that leaves you fucking spinning, out of your mind, sighing all hot into her mouth, fingers tight on her hips.

She kisses like bonfires and sea sprays. Like peaches growing beneath the sun, like drive-in movies in the summer, a band-aid on nicked skin. She sucks the air from your lungs into her own body like it’s hers. You can’t get a grip on things, for she’s shifting on your lap until she’s straddling you, full thighs bracketing yours, hands cupping your cheeks to keep your face in place.

You kiss her with equal fervency. Or at least, you try to. You pull, stroke, and bunch up the back of her blouse in favor of the supple glide of her skin, lost in the wet swipe of her tongue, in the slow-weighted roll of her hips, in the husky, pleasured sounds she bleeds into your mouth.

She’s pulling at the lapels of your blazer, and you catch her cue, leaning forward to help her tear the offending garment off your shoulders. You pulse beneath her, her mouth slanting possessively over yours, fingers threading into your hair, pulse roaring, nipples unbearably tight. 

Emcee tears away from the hot suction of your mouth with a sticky click, and you catch a glimpse of her lips glossed with spit in the low light. She blisters your chin with pecks before she finds her way to your neck. Sucks and nibbles on your throat, tongue licking out to ease welting skin, before she’s at it again—a vampire trying to siphon your life force through your skin. 

You exhale, craning your neck back, eyes sliding shut. You don’t know what you’ve done to warrant such treatment. But you don’t deter it, fingers curling around her ass to encourage her to grind against you. And she’s ruthless in her assault, bearing down on your lap, pussies dragging across each other, drawing the sweetest little noise from your throat. A laugh, disbelieving, breathy.

She busies herself with pulling your blouse buttons free as her mouth seals around your pulse point, sucking, licking, wide, wet. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been at this—making out with your partner, your charge, like some hormonal teen. But your head lolls forward, the space beyond her shoulder blurring and bending until you’re able to make out discernible shapes and colors through the haze, and, oh shit— 

“Really?” rolls a voice so deep, so enthralling, it disturbs the dust particles around you. Like the crackle of a fire burning through the underbrush, and you feel it curdling in your chest. 

Shock ripples through you once you put things together. Cold mortification. You sit up, Emcee not at all perturbed by his entry, by your rigidness, her fingers crawling over your sides and down to your hips after she’s pushed your shirt open, baring your torso to the crisp air.

Your mouth spills open, a slurry of excuses on your tongue, face heated. 

Sylus watches the pair of you from the bridge of his nose, arms crossed over a broad chest, finger tapping his bicep, hip cocked out like an impatient parent. He quirks an offended brow, lips thinned with mild irritation, and he’s a dangerous, dark cutout of power amid the steady scrawl of smoke. Satan incarnate, limned by Lux’s customary red glow, the columns casting ominous shadows across his face, that right eye glowing a corrupted shade of scarlet. 

You wince when Emcee sucks on your shoulder, the wet sound of it jarring, and a pitiful noise is pinched from your throat. Before you can offer an explanation, beg for your life, Sylus sighs, dropping his hands at his sides, seemingly resigned. He crosses the room in measured strides, like a panther prowling through a jungle, not once releasing you from the intoxicating pull of his gaze.

The cushions on the loveseat dip beneath his weight when he plops beside you, draping a long arm along the backrest, still staring like he’s witnessing the ultimate betrayal. What audacity you two must have, getting along without him.

You watch with a constricted throat as he snatches up the whiskey glass, stained with condensation, you’d been nursing earlier, dumping its contents down his throat in one go.

He scowls like a child who didn’t get his way after he sets the glass down with a definitive clack. And finally, finally, with your cheeks in her hands, Emcee draws back, face smooshed up against yours, smile wicked, playful. All teeth and sin, like a youth caught doing something they were clearly warned against.

Your pulse thunders in your ears. Mouth hovers around words that never come. Sylus could kill you with a snap of his fingers for touching his girl like this. For being so brazen in his club, in his territory, getting all handsy without his permission. 

You flinch, anticipating your demise. But it doesn’t come, and you peek an eye open, surprised to see he’s redirected his ire to the little temptress in your lap.

There’s something in their staredown. A quiet exchange you’re not in on as they study each other’s faces, brows and mouths twitching as if they’re inwardly mulling over something together. A war of the minds, a muted battle, almost like telepathy, and you’re their unwilling hostage. 

You feel like prey between two predators. Carrion waiting to be picked clean, hands stiff and wide around Emcee’s waist. She giggles again, her breasts warm and doughy as they push up against yours, and you cast her a warning look. This is no time to be laughing. No time to taunt the Devil when your life's on the line.

Sylus’ gaze slides to you, and you’re stricken. Something cold spills into your belly, branching down to occupy your nether regions at the weight his eyes carry. They’re hooded. Slip into a mysterious shade of garnet as he tilts his head down to scrutinize you, lips slightly parting, brows pinched in the inner corners. 

You blink wildly when, in one fluid motion, Sylus snatches Emcee from your lap onto his. You’re remiss of the warmth of her body despite the moment, watching wide-eyed as Sylus tugs her close to nip at her throat.

She snorts, burying her fingers in his collar, clinging to him as he dips her back to bite her shoulder. 

You feel like you shouldn’t be here. Like you’re impeding on something intimate, a glacial spike of disappointment lancing through you. But those eyes slide to you again, punching the air from your lungs, petrifying you. And you can’t recall a time you’ve ever seen him so…

Ravenous? Needy? Towards you?

There is no warning. No preamble when long digits curl around the nape of your neck, when rigid features pan in. He tugs you to him, sealing his lips to yours, tongue probing the wet cavern of your mouth, swallowing up the surprised little noise you make. 

Your shoulders drop once the shock peters. And you know you’ve lost your shit because you’re kissing him back. Your boss. Your employer. The focal point of your affections, your fantasies. You’re kissing him, tangling your tongues, pushing a breath into his mouth, tearing your fingers through his silken locks.

He groans into your mouth as if he’s waited lifetimes to kiss you. To experience you like this, and Emcee’s like a little imp, snickering as she occupies her fingers with unbuttoning his shirt, with sinking her teeth into his ear, dragging them across his lobe.

Sylus pulls away, lips imparting on a journey down your neck, blazing a path opposite where Emcee branded you. He sinks his teeth into your collarbone, and you toss your head back for the second time that night, breath all shaky, mind turning to smog. 

He alternates between kissing you and Emcee, and the positions are awkward as he tries his best to hold you both in the wide span of his arms on his lap. Tries his damndest to divvy up the attention, never leaving either of you enough time to catch your breath. 

You’re on your knees now on the cushions, lips sealed around his throat once Emcee’s set his pretty, warm ivory skin free. She’s opposite you, licking up his neck, along his jaw, and you pulse when he releases a shuddering breath, voice all ragged, pretty lashes sweeping over inflamed cheeks.

He’s gripping you both. Palms full of ass as the pair of you render him speechless with the devious scrape of your teeth, hands smoothing down his sculpted chest, his stomach, to knead the thick of him pulsing in his pants.

You part every so often from the salty tang of his skin to kiss Emcee, tongues wriggling, messy, giggling. Sylus humps into your kneading palms when you get too distracted, sighing so pretty, voice so sexy, so guttural, so needy. 

He’s leaning towards you now, ingesting you with those dangerous eyes before he pushes you down. Eases you onto your back, and Emcee’s crawling off his lap so he can moor you to the loveseat with his weight.

He’s kissing you again before you can catch your breath. Like snuffed out hearth fires, like the shifting gears of a muscle car, like the welcomed burn of brandy at the back of your throat. He notches himself between your splayed open legs, rolling his hips until the thick of him throbs against your swollen labia, and you see stars.

He’s commanding in everything he does. A steady, comforting pressure, swallowing you whole with overwhelming heat and the meticulous stroke of his palms. And you feel you’re dreaming, pulling at his neck, his shoulders, your body undulating like the lazy lap of waves against him. 

You almost forget she’s in the room—the source of this debauchery. Almost, until she’s maneuvering herself behind you on the loveseat, settling your head onto her lap, petting through your hair, laughing so sweet. 

Sylus flows like smoke, perching himself on sturdy palms to kiss her over you. And where you should feel left out, jealous of their unspoken bond, you burn, watching their mouths fuse, their tongues dance, hearing the sounds of their pleasured sighs taking place overhead.

He returns his attention to you, forgoing your mouth to brand your throat with kisses, down your shoulder, towards the swell of one breast. 

You arch against his mouth when he bites down, eyes hooded, peering up at the beauty overtop you. She’s all smiles, messy hair, swollen lips, before she angles herself down to steal the taste of your lips. And she’s got your nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, twisting through the lacy drag of your bra. 

You bite your lip, so deliciously out of it. The attention’s too much, the scenery hazy, your mind slowly disconnecting itself from your body, ascending.

Sylus is on a mission, blistering kisses down the ripple of your rib cage, groaning with each press of his lips like you’re a meal worth savoring. Down, down, down he ventures, teeth scraping the meat of your belly near your navel, before he lines the stretch of skin just above the cut of your slacks with reverent kisses. 

You lift your hips to help him pull your slacks off once he’s unlatched your belt and snatched the button free. And you can’t focus with his lips so close to your cunt, with his breath so hot, kissing where labia meets thigh, groaning at the earthy scent permeating through your damp panties.

Emcee pulls your tits free from your bra, kneading them in lazy arcs, testing their weight, their fullness, pushing them together, occasionally swiping her thumbs over your puckered nips. 

Her gaze simmers like heated liquid when she wets her fingers with her tongue, doubling down on her nipple-pinching efforts. And you’re rocking your hips, one hand reaching up for purchase of her blouse. Something to cling to while Sylus swipes his tongue up the seam of your cunt. 

Before you can think, Emcee’s on her knees beside you on the floor, licking your nipple into her mouth, massaging your unattended breast with her free hand, gaze unyielding as she watches you like something to be devoured. A meal to be licked clean, not a morsel left to spare. 

Sylus has your panties off and flung somewhere on the stage in the room’s center. And he’s gazing at you with equal desire, drawing your thigh onto his brawny shoulder, nosing your pretty, sticky cunt. 

He breathes against your muff, the heat of his breath making you twitch and throb, and you wiggle your hips pathetically, not sure if you want his mouth on you or off. 

In hindsight, this still feels so very wrong. Sandwiched between your boss and your partner. The catalyst for your heartbreak and your envy. But is it really so wrong if they’re both here, ravaging you like a prime cut of meat, writing the most sinful words of all against your body with their mouths? With the reverent scrawl of their fingers?

“Relax, sweetheart,” Emcee coos, dragging her mouth to pay similar homage to your other nipple. “Let us take care of you for once,” she breathes around your teat, fingers sliding down your stomach to tap your swollen cunt.

Once, twice, and your hips surge off the couch. And Sylus is there with that hot, devastating mouth to catch you, groaning into you, palms cupping your ass to keep you sealed to him as he spreads you open with a sweltering, wide tongue.

Your fingers instinctively thread through his hair as you ruck your hips up, humping against his mouth, calves strained as you roll on the tips of your toes. 

A moan swells in your throat. Emcee swallows it, having abandoned your pretty tits to push her tongue into your mouth, to render you speechless. She disconnects to suck on your throat, your pulse point. Crawls back overtop you, her clothed pussy pushing into your face as she pitches herself forward to spread your labia apart for Sylus to draw your clit into his mouth.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You’re desperate, one hand curled around Emcee’s thick thigh, quietly beseeching her to put something in your mouth. You’re eager for a taste, eager to please, to reciprocate. She peers down at you with pitying eyes, lips crooked in a smirk.

She leaves you momentarily to shimmy out of her shorts, panties sticky and kicked off, before bracketing your head with either of her legs. The earthy aroma of her cunt fills your nostrils before you bury your face in her muff, sucking, licking, and nipping to mirror Sylus’s mouth on you.

You lose it when a thick finger tests the pucker of your cunt before dipping inside. He digs a little deeper with each pump of his finger until he’s knuckle-deep inside you. And you’re remiss of the hot suction of his mouth before the sticky click of mouths fusing reaches you. Instead of Sylus’ lips sealing to the seam of your cunt, a smaller mouth wraps around your clit, wrenching the sluttiest little sound from your throat.

They work in tandem to undo you. Alternate whose mouth is on you, whose fingers are in the tight clench of pussy, before both their tongues attack your clit. They feast on you, groaning like they’re appreciative of the meal. You can’t focus, releasing Emcee’s clit to bite down on her inner thigh, eyes screwed shut, fingers tight on her thighs.

You break at the seams, that sparkling feeling washing over you. Pins and needles in your extremities, vision white, voice lodged in your throat as you cum. 

By the time you return to your skin, float down, chasing the even push of your breath, Emcee’s hovering over your legs. Hands braced on either side of your hips, face screwed up in pleasure. 

She’s so gorgeous, panting like that, tits bouncing, Sylus’ fingers bruising, tight on her hips. She’s reaching for your hand as Sylus takes her from behind, and from your vantage point, you can’t tell where he ends and she begins. 

You twine your fingers with hers, still descending, and you smile. A sloppy, enamored, tired thing, holding tight as their grunts and whimpers salt the air. The clop of wet skin to skin stains the air, breathiness, pleasure,

Your gaze slides up, blurry, body boneless, and Sylus studies you, mouth hanging open with the effort of breathing. Even long after Emcee’s fallen onto her stomach, wrapping her lips around your clit for something to muffle her voice, the power of Sylus’ thrusts too much to bear, he watches you, a reverent, hungry gleam to his eyes. It borders predatory, a silent threat: you’re next. 

You throb, smile crazed, fingers filtering through Emcee’s hair to hold her in place.

You’re counting on it.

yuta & taehyung, unhealthy relationship | — you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love.

heartbeat between your teeth

Summary: A pleasant afternoon with your husband is rudely interrupted by a phone call.

or; Disco interrupts your beach day tryst with a very inconvenient call. Neither of you are particularly concerned with the panic of the auction house; you'd much rather indulge in pleasures of the flesh, and talk of your (seventh) spontaneous wedding.

wc: 3.8k~ (SICKENING)

cw: fem!reader (AFAB + she/her pronouns), light mentions of (canon typical) human trafficking and drugs, mentions of violence, spoilers for sabaody arc!, reader is morally grey, some violent imagery, mentions of food, smut, praise, feminine petnames ('good girl', etc), light dacryphilia, light come eating, fingering, p in v, overstim, low-key dumbification(?) reader has a thing for hands

AN: majority of the phonecall dialogue is pulled directly from doffy's cameo in saboady. also shoutout to nyla (@ofoceansandtombsanew) for helping me with doffy's spanish dialogue because my spanish is. less then stellar LMAO you're a real one girl <33 (english TL is in the end notes!)

heart divider is by the lovely @/enchanthings ! mdni banner by @/arminsumi !

The sea is in good spirits today, and so are you.

You watch the gentle lull of the tide against the shore. Doffy picked a good spot: your shared folding chair is tucked neatly beside a little glass table, whose attached umbrella spared you from the worst of the sun. The rest of the family is out of sight and mind; it’s quiet without their antics but you're both grateful for this rare moment of privacy. It would be a long while before another chance presented itself like this, so you pounced on it, ushering those who didn’t want to stay onboard the ship into town (and Doffy putting up a mini Birdcage just to be sure). And so you find yourself sprawled across your husband's lap, legs dangling over the arms of the chair, savoring every sun-soaked second alone like a rare delicacy.  

The island you’ve stopped at is an easygoing one. A nice change of pace from the chaotic highs and lows of the Grand Line’s open waters. It’s something plucked straight from a postcard– lush palm trees dancing with the breeze, streaks of white clouds spilled against the blue of the sky like paint on a canvas. It’s warm, but pleasantly so; enough to soften the tension in your shoulders. A distant seagull cries out in what you decide is delight at the good weather.

Beneath you, Doffy shifts, his big hand stroking fondly at your thigh. He lingers at the border of your sundress but keeps his touch tame. "I hope that smile is my doing," he says, and you feel your grin widen at the pleasant rumble of his voice. 

"Well, it is now," you giggle. "I was just thinking about how happy the birds are today."

He chuckles, dimples peeking out. "The birds?"

"The seagulls, specifically. I hear them singing about how nice the weather is."

"Ah, I see. I wasn’t aware that you spoke seagull.”

“It isn’t too difficult of a language. Most of it is screaming, really. Sometimes for food other times to warn one another of predators–or, like today, sometimes they just scream for joy.”

“I thought they were singing?’

“Screaming is singing in their culture.”

Doffy laughs, a sound like rolling thunder. “However did you become so acquainted with the particulars of seagull culture?”

“Trebol and Diamante,” you deadpan. “They aren’t seagulls but with the way they eat they may as well be.”

He hums. The conversation ebbs away with the tide. You nestle into the comforting silence and the crook of your husband’s shoulder. The buttons on his shirt are half-way undone and you take advantage of his exposed skin; Doffy’s heat is soothing, cozy in the way a fireplace is on a wintry night. You press your cheek to it with a contented sigh. He slides his palm up your leg and lets it settle at your hip. Your fingers decide they want to wander too, so they creep up his stomach to his chest, tracing lazy circles over his heart. Doffy gives you a squeeze in return and kisses the crown of your head.

“We still have some time before we need to report back in,” he murmurs into your hair. “Where would you like to go next?”

“Do we have to go anywhere at all? I’m more than content right here.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmhmm.” You press an open mouthed kiss to his throat. He gives you another squeeze. “I quite like this little island. They have a nice beach,” kiss, “and mangos,” kiss, “that one bookstore looked cute,” kiss, “and did you hear? Their honorary mayor is a cat named Señor Bigotes. Señor Bigotes, Doffy! Is that not the most adorable thing you’ve ever heard?”

Mischief pulls his lips into a smirk. “I can think of a few things actually–” and without warning, his hand shoots up to fondle your breast. A startled sound leaps from your throat, a breathy thing somewhere between a whine and a yelp. “ –that sound being one of them.” 

You smack at his bicep. “Ass!”

Not a shred of remorse is reflected in his sunglasses. “Would you have me any other way?”

You sigh, not without fondness. “I suppose not. But, like I was saying, I’m just fine staying here.”

He nods. “Then it’s here we’ll stay,” he says, and that was that. Once Doffy made up his mind about something there was nothing anyone could do to change it. 

“And since we’re staying…” gently, he tilts your head up by the chin. “Why don’t we get married?”

You just manage to hold back a laugh. Seven times Donquixote Doflamingo has asked you to marry him. All seven times you have said yes. And so you have had seven different weddings, on seven different islands, followed by seven different honeymoons. And yet each time he asks this question, it is with the same tenderness and sincerity as the first. As if he were cracking himself open and inviting you to hold his bloody, beating heart. 

You press your palm flat over the space where it beats. A steady tune drums beneath his skin; your favorite song. 

(Sometimes, you think that if he could, he would pull it from the cage of his ribs and give it to you. Sometimes, you wish you could do the same for him. Give yourself to him in whole.)

“You flatter me, Doffy,” you coo. “Really? You’d do it again?”

His mouth twitches down. “Are you doubting me?”

“No, never.”

“Then what’ll it be?”

You really do laugh this time–he sounds so serious. “Do you honestly have to ask? My answer will always be the same; you should know that by now!”

His grin is as brilliant as a diamond. “Is that a yes?”

Something soft and petaled unfurls between your ribs. You answer with a kiss– a proper one, this time. He tastes like sea salt and the syrupy sweet of mango juice. Groaning, he kisses back heatedly. He cradles your head to pull you in deeper, closer. You allow him to guide you in, shifting to straddle his waist.

You're flushed tight against each other, no room for air; it’s not enough. You want to pry open your chest cavity like an oyster and tuck him safe inside you, your treasure. You want him to eat your heart like a pomegranate so you can lick the red of your life from his chin. You want to meld to him like the fabled soulmates of Plato, four arms, four legs, two souls as one.

You want him to fuck you. 

Thin cotton is the only barrier between your clothed sexes. He twitches under you, already eager to bury himself inside you. Arousal coils tight in your core. You give your hips a languid roll, deepening the kiss. Wandering hands run down your back, dip beneath your dress–

Pere-pere-pere-pere-pere! Pere-pere-pere-pere-pere!

Doffy's head lolls back with a frustrated groan. You bite your cheek, holding back a curse. 

The snail transponder. 

It had sat, mostly ignored, next to his drink on the table. Now it springs to life, stalked eyes wide and alert, it's droning a reminder of other priorities. Reluctantly, you situate yourself in your original positions. Doffy gives the device a withering glare; pleasure will have to wait for business. 

"Someone had better be dead," he grumbles, snatching the receiver.

Before Doffy can even get a word in there's an explosion of noise. A man's voice babbling almost incoherently. You catch the words Sabaody, and pirates, but everything else slips through your fingers with his sniveling. 

“Stop blubbering and tell me the situation,” Doffy cuts in. “State your name and business!”

The man on the other end coughs, a wet rasping noise that reminds you of rusted blades. “Th..this is Disco, reporting from the Auction House in Sabaody Archipelago!” Disco takes a gasping breath. “Mister Doflamingo! We need you here right now! It’s terrible–the biggest disaster we’ve ever seen–!” another gasp, “A celestial dragon has been attacked! All of our merchandise has escaped!”

You blink, surprised. Someone attacked a celestial dragon? On Sabaody, so close to the marine base? What kind of idiot would do something like that? 

You see Doffy’s eyebrows perk and know he’s having similar thoughts. “Who?”

“Straw hat,” Disco wheezes. “Straw hat Luffy and his crew.”

‘Straw hat’? That sounded familiar; one of the rookies, maybe? If you think hard enough you can conjure a shaky image in your mind, a wide grin and the red-ribboned hat that gave him his name. You’ll have to ask Doffy about it later.

And from the looks of it, Doffy does know something; he’s laughing. A full bodied, belly deep laugh. 

“This is no laughing matter!” Disco wheezes. You think, idly, that he might have been stabbed. “This is your shop, you know! Mister Doflamingo,” he pleads, shakily, “Where are you right now?! The shop has lost all credibility, and then there’s Roswald’s family too! They’re definitely going to lash out at us–do something to fix things!”

Doffy is still laughing. “Seriously…Human trafficking is so old fashioned, you idiot.” 

“...Eh?”

“It’s all about smiles now!” Doffy explains plainly, as if speaking to a small child. “Smiles!”

Now that you know this isn’t  actually important you’re impatient for this call to end; the excitement from earlier begins to stir once more. You nip at his collar. Doffy glances at you. Locking gazes, you lick a hot stripe up his throat. He grins wickedly at the want in your eyes. “Soon,” he mouths, patting your thigh.

“Disco,” he coos, “I’m giving the shop to you. So don’t be callin’ me anymore!” Another laugh bubbles out of him as you lave your tongue along his jaw. 

“What?!” Disco shrieks, appalled. “You’re abandoning us during the worst crisis we’ve ever had?!”

You feel him tense at the outburst. You rub soothingly at his chest and continue to pepper kisses onto him but this does not dull the sharpness of his tone. “Quiet, you annoying bastard! While you sit there blaming me for your own misfortune, a “New-Era” draws ever closer, Disco-kun. The navy has given orders forcing me–no, us–into active duty!”

Doffy reaches for his mango juice and takes a languid a sip from his straw, giving the ice a swirl. He downs the rest of it with a satisfied “ah!”

“Knowing this, what do you see on the horizon, Disco-kun?” The empty glass clinks heavily against the table. You’re more than a little distracted by the way the sunlight glimmers on his golden bracelet. “The Whitebeard Pirates versus the Seven Warlords of the Sea!”

Again, Doffy laughs, rich and deep. Disco can only gape in shock. Before he can start gibbering again Doffy ends the call. Go-cha! The snail transponder closes its eyes and droops, a puppet with no strings, lifeless. 

“Now then,” Doffy purrs. “I do believe that I was proposing?”

You run a finger down the path of the gold winding down his arm, tracing the curve of his bicep. “Oh, I think you were doing a little more than that.”

“Really?" he smirks. He pulls off his sunglasses, rosy eyes darkened with lust.  "I can’t seem to recall. Care to remind me?”

“But of course.” You move to straddle him once more. This time there is no teasing, no hesitation. Doffy slips a hand beneath your dress skirt and yanks your panties down. The fabric is left bunched mid-way on your legs. You widen your stance a little more, sucking a mark onto his neck, as he traces circles on the inside of your thigh. 

“Doffy,” you whine, leaning into his touch. “Please…”

He ghosts the pads of his fingers along your vulva. They come away slick. “Please what, my sweet?”

Fire burns your cheeks, your neck, your center. You want it to consume you. “Inside,” you plead. “Put ‘em inside me, please.”

He kisses behind your ear. “Good girl.” 

You whine again, pulsing at his words. “Doffy…”

Teeth press against your bottom lip as he finally slips his middle and ring fingers into you. You grasp at his shirt for purchase; their familiar length curls upwards within you, seeking out the spot that makes you see stars. You arch forward, pushing the heel of his palm against yourself in a way that makes your walls clench. He shifts a touch the left; you suck in a breath, eyes fluttering shut. You feel him smirk. There. 

What began as gentle exploration becomes a merciless charge forwards. Rhythmically, he pumps in and out, in and out, striking his target without mercy.

“Come on, sweet girl,” he says hotly into your ear. “Give it to me. Almost there.”

Nails brand red crescent moons into his shoulders. Every part of you burns. If you lose your grip, you think you'll be engulfed by the flames, turn to ash in his arms. You want it more than anything. “Doffy!”

“Almost,” he pants. “So close, just a little more–!”

With a final thrust, you are undone. Pleasure burns you away to nothing. A mewling noise falls from your lips as you scrabble desperately at his back. Cruel fingers wring you for all you can give, continuing their administrations until you’re teetering on the edge of madness, crying your husband’s name with every movement.

There are tears pricking your eyes when Doffy unzips his pants. You whimper, but not in fear. Pearly rivulets of pre-cum trickle down the head of his blushing cock; he’s big, thick too, and throbbing with desire. 

He swipes some onto his thumb. He need not even ask; your mouth is already open and waiting when he presents it to you. “Good girl,” he praises as you lick him clean. It’s a bit salty, but with a sweet undertone. And all yours. 

He pulls out of your mouth and squishes your cheeks, fingers damp with your saliva, to cant your head back. It takes a moment to realize, your mind clouded under the thick haze of passion, but you let out a breathy laugh when it clicks; he’s admiring the teardrops swimming in your eyes. 

“What a sight you are,” he sighs, reverent. “An angel, caught right in my arms.”

All you can manage is a soft moan in response. You feel as if you are both floating and sinking, caught between the height of ecstasy and the depths of hedonism. You think you might be drooling in more ways than one. Le petit mort, some call it. ‘The little death’. If this is what it feels like to die, you would cross into eternity with a smile. 

Doffy positions himself at your entrance, giving his shaft an idle stroke. 

“Do you think you can handle all of me, my angel?” he asks. “Use your words.”

You ball his shirt in your fists, grounding yourself. “Yes,” you manage, nodding. “I can take it, I want it.”

His lips meet yours in a searing kiss. It is want and ache and a bloody heart. “Good girl.”

Slowly, gently, he begins to ease into you. Big hands hold you steady as you take deep breaths. Deeper, deeper, deeper. You welcome all of him into you, feel your walls flutter around each inch as it sinks in. He hisses, twitching, but keeps hold of his last threads of composure. Finally, he stops. 

A tear falls through your lashes. You’re stretched, full, and it feels divine. You squeeze your eyes shut and take in one last deep breath. 

Doffy kisses the wetness from your cheek. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

As always, he starts slow. A careful drag of his hips that has you digging your nails into him again. Then back in. His jaw is ticking in anticipation, wanting more, more, but he keeps the beast muzzled a few moments longer. When you start to bounce on your own, juices running down your legs, he knows you're ready. 

He grips the plush of your hips tight as he grunts, thrusting forcefully into you. All illusions of restraint are shattered; the beast is free, and it is hungry. He pistons into you with such beautiful brutality that you weep, shuddering as another orgasm rips through you like lightning.

You slump onto his shoulder, eyes rolling back as he continues to fuck you. Your body is limp, pliant and soft like fresh clay, his hold the only thing preserving your shape.

“Such a good girl,” he pants, “taking me so well. You want it, huh? Want me to, ngh, fill you up real good?”

Tears are streaming down your face. “Please,” you slur, squeezing around him. 

He curses. Impossibly, he starts to move faster. That familiar tightness builds in your core and you sob as you cum for a third time, pleasure and pain swirling around your skull in an all encompassing mix.

“Doffy,” you gasp, “Doffy, I love you–!”

A burst of warmth floods inside you. “Ngh–fuck!” he curses, stilling as his own climax overtakes him. He rests his chin atop your head, breathing heavily. “Cariño,” he groans. “Mi cariño. Te quiero, ángel. Te quiero demasiado. Tienes todo mi corazón.”

You hug him tight, drink in the tenderness of his words, the comfort of his scent. You hold all that he is in your arms and it is perfect. “I know, Doffy.” You kiss the teeth marks you left on his throat. “You have mine too. I’m all yours.”

You both stay like that for a little while, each recovering from your respective highs, holding one the other for as long as they need. 

When your mixed juices begin to overflow and dribble out of you Doffy shifts, slowly pulling out of you. You come apart with a squelch so lewd that you can’t help but flush. It’s then that you remember that you are exposed in every sense of the word; the beach is thankfully empty thanks to the Birdcage, but still. The open air has you feeling self-conscious, and you hastily pull your underwear back into place. 

Already, his sunglasses are back in place. “No one saw,” he assures, picking up on your nerves. “I would have killed any voyeur that dared to try.”

“I know,” you say, giving your surroundings a hasty look. “Just need to make sure, I guess. I think I might actually die if anyone but you saw me like that!”

“Well, we can’t have that,” he chides. “We have a wedding to attend, remember?”

The petaled thing in your chest blooms once more. “However could I forget?” you swoon, cozying up to his chest. Tucked safely beneath your ear, his heart carries on its familiar music. "When were we thinking? Tomorrow morning?”

“Mm, we wed in the morning last time. I had an evening ceremony in mind.”

You perk up. It paints a pretty picture, making your vows on the bony white sand, starlight dappling the ocean waves. “Could we have it right here, by the shore?” “I don’t see why not,” he shrugs. Then the mischief returns to his voice. “it’s fitting, seeing that we’ve already consummated the marriage here. Perhaps we should commit fully and wear the same clothes?”

You flush, mortified at the thought. “God, no!”

He nudges you teasingly. “Oh come on. It’s not like anyone would know.”

“I would. I would know. And even worse, you would know! And I know you, Doffy, I know exactly how you would act.”

“And how would I act?”

“Like yourself. So, you know. A bastard.”

He grins. “Would you have me any other way?”

You smile, soft. “No, never.”

“Good,” he chuckles, giving your thigh an affectionate pat. Then, after a pause, “I think I’ll wear my black suit. The one with the white overcoat.” 

You trace the rim of his bracelet. “This too?”

“You really do like that piece, don’t you?”

“It draws attention to your hands,” you say dreamily. “And you know how much I love your hands.”

“That I do,” he smirks. As if to prove this point, he holds the one not stroking your thigh up to you. You take it between both of yours and pepper little kisses along his fingertips and knuckles. 

“If this is the kind of treatment it’ll earn me, I’ll wear this everyday,” he chuckles.

“You should,” you hum, pressing your lips to his wrist. “If you do, I will give you ten million kisses every day for ever and ever.”

“When you put it that way, I’d be a fool not to.”

You laugh deviously, rubbing your cheek against his palm like a cat. “All according to plan. Now you have to wear it to the wedding and for the rest of your life!”

“How evil you are,” he snickers. “It appears I’ve finally started to rub off on you.”

“It was inevitable,” you nod solemnly. “All I need is a pink-feathered coat and a Warlord title.”

“Speaking of; I think you should wear your pink dress for the ceremony. Pearls, too.”

“Off the shoulder or lace sleeves?”

“Lace.” He toys with your dress skirt. “I’d appreciate some lace underneath the dress as well.”

“That can be arranged…” You shift to look up at him. “Serious question; do you think we could get Señor Bigotes to officiate?”

Doffy raises an eyebrow. “Darling. I would pull the moon and all its stars from the sky if you asked me to. I think I can manage to wrangle one cat.”

His earnesty makes your breath stutter. You know if you look at him any longer you’ll get too mushy and start crying again, so you snuggle back up to the crook of his neck. Doffy knows when you’ve had enough so lets you retreat. The crashing of the waves is more than enough to fill the silence. The seagulls chime in occasionally, which makes you chuckle.

“We’re getting married,” you sing, after you’ve settled.

He kisses your head. “We are,” he says, in that honey-suckle sweet voice just for you. “We should also get you cleaned up.”

You groan. “But I’m comfortable.”

“And you will continue to be comfortable,” he assures, hooking his arm under your knees. “I’ll carry you.”

You circle your arms around his neck as the world lurches upward. It used to make you nervous, being so far from the ground, but your husband is as strong as he is tall–if not even moreso. He won’t drop you.

“What are we thinking of for the cake?” he asks as he starts toward the ship. “Last time we did a marble so that one is out.”

“Hmm, red velvet?”

“We had that on our fourth.”

“Chocolate?”

“Did that on our first.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, thoughtful. “Vanilla?”

He hums. “Vanilla…simple, but elegant. Vanilla it is.”

You kiss his chest. “We’re getting married,” kiss, “on the beach,” kiss, “with a cat–an office holding cat!–to officiate,” kiss, “and a vanilla wedding cake.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

The beat of his heart thrums steadily by your ear. “Yes. It sounds perfect.”

additional AN: title is from the poem 'devotion' by ocean vuong--you can read it here on poetry foundation !

TL for the spanish portion: "Darling. My darling. I love you, angel. I love you so much. You have all of my heart."

I also participated in the @bokunoherofanzine as well and heres my final piece :D 

My fav trio hangin out playin splats くコ:彡

fancy surprise icons!

“my wife” ft. nanami kento

in which the married man nanami kento cannot stop using every single excuse to call you his wife. he just can’t help it, it sounds really nice.

at the bakery, instead of looking for it he went to the counter to ask, “excuse me, do you have whole wheat bread? my wife prefers that over the plain one.” was there a reason for him to mention you? nope. is he going to to it again? absolutely.

he now brings home cooked lunch to work. the man who usually dreads the small talk from his coworkers now becomes quite eager when they notice the bento and asked him about it. “my lunch looks great? thank you. my wife cooked this for me.”

or when it’s after hours and there’s random talk amongst the workers such as places to visit on vacation. “these are really good recommendations, i’ll have to visit them with my wife if i have the chance.”

when he’s on grocery shop duty after work when you asked him to buy something from the market. kento tasted the one of the sample food and perked up, for two reasons. reason one is that he finds something you’d like, second reason, “where can i find more of this? my wife would love this.”

when a random stranger flirts with him and he didn’t miss a beat to say, “ah, you find me charming? thank you, my wife would agree.”

his phone would ring while he’s occupied in a work discussion and he had the slightest smile on his face as he stood up, “excuse me, my wife is calling.”

the way he always tried to insert you in every conversation even if the topic barely correlates to you. “i seriously almost drowned that day, the beach can be really dangerous,” one of his coworker said, finishing a story. and who would be able to know why kento felt the need to say, “my wife quite likes the beach.”

even in front of mutual friends such as gojo, as he knew the both of you back from high school days. “let me ask my wife first if she wants to come.” oh now it’s gojo’s turn to roll his eyes after so many years he has tormented the blond man with his antics. “you know that i know ‘your wife’ right? that she’s my friend too?” nanami looked at him, “what’s your point?” he deadpanned.

on the most random time of the day, his mind wandered to you as always. “i miss my wife.”

-

guys i think he has a wife