viens sunshine

There’s a limousine out front, which is better than the motorcycle you expected. Sylus gets the door for you and you sit yourself onto the dark, leather seating wrapping around the back of the car. 

Sylus enters from the other side, settling across from you before taking two glasses from the in-limousine bar, a level of luxury you’ve never seen before.

The car rolls forward smoothly and Sylus pours the glasses full of sparkling champagne.

“I can’t drink tonight,” you say, “I need to be focused.”

“Sweetie, and don’t take this the wrong way, but if you walk in there as stiff as you look right now, you’ll stand out immediately. I’m trying to help you not blow our cover.”

You press your lips together. “I’m not stiff.”

He gestures the bottle to your figure. Your arms and legs are crossed, your back rigid, and a scowl is ever-present on your face. 

You amend your statement, “Maybe just around you.”

Sylus places the bottle back in the bar and gathers the glasses. “And why is that?”

You return a scoff instead of the answer you won’t even admit to yourself. Still the response satisfies him, and he smiles as he offers you a glass. You take it, because as much as it pains you to concede to him, he has a point.

He reaches his own glass forward. “To an unlikely team?”

“The unlikeliest,” you say, clinking your glass with his. 

The following sip of bubbly champagne settles on your tongue, greeting you with a dry, pleasant flavor. “So, is there anything I need to know before going in there?” you say, holding the champagne flute down by your lap.

“Talking business so soon?” Sylus tilts his head. “You haven’t even finished your first drink.”

“I prefer to be prepared.”

“Of course.” Sylus places his glass down on the table and folds his hands in his lap. “If you want to retrieve the core tonight, you’ll have to outbid the others.”

A goal easily accomplished with the financial support of the Hunter Association; you have your card–untraceable–tucked away in your clutch. “That is the plan,” you say. 

Sylus chuckles. “Indeed, sweetie. However, in the N109 zone, auctions are blind.”

You purse your lips. “So, I won’t know what other people bet for the core?”

“Precisely. Which is why you need to determine the previous bids to ensure you place a higher one.”

“All right, sure,” you say, “I can make that happen.”

“I expect nothing less from my tenacious little Hunter.”

You let the comment roll off of you–priorities. “And so you’ll be tagging along for the ride?”

“As much as I’d love to focus on being a good date, I’ll be dealing with another problem I expect to arise.”

“And what’s that?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

You raise an eyebrow, so he adds, “Events like these attract all those who call the N109 zone home, and it’s simply impossible to be friends with every one of them.” 

“Right,” you say. Whatever, Sylus can deal with the many enemies he certainly has, it’ll spare you from more time with him.

The car slows to a stop and Sylus looks out the tinted window. “We’ve arrived,” he remarks, “Any questions?”

“I guess not,” you say. It seems straightforward enough: get the intel on the bids, place a higher one, and take the core home tonight.

“Perfect,” he says, placing his champagne glass on the counter of the bar and leaving through his side of the car. 

With him gone momentarily, you let out a shuddery breath. Staying with Sylus has been challenging enough, and now you’re trying to blend in with his peers, the elites of the N109 zone? You just hope you can pull this off.

The door opens so you grab your clutch and shift in your seat to face the exit. You’re about to step out of the vehicle when you look back to the half-full champagne flutes sitting at the bar. You reach over and down the first one. And then the second. 

You scooch back over to the door and take Sylus’ hand, letting him help you out of the limousine and into the fresh, crisp air of the night. The full moon illuminates the crowd of well-dressed individuals flocking from the street to the museum looming in front of you. A gentle snow has begun to fall.

You go to pull your hand from Sylus’ grip, but his fingers tighten around yours. “Appearances, darling,” he tuts before placing a kiss on the top of your knuckles.

“Sylus!” you hiss, in spite of the warm shift in your stomach. Must be the champagne.

“If you want your bid to be taken seriously tonight, I need to appear as the one backing it,” Sylus remarks before closing the door and extending his arm to you. Biting back a scowl, you loop your arm through his and let him guide you up the stairs into the museum’s entrance.

The doors open to a glamorous sight—high ceilings and gorgeous chandeliers up above and Greek statues and old-fashioned paintings scattered around the lobby’s blood red carpet. Each artifact is complete with a little table and a folded card displaying a faint-worthy price. In the center of the hall, there’s a large, extravagant staircase, and an older man a few steps up grins when he sees you enter. 

“Ah, there you are, Sylus!” The man approaches with outstretched arms. You unlink yourself from Sylus and the man embraces him, his arms having difficulty reaching all the way up your date’s broad back to pat it. “I haven’t seen you in forever, my boy.” He pulls back to look up at Sylus with kinder eyes than you’d expect from someone in the N109 zone. “I didn’t expect a public appearance so soon.”

The comment reminds you of a detail from Sylus’ file, that there was a recent change to the bounty on his head, upping the price to 90 million dollars. He’s risking a lot to accompany you to this auction.

“Circumstances changed, Mr. Whiffletrop,” Sylus says, “I’m glad to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, my boy. Well, there must be some reason you came. May I venture to guess it's the lovely lady you brought with you?”

“You’d be correct.” Sylus turns his body towards you and introduces you by name.

“Hello, Mr. Whiffletrop,” you say, welcoming and warm. 

The man shakes your hand with vigor. “My, what a beauty! How lucky you are, dear Sylus.”

“Lucky indeed,” Sylus agrees. He’s really laying it on.

“You’re too kind,” you say, dropping your head and smiling with an appropriate amount of bashfulness. 

“Ah, young love,” the man says, placing his hands over his heart. “I wish my husband could see you both. He’d paint such a pretty picture.”

“I’m sure he would’ve,” Sylus says.

The old man is lost in thought for a moment before snapping back to you, “Well, I’ll let you two turtledoves get to it. The dance floor is right over there; it would be a dream to see Sylus and his lovely lady on it!”

“Of course, we were just about to head over there,” Sylus says.

“Oh, you’ll make my night!” the old man cries.

Dancing with Sylus was not part of the plan. Being pressed up against his warm body, his hand interlocked with yours, and those crimson eyes staring down at you–you were trying to avoid such a situation. But the two men are looking at you expectantly, and if you’re going to keep up this charade with Sylus, you’ll have to find a way to manage.  

“Yes, we were just about to go on the dance floor,” you say with a smile that hurts your cheeks. “I just–well, Sylus was about to get me a drink before, right Sylus?” You add a gentle squeeze to Sylus’ forearm to say ‘this is the only thing that’ll get me over there.’ 

“Right,” he says, “Mr. Whiffletrop, would you be so kind as to entertain my date while I go fetch her some champagne? You can ask her all about our relationship.” 

“But of course, my boy! And do I have questions!”

You want to take another stab at killing Sylus, but you instead force a smile for the excited museum owner in front of you. Sylus leaves with a genuine, triumphant grin.

The old man pulls your hand into his grasp, eyes locked on yours with unwavering attention. “So, tell me, how did you meet?”

You shift your weight. “Uh, through work, actually.”

“Really?” he says, “Tell me the story! Don’t hold out on the details either!”

“Mr. Whiffletrop,” you say, hoping your smile doesn’t look too uneasy, “I don’t want to keep you from your guests, really. You must have so much on your plate hosting an auction as lovely as this one.”

“It’s no trouble at all! Unless”–the grip on your hand loosens–“Unless I’m asking too many personal questions and you want to be done with it all!”

“No, it’s not like that,” you disagree, weakly.

“Oh, it is, isn’t it?” The old man drops your hand, “I didn’t mean to be a bother,”

“You weren’t–”

He goes on, “It’s just that I’m so happy he’s found someone. The whole world runs away from him, but he has such a kind heart. Got me out of some steep trouble with one of N109’s finest, Mr. Nightcliffe. The bastard tried to take my museum. Well, I won’t bore you with the details but”—he opens his hands and gestures to the bustling gallery around the two of you—“I got to keep my pride and joy!” 

“That’s great,” you respond flatly. You didn’t know Sylus was such a patron of the arts.

“It’s great, it’s grand!” the man says, “So please excuse my enthusiasm, I am just truly so happy the boy’s found someone. You’ll at least tell me how long you’ve been dating?”

You’ve only known him for a few days now.

“Two months.” You smile.

“Ah, yes, the honeymoon phase! I should’ve been able to guess from the way he looks at you.” 

“The way he looks at me?” you repeat.  

“Drinks?” Sylus says, arriving with three flutes of champagne.

“Ah, thank you,” you say, avoiding his eyes when you take your drink. 

You sip on your champagne as the old man catches up with Sylus, who occasionally looks over to you, checking on how you’re doing. You give a tight-lipped smile and nod every time. It’s not like he has to babysit you. You scan the room as they chat, making note of any suspicious behavior, but your eyes keep wandering over to your date, who’s now saying goodbye to Whiffletrop. 

Sylus links his arm in yours, “Ready for the dance floor, darling?” 

The old man gives you a big grin and a thumbs-up, so you respond, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Thankfully, Sylus is a good teacher, guiding you around the room with enough grace for the two of you. And the music is pleasant enough. It’s all almost…enjoyable. 

Eyes on the prize, Hunter.

“So, where is the Aeth–you know what. The only thing in here are dusty old paintings,” you say.

“These old paintings are quite magnificent, and they’ll tell you their secrets if you spend some time with them. But as I’ve learned, you have tunnel vision.”

“You mean I’m focused on my mission? Yes, I am. God forbid I try to get my job done.”

“Ah yes, well, the devil is in the details, of which you have few.”

“So tell me,” you implore. You stumble at the next move, but Sylus flawlessly integrates it into the dance by following your misstep. 

“What you’re looking for is a special class of item, and the auction of such artifacts is housed in a hidden wing of the museum." 

“And where can I find that?” 

He’s now pulled you a bit closer than the dance requires, your chest brushing against his as you sway to the music. 

“Well, sweetie, I’ve satisfied our deal by getting you in here. I think I’d want a little more before giving you precise locations of the core.”

You look up at him, eye contact now more of an effort due to the proximity. “Sylus, you’re supposed to be helping me.”

“But it’s so much more fun playing with you,” he says, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, sending heat to your cheeks.

“It’s not fun when I’m trying to complete my mission,” you hiss.

“Then it’s good that my information comes at a very low price,” Sylus responds, dipping his head down so he can speak into your ear, “and I think we can both walk away satisfied.”

His low voice sends a shudder through your system that you cover up by pulling away, returning to the far less intimate version of the waltz. He tilts his head, amused, before spinning you. Maybe a better hunter wouldn’t be so scared to play ball to get the intel you need, but you can’t risk getting yourself into another situation that’s too close for comfort. 

“I’m not playing any more games with you,” you decide. 

“But, sweetie, you don’t even know what I’m asking for in return.”

“Sylus,” you say, “I’ve already gotten what I need from you. I’ll be able to handle the rest myself.”

“Is that so?” Sylus says, “You’re certain you don’t want me to at least point you in the right direction?” 

Your mouth hardens into a line. Saying yes here means being called upon your debt later. You restate yourself: “I don’t need your help.”

“You make yourself clear.” Sylus chuckles, a sound that quickly fades when his eyes go over your shoulder, staring a hole into whatever’s across the room. You turn to follow his gaze, but he places a hand on your shoulder that keeps you in place before saying, “So, I’ll get out of your path. Find me once the bid is in.” 

Then he walks past you, leaving you alone on the dance floor. When you turn to watch him leave he’s already vanished into the crowd of elegantly dressed dancers. So you shuffle over to the side of the floor, eager to get off and hug the wall. A waiter offers you another drink and you take it, sipping on it while listening in on surrounding conversations. 

“Hah! And so I told him: ‘if you’re not going to buy it for me, I’ll just find someone who will!’”

That’s not helpful. Next.

“I think it might be a UTI. Yeah, I know. Dirty dick.”

Jeez. There’s a few more conversations like that, dripping with gossip but dry on intel. 

So, you’ll just have to search for the secret auction. It has to be somewhere someone can easily slip off to unnoticed, which rules out the crowded main hall. You stroll around, it could be the bathrooms, but that would require two entrances dependent on gender, which isn’t practical. You continue past the hall’s main staircase, entering into a quieter passageway. You open a janitor's closet and look around, but find nothing particularly suspicious. 

Quiet places, where are quiet places? 

It can’t be Whiffletrop’s office, no one would have a good excuse if caught in there. Still, you try the handle anyway—it’s locked. 

The next room over is a library, with no one in it. Promising.

Could it be a mystery novel contraption where pulling a book breaks the wall two, revealing a hidden chamber? No, the encounter has to be brief, allowing you to disappear in under three seconds. Quick and easy.

You scan the room. There are two armchairs, a tall lamp between them, a fireplace, and shelves upon shelves of books. There’s only one wall not entirely consumed by books, where the shelves are split by a painting straight through the center. Always paintings, Mr. Whiffletrop’s husband, Sylus preaching about secrets hidden in the art…

You take a step forward, the painting is rather tall, and close to ground level. Committing to the inspection, you walk over and feel your fingers up the sides of the golden frame, freezing when your fingertips run over a raised section. A button.

Pressing on it frees the painting from the wall with it hinging on one side like a door. You pull the artwork back to reveal a candlelit passageway. This must be it. 

You slip through the entryway and pull the handle on the back of the painting to close it behind you. Quick and easy. 

The candlelight is dim, so you keep one hand on the side of the cold, stone wall as you stalk through the hallway. There’s a sharp turn before the passage opens out into a small chamber humming with low chatter. The grey of the stone floor transforms into a brilliant red of carpet splitting the chamber in half, each side of the crimson lined with glass displays showcasing floating protocores of various colors. There’s a few people interspersed with the displays, and none of them take notice when you enter. You're just another guest. 

Your eyes flick around the room as you appear to appraise the different cores in the displays, taking note of people’s faces and a black curtain dividing a “staff only” section from the rest of the chamber. You bet you’ll have to get back there to find the current bids on the Aether Core.

You walk through to the far side of the hall to the final display that the protocores have been leading to, except, there’s not a matching glass container on top of the ornate column. There’s a sign beneath the empty space:

Aether Core

Starting bid: 1,000,000

It’s not here?

It could be getting cleaned, though you’re not sure that’s physically possible. Then maybe it’s too valuable to have on display–but it’s the main draw of the auction tonight. There’s a blond man in a black vest and bow tie stepping behind the staff-only curtain. You’ll have to ask him. Just as you're about to take a step towards the curtain, the conversation of two men leaning on a pillar catches your ear. 

“I can’t believe the core’s already been bought.”

“Yeah, and so early in the night. I don’t know why we bothered coming.”

You turn towards them. “Excuse me,” you say, as sweetly as you can.

“Ah, hello, Miss,” the taller one says, straightening up and tipping his top hat, while the other one’s gaze spends a little too much time on your chest before arriving at your face.

“My date, the monster, left me alone on the dance floor, so I was hoping you two handsome gentlemen could keep me company instead.”

“That is just unforgivable,” the taller one says.

“He must be out of his mind,” the shorter one adds, “Of course we’ll take care of you.” He smiles, gummy and lecherous.

“Thank you so much,” you say. “I couldn’t help but overhear a bit of your discussion on the Aether Core.” You purposefully mispronounce it. 

The two look at each other, before the man in the top hat smiles, “Ah yes, the Aether Core. We were just lamenting its recent purchase. That blond auctioneer just told us about it.”

But the auction just started. Most of the bids aren’t even in yet. 

“Snatched right out from under our noses,” the other one adds. 

“How horrible!” you say, adding a dramatic gasp. “How could something like this happen?”

The men laugh at your antics, which you hope they’re taking as sincere though ridiculous. 

“Apparently the buyer offered ten times what anyone here would ask at this auction to purchase it directly. I suppose the museum couldn’t refuse.”

“Wow, this is just fascinating,” you say, shaking your head with wide eyes. “You must be very smart to be so in-the-know about what’s going on at such an elite auction.”

“Well, when one’s been in the trade this long...” The taller man grins.

“I’m just so curious as to who the buyer could be,” you say, putting your finger to your chin to emphasize your utter cluelessness.

The men fall over themselves to prove their intelligence. 

“There’s only two people in the N109 zone who could afford a purchase like this,” the shorter one says, self-assuredly. 

“Well, there’s only one who can purchase from the museum," the taller man corrects. “Mr. Nightcliffe has been banned since Whiffletrop made nice with Onychinus.”

“I still see his people around,” the shorter one retorts, “In fact–”

The top hat man leans towards you. “Well, you can’t blame them for trying to get their claws back in. It’s a great spot, this museum, strategic, too.”

The stout man objects, “It’s not the best base in the city. I’d much prefer—”

You bring the conversation back onto the rails. “So, if not Mr. Nightcliffe, who would be able to spend such a large sum on an artifact like this?”

The men look at each other, a little surprised at your obliviousness.

“Well, the leader of Onychinus, of course.”

Your heart stutters. Sylus.

“Why, yes, of course!” you say, weakly laughing, “The richest man in the N109 zone.” 

“And the most well-connected,” the top hat man states, “I’m sure the museum would be happy to bend rules if it meant staying in his good graces.”

Right, Whiffletrop. 

You finish the last three-sips of your drink in one gulp. “Well, it’s been lovely talking to you both, but I need to powder my nose. I hope to see you lovely gentlemen later.” You give a tight smile and leave before they can respond.

Two hard realities hit you at once: the object you so desperately seek has been pulled from your reach, and the person likely responsible was supposed to be your closest ally. Your lip curls, he agreed to help you! No, just like he said, he’d rather play with you like a little ragdoll until he gets bored and tosses you away.

Rage is building up within you like a forest fire, and the additional glass of champagne you down while walking towards the exit doesn’t douse the flames, it feeds them.

Fuck, was this his plan all along? Sending you on some wild goose chase for bid counts, holding out on the core's location, all to create enough delay so he could take the core for himself? You knew in your heart you didn’t trust him, and still you let him slip off on the dance floor to seal the deal. He’s probably escaping with the core right now!

You hurry back through the passageway, not bothering to close the painting behind you, and re-enter the main hall. Your head whirls around the room, but it’s too crowded to see anything but styled hair and tailored suits. You hurry over to a nearby staircase, getting up the first few steps and nearly tripping over the next one. Fuck, the champagne here is strong.

You steady yourself on the railing and scan the room. Just flashes of color, people dancing, talking, and then you see him entering through a door on the far side of the room. You pick up the hem of your dress and shove your way through the crowd, following him into a dining room and then back to a personal library. He’s just about to place his hand on the frame of the ajar painting when you close in on him.

“I was just looking for you,” Sylus says, turning to see your face, “Kitten, what’s wrong?”

A couple is entering the library, so you grab his arm and pull him through another door, “C’mere,” isolating him within the walls of a private study.

You lock the door before shoving him against it and pressing down on his jacket pockets. There’s nothing in them so you push his jacket from his shoulders, revealing his black button down. Nothing. 

“I never thought I’d see you so excited to undress me,” he says, “What’s gotten into you?”

“Shut up.” He’s fucking flirting with you again, no doubt a tactic to manipulate and disarm, and one you fell for. You crouch down to his pants to search. You try to get your fingers inside his pockets, but your fingers are missing their expected dexterity, so you pat instead. “Where is it?” you snarl.

“Are you confused? You know our little brooch bet is over.”

You stand up and, with both hands, grab his collar and pull him down to your scowling face, “Where is the Aether Core? I know you have it.”

“Kitten, you’re mistaken,” Sylus says.

“No, I am not, someone has it already!” you cry, tightening your grip, “And they said it could only be you.”

“Who said that?” Sylus says, tilting his head, “You’re not making any sense.”

“An anonymous buyer bought the core with a shit-ton of cash! You're the only one with enough money to do that!”

Sylus’ brows furrow. “Someone already bought the Aether Core?”

“Fucking keep up, Sylus!” 

“It wasn’t me,” Sylus says, enclosing your wrists with his fingers. His touch makes you want to drop your guard, makes you want to believe him, so you pull your hands away, stepping back and crossing your arms. 

“Well, from what I heard, it can’t be Nightcliffe, so my money’s on the man who’s basically Whiffletrop’s son.”

Sylus swears as he turns to the side. “Nightcliffe?” he repeats. “That’s why–” He looks back at you. “Yes, Whiffletrop. Let’s go speak to Whiffletrop.”

“Sylus, what?” you say, throwing your hands out in exasperation. “Did you not hear what I said? You have it!”

“Darling, I can assure you that I do not.” Sylus steps forward. “Somehow, and I intend to find out how, this is Nightcliffe.”

“But they said–” Your head is starting to hurt now, like the gears are turning without oil. You drop your hands by your sides. You don’t know what to believe.

Sylus continues on, “The Aether Core needs stabilizing before transit, and the staff certainly won’t let them take it away yet, not until the event is over,” he says, “I’m sure the museum will be open to some re-negotiation. But we’ll have to go now.” He opens the door, but you remain where you are, a mix of emotion threatening to spill from your hardened expression. “Sweetie?”

“I just–I don’t know.” You look down, lips pressing together. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious, Sylus. I can’t tell if you’re on my side,” you say, “I’m so confused.”

This is so embarrassing, pleading for clarity from the man you convinced yourself was an enemy–someone who could very well still be your enemy. It’s like you can’t stop making the wrong calls. You’re not cut out for this job, far too weak, pathetic and–

Two large arms wrap around your body. Your muscles tense at the contact, ready to fight yourself out of a boa constrictor's hold, but you're soon disarmed when he begins stroking your hair in slow, soothing motions. This enemy-ally isn't trying to hurt you, he wants to comfort you.

With a whirlwind of rage, sadness, and self-doubt swirling within your heart, you give yourself a moment’s reprieve, closing your eyes against his chest and listening to the thrum of his heartbeat. Then, he gently pulls himself back, soft hands remaining on your shoulders as he looks into your eyes to say, “I am with you.”

You accept it, a lot because you have to, and a little because you want to. “Okay.” You take a step towards the door before halting, turning back to the white-haired man. “But if you fuck me over, I can and will kill you this time.”

Sylus chuckles, “Understood, sweetie.” 

The two of you find Mr. Whiffletrop back in the main hall chatting with a few of the auction attendees.

“A moment, Mr. Whiffletrop?” Sylus requests.

The man turns with a twinkle in his eye. “Oh, anything for you, my boy!” He turns back to his guests. “If you could please excuse me.”

The older gentleman steps away from his conversation to face you two. “How can I help?”

“We had some questions on tonight’s main pull–the auction of the Aether Core.”

“Sylus, if you’re trying to ask me to rig the auction, you know I won’t do it! I am a man of integrity after all.”

“Of course I wouldn’t ask that of you, Mr. Whiffletrop. I merely meant to inquire about the permanence of the selling of the core. It is rather early in the night.”

“I’m not sure I understand your question,” Whiffletrop responds, “Nothing is formally sold until the end of the night–after all the bids come in.”

“Apparently, the core has already been sold,” you explain, “It’s not on display anymore.”

“That can’t be right,” Mr. Whiffletrop says, eyebrows knitting together, “I-I’ll have to go see it for myself.”

The three of you enter the hidden wing of the museum, and your words are confirmed by the empty pillar center-stage. 

“Where’s Alexei?” asks Mr. Whiffletrop, “He’s supposed to be down here, running this section of the auction.”

“Oh, the blond guy? Last I saw him he was going behind the staff curtain.”

Mr. Whiffletrop looks at you with sharp eyes. “Alexei isn’t blond.”

You all step behind the curtain to see Whiffletrop’s Alexei unconscious against the wall. As Whiffletrop calls for medical services to attend to the poor victim, Sylus and you hurry back through the passageway once more to the main section of the museum. You grab Sylus’ hand and pull him to the staircase, this time holding onto the railing as you ascend.

There’s little to no blond flashes throughout the sea of hair spinning and swimming through the room, so he must’ve made his way out of the building already. You fly down the stairs and nearly collide with the doorway on your way out. It’s begun to snow, white flurries blocking your vision. Even so, you’re able to catch a flash of pale blond hair down by the sidewalk. He’s hailing a sleek black car to his side of the street.

Sylus is behind you; he grabs your arm. “Sweetie, more trouble than good will come out of confronting them here. Let me handle it.”

At this point, there's only so much faith you can put in others. This could be your last chance to get the core.

“I need it back,” you say, wrenching your arm away and hurrying down the countless stairs onto the street. Once your heels hit the cold concrete of the cracked sidewalk, you draw your gun from your purse and aim it at the escaping blond.

“Stop!” you yell, but it just hastens the pace in which the man hops inside the car, which takes off with a screech.

You start to run along the sidewalk, slipping and sliding on the newly-formed ice. Sylus is shouting from behind you, but you can’t make it out with the wind howling in your ear. 

You aim your gun towards the retreating car’s back tires, finding it hard to see straight, but let off a shot anyway. 

The car doesn’t stop, but a window rolls down and an arm sticks out of the gap.

Two shots ring out, of which you make no attempt to take cover from, you just keep running.

“No, stop!” you call again weakly, stumbling. The car turns the corner with a squeal and disappears into the foggy night. It’s gone, the Aether Core is officially gone.

You crumple down onto the cold sidewalk, red fabric pooling all around you. Sylus is on you in a second, arms wrapping around your shivering frame. “Are you hurt? Let me see, did they get you?”

“I’m so stupid, so fucking stupid,” you mutter. 

After a quick assessment, Sylus scoops you up from the street and walks you to his limousine. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, fighting to keep the tears from falling.

His head shifts and he softly groans. He’s not fully awake since that ever-present nasty expression of his has yet to appear.

You cross your arms. “Doing okay, Miguel? Hope I didn’t electrocute you beyond repair.” 

Though he is restrained, you keep your remote tight in your hand. One click and the two metal arms extending from the ceiling would home in on his body and tase him unconscious again. Or, you could up the voltage and finally rid the world of this insufferable spider. You’ll just have to see how he behaves.

“Though, it’s not like you wouldn’t deserve it, breaking into my lab so late at night.” You tilt your head to the side, looking to catch his eye as he wakes up. “Did you really think I wouldn’t be here? You’re supposed to know these things.”

His chin raises and his eyes crack open. 

You take a step forward, entering the space between his spread legs, and nudge his foot with your shoe. “Finally with us, handsome?”

His dark eyes travel up your towering form, lazy and unfocused, until he tries to lean forward and finds thick rope preventing him from doing so. That gets him up. 

“What-?” Miguel says, now tense and alert. He looks down at the rope and then up to you. He whispers your name. His eyes narrow. There’s that nasty expression.

“Hi there, sleepyhead,” you say, “How’s my favorite prisoner feeling?”

“How did you-? What the-” He growls and flexes against the bondage, trying to break free. The ropes shift under his efforts, so you’re quick to engage the mechanical arms above. They surge downwards and lock around Miguel’s neck, buzzing with electricity centimeters from his skin. He freezes.

“Behave, Miguel,” you tut, “Any more funny business and I’ll start my first ever human experiment: determining the highest voltage a spider-body can withstand.” You frown insincerely, “Now we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Miguel’s struggling ceases, but not his ferocious glare. Another click and the arms retract.

“Untie me,” he demands.

You crouch down, lab coat pooling on the tiled floor. “Please, tell me why I would untie the crazed intruder that just broke into my lab?”

Miguel answers, “Because you can’t even comprehend the mass destruction your work will cause. Disrupting the canon is–”

You roll your eyes. “Spare me the melodrama, Miguel.”

“It’s not melodramatic. The fate of the multiverse–”

“All right, all right, my fault for asking,” you say, waving your hand, “Let’s just agree to disagree.” 

Miguel scowls. “This is why I came here in the first place. You’re too delusional to be reasoned with.”

You laugh, but it’s more of a scoff. “Delusional? You’re the delusional one.” You push the end of the remote into his chest. “You think your opinion is the only one that matters, so you go after anyone who thinks differently. You tell yourself it’s justified, that you’re doing a good thing, but you’re just holding all of humanity back,” you say, words coated in poison. “And for what, Miguel? Are you scared? Scared that someone else might be right about your precious spiderverse?”

Miguel looks down and shakes his head. “I didn’t want you to be a lost cause,” he says, “but it seems you’re too far gone.” 

Your hand shoots out and locks around his chin, forcing him to look up into your eyes. “You think being a dick to the ‘delusional’ person who has you tied up is a good idea?”

He growls and tries to buck his head away but you don’t let him, tightening your grip on his jaw. “I need you to remember who’s in charge here, m’kay? You’re not in your office surrounded by yes-spiders who will lick the ground you walk on. You broke into my lab and now you are my prisoner.” You drop your hand from his chin and lean back with a huff. “Got it?”

Miguel glares at you, no doubt running through all the awful things he wants to do now that you’ve manhandled him. The sentiment is shared. But, he finally grunts his affirmation. You take a deep breath through your nose. That’ll have to do. 

You tap the underside of his jaw with your remote. “Then, like the good little prisoner you are, you’re going to answer my questions or I’m going to fry you to the point your spider-friends can’t recognize your body.” 

You’ve decided to do that anyway, but getting information out of the man who broke into your base would be invaluable—a lady learns from her mistakes. 

He looks up at you through thick, furrowed eyebrows, “What do you want to know?”

You sit criss-cross in front of him. “You’re usually surrounded by your spider-goons. Why are you here alone?”

Miguel sighs, looks off to the side and then back to you. “I didn’t think I needed back-up,” he mutters.

“Are you lying, or just stupid?”

“I thought I could handle you by myself. As you can see, I was wrong.”

You laugh. “Not lying, then.” So, only one spider to deal with tonight. “It seems like underestimating me is paying off for you.” You tap your finger on the tip of his nose and delight in the way his eyes darken with rage. 

“Is that all?” he forces out. 

You hum. “No, not everything.” You tilt your head. “Which of my employees leaked the door code to you?” 

Miguel’s expression hardens. “I got in by myself. No one leaked anything.” 

So annoying, how all handsome men also have to be liars.

“Miguel, I spent too much time designing my lab’s security for someone to get by without raising any flags. So, you must’ve had help.” Though irritated to do so, you repeat your question. “Who was it?”

Miguel presses his lips together and keeps his eyes locked on yours. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Aww, I think you can,” you say, “And I think you’re going to if you want to get out of here.”

His gaze doesn’t falter. “It’s classified.”

“Come on, rule-follower,” you say, “It’s just us here. I won’t tell them you told me.”

“I know what you’ll do to them.”

“That’s not very nice.” You plant your hand on the pillar behind him and tilt his chin up with the remote. “Didn’t I tell you to behave, Miguel? Be a good prisoner now and tell me what I need to know.”

“Don’t speak to me like that.”

You lean closer, your face inches from his. “Miguel, I’m not hearing what I want to hear.”

His voice is rough. “You’re not going to.”

Headstrong, impossible man. You take one more stab at using honey over vinegar when you move to his left ear and coo, “Tell me, Miguel. And maybe I’ll reward you.”

Miguel makes a choked sound and turns his face from you.

You pull back, eyes roaming his expression. It’s not the condescending, angry look you’re used to. Frankly, he looks embarrassed. Worse, he still hasn’t answered your question. 

If playing nice isn’t getting you anywhere, you’ll just have to go back to what you know. You jab the remote into his chest, threatening, “Are you forgetting what this thing does?”

He still can’t meet your eye, focused on the space on the floor to the side of him when he says, “No–I–I just need a second.”

“How hard is it to answer one simple question, Miguel?” you say, exasperated. No wonder interrogators resort to torture. 

You sit back on your heels with a huff and that’s when you see it. The suit around his crotch looks uncomfortably tight.

No. Way. 

“Miguel.” A grin spreads across your face. “Are you-?”

“Cállate,” he hurries out, “Don’t say a word.”

Oh, you’ve hit the jackpot. This must be humiliating for him.

“Hah! I can’t believe it,” you gloat, “Here I am, yelling in your face, threatening you, and you’re getting off to it?”

“I’m not getting off to it,” he protests.

“I wish you’d stop lying to me,” you say, kicking off your shoe with a mischievous smile, “Makes interrogating really–”

“What are you–”

You press your foot against his bulge. “Hard.” 

A shuddery breath is pulled from Miguel’s mouth. He presses his eyes shut, like he can force himself to forget making such a sound, but you don’t let him.

“You like this, don’t you, Miguel?” you taunt, “You like that I’m touching you down here?” 

“Shut up,” he says, “You don’t–fuck–just wait a second.”

“It sure feels like you do,” you say, punctuating your statement with a roll of your foot over his crotch. You should be getting answers, but the embarrassed flush spreading across his face is becoming its own reason to keep going. 

“It’s not like that,” he weakly argues, “I’m just–”

“Needy? Desperate for my touch?” You push down again and he winces. 

“No,” he insists, “It’s just been a while since I…”

“Aw, poor Miguel.” You pull your foot back and move onto your knees to replace it with your hand, spreading your fingers over the warm bulge pressing against his suit. “Must be all those long, pointless hours at work.” 

“Don’t–ah–don’t say that.” There’s a strain in his voice as he speaks, “The work I have to do is more important than chasing physical pleasure.” 

“You can do both, Miguel,” you say, “Just cause we’re scientists doesn’t mean we can’t fuck around.” You squeeze your hand on his erection and his knees bend up. The eager reaction pours warmth into your core.

“No one who runs experiments like yours can call themself a scientist,” he rebukes.

“Then I’ll prove my scientific nature to you.” You grin and take on an air of exaggerated professionalism. “After making a few observations about my subject,” you say, running your hand over his pelvic area, “I now have a hypothesis to test.”

“Congratulations," he says, lip curled, "You’ve heard of the scientific method."

You hum, unbothered. “My hypothesis reflects a simple cause-and-effect pattern: you’re not getting laid, and because of that, you’re unbearable to be around.” 

“You sound insane,” Miguel says. 

"I disagree." Your hand returns to his throbbing erection, slowly stroking along it. “It's reasonable to hypothesize that you'll stop being such an asshole if”—you lock eyes—“I make you come.”

He looks bewildered before his face returns to its unpleasant baseline. “Try to find out and it won’t end well.”

“You say that”—you take your hand off of his erection and watch how his hips kick up for your touch—“but your body is telling me to continue testing. I think you want to find out.” And with the way a tingly heat is shifting around your lower abdomen, you do too. 

“Even if you were serious, you know I can’t. If the others heard–”

You tap the remote on his chest. “Do they even know you’re here?” 

“They didn’t need to,” he says, grimacing, “You weren’t supposed to-ngh-” You quicken your strokes along his clothed erection, your movements precise and rhythmic, wearing him down like a soldier on a battlefield.   

“Hmm, that’s convenient," you say, “So how does the big, strong Miguel get himself trapped in my little web?” 

His breath hitches as you pay special attention to the tip of his penis, which is leaking pre-cum and darkening a spot onto the blue fabric. “It was a miscalculation.”

“I think it was something more.” You settle onto his lap. He’s letting you settle onto his lap. “I think it was intentional." You drape your arms over his shoulders, leaving him little room to avert his eyes and not find you in his ashamed gaze. You wonder if he can feel your warmth through his suit.

“This is why I called you delusional,” he counters, “You’re imagining things.” But then he tilts his chin, exposing his neck. Imagined or not, you take your finger and run it over his pulse, eliciting a very real shiver from the body underneath you. 

“Well, how else could I explain,” you say, pressing a kiss to his neck and indulging in the low moan that rumbles through him, “how the esteemed leader of the Spider Society”—you start grinding into his lap—“fucks up this badly?”

He buries his head into your shoulder, heavy breaths ghosting your ear. His body is running so hot against you and every slow rut of your hips is met by one of his own—each gentle thrust a desperate bid for connection. “It makes me wonder,” you continue, and he tilts his head down, running his lips up your neck, “if he actually, desperately wants this ?”

Two sharp pains erupt from your neck, right where Miguel’s face is nestled. You gasp and pull away, falling backwards between the man’s legs. 

His tongue runs over his bloodied bottom lip, baring canines that are more animal than human. 

“What the-?” you say. Superhuman abilities, spider webs, high-tech gadgets, that was all in your file on him, but nothing about fangs.

Shit, the remote. You try to contract your fingers, try to press that button down, but they won’t move.

Miguel flexes against his restraints. The four zip ties around his wrists snap off, flying around the room and landing on the floor. 

Your hand goes limp and the remote clatters on the ground. Trying to reach it, you go to push yourself up with your other arm, but your bicep falters, and you fall back on your elbows. Then your shoulders go, so you come crashing down onto the lab floor.

What the fuck?

You try to sit up, but your body doesn’t respond. 

Miguel’s claws rip through the loosened cording around his chest. 

You’re screaming at yourself now. Get up. Fucking move, god damn it. Please, he’s coming, please just fucking–

Miguel is leaning over you, blocking out the harsh rays of the laboratory's fluorescent lights with his broad frame. “I told you it wouldn’t end well.”

You are an idiot. The biggest in the world. How could you let your guard down? 

It’s hard to talk, like your mouth got shot full of novocaine. “‘uck you,” you slur.

“You got what you deserved,” he says, “If you hadn’t been so…frustrating…I wouldn’t have had to use my venom.”

“Keep telling yourself that, asshole,” you force out, willing your hands to come up and push his chest off of you, but your body remains on the floor, dead weight.

He sighs, his breath uneven. “If that’s all, I need to do what I came here for.” He picks up the remote beside you. 

“Don’t–”

He crushes it with one hand and lets the bits and pieces fall onto the floor by your limp fingers. “You shouldn’t have gotten in my way.” 

Your stomach drops. With the remote gone, your only hope is the manual switch under your desk, which is on the other side of the lab. In your immobile state, you’re never reaching it before he destroys everything. Without a doubt, you’re screwed.

Tears prick your eyes which you quickly blink away. Fuck, the wound in your neck is searing. He seriously had to fucking bite you?

He moves to get up but pauses, and as if reading your mind, says, “It probably hurts a lot right now.” 

You can’t bear to confirm, so you just glare at him. 

“It’ll wear off in a couple of hours but–”

He leans down, planting two big hands on the floor on either side of your head, and presses his flat tongue along your neck, licking the two puncture wounds. His tongue is so warm and wet against your sensitive flesh, so, despite your paralyzed state, your body shudders, ever so slightly arching into the man above you. And then, the pain is gone. 

“That should help,” Miguel says into the crook of your neck. He doesn’t wait for you to thank him, which you weren’t planning on anyway, and pushes himself off the ground. 

He heads to your desk and the rustling of paperwork tells you he’s rummaging through your lab results. Since starting work on the multiverse, you’ve had a hard time getting your experiments off the ground, so losing the progress you’ve made would be catastrophic.

Damn it, this was not how it was supposed to go. He should be the one subdued and humiliated, not you. 

No, it doesn’t have to end like this. You won’t let it. But that means you need to think straight right now. There must be some way to get him to stop, or stall him enough for you to get to that switch on your desk.  

Drawers open and close as your mind races, searching for a solution, but you keep coming back to one strange observation—that when he licked his tongue up your neck, your body physically responded. And now, you can recreate the movement in its most basic form, able to engage your lower back and hips enough to press them a few centimeters towards the ceiling. It hurts, and you barely move, but it’s something. With this evidence, you craft a new hypothesis: his paralyzing agent may restrict voluntary movement, but not necessarily the innate, natural reactions of the body. Which means, if you stimulate enough of those reactions, it could get your blood flowing enough to flush the toxin out of you. 

In crude terms, he needs to fuck you. 

You grit your teeth. Yes, Miguel is a stunningly attractive man and you’re still wet from jerking him off earlier, but he is also rude, condescending, and wants to destroy everything you’ve done to make a real change in the world. But that’s why you need to do it, the bottom line is that you need to protect your work, and you’re not above debasing yourself to do so.

So you give it a try. 

“Didn’t you like how I was touching you earlier?” It comes out less sexy than you would have liked, and, to be fair, it’s hard to feel sexy limp on the floor. 

A drawer opens and a stack of paperwork is dropped onto your desk.

“Don’t you want more?” you try again, “I know you do.”

He scoffs.

“Miguel?” 

He slams a drawer shut. “If it gets you to stop talking about it, no, I didn’t like it.”

That’s not how it felt when you had your hand on his throbbing erection. 

“I think you liked it more than you want to let on,” you push.

“Even if I did, it doesn’t matter how I feel. I have one job to do.”

“Well, what about how I feel?”

“Inconsequential.”

“Is it really?”

“Yes,” he insists.

“Well, what if I told you…” You trail off, weighing whether it's worth sharing the truth.

“Told me what?”

That curiosity is enough for you to vote in favor. “That I liked touching you,” you say.

The rustling stops. “You did?”

“Mhmm,” you hum. 

“Don’t waste my time with lies. It was a perverted way of ridiculing me.” 

“Maybe a little,” you confess. “But only at the beginning. The longer it went on, the more I wanted it…wanted you.” It all comes flooding back: his little whines and whimpers, the way his thick eyebrows knit together, his hot breath on your shoulder and—“Until you fucking bit me.” Shit, maybe you shouldn’t have said that last part.

A deep sigh. “I had to.”

You fight the urge to dispute that claim, opting for the path of least resistance to accomplish your goal. “I wish you didn’t have to,” you say, “I was enjoying seeing where things were going. When I was on your lap, I even regretted tying you up.”

He drops the stack of papers in his hand back down on your desk. “Why shouldn’t you have? I broke into your laboratory.”

"That's true," you say, "But in that moment, I didn’t want your hands behind your back, I wanted them on me, your lips and your tongue too." You let out a weak laugh. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” he answers, but you think he understands anyway. There are a few footsteps towards you.

“Even just now,” you say, “I’m angry with you for biting me, but when you licked up my neck, it felt so infuriatingly good.” 

Miguel crouches down by your side. Time to seal the deal. 

“And you wanna know a secret?” 

He won’t answer, his pride won’t let him, but he remains by you, waiting.

“It made me want you to taste more than just my neck.”

He stiffens. “I don’t know what you mean,” Miguel says. 

Playing coy, cute. So you lay it all out. “I want you to taste me,” you purr. 

Miguel lets out a heavy breath, but only moves his eyes, which rake over your face. If you weren’t paralyzed, this is when you’d wrap your hand around the nape of his neck and pull him into you, giving him that extra push he needs. But you can’t; he must decide to give in on his own. 

Miguel looks down at his watch before returning his gaze to you, weighing his options. He could end up calling you delusional again, go back to his mission of destroying your life, but still, you think there’s a chance he might–

Miguel moves down to your legs, lifting one and placing himself between them. 

Could it be? 

He runs a big hand over your midsection, pushing the lab coat back and away. “I’m not supposed to…” he says, trailing off as he takes in this new angle of you, splayed out in front of him in a beautifully disheveled way—your hair messy, chest panting, lidded eyes focused on him. 

“It’s okay, Miguel,” you say, “There’s no one here but us.”

He plays with the waistband of your slacks, fingers just grazing territory he’s desperate to explore. “You actually want this?” he asks, dark eyes flickering over your face, “There’s a lot on the line for me. I need to know you’re telling the truth.”

“Miguel”—he shudders at the use of his name—“I need it. I need you.”

You’ve got him.

With a growl, he kisses your knee as he pulls off your other shoe, letting it drop to the floor. His hands find the button of your plain slacks, undo it, and pull them down. There’s nothing you can do to help him, but he lifts you up where he needs with superhuman ease. He’s much more gentle compared to when you had him at your mercy. 

Your underwear is plain and unassuming, but the way a labored breath leaves through his fangs, it’s like you're wearing your black lacy fuck-me panties. He slips your legs onto his broad shoulders and moves forward to press three, wet kisses to your inner thigh. It's fascinating how you can only feel yourself where he touches you. 

Then his nose is nuzzling your clothed cunt, sending a tingling sensation throughout your body. Your fingers quiver. For this, you reward him with a throaty moan, encouraging him to keep going. 

“Fuck,” Miguel says, “I can smell you.” His kisses are dangerously close to your core, and you’re trying to ignore how your clit is pushing through the fabric of your soaked underwear, desperate for more.

Your fingers twitch, now half-listening to the commands your mind is yelling at them until your thoughts are blanked out of your head when Miguel pushes your underwear to the side and licks his tongue up your folds. 

Your breath stutters and Miguel hears it, “You like this, hermosa?”

Oh, what a petty spiderman. But he’s not wrong either.

You laugh dryly. “You feel good,” you admit, corroborated by the arousal leaking out of you that he’s eagerly lapping up. 

“And you’re so fucking wet,” he drawls, tonguing through your folds. 

“'Cause of you,” you say. He groans into you.

The venom's effect is fading from your hips, which now angle up to meet his tongue every time it rolls over your sensitive clit. This is good, it feels nice, and at this pace, you should be able to wake everything up slowly but surely. 

And then he tilts his chin up, capturing your clit with his mouth, and sucking. You let out a surprised gasp, eyebrows knitting together. “Such a pretty voice,” he groans between movements. 

“Fuck, Miguel,” you say, eyes pressing shut as he slurps and sucks on you like a depraved animal. It has your abdomen clenching and releasing, unable to keep up with the powerful currents of pleasure he’s pushing through you. Damn, you didn’t know he had this in him.

"You look so beautiful like this," he says, his eyes on you even if you can't meet their gaze. Strangely, you want to, want to be able to sit up so you can see what expression is on his face as he's buried in your cunt. You shove the stray feeling down, redirecting the energy towards moving your fingers. Your knuckles are bending now, that’s progress.

Then he sucks on you again and it’s hard to think about your knuckles bending. Your mouth drops open and he pushes his tongue, lips, nose, everything all over you. You’ve never been eaten out like this, never this desperate, this hungry, this good. 

He hums into your core. “I did like it. I like you.” Another roll of his tongue. "More than I should."

"Should is a dangerous word," you say.

"It's fitting," he responds, "I should be stronger than this, but the way you taste, the noises you make..." he trails off with a heavy breath, returning his attention to your vulva. 

"I like it when you're honest," you say, and he responds with another suck of his lips on your clit. Your elbow bends, bringing your hand up by your shoulder. You wish you were on a bed, had sheets to twist in between your fingers. "But not when you crucify yourself."

"It's not crucifying myself, hermosa, I just, as the head of the spider-"

"Stop it, Miguel," you say. You want his lips to stay on you; there's a pressure building in your lower stomach.

"-I shouldn't want someone who tried to kill me."

Your eyebrows narrow. "The voltage wasn't high enough for that, you big baby. And let's not forget that you bit me."

He laughs a huff of warm air onto your core. “Well, aren't I making it up to you, cariño?” The term of endearment has your stomach flutter. 

"Keep going and we'll see if I forgive you," you say.

He takes you up on the challenge, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as he returns to his animalistic licking and sucking. Your head tilts back, enduring the dizzying pleasure his tongue pushes through you, making it so hard to think. Everything is much more sensitive and it makes you wonder if it's a side effect of his venom. "Okay, it might be working," you admit, "This feels so good."

He breathes into you, hands moving down your thighs as he pushes his body closer to yours.

You can move your arms along the floor now, though they’re unbelievably heavy. Miguel notices when, with great effort, you move your right arm up to your thigh. He slows his movements, watching with alert eyes as you move the limb closer and closer to him. You settle your hand on his head, pushing him back down into you. “Keep going,” you say, voice hoarse and pleading, “I’m–ah–close.”

His eyes nearly roll back and he returns to lapping his tongue all over your pussy. Your muscles are responding, clenching around nothing.

“Put your finger inside,” you say, hand knotting into his thick brown hair, “Please.”

God, you’re demeaning yourself, but it’s hard to feel bad when he complies immediately, phasing out a finger from his suit and circling it on the rim of your entrance, dipping the tip in and out. 

“Yes, please, Miguel,” you whine, and he pushes it inside, curling up inside you while he licks.

God, it’s so overwhelming. That a man who’s been hunting you, trying to destroy you, is now working so hard to make you feel so fucking good.  

And he succeeds. An orgasm rampages through you, one that has your body breaking through the venom’s chains, writhing around underneath him as pleasure pushes through your veins. 

You cry out his name as your fingers tighten into his hair. He anchors you to the floor with his strong arms, keeping you in place so you can ride out your orgasm on his tongue. 

“There you go, just like that,” he says as you whine through it, “Mi linda angel.” 

Soon the pulsing and clenching slows, and in your bliss, you almost forget your goal. Almost. You rein in the urge to pull Miguel into your arms and instead test your hypothesis. Though unsteady, you find that you can plant your forearms on the ground and flex your abs to sit up halfway. 

For the first time, you can fully see him down there. His eyes are blown with lust, and underneath your slick shines all over his nose and lips. He’s panting as roughly as you are right now, but closes his mouth, tense, as you sit yourself up all the way. He watches, careful. He doesn’t know if he trusts you yet. For his sake, he shouldn’t.

Your muscles are shaky, body significantly weakened by the venom. You doubt you can outrun him to the switch, so you tell another half-truth. 

“I want you,” you say, placing your hand on his broad shoulder and pulling him in, “On the desk. Now.”

Without question he picks you up and walks you over to your desk, now covered in a blanket of your notes and lab results. It’s going to be a nightmare to reorganize, but it looks like he hasn’t shredded anything yet. 

Miguel grabs the seat cushion from your chair, throws it on top of the desk, and sits you down on it. He situates himself between your legs before bending over to sloppily kiss up your neck. 

“This is how you want me?” he asks into your ear, his voice husky.

“You know I want more than this,” you say, tilting your head back as he kisses you.

You run your hand down his chest, abdomen, and then to just above the bulge pressing through his suit. “Take this off,” you say. 

The suit flickers and disappears, leaving his toned physique uncovered. You run your fingertips over his lower abdomen, exploring the dips and curves of the pronounced muscles. Traveling down, you take his length in your hands and he crumbles over, leaning his weight onto his palms on the side of the desk. “Fuck, Miguel,” you say, “This just hurts so bad, doesn’t it?”

He nods against your shoulder. 

“‘Cause of all of my mean teasing?” you say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know how much you liked me then.”

“You must now,” he says.

You give his cock a few pumps before angling your hips up and aligning him with your pulsating hole. “Let me show you how much I like you back.”  

He grabs onto you when you bring him inside, getting him in until he can take over with his hips, moving deeper into you. 

“Is this okay?” he says, “I don’t want to…hurt you.”

“Such a hero.” You smile. “You’re doing a good job, Miguel.” You place your hand on the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair. The other lands on his hip, and a gentle pull tells him to keep going. 

He pushes into you with little resistance and you gasp when he’s fully inside. Yeah, it’s been a while for you too, but it feels so different this time, the addition of his body to yours is impossible to overlook. 

“Mierda,” he says, taking a second to understand his new reality. “You feel so…so good. I can’t,” he draws himself out, and pushes back in, “I can’t stand it.” 

“Perfect,” you coo, your breath stuttering with every slam of his hips, every thrust shaking your weakened body. You look up to him and take in how that chronic, nasty expression of his is nowhere to be found; his lips are slightly parted and a prominent flush decorates his tan skin. Fuck, you love him like this. He looks so beautiful, looks like-

“Such a good boy,” you say and he whimpers. The sound sends a wave of tingly pleasure through your core. 

You comb your fingers through his hair and his eyelids flutter. “You work so hard, taking care of your team, taking care of-” you almost say ‘the bad guys’ but decide not to pull him out of the fantasy-“the people you need to. But I wonder, is there anyone taking care of you?”

You grab his hips, guiding him through his thrusts. “I want to. I want you to feel good,” you say, “I want you to come inside me.”

He growls at that. “You want that from me, hermosa?”

“Please, Miguel.” Fuck, that didn’t feel like another half-truth to you.

He pulls you over to the short side of your desk and lays you down, the sweat sticking the paperwork beneath you to your back. Then he pulls the undersides of your thighs so your hips slam into his, pushing him all the way inside of you once more. You groan, at this angle, he’s hitting it so much deeper now, and every inch is being felt and adapted to by your walls.

The switch. It’s beneath you, hidden on the underside of the desk’s edge, like a panic alarm. Your hand is dangling off the desk, inches from it. What you should do is press it. But the way he’s whimpering in your ear, it’s the most persuasive sound he could ever make. 

“Dios, you feel…feel so fucking good,” he says, words undercut with an animal-like primality, “So warm, so fucking wet.”

You bring your hand from the desk’s edge to just underneath his jaw. His eyes flick up, wild in nature, but tame for you.

“Spit on it,” you say, and he does. You move your lubricated fingers to the area just above your connection and rub your needy clit as he pounds into you. 

He throws his head back, wincing at the sensation as he gets closer. You’ve done too good a job working him up, so it can’t be much longer.

“Come here, Miguel,” you say, tugging on his veiny forearm. He leans forward and you pull his large body down on top of you. He buries his face into your shoulder, and you wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in.

Each hot breath following a thrust warms your skin. You moan back at him, arching your hips up so his cock rubs against that special spot of yours while your fingertips circles the other.

He can barely speak. “I’m-fuck-I’m-”

“I know, baby,” you coax, sinking your fingers into his sweat-soaked hair and drinking in his musky scent. “You’re doing so good, okay? Such a good job for me.”

He nods in the crook of your shoulder. “Can I, really?”

“Yes, Miguel,” you say, tightening your grip around his torso, “I want you to, need you to.”

With your permission, he whines in your ear and unravels. His thrusts lose their rhythm as he fills you up and his arms wrap around your head, keeping you right where he wants. He swears a string of Spanish words you haven’t heard before so you stroke his back, soothing the white hot release and calming the quaking of his body. 

He gasps and pants through it and after one final uneven stroke, he settles down on top of you. He’s heavy, but it’s comforting in a way, evoking a sense of security. You stay like that for a little bit, his weight on top of you, your arms around his slicked back, before he pulls away. Immediately his suit flickers back on and he takes a step back, putting his hands on his hips, still catching his breath.

“Miguel?” you call.

He doesn’t answer, dropping his head down. 

Your stomach shifts. You watch his back, waiting for him to turn around, to smile at you, to tell you how much he likes you again. But he doesn't.

You should’ve known; he won’t leave without doing what he came for. And you can't let that happen. 

You reach under your desk, fingertips grazing the back-up switch hidden beneath it. 

“I’m sorry, Miguel,” you say. His eyes flick towards yours and widen, but before they can reveal insight into his heart, he's out cold.

——————

Miguel wakes up in a field. The sun is right above him; it must be around noon. He launches up, eyes blazing with rage as he takes in the rest of his surroundings. He’s not too far from the entrance to your lab, so he races to its location. The waterfall is just past the treeline, so he ducks underneath the water and travels through the dark passageway until he finds the steel door with a keypad.

He tries the code he has. 

Access denied.

Miguel snarls and pounds against the door before turning to his claws, tearing a hole through the thick wall of metal. With his hands, he bends the steel gap open until it’s big enough to fit his frame inside. He steps through, but the lab’s empty. No paperwork, no computers, no you.

Miguel taps his watch and a holographic AI appears. "Lyla, push the starred file to the whole team," he orders, "There's a threat to the multiverse that needs to be brought in immediately."

"Got it, boss," the hologram answers, "Pinging everyone now. When will you—"

Miguel ends the call. He looks up at the ceiling, his jaw clenched and his hands in fists.

It was all a lie. And against his better judgment, he let himself believe it. 

Miguel glances over to the desk you shared last night, resentful, only to notice that there's something he missed on the first pass. He steps closer. It's a small note with his name on it. 

He marches over and picks it up.

Thanks for the night, Miguel. I’ll see you next time you find me xoxo

He grabs the side of the desk and flips it over, splitting the wood on the tiled floor with a loud crack. Then, he holds the half-crumpled note in his hand, running his eyes over your messy penmanship once more.

His breathing is growing rapid, his chest rising and falling underneath your hand. It only encourages you, and you start moving your hips against him with intention, tracing your clothed cunt up and down his length that's straining against his slacks.

It feels so good. He feels so good. An orgasm is building up in your core and you haven’t even taken him out of his pants. Yes, you need that next, so you drag your hand down his torso—his abdomen tightens as you go over it—until you get to the button on his waistband. 

“Do you want it?” Sylus’ voice echoes through your head, close and distant simultaneously. You nod, mind foggy with pleasure. Your hand pops open the button of his pants and—

A knock on your door.

You jolt up in bed. The scenery before you is drastically different. 

“Sylus?” you say.

He’s leaning against the doorway of your bedroom, arms crossed. 

But he was just—

“You’re late for breakfast, kitten,” Sylus says, “The twins miss your company.”

“Breakfast?” you repeat back. Red and orange rays of light stream through the dark, translucent curtains of the window by your bed. Right, it’s sunset. It’s time for breakfast in the N109 zone. 

“Most important meal of the day,” Sylus says. 

“Uh, okay. Yeah, I’ll be right down,” you say, folding your blankets out of the way.

Sylus’ eyes are pulled to the spot right next to you, and when you follow his gaze, you see it too. 

His vest is tangled in your sheets.

Your mouth gapes. How–? What–? 

Sylus looks down, shaking his head with a smirk. “I’ve already eaten, so it’ll just be you and the twins. Don’t keep them waiting long.” 

“Okay!” you say, your voice weak.

He shuts the door behind him and your face falls into your hands. What the fuck? You're certain the vest was on the other side of the room last night, how did you wake up with it underneath your blankets? It doesn’t make any sense, nothing in the N109 zone does. 

You grab the vest from your sheets and walk it over to your desk, stuffing it in a drawer and slamming it shut. Too bad the drawer doesn’t lock. 

In the bathroom, you splash some water on your face and stick your toothbrush in your mouth, brushing more harshly than you should be. Despite not wanting to think of it, the scene re-emerges in your mind. You and Sylus on the armchair, kissing, grinding, and almost fucking. It was just a dream, right? Yes, a dream, though it was based in reality. You had been on top of him last night, with his body heating yours, his hands massaging your forearm, and his erection pushing up against you. And then you ran away. But, in your dream, you hadn’t, and it went further, with your mouth on his skin and your fingers unzipping his pants, traveling down to take him out. There was no confusion, no shame; it all felt so good. Just thinking about it has the sappy warmth returning, smoothing and relaxing your muscles, making you pliant, open, and ready.

You spit your toothpaste out. You’re working, it doesn’t matter how you feel. The top priority is the Aether Core, and a good Hunter wouldn't let their emotions get in the way.

You sit yourself down on the toilet to pee, resting your face in your hands once more so your palms press against your closed eyes. 

It’s simple: your body had a natural reaction to the physical proximity and the dream is as insignificant as all the others you’ve had. It’s nothing to get worked up about, nothing worth distracting you from your goal.

Your hands drop down from your face and you see the gusset of your underwear. You groan. Fuck, it’s a mess.

You hop in the shower, setting it to a colder temperature than normal and roughly rinse off the wetness between your thighs. You can’t wait to get out of here.

——

The shower only makes you more late and by the time you’re dressed and downstairs, the twins are clearing the table.

“I’m here, I’m here,” you say, hurrying into the dining room, “I’m sorry I’m late.” 

There’s still a plate left at the table for you filled with fruit and toast. You walk over to the chair in front of it. 

“We were so worried you wouldn’t show up for breakfast,” Kieran says. 

“Just Kieran,” Luke interjects, raising a finger, “I had faith in our beloved guest.”

“You were acting so strange last night,” Kieran says, looking down, “Almost knocking us over and running away. We thought you hated us.”

“Not we,” Luke repeats, taking an empty plate from Kieran’s hands and vanishing it, leaving a trace of black smoke. “There had to be a reason!”

“Oh, I could never hate you two,” you say, “Or waste a delicious breakfast you worked so hard to make. Will you still join me? And we can talk it out?”

Luke looks to Kieran, who crosses his arms. The plague masks cover their expressions, but from their body language you need to add a:

“Pretty please?”

“Oh, all right!” Kieran says, throwing his hands in the air, “If you insist.”

“He would’ve been heartbroken if you didn’t ask,” Luke says, sitting down at the table as you do. “But I wanna know too, why were you in such a rush?” 

“You didn’t even say hi,” Kieran adds.  

“It was because of the bet,” you say, taking a bite of the cut fruit on your plate, “How I had to find the brooch that Sylus hid?” 

Kieran frowns. “You could’ve asked for our help, y’know. Instead of almost plowing us down.” 

“Yeah,” Luke adds, “We know all of the boss' tricks. You shoulda talked to us!”

“Thanks,” you say, laughing, “If I’m ever in a situation like that again, I’ll know who to call.” 

“So,” Kieran says, leaning forward on his hands, “Didja win?”

“Uh…” Did you win? You found the brooch, but ended up running away before you actually took it from him. “I don’t know.”

“How do you not know?” Luke asks.

“I half-won, I think. I need to talk to Sylus about it.” 

Kieran sits back in his chair, folding his arms. “You’d know for sure if you let us help you.”

You smile. “Stop pouting, I already promised you you’ll help with the next one.” 

“Okay,” Kieran grumbles. 

You take another bite. “So, do either of you know where I can find Sylus?” 

“He’s out at a meeting right now. Should be back for lunch, right, Kieran?” Luke says.

“Think so.” 

“Okay,” you say, “I’ll chat with him then.”

Only, lunch comes and goes, and your sole company is the twins once more. This would be fine since you enjoy spending time with them, especially in comparison to their boss, but you’re getting antsy. The auction is tonight and you don’t know if Sylus is going to help you. If he doesn’t, you won’t have his knowledge, protection, or reputation, putting you at a major disadvantage. You’ll need to change your plan entirely to account for the loss.

Damn it, without Sylus, you don’t even have an invitation. 

No, you’ve got to find him. Convince him even. Like it or not, you need his help. No matter how awkward talking to him may be. 

You find the twins in the parlor playing a board game.

“Maybe his meeting ran late,” Kieran says, moving his piece three spaces over the board. 

“You rolled a two, not a three,” Luke says.

“Such a rule-follower,” Kieran responds, moving his piece back.

“So he’s still out?” you say. You’re not prepared to enter the N109 zone all by yourself to hunt him down, but it’s getting late and you don’t have anything: an answer, a dress, or a plan. 

“Nah, I saw him come back earlier today,” Luke says, rolling the die. “I think he’s at the gym.” 

“There’s a gym here?” you ask. God, this is the same as the elusive laundry room. 

“Yep, but the boss really doesn’t like it when we interrupt his workouts,” Luke says, moving his piece five spaces.

You groan. “Okay, how long will he be there?”

The twins shrug. 

You check your watch. The auction is in three hours. 

“Well, I can’t sit around waiting,” you say, half out the door, “So I’ll see you two later.” 

“We warned you!” one of them calls after you. 

You brush it off. With so much stuff up in the air—the exchange in the study, the vest’s supernatural appearance, the strange dreams—at the very least you need clarity on what will happen tonight.

After a few guesses, you find the door to the gym and walk through it. The walls are matte black, without decoration or windows, and illuminated by a few strips of lighting glowing overhead. Though the gym is filled with an assortment of machines you recognize from the Hunter Association training facilities, it’s a boxing ring, raised off the ground and surrounded by red roping, that takes center stage. 

You follow the sound of muffled impacts and controlled breathing around the corner of the ring to find Sylus working on a punching bag chained to the ceiling and floor, his back to you.

He’s in a tight tank top and loose shorts. It’s a reasonable outfit to wear to the gym, but the clothing choice stirs something in your stomach. The cut of his tank emphasizes his large shoulders and built biceps, and even where he is covered the outline of his muscles show through the fabric. You’re getting that feeling again, that heat in your core, but this time you're not running away from discomfort. You’re a Hunter on a mission.

You walk over to him. Just get your answer and get out of there. 

“The twins told me I’d find you here,” you say, placing your hands on your hips. 

“Revealing all my secrets, are they?” Sylus says, giving the punching bag a solid hit.

“Just the most important ones,” you say, adding a half-laugh. You’d like to come across as pleasant, agreeable, someone to attend an auction with. 

“So, what can I do for you?” A sharp kick to the black bag has it rattling against the chains.

“Well, I wanted to follow up on last night.” 

Sylus pauses, dropping his fists by his side. “Oh?”

“Yeah.”

He turns around to face you. “What about last night did you want to follow up on?” he says, starting to re-wrapping the white tape covering his palms and knuckles. 

“Our deal.” Your hand runs along your forearm. “I wasn’t sure who won.” 

“You found the brooch before the time limit. I’d award the win to you.” 

“Really?” you say, “Even though…the methods I used–”

“We never said any type of method was against the rules. You played fair.” 

Right. It was just a game, nothing more. He agrees.

You clasp your hands together and tilt your head. “So that means you’ll go to the auction with me tonight?”

He finishes wrapping his hand and looks up, “I won’t go back on what I promised you.” 

So you stand a chance tonight! You’ll be able to follow your lead on the Aether Core and finally find it. You’re so happy, you could hug him. You kill the thought immediately. Nope, no blurred lines, you’re a professional.

“Thank you,” you say, very professionally. 

“Save your thanks for when we find the Aether Core,” Sylus says, turning back to his punching bag, “Is that all?” 

“Yeah, that’s everything,” you respond.

It should be. You were here for one thing, an answer, and you got it. 

“All right, then.” Sylus says, returning to his workout.

You turn around as well, walking through the collection of metallic machines to the door. 

So why do you want to keep talking to him? 

“I wish I’d known you had such a good gym,” you say.

The punches pause once more. “I didn’t mean to deprive you of a good workout, I thought you had other things on your mind.” He chuckles. “Attempting to kill me at the top.”

You scoff. “That was only one time.” You lift your chin. “Besides, you’re more useful to me alive than dead.”

“Seems like failing worked out for you then.”

“What did you just say?” You walk over to him.

He looks back at you. “You heard me.” 

“I heard you imply that I couldn’t beat you.”

“Your ears are working. How fortunate.”

You’re reminded of why you tried to kill him in the first place. Arrogant, out-of-touch, condescending–

You huff, and cross your arms. “You don’t know anything.” 

“Nothing at all?”

“Correct. Nothing.”

He turns around fully now, a smug smirk on his face. You hate it. “So, given another chance, you’d win?”

He’s instigating, intentionally appealing to your competitive streak, which he must know you have after last night. 

But you can’t help yourself. “Of course,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Let’s spar then,” Sylus says.

“Hm?”

“It’s a win-win: you get the workout you’ve been craving, and I get to see you put your money where your mouth is.” 

“I’m not…I don’t have any workout clothes.” 

“Wear some of mine,” Sylus says, nodding to a locker in the wall.

“But don’t we have to go get ready for the auction?” 

“There’s time. You’re not making excuses, are you?” Sylus challenges, leaning down and towards you.

You step back and put your hands on your hips, your weight off-balance. “No, I’m not—you know what, you stay right there.” 

You open the locker and grab a t-shirt and shorts, changing in the corner while Sylus finishes his bout with the punching bag. 

The fit is big, similar to the oversized things you put on to workout. It would’ve been nice to wear a sports bra, but you’ll manage. You complete a short but effective warm-up of dynamic stretches and a few bursts of movement to get your heart rate up. When your breath is at a heightened but comfortable rhythm and your muscles are warm and lax, you walk over to the ring.

Sylus is already in the arena, leaning against his corner without a care in the world. Arrogant.

You step underneath the ropes to enter the corner opposite of him and find a water bottle and towel already sitting there. Hm. 

“We can’t be too rough since we’re going to the auction tonight,” you say, stretching your arms while walking into the center of the ring, “So don’t leave any marks.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sylus answers. 

The hazy fantasy resurfaces, you on top of him, hand traveling down his chest–

You press your lips together. He may be powerful, but he’s not a mind reader. It was mere coincidence that he said that. 

“Let’s do first to pin the other for a three-count wins,” you say, sinking into the posture you learned from training: your feet planted shoulder-width apart and your hands up and out in front of you.

“Sounds good to me,” Sylus says, mirroring your positioning by staggering his feet and bending his knees. Even in a lowered stance, he’s still a large opponent, which is okay, you’ve fought people bigger than you during Hunter training countless times. The easiest way to take him to the ground is to knock him off balance and let his weight do the work for you. So, getting his leg out from under him will be your goal.

You take a few cautious steps forward, angling your body sideways. He’s not backing up as you encroach on his space, so you move until you're just out of his reach.

“Taking your time, sweetie?” Sylus says as you inch even closer to him, now entering his range. He could grab you, but he’s not. Instead he’s baiting, trying to get you to move first so he can take advantage of a mistake. You can’t do that, you need your attack to be unexpected, so you keep your eyes on his and your hands by your face, seemingly defensive despite lining up for a grapple.

“Come a little closer then,” you say, beckoning him with your raised fingers. He wouldn’t respond to just that, so you double-bluff, feinting with a quick half-step forward and extension of your arm.

He engages, stepping his front leg forward and moving to block a punch that never intended to land. You drop down a level, lock your arms around his waist and use your leg to hook his ankle up off the ground. Then you drive forward, using your momentum to push him back. 

The two of you topple down onto the mat, with him taking the blunt of the impact. You hold on tight, scooting your body up so his leg stays pinned while you add your forearm flat across his collarbone and use your other hand to twist his arm down to the floor. His free arm presses against your clavicle, keeping you from getting too close, but you still lean your entire body weight forward, only needing to keep him down for 

One…two…

His pinned hand twists out of your grip, disengaging around your arm and capturing your wrist from the other side. He pulls your wrist out and away while his other arm locks around your shoulder, pushing your face flat against his chest. You turn your head, trying to wriggle out of his grip, but both of your arms are trapped, one underneath you and the other captured by his hand. But there’s still a chance, he can’t win without you pinned to the ground, so you writhe and push, looking for a weakness in an otherwise ironclad hold.

Then he starts twisting his body. Fuck, you can’t let this happen. If he gets on top of you, it’s over. You release your hold on his leg, shoving one knee up into his hip and straightening the other to plant your foot into the mat, halting his rotation.

It’s a hasty, short-sighted move because he simply starts turning in the other direction. 

Your body slams against the mat and his weight is soon pressing down on you. Your right arm is pinned between your chest and his, but the rolling has released your left arm. You rake your fingers down his back, searching for a grip you can leverage to pull him off of you. 

“Kitten’s got claws?” Sylus chuckles. He’s not even out of breath.

You grunt, trying to buck your hips up and against him but barely getting them off the ground, he’s too heavy. 

He leans his head down into the crook of your neck, which he doesn’t have to do to keep you subdued, but it lets you hear him loud and clear as he whispers into your ear. “Three…two…one.”

His voice is low, and it reverberates through your body. There it is, that thrilling, terrifying feeling from the night before. It mixes up with the bitter anger from losing and gives you one more ounce of energy that you spend leaning forward and biting down on the shell of his ear. 

Sylus sharply inhales before pulling away, his face a delightful mix of confusion and intrigue. His fingers graze the attacked area. “I thought we agreed on no marks?”

“You can heal it,” you say, brusque and sore. 

He does, the broken skin threading together until it’s smooth over the curve of his ear. “Not the outcome you hoped for?” Sylus asks, an amused lilt in his voice.

“Shut up,” you say, untangling yourself and rolling over so you don’t have to face him anymore. You’d like to get out of here, but your aching muscles can't bear to move.

He leans over your curled form, caging you in with his arms. “That doesn’t sound like an apology for biting me.”

Your narrowed eyes stare straight ahead, refusing to look up at the man looming over you. "You're not getting one."

Sylus moves closer and your chest tightens. His voice is inches from your ear once more when he says, “Then maybe I should give you a taste of your own medicine.” 

Your breath catches. This time, there's no urge to run. In fact, your eyes flutter closed and your head tilts up towards his hovering lips. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if–

Sylus leans back. “Regretfully, I'll have to wait. We have an auction to prepare for.”

Your eyes open. God damn it. You need to stop slipping-up like this.

Pushing him off of you, you scramble to your feet, not looking at him when you say, “Right. The auction. I’ll see you in a bit then.” Your voice is cold, unfeeling. It's professional.

You leave him there in the ring, on his knees despite being the victor.

Once back in your room, you're quick to pull his clothes off, piling them in the corner of the bathroom. Damn it, you still smell like him. You shower for the second time today, setting it even colder than before, and scrub your body viciously. Your skin is raw when you step out, so you coat yourself in lotion once dry.