Son of a sea witch

Zico is the son, Jackson is the guy you like.

Situation: You've had a huge crush on Jackson since grade school and you're in love with him-he never knows this and you've never had the courage to say something. Jackson is critically injured in a motorcycle accident and it is unlikely he will wake from his coma.

Deal: In exchange for your virginity, Zico will help you revive a completely healthy Jackson. To make things more interesting, once he's cured, you will have two weeks to make Jackson fall back in love with you; he has to kiss you . If you are successful, time will rewind to before the accident and not only will you be a virgin again, you will be able to do something to prevent Jackson from getting in the accident and you will have a second chance to confess to him without Zico's help. If you are unsuccessful, you belong to Zico for eternity, soul and all.

Catch/Plot Twist: You enjoy the night with Zico a little too much. And he sexes you so well on purpose, just because he's an asshole.

For the past two hours you've been sitting on the shoreline with your knees pulled to your chest. As the tide pushes and pulls under the night sky, you continue to drink bottle after bottle of the alcohol you've bought until they liter the sand where you've thrown them after you've tossed them to the head. With the waves crashing over you you've been bitterly weeping and sobbing with your head down. You don't care if you're soaked. You don't care if you're sinking into the sand. At this point, you don't care if the waves sweep you out to sea. Your head is throbbing but your heart hurts a thousand times more.

You're so preoccupied with your grief, as a matter of fact, that you don't notice when a pair of polished loafers silently stop right next to you, the bottom of a cane twisting into the brownish sand.

"You rang," a raspy, dull voice says.

With red eyes you take your time to look over then up. "Who the hell are you?" you ask in a hostile, watery voice. You can barely make out the stranger's face through your tears.

"I'm here to make it all better," he replies sarcastically. Then cocking his head down at you he adds, "No really."

"What the…" You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand as you struggle to get to your bare feet. You blink until your vision is clear enough, swaying from side to side. But once you take in what the stranger looks like, you squint in suspicion. He's much taller than you and slim. He's in an expensive-looking three piece black pen-striped suit with a satin purple dress shirt and tie. He looks like a young man but he has a head full of stylish, floppy white hair and he has a cane, a cane that looks as if it could be made of some lacquered black coral with a crystal snail shell at the top that he currently grasps. His eyes are a strange teal color and contrary to his sophisticated dress, there's a lavender seashell gauge in his ear.

And if you're not too wasted, you could swear his pale skin had a…purplish tinge to it under the moonlight.

"Are you sick?" you blurt out in a slur, referring to his complexion yet from his sinister chuckle, he takes it in an entirely different way.

He faces you squarely. "Very."

You frown at him. "Who are you? Do you know me? Did you follow me here?"

Calmly he pushes your pointing finger down and you note how cold his touch is. Just as cold as how he comes off despite his friendly demeanor. Or maybe you're just burning up from the alcohol and his temperature is perfectly normal in comparison. Whatever the case, you stand staring at him as the cool ocean breeze whips his and your hair. "I only follow where one calls for my help," he says seriously. "Among your kind I go where I'm summoned whereas in the depths, the merfolk come to me." He sighs. "So inconvenient here, I swear."

Knowing damn well you couldn't have butt dialed him since you didn't have your phone on you or his number and knowing extra damn well even if you did, he couldn't have known exactly where you were since there were so many beaches around, you step away from him silently. "People know where I am," you lie.

He smiles and his teeth gleam so whitely your throat goes a little dry. "I'd tell you not to be afraid if I knew how to be up to no good."

"Are you some weirdo cosplayer who hangs around here? O-or somebody from high school? That has a grudge on me? Because-

"Enough." The handsome stranger 's eyes rake you up and down, assessing your drenched dyed red hair, purple crop top and green skinny jeans-he snorts nastily, in a way like he knows something you don't. "And I think you're the last person to call someone a weirdo cosplayer."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

Deciding you don't care to (fruitlessly) interrogate him anymore and engage in any more small talk, you cross your arms, still staggering drunkenly. "Fine. What do you want?"

"As I'm in the business of aiding poor, unfortunate souls like yourself, I think that is my question for you." He steps closer to you till he's looming over you, like a menacing black shadow. When you try to step away, he quickly grabs your wrist and snatches you back to him with a dark, wicked look on his face. "Zico, son of the sea witch, at your service."

"Let me go! I don't need your help."

"That's not what all that annoying sniveling told me," he says deathly low.

Your eyes widen in fury. "Wait a minute, who the f-

"Those also," Zico cuts in, pointing off to a cluster of green bottles in the sand. He squeezes your wrist, none-to-successfully coaxing you to stop struggling.

But when you gaze off angrily at the bottles, just as the waves are still crashing at your feet, a new wave of depression crashes upon you. Only a few silent moments later, your whole body goes lax and you're sobbing all over again, picking up from where you left off.

"How can I help you," he hisses, his point made in the end. He doesn't try to hold you up when you sink back down to the sodden sand, letting you go almost in disgust.

"Even if you are who you say you are. Even if you say you can help. Even if you're fucking Santa Claus. It won't help. No one can help him." You blubber, speaking fast. You sniffle hard.

"Well sure, if it isn't for a price," he replies evenly, unsympathetic to the bitterness in your voice. He follows up his statement with an eye roll, then drops his voice to a greasy whisper, leaning down to your ear. "But for the right price, I can do anything your little heart desires."

Your natural reaction is to shiver. Yet as the tears roll down your cheeks in a stream and your chest tightens, you feel yourself slowly forgoing even trying to shake him off. In some way in your intoxicated state, you've reached the peak of delirium. You're so far gone you're hallucinating; you've conjured up some makeshift genie-type savior to grant you wishes you know aren't going to come true. With the alcohol you've invented your own useless hope. And now, you might as well go along with it until you awake the next morning to your sad reality.

You pick your head up, determination now set in your expression. You stare out into the black waters and quietly ask, "Anything?"

Above you, Zico's teeth flash wolfishly. The crystal shell atop his cane glows red for a second.

Without waiting for him to answer you speak again. "Save him."

"Nah, you mean help you save the Jackson kid." He smacks his teeth disdainfully. "I never directly aid in charitable affairs. Do you know what that'll do to my reputation? Its not what you ask for girl, its how you ask for it."

However you ignore his egotistical complaints, stuck on the name that has sprung from his lips. "How did you know it was him?" you ask incredulously, gaping up at him in wary suspicion again.

"I ought to know or my mom would disown me," Zico teases. Seeing in your hardened face you are in zero mood for jokes, his smirk gradually dwindles. "Aight. I knew as soon as I touched you."

"Knew what?"

"Knew everything. From beginning to present." He tsks, shaking his head. "Even in his circumstance, I still pity you more than him. Well, if I could pity."

"How in the world could you pity me more than him," you question in a hushed tone almost too small to hear, so brittle and fragile Zico reluctantly offers what he thinks is a warm gesture. His hand alights your shoulder "comfortingly" as he squats down-perpetrating that he needed your shoulder for balance. You peer into his gem-like eyes, mindful of the possessive way he still grips the cane.

"Because his suffering started as quickly as it is about to end. Yours, on the other hand, began a long time ago and hasn't quit since. Now…" He leans back into your ear, tone a bit more demanding. "Unless you want to continue to suffer, I suggest we strike up a deal."

"You mean like a deal with the devil?"

He shrugs, not offended. "Something like that."

"I don't know. For someone who wants to help me so badly, there's something about you I don't feel is right."

"And I would never insult your intelligence by saying you're wrong." Zico licks his lips triumphantly. "I'm all you have though."

With him close again, you can smell it. He smells exactly like the beach yet there's a burning smell too. A sickly smelling incense mixed with salt and seaweed. Before you start to wonder just how lucid this hallucination is, the" sea witch's son" slips his large, smooth hand from your shoulder to your green-clad thigh, lightly drumming his fingers on it. The unusual rings on his fingers glint cynically in the silver light from the sky. He draws near to your face-close enough to lightly brush his upper lip with yours.

"I can make you an offer you can't refuse. Really."

Your heart rate has quickened. Your throat has grown dry once more. You want to instinctively seal your mouth over his, hating the temptation to ravage those perfect rosy lips just as much as you hate the unseen temptation he's dangling in front of you as well. Ah, what the hell. Not like it would be a real person anyway.

"In exchange for helping you save the boy's life, you must give me your virginity," he proposes right before you act on your desire. A desire that immediately goes up in smoke as soon as you register what he's just said.

But instead of angrily voicing how cheap his offer sounds (and makes you feel), you can only feel your cheeks growing hot from embarrassment.

Pulling away a tad and turning your head, you mumble with marbles in your mouth, "Who said I was a virgin…"

"I touched you remember." His fingers drum on your thigh again, flexing afterwards. "Its not just your circumstance. Everything means everything."

"Don't you think that's a little invasive?" you snap, jerking your head to stare pointedly at his hand on you to give him the message. Yet Zico fails to recede. He shrugs, smiling unabashed.

You roll your eyes whilst making a face. " Anyway. I can't…I can't do that with you. Since you can see everything, you know why."

"Its so touching that you want to save it for him," Zico says like he wants to puke, "but is it really not worth giving up to save his life?"

"Why does it even have to be that?!"

Steel hardens his gaze. "That's not something you need to worry about."

And the way he says it, you are afraid to mention it again and provoke him-much less try to negotiate. You have to keep in mind anyway that you know he's quite sketchy. Of course something like your virginity would be dealt. "I'd rather you ask for my soul instead," you grumble with a hidden scowl.

To that, his mischievous grin rushes back. "But that's too much to be fair, right?"

You speak through your teeth. "You might as well. I'd rather be completely lost to him then live knowing I can't give him one of the most precious things I could ever give him."

"So disgusting," Zico snarls. "Well, what? Did you think I'd want something as low in value as, shit I don't know, your voice or something? What do you expect? Are we in a play pen?"

You don't know how to respond so you don't. But you do notice that in the silence that lapses afterwards, he hasn't removed his hand and face has clouded over in concentration-in fact he's rubbing up and down your thigh like it's helping his thought process. You'd only glanced to check and when you find yourself fantasizing about how sexy his jawline looks when he's in deep thought, you quickly swipe your eyes downward to the brackish, lukewarm water rushing back and forth over your toes.

Finally his hand ceases rubbing.

"I think I know how I can make things interesting. For the both of us."

You nod idly, not knowing or caring if he is aware of it. Whether he is or not, he continues, facing the ocean like you, the crystal shell glowing up again as if synced with it's owner's excitement. "Just like before, I offer my help to let him live in exchange for your virginity. But if you consent, you have two weeks to make Jackson Wang fall in love with you. He has to kiss you." His eyes are lit gleefully, as if he's watching a juicy drama. Or watching the world burn. "If you are successful, you have three advantages; time will rewind to before he gets in the accident. One, you will have the chance to prevent the accident. Two. you will be a virgin again, obviously with no memory of me. Three, you will have a second chance to confess to him-you know, like a normal person. Without resorting to 'deals with the devil' and all-

"Ha. Ha."

"Your words not mine."

"And if I'm…unsuccessful."

"That's easy." Zico compresses your thigh, biting his bottom lip at you. "You are mine for eternity. You mentioned something about your soul earlier, hm?"

"You mean like your slave?" You're frowning disapprovingly.

"More like stealing you under those waves like a merman gone bad and stripping you of all your humanity to fit into my aquatic empire. But you know. However you wish to imagine."

"I don't."

"Well then."

You pensively watch Zico straighten to his full height and stretch. He buries the bottom of his cane back into the sand before him and stacks his hands on top of the pulsing red crystal. He smirks down at you. "Any questions, comments or concerns you'd like to make before I draw up this contract?"

You toss your head side to side looking for something. "Um there's no paper-

"This opportunity does not stand long so use this time wisely."

"Rude bastard," you say under your breath, and his creepy smirk widens. Glaring at him you quickly jump to your feet and face him straight. Your eye contact is impervious. " Yeah, I got a few. Some promises you have to make so there isn't any funny business too."

"As long as it is within reason," Zico agrees, amusement sparkling in his eyes at your childish zest. More or less impatiently he's waiting on you.

You hesitant then hold up one finger stiffly. "You have to swear when Jackson is brought out of the coma he is completely healthy like before."

"Done."

"And…" Your second finger pops up, lips bitten in worry. "I've watched enough movies to know that time travel is tricky. In Butterfly Effect-assuming you've seen it- no matter how many times he went back to save her, the girl died or something else wacky happened…"

"Ah." Zico flips his hand with a sniff. "Say no more. I hate that shit. I prefer to mold my vic-my client's fates more to my liking. Don't worry, it's as simple as this: if you go back and do what you can to prevent the accident, Jackie won't get in it or die any other way. If you don't try to prevent it, of course he's…" He makes a cutting motion in front of his neck, adding the sound effect. You don't smile at all. "No tricks here," he smiles reassuringly although you kinda sense something off about it as he goes to casually check his nails. "Mom is gonna kill me for making fate my play thing again, but the old hag will get over it."

You absorb what he says with a nod but you don't disregard that he almost said "victim." You log it to the back of your mind even though his answer is most important at the moment. "Ok."

"And?"

You speak quickly, since there's no telling when the alcohol will wear off and this 'Zico' vision will disappear before Jackson's destiny is taken care of. You narrow your eyes. "Why make such a stupid gamble…what could I do in two weeks to make him notice me that I couldn't do for the last 19 years?"

To your surprise, Zico's grin softens ever so slightly at the corners. "You're old school. I work with what I'm given."

"How specific," you deadpan.

"You romanticize savior-victim relationships. Save his life and he will automatically fall in love with you, right?" His teal stare pierces into you unrelentingly. "I wanna say from all of the fairytales you read as a child, you contracted this 'syndrome'."

When you open your mouth to deny it, knowing out loud it sounds so irrational and babyish….you stop because you realize there's no point. Instead, you close your mouth in defeat and look away.

"Doesn't sound so stupid now does it?" he says softly.

"I have one more question," you say a bit louder than you have to, whipping back to face him. "Why go through so much to make this deal with me? Why is my existence in the balance? Why do you want so much from me?"

"You mean why it seems so personal."

" Yes."

Zico arches a brow as he begins to circle around you. You follow him with your eyes as he chortles under his breath. "I guess I shouldn't ask if you're sure you wanna know-you were sure enough to ask. So I'll tell you truthfully. From the second I grabbed you, I became interested in you. I was attracted to how much of a good girl you are." He rubs his cane up and down your ankle, still circling. "You seem to have the perfect life aside from Jackson, your Achilles heel. You're pretty. Healthy. Great social life, great grades, great job, nice apartment, good family, street smarts, compassion, humility, maturity…environmental awareness. Guys flocking in to date you all the time."

"So that's it?" you sneer, "I'm your ideal type?"

"More like the recipe for my ideal type." You can practically feel his fangy smile right behind your ear when he draws near to you from the back. Your body tensing not so much as from his general contact but from the press of his bulge into your ass. "I prey on good girls because I want to destroy them from the inside out," he hisses.

You scramble away to gape at him crazily. With his usual dark, impish expression you can't tell if he's joking or not after several seconds of staring-and judging from the ensuing silence you know he has no intention to end your curiosity.

"If that is all…" Zico taps an invisible watch on his wrist, staring back at you…hungrily.

"That's all," you whisper, and as you wonder how he plans on writing up a contract with no visible paper and wonder how long it would take him to write it, suddenly you grow extremely dizzy. Too much alcohol had a habit of overtaking you even when consuming a lot didn't seem to bother you in the beginning. Now was one of those times, apparently.

"Shit," you slur. Your eyes keep fluttering to the back of your head as you stumble. Your skin starts to become flushed despite the cool ocean wind. Your swollen lips are parted. You hold your arms out to steady yourself but it doesn't do much. More or less focusing on Zico, tears well up in your eyes again. "Just a useless hope," you giggle humorlessly, taking wobbly steps toward him. He just stares at you cynically. "I'm just crazy. I'm just a pathetic fool, right sea freak?"

"You are."

"I knew it…"

The last thing you remember before blacking out is stumbling into his chest, gripping his sleeves and sobbing all over again; aware that he allows you to do it and confused at the tangible feel of the material, his chest….yet unaware of the wicked, unfriendly look Zico directs down at you the entire time with teal-turned-red eyes.

When you awaken the next day, you are miraculously in your own bed. As you sit up rubbing your heavy, aching head, you try to recall driving back home. You can't. You don't remember calling a cab either but its clear your car is there since your keys are on the nightstand.

Along with a glass of water that has condensed on the wooden surface.

Mouth smacking from sourness, you immediately take it and gulp it down. While you sit there, waiting as the water ebbs away your hangover, you still try to put things together. Its frustrating trying to remember how you got home, how you managed to change out of your clothes, etc, so you focus on the beach.

You know yesterday you made a beeline for the liquor store as soon as you left the hospital. Jackson's pale, lifeless face was already too much to bare for the last 2 days and eavesdropping on the doctor's bleak news to Jackson's family was way more than you could deal with. After buying the insane amount of alcohol you had driven out to a nameless beach. You don't know what your intentions were after that but it was clear you didn't care about anything except your poor baby. You knew bad things always happened to good people but you wondered why such a bad thing couldn't have happened to a good person like yourself instead of an innocent boy like Jackson.

Then, with the morning rays hitting the side of your face, you remember the suited stranger.

Zico.

Son of the sea witch.

You grimace to yourself. You must have really been drunk to conjure up someone like him. Thank God it was a remote beach and it was late at night because being seen like that…it sends shivers up your spine. Remembering how vivid his presence was that you could smell and feel him, you silently curse to yourself and bring the covers up to your chest. And how frightening, that 'deal' you discussed with him. How foolish!

Rolling your eyes, you go to climb out of bed. But your phone starts to ring, halting you. Thinking its one of your parents you fish for it in the sheets and answer without checking the caller ID.

"Hey," you say groggily, "I-

"Good morning sunshine."

Your blood instantly runs cold, your body wide awake. That voice is unmistakable. You know it though you still don't want to register it so you respond shakily, "Who is this?"

He snickers. "You already know but I guess I'll play along. Zico."

"It can't be…"

"It can."

"I thought….you…" Your hand tightens around the phone.

"Pinch yourself if you need to. I'm calling because we didn't exactly get to wrap things up properly last night-

" How are you real? Why do you have my number?"

"Calm down," he growls, "And focus. The contract is written. I just need you to look over it and sign."

"Wh-what contract? That wasn't-

"And because I realize our discussion was kind of hasty-not to mention a little unfair since you were fucked up-, I'm willing to cut you a break. From now, I will give you 24 sober hours to decide if you want to sign or not. No more favors." He laughs. "Unless you make it out of this to make any more future deals."

For a couple seconds you are silent on the other line, just breathing, just hyperventilating on the inside. "Zico," you say in a tiny voice.

"Yes."

"What happens if I don't believe any of this is real?"

"Then you have a funeral to attend," he states coldly. "Your precious boyfriend is running out of time. You might want to hurry up and save yourself the misery while you can."

"I-

"See you soon," Zico rasps.

The phone hangs up. You sit there in a stunned quiet listening to the dial tone until you quickly pull the phone away from your ear and check your call log.

To your horror, there is no record of the call. None whatsoever. Not even an "Unknown" number.

At that moment, you get really weak. You sit in the bed just staring straight ahead. With the grim details of the 'deal' and Jackson's body on the hospital bed flooding your head, the tears come easily.

For the next 24 hours all you can do is agonize. You wonder what your reaction will be like once you see Zico again-you wonder how he will appear. Will he knock at your door? Will he materialize in front of you in a puff of smoke? Or a flash of light? You can't possibly know how he did it on the beach, he was just suddenly there.

Unlike yourself, you busy yourself by cleaning up all day. Sundays are spent in other constructive ways, however, you don't feel like leaving your apartment. The place needs a little TLC anyway so it's just as well.

Once you've gotten over your skepticism of whether Zico and the 'deal' are real or not, the latter half of your day is spent on what you should do. It's a given Jackson will die. Deep down you knew he would once you heard he was in a coma. If you agree, not only will he live-you'll have the chance to be his.

On the other hand, there's the issue of losing your virginity-no matter if you can reclaim it if you're successful. Also, what happens if you are unsuccessful…

Well, the suspense is over for you the next morning when you wake up from a fitful sleep to see Zico, just as you saw him last, sitting in the armchair in your room as if he is waiting in the lobby at the doctor's. There's even a manga held up in front of him.

"Interesting choice in reading material," he says casually, ignoring your shock. "I guess there is a dirty little girl inside you after all."

"I really thought you were a vision. A dream…"

"Have you made your decision?" The manga is laid down on the arm of the chair. He stands and walks to the side of the bed, leaning down. In the sunlight, it's possible he looks even more menacing.

You bite your lip as you peer up at him. "I…have."

"That's good news." He grasps his cane harder in restlessness.

"Just one thing…it sounds crazy, seeing how you appear out of nowhere and shit but…I need proof that you're as powerful as you say you are."

"It does sound crazy," he agrees brightly. Next thing you know, he snaps his fingers and there's a golden, glowing scroll hovering in front of you, filled with loose, spidery script that you can somehow read without difficulty. "How's that princess?" Zico teases, flashing sharp incisors.

"Fine," you reply in a squeak, watching a fish-skeleton pen materialize in your hand in a cloud of golden sparkles.

"X marks the spot." He points to where you're supposed to sign. You notice another 'x"ed line that has been filled.

"You signed."

"Of course it is binding for me too."

"Not that you'd lose as much as I would if you were on the losing end," you mutter. "Not much on the line for you. Not as much risk…" But even as you complain, your writing hand is poised over the line, ready to scribble in your fate; your eyes confirming the terms and conditions. Zico stares at your hand, his cane's crystal shell pulsing red, radiating evil.

If there is even a small chance you can right things, you will. Because you are that type of person. And apparently Zico knows that too.

Before he has to push you, you say a quick prayer, quickly turn away with your eyes squeezed shut and feel the scratch of the pen run across the parchment. Daring a peek at the scroll, you see your glowing signature turn black, smoke rising from the end of your last name. You can't help but feel a sense of déjà vu from doing this, nor can you help it further when Zico cackles victoriously, the scroll rolling closed by itself and his purple-tinted hand swiping it. It is slid into the lining of his jacket.

"Now help me save him," you say adamantly once you can breathe again, grabbing him by the helm of his jacket desperately.

Zico gazes down at you and your unrelenting hand. Slowly he begins to smirk. His odd eyes glint dangerously in the sun.

"Not so fast, princess. First thing's first." He licks his lips at the sight of your cleavage, then down the rest of your body. Just so happens, you don't wear much when you sleep. "I must collect my dues...in a manner of speaking."

You both agree to meet up on Friday night; or more like, Zico isn't generous enough to wait past Friday for you to be "ready" for something you'd never be ready for. You're surly about it but of course he reminds you of the contract, that when it comes to when he wants to take your virginity, you have to play by his rules. Then he follows up with a dark laugh, asking, "Thinking about a nasty surprise attack?"

Not putting past him, you half-nodded, evoking another laugh from him. You tried not to imagine he'd go as far as raping you if you tried to skip out the last minute. But it is a useless thought because your instincts tell you with this "mystical" contract, you'd be bound to have sex with him sooner or later, however it happens.

On Friday, close to the time you are about to meet, you start to get ready with a petty mindset. You settle for the most unflattering outfit you can think of: sweats, a ratty t-shirt, old hoodie, okie-doke panties and bra and old sneakers. Your hair is tossed into the kind of messy bun that's really messy and not the cute kind, your edges sticking out wildly. You wear no make-up, jewelry or perfume. You consider not showering or brushing your teeth to spite him more but in the long run, it goes against your stickler laws about hygiene and you know you yourself would feel uneasy by it.

You drag your feet as you approach your car, getting in and taking the longest route possible to get to the cross streets you and Zico agreed to see each other. It's a side of town you've never really been on, which is just as well since you don't want to bump into anyone you know. On the way there you try to drown your jumbled, negative thoughts with music. All week people have noticed you haven't been yourself and Jackson's condition was worsening by the day; yet its thoughts about Jackson that revive your resolve every so often while you're in your funk.

Five minutes before the designated time you are parking a block away from the cross streets. You shove your hands in your hoodie pockets and trudge along with a dreaded expression, not even looking down when people stare at you weirdly. When you reach the streets, you scan the four way for him. He should be easy to spot with that aristocratic fit of his so you're looking around boredly.

Instead, you only end up getting frustrated. You don't see him. Just a few random pedestrians and some guy posted up by a neon lit hotel on the corner of the block across the street. You roll your eyes, check the street signs again and roll your eyes again. You don't have his number or anything so contacting him is out of the question.

"How the fuck is he late?" You grumble, scowling. Standing there looking like a lost idiot was the last thing you wanted to do. As you idly stare at the guy by the hotel, deep in thought about what you should do, suddenly the guy realizes you're looking at him. He peels himself off the wall and ashes out his cigarette on the pavement, turning to face you nonchalantly.

Its not until he beckons you over with that infamous smile that it dawns on you.

Distaste and confusion flitting over your face, you press the button to cross the street. And as you approach him, the closer you get, the more you can't believe it. Likewise, Zico's sneer is like a beacon shining brighter and brighter the further you approach him.

Finally you are toe to toe with him in front of the hotel.

"Sup," he grins.

You don't greet him back. Its pointless to try to keep your face a closed book so you openly size him up and down. He's not in the suit. Far from the suit. Now he's in a fitted black t-shirt, purple skinny jeans and all-black Jordans. His hair is pitch black, contrasting with pale skin that isn't purplish anymore, like he's been pinched all over to look more natural. Even more baffling are the strange tattoos-on exposed arms that are thicker and much more toned than you thought they would be. The only things that remain the same are his teal eyes, seashell piercings and rude presence.

There's a reason why you'd hate to admit it-that he's undoubtedly much more attractive like this. For a split second you are saddened with the notion that his look reminds you of Jackson's style. You've always loved that style, especially on Jackson. On that note, in the next split second you speculate in repulsion that he's trying to resemble Jackson on purpose but quickly knock the thought out of your head.

Not quick enough though. As if he can read your mind-and you're afraid he's just that legit-Zico speaks sarcastically. "What, did you really think I'd morph into your boyfriend for the occasion?"

"Why are you dressed like that then?"

"You don't like it?" He smacks his teeth, spinning in a circle to showcase. "But I put in so much effort." Running those cold, greenish stones up and down your body, he sneers again. "Unlike some people. But it doesn't matter…" You lean back a little as he closes the small gap between you, pressing into you shamelessly. You're pretty sure he inhales your hair before he runs his lips down the shell of your ear, making you shudder. He doesn't smell like the sea anymore yet from the disastrously good way he smells now, you want the sea back. " I like my women allllll natural anyway," he hisses in your ear.

"Stop," you whisper back, mad you can't sound more convincing. The hands you've slid up to push him back by his chest are taken by the wrists. Zico pulls his head back, bottom lip bitten sinfully. Causing something to rupture in your soul.

"Funny how that word won't be in your vocabulary when I get my hands on you tonight." His grip tightens around your wrists. "Right?"

"Hilarious," you stutter, however you're not stirred for long. You actually push away from him violently, brushing yourself off. "Why not just remain looking as creepy as you are?"

"Honestly?" He isn't even offended by your rejection, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I figured it would be much more difficult to keep you….in the mood if I looked like a monster. So I just went with what style for a guy worked best for you. Remember? One touch and I know your entire life."

"You may have mentioned that," you sass, still not pleased that its too close to Jackson's appearance. "But what about you is monstrous? Besides your personality?"

"I…well…" For once, Zico looks unsettled. "My complexion isn't normal. Obviously."

"And since when do you care about my comfort? Whether or not I'm in the mood, you're just going to take it anyway-

"Then would it just be better to say it would be more difficult to keep your legs spread without you resisting me in disgust?" he snaps just as heatedly as you, shutting you up instantly. "Cause I'll know not to sugar coat shit in the future."

While you brood in silence afterwards, Zico sighs exhaustedly. He crosses his arms, pointedly staring at you. "Don't misunderstand me. I don't give much of a fuck about your feelings and that's just the bottom line. So also don't misunderstand me when I give you the option of being wined and dined before we do this or just getting it over with," he adds, gesturing at the hotel to convey the reason he chose to meet in front of it.

"What…" You sniff to stave off hot, angry tears. "Oh…I'm not hungry though."

"Then what do you want to do?"

"Are you really trying to make this a date?"

"I'm not trying to make it anything. I wouldn't care if we fucked in the middle of the street here and now." Zico eyes you in warning. "But since you keep questioning me, I think I'm going to have to tone down this sickening habit of compromising."

"No, no! I…I get it."

"Good girl."

You glare at him, mirroring his crossed arms. "Take me to the gun range."

"Pity Papa doesn't know about his perfect little girl's favorite hobby."

"That's why my mother and I are sworn to secrecy when we do it," you retort, ignoring his amused snort. "And I changed my mind. Something tells me I'll work up an appetite after going some rounds so 'wine and dine' me after we leave."

"You really are a princess," Zico growls. "Fine."

Despite yourself, you smile smugly.

"Just know after all of this shit, we're coming back to this hotel."

"Ugh, but-

"-its not up for discussion Your Majesty. Don't care about your preference in hotels. Now." He grabs your upper arm before you know it, making sure its secure. When you glare up at him ready to curse him out, he gives a fake smile. "We're taking my whip. And if you try to ask me why again, I know something."

You make a face as you let him all but haul you off down the street-lamp lit sidewalk.

At the gun range you can feel his eyes on you as you concentrate on blasting away at the target but you don't care. Anyone can tell by your excessive stance, expressions and quick trigger finger that you're not exactly happy and Zico isn't excluded yet he keeps slipping you those stupid smirks like you're just pure entertainment. Its enough for you to briefly consider the terrible thought of turning from the target and filling him with bullets instead. When he "compliments" you about how cute you look with the goggles on, the thought becomes even more tempting. On top of that, you can feel your hatred deepen a bit at his flawless, effortless aim at the target.

Moodier afterwards than when you arrived, you climb back into the car with him to go out to eat, rolling your eyes at the flashy sports car once again before getting in. You start to feel twinges of regret for dressing down and Zico's knowing snickers piss you off even more because he's "reading your mind" again.

He takes you to a restaurant by a main beach. Once seated you find out from the waiter that they specialize in different kinds of wines and you ponder if you should get really drunk to "not be there" as you and Zico are having sex.

But there's a downside, you realize, narrowing your eyes at him and trying not to shake your head as he pretends to comb out his hair with a fork: You don't fully trust him. If you're just as fucked up as you were last time, he could easily do other things to you that you don't want.

"And you're going to help me save him right after we…you know. Right?"

"If you're not too tired, yes.""

"And if…can you please stop doing that?"

Zico tosses you a mischievous look, twirling the fork through his fingers before setting it down. "Hmm. For some reason I thought you'd find that appealing."

"Why in the hell would I?"

"I don't know."

You close your eyes to gather sanity and patience. Opening them again, you ask, "How old are you even?"

"Why." He sinks his fork into the appetizer cheerfully.

"I just want to know. You're not human so there's no telling…" You kick at his foot rubbing up and down your ankle. "No telling how old you are."

Zico takes a sip of wine, exhaling like it's the most refreshing thing in the world. "Should I make you guess?"

"No."

"Man. You do need about 4 glasses." He winks at you, letting you know he's pulled that telepathy shit again. "In immortal years, I'm your age. In human years, I'm like 3,000 or something. Dunno, I haven't really been keeping up."

"I hope that's you exaggerating…"

But from the way he just casually continues to sip and eat, you know he's not.

That's your cue to suddenly gulp down the wine in your glass and keep pouring. "Glad you're taking my advice," he says.

"Whatever."

Throughout dinner, its your turn to pull the staring card. You can't really focus on the quality of the food or the growing buzz in your body from too much alcohol. Its hard to because you keep thinking about how many other innocents throughout Zico's unnatural lifespan that he's bamboozled or something similar. You can't imagine that someone could occupy so much time doing devilish things like siphoning women out of their virginities. There could be centuries upon centuries of sad stories like yours where some perverted sea sorcerer shows up as a knight in shining armor.

"Enjoying the view?" he asks in a deep, suggestive voice as he raises a piece of steak to his ruby lips. He doesn't look at you. In fact, he hadn't ever since you'd both gotten your entrees.

And you know he's not talking about the scenic beach behind him.

"If I have to," you slur.

The corner of Zico's chewing mouth twitches upwards.

By the time Zico pulls up into the hotel's garage, you're drifting in and out of a fitful sleep. It seemed the argument you had before about drinking was settled, with the side that wanted you to drink yourself into a stupor winning. Like your body would still rather use that as a defense mechanism despite your fear that Zico would break out some weird BDSM type shit if he saw you were helplessly out of your right mind.

In the end, though, would it really matter if he did since you had no type of physical or mental strength to do anything about it?

Exactly.

You're more of a mess than you were at beach. He grunts a lot, but Zico supports you to the elevator and up to the lobby without complaint or care to the people staring. Gathering that it's also useless to shush your drunken slander, he doesn't even try. There's a brief exchange of a credit card and a room key, then suddenly you're being swept back onto another elevator, the annoying music just muffled sound to your ears.

But once the elevator dings on the right floor, the doors part to reveal you being carried bridal style. "Just to speed this up," Zico murmurs in reply to your cranky protest, striding out like you weight as much as a newborn. It's hard to tell if he's able to do this because those biceps aren't just for show or because he's immortal.

"Doing the most," you manage to huff, and he shoves you closer to his body surely to upset you more.

You close your eyes weakly as he takes his time treading down the silent hall. He stops finally, somehow able to slide the key in the slot while still holding you. There's a beep, you hear the handle and his foot kicking the door open. Then about six steps in, you're sailing in the air, landing on top of a bed. "Damn…really?" you groan, slitting your eyes open; your already sore head flares with pain.

In the neon lights streaming through the sliding glass door, you can see Zico staring back at you at the foot of the bed. His hands are already unbuckling his belt. "Not sorry."

And after that, there's no talking. Zico is in no rush to undress himself, pulling his shirt over his head and showcasing a chest and abdomen just as impressive as his arms. Once his jeans, socks and shoes are gone, he climbs the bed with his bottom lip bitten back looking every bit the predator you know he is. He prowls up until he's on top of you-solid, heavy, feverishly hot. His hips bossily nudge your legs open to settle between them, to make double sure that you're not going anywhere.

Yet wherein most predators make little work of ending their prey, Zico stalls for a long while, gazing down at you like he's deeply thinking about something-probably not even seeing you or seeing you so hard, he could be mapping the details of your swollen, drowsy face. You're too washed to feel embarrassed but there's no doubt those teal cesspools are heightening your pulse to a dangerous rate. The longer he's molded to your body, the more you want to squirm from how good you feel; you're peeved that it's that reason instead of that fact that his weight is uncomfortable.

It isn't, …no matter how much you try to lie to yourself.

Not that you want him to continue or anything, and with your curiosity getting the best of you, you ask in a small voice, "What's wrong with you?"

He doesn't answer immediately. He appears to conclude his thoughts, whatever those thoughts are that bother him, and his scowl shifts into a lesser version of itself. "Nothing," he rasps.

You grip the sheets on either side of you for some reason. His voice had gone an octave lower. You know had this been the right way for you to lose your virginity, you could easily equate that tone to him being in such infatuation with you he's been thinking about all the nasty things he was going to do to you, how he was going to beat that pussy up until you couldn't see straight.

In reality, that's probably exactly what he was doing. You just didn't want to think of him in that light.

However, you're still unsure of that accusation, noticing how he's still staring at you slightly in thought.

"Well?" you breathe up at him, your faces less than an inch apart.

The young-looking sea enchanter glares at you for a split second. Just as quickly, he lightens the glare up to a purely wicked expression. "I can smell your fear," he hisses, rubbing his crotch into yours, fingers clawing into the pillows he uses to barely prop himself up, "Its driving me fucking crazy."

"Sure you can-

" I can literally smell it," he insists, moaning low at the sound of the gasps you make from being tortured. Against yourself you reach up and grab his shoulders, knees shaking and your chin tilting. "I'm surprised though. Your fear is overwhelming. But you're reacting like this…"

"Yeah…weird." You agree on the outside and the inside. The alcohol was supposed to numb you; instead it was intensifying everything. This never happened before, not even when you drunkenly made out with guys to help yourself get rid of your long-time crush on Jackson.

"Fuck…" Zico exhales, his dry humping becoming more erratic. Your eyes automatically flutter closed when he licks your lips, seeking entrance into your mouth with his slippery tongue. His head cocks to the side some so his mouth can lap deeper into yours, teeth pulling your bottom lip in heated intervals, his enthusiasm growing and growing from how he switches from your mouth to your chin, back to your mouth then down along your jaw. All the while, he's grinding into you, seemingly like he's putting every muscle he has down there to work.

Before you know it, you've lost your mind. You tentatively raise your hands and grasp each side of his head, forcing his lips further down into your kisses-and pressing his head down more once he maneuvers to your sensitive neck. There he suckles bruisingly, openly biting you and groaning in satisfaction at your muffled cries. You didn't feel them while he was tonguing your mouth but against your jugular you can feel unnaturally sharp points scraping your skin.

While he busies himself into the crook of your neck, Zico's hands have a mind of their own. One snakes down to tug your sweats down even though you're moving so much, your ass switching back and forth on the mattress from pleasure. He toys around with your waistband, still taking his sweet time like he did when he undressed himself. At his unspoken command you lift yourself up so he can slide then down and off. And your eyes widen when his cool, thick fingers slide your panties to the side to caress up and down your folds.

"Damn," he laughs quietly, "I guess you don't hate me as much as you let on."

"What," you whimper distractedly, one hand reaching down to clutch his ass.

"I've never gotten a woman so slick this quickly before."

"Fuck you, it's the fucking alcohol."

Your demanding grip on his ass to rub up into you more says otherwise, yet Zico does a mental shrug, going back to feasting on your lips. His fingers swipe your wet lips for a while, index finger gently teasing your clit until he tires of it. He relieves you of your panties and takes your pussy in his large hand with a firm grasp. He starts to massage it, most definitely in a possessive way. A way that shakes you the wrong way when Jackson appears in your head. Its enough for you to start push at him so he can get off you.

"What are you doing?"

"I can't do this. I can't do this."

"You know there's no turning back," he warns, not stopping his ministrations. "Relax. Or don't relax."

Your mouth parts to speak again but Zico claims it. As he kisses your now-unmoving lips, you close your eyes tightly. When they open again, they're glossy and moist.

More significantly, your resolve has flared up again. You are a woman of your word and no amount of terror or crushed pipedreams or pointing fingers of disloyalty would allow you to let that boy die.

"Fuck me Zico," you don't hear yourself whisper, directly down his throat. Yet he hears it loud and clear, feels it vibrate into his body. So that he doesn't show he's shocked, he slowly peels up to gape at you.

"Say what."

"I said fuck me. Can't you hear?"

"What you think I'm tryna to do, princess?"

You swiftly grab his upper arms, gritting your teeth. It's strange how your eyes can be so dead and so much on fire at the same time. " Take them off or I will do it for you."

"What the hell…" He's snorting down at you, trying not to actually burst out laughing.

But when he gets the hint from your unblinking glare, constricting thighs, and digging grip, and from the sudden switch, the volatile charge in the atmosphere that you've created, Zico narrows his eyes. They flash a bright red-they should freak you out beyond all reason.

Alternatively, you match his gaze, flame for flame. Like some cruel ire you can read his mind now just as much as he can read yours; he knows exactly why you're so intent now, and in turn it pisses him off that he's tasting his own medicine of being inconsiderably used. While at the same time, you begging to his ego arouses him tenfold, pitting him to do what you want him to do even more. He knows what its like to feel trapped now. He hates it.

You couldn't give a fuck about that.

In some small way, you rejoice over it.

Only a few slow seconds pass before he snarls, "Don't tell me what to do." Then he dips for your mouth once again, this time with a vicious passion.

And you reciprocate it whole heartedly. Zico ravages you, ripping your old shirt down the middle and treating your bra the same way. As you've ordered he shrugs out of his boxers while you kick off your socks. Sooner than soon you are both stark naked, sliding and grinding on each other, tugging the other's hair, breathing loudly. In a flurry you roll over on top of him, leaning to make out with him roughly, appreciating that he smacks your ass that's circling on his erection. You reach back to hold his squeezing hand, mewling into his mouth. You can't tell whether you've actually started to enjoy it or not, or if its just an illusion of enjoyment. Then again, it really doesn't matter.

Zico rolls you back over. From your position on top of him you could feel he'd gotten even bigger so you're trying not to be so nervous. He bends your legs back quite a ways, spending minimal time sucking and kneading your breasts but making sure your nipples ache. Zico watches you clutch them lustfully as he slides a finger inside you, then another. He fucks them in and out of your wet tightness, totally not even fazed or concerned with hurting you-you're moaning so hard it could wake the dead. "Good thing you play with yourself so much," he whispers darkly, licking his lips at you.

You bite your lip back at him wordlessly, only able to moan and whine.

"If only Papa also knew how many boys have had-

" Shut the fuck up."

Amazingly he does. He focuses back on expertly driving his wide fingers in your womanhood, the squishing, splattering sounds filling the room louder and louder the faster he goes, his hand twisting for your spot. He does find it a few times, sending you spiraling into pleasure. Yet the moment is fleeting because he ends jerking his fingers out, gripping his dick with the same hand and resting the head atop your clit. It might just be your imagination that he grasps one of your ankles and squeezes comfortingly. His stare is bewitching and still as red as ever. When he speak again his fangs are all the way visible. Both features contradict his earlier concern about being too "monstrous."

"Anything goes," he says thickly, "You can't hurt me."

Inhaling and exhaling audibly, you nod.

To you, its like the entire universe is holding its breath along with you. Time could have ceased or slackened. Zico leans down upon you and you can feel his heart beating almost as wildly as yours. He digs the heel of his free hand into the pillow, content with staring at you, monitoring your expressions from what he's doing to you. The other hand guides his dick inside you an inch at a time-and at the breach, you scratch into his broad back with strained cries, eyes clamping closed and your legs crossing the middle of his back. "Oh my God…"

The stretch stings just as you thought it would. However, it's actually not as bad as you thought it would be. You're active and you were pretty wet from the beginning. It makes the ride smoother as Zico pushes in to the hilt, quickly pulls back out and carefully slides back in again. The single grunt-like moan that emits from his throat lets you know its taking its toll on him too. You're glad you can find purchase in his back as he continues to thrust into you.

When he starts to increase the tempo, you open your eyes. As soon as you do, he rapidly reaches back, grabs you by the wrists and slams your hands down on the pillow. Above you his features are twisted with dangerous lust before he swoops down for a long, drawn out kiss. He moans your name into your mouth, rolling his firm hips up into you in muted slaps. You can feel his hard abdomen snaking against yours from his effort to stroke you.

With Zico's lips mashed to yours, a few tears roll down your cheek.

You wish you could substitute his face for Jackson's for even a little bit of an escape. The idea is dashed though, because Jackson and Zico are very different and you highly doubt Jackson would be anything less than compassionate and loving. Then above all, it would be best if you left your first love out of this act altogether.

On the other hand, hiding behind your morose thoughts is a scarier one. This thought is the reason that your stomach is still fluttering after being penetrated, that your lips still fight to keep up with the lips of the sea witch's son.

Zico's hands suddenly grip your wrists with vice. He thrusts in powerfully one good time then relaxes slightly, hips still making small circles into you. Your mouths separate with a quiet 'pop' and…Zico picks his head up just enough to stare at you breathlessly. It's like the stare from before that had his brows furrowed with the worries of the world. Only this time, it troubles you much, much more. It's relationship with that scary thought of yours is enough to give you a case of heartburn.

"Zico…" you barely croak.

"Yeah."

"You don't sweat?"

It's the first smile he's given you that's not laced with any negativity. " You sweat a lot."

You'd argue with him that you don't-not usually- but honestly your lungs feel like tiny men are rubbing sandpaper inside of them and your limbs are boneless. You are zapped of everything but life itself so just you tiredly smile back. As you do, he gives himself permission to pepper your chin, jaw and lips with kisses, whispering how much of a good girl you were. He takes it further by leaning into your ear hissing, " Again."

Which you don't recall being in the contract, that you had to continue bending to his desires after the initial round. Yet the light smile is still on your face. Jackson wasn't going to die. You'd done it. You saved him and-

" It's alright," Zico continues to whisper, " You've been starved all this time. You don't have to starve with me." He locks his hips up into you with emphasis, jolting you. " Its alright. Stop holding it in. It won't hurt anything. "

You barely feel yourself nod. Heat and arousal flood between your legs and you throw him for a loop by rolling on top, prepared to listen to the voices in and out your head.

That same night, after you've been worn out through and through, you dream.

It isn't just an ordinary dream. Under the circumstances of the dream, it should have been more of a nightmare. You are floating underwater, the water an array of greens and jet black when you look down. The water is freezing but mysteriously, you still retain a comfortable temperature. But more importantly, what distinguishes this dream from a real nightmare is that you can breathe and that you very much conscious of everything going on.

So the first thing you notice is that it is very still and aside from the water, you don't see anything. No sea life, no rocks, not even a bubble. You're just bobbing in a salty oblivion void of motion or sound save for the occasional swish you make when you move. And apparently you're far from the surface and far from the bottom as well.

The only time panic strikes you is when, amidst your questions, you suddenly think about if you were to stay there for the rest of the life, no one able to save you…

Then, he emerges.

You can't quite explain it, how he emerges from nothing. It would make more sense to say he appeared from the deep dark part below you or that he came sinking down from the surface. But that's just what you see. He slips from behind whatever invisible barrier there is and he's a few feet away from you, black smoke coloring the water behind him.

Only, there is no signature wicked grin or usual human likeness. Your panic transcending into shock, you stare wide-eyed at him soundlessly. There's a hard, unforgiving look on his face-a face that's still youthful yet with teal eyes that seem ancient now the more you gaze into them. His skin is that shy violet, his hair is silvery white and still stylish-if not more-as it sways in the water. Piercings and tattoos all the same. The long, jagged staff in his hand suspiciously reminds you of his cane, that snail shell still present atop it, grasped into place by five gnarly, coral claws. You find it creepier than before…though what draws your attention the most isn't that sinister stick.

To your absolute horror, in the beginning, you see that his torso is bare and very much mortal from the waist up. From the waist down, eight thick, long, black tentacles coil and stir. The underside of them is a purple of the richest shade and quickly, it makes sense to you that those are his preferred colors when he's on land.

Yes, its true that you're smitten with a whirlwind of fright. But as you both hover there in the depths, it dawns on you that your fear and surprise are invalid. You should have expected a monster like this, even if you didn't expect to be awed. You even find him to be somewhat modest, because from how he casually spoke of his "status" off shore, you're convinced that he's probably one of the most powerful beings in the world or that has ever existed. Evil or not.

'But what about you is monstrous?'

Your head whips in the direction of your echoed voice, clear as a bell. Across from you, the cecaelian creature that is Zico merely takes his sweet time turning his head. Seconds later, when you both are facing forward again, your face is shadowed with unwanted shame while his is full of cynical answers you haven't even asked questions for yet.

At that moment he darts forward, and the end of one tentacle molds to your mouth to muffle your yell, cutting off the ascending bubbles. The rest snake around your limbs, your entire body, constricting you effortlessly. They aren't slimy like you thought, rather smooth and warm. Yet more than anything, lethal.

So dangerous. However, you're not as shaken as you would have been five minutes ago.

Your faces are only inches apart. He bares his teeth at you showing every blade-like fang, but you can only concentrate on his eyes. Subtle warning growls still tremble your bones…but those eyes.

Once the tentacle over your mouth slithers away, you take a moment to study him and you whisper the first words that burn on your tongue:

'The only thing monstrous about you is me…'

'You weren't born a monster. Like me, you were born just how and who you are.'

'But now the only monster there is stands between you and I.'

"The only thing monstrous about you is me…'

What you're saying doesn't really register with you at all-you could swear you're not even saying it at all though your lips are moving and it sounds like your voice. Yet Zico seems to understand perfectly. Your words turn into a mantra that echoes and echoes, spinning around you and causing him madness. You think he's going to cling to you forever in his hatred, but his frenzy from the chant drives him away from you, leaving rings of bruises anyone would wince at on sight.

The last thing you remember, as you watch in sadness and confusion, is that he's deathly afraid and angry as he stares at you, trying to cover his ears, unable to escape for some reason. His shouts fill the waters and shake the ocean bed. The black smoke that accompanies him spreads and wisps out in aggravation. And…just like that, he is destroyed, leaving you floating in water alone once more.

Zico sneaks you into the ICU in the middle of the night so you can feed the potion to Jackson through his IV. It's a good thing you came then because hospice was about to be called to Jackson's family. Zico watches as you administer the potion. You are doubtful/ you start to lose hope until Jackson groggily opens his eyes to slits, the first face he sees being yours. Youre smiling and crying and petting his hair, telling him its going to be ok. You take his hand and squeeze it-when he notices the empty vile in youtr other hand, he understands what happened and he actually weakly brings his other hand over so both squeeze your hand back, tears coming from his eyes. Much much later on is when he asks whatit was you used to save him.

Pregnancy? Waking up with dull ache between your legs.

The Town – The Weeknd

The watched pot never boils, true grit

Zico will give you a magic potion to slip to him secretly.

(Jackson ends up saving your life too. Then is when he attempts to kiss you. But you might not want it, thinking about Zico.)

B-Bomb and U-Kwon as flotsam and jetsom? (if so, appropriate descriptions)

Zico likes your good girlness cause he wants to destroy it all the way.(you can't tell if he's joking) He has other girls like you that he has ultimately swindled and made his.

(going back to how you fell in Zico's chest on the beach. His nasty look was more because…even then he was seriously falling for you and he hated it. He didn't fall in love.)

(Ask him about his true physical form)(cane stretches out to a staff when he's in his true form) cecealian

(you wonder if you should have just gone with the initial deal instead of complicating things-you go back and forth on it.)