A/N: Behold, I bring you an introspective piece on Morcant and Abolish's relationship! After writing this post, I've been rattling around in my brain a way to explore it further, so wrote this. First line is shamelessly borrowed from LOTR.
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No parent should have to bury their child.
But Morcant is no parent.
He inherited the Veylocke child the same way one might find themselves in possession of a neighbour's aged hound or a great-aunt's prized fine china. All these things were once beloved, their homes lovingly bestowed, but now the space must be carved out of a life already full. The cupboards must be rearranged, the dog walked, and the child...
Morcant is no parent. But he knows a child - a human child, no less - is a needful thing. They bawl and scream and cry, and even once they find their feet and their senses they continue to be wanting. Even accepting all the paltry needs that come with being mortal, they need time. Space.
Attention.
They need tears wiped away. Tempers managed. Night terrors comforted. They need a guardian who will live up to the name in more than just the physical.
And Morcant is none of that.
Sometimes, he thinks the Veylocke child can sense it. This small human, this warped memory of his late friends, who stares at him with Reiah's stubbornness sitting in Alaric's eyes, keeps to himself. He does not reach out. Does not ask. He watches, with those damn eyes that hold both his parents, and lays no verbal judgement.
(And, for all the brevity of his speech, Morcant already knows Abolish talks with his father's voice and his mother's wit.)
(This last reminder of his two friends, two whole and full existences condensed down into this single soul, an echo of an echo, never enough to do anything but resurface the grief.)
Reiah and Alaric's boy is a well-behaved child; all Morcant’s guests and servants say so. They comment, in that well-meaning way of someone reaching for an easy compliment, how quiet he is. How no-fuss. The parents among them share their own woes – of offspring who scream and shout, who flaunt bedtimes and flail at bathtimes – and Morcant knows he is not one of them. He is no parent.
Morcant Thornvale does not know how to raise a child.
Only agents.
(Perhaps he starts Abolish Veylocke too early; most come into the organisation in adulthood, but Morcant does not know what else to do with Reiah and Alaric's son, and – anyway – he takes to it like a duck to water.)
(He is a Veylocke, after all.)
And if there are more ricochets of his old friends sounded off by the training (he scraps like his mother, kicks like his father) then they are discordant, diluted from an education alongside Morcant.
Morcant is no parent.
But, sometimes – sometimes, and getting closer – it is not echoes of Reiah or Alaric he sees in Abolish, but himself. His diplomacy and his quick-footed way around a lie; it has been too long since he has seen his reflection, but sometimes it is like catching the edge of a mirror. Just fragments. Just glimmers.
(A guest passes through Blackwyn and, off-handedly with no cloying motivation, remarks how clearly they can see the familial likeness.)
Morcant is no parent.
And perhaps, if he keeps telling himself that, he might just believe it. Abolish is his ward. His protégé. His employee.
Abolish is in his mid-twenties – a respectable adult age by human standards, if a little young by organisation standards for solo missions – when he travels to Oakhurst. Morcant had spoken of a potential vampire cure, but they had both seen it for the excuse it was. Abolish Veylocke travels to Oakhurst to pay respects to his parents, but some things just look better on paperwork.
It takes months.
(It was never meant to take months.)
It takes months, and the Abolish that returns is not the same Abolish that left. There are new-forged ghosts in his wake, and fresh footprints in his soul, and all are foreign to Morcant. Abolish relays, at first with familiar humour and scathing remarks, the events of those months. Of an abandoned town ravanged by two vampires, the travelling folk turned, one-by-one, and the reckless stupidity of both vampire and human alike.
Of their solution.
The Abolish that returns is still human, but it comes at more of a cost than just a luckless doctor's death.
Running with the organisation naturally carries risk, especially for the mortally-inclined among them. Morcant knows this. Abolish knows this. And yet, while Abolish was human and unturned, there was always the potential to change that. That, before a fatal injury could claim him, before a monster might cleave through his heart, before old age could sink its teeth in, he could be saved. He could live.
Abolish sits before him, with Reiah's stubbornness sitting in Alaric's eyes, his tongue tempered with Morcant’s diplomacy; a cured vampire, wholly and indelibly human.
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Sylus doesn't take breakups lying down. Well... maybe lying on top of you.
[TAGS] sylus x female mc, angst, smut, rough sex, ex-boyfriend!Sylus, cheating (with him) (on Zayne eek), dubcon sorta, choking, Evol, mentions of blood, glasses sylus bc it's soooo hot
[A/N] my debut fic for LADS (have not written for genuinely years so forgive any rustiness, first time doing any smut also, so i was frankly a bit light with it.) More angst than smut tbh as that is my comfort zone hehe. 100% inspired by "pretty" by the weeknd from my sylus playlist
plz reblog and share or comment if you want! Feel free to leave any thoughts or feedback as this is my first time writing in a while :)
[WC] 5.1k
songfic 1/?
Sylus’ call comes unexpectedly. As his calls always did, but especially this time, considering the last time they talked she had cursed him out and damn near trashed his house, saying she was done, telling him to delete her number. He had sat on the couch with an impassive stare, arms crossed, legs splayed leisurely, completely silent. This had just enraged her even further, and she had thrown a pillow at him, desperate for some kind of reaction. He had caught it and set it down next to him calmly, continuing to refuse to give her even a morsel of proof he cared.
Whatever the two of them had had, it was over. She thought she had made that extremely clear. So her eyebrows furrow in confusion and annoyance when his name comes up on her phone screen. Sylus wouldn’t be the type to beg for her back, so what could he possibly be calling her for? Especially when he knew she was going on an out of town mission?
Especially when he knew Zayne was on this mission with her?
Against her better judgment, she accepts the call and leans back in her chair in her hotel room, mouth drawing into an irritated grimace. “What.”
The line crackles with his dark, familiar laughter. “Hello to you too.”
“Talk,” she spits.
“I’m on a flight,” he says. “To where you are. I’ll be landing in an hour. Let’s see each other.”
“I don’t think so,” she retorts immediately, seething at his audacity-- how he could possibly be calling her right now as if what had happened last week was nothing.
“Ah. Let me rephrase. That wasn’t a question,” he says sternly. “I will be seeing you when I land. Consider this a courtesy heads-up.”
“You don’t know where I am,” she responds. “I am not seeing you. It’s late and I have work tomorrow.”
“Don’t piss me off.” He snarls. “I don’t like being underestimated. I obviously know exactly where you are.”
She grits her teeth, realizing she should have anticipated that, but quickly regains her composure. She’s used to the back and forth with him. “Don’t tell me you came all this way to see me.”
“Of course not,” he says coldly. “I’m here on business. I just happen to have a free night.” His voice softens. “And I’d like to spend it with you.”
Her hands curl into fists. “Don’t act like I didn’t tell you to your face to never contact me again. What the hell are you doing?”
Sylus doesn’t respond for a moment, and then the silence is broken with his chuckle. “You didn’t block me. So it seems you weren’t as adamant about that as you acted.”
Her cheeks redden with shame. He’s obviously right, she didn’t block him-- something had stopped her, even though she knew she should have. In the back of her mind, she had maybe fantasized about him calling her desperately, apologizing, begging for her back, and her crushing his hopes coldly like he had done to her so many times before.
“It doesn’t matter. You know I’m with Zayne now,” she says matter-of-factly. “You have no right to see me. I’m with somebody else.”
“I said don’t piss me off,” he bites, the simmer of irritation beginning to seep into his voice. It gives her a shiver of satisfaction knowing that she’s able to get under his skin even just a little. She leans into the receiver.
“In fact, I was just on my way to his place now. It was a long day... we definitely both need to rest up together.”
The line falls quiet, and then Sylus finally replies, voice icy and measured. “You can’t possibly think I’m buying that, are you? Please, princess. I told you I’ll be there in an hour. Doll yourself up for me. I’ll take you out.”
The line drops. She scoffs, shaking her head. She’s pissed that he saw through her lie about Zayne-- he’s still working late, and there’s no way she’ll be seeing him tonight. She wonders what gave it away. Was it that he’s got men spying on them, or was it that her voice betrayed a hint of halfheartedness when she lied?
Her heart thuds, and her mind snaps back to the situation at hand. One hour. She sits still in the seat, completely unsure of her next move. Deep down she knows whether she likes it or not, Sylus will be on her doorstep right when he said he would. It’d be fruitless to attempt to escape him when he has eyes everywhere. So her plan... should be to fend him off.
Her resolve was always weak when it came to that, but she tries to steel herself, taking deep breaths, recounting all the times he had ignored her, pushed her aside, forgotten about her. She tries to channel that resentment into a cold hard shell around her. She won’t be weak again. Not now. Not when she’s found someone good and kind who’s shown her that she’s worth time and effort. She won’t “doll herself up” for him. It’s her turn to show she doesn’t care.
The hour ticks by in a second, and there’s a steady knock on her door. Her heart sinks-- she had hoped that somehow his plans would have been foiled by some unexpected flight delay, but he was right on time as always. She sits still on the corner of her bed, unmoving.
“Don’t make me pick the lock,” he chides softly. His voice is muffled through the wood, but the gleam of amusement shines through.
She buries her face in her palms for a moment, and then slowly walks up to open the door just a crack.
He pushes it fully open with a strong hand, smirk playing on his lips already as he looks down at her. “Still in your uniform,” he chides. “You want to wear that?”
“You are not taking me out.” She responds coldly, turning to walk over and sit at the coffee table again, not meeting his gaze. She needs to maintain distance.
“If you’d rather stay here, we could make that work.” Sylus shuts the door quietly behind him and then leans his back against it, posture casual in a way that sends a spike of annoyance through her. This is why they broke up in the first place-- he was always so motherfucking casual about everything, even her, face betraying not a sliver of his true feelings.
“What do you even want from me?” She snaps, eyes glued to the coffee table. Anything to avoid looking at him. “I told you I’m with someone else. I’m not interested in restarting anything with you.”
“When did I say anything about that?” He chuckles, clearing the room in a few swift strides and sitting on the loveseat opposite her. He’s wearing a casual sweater and sweatpants-- even his glasses, which he usually doesn’t. His hair is mussed up a bit, and she notices light bags under his eyes that give her pause. Something’s definitely up. She doesn’t know what, but doesn’t want to ask. She can’t invite more conversation if her goal is to get him out of this room.
“I just want to take you out,” he murmurs, head now resting in his hand. “Is that a crime?”
“Yes, when I’m spoken for by another man, it is.” She glares at him. “What about me being with someone else do you not understand?”
“Does he make you feel pretty?” Sylus drawls, red eyes flickering with a hint of contempt. Her breath catches slightly, not anticipating the question. “What--”
“Does he?” Sylus pushes, leaning forward in his seat. “Does he make you feel beautiful?”
“I don’t know what you’re talk--”
“No.” he cuts her off. “He doesn’t.”
She’s stunned into silence. He leans back again, chuckling and pushing up his glasses, a motion that unfortunately sends a familiar fire coursing down her body, through her chest to her abdomen. “You didn’t fight me when I came in. You didn’t yell, or tell me to leave. That tells me all I need to know, love.”
“Don’t call me that,” she sneers back.
Suddenly Sylus’ hand is gripping her chin hard, forcing her head to meet his eyes. He’s closer than she had realized, his eyes staring deep into her own. “He can’t make you feel this pretty,” Sylus rumbles, his thumb tracing her jaw, expression an inscrutable mask.
In a moment, she finds herself sprawled out on the hotel bed before she can think. His Evol-- he can throw her around how he pleases, she reminds herself, mind flashing with memories she’s tried to forget of all the compromising positions her body’s been twisted into at his whim. He’s standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed across his chest as he looks down at her. She feels the heat of his gaze like two laser pointers as they examine her, lingering on every part of her. It's as if she’s under a scientist’s microscope. His gaze is unfeeling, but still somehow red-hot, and she can’t help the way her chest heaves up and down, feeling so observed.
He takes note of her body’s involuntary reaction. “He can’t make you feel like this by just looking at you, can he doll?”
“Fuck you,” she barks, face flushed with shame as she backs up on the bed, increasing the distance between the two. He smirks. “You’d like to?”
She rolls her eyes. “Is that what you’re here for? Sex?”
“No,” he muses, sitting down at the corner of the bed, looking at her. “Though I’m not opposed. I wanted to see you. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Her breath is coming out ragged. She can’t hide her anger much longer. “How are you acting like nothing happened? We--I-- I don’t love you! I don’t want you! What about that is so hard for you to understand?”
“Liar,” he hums in a sing-song tone, brow quirking as he meets your harsh stare cooly. “I don’t understand it because it’s a lie, sweetie. If I touched you right now your body would tell me the truth. But I already know it.” His face is smug. She wants to slap him.
“Just-- just because I might still be attracted to you doesn’t mean I would ever do anything with you again, Sylus. I have morals,” she spits.
In a red flash, he’s on top of her, a finger pressed into the center of her chest, other hand braced on the headboard. Her body convulses involuntarily in shock of his sudden proximity as well as the feeling of his skin-- even just his fingertip-- pressed against her.
He grins at her reaction. “That’s my girl.”
“Get the fuck off me,” she hisses up at him. He lowers himself so his lips touch her earlobe, so his chest is pressed against hers. “No,” he whispers simply.
At this distance, she can see even more strikingly the weariness in his features. His skin is rough. His eyes are tired. There’s a small pimple on his cheek, a hint at the fact he must have been skipping his skincare routine that he’s always been so adamant about staying on top of.
For a moment she relishes in the thought that his undone-ness is because of her. Her instincts get the better of her, and she ensnares a fist in his sweater, pulling him down even lower, tilting her head to whisper in his ear, now--
“You look like shit. Are you sad about me?”
He reels back in surprise, eyes clouding for the first time with something other than smugness, brows momentarily twitching, betraying his facade. His hand wraps around her throat, holding her into the pillow, the touch gentle but forceful. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds her steady. His mask is on before she can double back.
“Can’t a man have an off day?” he chides her. “Maybe I haven’t slept so well. I was just on a long flight. Sue me.”
“Doesn’t look like it was just a day,” she responds instantly. “Looks like an off month. Are you finally regretting being a dick?”
He sneers, hand twitching around her throat, but he remains gentle. “I’m not a dick.”
“You are a huge fucking dick,” she spits back. He leans back off her, rising into a kneeling position, smirking down at her, releasing his hand from her neck It’s then she realizes she’s been holding her breath even though he hadn’t been choking her.
“Then why are you still lying here under me? If I’m such a dick?”
“You’re just gonna use your Evol to put me back. It’s no use fighting you,” she retorts, but inwardly she knows she could have at least tried to struggle, shame rising in her stomach.
“I’m not buying that, sweetheart.” He absentmindedly hooks a finger in the top of her uniform and pops the top button open with one hand. Her face flushes involuntarily at the gesture. “W-what are you doing?”
“Seeing how long it’ll take you to shove me off. If you really do hate me so much as you say.” He murmurs, finger sliding down to pop open another button.
Her body freezes, her breath stilting into uneven inhales and exhales. It’s as if Sylus’ Evol is pinning her down, restraining her movement, but he isn’t-- he’s barely restraining her, only his finger on her body now, wrapping in the cleft of her shirt and undoing yet another button. Yet she can’t find the strength to move, eyes hazing over with the familiar lust she’s always had for him, and something further-- adoration, as she watches his face concentrated on her body. Even in this disheveled state he radiates, makes her heart swell against her will, beat hard and insistently like it’s pressing up against her ribs.
“Good girl,” he whispers, leaning down slowly to kiss at her jaw, lips warm and soft. She chokes back a sigh, clenching her teeth at his touch but still inexplicably unable to move. “You know you want this.”
She doesn’t respond, grappling with herself, memories of Zayne rearing, his soft and measured touches, in contrast to Sylus’ raw aggression. Finally, hearing Zayne’s voice in her head, she snaps herself out of her paralysis, hand coming up to push Sylus back, palm flat against his chest. “W-wait.”
He stops, eyes searching her face silently. “I--I--” she stammers, eyes wide, not able to get any words out.
“Shh,” he murmurs, tracing a thumb across her lips. “I won’t make you ssay it.” He focuses on her, and then she feels heat flood her senses, a key sign he’s using his Evol again, in the other way. Her vision darkens, and she knows here, in this quiet black place he’s taking her, she can’t hide from him. It’s a place where she can only be honest. She feels her back arch as the feelings burst out of her-- I need it, I need you, make me yours, I miss you-- she feels a pang of relief that he’s removed the burden from her of saying it, of forcing her to betray herself, betray Zayne, out loud. But the shame eats away at her, corrosive like acid, as she looks into Sylus’ eyes, watching them glimmer as they decipher her hidden thoughts.
Sylus focuses, attuned to her mind and body, feeling the words of her consciousness rush in as if uttered directly into his ears, proving what he already knew-- that he still has her wrapped around his finger. “Let me have you,” he purrs, fingers wrapping around yet another button.
Her resolve crumbles with her deepest desires surfaced by his Evol. He makes work quickly of the rest of the buttons, tearing open her shirt, exposing her bra. He growls at the sight, eyes narrowing.
“You want this... don’t you?”
Her response is choked in her throat, but manages to slip out despite her better judgment. “Yes,” she moans, and that’s all he needs to hear. His mouth meets her collarbone, sucking attentively. “Good,” he murmurs between kisses. “I’m not fond of sharing, you know.”
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she mutters, her body’s reaction to him involuntary (or so she convinces herself.) “I’m still not... your girlfriend, or anything like that. I don’t even like you.”
“Who said anything about you being my girlfriend?” He mutters, mouth working over her neck now. He smiles into her skin. “Ah. Do you think I came here to get you to be my girlfriend again?”
“No.” She snaps, blushing furiously, her hands landing on his arms that are braced on top of the mattress as he leans over her. “I didn’t say that. I’m just reiterating what should already be beyond clear to you.”
“I’ll tell you what’s clear to me,” he murmurs, pulling back for a second, his deep blood-red eyes boring into hers. “What’s clear is... this Zayne guy doesn’t seem to be able to handle this beautiful gift he’s been given, and it seems like this gift herself knows she isn’t being cared for properly. Enjoyed properly.” He hooks a finger into her bra strap. “Or else it wouldn’t have taken her only five minutes to crumble.”
“I’m not going back to you,” she spits out.
“You never left,” he says softly, a half smile rising on his chapped lips.
Suddenly she’s being flipped onto her back, her face smothered in the pillow below her, the sensation of a cold hand gripping the back of her neck, fingers encircling it with practiced ease. His weight presses her down, pins her deep into the blankets. With his other hand he deftly unlatches her bra from the back, and then tugs off her pants, leaving her exposed with just her underwear on. She whimpers, feeling the air smooth over her hot skin.
“He doesn’t do this for you, does he?” Sylus drawls, an arm snaking under her hips to pull her upward on her knees, his other hand still pressing her head and neck into the pillow. Her cheeks burn at this new position, knowing how vulnerable and bare she is. She stays silent, a flicker of anger mixing with desire.
He roughly yanks down her panties, and before long she feels a calloused thumb between her wet folds. She bites into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut as the familiar warmth of pleasure surges over her. She curses herself internally for letting herself become so pliant, so weak in his hands.
“Seems like I’ve got my answer,” he mutters, thumb pressing against her clit. She bites back a groan, teeth impaling her bottom lip. She can hear his usually stoic voice growing thicker and deeper with his own building arousal, a sound which only makes her feel weaker.
“Now sweetheart, I don’t have much time.” He bends down by her ear, leaning over her, hot breath sending a shiver down her body. “I’d love to take care of you slowly, bit by bit, but I wasn’t joking when I said I was here on business. I have some pressing matters to take care of that need my attention, after this... matter right here.” He slaps her ass, hard. She yelps, drawing a rough chuckle from his throat.
“I only have time for one round, unfortunately, so I’m going to ask for your input.” He purrs into her ear. “Don’t say anything else-- just be good, and answer my question. I don’t have time for your backtalk.” The flat of his hand smooths over the spot he slapped, sending bolts of heat through her abdomen.
“Fingers, my mouth... or all of me inside you. Choose.”
She tastes the tang of blood from where she’d bitten her lip earlier as she opens her mouth to speak, voice hoarse. She whispers something unintelligible into the pillow.
“Speak up, love,” he murmurs, gently easing up his hold on the back of her neck.
“All of you...” she mutters, embarrassment making her cringe, face pressed into the side of her pillow.
Suddenly Sylus spots her bleeding lip, and his brows furrow for a moment. His hands scoop her up so that she’s positioned up off the pillow, on her knees, his chest to her back and arms securely around her waist. He uses one hand to tilt her chin up and to the side. “You’re bleeding, honey. Bit your lip?”
“What does it look like,” she responds gruffly, still not wanting to give him the pleasure of agreeable answers. His thumb skates across her bottom lip, dabbling in the blood there. She winces. “Were you trying to be quiet?” he murmurs, examining his thumb that’s now flecked with her blood.
He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead, leaning down to kiss her softly, the metallic acrid tang of blood mixing between both their tongues. “Don’t do that,” he whispers softly into her lips. “I don’t want you to be quiet. You know that’s not what I like.”
The moment is more intimate than the previous ones they’ve shared tonight, and for a moment she softens a bit, her heart giving an uncomfortable fluttery lurch at his kiss, at his gently murmured words. But the moment is gone quickly, and his hand finds the back of her neck again, fingers pressing into her skin. “Remind me of your choice?” He says through clenched teeth.
“All.. all of you...” she says through a soft gasp. His face is so close to hers that all she can see is the slope of his jaw and a burning eye that’s trained on her bottom lip.
He nods curtly, and then lays her back into the mattress, her face finding the pillow again, her back arching as he nudges her knees further apart, his own legs coming between hers. As she hears the sound of his belt buckle unfastening and his low, deep breaths, she feels the shame and regret already churning in her stomach as she lies there, spread and prostrate, waiting.
“Don’t think about him,” Sylus says darkly, as if he’s reading her mind. She feels his large, muscular hands grip her waist, as if to steady her mind, to bring her back to earth, back to this moment. “He’s not here right now. Think about me.”
She stifles a moan as his fingers drift between her legs again, spreading her wide open. Her throat feels tight, and her entire body is covered in goosebumps. She trembles in anticipation, unable to deny the feeling.
“He won’t make you feel this pretty,” Sylus snarls, his hand returning to her hips, digging into the flesh. His voice is angry this time, and then her eyes blow wide as he sheaths himself completely inside her in one sharp thrust. A strangled sound tears itself from her throat, a sound she hasn’t made in a long time. He stays there, back hunching over her, his arms shaking, his knuckles white as his fingers press bruises into the skin of her waist and hips.
He starts, his pace brutal, and she can immediately detect something in the way he thrusts, in the way his hands are so rough as they move up to her breasts, gripping her from behind. Rage. His hips snap against her, sending nearly painful daggers of pleasure through her belly. She gasps each time he pistons in and out of her, unable to see him behind her, face still pressed into the pillow. “He can’t make you feel beautiful like this..” Sylus spits between grunts as he buries himself deep, again, again, again...
“Sylus,” she chokes out, eyes hazy with pleasure, the world around her vignetting, falling dramatically out of focus. “I want to see you-- let me turn over--” she babbles.
He pulls out with a harsh grunt, and then flips her over onto her back at her request. She takes him in fully now, eyes raking over him, torso bare and sweater discarded on the nearby couch, his pants at his knees, his face contorted in a mess of lust and fury, glasses slipping lower and lower on his nose. It might be the most upset she’s ever seen him look, even more upset than when they’d broken up.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says harshly, gripping her hips again and aligning himself with her dripping entrance.
“Like what--ah!” She hisses as he enters her, cutting the conversation short. He resumes his unrelenting pace, coming down to his elbows, inches of space between them as he ruts into her.
“Like you’re fucking examining me--” he sneers between thrusts. She protests, her hands finding his shoulders as she’s pulled deeper and deeper into pleasure. “I’m not examining-- hah... I’m just looking at y-”
His hand clamps over her mouth. “Don’t talk,” he snarls. Her eyes widen. Something’s snapped in him, his demeanor different, whatever cold exterior he’d managed to build cracking undeniably now, revealing the twisted feelings layered underneath. His muscles ripple with unrestrained emotions, and sweat beads on his brow as he snaps his hips into her.
“I don’t want to hear it,” he mutters. “I don’t want to hear that I look like shit. I don’t want to hear you ask me why I’m angry as if it’s some fucking surprise to you.” With each thrust it’s somehow more intense, the friction and heat between them growing exponentially. Her hands find his hips as he pistons into her, scrambling for purchase on flesh that’s now slick with sweat.
“Of course I’m fucking angry,” he hisses. They’re face to face, inches apart. “I’m angry that-- you’re gone-- I can’t--” he lets out a strained noise that sounds almost like he’s in pain, his abs clenching as he holds himself back. “He can’t make you feel like this... he can’t...”
His hand is still clamped over her mouth, and she breathes through her nose, the restriction of air making her heart speed up with adrenaline. He fucks her deep, and it takes more of a toll on him than she knows it should. The way he’s sweating, the way his face is still twisted with anger and anguish and desire, the way his free hand grips her waist possessively as he ruts into her-- it’s not the physical exertion making him act like this. He’s genuinely upset in a way that he’s never let her see before.
“Sylus,” she pants, her orgasm building deep in her core, like a coil of fire. As if the noise triggers his memory that his hand is still over her mouth, he removes it suddenly, holding her waist instead. He looks away briefly, eyes finding where their bodies connect instead, eyes black with lust as he thrusts into her. She can see the way he’s starting to go quiet, the way his rhythm is staggering. She knows he’s close too.
“Do you still love me?” He blurts out, still not meeting her eyes.
She doesn’t expect the question, and she doesn’t know how to respond. She evaluates a thousand possible answers at once, her brain overloaded with pleasure and confusion.
His head falls, weak, as he continues rutting into her. “P-please...” he says, his voice breaking.
She’s stunned. Almost as a reflex, she sits up a bit, gaze lacing with a newfound concern. “Sy...?”
“Say it,” he groans, his pace becoming more erratic, the unpredictability of it driving new spikes of pleasure through her. “Say you--”
“I love you,” she whispers softly, before she can stop herself. “I love you, Sylus.”
His body hunches over as he comes, as if on command at her words, and her own orgasm follows quickly, her hands seizing the sheets for a moment in a brutal grip before latching on his waist again. She gasps, holding him close, her legs instinctively wrapping around him as she feels his warmth fill her, feels his body jerk with exertion and pleasure. Her hands find his face, cupping his jaw as he weakly thrusts himself through the aftershocks, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself upright over her.
The moment flickers with a liminal quality, and she feels like she’s trapped in limbo, some hellish purgatory of confused emotions. She’s said those words she can’t take back now, and now the two of them are floating in the dead space, less than lovers, a lot more than friends. He’s weak in her arms now, completely undone, whatever mask he once wore in pieces, ground to dust under the weight of her confession. He lies there atop her for a minute that feels like an hour, as she strokes his hair, confused by her own tenderness but unable to hold it back.
And then he tears himself away from her. He’s buttoning his pants, pulling on his sweater, wiping a wrist across his brow and readjusting his glasses. It’s as if they hadn’t done what they just did, like they’re strangers again. She lies there almost in shock still, attempting to cut through the foggy haze of afterglow and form more coherent thoughts.
“I have to go,” he mutters under his breath, his voice still betraying some of the turmoil in him. It’s softer than he usually sounds, and more uncertain.
At his words, she snaps out of it. “Wait,” she blurts. “We-- we need to talk about this. You can’t just go after that!”
“I have to.” He says quickly, organizing his messy hair in the mirror. “Don’t have time.”
“Don’t have the time?!” She says incredulously. “You can’t treat this like some one night stand!”
“I never said that,” he mutters, looking at her. His eyes drift down her body, to her entrance, staring at the evidence of their encounter. She flushes, clamping her legs shut. Sylus clears his throat. “I never said it was,” he repeats. “I... I’ll call you. We can talk later.”
“When later?” she says hoarsely.
“When I can,” he replies, tone smoother now, regaining his usual impassioned quality. She notices, and it pisses her off. “You can’t just do what you always do,” she snaps. “You can’t just run away again and act cold. Like this doesn’t matter.”
He pauses in the doorway, and exhales a small sigh. “It matters,” he says quietly.
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A/N: I was going through my notes and found this pleasant little snippet from a couple of years back. I have no idea what the plan was, because Past Cat didn't see fit to leave any notes, but thought this would be fun to share regardless :)
x
For the last five years, Haru had been intent on sharing New Year noodles with the Bureau and, for the last five years, the universe had consistently conspired against her.
One year there had been the rhyming couplet curse (she had nothing against the occasional rhyme, but it's another thing to do it all the time) and the year before that had been the snake rain (don't ask). And then of course there was The Noodle Incident.
Last year she had even announced, in as many words, that the Bureau was officially invited to hers for New Year's Eve, but that had been before the rhinoceros and, well, anything involving rhinos took precedence.
It just so turned out that misfortune seemed to have a calendar and a penchant for filling out its quota at the last minute.
This year, however, she wasn't going to let any curse, nor rhinos, nor 10-plagues-of-Egypt-adjacent rain deter her from her mission. This year, the Bureau were going to have a wholesome meal together and watch the New Year pass from the comfort of someplace other than the fencing of a zoo exhibit.
"It's supposed to bring good luck for the year ahead," she said, "and goodness knows we could do with some of that." She glanced pointedly at the burn mark scorched across the far wall.
The Bureau didn't usually have a kitchen, but evidently even the Sanctuary had decided against obstructing Haru's mission, and a smart – if cute in the same way a grandmother's kitchen is – kitchen had appeared where the bookshelves had once been.
The rest of the Bureau themselves had also read the bekitchened room and opted with the Sanctuary's assessment, leaving Haru to her noodley task alone.
(Muta had briefly attempted to give a paw, but Haru had smartly smacked the aforementioned paw away, citing that this was something she wanted to treat them to, and that they could jolly well behave treated.)
"It's nice, this," Muta said from the sofa. "Night in, nothing trying to eat us, or imprison us, or imprison us and then eat us. We should do this more often."
"We go where our clients need us, Muta," Baron said. He was occupying his usual armchair and was doing his best to resist poking his nose into someone else's business – namely Haru and the soba noodles. He was only half succeeding. "But I must admit, this homely atmosphere is rather pleasant. Haru, are you sure you don't want a hand?"
"When it bursts into flames, you'll be the first to know," Haru called. "But until then, I think I can manage just fine."
