#mimi.writes

he just does a really good job of pretending he doesn't mind it. after all, the two of you grew up together. he's had to put his hands on you many times — carrying, tending to scrapes and cuts, tickling you, ruffling your hair, squeezing your face. skinship was a language that the two of you were plenty fluent in.

but the year spent apart failed to maintain this, like some half-assed video streaming subscription, and caleb's the newborn fawn learning how to walk.

so what happens when he knocks on the room to his bedroom — it belongs to you now, technically — with a plate of breakfast before coming in, and he witnesses you sitting up, all sleepy and the neckline of his shirt slightly sliding down your shoulder?

he's going to throw himself off a cliffside. maybe even off skyhaven itself.

the plate hits the bedside table on your side with a loud clatter. none of the food spilled over, luckily. he has half a mind to garble some lame excuse about being busy and a quick good morning before trying to bolt.

but, caleb nearly snaps into two when you tug at the hem of his shirt, slumber still slurred in your words as you ask where he's going. there'd been no strength in that tug. yet, he stopped in his tracks all the same. he ends up listening to your grumbles, ones reminding him that it's his day off, remember? you promised you'd spend it with me.

"i gotta take a shower first," he chuckles, hoping his voice wasn't too shaky. please don't notice. please don't notice.

"but caleb," you keen.

god, it's like when he'd take leave from the academy for a few days just to go back to you and gran. always coming home to you, thoroughly acquainted with you not being a morning person but still making the effort to cling to him and savor every second you two spent together.

he assumed it would be the same now, but clearly, that was a mistake. because the coiling tension of warmth threatening to boil over in his stomach was nothing short of treacherous.

caleb does manage to escape; albeit pained by the half-awake whines behind him and the sound of you falling back into bed. god, how badly he wanted to cave into your demands. you don't even know the half of it.

he wonders if you've ever curled into his side of that bed he once slept on, seeking his cologne, his body, his warmth the same way he looks for your silhouette in every corner of this home. a melody he knows, but a name he can't quite place in this shell of a house that transformed in your presence.

regardless, it's really difficult to let this relationship rebuild organically when he was popping a boner over the slightest sliver of skin. the shower's streams are icy on his skin, the impromptu bath having thrown a wrench into his morning routine. he refuses to even touch himself. letting the proof of his sin soften under the biting cold of the water, despite the discomfort.

because nothing was more horrific than having his body react to you like a prepubescent teen discovering porn online for the first time.

caleb thinks he's safe after spending an hour in the bathroom, fingertips pruned and mind cooler than the iciest of planets. but as he's changed back into his clothes, he discovers you beside the door, a blanket around your sitting form and those eyelids droopy.

"pipsqueak? what're you doin' here?" he's crouching down — mortifying boner forgotten as he gathers you into his arms before he realizes it.

then, you stir. a whine muffled into the crook of his neck as you wrap your arms around him, the vibration seeming to ripple down his spinal column. the blanket falls from your body in the motions, and you're so soft compared to the firmness of his body.

his arms tighten around you on instinct and you let out a pleased sound and—

he stiffens. you weren't wearing a bra.

"caleb, you're done." you yawn, like the spoiled, pampered figurehead of royalty you are. you arch up into him, and he swears he feels several of his neurons die, dropping like flies in the empty cavity of his head.

"take me back to bed." he feels the air shift as you seem to inhale his scent. your voice softer, more content when you say, "i wanna sleep some more."

he's so fucking doomed.

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀

You were used to being in the garages for the F2 races, you’d been to more than your fair share of them to support Ollie, but this was another level. The amount of people; mechanics, PR, sponsors, supporters, engineers, photographers. Your ears were already ringing and you hadn’t even heard the cars yet. A shout of your name grabbed your attention and you turned in the garage to see your brother hurtling towards you, “Y/N!!” You were practically winded as he hugged you tightly, “I’m so glad you’re here!” “Hey stinky.” You wrapped your arms around him, “Oooooo bear hug!” You joked. Ever since you could remember it had been a running joke in your family to call every hug a bear hug, after your last name. You often joked that no one could give hugs like the Bearman family, and only you and your family members could give a certified ‘bear hug’.  “How you feeling?” Ollie stood back up straight, fixing his cap, “Excited!” “Good.” He nodded at your jacket, “Bet you’re glad you brought that now!” You laughed, “Maybe I subconsciously knew…” A cough from behind you made you spin round and you gasped as a man stood right behind you, “May I please get past you? Thank you.” You felt him skim past your back and your knees practically melted at the slight accent and lilt in his voice, your eyes followed him as he walked to the other side of the garage to talk to some of the mechanics. Ollie gave a snort from beside you, “Hellooooo? Earth to Y/N!” His hand waved in front of your face and you slapped it away, looking at him with wide eyes, “Ollie. That was Charles Leclerc. The Charles Leclerc just spoke to me.” 

Charles exhaled almost nervously as he walked past you. He had no clue who you were but he wanted to find out. You’d immediately caught his eye as soon as he’d walked into the garage and now he was hooked. He turned back subtly to look at you and felt his stomach sink as he watched you laugh with Ollie. Of course a pretty girl like you would already be taken. In your Ferrari jacket his mind started racing with thoughts of how you’d look with his number on your back or on your cap. Wait what? He didn’t even know you and he was fantasising about you. Clearly you were someone important to his new junior teammate and he needed to focus on the task at hand. 

“You know you’re drooling,” Your brother joked and you hissed at him, punching his shoulder, barely taking your eyes off of Charles. Ollie rolled his eyes, “In my excitement I forgot about your little crush-,” A slap to his stomach had him doubling over and shutting up as you glared at him. “It’s not a crush!” You defended, “I just… respect him as a driver.” He scoffed, “Yeah right. Well when you’re done fangirling, I need your help.” You shook your head to clear your daydreams and turned to him, “What do you need?” 

Your brother beckoned you to follow him back through the garage. Weaving between people and winding your way through the halls, he opened the door of his driver’s room and sank down onto the small couch that had been placed there. You watched as for a second his excited demeanour dropped, a hint of nervousness peeking through. He fumbled with his hands, cracking and clicking his knuckles, thumb absentmindedly scratching over the back of his hand. You sat down next to him and said nothing, just let your hand fall on top of his and give a gentle squeeze, “You’ll be fine.” With that one sentence you simply sat in silence. Ollie’s head dropped to your shoulder and you rested your head on his, understanding he just needed you there. All day he’d acted like he wasn’t nervous. He’d remained cool as a cucumber in front of the cameras and media, he’d sat through interview after interview, he’d met far too many people to remember who they actually all were, he was doing his best to get to grips with a new car after just one practice session and he had still not shown any signs of nervousness where the public or potential F1 employers could see. But you knew. Here in this room he wasn’t Ollie Bearman, F1 rookie or Ferrari's weekend hero, he was just your little brother and you’d give him that safe space as long as he needed. 

You weren’t sure how long had passed just sitting on the couch but the hubbub and buzz of noise outside seemed to have increased even though it was muffled by the thin walls of the driver’s room. Ollie had since shifted to half-lie on the couch and you could see he’d fallen asleep, dozing before he needed to get in the car and focus for qualifying. You knew it was your brother’s way of getting the track ingrained in his head, so you wouldn’t disturb him yet.  A knock pulled you from your reverie and you were quick to head to the door so they wouldn’t knock again and wake Ollie up. You opened the door a crack and poked your head out, “Yes? Oh-” You blinked up and saw two green eyes staring back at yours, “Hi? I thought Ollie would be in here?” You heard your brother groan on the couch behind you clearly disturbed by the talking and so you quickly exited the room, making sure to quietly close the door behind you. “He is! He’s just taking a nap!” You explained with what you hoped was a friendly and not-too-creepy smile. Charles nodded in understanding, “I bet it’s been a pretty intense weekend.” You gave a small laugh, nodding, “Yeah it has been for all of us!” Charles found himself getting a little flustered at your smile. When he’d knocked the door he hadn’t expected the pretty girl he’d seen earlier to answer. It had taken him a few seconds to psych himself up to even ask you if he could pass earlier and now here he was face-to-face with you in his teammate’s room doorway. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this chance but he would not let it go to waste! 

“How are you finding it so far?” His heart skipped a beat as your face lit up, “It’s incredible! Definitely a step up from F2.” Ah so you’d been supporting Ollie for a long time. A best friend? Maybe a girlfriend? High school sweethearts? “So not your first time at a race then?” Charles asked curiously, “Definitely not! I don’t think I’ve ever missed one of Ol’s races since he got into F2.” Charles groaned internally, clearly you were off limits, but did his best to look interested. You gave a giggle at the impressed face Charles made, “That’s certainly dedication!” You nodded, “Of course!” “It’s good you get to be here for his first F1 weekend then. You seem like a very important person to him…” Charles gave a subtle dig for information and you were none the wiser to his motives, “Well he’s my little brother so of course I would be!” Charles froze, Ollie was your what? You were his sister? Charles wasn’t sure if that thought made him more nervous or more relieved. “You’re Ollie’s sister?” He asked incredulously, “Yes…” You replied hesitantly, unsure why his reaction was so serious. Charles felt himself exhaling in relief before he looked at your face, an eyebrow raised and your arms crossed, “Is that so unbelievable? I mean I know we don't look as alike as other siblings but...” He shook his head, 

“No, no!” He scratched the back of his head awkwardly and looked away, not wanting to see your reaction to his next statement, “I just uhhh, I thought you might have been a girlfriend or something…” You couldn’t help the way the laughter tipped out of you, “Ew! No way!” You held a hand out to Charles, “Hi, I’m Y/N Bearman.” You emphasised your surname and Charles felt a grin stretching across his face that matched your own, “Charles.” You sighed internally at the sight of his dimples popping out and resisted the urge to poke them. “I actually noticed you earlier and I thought you were far too pretty to be any regular garage guest.” You giggled at his bold flirting, “Well I’m glad that you noticed me back then… There was no way someone as good looking as you can walk around without grabbing attention… Especially in the red suit…” With a wink, Charles found himself speechless, not something that was a common occurrence, especially when it came to flirting and talking to women, but he loved it.  “So now we’ve cleared up that little mishap, could I maybe get your num–”

The door to the room behind you opening caught your attention and both you and Charles watched as Ollie appeared, stretching and inhaling deeply, “Oh there you are.” Charles felt his stomach flip with anxiety, hoping Ollie hadn’t heard him flirting with you. That would not look good for him or help his teammate's mental state. But damn, if he wasn’t more than a little disappointed… You seemed to have recovered quite well though, brushing off the previous conversation easily, “Good morning sunshine, sleep well?” “Mhmm,” Ollie leaned against you and nodded, “I needed that.” “We all need a pre-race nap sometimes,” Hearing Charles' voice caused Ollie to wake up fully, standing upright as he acknowledged the older driver. 

“You’ll be fine mate.” Charles placed a hand on Ollie’s shoulder and squeezed, “I actually came to find you, thought I could talk you through how to handle some of the corners with the steering?” Ollie gave him a look of appreciation and together they headed back towards the garage. You felt yourself melt that Charles was doing his best to help your little brother and you watched with a dopey grin on your face as the two of them made their way down the hallway, “I’m gonna go find dad!” Ollie waved at you to signal he’d heard you before he was gone. 

You took a moment, going back into the room and closing the door behind you. Holy shit you’d just had an entire conversation with Charles Leclerc, he had called you pretty and was he about to ask for your number? You huffed and rolled your eyes. Your brother had the shittiest timing sometimes. 

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀

With big red headphones on, you anxiously watched the screen. Your hands were clasped in front of you and you nervously brought them up to your face, almost not wanting to watch just in case anything went wrong. You got nervous watching Ollie every time he raced, but this weekend the stakes were higher and your nerves were more frazzled. Q1 had gone well but now the pressure was on. Pace was being set and each car seemed to be lapping faster and faster. You turned to look at your Dad who didn’t look any better than you. You reached across and grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze. He smiled at you before you both turned your attention back to the big screens at the back of the garage. As your brother set out on his flying lap you found yourself yelling encouragement along with the mechanics and engineers in the garage, despite the fact he couldn’t hear you. “Come on Ollie!” You looked at the times up on the board already and willed your brother to get even a tenth of a second off their times. 

You couldn’t have cared less about his time though as long as he made it back safely. You watched your brother’s car fly across the finish line and you waited with bated breath for the confirmation of his time to come through. You felt your dad’s hand squeeze yours before you were both cursing under your breath, 0.036 seconds. That’s all there was in it. You felt your Dad wrap you up in a hug, exhaling in relief that your brother had made it through qualifying safely. 

You knew he’d be beating himself up when he came back to the garage and you took the bright Ferrari red headphones off your head, “Dad, I’m gonna go and wait for him,” Your dad nodded, already in conversation with some of the Ferrari engineers about how they could make race day easier for Ollie. You headed to his room, wanting to be there when he got back and you’d barely taken a seat before the door swung open and in came a slightly tense looking Ollie. “I know you’re going to tell me I did a good job and I appreciate that but I’m almost more frustrated that it was so close.” He sighed and you rubbed his shoulder comfortingly as he took a seat next to you, “I’m proud of you Ols.” He smiled gratefully as the door was pushed open an inch, “Uh… hello?” “Charles?” You were confused as the Monegasque man’s head poked round the door and he nodded at Ollie, “Solid drive mate!” Ollie grumbled next to you and you whacked his thigh, “Ow!” He huffed at you, and you glared at him as you tilted your head in Charles direction, “Sorry, thank you Charles.” Charles gave a laugh, “It’s okay, it happens to the best of us.” Another knock sounded through the room and one of Ollie’s engineers called for him to go and discuss some seat adjustments for the race. You stood up as he went to leave, “Hey! If you think I’m not giving you a bear hug after all that, you’re very much mistaken.” Ollie laughed and turned back round, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as you wrapped yours around his waist, squeezing slightly and hoping he could feel just how proud you were, “Love you stinky.” “Love you too dummy” He pulled away and left the room, closing the door behind him, 

“Bear hug?” You looked at Charles who stood there with a slight smile across his face and a raised eyebrow, “Mhmm! They’re very special and you actually can’t give them without the necessary qualifications.” “Ah.” Charles said seriously, “And what qualifications are those?” You giggled, “The Bearman surname!” Charles felt a laugh rumble up from deep in his chest at your giggle. God you were spellbinding. “Your brother did an amazing job today.” You smiled in appreciation, speaking genuinely,

“Thank you.” “What are you up to this evening then?” “Oh uhhh… well I’ve been watching a new series recently so probably just watching a couple of episodes and maybe ordering room service…” You facepalmed internally at how boring you were making yourself sound to an F1 driver, “Sorry that probably sounds kinda sad huh?” Charles shook his head and waved his hands to emphasise himself, “No, no! It actually sounds… pretty nice…” For the briefest moment you considered how to reply before your mouth was opening and you couldn’t stop yourself, “You’re welcome to join me if you want?” you froze. Oh fuck. Had you just invited Charles Leclerc to binge watch Netflix with you and eat off the room service menu while you wore sweatpants and a crusty old t-shirt? “You don’t have to-” “I would love to-” “Oh.” You nervously giggled at each other before your eyes dropped to the floor, too shy to keep looking at him. “I would love to join you… if that’s okay?” You nodded enthusiastically, "Of course!” “Give me your number and I’ll text you when I’m on my way?" He held his phone out to you and you nodded, typing your number in and handing it back to him, “Great! You guys are staying at the same hotel as us tonight right?” You made a noise of confirmation, “Mhmm, they moved us for the weekend. I-I’m in room 604” You could have sworn Charles blushed as you said your room number. 

You were so flustered that it appeared your brain wasn’t working correctly, your tongue getting tied as you tried to continue the conversation, “Uh, you don’t need to bring anything, clothing is optional.” “Excuse me?!” Charles froze as he stared at you. Did you just tell him that clothing was optional? He didn’t think you were that bold, or that you had an angle. His mind drifted to the thought of you opening the door naked for the quickest second before you realised you mistake and pulled him out of his thoughts, “Fuck no! I meant comfy clothing is optional! Like you can wear whatever, like sweatpants or even pyjamas if you wanted to, or-or-or if you really wanted you uhhh you could wear no clothes I guess but- wait no this isn’t me trying to get you naked I promise!” You finished your ramble panicking just as a loud laugh burst out of Charles. Your head dropped into your hands and you whined in embarrassment as Charles' hands found his knees, unable to stand up straight at how hard he was laughing. “Fuck you’re cute.” You inhaled sharply, eyes shooting down to the floor and biting your lip softly through a smile, “Oh?” “Mhmm” You felt your cheeks heat up as it sunk in that he’d called you cute, after you’d embarrassed yourself no less! “Anyway…” Charles attempted to move the conversation forward, desperate to make you gasp again like you had a moment ago, “I’ll be there later,” He moved towards the door, leaning in as he did so “I hope clothing is optional for you too.” And with a brush of his shoulder against yours he was gone. Noise from the hallway and nearby garages poured in through the open door and you didn’t move until Ollie came back, “What happened to you?” “N-nothing! Just talked with Charles a bit.” Ollie wiggled his eyebrows and you scoffed giving him a shove, “Come on, I’m done so we’re gonna go back to the hotel! I need sleep.”

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀

You rushed around your hotel room, ensuring any stray socks or underwear were tucked away in your case and any possible embarrassing items were safely hidden out of sight. Thankfully you'd found a slightly less crusty and slightly less old t-shirt in your suitcase and you'd thrown that on over over some shorts that were a considerably more socially acceptable choice than your tattered travel sweatpants.

Your eyes swept around the room and gave one final check. Charles had texted five minutes ago to say that he was on his way up and so you knew there would be a knock at the door any second. Grabbing some extra pillows from the closet, you placed them on the bed and pulled up Netflix just in time for the door to sound. “Coming!” You raced over to the door before stopping, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, checking your appearance one last time in the mirror. You opened the door, “Do you have a spare toothbrush?” “Ollie?!” “Yes…? It’s me? Your brother?” Ollie looked at you suspiciously as you stuck your head out of the door and looked up and down the corridor, “Are you expecting someone?” You choked on air, “Me?! Expecting someone? Pfft, no!” Though you had been thanking those higher powers earlier in the day, you now cursed them out as at the end of the corridor the elevator dinged, both yours and Ollie’s heads snapped to look as the doors opened and there stood Charles. Ollie looked at you and gave a laugh, “Not expecting anyone, hmm?” Your eyes widened. “He’s not here for me!” Ollie crossed his arms and looked at you expectantly, “Oh no?” You felt your heart race as Charles came down the corridor. You sighed and looked at Ollie, trying to sense how he felt about it, “If it makes you mad or upset or uncomfortable then no, he's not here for me.” 

Charles approached the two of you and slowed his pace, sensing a conversation was happening that he didn’t need to hear, but still he couldn’t deny that he was curious. It was obvious you were talking about him. Ollie’s arms dropped to grab your shoulders, “Y/N, you’ve already given up an insane amount for me to be able to pursue this… Why would I ever be mad about you wanting a fun date night?” You pursed your lips, “It’s not a date.” Ollie’s facial expression dead panned, “Yuh huh, okay, and I’m gonna win the race tomorrow.” You flicked his forehead and heard Charles stifle a laugh to the side. “Just wait here, I’ll get you the toothbrush.” You grumbled going back into the hotel room. Charles coughed nervously as he stood in front of Ollie. Though he was younger than Charles, he was taller and Charles found the way he was staring at him ever so slightly intimidating. “Don’t keep her up late, don’t do anything to upset her and if you make her cry I’ll turn you into the wall tomorrow.” Ollie glared at him and Charles chuckled nervously, “Noted. I would never want to make her cry,” Ollie watched as Charles stared after you with a dopey smile, “I do wanna make her smile though, her smile is pretty.” Ollie coughed a laugh into his hand, Charles was seemingly already down bad and he knew you were too. “Can I ask a question?” Ollie nodded, “Shoot.” “What did you mean by she’s given up a lot for you?” Ollie sighed, shuffling his feet almost uncomfortably. “Dad couldn’t travel with me because of work, Mum couldn’t leave our other siblings at home because they were too young so it was Y/N that moved around with me and travelled with me.” Charles nodded, encouraging Ollie to continue, “She didn’t go on dates or go out clubbing with friends or get a boyfriend because she left it all behind for me. She even decided to not go to uni... She says she doesn’t mind but…” He trailed off, “You still feel bad?” Charles finished for him. Ollie shrugged, “Wouldn’t you? She says she got to travel more than anyone else her age and got to experience tons of stuff while seeing the world so I guess to her it doesn’t matter as much.” Charles hummed, starting to understand just how close you and Ollie were. “You know when Arthur got sick last year it was Y/N that took care of him and drove him to the hospital?” Charles head whipped up to look at Ollie, “That was Y/N?” “Yep. She drove him to the hospital and stayed with him all night, then brought him back home the next day. She made him soup and helped him take all his medicine on time and stuff.” Charles found his heart growing even warmer. He’d remembered how panicked both he and his mother had been when they learned the youngest Leclerc was extremely unwell, until his mother had received a call to say someone was looking after him - now he knew it was you! Ollie smiled to himself, glad that in some roundabout way he was now able to do something for you. It was clear you and Charles were already both smitten with each other. “Got it!” You reappeared at the door and flourished the toothbrush under his nose. “Thank you!” “Mhmm! What were you guys talking about?” “Race strategies-” “The room service menu-” Your eyes narrowed slightly as they gave different answers at the same time and you looked between them, “O…kay…? Cool… Well, you need to relax.” You gave Ollie a look and he saluted, turning round and heading back to his room a few doors down, “Yes coach!” You shook your head before turning to Charles and opening the door wider, “You coming in?”

He smiled and made his way into your room, noting how you’d added a few little touches here and there to make it feel like home even though you were thousands of miles away, “Cute pictures,” Charles wandered over to the vanity where you had put up some small pictures of your family and friends at home, pictures of you and Ollie at various tourist spots round the world and a few family pets. “It makes the distance a little less… distance-y.” “I get it.” “Soooo uhhh…” You stood in the middle of the room and nervously kicked your foot into the floor, “I see we both decided to wear clothes.” Charles smirked and you couldn’t help the chuckle that burst out, “Indeed we did.” “I can’t pretend I’m not slightly disappointed…” He gave you his best attempt at a wink and you hid a smile behind your hand, “I’m still working on it…” He huffed. As he stood there pouting you took in the sight of him in front of you. Dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a white sweatshirt he looked like the epitome of cosy soft boyfriend vibes. “Are you hungry?” Charles took the lead and you were internally thankful for that. “Kind of? We could have a look and see what takes our fancy? Although I’m pretty sure that the majority of the items listed are not approved by your PT…” Charles waved you off, “We all break our diets more regularly than you’d except.” “Tell me about it… I keep having to remind Ollie that chicken nuggets are not nutritious and healthy all the time.” Charles tipped his head back and let out a laugh and you found yourself unable to stop giggling along with him. The laughter eased the remaining tension and you settled onto the bed, patting the spot next to you to encourage him to sit. 

The two of you sat on the bed, perusing the menu and selecting what you wanted before he called down to order it. While you waited you talked about anything and everything. The race tomorrow, how warm it was in Jeddah, your favourite places you’d travelled to, musicians you listened to regularly. You found yourself falling into conversation with him so easily, it was difficult to remember that you’d only known each other for a few hours. When the food arrived Charles was firm in getting you to stay sat down while he answered the door, determined to treat you like a princess.

“Charles, I can walk to the door!” You giggled, “Non! You will wait here and I will go.” He bowed before he walked to the door and you rolled your eyes, a smile plastered across your face. “Here you are, madame, your food.” “Why thank you kind sir.” Taking the plate from him you fluffed up the pillow behind you, clicking on your laptop to reload Netflix. “What do you feel like watching? Drive to Survive?” You asked, doing your best to hold in your laughter when Charles’ head shot up, looking ever so slightly traumatised, “Absolutely not!” You fell into laughter as he climbed onto the bed next to you, “How about a Studio Ghibli movie?” he nodded, taking a bite of his food, “The music is beautiful! I think you’d really like it!” “Let’s do it!” You nodded, clicking on Howl’s Moving Castle and loading it up. 

The two of you watched the movie in silence for a while and you watched as Charles’ fingers tapped along in time with the rhythm of the music. You felt yourself getting swept up in the story, not even noticing Charles’ eyes on you. “I love this part!” You sat up a little and Charles followed suit, subtly moving his arm to rest behind you. You glanced around to see his hand almost over your shoulder and you felt your cheeks heat up quickly. “S-sorry!” He went to move, “N-no, it’s okay…” You looked at him and moved a little closer until your thigh was touching his and his arm was fully around you. Charles smiled down at you as you settled back down and got comfy. God he could get used to this… He daydreamed for a second about getting to do this with you after every race weekend. For the rest of the film, you stayed firmly in Charles embrace, even daring to place one of your hands in his as the characters on screen also held hands. Soft smiles and shy glances were all you exchanged occasionally. You did your absolute best to fight the wave of sleepiness threatening to overtake you but with the heat from Charles’ body and the cosy bed and the soft music of the film, you couldn’t help the way your eyes slipped shut. Your head dropped to rest between his shoulder and chest as the credits rolled and Charles looked down as best he could to see you asleep. He smiled to himself, refusing to move even when his shoulder started to cramp up. He looked at the clock on the wall across the room and realised he had better sleep. After all, he still had a race to drive. He slowly shuffled, careful to support your head as he laid you down on the pillow. You sighed in your sleep and shuffled closer to him, seeking out the warmth he provided. Charles found himself facing an internal battle. Did he stay and risk you feeling uncomfortable and offended or leave and risk you feeling upset he didn’t stay? As he debated the correct answer, you made the decision for him. Half-awake you tugged on the sleeve of his sweater. “Don’t go… warm…” You whined and he completely melted, sliding onto the bed next to you and lying on his back. You felt his heart race as you cuddled into his side and rested your head on his chest. Charles gently ran his hand up and down your arm soothingly as you dozed on his chest. “Hey Y/N?” He said lowly, “Mhmm?” You blinked sleepily, “Would it be okay if I kissed your forehead amour?” You nodded, “More than okay,” With a contented sigh, you relaxed once more, Charles leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. There was a pause before he leant down to kiss your forehead again, only to find his lips against yours. The two of you pulled apart quickly, you were now wide awake and sat up next to him while he led there in shock, eyes wide. If you weren’t so surprised, you probably would have laughed at the way Charles lips almost seemed stuck in a pout before he raced to sit up and apologise, “Fuck I’m so sorry!” He cried, “You’re sorry? I’m sorry!” Your eyes mirrored his, “I shouldn’t have just leaned down to kiss you again.” “It’s okay Charles really… I…” You went quiet for a moment and he gently reached for your hand, “What is it?” You bit your lip, not daring to look at him. “I-I…” “Take your time amour.” He smiled at you encouragingly as his thumb gently rubbed over the back of your hand, “I kind of liked it…” You whispered, eyes squeezing shut, “Only kind of?” He asked, genuinely, not wanting to scare you. “C-can we try again?” You opened your eyes and felt him gently tilt your chin to look up at him, “You want to try again?” You nodded and Charles shook his head, “Non mon ange, I need to hear you say it. I’m not going to kiss you without you telling me it’s okay-” “Please. Charles. I want you to kiss me… I just might not be very good at it, you see I haven’t really had much practice so please forgive me if its bad…”

Any remaining words died on your tongue as Charles cupped your face with the hand that had been holding your chin and his other arm wrapped around your waist and tugged you a little closer to him. “Just follow my lead ma belle.” Your eyes fluttered closed as his breath swept across your lips. You expected to feel his lips against yours but you were pleasantly surprised at the feeling of his lips kissing your forehead once more. Your eyes stayed shut as he pressed a soft kiss to one cheek, then the other. A quick peck to the nose left your giggling, before he placed a kiss to your jawline that left you breathless, “Please… Charles…” His lips were almost on yours again and you felt them brush yours slightly as he spoke, “Please what mon ange?” “Kiss me.” Any little part of you that had been frustrated by his teasing only moments ago was certainly glad of it now. It made the moment his lips touched yours all that much sweeter. Any nerves melted away as he held you gently.

There was no heavy panting or biting, no licking or sucking. Just his lips caressing yours. Your head spun as he finally pulled away to let you take a breath just for a moment. You chased his lips, not quite ready to let him go yet and he let out a contented hum at the way you pressed your lips to him once more. He swore he fell even harder when you smiled into the kiss. You gasped when he pulled you into his lap and the kiss fell apart as you both dissolved into giggles. Your tummy flipped in the most delightful way as his nose gently rubbed against yours, “Was that okay?” Your hands linked around the back of his head and found the short hair there, gently threading your fingers through and twisting it round. You leaned down to whisper, “My turn…” His eyes closed, blissfully as you traced your own kisses across his face, in awe of the way his long lashes sat on his cheeks. You placed a small kiss on top of the freckle on his cheek and giggled at the way his stubble tickled your nose and lips, he opened his eyes and watched your wiggling your nose, “Tickles.” He placed his hands on your hips and softly rubbed his thumbs just under your shirt. You smiled down at him and nodded, “Words ma belle.” “Yes Charles, you can.” He smiled up at you and pouted to ask for a kiss, “Merci ma belle.” He slid his hands under your shirt to gently hold your hips and feel the soft skin there. You rested your head on his shoulder, enjoying the closeness and the comfort he was providing. “I’m so glad I asked you to come over.” A kiss to your forehead was your answer, “Me too…”

Neither of you moved for a few minutes, just feeling each other breathe. Feeling how your heart rates slowed after racing from the excitement of kissing. You hadn’t even noticed yourself getting sleepy again but Charles had. “Ma belle, I need to go…” You nodded but didn’t move, Charles chuckled, “Ma belle?” “Do you have to?” Charles cooed at how sleepy you sounded, “If I stay here I won’t sleep, I’ll just want to kiss you and hold you all night and I have a race tomorrow.” You conceded and lifted your head but remained in his lap, “That was actually my plan.” Charles head tilted, “Distract the competition so Ollie can sneak through.” Charles head dropped to your collarbone with a laugh, “So sneaky mon ange…” You nodded, climbing off of his lap and taking a seat next to him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stood up but found himself unable to help leaning back down to kiss you just once… twice… three times more. You pushed his chest and smiled, “Go Charles! I’ll see you in the morning.” He let himself out of your room and as soon as the door had closed you were squealing into your pillow, giddy with excitement and stomach full of butterflies.

And if Charles did the same thing when he got back to his room? Well that was his business.

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀

“Good morning!” “You are far too happy this morning. What happened with Charles? Did you kiiiiiiiiss him?” You glared at Ollie who stood in the door of your hotel room making kissy faces at you. “Whatever happened between me and Charles is between us.” You grabbed your bag and headed towards the elevator at the end of the hallway, Ollie easily falling into step beside you, “So something did happen?” “Maybe! I don’t see how it’s any of your business anyway.” Your brother knocked his shoulder into yours, turning serious, “It’s not. It’s just nice to see you so happy.” You stood in front of the elevator doors and turned to Ollie, “Thanks Ols.” “But also I need to know if I need to crash him into the wall today.” “hUH?!”  

When you reached the Ferrari garage, you were excited to support your brother but also excited to see Charles again. You spotted him not long after entering the garage, his back was to you but even seeing the back of his head was enough to send you into a smile that alerted everyone in the near vicinity that you had it bad for the man wearing number 16. One of the mechanics stood with him greeted Ollie and Charles turned round, face breaking into an identical grin at the sight of you in a Ferrari red dress. Your Dad elbowed you, “Is there something going on I need to know about? Spill the tea bestie” He wiggled his eyebrows and you snorted, leaning into him and bumping your head against his shoulder affectionately, “There’s no tea to spill dad, and Ollie, stop teaching Dad phrases you think he needs to know!” Your Dad and Ollie laughed as you made your way over to Charles, “Hi.” “Hi. You look beautiful.” Charles found himself breathless as he took in your full appearance. “Did you get any sleep?” A goofy grin crept across his face, “Filled with dreams of you ma belle, I slept wonderfully. And you?” You nodded, “Something similar I guess…” “You guess?” “Mhmm…” You gasped as you felt his hand slowly grab yours, his fingers interlocking with yours, “Charles! What if someone sees?” “I don’t mind people seeing me holding hands with the prettiest girl at the race today.” You gently tapped his chest and shook your head, “You’re so silly.” You looked across the garage as you heard Ollie’s laugh and Charles’ face turned serious, he gave your hand a gentle squeeze to get your attention, “I actually wanted to say that I totally understand that you’re here for Ollie today. It’s lovely to see you but I’m not going to take you away from supporting your brother when he needs you.” You gave his hand a squeeze back in appreciation, “Thank you Charles. We’ll catch up later though! Good luck, race safe!” 

Charles felt his cheek turning as red as his car as you placed a gentle kiss to his cheek before darting across the garage with a giggle. He stared after you with a dumb lovestruck look on his face, one hand coming up to hold his cheek, “Oh my friend, you have it bad, no?” Charles whirled round to see Carlos and some of the engineers staring at him, amused looks on their faces. “I wish they hadn’t let you leave the hospital today.” Carlos laughed, wincing slightly as he did so, “And miss our little Charles in love? No way! This is more entertaining than the race will be.” 

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀

You stood with Ollie in the garage as he waited until the last second to get in the car. “You ready?” He inhaled, “I guess we’ll find out huh? It’s now or never…” You smiled at him, handing him his helmet. You had your pre-race routine with Ollie that consisted of making sure he had one last sip of water, helping him put his helmet on before kissing where his forehead would be inside the helmet and finally a bear hug. You’d done it before every race since he was in his karting days and his debut F1 race would be no different. Charles caught sight of this and smiled. It was good that the young driver had such a great support system. In a slightly weird way he was almost envious that he didn't have someone to do those things for him. He watched as you held Ollie's bottle up to his lips before placing it to the side, buckling his helmet up once it was on his head. Charles' heart grew warm as he watched Ollie bend down so you could reach to kiss his forehead. You and Ollie were unaware of your audience, just completely in your own little bubble. "Can't believe I have to bend for you to reach my forehead now." It was a throwaway comment from Ollie but it left you with tears welling up in your eyes. Oh how he'd grown. When this ritual first started he was just a kid. Far shorter than you, almost looking too small for his kart. He had been so young but his dreams were big. You felt your bottom lip quiver as you watched your brother's dreams become reality in front of your eyes. You knew he felt guilty that you'd given so much up. "Bear hug?" You asked, holding your arms out. Ollie wrapped you up in the tightest hug he could manage, "Thank you." He didn't need to say what for. You knew. "If I had to, I'd do it all over again." He squeezed you just a little more before he was pulling away and climbing into that red car that he'd long dreamed of. You felt your dad come alongside you and pull you into his side, the two of you both misty-eyed with tearful smiles.

Watching his car leave the garage for the grid you couldn't help the way you looked around for Charles. You caught sight of him and approached him, "Are you alright ma belle?" You wiped your eyes hastily, "Yeah, just a little overwhelmed?" Charles gave an understanding nod, "It makes perfect sense mon ange." You cleared your throat, "But I have another pre-race ritual to complete." Charles eyes shot to yours, "unless you already have one and then I won't interfere-" "Please." You gave him a soft smile and took his helmet from him to allow him to do up his suit properly, "What do you still need to do?" Charles looked almost shy as he gave his request, "Could you help me put my helmet on?" Your cheeks felt warm as you nodded, gently tugging on his helmet to pull it down when he grabbed your wrists, "Wait." "What?" Your eyes searched his, worried you'd somehow hurt him or done it wrong, his face broke into a grin, "Can I get a kiss before my helmet goes on?" You looked around the garage, everyone busy with their own jobs and not really paying you much attention. "Are you sure?" Charles nodded. You looked for a small space of skin not covered by his balaclava and pressed a light kiss to his cheek just under his eye. His eyes shut as if he was savouring the moment before he nodded at you to pull his helmet down. He watched your face contort into an expression of concentration as you buckled his helmet up with so much precision and care. "What comes next?" "Help me with my gloves?" His voice was muffled through the helmet, you nodded and took his gloves from him. Helping him put one on and squeezing that hand before switching to the other one. "Can I suggest one last thing?" He nodded, "I think you should have a bear hug." You couldn't see his smile through his helmet but the way he enthusiastically pulled you into his arms told you all you needed to know. You stood there for a moment just enjoying the feeling of his arms around you. You rested your head on his chest and sighed. His hand gently caressed up and down your back before he was being called to climb into his car. You squeezed him one last time for good measure before he was gone and off to line up for the start of the race.

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀

Your throat was sore from all the yelling and screaming you'd done at the screen, your legs were about to give out from the adrenaline rush and your cheeks hurt from the smiling you'd done. You had tears in your eyes again as you watched your brother cross the line in 7th for his first ever F1 grand prix. Turning to hug your dad you nodded at Carlos who sat across the garage. He gave you a warm smile and a knowing wink as the garage began rushing to the podium for Charles. You were bouncing on your feet as you waited to see Ollie, Charles, either of them, both of them?

The pitlane was packed as fans, teams and reporters all swarmed down to the podium. And there, pushing his way through all of it, was Ollie. You couldn't help the scream that left your throat as you sprinted to him. Pulling him into a huge hug. "Oh my god bear." You practically sobbed, "I'm so fucking proud of you!" Ollie slid his helmet off and his face was lit up, "Oh my god that was amazing! Intense, but amazing!" You giggled as he moved his neck experimentally before wincing, "Yeah I'm gonna need a physio appointment like... as soon as possible." You let out a laugh, "Dad was already on it by about lap four don't worry!" "Thank fuck." Your brother exhaled, eyes widening dramatically. You observed the way the podium was getting increasingly busy. "Go." Ollie looked at you, "You know you want toooo..." He sang, "But..." "No buts, butts are for sitting." Ollie, closed his eyes as if he would hear no further arguments. He leant in close, "I think it would mean a lot to him too." "Ollie I can't just g-" "Excuse me, Carlos?" Ollie called to the older driver, "You're going the the podium aren't you?" Carlos motioned that he was, "Are you going to?" You looked at Ollie and he gave an encouraging nod, "Go!" You looked at Carlos, "Lead the way."

It was packed. You wondered if Carlos should really be making his way through the crowd given his condition, but they almost seemed to part for him. It certainly made things easier for you so you couldn’t complain. You stood next to Carlos right in front of the barrier underneath the podium. You were just in time. The announcer spoke Charles' name and he walked out onto the podium, he had a huge grin that stretched from cheek to cheek. He stood there for a moment before looking down at his team Charles felt his heart stop. There was no way. Was there? You were stood celebrating his podium? Charles had never wanted a podium ceremony to be over quicker in his life. He was dying to get back down there and hold you in his arms again, maybe even kiss you if he was lucky. As he was handed his trophy he looked down once more, pointing at you. To the cameras it would look like he was pointing at his mechanics, or even Carlos. But you knew. Even though he was fairly far away from you he could still see how your eyes shone up at him. The way they sparkled not just under the floodlights of the track but from the way you were just looking at him. You weren’t aware of anything around you. Not Carlos smirking at the way you and Charles watched each other, not the music, not the champagne, nor the fireworks that now exploded in the sky above Jeddah rivalling the fireworks that were going off in your tummy at the way Charles gazed at you with so much adoration. 

As soon as he could, Charles was racing off the podium and Carlos led you back to the Ferrari garage where he would soon appear. You waited, almost pacing back and forth. Ollie watched you knowingly, “You really like him huh?” You froze, “Is it that obvious?!” Ollie scoffed, “Uh? Yes!” You rolled your eyes before Carlos called your name, “Y/N you can wait in his room if you want? It’s opposite Ollie’s.” You nodded and wound your way through the now familiar corridors of Ferrari’s garage. You made it to Charles' room and settled down on the couch. Now to wait. 

You didn’t have to wait long before the door was bursting open and a champagne drenched Charles was striding across the room, placing his trophy down on the couch before sweeping you into his arms, nose tracing up your neck, “Ma belle…” “Charles! That tickles!” Charles laughed and your legs went weak as you felt his chest rumble against you. “Wanted to do this as soon as I got out of the car.” He mumbled. You gently held his face in your hands and brought his face up to look at you, “Congratulations handsome.” Charles smiled, leaning in before catching himself and stopping with a groan, “Can I kiss you? Please say yes ma belle… Please fuck… I need to kiss you, it’s all I've wanted to do since the race ended, need to kiss you, please?” “Yes, Charles.” “Thank you amour.” His lips met yours and you sighed as you tasted the sweet champagne from his lips. He was sticky and sweaty but he was so Charles. You hummed happily before he gently bit your lip, eliciting a whine from you. He growled a little at the sound before pulling away, “We need to stop ma belle.” “Awww…” You pouted and he laughed, poking the lip that was jutting out. “I’m not going to do this with you in my driver’s room of all places, especially when I’m sweaty and covered in champagne.” “I don’t know…” Your arms circled his neck as you leaned into him, “I think it’s a good look.” His hands found your hips and he couldn’t help the way his thumbs traced tiny circles.

“You know… I think you should come to F1 races more often…” “Oh?” “Mhmm” Charles looked at you, “I think your ritual got me my podium today.” You stared at him for a second before laughing, “You think so?” He pressed a final kiss to your lips and nodded, “Absolutely!” “Then I think I need to come and stand in the Ferrari garage more often.” Charles pulled you into a hug, “That sounds perfect.” 

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ BONUS INSTAGRAM POSTS

y/nbearman

Liked by olliebearman, scuderiaferrari and 23,196 others y/nbearman little weekend photodump ft. very on brand red outfits, the nicest hospitality and garage I've ever stood in, Ollie's first F1 race and post-race dinner and Dad's first TV interview for sky sports

View all 4,157 comments olliebearman Think that was definitely Dad's favourite part of the weekend ⤷ y/nbearman Papa bear for commentator 2025? Comment liked by skysportsf1 and olliebearman ⤷ olliebearman ICON

bearmanfan they have the cutest sibling relationship I swear 🥺 lalaleclerc PLS TELL ME Y'ALL ALSO SAW CHARLES LOOKING AT HER IN THE GARAGE ⤷ charleswifey omg yesssss 😭 he really thought no one was looking but there was a whole ass camera on him ⤷ y/nbearman wHAT? ⤷ lalaleclerc oops 🥹

charles_leclerc can't wait to have you in the garage again ma belle Comment liked by y/nbearman ⤷ y/nbearman looking forward to it handsome ⤷ f1f1fan wait. WHAT? ⤷ bearmanfam Y/N AND CHARLES?!

scuderiaferrari We're so glad you had a good weekend! Ollie is our new fave 🫶🏼 ⤷ charles_leclerc ouch ⤷ carlossainz55 I've been gone less than one weekend 🧍‍♂️ ⤷ y/nbearman you're so real for this admin I approve ⤷ scuderiaferrari ❤️❤️

charlesandcarlos I had no clue who this girl was until they said on the commentary that she was Ollie's sister, damn they have good genes ⤷ y/nfanpage isn't she the prettiest!! ⤷ olllie charles has good taste Comment liked by charles_leclerc ⤷ charlessss does anyone know what she does for a living? ⤷ bearmanfam it's actually so sweet 🥺 she gave up on going to uni and following her own career path for a while to travel with Ollie and support him in F2! she's basically his PA, manager, photographer, nutritionist, therapist, best friend and sister rolled into one ⤷ charlessss holy shit 🧍‍♀️ we STAN her

bearmanhug is it just me that thought we'd get a really mushy post from y/n like when Ollie finished the F2 season last year? ⤷ ferrarifan no same here ⤷ y/nbearman oh it's incoming don't worry 🤭 ⤷ ferrawri OH FUCK WE AREN'T READY

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀ ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀

y/nbearman

Liked by olliebearman, charles_leclerc and 21,874 others y/nbearman to say that I'm proud of you is an understatement. you make me proud every day no matter whether you win or lose not just on the track but off too. but this weekend I'm in absolute awe of you. the results you've achieved just show the hard work and dedication you've put into this sport. I know your passion to succeed and improve will take you far! this is just the beginning of amazing things to come. forever proud of you and I've always got your back. I love you to the end of the line baby bear ❤️❤️❤️ tagged: @.olliebearman

View all 3,562 comments olliebearman love you too sun bear Comment liked by y/nbearman

bearmanfam OH MY GOD THERE'S SO MUCH TO UNPACK 😭 ⤷ bearmanfam ollie once said in an interview that his sister always makes him smile and lights up his day and that's why he calls her sun bear! she calls him baby bear because he's younger than her ⤷ charlesandcarlos I'm pretty sure she used red hearts bc he drove for Ferrari this week 🥹 Comment liked by y/nbearman ⤷ bearmanfam omg YES ❤️ ⤷ charlesandcarlos CONFIRMED ❤️

charles_leclerc superb driving today! you should absolutely be proud. keep driving like that and it won't be long until we'll be sharing the track every week @.olliebearman Comment liked by y/nbearman and olliebearman ⤷ carlossainz55 no doubt about it!

lewishamilton amazing job today kid 💜 leclerclove The way the old photos are in black and white and the photos from the weekend are in colour like it's a new era 😭 ⤷ smoothoperatorrr omg I didn't think of that 😭😭 ⤷ charleswifeyyyy The childhood pictures are so fucking cute too 😭

landonorris great results today! can't wait to see what you do in the future! ferrariiiii "I love you to the end of the line" AS IN THE FINISH LINE?! ⤷ f1fan STOP OH MY GOD 😭😭😭 carlossssainzzz I'm not ashamed to say that I sobbed like a baby reading this post 🥹 like it's so clear that they love and support one another ⤷ scuderiaferrari we're crying too! 🥹❤️ Comment liked by y/nbearman and olliebearman

f1fannnn all the drivers commenting their support and congratulations 😭

fanoferrari "this is just the beginning" I-🥹😭 ⤷ olsbearmannn "you make me proud every day"

It was a quiet, cozy evening in Y/N’s apartment, the kind where the world outside could’ve been a million miles away. The lights were dimmed, and the only source of illumination came from the TV screen, flickering with the opening credits of a rom-com Y/N had been dying to watch.

Y/N was nestled comfortably on the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, with a bowl of popcorn resting on her lap. Yuta sat beside her, casually draped in a hoodie and sweatpants, his arm resting along the back of the couch behind her, just a little too close—though Y/N didn’t mind. She loved it when he was close.

“So, this movie’s supposed to be really cute, right?” Y/N said with a smile, glancing over at Yuta, who was already watching her, his gaze soft but unwavering.

“Yeah, but not as cute as you,” Yuta replied smoothly, nudging her lightly. His voice had that tender, teasing quality she adored.

Y/N rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips. “You’re so corny.”

He chuckled and leaned in to kiss the top of her head. “But you love it.”

The movie began, and the two of them settled in, comfortable in the silence, only interrupted by the occasional giggle from Y/N or a quiet comment from Yuta about the movie's predictability.

But, in the middle of a particularly dramatic scene, Yuta suddenly stood up.

“I’ll be right back. I need to use the bathroom,” he said, stretching a little too dramatically, as if to draw attention to his exit.

Y/N didn’t think anything of it. She was far too engrossed in the movie’s over-the-top romance to notice anything odd. “Okay, hurry back. I’m about to see how this one ends!”

Yuta smiled softly, his eyes narrowing for a split second as he turned away. He had something else in mind.

As he stepped out of the living room, he made his way down the hall to where his phone was charging on the nightstand. His fingers hovered for a moment before unlocking the screen.

There it was.

The hidden camera feed he had set up earlier that week—four small, discreet lenses placed around her apartment, capturing every corner of the living room. He never let her know about them, of course. She’d never suspect something so intrusive, especially when he’d always been so sweet and loving.

Yuta’s heart rate picked up as he clicked through the various feeds on his phone. On the screen, he could see her sitting on the couch, staring intently at the TV, popcorn resting idly in her lap, her expression one of pure joy as she watched the movie.

Yuta couldn’t help but grin. He liked watching her like this. He liked seeing how relaxed and content she was, how at peace.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her—it was more that he simply wanted to always be part of her world. Even when he wasn’t physically there beside her, he wanted to be sure she was happy, safe, and… all his.

With a soft sigh, he leaned back against the wall, watching the feed for a little longer, his eyes flicking from one camera to the other. Her every movement, every shift of her posture, was like a personal performance meant just for him. He adored it.

he was fidgeting the entire time, no matter how calm and gentle he tried to appear while the two of you went over the details. you had no idea if he was nervous because he might end up not liking it, or because he might like it too much. 

(little did you know, he was trying his reaaal hardest to not bust a nut the second you proposed it. would caleb ever admit it? no. absolutely not. he's gotta appear cool in front of you, after all. maybe he would own up to it though, after it's all over.) 

but later that night, while he's tonguing you with that lithe, pink muscle in such a delicious, mind-boggling manner, something is piqued and it isn't your interest. your eyebrows raise with every calculated lick over the crevices, the folds, smooth with spit.

he's kind of a natural at this.

the fingers in his hair now belong to you just as much as the rest of him. "you're weirdly good at this. are you sure you've never tried this with anyone else?" 

it wasn't intended to come off insecure; you tried to deliver it as nonchalant as possible whilst your fingers were busy in his hair. 

he knows better though. caleb peers up at you with those stupidly beady eyes—now, however, they were droopy with a deeply rooted contentment. you feel him smile, loopy, drunk on your flavor. you wonder if he'd willingly let himself be suffocated under your body weight like this.

"hmm?" 

the vibrations would make any person's toes curl, traitorous thighs flexing around his head. the idiot moans in unabashed approval, low and shameless as he keeps his eyes on you. 

one large palm of his takes a greedily handful of your ass, and smacks. hot air is breathed out over your skin, his tongue flat against the tender flesh, drinking up the flood of arousal that soaked your labia. 

"questionin' my loyalty after all these years? when i've got my mouth full of you? i'm wounded," he dryly replies. despite his words, he doesn't sound mad at all. more pleased, if anything, undoubtedly by the way it fed his ego. 

you huff, bottom lip jutting out.  "well, you seem plenty experienced—"

"eh, not really."

caleb's adjusting the position with a tight, guiding grip so you weren't fully seated down on him. blowing onto the perky, swollen hood at the apex of your core. enamored, he was drinking in every groove and fold of your bare sex. embarrassment creeps up your spine with a vengeance so violent, you nearly bolt. 

he muses quietly, "dreams will never compare to the real thing." 

"what're you—"

"ah-ah-ah. talk later. also, weirdly good? what's your basis for comparison, huh?"

caleb pulls you back down, groaning hotly as the taste floods his palate. the ravenous glitter in those smoldering lilac eyes reduce him into something primal, wanting to satiate his most base needs. and that was only possible through you. 

and you're keening above him, hands frantically holding onto the headboard in a series of breathless gasps. it's cute; it makes him internally cheese at his effect on you. unfortunately, you don't seem to share the same sentiment, because you're promptly trying to get off of his head as your stomach tenses.

"caleb," you moan, and some branch of his sanity snaps clean off. 

it shatters when you absentmindedly grind your hips, fucking dragging the folds of your cunt up his chin, lips, nudging his nose, leaving a trail of your slick and his spit on his face. 

a plea from you, "wait, it's too direct—"

shrapnels of iridescent midnight and scarlet spark around your hips, fireworks in the palm of your hands. it takes a moment to register, but he devours the transformation of your expression nonetheless. the dazed look, the confusion, the realization. 

and caleb's the picture boy of arrogance as he activates his evol, forcing you to stay in position. the indignation that sparks in your body is only minimized by the thick, sweet moisture that drips onto his chin, one he's eager to lap up, the ambrosia honeyed in the back of his throat.

the world was truly cruel for ever trying to separate the both of you.

"since when did i say you could move? you can't just get up and leave me here, pipsqueak. surely, you aren't cruel enough to deny me some bonding with you." 

the tip of his tongue dips into the soft hole of your sex, curling experimentally. air humming around your bodies, one arm curled over your thigh, the other hand snaking around to smooth over your chest as he spells his name into your cunt. 

c-a-l-e-b. 

then in morse code, dragged out lines and probes. 

then his last name. 

and m-i-n-e.

"if signing papers at work was as easy as this, i'd have more allies than i have enemies." he hums in satisfaction, utterly lovesick as he drags his sticky lips up to suck on your clitoris, savoring the way your muscles tense and quiver in anticipation of your climbing orgasm. he can't wait to taste that.

"you're just as mouthy down here as you are up there, y'know," he comments, eyelids crinkling into crescent moons. as if he didn't say something so profoundly lewd that it'd make any sex enthusiast blush. 

"you must really like talking to me more than you let on." 

he plants a smooch over your drooling entrance, affectionate, as if it'd silence the little squelching noises it made with every slow contraction of your inner muscles. 

contemplation solidifies into surety on his handsome face, his hungry eyes turning into something more tangy, more mischievous. the crackles of his evol warp around you. 

you get the sudden, immense feeling that you're in for it. that you're in danger.

he presses his mouth up to your core, stare intent and full of a love so potent you think you're gonna be sick. "do you think if i come inside, it'll swallow just like you do?"

the air leaves your lungs. you wheeze, "caleb—"

"you'd let me test it, right?" he asks, voice softened by the need edging behind it. "you're always so good. you'd let me, wouldn't you?"

before you could retort on how he was asking so many questions, you're suddenly being flipped. the world spins, and you mistakenly take it as the end of the entire damn universe, squeezing your eyes shut as wind lashes at your skin and your back hits the cushion. 

when you open them, you're kind of bent. upper body splayed on the bedspread, your lower body awkwardly held up by caleb's arms — thighs still snug on either side of his head. now, he's urgently tucking pillows underneath your hips, angling you up, smearing another kiss onto your cunt. everything done with such fluidity, not an ounce of struggle in his taut, muscular form. 

then he spits, and you flinch. before you could even ask what the hell he was doing, he buries his face into you, tongue shamelessly pushing and pulsing against your spasming pussy — letting his spittle pool in there like a filthy brand. heat boils in your lower belly, burning your skin and you're clenching before you could think it through.

"fuck," he whispers. the rare curse slipping like a prayer from his swollen lips, awe heavy in his inflection. "you really drank it up." 

was the bedroom always this hot?

caleb, once so composed and the epitome of restraint, appeared voracious from this position. and the sight of your cunt squeezing around air, pulling the webbed mixture of his saliva and your arousal into the sinful cradle of your walls. 

gravity is the coil of a snake around your body, and you're the very fruit he's craved. caleb hums, thoughtful and pleased, just before diving back in, "let's find out."

on all fours, the floor is cold and dirty beneath your fingertips. yet nothing compares to the way he's rutting into you from behind, clumsy and animalistic. no technique whatsoever. and no, the way his balls were harshly slapping onto your clit with every dragging motion doesn't count as stimulation, no matter how arousingly filthy it is.

the warm, charged atmosphere that seems to accelerate the pace in which he's thrusting, patience is thinning as well. so, reaching back, you wrap your fingers around the thin, corded chain attached to his collar.

you're yanking before you could think it through, before you could weigh in the consequences and the benefits.

the effect is immediate. he gasps, a garbled sound of shock that would've been cute in any other context. it's hard to find it endearing now, when his body is practically engulfing you — nothing like how you're engulfing him, however — and he's trying to not crush you with one palm slamming onto the ground to halt his fall. how considerate.

his dick slides an inch or two deeper, and noises fall from your lips like waterfalls. like a siren call, his shaft twitches in response, responding to the rhythmic contractions of your core in kind.

your grip tightens on the chain as you angle your head to look at him. it's hard to not sound whiny when he stuffs you so perfectly, the tip snug against that spongy part inside.

but, you manage, and bite out a venomous, "behave."

the disbelief on his face mingles with a hazy lust in his blown pupils. a red-hot flush decorates his skin, glistening with pearls of sweat that trace his jaw and land on your lower back, his lungs working double time to make up for the exertion and his hair tousled like a masterpiece.

it's so sensual and utterly riveting to see the effect you have on him. you're sure you're just as wrecked as he is.

his adam's apple bobs against the thick leather collar and his brows knit together. there's a more prominent darkness to his gaze. "are you serious?"

and it takes a moment for it to register — that he wasn't replying to your command.

it's a bit too late though, before that crazed look in his eyes returns in time with your survival instincts kicking in. you're moving before you know it in an attempt to escape, scrambling forward.

doesn't matter because your stupid decision to hold onto the chain draws him with you. before he's maneuvering you to his pleasure, at least. he's baring his teeth like a rabid dog, malicious satisfaction swimming in those violet irises.

"bad decision." voice low, taunting. gloating. "so, it's gonna be like that, huh?"

you choke out faint noises of protest as you're laid flat. the chill perpetual on your sticky, heated skin. chest flat to the floor, you're still stubbornly holding onto the chain, wrapping it around your digits in the scenario he tries to break free.

caleb's presence is daunting as he settles over you once more. still balls deep in you, his length sits still like some a behaved dog. contrary to the very owner as he snickers to himself.

"tellin' me to behave, as if your touchy-feely hands didn't get you into this position to begin with," he sneers, straddling the back of your thighs. its rasp makes your heart and cunt flutter, and he moans in approval at the pulse.

the way your body jolts when he shoves his wrist beneath your pelvis is unintentional, but your gasp when his fingers find your clitoris is nothing short of exquisite. another heady mewl exits, in time with another tug of the chain and the slippery slide of his cock in your guts. the tip shoots a generous amount of precum along your velvet walls, milking him in desperate pulsations.

"as if you aren't practically singing for some more down here, isn't — that — right?"

he punctuates those last words with expert thrusts, rendering you boneless with every sopping wet squelch that claps against your butt — that reminds you of your own sick, twisted pleasure in this situation.

the angle is so, so much more penetrative than before when you're positioned like this. your lungs were going to collapse at this rate.

but caleb is fresh air when he lowers himself, sandwiching your body to the ground. the weight, hard and muscular and toned, makes you gush around him. the little hum he makes tells you that he noticed it, and you clamp down.

his breath is hot and humid against the shell of your ear, amused. one large palm settles on the ground in front of you for balance, the other on your ass.

when he speaks, his tone is deceptively light. "for every time you tug, i'm cummin' inside. seems only right."

his next laugh is a little breathless, disbelieving, delighted. like he was talking to himself, the mutt. dread settles in your stomach, mingling with the delicious tendrils of arousal that soaks your folds and lubricates his entry.

you tug on the chain once. toes curling in anticipation.

"yeah. i know it sounds good," he mumbles absentmindedly, a quiet promise to himself. his hips draw back, and he's moving again.

He had all but convinced himself that your mouth, pressed to his in a flurry of tender touches or desirous cravings, was something he conjured up in the blurry moments of his delusions. You always manage to kiss them away, though.

Later on, you admitted that he was your first kiss.

"When I visited you after you moved out," you said. Hands wrung, your gaze averted downward as you were perched on his lap one evening.

He knows what you're talking about. Remembers its vividness with a startling clarity that would have embarrassed him otherwise, if you didn't share the same sentiments.

By now, you've already kissed and made out in the intimacy of his place beyond finite counting. Had sex with him on whatever surface the two of you could get your hands on. You've long since spoiled him with your presence, both physical and mental. There's a key tucked away in his headspace with your name engraved into the metal. Magnetic and the signification of a special place for you in his heart.

He spoiled you, and now, you spoil him. Neither of you complain about this mutually beneficial arrangement. Why would you?

Though, he can't say he's exactly pleased at the current moment.

"That's it, mmm. You're being so sweet today."

He's watching you, as he always is. You're on your knees before him—you insisted, said it added to the atmosphere despite his crows of indignance at the possibility of them bruising—and your mouth impossibly full of his cock.

You're bare before him, towel discarded on the coffee table with your body damp and he's barely presentable in his uniform. Disheveled and pants undone, he wasn't sure if he was exactly living up to the honorable nature of the clothes he donned. He tried to undress, but you'd been pawing at him the second he walked through the doorstep in nothing but one of the towels he bought you, so his resistance was doomed from the start.

His arms spread on the top of the couch, he tilts his head back and sighs slowly. Hot breath escapes him in time with his Adam's apple bobbing, swallowing a heavy moan that threatens to break free. It takes him a few moments before he peers at your kneeling form once more.

One of his hands cups your cheek, the cool leather swiping over your cheekbone and pushing some of your hair back. Rapt attention on you, whispering soft words of, "that's how you do it" and "a biiit wider, pipsqueak— yeah, like that" with so much appreciation in his tone. Because that's what he feels toward you right now; so much appreciation in his heart belongs to you.

Your tongue was doing sinful licks along the underside of his cock's curve, the girth hefty in your two hands, and your eyes stayed closed in a quiet pleasure. It's expertly done, and the creation of human response as you wrap those pretty pink lips around the tip of him and suckle on it, strings of your saliva leaving sticky wefts along the shaft.

Alternating between peppering his length in kisses and taking a couple inches into your mouth, he's fighting for his fucking life trying to not bust a nut. He's sort of ashamed to have dreamt of this moment for years. You would never let him live it down.

As if the deities couldn't get enough of his suffering, his mind had made the fatal mistake of noting the visible difference of the size of him and your hands and your mouth. It gets him going, that stark contrast and how gently you were treating him.

It's a sight reserved for his eyes alone. Something he wants to pocket and immortalize because it's his and only his. That's the only reason for the powerful plethora of emotions boiling over in his gut. Truly, the only reason.

That's what he tells himself as he observes you with a progressively darkening, clinical, dead-eyed stare that you weren't aware of. A little voice in him nagging at his conscience, spitting words of venom that feeds into the slowly, slowly expanding green-eyed monster rising onto its feet.

"I got a question for you, pretty," he says calmly, deceptively so. Making sure to sound as casual as possible, his gloved hand coming to stroke over your damp, silky hair. You really just couldn't wait to please him, immediately pawing at him when he arrived home and you were fresh out the bath.

You murmur something in reply, lips suctioned to his shaft. Those gorgeous eyes, ones that beheld him with such reverence and adoration in round shape flicker up to his. The vibrations and sight hit him like a freight train and he groans, low and deep. He lets the pleasure settle into his bones.

"You have to answer honestly, 'kay?" He croons down at you, assuring. His facial expression had finally relaxed from its initial, contemplative one. You're happy with this, he notes as you eagerly bob your head, careful to remain quiet.

Good. It'll make hearing your voice all the more worth it. When you said he was your first kiss, he was beyond ecstatic.

Hopefully, you can echo the same thing now.

With an easygoing air betraying that of his positively threatening smile, he asks, "Where'd you learn how to do this?"

There's a sick sense of pleasure in watching you process his words a second too lats. Because you're such an open book with him, aren't you? The way your eyes widen and your lips halt, as if your heart stopped even beating. Even if makes his own blackened heart speed up, its thudding resembling a rabbit's stomping.

Your blinks were a linguistic of their own, and he was the expert in unraveling the lexicology of your existence.

You don't answer fast enough. Or, you don't answer at all. Because now, you're staring him like a child chastised for having their hand in a candy jar—where they weren't supposed to be.

Unfortunately for you, that was more than telling for him.

Caleb doesn't speak. The air is several degrees colder now, like the air circulation was suddenlt cut off, and he drinks in the way anticipation tenses your muscles and your uneven breaths smooth over his skin when you pop your lips off his cock. Those sinful lips that he stole away as his were now glistening in a mix of your spittle and his pre-cum.

He could almost forgive you right now. But, you make the crucial mistake of looking away from him.

"Oh?" It's inquisitive—his tone, yet it has the power of a knife being drawn.

The hand on your head loses its comforting, encouraging air and instead becomes a weight.

A threat.

The visual that's formulating in his head isn't a pleasant one. An image of stained glass shards, blurry yet clear in the vision of you on your knees for another guy. The scattered light capturing your mouth wrapped around the faceless stranger, servicing him the same way you're handling Caleb, seeking that same, sickly sweet tang of validation.

Could it have been that Xavier guy he sees on your phone notifications from time to time? Or is it someone closer to you, from your Association? There's a chance someone else from your childhood reached out to you, maybe after his disappearance. Did they hold you in ways he's been craving to hold you for years?

That's not fair, now, is it? He's worn your hairtie around his wrist for years, disregarded countless scribbled love letters from bystanders, based his little trinkets around those apples you love so much, and spoiled you countless times in his misplaced desire for playing the role of your protector. It simply isn't fair that you sought gratification from a source that wasn't him—because for him, it was always you.

Is it too selfish of him to want your everything?

You don't say anything even as your mouth opens and closes. You're either searching for an excuse, weighing the costs of lying to him at the moment, or you're genuinely floundering for words at the sudden blankness in your head.

He hums again, and it's lower than before. Full of thought and contemplation as his amethyst eyes bore holes into your speechless state. It's full of disappointment and he sees the worry creep into your eyes like a leaking faucet.

Threading his gloved fingers into the tresses of your hair, its smooth leather massaging your scalp, his face softens.

"I guess I did say you should be honest, not fast," he murmurs, laughing to himself quietly.

His lips tilt into a boyish sort of grin, and it's so full of mirth and entertainment that it's easy to process as him diffusing the situation. It works like so, and you're soon tilting your head into his palm and seeking his touch.

In the distance, the kettle in the kitchen screeches like an alarm of what's to come.

Disconcertingly relaxed, his smile seems absolutely sarcastic. A bit sharp at the edges.

"I should make it easier to understand. Let me rephrase it, then."

He pulls your hair. It's one harsh motion and it jerks your head up. A gasp torn from your lips as they fall open, the slight sting shooting through your body with an charged breeze.

"Who did you learn this from?"

He's so used to tasting you before fucking; your sex and his tongue are practically best friends in his eyes. It never once occurred to him to have you suck him off.

He should've been suspicious the second you offered to begin with.

The blood drains from your face some more and he relishes the blank yet alert state your eyes reflect. He's sure your mind is in disarray right now. The feeling is mutual, though you're aware of that too, most likely.

"I have a right to know. I always said that you could come to me if you needed help with anything, right?" It's a rhetorical question. You both know that. You're doomed either way.

You make another breathless noise, and he wants to explore your vocality. Now, how would you sound gagging on him?

"Caleb—"

He shushes you softly and you quiet down in an instant.

"I don't need an answer that isn't related to my question, don't you agree?"

Another rhetorical question as he cocks his head, the gesture mocking.

"You're always tellin' me to be honest and share my thoughts with you. I'm bein' honest now. Everything should be mutual, so, answer my question. I might even go easy on you."

You're totally panicking now, aren't you?

His other hand wraps around the base of his cock and he slaps the shaft onto your cheek, then smearing his leaking tip over your glistening lips, a thoughtful smile playing on his own as if he were offering you candy.

"And depending on how you answer, I'm either taking you over my knee while you spell their name out, or you'll be showing me exactly what pornos you've been watching without my knowledge. So, what's it gonna be?"

"And yet, you sound so happy over it," you grumbled. Sleep is so close yet so far, and you'd been squirming around in search of the closest boarding gate. His touch delicate as he pulled you onto his lap.

You snuggled closer on instinct. Picking up on the faint smell of sandalwood and something finer, richer. There was movement on your back, Caleb's palm stroking up and down, while the other held you by the back of your neck like an infant.

"I spoiled you, too."

You frowned, looked at him blearily. "Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh." He pushed your head back onto his shoulder. "Go to sleep."

Sure, Caleb took extensive measures to ensure your comfortable upbringing with him. But you weren't spoiled.

Right?

But you go on your first date with someone that isn't him, and it kind of hits. Making an offhanded comment about how the water temperature was more cold than warm—you asked for room temp—doesn't result in your date immediately requesting another glass or them buying you bottled water from the convenience store across the restaurant.

Instead, you're told, "they probably forgot, it's fine" and the date continues. You watch the condensation form on your glass quietly. Every rational droplet is speaking to your acrid gut feeling—it's just water. It'll be room temperature eventually.

Later on, your date messages you. They asked if you got home safely, all the while you'd been drinking a glass of lukewarm water in Caleb's dining room. You pressed block once you heard his familiar, curious voice asking how the date went.

"It was meh." And you asked for another glass.

Another time, you'd been hanging out with old high school friends as a simple gathering. Though, you hadn't expected that it would lead to seemingly endless anecdotes in relation to you. Over fruit smoothies and café pastries, they'd all been exchanging stories once the conversation turns over to yourself in high school.

"Remember when she would always ask us to do stuff?" One girl laughed, cutting into her french toast.

Another cleared her throat, exaggerating her voice into a falsetto, "hey, can you get me a bun from the cafeteria? Oh, there's no more? Then, a banana milk and whatever pastry they have."

It earned a crackle of laughter along the table of five people. You, the object of discussion, smiling at the head of the table. Rather awkwardly, too, as you sipped on your drink.

"You forgot to add on the "you can do that at least, right?" at the end!"

"Oh, oh, the sulking too, if you don't do it!"

"She'd always complain about our fans, too."

"Oh my God, yeah. "Why does your fan battery run out so quickly? Did you not charge it?" Like, hello?"

One of the girls face you amidst the active exchange, grinning. Despite the recollection of your nature in the past, they weren't mad. Simply taking the entertainment value in it.

"Don't worry," and she said your name, placing a hand over yours on the table.

"You've got an older brother, right? It may have been annoying, but we're friends. You were like, our little sister."

A muscle in your jaw ticked. His face popped up in your face and you wanna punch him, despite him being nowhere near you at the time of this event. But, you laughed and nodded; acquiescing to her reassurance was easier this way.

It slipped out once more when you go out for movies with Tara. It's the same theater you and Caleb always frequented before. You already swiped your card for payment of movie food, and had besn walking to the screening room.

"Tara, can you check the bucket? Make sure it has enough butter on it?"

"Hm? Okay," she replied. While you scrolled on your phone, you heard the plastic lid of the bucket pop open.

"Seems good to me. You check."

When you move your attention over to the bucket, you're met with mediocre-looking buttered popcorn. The golden syrup of butter scattered over the pieces. You frowned. Since when were they so shy about buttering literal corn?

You stopped walking, brows furrowed. "It's so... pale. Let's go back and ask for more, I didn't pay for that."

"Huh? Oh, okay?" You didn't really register Tara's confused tone of voice until after you had a spat with the person at the popcorn station.

It was some moody teen probably working minimum wage. He was scowling while you talked about the butter portioning.

He sneered, "over some popcorn? Really? Were you that spoiled as a kid?"

It winded you. Tara was pulling at your arm, seeming to try and hold you back despite you being frozen. The manager came out once the commotion seems to stop, only because you were gobsmacked.

He'd been apologizing profusely to you and Tara upon recognizing you both as hunters; his eyes had landed on you with so much familiarity. He's probably been working here for a decade or so. Long enough to have previously seen you and Caleb at movie screenings.

Tara's at the butter dispenser of the self-service station—something they closed over half a decade ago apparently, but frantically opened for today, coincidentally—with you behind her when she finally spoke

She was a bit bewildered, but it was easy to pick up the lighthearted tone. "I didn't take you for the pampered type. That was the normal amount of butter on popcorn for most places."

You shook your head. "No, it wasn't. I was a regular here in the past. Every time we got a bucket of popcorn, they were always so generous with the salted butter."

"By yourself?"

"No, with my friend."

There'd been a pause between you two. She pressed the lid back into place and begun shaking it, the popcorn rattling. Then, she turned to you, like she knew something that you didn't.

"And you never once thought this friend scared the employees into putting extra butter for you back then?"

It always went back to him.

Whenever you'd go to a colleague's place and bore holes into the crooked cuts of the apple slices on a plate, you found yourself recalling Caleb's expert cuts. These ones weren't even red delicious apples.

You're a bit peeved when the food from the monthly catering service at the Association doesn't taste the same way that Caleb makes it, even though the food is the same kind and recipe.

Your next trip to Skyhaven is definitely highly anticipated. You're been exhausted and haggard for the past few days. It only amplifies as the day stretches on, grimacing when Caleb opens the door. He's surprised to see you, panting and sweaty in his white tanktop. Fresh from a workout, most likely. It makes you a bit, a tiny bit, mad.

"Pipsqueak? What's the occasion?"

"You," you hiss, releasing your hold on your suitcases. You kick off your shoes as you push your way into his place, pointing an accusing finger to his chest.

Caleb's confused. It's clear in the furrow of his brow and frantic blinking that his synapses are doing rapid fire checking of what today is, what he's said or done recently, what stores are on sale, and what snacks you need.

Despite being the one who said he himself spoiled you, he clearly has no idea how it's manifested in your life, and it pisses you off even more.

"I'm the occasion?" He squawks, confused. "It's too early for my birthday—"

"You and your stupid past self. I should have your head on a stake," you bark, slamming your fists onto his pecs, pushing him further into his own home.

He laughs a bit, still completely in the dark, but his voice gets a bit more pitchy.

He leans down, cranes his gargantuan ass down to your height. It's polite. You know this, he's done it countless times. But your gut speaks to you. You're going to throttle him.

"Huh? What did I do?"

"You piss me off!"

His face softens with concern. His hands come up, ghosting over yours. He murmurs your name—

Then you're gripping him by the neck. You get to drink in the way his eyes widen to saucers as your fingers delicately wrap around his throat, palms on either side. You don't squeeze, and instead, aggressively shake him. "Pipsqueak?"

"You spoiled me!" You shriek, voice shrill with accusation.

Frustration, the buildup from the past couple of weeks comes to full fruition in this very moment. It's only for a split second that you see realization dawn on Caleb's face before you continue yelling.

"I relied on others to get me snacks because of you, I complain over batteries because of you, now I want specific water temperatures, I can't stand pale popcorn because you demanded extra butter, I'm picky over food—"

"Hey—"

"Don't you hey me, mister!" You jut your finger up at his face, and he shuts his mouth instantly. "I'm like this, because of you!"

You don't miss the glitter of mirth in those stupidly ethereal eyes of his, and it's wholly unreal how your anger amplifies when you notice his twitching lips. He found this funny.

"You're laughing?" You whisper, low and indignant. You squeeze his throat, feel his breath pass under the skin. Adrenaline riveting and real in the low thrum of your heartbeat.

"I'm here, devastated over the effect of your stupid actions on my life, and you're laughing?"

"Devastated?" Caleb echoes. The idiot sounded delighted over this. Like he was finding a great deal of validation in your admission.

A grin quirks his lips into its signature, charming curve, and he's leaning down into you some more. One of his hands sliding over yours with a gentleness only he could emulate. Your resolve stutters, and he's quick to take advantage of that.

"Oh, please, pipsqueak." He chuckles. "That's not true and you know it."

His fingers gently slide between the gaps of yours, making room for himself and filling the emptiness. Effectively peeling them away from his throat, and doing the same to the other hand. You relent, letting your arms hang loosely at your sides.

Caleb's still smiling when he takes a step forward, crowding your space now. It doesn't register that he's cornered you until your back is flat to the closed door and you're surrounded by him and everything about him.

The very man who's fed you every granule, acquainted you with the taste of having the world at your every whim. A charged zap runs up the base of your spine when he lifts your chin.

"If you were really devastated, you'd have come here cryin' instead. You'd be on your knees, weepin' over how I've ruined you. Not yelling and screaming and accusing me," he coos, sickly sweet. His thumb rubbing below your lower lip.

"Are you done? Do you feel better after getting it all off your chest?"

His gaze feels abysmal. Two pools of an oceanic depth, spatial and intergalactic and beyond your comprehension. Hungry.

Something darker lurks there. That one look that flickers in and out of conversations whenever you're close to him, or when the topic tilts into something that you know you shouldn't be touching. Like he's satiated, but still craving more and more. You feel small under it every time.

"Even a kid knows how to manipulate their guardian into givin' them what they want."

The double meaning, one of comparing you to an immature brat, isn't lost on you. Heat crawls up your skin as your cheeks round with the scrunch of your nose. Ready to retaliate with equal venom, even if his words weren't inherently insulting.

But, before you even could, the expression on his face stops you in your tracks.

It's like looking at the colonel. Caleb cocks his head to the side, expression clinically cold. "When someone is speaking, we?"

He stares. He's waiting for a response, you realize.

You finish his sentence, pacified. "We listen."

"Good. Seems you still have the manners I taught you."

Your face heats up.

That stupidly patient smile on his lips was grating on your nerves, far more than any revelation of his ingrained presence in your every action, thought, word, and emotion.

His thumb is soon pressed flush to your lips. He isn't prying it open like he did before, instead rubbing the pad of his thumb along your lips, caressing the divot of your cupid's bow. He's playing with the glossy texture and film of your lippie, smearing it past the corner of your lips.

The first thing you want to do is push him away. Shove him, hard, and make space between the two of you so that your train of thought could return. Yet, the softness that decorates his grape-colored irises was making you hesitate. He's an annoying guy, someone who gets on your nerves, with featherlight caresses and an admiration so sincere.

Rouge stains the pad of his digit when he draws it back. He's curious, his gaze thoughtful as he examines the pigment. Then, you're watching as he lifts it to his mouth with a deliberate kiss. Lashes fluttering over his cheekbones.

When he drops his hand, the scarlet pigment is smeared over his lips like a brand.

You're burning alive. You reach up, immediately trying to wipe it from his lips. "You—"

"Weirdo? I know." Caleb catches your hand with ease, beaming with half-lidded eyes. "Buuut, you're just as weird as me for lettin' me do that, y'know."

He's making a point. You're going to gut him alive, you think to yourself. In stealing an indirect kiss from you, he's replicating every scenario you've ever bared yourself to him. How easy it is, to melt in one's earnest wonder and affection, unable to say no.

In an attempt to regain your composure, you scowl with all the feigned vitriol you could muster. "You're even weirder for condoning my every action."

He cocks his head, like he was reloading a couple memories from the past. The countless times he let you get away with things.

"It's... not that easy for me, pipsqueak."

"Yes, it is." You huff and free your hand from his grip. Settling your palms flat over his chest, fingers curling into the stretchy fabric. "Telling me no couldn't have been that hard."

"Yeah?" He teases. "You think it's that simple for me?"

"Grandma could handle me."

Caleb deadpans at your mention of her, his face relaxing into something like bemusement.

"If Gran or I took away your stuffed animal to clean it, you'd kick and scream and cry. If I denied you of your favorite food or a candy apple, you'd say you hate me."

You blink. That wasn't the response you were expecting. All of a sudden, you feel like someone's wiped your mind of everything you've ever known, and redefined your recollections of childhood. Embarrassment crawls up your face in burning streaks.

"Gran could handle you?" He repeats, shakes his head with a sad look.

There's a pained aspect to his current physiognomy, the furrow of his brow, the deepened set of his mouth. "That's because it's her. Of course, she wouldn't mind your cries. But I did."

He crouches, and for a moment, it was as if he was falling. The sunlight filtered in through the glass of the door behind your head, catching on the nutty brown strands of his hair. Cradling his head against the junction of your neck and shoulder, hiding away his face.

"I didn't want you to hate me." He admits, the words fanned over your throat. You inhale deeply, and his familiar scent invades your senses. You hope that stupid central organ wasn't too loud, or else he'd hear the beating of your pulse working double time.

Caleb's a constant in your life. He was a pillar, from youth 'til now, that never failed to offer you assistance regardless of the circumstances. You knew him to be reliable, persistent, generous. Perhaps it plays into the way he's coated your teeth in sugar, nipping at your enamel in a thick film that tastes of sweetness.

Yet seeing him like this, frustrated and amused and annoyed—it was unfounded.

"I didn't know much." The vulnerability was low yet blaring. "I just knew I didn't want you to hate me. I knew I loved seeing you happy. And if I denied you, you weren't happy."

It's too black and white. So childish and simplified. It's an easygoing description of his feelings toward you during early youth, one that could easily be swallowed up and consumed by the nasty nature of the world.

Yet, you card your fingers through his hair. Press your lips to his temple all the same, and listen to his utterances.

Your bottom lip is jutting out before you can stop yourself. And in spite of his own admissions, the uncomfortable nakedness that comes with it, you mumble a pointed, "you made me high maintenance."

"You're only figurin' that out now?" He snickers against your skin and the subsequent vibrations make you jump. "Pipsqueak, everyone's known you're high maintenance."

You protest, "that's not true."

"Yes," he says, amused. "It is."

Peeling away from your neck, Caleb's face is less grave now. Relief floods your senses and you cup his face, smoothing over the corners of his lip to wipe away the frowns. There's a weight behind you that isn't the door, his palm a welcome touch as his fingers splay over the small of your back.

His other hand resting on the side of your throat, fingers resting on your nape and thumb rubbing the ridge of your jaw. The motion is soothing, and you close your eyes to memorize its rhythm.

"Even if you're high maintenance, I'm the one who caused it. Allegedly."

You bristle and your eyes fly open, "allegedly? There's proof—"

"Ah-ah."

Caleb's brows are raised on his forehead as you pipe down, amused by how quick you were to correct your behavior.

"Much better. As I was saying."

Despite the extra firmness to his voice, his touch on you was nothing short of gentle. Like your body was carved from marble, reinforced by a fragile porcelain, he does that thing where he tilts your head with the hand on your neck. His thumb rubbing your earlobe.

But the most violating part had to be those intense, smoldering eyes that beheld you with utmost priority. How did you ever think he didn't care for you?

Caleb's tone of voice is chiding. "You're high maintenance because of me, and that makes you mine to maintain."

He's talking down to you. Treating you like one would to a child learning how to tie their shoelaces, his voice chiseled with the vines of condescension. Heartbeat speeding in your chest, distinguishing your heartbeat from your rampant thoughts became far more difficult.

The little smile that's on his lips seems manic. Far away, distant, as you slide your hands over his pecs. A shudder ripples over your skin.

"After all, it's my fault for making sure you're comfortable. It's my fault for prioritizing you above all else, as children and as adults." He starts, chillingly calm. He shakes his head to himself with a deep sigh, and tilts your head back against the door. Examining you with an unblinking, almost detached visage. Yet, his words were anything but, thick with emotion.

You breathe slow, torturous inhales and exhales, feeling Caleb's hand wrap itself around your throat. Alarms ring out in the back of your mind—loud, incessant, disturbing, yet you close your eyes and let him hold you there.

He won't hurt you. He never would, intentionally.

Quietly, like a forbidden fruit to not be consumed or heard, he mutters, "it's my fault for wantin' nothing but the best for you, because it's what you deserve. Nothing less."

Oh, you breathe out.

There's absolutely no pressure to the way he holds your neck. His palm wasn't against the column of your throat, instead, the pads of his thick digits were clasping the skin with a touch so invisible it almost felt nonexistent. When you swallow, the flexed skin presses itself up to his touch.

"Do you really want me to take it back?" Caleb asks, breaking the momentary silence and taking you out of your thoughts.

You blank out for a moment too long. "What?"

"You came over to let me know I've spoiled you beyond reversing repair, without wantin' me to change?"

Why did you come over? Why did you decide to come up to Skyhaven one day, literally days away from your regular times of visiting him? Over something like this? Literal outdated information that you've only recently discovered.

Why? You don't know, but you're rushing to speak, holding onto his top. "That's not what I—"

"It's not what you what?"

He tilts his head down toward you and every coherent thought exits your headspace instantly. God, his eyes. They're darker now. Frustration brimming in the burning fuchscia, the indigo of his irises all-consuming.

"I can stop pamperin' you starting today." He offers.

The surfacing ache in your chest is abrupt, disruptive.

"Starting today, I won't buy your favorite snacks. I won't ever pat your head again. I'll leave you to fend for yourself in every fast food line, and you can get your own stuff when we go shopping. You can even do your shopping alone. Is that what you want?"

No. No, it's not what you want, but how do you express that? An entity, so puissant and arresting, is crawling up your esophagus, scraping at the backs of your teeth, trying to pry your mouth open, and wail its truth into the minimal distance between you and Caleb. It's an ugly feeling, one stripping you down to your base needs.

Pain bleeds into his expression, his eyes only softening as a thought crosses his mind. "Are you gonna tell me you don't need me again?"

"Caleb, no," you manage.

"If not, then what's the problem? It's too late. If I've ruined you, you've destroyed me."

You destroyed him? When? You've never... When have you ever—?

Your chagrin spikes in time with your bewilderment. "I never did anything like that."

Caleb peered into your eyes. Your soul. Questioning, a bit disbelieving. Like he can't really believe your own blindness. An incredulous laugh slipping through his nose when he realizes you weren't lying.

He takes a step forward. You're fully sandwiched between him and the door now, and one of his arms come up to rest above you on the surface. "Caleb–"

"I can't go through the grocery store without thinking of what you want for dinner." He admits, the revelation so tender and tied with candor. Your words die on your tongue and dissolve.

"I can't do my laundry anymore unless it's with your brand of fabric softener, since it reminds me of you. Every time I try on a new jacket, I wonder how it would look good on you."

The information comes pouring out of him like a geyser. And his voice is full of nothing but love. You press your hands to his chest with more force, but he won't budge. Your ears are scalding and you're avoiding his gaze now, his face.

"You dedicated a journal to me. You came to every basketball game." Caleb laughs, breathless. A little in awe of you, so full of adoration. "You always visited Skyhaven when I moved out. You pretended to be my girlfriend. You didn't want me to get a girlfriend. You kissed me at my graduation."

He stutters over himself at the end, sighing deeply and it's making your stomach do flips. "God, you kissed me."

Really? You're burning. Did he have to bring that up?

He's pulling you out of your thoughts yet again, using his hold on your yielding neck to find your gaze once more. You could crumble into ashes right now. In fact, you hoped the floor underneath you would just swallow you whole and leave nothing behind for Caleb to dissect.

"You're think you're spoiled, pipsqueak?" Another laugh, and it's mixed with raspy agony and disbelief, shining in his stare. "I'm rotten."

In Caleb's home, you never really heard much commotion. Simply the low hum of the television in the background, the living room a few paces away. Yet, your heartbeat was the soundtrack to his life, and he's made it his favorite ringtone.

You could feel his own racing heart under your palm. He looks defeated now, conflicted. Oh, Caleb.

"You never wanted me to take it back." He says it to himself. Like he's trying to get himself to believe it.

"You just wanted reassurance that I'd never leave you, no matter how coddled you are."

The heart that's thudding rapidly against your ribcage was so fickle, so naïve. It might jump out of your throat at this rate—God, Caleb could probably feel your pulse like this.

Your mind's racing. There's only one way you could resolve this rift formed from these series of revelations and confessions. You weren't going to lose him again. He has no right to leave after this.

"You're so quiet now. Don't tell me you're thinkin' of runnin' away, pipsqueak." His voice is lighter, more in jest now. The first sign of distance, denial.

You clasp his wrist, and whisper, "I'll take responsibility."

"What?"

"I'll take responsibility. For ruining you. In exchange, take responsibility for me too." You declare, louder. You sound more sure.

He's blinking at you now. Then, his brows furrow and a bewildered laugh leaves him. Before he could reply, you push forward, not allowing him any time to recover.

"I'm in your hands now, aren't I? You said so yourself. You did this to me. I did this to you. I'm yours to deal with."

You wind your arms around his neck, hearing how his breaths stutter and feeling his hand leave your throat. You're on your tippy toes, pulling him down so you could settle back against the door, feeling his grip settle over your waist. It's a lovely sensation. One so right. It cements your resolve.

"The only ones who can handle us are each other. Nobody else."

You don't know what you're saying anymore.

But you know you like the rising determination, you like whatever this is. You like the hope that swims in his gaze. The fear that's within them, terrified of this being one of your pranks. It wasn't; you'll prove it to hom.

"You can't make all these promises and leave me alone," You speak in a hushed tone, finality thick in the waver of your voice. You're leaning in before you can stop yourself and whispering, "I won't let you."

You can't help but feel like whatever game you two are playing now, you've lost. He's won yet again. Yet it doesn't quite feel like a loss this time around, not when Caleb's face is smoothing out into one of relief. One of contentment as he closes the distance.

The breath that fans over your mouth is hot and his voice is full of yearning, "I never planned on it."

The security job went by smoothly. The whole thing was a quaint reunion for a class of D.A.M.N. alumni; the client wanted to make sure the event was safe for everyone and that it'd go off without a hitch, hence security. The job was originally meant for Asher, though Milo ended up joining in for extra security. Making sure no empowered bullshit exploded sounds easy in hindsight, but that type of crap happens way more than people give the general empowered population credit for. Last thing anyone needs right now is Covert being broken by a water elemental’s waterworks or the tornado of shame from an air elemental. 

After the job, Asher suggested that they go to the nearby market. It took some time to really convince Milo—and some arguing over who was gonna pay for the damn food—but they got there eventually, parking a fair distance away from the function. People were filtering in and out of the streets and neighboring sandbox park, checking out the various booths and stalls offering food and merchandise. 

It's local, not too shabby. Food's halfway around decent, a good tiptoeing balance between greasy junk and relative substance. There was a chance you’d enjoy the atmosphere, so maybe he’ll take you here on one of your days off; he could even take you here tomorrow (if you both didn't spend all morning cuddling and procrastinating laundry).

Sunsets in Dahlia were always lovely around this time, and the venue had a good spot for viewing it. Though, it was a shame he didn't have time to take a picture for you before feeling the sudden need to bolt. 

Something happened based on how the bond—deep-rooted, intensely so—seemed to almost... fizzle, while he was sitting on a bench with Asher, ice cream in hand. 

(Had he been any less keen, he could've brushed off the sudden core pain as heartburn from the atrociously spicy shit Ash had him eat a few minutes ago. Note to self, Milo: don't fuckin' eat whatever Ash gives you. You think you'd learn after more than a decade with the asshole.) 

He practically shot up once the feeling slammed into him with the subtlety of a freight train. His back was ram rod straight, as if David was spiritually breathing down his neck for bad posture. A creeping sense of dread that gathered in his mind, and it was that sense that had him frowning and looking for his keys immediately. 

"Think I'm headin' back," he grumbled hastily, standing up. 

"Aww, you leaving already?" Asher chewed on a hot dog from beside him. "Thought you wanted to get somethin' for your mate before you left." 

Milo doesn't need to look at him to know that the man was probably eyeing him sideways; to be fair, he was operating on a strange gut instinct that must've been out of place for the younger shifter. He was never impulsive like that. Sure, Ash might beat him in terms of equanimity, but in terms of rationale, it's gotta be a close tie between Milo and David. And no, cursing does not make him less rational.

"I could probably jus' take 'em here another time. Market's still open next week, right?" Okay, he got his keys. Next, his phone. He’s typing at lightning speed before sending:

something happen over there sweetheart? 

The message is sent immediately, though it's left on that status. Sent. Not delivered. You'd normally reply after a few minutes if you were doing something else at the time. Let's hope that applies here. 

"Yep." Ash was quick to pick up on the sudden mood change—he adjusted his lazy seating, leaning forward with a slight frown. "Emergency?"

"Something like that," Milo replied, feeling somewhat rushed as he slung his bag over his shoulder. 

"Oh, shit. Everything good?" 

"Yeah, yeah. I just gotta get home. Make sure everything's fine, and all." Nonetheless, he did feel bad for leaving so randomly. "My bad, Ash." 

The other shifter shot him a comforting grin and shook his head. "Naah, don't worry about it. I'd do the same. Take care heading home, buddy." 

He did take care. Didn't run any red lights, followed the speed limit, routinely checked if there were any notifications from you (and no, there weren't any). In his head, this simple orange-tier emergency was then bumped to a red-tier emergency.

Maybe the surprise was the fact that said "emergency" was oblivious to them being an emergency to begin with. 

His sweetheart. His everything—he knows you like the back of his hand. He knows that he knows so. It's exactly what he says when he opens the front door and steps in. 

"Sweetheart?" 

What immediately greets him is the frazzled craze of you, at the glass coffee table, sitting cross-legged and looking existentially done. Oh, and the mess in your shared living room, surrounded by an eclectic array of leather folders and scattered paperwork from some terrible corporate nightmare.

"The hell?" He mutters, brows knitting together. 

Aggro's up on his scratching tree, eyeing you in a fashion not unlike Milo's, but you're paying him no mind, pen in hand. Though, begrudgingly, there were slightly more pertinent matters besides his fur baby’s displeasure. 

The bond. He can't feel it. 

"Milo?" 

He barely has time to figure out his next course of action with awareness reentering your eyes. You do nothing but stare at him from your place on the floor for a few beats, owlish. "You're home early." 

He snaps out of it then. "Oh, uh. Yeah, we finished up early." 

"Oh." You pause, then give him a bright smile. "Well, welcome home. I hope the trip went okay." 

The glass surface is peppered with documents, some printed and others handwritten. He recognizes the Department's seals stamped on some of those papers—confidential and undoubtedly related to your work. Must be what you were working on prior to his arrival. You're relatively open and communicative about your job, sure, but this is definitely one of the few times he's seen you... disorganized? Is that the term? Regardless, you're continuing to smile at him with no intent of hiding your files. 

Huh.

It should irritate him that the second he recognized you as not-you was when it hit that you were waiting on the floor instead of taking the chance to scare him a la menace-slash-stealth. 

He closes his eyes for a moment. A test, surely. To see and to also reconcile the rising tide of conflicted feelings in his chest, of knowing something wasn't right but slightly out of place. Reaching into his magic and quietly searching for your presence through it in the same way he always did. 

And he does get a response. Glimpses. Flickers of your magic respond to his own, but so very far away, like distant beacons in the void. So you aren't gone—he can be consoled by that for now. Though, it's hard to tell if such responses emanated from you or... you.

What the hell is happening? If you’re not here, then who is this? 

When he opens his eyes, he offers an easy grin, affecting casual nonchalance. 

"Aw, thanks, sweetheart. What're you workin' on?" 

He takes his boots off, yawns a bit near the end. Would it be right to call you—er, them—that? 

"Just combing through some periodical reports. Typical Department stuff, y'know the drill." You hum, stretching with a yawn mirroring his own, eyes scanning him for a moment. 

He takes the time to trace the line of your body, the placement of your features. It isn't some sort of shapeshifting demon, from the looks of it. Neither is it a hallucination, because Aggro's responding to your movements with low grumbles, his tail fluffed and swaying. 

It's then that you started sweeping the reports up into your arms, trying to fix them up. Not hurriedly or anything like you’re trying to hide from him, but casually. If he thinks real, real hard, it's almost an odd, parallel version of your first ever meeting with him, when he walked in on a total stranger in his old apartment. Thinking back on it now makes it more endearing. And, maybe he’s biased, but you seem real sweet like this.

"Oh, I was thinking of making dinner, but I know you wanted to restock on blood, so I wasn't too sure if you wanted human food." 

Throw normal out the window. 

"Blood?" He echoed, fighting for his life in trying to temper his tone into something that wasn't gross offense. Did you just say blood? 

"I know, I know! Don't scold me for ransacking your kitchen again, please," you groan, pausing between cleaning to throw a pleading hand up. 

As if you didn't just tell him he went out to stock up on blood—which he doesn't, by the way! He has no such blood stash, in this life, or the next!

"I still made food, but I swear on my job, I didn't burn anything. You didn't reply to my messages either, so you can't blame me!" You cringe. "Well, not entirely, but you get the point!"

You neatly stack the folders and papers prior to rising. He's left reeling with the mere mention of restocking on blood while you ramble your excuses. What's the next best response that isn't “what the fuck are you talking about” after hearing something like that? 

It takes a few seconds before he processes that you're coming toward him in this very moment and he has to tighten the fuck up. Okay. Lock in, Milo. Get your head in the game. You’re better than this. You’ve gotten past various hurdles in your life. Surely, this is all one lucid dream and you’re comatose from the radioactive spicy food Asher forced you to eat. All you gotta do is burst the bubble of this person who looks like your sweetheart but isn’t really your sweetheart yet somehow moves and behaves and sounds the exact same as your sweetheart. Tense your muscles. Puff your chest. Clench your ass chee–

"Milooo," you groan his name and it sounds so whiny that all his defenses crumble into pure dust at that very second, especially when you wrap your arms around his neck. 

He's so fucking fucked. 

You gaze at him pleadingly, right as he thinks he's ready to calm down too, and he wants to throttle himself. "Are you upset?" 

Milo's face scrunches up at the same time his heartbeat spikes. Or, well, it already spiked earlier from the stressful bewilderment over blood hoarding, but it spiked again, no thanks to your sudden surprise attack. 

"I'm—I'm not mad, sweetheart," he manages, shaking his head. Racking his brain for a possible excuse, he slowly utters, "just a bit tired from…work. Y'know how it can be."

Curiosity flits into your eyes. "Oh? Was it Dmitri?"

Dmitri? Dmitri? 

"Ah. Something like, uh... Like that, yeah." 

Like, Dmitri Rebane? The Rebane that Vincent mentioned that one time they talked in the days leading up to the Monarchal Summit? That Rebane? 

You push further with a concerned frown, unaware of the mental gymnastics his whole cerebral cortex was performing as your face nears his. “I thought the club was going to be closed for the next couple of days. Because some water elemental messed with the plumbing?”

Cartwheels, back flips, round-offs, spread eagles… 

Why was he lying to you-but not-you again?

“Well, uh, they managed to, um, fix the pipes. Like, a couple hours ago. Which is why Dmitri called.”

He has no idea either. 

You seem to buy it, momentarily astonished as you ponder this newfound information (or, a lie). 

“Wow. That’s really fast, actually. I didn’t think Dmitri took Surge that seriously.” 

“Aha. ‘Course he does. You know me and the guys. It’s practically our playpen.” Playpen? Really, Milo? Out of all possible fucking words in the English dictionary, you pick playpen? 

At least he knows if the company ever goes bankrupt, he can go throw himself into the acting industry and possibly get cast as something other than extra no. 3. Oh, who is he kidding? David, Asher, and Tank would drag him wherever they went. Ash, especially. 

And Lord above, you keep pressing yourself to him, wholly content with your arms around his neck and swaying side to side. Not a single inch of your body language gives off the air of someone who even recognizes something is off. All your touch comes naturally; you’re looking at him all delicate and sweet, your fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck, worry sewn into the pout of your lower lip. It isn’t anything new—he’s picked you up, spun you around, tossed you around within reasonable bounds and then some, but extenuating circumstances have made whatever this is much more difficult than it should be.

“I don’t get why Dmitri has to go to you for that. Shouldn’t he talk to Sam? Or Vincent, even?” 

Since when did Sam and Vincent become part of the conversation? You keep throwing all these names at him, expecting him to be all-knowing for all these questions directed at him that he doesn’t even know the answers to and—ah, you’re playing with his lips now. 

“Your lips are getting chapped,” you noted, drawing him back into reality. You’re lightly pulling at his bottom lip, then his lower lip, while the other hand wanders across his chest. Like some child discovering slime and poking at it, he subjects himself to your display of affection while trying to understand his own circumstances. As you wander and fidget with your own devices (his clothing, it would seem), he takes the time to note down your appearance.

Curiously, there’s two faint punctures on your neck. Bug bites?

Somewhere along the way, he misses the way you’re scanning his teeth with prying eyes, tracing the logo of the company on his uniform shirt with a single, languid finger. 

“Oh c’mon, sweetheart, s’getting cold out here in Dahlia. Cut a man some slack on his lips?” He asks, voice thickening with a faux search for sympathy at the end. You observe with a patient, innocuous expression of your own, contemplating his words. 

Please fall for it. Otherwise, his next best idea is locking you in his own house (how would that even work? Can’t you just phase through?) or somehow prevent you from leaving. 

He thinks you’re buying it, before he notices the relaxed manner by which you stare in his mouth. Dear God. Hopefully he doesn’t have anything between his teeth.

“Uhh. You good there?”

You’re staring, innocent. “Hm?”

“You’re…looking into my mouth.” 

“Oh. It’s just” —you laugh— “I like your teeth.” 

“Huh?” Where did that come from?

“I said your teeth, they’re nice.” 

You lightly take his work bag into your hands and step back. Ready to brush it off, he picks up on the stiffness of your movement. There’s a certain clarity in your eyes that wasn’t there before, and he can almost feel the wariness seeping through your bones. 

Why were you looking at his teeth?

“Sweetheart?”

You smile mildly. “You should go take a shower.”

There’s a newfound waver in your core that you try to hide through making distance, but it clicks before you can try to make your getaway. Actually—

He feels it; your magic, subtle, externalized, was detaching itself from him. 

“Well, I mean, dinner can wait. We can have dinner together right now, I’m not that sweaty.” He rushes to speak, shaking his head and stumbling forward in his haste.

Every little piece of information you dropped minutes, heck, seconds ago replay in his head like a broken, stuttering record. Rebane. Sam, Vincent. The blood bags. His teeth. 

Your gaze was hollow, brows knitted as you looked at him like he’s a total stranger. The earlier touches weren’t merely you playing cute; you took the chance, got close enough, and read his aura in the most subtlest ways while he was distracted by your proximity. You sensed it, identified him as a shifter. Perhaps as early as when he stepped in and your eyes met, you already felt the discrepancy in aura types.

His teeth. The bite marks on your neck. 

You're not his sweetheart.

Ah, shit. 

He takes a step towards you, voice cautionary. “Sweetheart.”

You take a step back. “Milo.”

Another step. Forward, back.

“Sweetheart.”

“Milo.”

“Can you… Can you hand over the bag?”

“I don’t think I want to.” 

There’s nothing important in that bag, actually. He has no idea why he asked for it. Sure, there’s his water bottle, the lunch box, his wallet and the like. Mainly materialistic things that everyone carries with them to their work. Arguably the most important thing there is the polaroid of you two in the picture slot of said wallet. But even that pales in comparison to now, when the person holding said bag is far more essential than any identifying document. 

He sighs, the breath slipping from his lips shakily. You know something’s off. So does he. There’s no point in trying to avoid it nor play it off. “Sweetheart, we can talk about this.”

Before he can even think to try and coax you from your position like a cat stuck in a tree, you just bolt. 

“Oh, shit—” 

Without much prompting, Milo sprints after you. Adrenaline shoots sky high in both your bodies as your footsteps thud on the carpet, then the tile of the kitchen. Aggro practically howls his disapproval of the sudden noise from his fluffy tower, but sometimes other things take priority. Your socks squeak on the floor as you swivel and round the corner of the kitchen island. He skids to a halt opposite of you, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape because are you two actually doing this chase sequence in the comfort of your shared home? 

For a few nauseating seconds, it’s a game of mirrors. The type of game people have played with families, cousins, maybe siblings in a chase. You move to your left, he moves to his right. He moves to his right, you move to your right. It’s damn near comedic.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he tries, lowering his voice to what he presumes is a comforting level. Making eye contact with you, in hopes of convincing you he had no hostile intent. “I just wanna talk.”

“Sure you do. What did you do to Milo? Where are your fangs?” Sadly, his method does not work. 

He’s almost ninety percent sure that if he were to shift into his wolf form right now, he would hear your heart racing. Even without it, from your widened eyes alone, he could tell you didn’t expect it to come to this. Neither did he, though if he told you that, he doubted you’d take his words seriously.

“Sweetheart, I am Milo.” 

“No, you’re not.” That makes him frown. 

“Yes, I am.”

“No.” 

Your outright rejection of him is laughable. “Says who?”

“Says me.” You stubbornly jerk your chin up, face all scrunched. 

Being outright denied passage to his own existence ticks him off a bit more than he expects. Even if it’s coming from you-not-you.

“I don’t even know what’s goin’ on! I know next to nothing about what’s happenin’ right now—you end up in my home, on my carpet, next to my cat, and I’m the bad guy for wanting to know who you are?”

“I want to know what you did to Milo!” You practically explode.

“And I want to know where my partner is!” He replies, clicking his tongue. Inhaling deeply to regain his composure, he fixes his gaze on you steadily. “I’m just as lost as you are, okay?”

“That’s what they always say,” you accuse, wagging your finger at him. Wagging your finger! The sheer audacity! 

“What the hell does that even mean!?” 

“I don’t know!”

This is a complete and utter shitshow. The security camera in the corner of the kitchen must be having a blast right now with this Tom and Jerry ripoff scene. 

Gritting his teeth, Milo summons every ounce of patience left in his body to loosen his tense muscles, glaring daggers at your equally defensive person. His bag, again of no importance, rests snug on your shoulder, while your hands on the countertop for purchase. On the bright side, this is definitely no shapeshifter. Only you could rile him up this much, so authentically you, all the while being as stubborn as a goddamn five thousand year old boulder. 

Man, he really should’ve taken you seriously that one time you asked if he believed in parallel timelines and alternate universes. 

He scoffs and steps to the left. You mirror that, too. “Ha, well, you ain’t my sweetheart either. My sweetheart would mop the floor with your actin’ skills.”

Your glare seems impossibly more venomous. “My Milo could run you miles around your tail, wolf.” 

“You sure he can function without his blood bags?” He fires back.

 You’re quick, too. “Can you function without your leash and ear scratches?” 

This has to be some morbid form of self-deprecation and intergalactic slander. Or it’s just friendly fire. Probably friendly fire. Definitely friendly fire.

“Sweetheart.” Milo purses his lips, takes his hands off the counter. Assuming a neutral position, he runs a hand through his hair, tongue flicking against the back of his molars as he tries to think of what could possibly calm you down.

“I don’t like it when you call me that,” you pointedly grit out.

His eyelid twitches at the same time his hand does. “Okay. Then, impostor.” 

He sharply jerks to the right, honeyed eyes drinking in the way you gasp and scramble to move the opposite way. Just then, an animal reflex trickles into his chest, slithers around his heart, and forces the muscle to pump more blood to his rapid-firing brain. Heat gathers in his temples at the same time he cracks a disbelieving snort, mainly to himself because there is no way in hell he is actually feeling some sort of stimulation from this. Oh, but he is. 

“This ain’t gonna work,” Milo breathily laughs. It could be the rush, or something else, but he can’t stop himself from finding any tidbit of pleasure in a good chase. Calm down, Milo, Jesus. This won’t go anywhere if you don’t hold some sort of productive topic to base the conversation on to begin with.

So, he tries again. “You and I both know—this game of cat and mouse, it ain’t gonna cut it. We can talk this out, like adults, over a cup of coffee, and preferably not with our teeth bared.”

You’re full-on frowning at him like he pissed in your cereal. “You don’t even have your teeth. Don’t talk about Milo like that.”

He can’t tell if he should thank you for defending his honor or not. 

“I don’t have the fangs you keep yappin’ about, because I’m not a damn vampire! I’m a wolf shifter, if you haven’t already noticed, which I’m sure you did, considering how nicely you’ve been talkin’ to me for the past thirty seconds.” He huffs under his breath. God, some things just never change when it comes to you. 

You bristle from your side of the kitchen island, but no longer reply. That blazing fire in your glower never dampens for even a breath as you contemplate your options. Eyes flitting everywhere in the kitchen, attempting to take snapshots of the layout for whatever escape attempt you were going to try and enact next. But it’s also out of place how desperately you scanned the space. You were a stealth, so you should be able to cloak and phase through objects with ease—no doubt that’d make this whole thing much easier for you, after all. It’s how many energetic nights of stolen clothes, food, and plain chasing played out in this very house; a lot of it came about because you kept phasing through walls to evade Milo’s attempts to snatch you mid-cloak. 

You’re a stealth. You should be able to… 

He squints.

“Why aren’t you cloaking?” 

Like clockwork, you shrink back. Frozen. It’s like time stopped, for all but a heartbeat before it resumed. Guilt, shameful and ruthless and tentative, twists your expression. And it should be disconcerting how closely it resembled the first time he met you. His you. More specifically, of how you turned sheepish after he called you out for perking up when obtaining substantial information. You were so easy to read, and the same appeared to apply to the present. 

He keeps going, realization dawning on him. “You could have hidden your aura from the second you heard me pull up in the driveway, but you didn’t.”

You don’t reply, pursing your lips down into a thin line.

“You…” He pauses, turns the words over in his mouth. “You can cloak, can’t you?”

“Yes, I can.” You snip, defensive. “I’m a stealth. Can’t you tell?”

“So why aren’t you cloaking? You could phase out this room, heck, the house, if you wanted to.”

“It’s none of your business,” you retort. But not even you can hide the mild panic in your eyes, the instability of your core.

He’s softening before he can think it through, the adrenaline gradually dripping from his system. He’s tempted to withdraw, hindered by the manifesting reluctance that he rarely sees in you. You may not be his, but it’s a reflection of the face he’s seen every morning for years. Someone he’s seen in the past, present, and probably will keep seeing in the future, and all the expressions that come with the gorgeous canvas of your face. The recurring nature, however, does not take away the emotions of seeing you disheartened. Cornered. Stressed. Scared.

He observes you in silence for what feels like an eternity, understanding closing in on him. The expression he has right now must peeve you, because you’re glowering once more.

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

He exhales. “Like what?” 

“Like—like that,” you stammer. “You know what I mean. Just, just stop.” 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t, but he has an idea.

You gulp, strained, “You—”

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The second those delicate, disarming words leave his mouth, Milo could see the fight bleed from your body. You falter, blinking wildly as you bring your hands close to your chest, shoulders dropping. You’re surveying him with a mixture of discomfort, unfamiliarity, and incertitude pasted all over your surly mouth, skeptic twist of your brows. You’re anxious.

Gently, as calm as he could, he enunciated it once more. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’d never hurt you. I’d never let you get hurt.”

He wasn’t the only one struggling with looking at someone who was a total copy of the person that meant something to them. 

You’re gaping. Again, no response, but the conflict in your eyes and your mollified stance is all he needs for confirmation. It’s the cue he takes to draw in another stomach-deep breath, proceeding carefully with this lower, levelheaded, even-tempered approach. 

“And I’m not just sayin’ this to get you off guard, okay? You have my word.” Punctuating his words by leaning in, his voice dips with sincerity. “I promise. I swear on it.” 

(There’s a certain sadness, upset in his own chest that he can’t quite put his finger on. He was never one for describing these types of emotions when they rose up—at least, in the past.

Or, perhaps, until you came along. All you carried was a key to his heart and a determination to renovate a chamber or two for your occupation. That’s alright, he had thought. Temporary or permanent residence, the mat on the door only welcomed you. Decorated in the light of your smile, the color of your touch, the sugar of your words. 

Empty as it was prior, maybe it was meant for you all along. In any way, shape, or form. Or time. He’ll be right here, key in hand, waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.)

“Listen. We’re both confused. We both don’t know what’s goin’ on, and we’re stressed. But we won’t get anything done if we keep fightin’ like this, if we keep runnin’ around the place, trying to one up each other. Let’s take a seat, I'll get you a drink, and we can talk about whatever this is. And if you wanna hit me even after that, hell, I’ll let you. But let’s try to unpack this before we get to that point. Is that okay with you?” 

“This is not fuckin’ okay.”

“Profanity, Milo-two,” you yawn, opening his fridge like you owned the place. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Panties in a— first of all, don’t call me Milo two. Second, I do not wear panties. Third, get out of my fridge!” 

To nobody’s shock, you ignore him.

The past hour has been the biggest doozy Milo Rebane has ever experienced in his lifespan. He’s blessed, or cursed, to live an existence bound to eternity, but his gut instinct is telling him this day takes the cake for the most memorable. From sensing something off in his home to crossing paths with someone who remarkably resembles you to an alarming degree, to currently trying to fend them off.

Fending them off was a generous way of putting it.

Right now, he was flabbergasted, watching from the kitchen entryway as you calmly navigate his home like you own the damn place. It’s an invasion without all the conquest. All your motions never radiated any semblance of reluctance or fear. It’s possible you traversed through the house before he got back home, since he doesn’t know when the swap happened. It’d explain how easily you were moving from room to room earlier and up until the present. How quickly you made yourself comfortable in a foreign place.

He’d practically hounded your ass with questions earlier. You didn’t complain throughout the process, surprisingly. It was all standard crap anyhow—your name, your age, where you lived, your occupation. It all matched up with what he knew of you. You had your own fair share of inquiries about who he was exactly, which he was fine with answering as well. Can’t really blame either of the two of you.

You groan aloud. “Jesus, do you have anything in here that isn’t caffeinated drinks?”

“All of those belong to you, investigator,” he hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You bought them and set up shop here.”

“That does sound like something I’d do.” After some time, you stand back up with one of those flavored, iced coffee brews in hand. You hum in appreciation, turning the bottle over in your hand multiple times. He nearly snaps at you for taking one of your drinks, but there’s a weird, paradoxical undertone that stops him from doing so. 

The lid cracks open with a faint click. “Oh, nice. It’s good to know that my taste never changed.” 

This has to be a weird episode of Inception. Or a Truman Show fever dream. He never should have allowed that movie marathon a couple weeks ago—some cosmic entity had to have caused this shit after seeing him and you huddled up on the couch, holding hands and giggling over popcorn and taken it as a sign that hey, let me just fuck these two over!

He clicks his teeth, groans, and strides towards you. “Alright, out of the fridge.” 

You blink. He glares.

“You heard me. Out, out, out. Eugh, you’re like a scavenger.”

Plastic bag dangling from his elbow, he shoos you away from the fridge to restock his own blood packets in one part of the fridge. He grumbles to himself, shoving the sanguine-filled sachets into the lower level of the fridge, just beneath the one holding most of your drinks. It was a comical sight; blood bags stored beneath a level of pure energy drinks and cold coffee definitely made an image worth snickering over. He just wasn’t in the mood for laughing right now, though.  

Looking over his shoulder, you’re leaning against a countertop and drinking from the stolen coffee bottle. Not a single part of your countenance gives off anxiety. In fact, you’re exuding a languid confidence, gaze meeting his. 

It would piss him off if it wasn’t a downright attractive look on you. Damn it all.

You smile crookedly. “You’re staring." 

“And you’re not?” Milo grunts, standing upright. 

He didn’t anticipate this at all, but it’s probably a good thing he stocked up on blood. In the past, you’ve offered him your blood for his routine feedings. It’s a generous act, really. It isn’t something that ought to bother him, especially since you’ve entered a serious arrangement not that long ago and he knows your offer came from a place of earnest consideration for his wellbeing. Any vampire would gladly take you up on that. Milo didn’t. Sure, he can bite now and then in the throes of pleasure, but he never does it solely for the feeding. He’d never subject you to becoming a blood bag supply for him to rely on; he would never engage in that, not when you mean so much more to him. And it took a horrendously uncomfortable, heart-racing, anxiety-painted confrontation on his couch following radio silence, hookups, and overall mixed signals to establish your newfound relationship.

He’d rather sit through a religious group’s attempt to exorcise him with garlic necklaces and prayers than run the risk of confusing your relationship once again. He has you and you had him, and he has had no plans of letting you go in the foreseeable future.

Hence, his fucking aggravation at current circumstances.

“No, no. I definitely am. My bad,” you laugh and finish off the rest of the coffee. As you toss it to the trash bin, you wander about the kitchen with a prying set of eyes. Curiosity ebbs off of you in waves, found in the awe of your o-shaped mouth and glimmering stare. “It’s definitely different. Your interior decor, I mean. Is it a vampire thing?”

“You’re gonna have to ask Dmitri that. Or Vince.” That was a funny thought. Dmitri would most likely shoo you away. Vincent would be confused, more than anything. 

“Vince, huh… Rebane, I’m assuming.” You focus on him again, eyes like saucers. Reminds him of Aggro. When he nods, you cover your mouth with a hand, laughing a little. “Does he have a partner?”

The smoothness by which you deliver the questions throws him off, prompting stuttered answers. “Uh, he does. He has a partner. Calls them Lovely, I think.” 

Recognition bursts in your eyes and you clap your hands like you won the lottery. 

“Aw, so they’re together here too.” 

He closes the fridge, the light shutting with a faint click. Tilting his head to gesture to the living room, you nod and follow his lead, leaving the kitchen. “Whaddya mean by that?” 

“Well, the Vincent I know also has a partner. He calls them Lovely, too.” There’s a particular fondness in your voice as you recount these people he apparently knows but doesn’t. 

“They’ve been through a lot. I don’t know if that applies here, too, but it’s a relief. That they’re sticking to each other, even now. Even if they don’t know about that other version of themselves.” 

As you two take a seat on the couch, he leans back and surveys you blankly. Frankly, he has no idea what you’re talking about. You’re really, really fucking confusing, and you have been, since pointing out you were another version of his partner. His own bemusement came from his efforts in trying to comprehend how you could possibly be so at ease in this predicament. 

“Sure. I don’t really talk to the guy all that much, so hell if I know,” he comments boredly. You shoot him a disapproving stare. “What? You think that just because vampires share a last name, we’re automatically hosting sleepovers and braiding each others’ hair? Ha, give me a break.” 

“I don’t think that, thanks.” You cross your arms and sink back into the couch with a huff. A contemplative look replaces the wondrous one, looking over the living room as well. There isn’t much you could probably analyze, past some potted plants or geometric ornaments he bought from some depot store. 

“I’ve actually been to that big congregation thing you vampires host, so don’t think I’m uncultured and unknowing.”

Milo squints, before his expression morphs into incredulity. “The Monarchal Summit? You attended one?”

As if picking up on his shock, you turn your head first before your eyes trail over him. Seeing his confounded face, your eyes twinkle with that same, fulfilling satisfaction. 

(You have no fear of making eye contact with him. You must know of vampires and their ability to trance—but you’re not shying away from it. He ignores the implications, whether it be you being ignorant or being that trusting toward him. You don’t even know him.) 

“I did. Surprised, vamp?”

“Cut the crap. No bullshit?” He doesn’t know why he asks. Even an idiot could tell you weren’t lying.

“No bullshit.” 

He thinks you’re going to continue, but you look at him strangely instead. “Are vampires able to detect lies? Is that a thing?”

He barks out a laugh, déjà vu hitting him. You asked something similar the first time you met.  

“If you’re asking if I just truth-checked you, fuck no. It’s a me thing, investigator.”

“Just making sure. But yes, I did attend one. Vincent invited me, and the others from the pack.”

The pack—the simple, innocent mention of them is enough to cause a visceral reaction. His face contorts as if he got sucker punched, muscles coiling with tension. It never gets easier. He knows that, but still—

“The pack, huh?” He echoes mutely. Two faces pop up in his brain, as hard as he tried to forget it. “That include Asher and David?”

If you notice his discomfort, you don’t point it out. (He’s grateful you don’t.) 

“Mm-hm. David wasn’t too sure about the invitation at first, but it’s not like he had a choice. The Shaw pack got quite a bit of traction after…” 

You trail off, suddenly reluctant to continue toward the end. He raises a brow. 

“Wait, the Shaw pack?”

That takes you out of the mental space you nearly slipped into. 

“Oh. Yeah, the Shaw pack. David’s the alpha.” You catch the puzzled face Milo’s making, interested. “Is he … not the Alpha here?”

“Like hell David’s the alpha. He’s the fuckin’ omega of the Talbot pack. Asher’s the alpha.” 

“Asher?” You sit up abruptly, engaged and completely gobsmacked. 

“Yep. Asher Talbot.”

“Asher? Like, bitch bottom Asher? Always late to the function Asher? Goofball and game tourney host Asher?”

He practically chokes on his startled laughter. There was so much to unpack with all of that, but he couldn’t help laughing at your shrill disbelief, increasing with every query. A lot of those things you listed—Lord, what the hell.

“I don’t know what Asher you know, but the Asher I know is… Aha. He definitely fits the bill as pack alpha.” 

“No way! David was the alpha, Asher was the beta. Ash’s chaotic energy was either handled by David or his own mate.  Those two were like, so complementary toward each other. Grumpy and sunshine!” You gush, leaning toward him. Unconsciously, he mirrors your posture, smirking in amusement.

“Oh, miss me on that shit, investigator. Next thing you’re gonna say is that David is perpetually grumpy and constipated.”

You snap your fingers, bouncing in place on the couch with a shriek of, “he is! Oh my God, he totally was!” 

He can’t control it then—he fuckin’ guffaws. You mumble to yourself, “well, in the past at least, before his mate came along,” but Milo’s simply too busy imagining it in his head. Asher, pack beta, who apparently likes taking it from the back and operates on playful vibes and energy. That was somewhat imaginable. But David? David Shaw, that bashful, socially anxious, tail between his legs 24/7 shifter? Being the pack’s leader?

“David would totally kick your ass if he knew you were laughing at him like this,” you sing, albeit smilingly. 

He wipes a tear from his eye, snorting over another cackle. “Here, the big guy would probably like that, as long as his mate was the one doin’ it. A bit too much, even.” 

That garners more laughter from you. It shouldn’t take him aback as much as it does—it makes sense—but even your laugh is the exact same.

He tries real fuckin’ hard to ignore the aching pang in his chest. Pushes it deep into his subconscious, even. Think of something else, Milo. Think of Asher and David, two whole wolf shifters, mind you, standing aimlessly in a grandesque banquet hall adorned in ostentatious baubles and even more pretentious creeps known to vampirekind. 

Back on track. Clearing his throat, he leans on his side, sinking slightly into the couch. Arm propped atop the cushion and hand resting on his head, he smirks. “So, those two went to the summit?”

You mimic his position, your expression far more cheery. “Yeah, and they took their mates with them.”

Mates. There goes that word again. 

Throat clogged, he swallows. “So, I take it that you were one of them?”

“One of?”

“Their mates. You went.”

He picks up on the way your breath stutters, imminent. Implicative.

Dreadfully, terribly, you shake your head.

“No,” you murmur. “I was yours.” 

Yours. 

All at once, he’s being submerged. Water clogs his ears, bubbles cascading from his nose and mouth. It’s icy, and it’s cold, biting into his skin without mercy. 

He’s silent for quite some time. Like a leisurely drip of tree sap, falling back to the earth in steady droplets, it’s a cruel reminder of what he could have had. It shouldn’t be so disorienting. It wasn’t. 

Yours, yours, yours. Mine. 

“Milo?” A call of his name, and he’s back to the present. “You good?”

He grunts, affecting indifference with a shrug. “Eh, beats me. But it makes sense. I was part of the pack n’ such.” 

“Fair,” you sigh. Nothing about your outward reaction indicates anything other than nonchalance, but he’d be dumb to assume that you didn’t notice his thoughtfulness. 

“The summit was chaotic. So much shit happened. But it was... It was fun.” 

He chuckles. “Fun isn’t the word I’d use to describe the gathering of uptight, asshole vampires with superiority complexes, but we can agree to disagree.” 

You snicker. “Sounds good.” 

After that, there’s a lull in the conversation. You move around, lying down with your knees bent and head on the arm of the couch. He looks ahead at the blank television screen. No attempts are made to try and fill the vacant space between the two of you on the couch, and frankly, he prefers it that way. It’s difficult to make sense of the situation. The elephant in the room, truth be told, was fucking ginormous. How could you really ask the question of what the fuck was happening and how did you get here, when it was plenty obvious that both parties didn’t have a single clue as to how this happened? The only reasonable, suitable activity would be literally anything else in that regard. It just so happened to be exchanging stories of mutual faces, known events. Even if the divulgence of such information would only leave a path of breadcrumbs to other doorways, other possibilities. 

One of those possibilities.

“Hey.”

You don’t glance, but you do hum quietly.

“Before I got back, how much did you snoop through?”

“I explored your kitchen for a bit. Then, your office. I ended up in the bedroom after some time, then the closet when I heard you come in.” 

Hm. His lips twitch. “And yet, you don’t sound remorseful at all.” 

“Sue me for thinking I was in the craziest lucid dream ever and I was in Luigi’s mansion.” The couch dips as you throw your legs over his. He scoffs, pinches your calf and savors the little yelp it gets out of you. (It’s novel, he admits, seeing you be so comfortable like this around him. Despite it not really being you, of course. All these emotions. So tedious, but so egregiously warm.) 

“My place does not look like Luigi’s mansion, excuse you. How dare you compare such—uh, creative taste to something cartoonish and gaudy and old-school—”

“Milo’s mancave then,” you resolve, stretching with an obnoxiously loud yawn. “You could think about sprucing up the place more. Make it feel like home, if you really want to.”

“Y’think I haven’t thought of doing that before? Don’t act like I forgot your little comment on my kitchen, you little snoop.” 

Rolling his eyes, he thinks back to every other time he’d contemplated the prospect while living here. Again, his hands are somewhat tied, but he at least had some agency in his life. Even if his Maker was kind of—well. His Maker, Invocation and all. 

His eyes trace the walls. A lot of the decor was relatively plain and modern, but he could understand where the interest was. There were some old, ornamental plates held up on the walls and particular carved detailing on the wooden shelves and cabinets that you probably wouldn’t find in another place in Dahlia. Still life paintings framed in ornamental gold, the type of frames you see in museums—the whole shebang. Any other decoration around the home was left as it was. 

Designing a home that wasn’t his could have helped him adjust more to his afterlife. There were a few things from his old apartment he thought of taking, too. But it was easier to occupy an already-filled, tailormade space than to find something to occupy the hollowed out, barren void in his chest after turning. Any reminder of the life he led might have been more harmful than benevolent. There was no room to doubt your existence when you’re thrust into the role of vampire princeling. He never felt the need to renovate this home—not when it came as a gift from Dmitri following his turning. A home befit for a prince, as he used to say. Milo played that role exceptionally well. 

“Just some food for thought, Rebane. Don’t think too much of it,” you reassure. In his periphery, he notices the way you’re staring at him. “Who am I to intrude on a life that isn’t mine?” 

He exhales a breath through his nose. Funny that you say that after the progression of the night. 

“A bit too late for that when you did exactly that an hour ago.” 

“Hey, it’s not like I asked to be transported here. I assure you: all I planned for tonight was making dinner, cuddling with Aggro, then cuddling with Milo.”

It’s weird to be referred to in third person, regardless if he’s aware that it’s referring to the version of himself you knew. 

His head aches. “And all I wanted was to spend time with my sweets. Guess we both can’t get what we want.”

Your lips quirk into an amused little half crescent. “Cheers to that. Here’s to yearning.”

He chuckles quietly.

“Here, here.” 

Another pause. Gathering courage to break the silence like this takes far more than he expected, but he can’t really complain about it.

But he doesn’t have to worry about carrying on the conversation when you’re sitting up. 

“I wanna see something. Lend me your hand?” Your hand's extended to him, waiting.

His eyebrows lift, but he complies nonetheless. As he slides his hand over your extended one, he wonders what exactly is playing out in that pretty little head of yours. Damn near shivers when your other hand starts tracing his knuckles, his lithe fingers, the back of his hand with all the fleetingness of a feather.

(Maybe he could wait before diving into how or why you ended up here. For all he knows, this could be the after to his afterlife.)

It makes itself known then. The shimmer of something sleek and thin on your fourth finger catches his eye far faster than he thought possible—and, technically, much later, since he had plenty of times to analyze you and never once noticed the fucking ring sitting smack dab around it.

You haven’t noticed that he noticed. The revelation has effectively struck him dumb, brain rapidly emptying. There’s—well, humans tend to follow that custom, sure, but he never thought he would follow through with it. Even when he was a wolf shifter, he assumed—

“Oh, this?” 

The hand he was essentially gawking at is soon lifted in front of his face and he jumps like it personally offended him. 

“That—that ring,” Milo croaks. 

There’s a bashfulness in your resounding giggle, and it makes his treacherous heart skip a beat. Fuck.

“We bought matching rings. You proposed it, actually.” 

“We what?” 

“This ring’s pretty,” you murmur, awe etched in your tone. 

Milo’s hand comfortably rests in the cradle of your two hands, your fingers lightly touching the metal band on his finger. Aggro’s all but cozied up on your cross-legged lap, tail flicking fondly every now and then against your thigh. The little guy’s already acclimated to your presence, which isn’t too astonishing. (It’s still you, despite everything. Even with a slightly different core, a mellowed out personality, and slightly more reluctant countenance, Aggro and Milo would recognize you.) 

Milo’s too busy drinking in the scene from his side of the couch—you beside him, of course—that he forgets to respond.

“Ah—sorry. I was thinking, what’d you say?”

You don’t appear bothered. “The ring. I’m assuming you picked it out with me?” 

He’d be shocked at the astute observation, if it weren’t for the fact that you were pretty sharp in general. In the kitchen, he appealed to you using the kindest, most patient approach he could possibly come up with. When you two had freshly met, as odd as that is to say, he was polite and acting as per usual. It’d be more surprising if you didn’t pick up on the fact that he and you were closer than the average couple.

“Mhm. We got it a while back.” Following the two first engagements in the pack, you and Milo were promptly tossed into contemplative positions on where you stood. Marriage was a big step forward for everyone involved, and it clearly meant a lot to the guys’ mates for them. (Though, Ash got proposed to.) The conversation you two had sometimes plays out in the times he’s swarmed with nostalgia; it was a time characterized by your reaffirmed commitment and devotion to one another, without a need for legal documentation, and it never failed to make him smile. All that you required was right there: your mate, and a bond so fervid no waters could wash it away. 

He has to pause from time to time and remind himself that the person in front of him isn’t you. Then again, the muffled, faraway buzz of the bond did enough in terms of alerting him that. It was strangely disembodied; the connection that you share is fundamentally bound to you, so its trail lingers around the person sitting on the couch, but it disappears there. Like an indistinct chain link, ghostly and not wholly there. At its core (hah), the bond ties him to you. 

And the you right now has their own form of a bond—a vampire’s bite. A mark. 

“Does it signify anything? Marriage?”

“No, not marriage. We’re mates. That’s practically marriage for us, what with the bond n’ all.” 

You nod, pocketing the information. “I… I didn’t think parallel timelines were a thing. Or would it be alternate universes? I’m not sure.”

“You and me both, impostor,” he concurs. “I work for security, not for, uh, the time and space borders for galaxies, all that shit. Fuck if I know.” 

You drop his hand and pull a face that’s not unlike a sneering rabbit. You’ve been doing that whenever he cussed, and he has to admit, it’s hilarious. Regardless of your displeasure, you don’t try to chastise him. Though, he’s sure you’ve most likely tried it with the version of him you’re more familiar with. 

“You really are just like him. You both curse a lot.” 

He smiles. “Call it the Milo stamp of verbiage.”

“Or you’re just foul-mouthed,” you grumble, looking down at Aggro and beginning to gently stroke his fur. The furball vibrates with glee, purring as you run your fingers and palm along the well-groomed coat. “Isn’t that right, Aggro?”

With an entertained grin on his face, he lounges into the couch as he focuses on the television. 

“Good luck trying to get Aggro on your side. My son is very loyal to me, as you may know. As traitorous as he can be from time to time.”

“I’m sure,” you comment dryly, unconvinced by Milo’s way of speaking. Though, even you couldn’t hide the wry smile forming on your lips. It’s contagious. 

It’s been an hour since the sun set, but time seems to go slower at the moment. Milo’s not sure if he should be grateful or anxious over it, but he doesn’t hate it. Still in the throes of registering this whole scrambled person thing and managing the inclement panic that comes with having an absent mate, he’d say he’s doing pretty good. Got you some water and some snacks before settling you down on the couch, letting you relax and get somewhat comfortable enough to speak. Nothing much else besides the television blasting something, a regular episode of some rotational show on a channel, but it serves as suitable background noise. Plus, it helped in getting you to gather your bearings after your near nervous breakdown in the kitchen.

Might as well break the ice and figure out what to do in the meantime. You’d judge him if he left another version of you unoccupied, bored, and without some form of entertainment. It’d be a bad look for him as a host, and as the other-boyfriend-slash-semi-mate. Although, he does find it more arduous trying to pry you from your reserved shell. He never thought this side of your personality would be more dominant in any way, but he does find it rather cute. You just need a little bit of poking.

He glances over. Aggro is purring aggressively—how is that even possible?—as you scratch his chin.

“So, what do you wanna do?” 

“I should finish my paperwork.” 

Well.

“Ah. Right. Your job.” The TV captures his attention yet again. Now what the hell is he supposed to do? It was already pretty damn awkward, since it's not like you did much talking past stiff niceties earlier. "Sounds... Sounds nice."

Long story short: he kind of sort of has no fucking clue how to talk to you right now.

As if picking up on his slight discomfiture in the face of being unknowingly denied, you poke his shoulder. “But I can do anything. I wouldn’t mind if you had an idea.” 

“Say less,” Milo immediately replies, standing up from the couch. It causes the sofa to jostle, and Aggro meows loudly from his place on your lap, mild annoyance in his mewls that you try to shush through soft laughter.

You have the same laughter. He shouldn’t be fuckin’ startled by that, but even he isn’t immune to the sound and the swell of emotion. 

There’s a part of him practically shouting your name from the hilltops, undoubtedly from the absence of your presence. Another part is determined to label this as a dream or nightmare that he’s yet to fully live out. But it feels too real, too tangible. He felt your skin against his, electric yet soft in the way it always was. He’ll make the most of it, he supposes. He’s sure you’re doing the same—this version of you assured him that you’d be okay, but his faith lies mostly in you. 

His sweetheart. Who knew he’d end up so lovesick? No complaints from his end, though. He’ll hold down the fort for you in the meantime and possibly get to know this mellow version of you some more. What else could he do?

Holding up a remote, Milo shoots your curious self a smirk. “You play Smash?” 

mimi's missive:

the pathetic, almost lovelorn yearning transcends dimensions

happy thursday or friday depending on your timezone!

i was writing this over the course of several days since posting part 1, and all my brainworms went into conceptualizing this. this concept plagued my brain since i listened to the fooliverse audios and chewed on the personality differences. erik, you brilliant-minded individual.