demon-master-zero

[demon-master-zero]

You were born with a strange power. Whenever you are in immediate danger, time freezes until you move out of the way. One day, time freezes, but no matter how far you go...it doesn't unfreeze.

[demon-master-zero]

[demon-master-zero]

sylus x gn!reader, menstruating reader, domestic fluff, sfw

Operation: defend your ice cream stash from Sylus begins today.

You've had enough of finding a barren desert in the freezer, devoid of sweet treats. He always leaves the evidence of his crimes for you to uncover. Bowl and spoon in the sink, slick with the melting remnants. Discarded tub peeking out the trash bin. The occasional note with a devilish winky face on the countertop. Each a cruel twist of the knife.

Your grief is doubly felt when he deprives you of life's one joy during your period. No, it doesn't matter that he always restocks the freezer til it struggles to close right after. It's the principle of the robbery in the first place that incenses you.

Luke and Kieran sneak in a clandestine package under the cover of morning, while he's still asleep. Inside is a world class, custom built, state-of-the-art safe you've commissioned for this express purpose; constructed using antimatter coated steel to dissuade him from blasting it open with his Evol.

You have no doubts about his ability to break into things the normal way, so you've designed the safe to have multiple doors which protect its contents.

For appearances only, the outer door is a mundane dial lock. He'll crack it in maybe two seconds flat. What it should do is ping your phone and alert you to the imminent break in attempt. Behind it are a series of increasingly difficult cryptographic puzzles that must be solved within a minute to proceed.

The safe's final bulwark is a stroke of genius, if you say so yourself; a singing test with an inbuilt microphone where he must stay reasonably in pitch. An assuredly insurmountable trial for him, and therefore, an impenetrable defense for your precious desserts from his bottomless gluttony.

With the twins' help, you manoeuvre the safe into the freezer. You place your last tub of ice cream into it and perform the necessary double- and triple checks. Bolts are secured. Puzzles are set and ready to go. Microphone tested to ensure it's functional.

You leave for work daring to hope for the best.

—

Hours teetering on the edge of your seat. Paranoia mounting with the radio silence. You should be happy. It could be he's decided to leave your treat alone, but it can't be that easy. You're well aware of just how tenacious and greedy he can be.

Your phone pings during your lunch break.

Determined to catch Sylus red handed, you leap into action, pulling it out of your pocket. Your finger is a millimetre away from pressing the speed dial when you notice that the notification isn't from the safe's alarm system.

It's a message from him.

The food you just ate lurches in your stomach. That can't be good. You tap to view it, the stirrings of trepidation and resignation joining your barely-digested meal.

He's sent an image of the safe. The dial lock is busted open, all the cryptographic puzzles solved. Both outcomes within the realm of possibilities you considered. Your piece de resistance, the singing challenge, is still intact, so why..?

Ah. A perfect circle has been cut into the side of the safe. Its contents empty. You spot the tub in the foreground, also empty.

Cut off in the corner of the picture is a perplexing device you don't quite recognise. From what you can tell, it looks like a gun without a barrel or a trigger.

His accompanying voice message plays.

Nice try, sweetie. He sounds breathless, as if he's been laughing too hard. The mirth that brightens his voice is infectious, and though you want to be mad right now, a pleasant warmth and the beginnings of a smile tugs at your cheeks. I do wonder where you found a manufacturer willing to do antimatter coating for a... personal project such as this. Flipping through his business contacts while he was away, of course. That thing is a gold mine.

Ringing sharp through your speaker, two solid objects clink together. Teeth against a spoon. However, the microphone you installed must not be working. No matter how well I performed, it never let me in. A pleased noise from the back of his throat. This flavour's delicious, by the way.

How shameless of him to eat your ice cream while he recorded this—this declaration of victory, you realise. He's gloating. Feasting on his bounty. Oh, when you get home, you're going to—

Before you plan your revenge, let me propose a moratorium, his voice message continues, reading your mind. Why does he always do that? I've seen your sincere efforts to protect what's valuable to you. So, I won't touch your ice cream for a month. Use it to refine your defenses.

I'll give you a few hints to start: find better quality antimatter next time. And you did forget about the extensive tools in the workshop.

You finally recognise the object on the counter.

The freezer's already been refilled. See you at home, sweetie. The message ends with an indulgent chuckle.

His words don't register for a solid minute. You're reeling from this latest revelation. Just to steal your ice cream—

He used a fucking laser gun to cut a hole in the safe?

If a puny laser was able to penetrate the coating, then his Evol would have torn it like paper. Which means he went out of his way to go to the basement workshop, retrieve the laser gun, and cut a hole in it, because he could.

You're doing two things when you get home.

One, send a complaint to the manufacturer for a shoddy product.

And two, have some of that ice cream when he's not looking.

This operation has been a failure of unimaginable proportion, but no matter; you have a month to plot and plan. You'll come back stronger than ever.

[demon-master-zero]

You Don't Have to... For Me

About: You step out of your comfort zone to share special moments with him. He sees right through your act. How will he respond? Pairing: Female Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are NOT in a relationship but there is implied mutual interest. Trigger warnings: Fears, insecurities, mild panic, mild food aversion, sensory discomfort

Author’s Note: Hey! Some of the discomforts and fears in these stories might not apply to you personally — I chose them based on what each LI seems to enjoy and what the reader might quietly endure just to spend time with them. This concept was inspired by a conversation with my dear friend and chaos enabler, Ivy ( @xaviersknight )

If you enjoy my writing and want to support me, you can buy me a Ko-fi! ☕

SYLUS

There’s a boxing ring in his penthouse.

Of course, there is.

It shouldn’t surprise you—nothing about Sylus ever plays by anyone else’s rules. He doesn’t live, he orchestrates. Even the things that should feel raw and violent, like boxing, feel too elegant when he’s involved.  Of course, he had a private ring, glinting under moody downlights like something out of a crime drama. Polished floors. Blood-red ropes. A small stack of gloves in varying sizes, already laid out for you. The floors smell faintly of clean sweat and expensive disinfectant.

You're underdressed for this, somehow. Even though he told you to wear something comfortable, even though you showed up in sleek workout leggings and a cropped tee, even though you tied your hair back the way you always do when you mean business—none of it feels right under his gaze.

“Welcome to my little playground…” Sylus speaks from across the ring.

He’s already inside it, lounging lazily against the ropes like a king waiting to be amused. Black tank top, gloves hanging loose from his fingertips, a thin sheen of sweat already glinting across his collarbone. He looks carved from obsidian and marble, every inch of him dangerous and divine.

You swallow. Smile.

“It’s not so little,” you reply.

“Oh? Planning to flatter me into going easy on you, kitten?”

There it is—kitten. The word slides off his tongue. You offer a half-laugh, stepping forward like it’s all a game. But inside, your stomach twists. Tight. Unrelenting.

You don’t like boxing.

It’s too much. Too close. Too exposed. Every movement is a risk. Every breath, a beat away from being cornered. It’s not just the physicality of it—it’s what it forces out of you. Anger. Instinct. Too close. Too loud. Too... visceral. You liked knowing where your limbs were. You liked boundaries and clear lines and space to breathe.

But Sylus was unpredictable. Impossible to read. A storm of velvet and barbed wire. And once, just once, you’d heard him say: “Boring things don’t interest me.”

He hadn’t said it to you. But it stuck. And it doesn’t take much for the mind to twist things.

Boring people don’t interest him, either.

And the thought had stuck in your ribs ever since — echoing in your bones every time he teased you, called you “kitten” or “sweetie” like it was second nature. You didn’t want to be boring to him. You didn’t want him to lose interest. So you said yes.

Of course you said yes.

He tossed a pair of gloves toward you — you caught them, barely.

“You’ll need help with the wraps,” he said, walking over before you could protest.

He took your hands gently, like you were a glass weapon. Thumb brushing your palm. The silk of his touch was deceptive — soft, delicate — but you could feel the power beneath it. Coiled control. Calculated intimacy. Like he knew exactly what strings he was tugging.

“You nervous?” he murmured without looking up.

“No,” you lied. “Why would I be? This is just practice... right?”

You step into the ring.

He doesn’t rush you. Just watches.

You’ve seen him like this before—when he’s stalking someone through a deal, or when he’s circling the truth in a conversation. It’s not hunger. It’s focus. He’s studying you, already inside your head.

“I thought we’d start with light sparring,” he says. “No pressure. Just a dance.”

You force your lips into a smile, ignoring the cold sweat trickling down your spine. “Just don’t break my nose.”

“I’d never mar you, sweetie...” His eyes crinkle, playful. “Unless you ask me nicely.” He was joking, of course. Sylus never hurt you despite his reputation.

He moves first. Not striking. Just circling.

Testing.

You follow. Clumsy. Too stiff.

“Relax,” he says, not unkindly. “This isn’t a war. Not yet.”

You take a breath.

Try again.

The first time he taps your shoulder with a jab, you flinch. He sees it. Of course he does. You don’t have to look to know he’s watching your reactions more than your form.

“Something wrong, sweetie?”

“No.” You lie so fast it burns your throat.

He jabs again—light, teasing. You respond with a wild swing. Miss entirely. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Getting bold, aren’t we?”

Your chest tightens. You can’t read him. You don’t know if he’s impressed or amused or—

Disappointed.

That’s the word that hurts most.

You move too hard next time. Overcorrect. You nearly trip over your own foot as your glove grazes his chest and he catches you—arms snapping around your waist, steadying you like it’s nothing.

Your face is close to his. Too close. His breath is warm against your cheek. He smells like clean sweat and spiced cologne. He doesn’t let go right away.

You look up, startled.

He’s staring at you again. But something’s different.

Less amusement. More... calculation.

And then, softness.

“Why are you hesitating?” he asks. Quiet. Not a whisper, but close.

You blink. “I’m not.”

His brow arches.

You try again. “I just... I’m not good at this.”

“I noticed.”

You flinch.

But his voice is gentle now. Not mocking. Not amused. Just... honest.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t explain the heat rising in your chest. The way your gloves suddenly felt too heavy. The sweat gathering at your lower back. The eyes on you — his eyes — making it impossible to breathe.

It wasn’t the fight. It was the nearness. The intimacy of it. The way his presence filled the ring like smoke, clinging to your skin and thoughts alike.

You stepped back, then again. The ropes pressed against your spine.

His gaze followed you — not taunting. Not cruel. Just watchful.

“You don’t like this....” he said quietly.

You stiffened. “It’s fine.”

“No, sweetie.” He took a step forward. “You’re not fine.”

You looked down, fingers curling into the gloves. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Silence stretched.

“I heard you say once,” you added, voice quieter now, “that boring things don’t interest you. I just… I didn’t want to be that.”

There’s a pause. A shift.

Then, a laugh.

“Is that what this is about?”

You don’t answer.

His hand rises, gloved, brushing lightly beneath your chin until you meet his gaze.

“Oh, sweetie...” he sighs, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever heard from him. “You think I invited you here to impress me?”

You nod. Barely.

He exhales, the sound tinged with remorse.

“I invited you here because I like watching you try,” he says, lips curving into a gentle smile. “You could throw cotton balls at me, and I’d still find it riveting.”

You blink fast.

He leans in, voice barely audible. “If I wanted perfect form, I’d spar with one of my... business associates. If I wanted dull, I’d drink alone. But you... you make things interesting just by showing up.”

You feel the tears prick your lashes before you can stop them.

His hand—still gloved—cups your cheek gently. The rough texture of the leather is at odds with the tenderness in his touch.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, sweetie,” he murmurs. “Just be here. That’s enough.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

“Besides,” he adds, voice lighter now, “your form is atrocious. But your pout is lethal.”

You laugh—shaky, but real. He grins, triumphant.

“There she is..." he whispers.

You don’t spar again that night. Instead, you both sit in the ring, backs against the ropes, gloves off, drinks in hand brought up by someone who clearly knows better than to ask questions. Sylus lounges beside you, knee brushing yours, casual in a way that still buzzes under your skin.

He talks, and he listens, and he teases, and he lets you unravel yourself in pieces—not all at once, but enough to make you feel seen. Safe.

And when you leave, hours later, he walks you to the door and leans against the frame, arms crossed, lips curved.

“Next time,” he says, “we’ll do something that scares me.”

You raise a brow. “Does anything scare you?”

“Just one thing,” he replies, eyes holding yours.

You want to ask what.

“But that’s a discussion for another time.” He taps your forehead, leading you to his car. his hand, extended, waited for yours without force, without pressure.

Just... waiting.

And when you placed yours in his, he didn’t let go.

CALEB

You could hear his grin through the message.

Got us two VIP passes to the Amusement Park’s Firelight Festival tonight. :p Rides, food, fireworks… and a parade with glowing dragons, just like the old stories you love. ;)

And then, like it wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t making your stomach twist in a dozen knots .

 Come ready to fly,.

You smiled when you read it.

You really did. He remembered that you liked parades and fireworks. You’d told him when you hung out with him once.

And then immediately set your phone down and groaned into your pillow.

Rides. He said rides.

He didn’t know. You never told him. It was embarrassing. Heights just... did something to you. The tilt of the world. The way it all dropped away beneath you like gravity forgot how to love you. That sick feeling in your stomach, the one that clung like static even hours after you were back on solid ground.

You liked fireworks. Parades. Candy stalls and fuzzy prizes you’d never win.

But coasters? Loops? Platforms you could see through?

Nope.

And yet, here you were — standing at the entrance of the park’s glowing gates. breath caught somewhere between your throat and your heart, watching him wave at you from across the crowd.

Caleb was all light. All warmth. That stupidly charming smile that could’ve powered the whole island. He was in his casual clothes – Sleeveless white shirt, baggy jeans and shades and his dark hair was a little tousled like he’d run here.

“Hey!” he beamed, trotting toward you. “Look at you. You showed up. Thought I’d have to fly over and drag you in myself.”

You laughed — or tried to. “Would’ve been easier if you had.”

“Oh? You saying you wanted me to sweep you off your feet?” He winked, already walking backward toward the gates, tugging you by the wrist. “Next time just say the word and I will come pick you up from your doorstep.”

He had the same boyish grin as always. Same lopsided energy. But beneath the laughter, there was something tight about him. Focused. Like he was trying to be carefree — like he was carrying something heavier than he let on.

You squeezed his hand. He looked at you, surprised. Then softened.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied. “You?”

“Always,” he said, but didn’t let go. “And even more so now that you are here.”

The park was a living constellation. Lights danced in every direction — strung along towers, wrapped around trees, woven into the very air like stardust. People bustled by with caramel popcorn and glowing necklaces. Children squealed. Music floated from every corner.

And high above it all, looming like metal beasts with neon eyes, were the rides.

You avoided looking at them.

Caleb was thrilled. He practically vibrated next to you, pointing out different ones, telling stories, dropping trivia. “That one,” he said, eyes sparkling as he pointed at a monstrous looped coaster. “It was inspired by the early zero-G training modules for astronauts. Goes up to 3Gs on the final drop. Wanna try it?”

You smiled too fast. Too wide. “Sure.”

With VIP passes, the wait time was almost non-existent.

You stared up at the metal track. It twisted into the clouds, lights flashing like a heartbeat. Every scream that echoed down from the peak made your stomach twist tighter. You tried to breathe.

Caleb was rambling about pilot protocols and how G-force affected vision, and you were nodding, smiling, trying to look normal.

But the closer you got, the worse it felt.

Your hands shook when you buckled in.

Caleb noticed. “You cold?”

You shook your head too fast. “I’m fine.”

The harness clicked into place. The floor dropped out from beneath your feet.

And then — the ascent.

The world shrank beneath you. Each click of the coaster’s gears echoed like a countdown.

You felt him look at you.

“…Hey?”

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

Your hands were white-knuckled fists. Your eyes were squeezed shut. Breathing shallow. Chest tight.

“…Hey.”

His voice was gentler now.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You did.

He was watching you. Really watching you — not with teasing, not with that easy charm. With concern. With care.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked softly, the lightest tremble in his voice.

“I didn’t want to ruin this evening…” you whispered, ashamed.

The ride lurched — nearly at the peak now. A second more and it would drop.

The wind screamed as the peak crested.

He reached over — twisted in his seat, even with the restraints — and grabbed your hand with his left. “Close your eyes. I’ve got you.”

It was warm. Heavy.

But steady.

“Hold on to me,” he said, voice low. “Don’t look down. Don’t think about anything else. Just me.”

And then — the fall.

You screamed.

Not just out of fear but because it was everything all at once. The terror. The relief. The way Caleb held your hand the entire time, grounding you when the sky fell away.

When the ride slowed, your breathing did too.

You didn’t let go.

He didn’t ask you to.

Later, you sat on the grass, away from the lights, a bag of half-eaten cotton candy between you. The fireworks were a long way from happening and there was time to kill.

Caleb leaned back on one hand, the other tucked around your shoulder.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“For what?”

“We’ve been here for a while now because I did something stupid. I ruined the evening for you... You were so excited.”

“I didn’t bring you up here to make you uncomfortable.” he said finally. Soft. Almost guilty.

You winced. “You didn’t. I just…”

“You hate heights.”

He gave a sheepish little smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You think I dragged you out here for the rollercoasters?”

You glanced at him.

“I did it for the fireworks. For the stupid nebula cotton candy. For the look on your face when the parade started. For you. Not the rides.”

You looked down. “I just didn’t want to seem—”

“I don’t need you to be fearless,” he said. “I just need you to be you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You swallowed hard.

He tugged you in closer. “I’m serious. If you’re scared, if you’re upset, if you hate rollercoasters — I want to know. I want to know you. Not some version of you that’s trying to be what you think I want.”

You looked up at him, eyes stinging a little.

“I do like the parade though,” you whispered.

He smiled , soft and golden, all heart. “Good. Because I booked the best spot for it.”

You tilted your head. “How?”

“I’m a Colonel in the Farspace Fleet,” he said with a wink. “Perks of the uniform.”

You laughed. The sound felt free now.

He watched you with a look you couldn’t name. Something warm. Something more.

Then he said, softly, “Thanks for trusting me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Thanks for holding my hand.”

He skipped the thrill rides without hesitation, instead loading your arms with candy and glowsticks and ridiculous souvenirs. You sat together on a private bench as the parade passed by, a blur of shimmering lights and music. When the fireworks finally exploded overhead in bursts of gold and violet, he leaned just a bit closer.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said, his voice low and almost reverent beneath the sky’s celebration. “Even if the rides were a bust.”

“I’d go anywhere with you, Caleb,” you said.

And this time, it wasn’t a lie.

ZAYNE

You stand in front of the mirror, tilting your head as you assess your outfit for the third time. Casual. Put-together—but not trying too hard. The denim jacket is a little snug across your shoulders, the black tee just low-cut enough to count as flirty if Zayne noticed such things. He always seems so calm, so unfazed. And yet, every time he looks at you, your stomach flips like a coin midair.

You check your phone. Zayne.

I’ll pick you up in ten. Wear something comfortable.

Comfortable? That’s rich, considering what he’s roped you into.

Pool.

You had smiled like it was nothing when he’d brought it up over coffee earlier this week, his fingers casually tapping the rim of his mug, eyes steady on yours. “There’s this place I used to go to when I first joined Akso. It’s quiet. Good for unwinding. Would you want to join me? I can teach if you’d like.”

And you, ever the glutton for punishment, had said yes.

You’ve never played pool in your life. Something about the geometry, the angles, the calculated strength of the strike… none of it sounded appealing to you. Your hand-eye coordination is barely enough for catching projectiles thrown at you. But it’s Zayne. Calm, composed, frustratingly attractive Zayne. And he invited you. That has to mean something.

The pool hall is tucked between a laundromat and a late-night ramen bar. A few patrons linger at other tables, but Zayne seems to know the owner, and within minutes, he’s leading you to a far table in the corner, away from the noise.

He’s already in his element, chalking his cue. “We’ll start with the basics,” he says, offering you a stick. “Grip. Posture. Precision. Pool’s all about intention.”

You take the cue stick and try to mirror him. You can already feel the weight of the evening pressing at the back of your neck like an invisible hand.

The first round is a disaster.

Your fingers curled around the smooth wood, already clammy. You lined up awkwardly, bent forward, and—

Crack.

The cue ball wobbled. It barely tapped the triangle of colored balls, scattering them half-heartedly.

"Solid attempt," Zayne said, not unkindly, but with a teasing tilt to his voice. “You aimed with your heart, not your eyes.”

You told yourself to relax. He didn’t expect you to be great. He wasn’t like that.

Was he?

Zayne moved with confidence, sinking two shots in a row. His posture was perfect, movements fluid. When he lined up his next shot, he looked back at you briefly, one brow raised as if to say, You watching? You nodded, smiled. Pretended to be fascinated by the game instead of calculating how many more turns you’d have to humiliate yourself.

Your second shot went worse than the first. Your hand slipped on the bridge, the ball skidded, and you felt your cheeks heat. Zayne came up behind you then, gently placing his hand on your arm to guide your posture.

“Here,” he murmured, breath warm near your ear. “Relax your grip.”

Your fingers froze.

He was so close. His hand so steady. Yours... not.

You nodded. Said nothing. Tried again. Failed again.

The next few rounds were even worse. You miss the cue ball entirely once. Twice. Then you scratch it. You try to laugh, but it comes out thin. Zayne doesn’t scold you, he’s not cruel, but he’s precise, his words clipped with surgical clarity.

“Your wrist’s too loose.” “You’re leaning too far. Keep your core stable.” “Don’t look at the cue, look through the shot.”

You nod. Try again. Fail. Again.

With each miss, your shoulders tighten. Your knuckles go white around the stick. You feel the blood drain from your face as a couple nearby chuckles softly. You know it’s not about you, but your skin crawls with embarrassment anyway. You didn’t like people watching you mess up.

Zayne watches, silent for a few beats. Then he speaks, voice lower this time. “You’re holding your breath.”

You hadn’t realized you were.

He places his cue stick down gently and walks toward you, his steps soundless on the hardwood floor. He stops just within reach, but doesn’t touch you.

“You’re not enjoying this.” he says softly.

You froze mid-bend.

“I—” you began, but he raised a hand.

“Don’t lie.”

You straightened slowly, cue stick still in hand. “I didn’t want to disappoint you,” you admitted, voice barely above the background hum of the jukebox. “You’re so good at this. I just wanted to spend time with you.”

The silence between you was soft, not sharp.

“I invited you here because I like spending time with you,” he said. “Not because I needed a pool partner.”

You blinked at him, uncertain.

He continued, voice lower now. “I can be... singularly focused. Too much, sometimes. But I don’t want you pretending to be okay with something just because I picked it.”

Your grip on the cue loosened. “I didn’t want to ruin the evening.”

He tilted his head. “It would ruin it more if you spent it uncomfortable.”

You want to deny it. Laugh it off. But your throat is tight, and your heart feels like it’s pressed against a wall.

“I just—” You force a shrug. “I wanted to spend time with you. That’s all.”

Zayne studies your face. “So you dragged yourself into something you hate just to do that?”

“I don’t hate it,” you mutter. “I just... don’t belong here. Pool isn’t exactly my thing.”

His expression shifts, not amusement, not disappointment. Just something softer. Quieter. The kind of look someone gives when they see through you instead of at you.

“I noticed,” he murmurs. “Your shoulders were locked. You didn’t blink once in thirty seconds.”

You try to smile. “So much for subtlety.”

Zayne chuckles. It’s a quiet sound, rare, but warm. “I’m a doctor,” he says. “Reading body language is half the job.”

There’s a pause. Then he leans forward—not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can smell the faint trace of cologne on his shirt. He lowers his voice. “Next time you want to spend time with me... just say it. You don’t have to contort yourself into something you're not. It wouldn’t feel right if you were uncomfortable the whole time.”

You blink, stunned into silence.

“I don’t want your time if it costs you your ease,” he adds. “That’s not the kind of presence I want to be in your life.”

Your chest aches, not with shame, but something closer to relief. The kind that comes when someone lifts the weight off your shoulders before you even realize how heavy it’s been.

He straightens up and gently takes the cue stick from your hands.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s ditch this and go to that ramen place next door. You can make fun of my spice tolerance there. Does that sound good to you?”

You grin, heart hammering, the tension finally cracking like ice. “Only if you let me steal your gyoza.”

“Negotiable,” he says, brushing past you with the ghost of a smile. “Come. The night is far from over. You don’t have to change who you are around me,” he said, tone calm but sincere. “I’d rather have the truth.”

Your heart thudded, unsteady but warm.

You nodded. “Next time... you’ll be the one out of your element.”

He smirked. “I look forward to it.”

And he meant it.

XAVIER

The elevator hums quietly as you check your reflection for the fifth time.

Comfortable. Cute. Relaxed. That was the goal.

You’d chosen your favorite knit sweater — the one just baggy enough to hang off one shoulder — and paired it with soft leggings, fuzzy socks, and a warm-toned scrunchie pulling your hair back in a loose twist. A look that said, “I didn’t try that hard,” while clearly being planned down to the scent of the vanilla lip balm on your mouth.

Because this wasn’t just dinner.

It was dinner at Xavier’s apartment.

You cradle the two grocery bags in your arms a little tighter, filled with neatly packed slices of marbled beef, a few delicate cuts of lamb, some fresh shitake, enoki, and bok choy, plus the greens. There’s also a small six-pack of fruit-flavored soda you thought he might like — and two mochi ice cream desserts in your bag's chill pouch.

You’d been excited all day.

Xavier’s apartment was what you expected: neat, quiet, lightly decorated in soft colors and odd trinkets he didn’t think twice about but made your eyes linger.

In the center of the living space, a low table had been arranged with two cushions on either side and a full hot pot setup. The induction stove was small but new, clean and white, already buzzing  gently beneath a divided metal pot. Steam curled lazily into the air.

He padded barefoot across the room, sleeves rolled, hair loose and a little ruffled from sleep, and took the bags from your arms wordlessly. When you tried to insist you could help, he simply said, “Sit. You’re the guest.”

And so you sat.

And then he poured the broth packets in. The setup was clean and minimalist, just like him — a pale wood table, small ceramic sauce dishes, dipping bowl sets, and a yin-yang shaped hot pot cooker with two separate sides of broth.

Except this time… both sides were red.

Not a gentle tomato-based red.

Not one side miso, not mushroom.

The liquid turned dark crimson almost instantly.

You blinked.

“Hot Mala. It’s… strong,” he said. He stirred with a lazy rhythm, the aroma already clawing at the back of your throat.

You swallowed hard. Bright crimson oil glistened on the surface, flecked with floating peppercorns and crushed chili. You felt your soul begin to sweat.

“...Both sides?” you asked, feigning a casual glance.

“Spicy’s better,” Xavier said, crouching at the table. “I only bought the twin-pot style because the seller said it was popular.”

Your tongue already tingled at the idea of the red broth. You weren’t just bad with spice — you were barely functioning around a mildly spicy samosa. Anything more, and your eyes would water and your face would burn like a reactor core meltdown.

But you looked at him — quiet, warm, fond in that unreadable way of his as he placed dipping bowls beside the stove.

And you smiled.  You did what you always did with people who mattered more to you than your own comfort.

Because the thought that you might ruin this calm, carefully arranged evening over something like spice tolerance made your chest tighten.

“It looks perfect,” you said.

He sat across from you, cross-legged and relaxed in dark joggers and a white hoodie, a bold choice for hot pot, especially with the red broth.

He leaned over the table with all the grace of a sleepy cat, selecting slices of meat and guiding them into the red broth with long chopsticks.

“You brought good cuts,” he noted, nodding. “I trust your judgment.”

And then, a pause — his eyes narrowed a little at the pile of greens beside him.

“Except… this.”

You laughed softly. “It’s not that bad.”

He gave the vegetables a look that could only be described as betrayal. “It smells like sadness.”

You tried not to laugh. But your heart twisted. Not because of his words.

Because while he bantered the smell of chili oil and peppercorn was already beginning to sting your throat. You reached for your dipping bowl, adding soy sauce, onions, minced garling, lime and sesame paste with trembling fingers, trying to busy yourself.

And when he dropped your favorite mushroom into the red broth, you didn’t protest.

You only smiled.

The first bite singed.

You chewed slowly, nodding like it was fine, like your tongue wasn’t slowly blistering from the inside out. You chased it with soda. Swallowed a second piece — lamb this time — and made a soft sound that you hoped passed for enjoyment but probably sounded more like someone dying of quiet regret.

You blinked the tears back.

He watched you.

You looked down at your bowl.

“Too spicy,” he said, softly.

Your fingers tightened on the chopsticks. “No. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

You flinched, barely. He was still neutral in tone — not accusatory. Just… certain. Like a man who already knew the sky was blue and didn’t need convincing.

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” you said quietly. “You were excited.”

“I’m always excited to see you,” he said, without a hint of irony. “But I’m not excited to watch you suffer.”

That stilled you.

“I thought you didn’t notice.”

“I notice everything about you.” His chopsticks stilled above the pot. “I just don’t always know what I’m supposed to do with it.”

You laughed despite yourself, hand gripping your drink as you coughed lightly. “Okay. I admit it. I’m bad with spice. But I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Why?”

You hesitated. “Because I… uh… You invited me. I didn’t want to be difficult.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You’d rather be in pain than tell me the truth?”

You winced. “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It is,” he said gently. Then added, “But I’ve done worse.”

Then he shifted.

With a flick of his wrist, he transferred the vegetables — yes, even the sad greens — and a generous portion of meat into a plate. He grabbed the serving ladle and began to scoop the broth from one section of the pot into a bowls.

“I have a mild instant soup base in the kitchen, it's delicious too.” he said, standing up. “Give me five minutes.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

You blinked again, but this time not from spice.

“Why?”

“Because you’re here,” he said simply, walking to the kitchen. “And I like that you’re here.”

Your throat tightened.

The new broth was clear, soft, comforting. The moment he brought it out, you wanted to cry.

Not just from the relief of no longer melting from the inside out.

But because someone had noticed.

Listened.

And changed something just for you.

“You didn’t have to,” you said softly as you ate. “Really.”

“I know.”

And then, as if to demonstrate further solidarity, he reached into the spicy broth, pulled out a bok choy… and stared at it like it was his mortal enemy. Then, with slow determination, he bit into it.

His whole face remained unchanged.

But you saw the twitch.

“…Was it worth it?” you asked.

“No,” he said, deadpan. “But now we’re even.”

Later, when you left, he walked you to the door barefoot, holding the empty mochi container like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Next time,” he said, after a pause, “you pick the broth.”

“Next time?”

He blinked. “If you want.”

You looked up at him.

He stood in the doorway — hoodie sleeves half-pushed, hair still tousled, the faint scent of chili oil clinging to him like a memory. His expression was unreadable again. But the warmth behind it? That wasn’t hard to see at all.

“I’d like that,” you said.

And you were already planning it.

RAFAYEL

You shouldn’t have said yes.

That thought rings in your head as the last rays of evening sunlight melt into amber, stretching across the mirror-glass surface of the lake. Everything is quiet — too quiet — save for the light chirp of insects and the steady ripple of water as Rafayel swims deeper, his silhouette cutting sleek lines through the reflection of the sky.

He’s graceful.

Unfairly so.

Water clings to his skin like it belongs there, catching on his lashes, beading along his shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle down his back and arms as he moves. And you, standing at the shallow edge in your swimsuit, arms folded like a makeshift barrier, feel like a tangled bundle of nerves held together by one wrong decision.

You could swim. Technically. You just… didn’t like it.

Not the lack of footing. Not the invisible things beneath the surface. Not the way your limbs felt disconnected and sluggish, or how you could never quite get the rhythm of your strokes right without swallowing water or tipping awkwardly sideways like an overfilled tote bag.

It was clumsy. You were clumsy. You’d passed the mandatory swimming exam at school, survived a few hotel pools on holidays ut lakes? Open water? With things brushing against your legs, invisible weeds tangling near your feet, the ground disappearing beneath you with nothing to hold?

It made your skin crawl.

But the way Rafayel’s eyes lit up when he talked about it… You didn’t want to ruin that.

So you came.

You still remember yesterday evening when Rafayel had flashed that impish grin and tossed you with “Wear something cute. I’m kidnapping you for a swimming adventure. No complaints,” — you’d said yes.

Because he was Raf.

And part of you always said yes to him. Hoping, stupidly, that it  might be something worth remembering.

Maybe he’d laugh. Maybe he’d tease. Maybe he’d say something flippant and walk away…

Or maybe — just maybe — he’d notice you like you notice him.

“You’re not gonna melt, cutie,” he calls from a few meters out, resting easily on the surface of the water. He floats with infuriating elegance, his arms outstretched and his purple hair haloed around his head. “Or are you actually made of sugar?”

You snort softly, hugging yourself tighter. “I just… don’t want to ruin the peace. It’s nice just watching.”

“You mean it’s nice watching me.” He grins. “Go ahead. Get your fill. I don’t blame you…”

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

And that was Rafayel in a sentence — smug, sharp-tongued, beautiful enough to get away with it. But underneath the teasing, you knew his invitation wasn’t just about swimming.

He wanted to share something.

And you wanted to be part of that world , his world , even if it made your stomach twist.

So you step in.

Slowly. The water’s cool against your skin, not cold, but shocking in contrast to the warm evening air. You move step by careful step, feeling the soft sand shift beneath your toes, the occasional ripple brushing your calf like phantom fingers.

It’s fine.

You can do this.

You make it chest-deep before you hear his voice again.

“Come closer.”

He’s farther now, maybe eight or nine meters out, treading water with that casual, effortless grace.

You hesitate.

He notices.

There’s a pause — one of those strange suspended silences that exist only between people who know each other too well and not well enough at the same time.

Then you smile. Not because you feel okay, but because you want him to feel okay.

And you swim.

Clumsily. Arms too wide, breath too shallow. You keep your chin above water, trying not to panic, trying not to think about the darkness beneath your feet or the silt that clouds around your knees when you kick.

But then — something brushes you.

A slip of lake weed? A fish? A strand of hair?

It doesn’t matter.

Terror shoots up your spine like ice.

You gasp sharply, flail, and instinct kicks in — wild, desperate kicks, arms slapping water, trying to go anywhere but where you are. You can’t feel the bottom anymore. You can’t find a rhythm. Panic closes your throat like a fist—

And then he’s there.

Strong hands caught you.

You didn’t even realize he’d come until his arms wrapped around your waist, one hand steady at your back, the other curling under your thigh to anchor you as you trembled.

“Hey. Hey,” Rafayel’s voice was lower now. All the teasing had dropped out. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

You tried to speak, but your throat burned. Your hands clutched at his shoulders instead, nails digging in. He didn’t flinch.

His face is close. Closer than it’s ever been. Water drips from his lashes, and for once, there’s no smirk, no teasing spark. Just something… protective. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Breathe. You’re fine.”

And somehow, you do.

He holds you for a moment longer. You feel the strength in him, the calm. The quiet assurance that, at least in this moment, nothing would dare happen to you.

And then you’re moving.

Back toward the shore.

He doesn’t drag. He glides, guiding you like something precious — like you’re worth holding onto.

“I didn’t know,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, “You should’ve told me you didn’t want to swim.”

“I didn’t… I thought I could handle it,” you croaked out, cheeks burning with shame. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Idiot, guppy” he muttered, but there was no venom in it. “You think I brought you here to watch you suffer?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The humiliation was sharp and bitter in your chest, mixing with the leftover panic.

He walked the last few steps, carrying you until the water kissed only your calves. When he set you down, your legs wobbled.

“You could’ve drowned,” he said quietly. “And then what would I do? Swim around this stupid lake yelling at your ghost?” He knew he wouldn’t have let that happen. So did you. But he was making a fair point.

That startled a laugh out of you, hoarse and awkward, but it made him smile.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to say no to you.”

He looked at you, for a long moment. Eyes clearer than usual. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he said. “If you want to spend time with me, just say so. You don’t have to drown for it, cutie.”

You blinked. Then frowned. “So what, you’re not gonna make fun of me?”

“Oh no,” he smirked, the old glint back in his eye. “I am absolutely making fun of you. But—” He reached for your towel, flicking it playfully over your head, “…only after I make sure you're not cold, scared, or crying.”

He plopped down beside you on the ground, towel around his shoulders, hair dripping. The lake shimmered behind him, but he didn’t spare it another glance.

He looked only at you. “You’re an idiot,” he says, voice bright with performative scorn. “A pretty, sweet, stubborn idiot.”

You blink.

He reaches out and tugs a dries from your wet hair with surprisingly gentle fingers using the towel.  Then, with a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, he says, “Next time, you sit on the shore, look pretty, and cheer for me. Deal?”

You open your mouth to protest.

“And,” he adds, lifting a finger, “You’ll bring snacks. Preferably something cold. I’ll get out, pretend to suffer from exertion, and you’ll feed me with loving devotion while telling me how brave I am.”

You laugh. This time, genuinely.

“…Deal.”

He bumped your shoulder with his, light and easy. “That’s my good little guppy.”

And somehow, as the light faded and the stars blinked into view above the treetops — you didn’t feel so out of your depth anymore.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

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[demon-master-zero]

isekai and in over my head.

chapter three │ there's no wiki for this.

it starts with you waking up in what might be a coma, probably isn't a otome game, and is definitely not your life. It ends with five dangerously attractive men forming an unofficial committee to keep you alive, loved, and under constant emotional surveillance.

ABOUT │ 2.3 k words. f!reader x 5 Li (non-romantic so far). slice of life.

TAGS │ isekai. for shits and giggles. flirting. banter. fluff. survivors guilt.

NOTE: wow. absolutely wow. i went in to this not expecting anything. just writing for my own sanity. and the fact that you guys love it this much? fuck this community is amazing. thank you sm for the support!

INDEX │ chapter one ✧ chapter two ✧ chapter three ✧

chapter three │ there's no wiki for this.

THE DOOR CLICKED...shut behind Tara with a chirpy, “Rest up!” and the second her footsteps faded down the hall, I dropped the smile I’d been holding like a tray of drinks that had overstayed its welcome.

One beat.

Two.

Then I doubled forward, bracing my hands on my knees, and let out a noise I can only describe as part whimper, part wheeze, part this-can’t-be-happening-to-me.

Because I’d done it.

I had successfully faked normalcy long enough to be left alone.

And now—I was alone.

In an apartment I didn’t recognize but was apparently mine. Sleek. Immaculately organized. Suspiciously dust-free. The kind of place that came scented like bergamot and quiet breakdowns. Stainless steel accents. Dimmable lights. Not a single dish in the sink.

I was standing in someone else’s life.

Someone composed. Someone capable. Someone who didn’t show up to their interdimensional apocalypse wearing bloodstained pants and one sock.

I stumbled over to the coffee table—real wood, glass top, coasters no one ever used—and collapsed onto the couch like a marionette whose strings had just been very politely severed.

A framed photo on the sideboard caught my eye.

I blinked at it. Once. Twice.

It took three full seconds to realize I was in it.

Me. Smiling. Positioned neatly between Caleb and Zayne. All of us laughing like we shared inside jokes and complicated history and the occasional brush with death.

Which, sure, might’ve been sweet—if it weren’t borderline existentially catastrophic.

Because I didn’t belong in that photo. Didn’t belong in this apartment. Didn’t belong in this story.

Not with them. Not here. Not like this.

I grabbed a throw pillow and clutched it like a life preserver. The silence pressed in, thick and padded, the kind that didn’t care how close I was to falling apart.

My legs wouldn’t stop twitching. My heart kept thudding like it was trying to get ahead of something. I couldn’t breathe without noticing how weird breathing had become.

I wasn’t panicking. Not yet.

But the runway was cleared. Engines on. Takeoff imminent.

I leaned forward, pulled the pillow tighter, and muttered, “Okay. Okay. Let’s think.”

Which was optimistic, really—considering half my brain was still screaming about Zayne’s jawline and the other half was building an isekai survival flowchart using crayons and fear.

I shifted the pillow to my lap and reached for the notepad I’d found earlier—tucked beside the bookshelf like a secret. Cream pages. Gilded edges. It looked far too expensive to be defiled by my nonsense.

Naturally, I grabbed a pen and got to work.

The Isekai Disaster Log. Title at the top. Underlined. Bold. Possibly cursed.

Step One: Identify Method of Entry. – Truck-kun? No. – Fell into a book? Also no. – Video game glitch? Closer… but there was no dramatic boss fight screen-suck. – Summoned by higher power? Still pending.

I tapped the pen against my lips, trying not to think about how unhinged this all looked—sitting cross-legged in someone else’s apartment (mine, technically, fictionally), scribbling genre tropes like a conspiracy theorist with a soft spot for K-dramas.

Because that’s what I was, wasn’t I? A placeholder. In high-waisted pants.

Next Section: Potential Exit Routes. – Defeat final boss → unlock return. – Earn true love → reset cycle. – Regain original body → body-swap reversal. – Die → classic dramatic reset (not ideal). – Confess truth → universe implodes?

That last one I underlined three times. Then drew a skull. Then a frowny face. It made me feel slightly better.

I tossed the pen aside and flopped backward into the cushions, arms flung wide like a swooning opera widow. The ceiling stared back—matte, pale, too sleek to be real. Probably had hidden heating vents and mood lighting triggered by emotional instability.

I blinked.

“Okay,” I said to no one. “Let’s say this is an isekai. Let’s say I got pulled into the body of the character I’ve played for years. Let’s say I’ve overwritten her like some cursed save file from hell.”

I sat up again—faster than necessary—and seized the notepad like it had personally offended me.

New Heading: Ethical Implications. – I stole her life. – I stole her wardrobe. – I stole her contact list, her unread messages, and—oh my god—I stole her men. – Her SSRs. – Her entire romance arc with the most devoted, animated, emotionally generous love interests ever coded.

I scrawled across the page: I AM THE PROBLEM. IT’S ME.

Taylor Swift would be ashamed.

Some small, rational part of me whispered, It’s not like you meant to. You didn’t hit “Steal MC Identity” in the settings menu.

But that part was quickly drowned out by a louder, nastier voice—one that sounded suspiciously like the YouTube comment section under a spoilery reaction video:

You’re ruining the canon. They loved her, not you. You’re breaking the story. You’re just a fan with access.

My throat tightened.

I reached for the water bottle on the counter, then stopped. It wasn’t mine. Nothing in here was mine. Not the framed photos. Not the notes in my inbox. Not the half-unwrapped gift on the kitchen island with a tag that read:

Don’t open until tomorrow – C.

I didn’t even know if C was Caleb or someone else entirely.

The guilt settled in my chest like a paperweight—heavy, cold, polished by years of fandom, lore, and longing.

I was a reader who’d fallen into the game.

But I wasn’t supposed to edit it. I was supposed to cheer from the sidelines. Cry when the confession finally happened. Not be the one getting tackled mid-battle by Caleb or scanned under sexy-doctor scrutiny by Zayne.

I pressed both palms to my face.

What if I couldn’t leave? What if this wasn’t temporary?

What if I was stuck here forever—playing the part of a woman who had earned every bit of love this world gave her, while I just flinched every time someone touched my shoulder?

My hands dropped. I stared at the notepad.

Pages torn. Corners dog-eared. Ink smudged by my own uncertainty.

A new plan began to form.

Not an exit strategy. That wasn’t coming anytime soon.

But a coping mechanism. A survival guide. A soft reboot.

If I couldn’t leave—if I was here for the long haul—then I would be so nice. So harmless. So deeply inoffensive that if the real MC ever came back, she’d look at my log of wholesome side quests and say: Wow. You really took care of my save file.

I nodded to myself. Out loud.

“I’ll smile more,” I told the wall. “I’ll bake muffins for Caleb, even if I nearly die turning on a space-age oven.”

And above all?

I would say nothing.

Not one syllable. Not a single whisper about who I really was.

Because this world had rules.

And I had read enough manhwa to know exactly what happens when you break them.

Best-case scenario? Narrative collapse. Worst-case? A tear in reality. Everyone dies. Caleb cries. The End.

So I was going to be good.

Like, really good.

I was going to smile at everyone like I’d graduated top of my class at the Hunter’s Association Charm Academy. I’d say things like “great teamwork” and “thank you for your service” with such radiant sincerity that even Zayne would log it as medically viable.

I’d become the kind of woman people described as “so lovely” and “just a joy” and maybe even “strangely polite given the circumstances.”

With that sacred vow in place, I folded the notepad shut, gave a resolute little nod, and stood.

Immediately tripping over my own foot on the way to the sink.

Because grace, it seemed, was not included in my starter kit.

Still, I rinsed my face. Brushed out the knots in my hair with something called an ionizing detangler. Changed into a pair of sweatpants I prayed were actually mine and not something the real MC had once emotionally bonded with. Every motion was deliberate. Precise. Good girl on her best behavior.

I was going to pass for normal if it killed me.

Which, frankly, it still might.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Polite. Almost apologetic.

I froze mid-sip from a pastel mug that read: Hunters Do It Better.

One gentle knock. Then another.

A beat. Then—

“Your lights are still on.”

The voice was deep. Calm. The kind of voice you’d hear during a power outage and just trust. Familiar, too—like velvet cut with steel.

I crept toward the door like it might bite.

Then—

“It’s Xavier.”

My entire soul left the chat.

No. No-no-no-no—

Because Caleb and Zayne coexisting in the same timeline made sense.

But Xavier?

The quiet, lethal swordsman with the voice of a lullaby and a gaze that could skewer you into next week?

That meant—

Oh god.

That meant they were all here. All of them.

Not spaced out by chapter unlocks. Not split across plot branches. All. Together. In canon proximity.

I flung the door open more out of panic than purpose.

Xavier stood there like a moodboard come to life—hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair slightly tousled, expression unreadable. One hand in his pocket. The other holding—

A thermos.

He blinked, slow and unbothered.

“I saw your lights.”

I nodded. Then realized I was nodding like a socially anxious bobblehead and stopped.

“I—yeah. Lights.” I cleared my throat. “They’re… on.”

Another blink. Another pause.

Then, tilting his head just slightly:

“You okay?”

Which, to be fair, was a complicated question.

Physically? Fine. Mentally? A patchwork quilt of anime tropes and impostor syndrome. Spiritually? Somewhere between “lost in a cutscene” and “actively dodging God’s gaze.”

“I’m great,” I lied. “Perfect, even.”

He gave a small nod—slow, deliberate, as if filing the answer away in a database for later review.

Then he held out the thermos.

“Chamomile.”

My brain short-circuited.

Because nothing in the romance route prep guides—nothing in the character notes or fandom wikis or fan-translated interviews—had ever warned me about this.

Not quiet night visits. Not sleep tea. Not the soft weight of care wrapped in a mundane gesture.

“Oh,” I said, brilliant as ever. “Thanks. That’s… nice.”

“I can stay.”

He said it without drama. Without loaded meaning. Just a simple, solid offer, like staying was something people just did when they noticed someone might need it.

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Then, very, very dramatically—

Shut the door.

Because this world didn’t make sense.

Because if Xavier was here, calm and lethal and handing out herbal tea like it was standard field protocol—

Then Sylus might be next.

And Rafayel.

And if that happened?

I really would die. Right there. On canon soil. Of romance-induced heart failure.

From the other side of the door, his voice came again—low, steady, perfectly calm.

“If you change your mind…”

I didn’t answer.

Just leaned my forehead against the cool wood and whispered, half to myself, half to the devs:

“Fucking hell, InFold. Are you trying to murder me?”

I stayed like that for a while.

Just breathing.

Forehead pressed to a door that had no idea how high the stakes were. That didn’t care about timelines or fan theories or character routes or the logistical nightmare of making muffins in a kitchen where you didn’t recognize the knives.

The air on the other side stayed still.

Eventually, footsteps.

Not angry. Not impatient. Just quiet.

Xavier didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t knock again. He simply left—offering space like someone who understood the weight of silence and had no desire to fill it.

Which was kind, really.

And also maddening.

I peeled myself off the door like a sticker someone had given up on and slumped back into the living room, thermos still in hand. The tea was warm—floral, faintly sweet. It tasted like a lullaby I hadn’t earned.

I sank into the couch and stared at the ceiling.

Plain. Elegant. Ambivalent to my suffering.

“I’m in a dating sim,” I muttered.

It wasn’t a revelation. More like a Google Maps reroute: You are here, even though I’d known for hours because nothing around me had changed. Except here, the landscape was made of heartbreak rendered in high definition, elite military uniforms, and a doctor who looked like the human embodiment of a soft-focus lens.

And they were all in love.

Not with me.

But with her.

The one who belonged. The real MC.

I looked down at my hand—the same hand Caleb had held, Zayne had examined, Xavier had offered tea to—and curled it slowly into a fist.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered. “But I have it.”

So maybe I couldn’t fix it. Maybe I couldn’t undo the weird narrative tumbleweed that rolled me into this story. Or explain why no one could see through me. Or how I’d managed to fall face-first into the Super Bowl of boyfriend content without so much as a strategy guide.

But I could survive it.

One kind gesture at a time.

I would become the world’s politest interloper. The most considerate impostor. The human equivalent of a please and thank you wrapped in seasonally appropriate gift wrap.

I would make muffins. I would compliment everything. I would be so pathologically nice that if the universe did collapse, it would at least whisper, thank you for your service on the way out.

And I would say nothing.

Not to Caleb. Not to Zayne. Not to Xavier. Not to Sylus or Rafayel or anyone else who might appear in this dimension like it was just another Tuesday.

No world-breaking honesty. No selfish confessions. Just saintlike patience, passive support, and possibly chamomile-induced enlightenment.

“Okay,” I exhaled.

I curled into the corner of the couch, clutching the thermos like it held divine answers.

Lights still on. Ceiling still boring. Tea still warm.

“I can do this.”

Beat.

“I think.”

To be continued...

♡ taglist : @spicypomegrana2 @asilaysdead @sunshine-angel08 @demon-master-zero @mosscoveredmist @glassandhoney @adrasteiax @mentaltrouble2201 @inutrasha94 @aweebs @noxus123 @in-a-far-away-land @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

[demon-master-zero]

Unreliable narrators are one hell of an idea. You can just write whatever, and if a reader points out "hey the way this scene happened should not be physically possible if it's done the way this character described it", you can just be like "yeah I don't trust that fucker either."

[demon-master-zero]

✶ . ၄၃ . FIC WRITER ASK GAME !

any [insert __] is for the sender to fill in :)

1 ⧽. if you could sit down and finish any one of your wips without anything stopping you (time, tiredness, etc), which fic would you choose? tell us about it if you want!

2 ⧽. if you could sit down and finish any completely new fic without anything stopping you (time, tiredness, etc), what would you write? tell us about it if you want!

3 ⧽. what's something you like about your writing?

4 ⧽. is there an au or trope that you haven't written before, but would want to try?

5 ⧽. is there a certain kind of fic that feels the most satisfying to finish? any reason why?

6 ⧽. if you were to write a part two/sequel to a fic, what fic would you want to write it for?

7 ⧽. is there a fic you wish you received feedback on, but didn't get any/much? this ask game is asking someone else to then give feedback on said fic, pretty pretty please!!!

8 ⧽. what part of [insert fic] is your favorite?

9 ⧽. tell us about a wip/idea that you're excited about!

10 ⧽. what genre is generally the easiest or most enjoyable for you to write? which is the hardest?

11 ⧽. if you were to rewrite [insert fic] with [insert different character/ship] how do you think it might change?

12 ⧽. what's a song or two you associate with [insert fic]?

13 ⧽. do you have any writing projects/goals/plans you're working on/want to work on?

14 ⧽. is there anything outside of your normal content that you want to write?

15 ⧽. if you wrote a fic called [insert title] with [insert character/ship] what do you think it might be about?

16 ⧽. if you wrote a fic called [insert title] what character/ship would you want to write it for?

17 ⧽. are there any songs you want to write a songfic for?

18 ⧽. how do you want your writing to feel to your readers?

19 ⧽. give a hint/teaser about something you're writing without any context or explanation! tease us haha

20 ⧽. answer any one of the other questions that you want to!

[demon-master-zero]

"Why would I worship a god that sends children into life-threatening battles instead of warriors?" "...Are you talking about the magical girls, the choosen heroes, or the summoned people?" "I'm sorry, the WHAT?!"

[demon-master-zero]

Writing characters who don’t know they’re in love

(PS: but literally everyone else does and is so tired)

These characters aren’t clueless, no, they’re not walking around like, “love? never heard of her.” They know something’s going on, they just won’t admit it (not to themselves, not to anyone.) Maybe they’re scared of messing it up, or maybe they think the other person doesn’t feel the same. Maybe they’ve stuffed the feeling so deep even a NASA rover couldn’t dig it out.

Whatever the reason, they’re not avoiding the truth as much as they’re…rebranding it. Calling it “friendship” while giving each other their only jacket and dreaming about each other’s voices like it’s totally normal behavior.

ꕤ They don’t realize it’s love, but they notice everything else. They clock every mood shift, every absence, every little thing. They definitely  know when something’s off.

⇢ “You changed your hair.” ⇢ “You looked upset earlier.” ⇢ “You didn’t text me back and I panicked.” ⇢ “You weren’t at lunch and it felt weird.” ⇢ “Are you cold?” hands over jacket without a second thought

They don’t say “I love you,” but their actions scream it constantly.

ꕤ they get weird when someone else gets close They’re not jealous. No, how dare you think something like that… they’re just keeping an eye out. For safety... Or whatever."

⇢ “Who was that?” ⇢ “Oh, you’re hanging out with them again?” ⇢ “I just think it’s interesting how you never cancel on them.”

They don’t say it, but they hate the idea of being replaced. It stings more than they’re ready to admit.

ꕤ they make excuses to be around each other.

Literally inventing reasons to be in the same space.

⇢ “Wanna study together? I’m struggling with this topic.” (They’re not.) ⇢ “Oh, I was just in the area.” (They weren’t.) ⇢ “You forgot this.” (It’s a single pen.)

They’d rather lie badly than admit, “I just wanted to see you.”

ꕤ  Their friends are so over it Everyone around them is either rooting for them or trying not to scream.

⇢ “You’re in love with them.” ⇢ “That’s not friendship, and you know it.” ⇢ “You made them soup. FUCKING SOUP. Just say you’re married already.” ⇢ “If I have to hear you talk about them one more time, I’m charging rent.”

Friends are the Greek chorus of this situation, like, brutally honest and endlessly tired.

ꕤ  There’s always a moment they almost figure it out That one soft, unspoken beat where the truth almost breaks through.

⇢ Watching them laugh like it’s the first time. ⇢ Seeing them cry and wanting to fix it more than anything. ⇢ Realizing no one else makes them feel like this. ⇢ Thinking, God, they’re beautiful.

Then they blink, panic a little, and go, “Huh. Weird.” And move on. Like absolute fools.

ꕤ  When it finally hits, it’s not cute, it’s catastrophic. Suddenly everything makes sense and feels like too much.

⇢ Flashbacks. ⇢ Internal screaming. ⇢ “Oh no.” ⇢ “OH MY GOD.” ⇢ “Has it always been this obvious??” ⇢ “Wait. Everyone knew?!”

Yes. Everyone. The friends, the neighbor’s cat. You were the only two who didn’t get the memo...

[demon-master-zero]

third tempo

tags: yearning, handjob, unprotected piv sex, sylus gets shot (he's fine), physical hurt/comfort, alcohol mention

The bows trill low; the waltz begins. 

Tonight is balmy, early summer, and the darkening sky still has violet curled around its edges. There are no clouds tonight; instead the air is filled with snatches of music drifting out of an open window. Above, stars gaze down at this world with their cold, impenetrable silence. 

Sylus would know. He's spent a lot of time up there with them. But although he traversed them extensively, plundering the worlds surrounding them left and right, they never told him what he really wanted to know. What he was really looking for. They just blinked at him, silent. Those stars became his ever-present company as he travelled in his stolen space ships, one even lonelier than the company filling the ballroom below him. 

Sylus surveys the scene under the chandeliers and thinks of that distant past. 

If he squints his eyes just so the golden lacquer coating the pillars rising to support the upper balcony look like a mountain of coins; the people twirling around in ornate dresses and glittering suits become the gems, ever-shifting in the flickering candlelight. Plush armchairs, sofas, paintings in gilded frames. The eye jumps from one treasure to the other, and that's not counting the jewelry adorning necks, fingers, and wrists. 

Your presence completes the scene, and there Sylus doesn't want his vision to blur anymore. He intends to drink his fill of you whenever he is able. 

And you look especially beautiful tonight, here under the gleam of the chandeliers. The open-back dress you're wearing accentuates your figure perfectly, as he knew it would. Whenever you move your muscles shift, throwing soft shadows on the planes of your back, and Sylus isn't the only one who looks at you tonight. 

It's the price he must pay in order for you to accept his gifts. If it's for a job, a mission, a deal, you'll wear the dresses he sends you, the heels he wishes he could put on for you, gems around your neck that he'd like to see you keep on while wearing nothing else. On any other occasion you refuse his presents. 

You have plenty of excuses; you don't want to be indebted to him any more than you are, you can't accept such extravaganza from anyone, you dislike wasting money on pretty things that serve no real purpose. As if you deserve anything but beautiful things to surround yourself with. As if Sylus ever expects anything in return for his gifts save for the pleasure of giving them to you. 

But that's not the real reason. Sylus has been watching you very carefully, trying to untangle this new beloved version of you. He can feel you skirting around the truth. If you don't want to tell him, that's fine. He'll find out one way or another eventually. 

For now, it means that he's resigned himself to sharing the vision of your naked back with the undeserving public. 

The song ends. The dancers scatter to the sidelines, helping themselves to expensive champagne and finger-food. You mingle with the crowd, slowly making your way to the stairs and then, finally, you look up at him and catch his eye. 

Sylus tilts his head, one eyebrow raised. You give him a nod, then move up until you reach the upper floor. Sylus is already there, waiting, one hand outstretched for you to take. 

“I don't think anyone saw me,” you tell him, fingers curling in his. “I left it where you told me.” 

“Good,” says Sylus. He checks his watch; old, vintage, a hobby project gifted by the twins. Five to midnight. Kieran and Luke are positioned outside, ready to quietly follow the tracker's signal as soon as it starts moving. A little treasure hunt—and Sylus does so love treasure. Especially so when it comes with the added bonus of ridding the world of another miserable sack of shit.  

He reaches for a glass and presents it to you; you accept it with a half-smile.  “What now? Are we leaving?” 

“Would you like to?” 

You take a sip of your champagne. “I'm not tired, if that's what you're asking. Either way is fine.” 

“Then would you like to dance?” 

“In these heels?” You laugh a little, but when Sylus coaxes you with him to where the upper balcony leads to an outside one, removed from the immediate vicinity of the degenerates below dressed up in their pretty suits, you don't resist. 

You let him take your hand and place it on his shoulder—then flinch when his other hand touches the bare skin of your back. 

A step forward, a step back. There is an invisible line. He knows it's there. He wants to cross it. Some days he thinks you'll let him, and then, suddenly, you pull away. He never knows just what spooks you, what causes you to flinch, to hesitate, to hover, warily. Ill at ease. 

Sylus works very hard to keep from frowning. His hand hovers just over your back, close but not touching. He looks at you. Waiting. 

You reward his patience. You swallow, and your shoulders untense. You lean back a little, pressing into his hand lightly, and Sylus exhales. His thumb strokes carefully, gently, over your spine, and then he starts swaying. 

One, two, three; front, side, back. The balcony doors are wide open, letting through enough of the music to keep an easy pace. You were the one who introduced this pastime to him, so long ago. Now it's Sylus who takes the lead; when he lifts his arm you go with him, stepping, then spinning, and back again. Front, side, back. 

These rare, precious instances of happiness, of wholeness, of the past repeating the present repeating the past, are ones where Sylus feels—in so long—content. No matter the skittish look you gave him last week. No matter the invitations you sometimes accept, sometimes refuse. No matter that you avert your eyes when he holds your gaze for a little too long. You're smiling, now, and the world is good. When you stumble—these heels , Sylus—you do so into his chest, and Sylus holds you against him longer than necessary. 

“Steady now, kitten,” he teases. “Have you forgotten how to land on all fours?” 

You huff, squeezing down on his shoulder. “I think you can be a little more generous given how you've handicapped me tonight.” 

Sylus' brow creases. “Are the shoes not to your liking? You said they felt comfortable when you put them on.” 

“That's because they're made for looking pretty, not for sneaking around backdoors of secret crime syndicates.” When you see the face he's making you smile a little. “Don't worry. They're not hurting me.” 

Sylus nods, but internally the brand name of your heels has already been crossed out on the list and replaced by another, one that will be subjected to even greater scrutiny when browsing online reviews. 

“Sylus.” 

“Hm?” 

“Come on,” you tug at his hand when he starts slowing down. “Why are you stopping? Aren't you always the one telling me I can take it?” 

He does, it's true. His adoration for you couples with unshakeable belief that you can do anything. Accomplish anything. Whatever you desire, he believes you will find a way to get it. You're so strong, and so smart, and so beautiful. There's no reason for him to ever doubt your abilities. 

But that doesn't mean he will ever allow you to hurt. Even by something as innocuous as the glittering heels on your feet. 

He looks at his watch again. The twins have sent him the OK; they're on the move.  

“Let's call it a night, sweetie.” 

Your anticipatory smile falters, and you look away, letting go of his hand. A step back, again. Sylus lets you, mourning the loss of your closeness like he does every time you pull away. Had you really wanted to dance more? If so, you deserve to have a much nicer scene next time. Without the guise of a mission he'll dance with you as long as you desire, in comfortable shoes you pick out yourself. 

You don't protest when he offers his arm to escort you outside. Perhaps you really are more fatigued than you let on; perhaps you're relieved tonight is over. Perhaps you'll let him take your heels off for you when he takes you back to the base, his fingers wrapping around your ankle, thumb pressing into your sole— 

Sylus quickly tamps down the thoughts that immediately follow this last one. 

He walks slowly, measuring his steps to yours down the stairs, through the doorway, over the crunch of the gravel path, all the way to his car. 

Here, in the cool night air, away from the busy murmur of the party, he breathes. The music follows you outside, curling around your feet as though reluctant to see you go. When he gets home he knows just the vinyl he'll play. Something soft and melodic, so that if you want to sway with him again you can. On bare feet, on slippers, on top of his shoes... 

He allows himself to get distracted in these plans. Tonight, by all measures, was a success. You wore the dress he bought for you, you smiled at him, and you danced with him. The tracker chip is secured. Soon enough the host of tonight's extravaganza will cease to be, and Sylus will get to see you and your fellow Hunters clean up the blood he leaves in his wake. A win-win-win all around. 

Really—up until someone tries to assassinate him Sylus is having a great night. 

He senses their presence, of course. But there's lots of people here, and you and him aren't the only ones outside. Also, he's busy. You're allowing him to stroke his hand along your back, to open the car door for you, to lean down and inhale the scent of your shampoo. 

Besides—who would hurt him? Who can hurt him, apart from you? His pain is a privilege that belongs to you alone. 

And so when a shadow passes behind his back he thinks nothing of it. He thinks nothing of it until your eyes widen and you shove him aside, violently, and he has to catch his balance on the car roof, turning around just in time to see you kick a man in the stomach. Hard. 

Not hard enough: the man stumbles but doesn't lose his footing and, wheezing, lunges for you again. There's a glint of something sharp, cold and biting and not allowed anywhere near you, and Sylus’ Evol reaches out to stop it—but finds his assistance is not necessary. You wrest the knife-hand away and grab the man by the collar, forcing his face down while your knee comes up with a crunch and a cry of pain. 

The man's hand instinctively flies to his face, but you don't let him recover. You have a blade of your own, tucked away against your leg in the holster Sylus had made for you, and you rip it over his throat. 

The man gurgles, arms flailing, then slumps to the ground. Your hairdo has come loose, and you throw it over your shoulder with a flick of your head, catching your breath. There's blood smeared on your hands. 

Sylus watches, mesmerized. Turned on.  

He remembers to close his mouth. 

“Ruined my dress. Asshole,” you bite at the soon-to-be corpse at your feet. Then you look up with wide eyes, like you're remembering Sylus is there, too. “Are you okay?” 

“What sharp claws you have,” he murmurs, adoring. “I'm fine.”  

You relax at his assurance and reach for the knife the assailant dropped. “Don't touch that,” Sylus says sharply, and grabs your wrist. He takes it with his Evol instead; through it, he can feel the poison coating the blade. It's a step up from bullets and the occasional grenade, but it appears his opponents continue to be horribly misinformed. 

Good. 

Sylus examines your hands carefully for cuts, but aside from drying blood he finds none. He thumbs over your calluses, then places a kiss on your knuckles. 

“Let's get you cleaned up at home,” he says. When you stay quiet, looking at your hand in his, he gently squeezes your fingers. “Kitten?” You jerk and blink up at him, eyes coming back from somewhere far away. Now worried, Sylus frowns and asks, “Did you get cut? Are you hurt?” 

“No,” you shake your head. “No, just thinking. Sorry. Let's go.” 

Sylus looks at you for a beat longer and then releases you. He drives slowly on the way home; you're quiet, head turned away from him to look out the window into the dark. He can't see your expression. 

He lets you have your silence until you get back to the base. The first thing he does is click a medical bracelet on your wrist and start a full body scan. The poison knife is put away securely to be tested later; Sylus would love to know what new concoction they've come up with to try and kill him this time. 

But right now there are more pressing matters at hand. You sit down on the sofa with that same glum look on your face, and Sylus won't have any more of it. 

“Tell me what's wrong.” 

“Are you angry that I killed him?” you ask, eyes downcast. 

Sylus blinks. It baffles him to think why you would come to such a conclusion. “Have I ever truly been angry at you?” he counters. 

You shrug a little. “Just... you know. If he was still alive you could've asked him who sent him. Maybe he had valuable info.” 

Sylus sinks down next to you, offering a blanket you can drape over your shoulders. He checks the bracelet; loading at 60 percent, no anomalies so far. “People like him know as little as possible to get the job done precisely to avoid situations like that. Besides,” he says, “I already have an idea who sent him.” 

You nod, but you don't look entirely convinced. Or rather, you still look sad, and just like when you flinch from him there is this feeling of something-else. Sylus thinks of his hand, waiting at your back for you to press into. Of that split second where he's afraid you might leave him there, pulling away from him entirely. Disappearing. Again. 

“What are you thinking?” he murmurs, half a question, half not. It’s something he wonders often. The few times you've resonated he can feel your trepidation, the tensing up of someone who's readying themselves for the incoming hurt. 

He thought it was because of how he reacted to first seeing you again. His hands around your throat, the barrel of your gun against his heart. He scared you. He hurt you. He regrets it, deeply. 

He has since given you space, time, holding out his hand, patiently, waiting and waiting and waiting until you're brave enough, curious enough, comfortable enough to sniff his fingers. Hoping that one day you'll climb into his lap of your own accord. To let him stroke you and pet you and kiss you like he's wanted to for so long. (So long.) 

But even though you've let him come closer and closer the tension remains. You keep it tucked tightly against yourself, behind thick walls he doesn't try to pierce through. He won't force you again. But he feels enough, sees enough, to sense your conflict. To go or not to go? To say yes? No? Maybe so? 

“I'm angry,” you say finally, and this makes Sylus look up from where he's absentmindedly taken your hand in his lap. “That this kind of thing happens. That this is your life. But then I—” 

You fall silent, and Sylus squeezes your hand encouragingly. “Then you?” 

“I don't know,” you mumble, faltering. You duck your head to avoid his eyes. 

“Are you angry on my behalf, kitten?” Sylus says, and he smiles slightly. “I’m honoured. I was very impressed with how you slit my assailant's throat.” 

You nod along with his words, but you're clearly not convinced. “Sorry, um. For being so violent.” Sylus blinks, and then he laughs—hearty and low. You're finally looking up at him, part relieved and part offended at his amusement. “It's not funny,” you protest. 

Sylus wants to kiss you so badly his body hurts with it. “Sweetie,” he says, thoroughly enjoying the flush rising on your cheeks, “Why are you apologising? I'm finally starting to rub off on you.” 

It's only fair. You've shaped his entire heart. His soul. He wants to—needs to—leave a mark in return. He tucks your hair behind your ear, eyes lingering on a particular spot on your neck. 

“You sound way too happy about that,” you mutter. 

“Do you dislike it?” 

He would understand, if you said yes. This you is so different, changed by time and pain and circumstance. You don't enjoy killing. You criticise his work, heavily, even when you come back to him again and again. But your occupation isn't all sunshine and rainbows either. He knows this. He knows you've killed before, that tonight wasn't your first. 

He wishes it had been. He wishes he could have witnessed that first death and held you in his arms after. Whether you were sad or angry or proud, whatever you wanted, whatever you needed. He hopes that you didn't suffer by yourself when he wasn't there. That you never had to suffer anything while he was still looking for you. 

“No,” you say carefully. “But I don't like feeling like that.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Like...” You've clasped your hands on your lap. The bracelet beeps at 100 percent; no injuries, no poison detected. Sylus can breathe again. After this, a shower. The blood smears on your skin are bothering him. “Being so angry, I guess. He tried to kill you, and I wanted him dead. I wanted to kill him.” 

Sylus’ heart swells with something like hope. “It won't be the last time,” he says gently. “After all, you're keeping company with a bad man like me.” 

He watches you cautiously. He's leaving the door wide open for you. You can come and go as you please. He'll do anything in his power to keep you returning, but ultimately, you'll have to step through the door on your own feet. One, two, three. 

“But you're not,” you say simply. 

“You're full of surprises tonight,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting.  

“Okay, well. I did think that you were bad at one point. Which, by the way, that was kind of on you.” You give him a pointed look and Sylus smiles, even though you might as well have driven a knife in him. He knows. It hurts to remember what he did. He'll take this pain along with everything else you're willing to give him. “But I haven't thought that way for a long time. I thought you knew that.” 

“I didn't dare presume.” 

“You can dare to presume a little.” 

“Don't you think that's a little dangerous?” he asks, voice low. “I'd rather you tell me, instead.” 

You pull the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders. “I thought you could read minds. What do you need me to tell you anything for?” 

You mean his eye? “I can only see so much,” he says. “Desire. Lies. Definitely not every passing thought.” And he would never use it on you again, anyhow. 

Your eyes flick to his, down to his mouth, then up again. You wrinkle your nose, frowning, and turn away with pursed lips. “Maybe you should see an optometrist,” you mutter. Then, at normal volume, “Is it okay if I wash up here? The blood is starting to feel icky.” 

“Of course,” Sylus says immediately. “You know where to find clothes.” 

You unclasp your heels and leave him there, sitting on his sofa. Listening to the shower water run. 

You decline his offer to stay the night. You have yet to say yes, but he keeps trying. He tells himself they're little reminders for you, just so you know that the offer still stands. That it always stands. Yes—reminders. Not his own desperation surging up his throat and spilling out over your feet. 

The dance continues. 

Sometimes a step forward, sometimes a step back. You disappear for a while after that night, and so Sylus has to content himself with watching you through Mephisto with steepled fingers pressed to his lips. He watches you work, eat, come home, and then the curtains are drawn shut. The line, materialised. 

Sylus waits with hand outstretched. And every now and then, he holds out a treat. 

He sends you flowers, balm for your aching feet, and an invitation to attend an orchestra performing Tchaikovsky. It's old music, fancy and obscure, a private performance for rich music snobs like Sylus except they don't have a private booth reserved year-round with the best seats in the house, and he does. 

“Will there be any dancing?”  

“No dancing,” Sylus tells you through the phone. “But if you want, we can dance after. They'll play a song I think you'll like—I have it on vinyl. The Waltz of Flowers.” 

“Are we the flowers dancing to the music? When did your roots grow legs?”  

“Just a few days ago,” Sylus says. “Since you've been so busy recently I had no choice but to grow legs so I could come see you.” 

You laugh, and Sylus closes his eyes so he can better imagine the way your lips part when you do. “It sounds like you went through a lot of effort. You're making it difficult for me to say no.”  

“So you'll come?” Sylus asks eagerly. 

“Hmm. Should I?” you ask, but you're teasing him. You're not hiding the smile in your voice, and Sylus feels his heart lighten.  

“Yes. You should. Or I'll have to do something more drastic. Perhaps I'll grow wings next.” 

A beat, and then: “Alright. I'll come. I'll feel lonely if you fly away by yourself.”  

Your tone has shifted a little, just enough for Sylus to pick it up over the poor reception ever-present in the N109 zone but not quite enough to place it. Surely you don't really believe he'd have any interest in flying if it meant parting from you? “Good. I'll pick you up so you can get dressed here. I ordered a dress for you. And new shoes—I had them custom fitted for your size this time.” 

This time there's a longer silence. Sylus resists the urge to tap into Mephisto's channel so he can see your face. “You don't have to do that every time,” you say finally. “I have dresses of my own, you know.”  

“You should wear whatever you like,” Sylus agrees. “I just want you to have options.” 

“And if I show up in a suit? What'll you do then?”  

“Then I'll make sure we match.” 

“Mr. Qin, you really have an answer to every question,” you say with resigned amusement. “Okay. I'll be waiting for you.”  

“So will I,” Sylus mumbles once the line goes dead. 

When the day of the concert rolls around Sylus picks you up at the agreed time and, once you're back at the base, shows you the things he's prepared for you tonight: a dark dress that glitters like the river reflecting the night sky, with shoes and accessories to match. He's pleased to see your lips part in quiet delight once you set eyes on it. 

“Do I want to know how much this cost?” you ask, then shake your head before Sylus can answer. “Actually, no, I don't want to know. I'd be too scared to wear it if you told me.” 

Sylus tuts. “A few numbers are enough to scare you? Where's that famous Hunter courage I've heard so much about?” 

You carefully remove the dress from the hanger, running your fingers over the silky fabric. “Strange rich men with their strange rich hobbies have no business judging people working normal nine-to-fives.” 

Sylus arches a brow. “Strange rich—?” 

But you're already stalking to the bathroom, and the door clicks shut behind you before he can finish his mock-offense. He takes the time to put on his own clothes; a simple suit with dark accents matching yours. The river and the stars. Reflected in your eyes they lose their indifferent coldness; as long as Sylus knows you're at the other end of them he can bear even their silence. When it comes to you he thinks he can bear anything. 

“Um. Sylus?” You poke your head around the doorframe, cheeks slightly flushed. “Can you... Sorry. I can't get the zipper all the way up.” 

...Alright, so maybe there are some things that are a little harder to bear than others. 

Sylus ignores the discomfort in his too-tight pants and steps forward, gesturing for you to come closer. You do, gingerly holding the front pressed against your chest so the fabric doesn't slip. It's a sleeveless design that shows off your shoulders and arms; when you turn around Sylus sees the zipper is stuck just at your lower back. 

His fingertips brush over your skin briefly, and you fail to suppress a shiver. His eyes dilate at the expanse of smooth skin before him. The soft valleys and ridges of your spine are begging him to leave behind marks. His teeth ache with want. 

The zzzip is very loud in the quiet room. 

“Thanks,” you say, a little breathlessly, and turn around. “Okay... Shoes. Where—?” 

Sylus procures them silently, and you slip into them. “How do they feel?” 

You take a few steps, testing your balance. “I think they can handle a Sylus mission or two.” 

“Only two?” Sylus says, one corner of his lips curling up. “You're hard to please, kitten.” 

He holds out his arm for you to take, and you squeeze down briefly. “You're so eager to find fault with the other,” you complain. “You should reflect on what this says about your lifestyle instead.” 

There's something wrong with her.  

Do you think about those words still? He hopes not. He fears yes. Sylus continues walking and holds open the door for you to step through. “I don't see the problem. You always keep up with me, after all.” 

“That would be because it's do or die with you,” you say, ducking your head to get in his car. Sylus fastens your seatbelt for you, then gets in on the other side. He doesn't turn his keys yet, however. 

“I don't die easily. And I won't let you, either. So doesn't that mean, as long as it's us—” Sylus reaches his arm out across the console, brushing his knuckles gently over your cheek, “we'll always make it through?” 

A deep flush spreads from where he touched all the way down to your neck, and you quickly turn away from him under the guise of readjusting your seatbelt. “...You should start driving or we'll be late.” 

Sylus pulls away with a hum, pleased, and drives you to the concert hall. The ride there is smooth, and soon Sylus is opening the car door for you again and helping you step out. The evening sky is starting to dim; faintly between the purples and blues Sylus can spot stars starting to peek out. Normally, on days where he doesn't see you, this is around where he wakes. 

Just a little to your right is the concert hall, its evening lights washing the building in warm golden hues. 

“Ready?” he asks, smiling.  

When you open your mouth to answer him a gunshot rings out across the parking lot. 

Sylus grunts in surprise and pain, abdomen tensing against the foreign object trying to pierce through flesh, and he pulls you away from the direction of the shooter, low to the ground, while the tendrils of his Evol shoot out to find whoever just fucking shot him. 

Maybe he should reflect on his lifestyle. Or rather, maybe he should reflect on his tunnel vision whenever you're involved. He's never thought of himself as reckless; he's daring, yes, takes risks, loves the thrill, loves to play the stakes, but every move is thought through. Calculated. He plans— 

—but you have a way of surprising him. One, two, three, and the cards reshuffle. 

He's always had shit luck. 

“Sylus," you say, voice high, "you're bleeding.” You rip off your gloves, pressing them firmly against where a bloodstain is very rapidly forming against his nice blouse. 

“I'll be fine,” Sylus says, though he can feel the sweat collecting at his nape. It hurts. It always does. His body is already reacting, mending the torn muscles, urging the blood to clot and sending through new blood cells to stimulate the repair process. It pushes against the bullet lodged in his side, making the pain flare up and out like a flame licking over flesh. He grits his teeth. 

Crack! A dent sizzles in his car door, way too close to your heads for comfort. You need to move. “Come,” Sylus says urgently. He half-crouches, half-runs with you to the other side of the car, shielding your body with his bigger one. Another bullet zips past him, grazing his cheek. Good aim. Shame they're using their skills for the last time today. 

His Evol has found the shit responsible for ruining his very nice evening with you and quietly snaps their neck. He's not in the mood for theatrics today. He'll page the twins to pick up the body and find out who it was this time that wanted him dead so badly later. 

And more importantly, how they knew where he'd be. Where he'd be with you, no less. The last thing he needs is for you to become their next target, because that would mean they've found the one way to actually hurt him. 

“Get in,” Sylus urges you. He's panting; his body is working overtime, heart thundering to support the extra flow of oxygen to his wound. He needs to get the bullet out. 

You climb in, knees knocking painfully against the console as you shift over to the shotgun seat to make room for him, and Sylus quickly follows. The car tires screech against the asphalt when he makes a fast turn, forcing the car into high gear to speed away. Where there's one, there's more, and he doesn't want to take any chances with you here. 

“Sylus, oh my god,” you say, aghast. “At least let me drive!” 

Sylus’ Evol pushes you back against the seat so it can click the belt in place, and then Sylus steps on the gas for real. “You can drive,” he says. “Once we're somewhere safe.” His voice is strained; it feels like his body's regeneration is both pushing the bullet out and pulling it back in, trying to recreate life around the metal in a way that is starting to hurt really fucking bad. 

“You just got shot. Are you trying to bleed out behind the wheel? ”  

“No, which is why I'll be needing a nurse in a moment. First aid kit in the glove compartment.” 

You click it open and take the kit out after putting aside sunglasses, mints, two glocks, and several ammo casings. “I'm not a nurse, Sylus.” 

“But you've got plenty of experience, haven't you?” 

“Thanks to you, yeah,” you mutter. 

Sylus presses the comm interface while he drives, eyes darting over the road to see if there's any other fools that want to die tonight. Luke picks up after one ring. 

“Boss?”  

“Ran into trouble. On the way out now, but I need eyes on this place.” Sylus sends the twins his coordinates and changes lanes; if there's still someone following you he wants to shake them before changing course and heading to one of his safehouses nearby. 

“Got it. We'll be there.”  

The line goes dead. “Pull over,” you say firmly. “ Now. I swear to God, if you pass out while driving and crash the car with us in it—” 

“As you wish.” It should be fine—Sylus doesn't see or sense anyone following. He retracts his Evol with no small amount of relief and slows the car, pulling into one of the abandoned warehouses at the side of the road. The N109 Zone is riddled with these. They're wonderfully useful for all sorts of things; Sylus himself is partial to using them as smuggling sites, torture grounds, and, just like right now, temporary hiding places. 

He exhales when the engine goes dead. The brief adrenaline rush ebbs away, leaving more pain in its wake, and it's now that he's starting to realise that the bullet in his body isn't a standard one. This one comes in the fun grappling hook edition, where once it finds purchase in the body it lodges itself in there with mean little pegs that dig into the flesh. No wonder his regeneration can't get it out. You're going to have to cut him open again, and something tells him you're not going to be any happier about it than you already are. 

You're unbuckling your belt the second the car stops, leaning over and pulling on the pin that reclines Sylus’ seat with a jerk so it can serve as makeshift operating table. He grunts, eyes squeezing shut briefly. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you say hastily. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to hurt. Hold still, okay?Gonna touch you now.” 

Sylus turns his head and watches you cut through the blood-soaked fabric with scissors, ripping it open further when you can see the entry wound. “The bullet has hooks,” he says hoarsely. “You'll have to cut it out.” 

You let out a shaky exhale. “Wonderful.” 

“I trust you.” 

“Please tell me you have more than just painkillers in here.” 

Sylus smiles a little, though it comes through more as a grimace. “I'm afraid you'll have to improvise.” 

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. You soak wipes in disinfectant and try to clean the bloodied area as gently as possible, but Sylus still hisses at the sting. “It's going to hurt a lot worse than this,” you warn, and he nods. 

“I know. It's okay.” 

“It's not fucking okay,” you snap, and Sylus closes his mouth. Then you deflate, sighing. “Just—here, bite on this. Tell me if I need to stop.” You tug his belt free and offer it to him. Sylus bites down on the leather. It tastes bitter. 

The bullet isn't deep, but the knife cutting through his flesh is agony. Your brow is furrowed in concentration, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. Sylus tries not to think of a time where he was the one holding the knife, clutching at his skull as broken pieces of himself grew back despite his best efforts. 

“Almost there.”  

Sylus breathes hard, nostrils flaring when you start to tug at the bullet. He can take it. This is nothing. He thinks of the pain on your face when his hand closed around your neck, and this is nothing. He remembers the years spent in a vast, endless river of stars, alone, and this is nothing. He's had worse. Everything, until you showed up, was worse. 

The relief when the bullet is finally tugged free is so intense his eyes sting. There's blood absolutely everywhere, soaking your hands, his pants, the seat, the console. Courtesy of his body working overtime to supply the constant loss. His head feels dizzy. His jaw aches; you have to dislodge the belt by cradling his cheek, tugging the leather free with your hands. It comes out with deep, sharp teeth indents coated with saliva. 

You hand him a bottle of water and painkillers, and Sylus drinks it down greedily. He's parched. 

“Thank you,” he says once he's swallowed the last drop in the bottle. His body is exhausted, and he focuses his remaining energy on patching up the re-opened wound. The offending bullet is tossed carelessly to the side, and you bandage him with careful fingers. When you're done you slump back against your seat. 

“Kitten?” he asks when you stay like that, silent, eyes closed. 

Your eyes open slowly. There's blood smeared on your cheek. His. This time it doesn't bother him so much. “Don't make me do this again.” 

Sylus looks at you, your beautiful, tired face framed by messy hair. The flutter of your lashes, the downward slant of your mouth. His beloved is upset. “Do you hate it that much?” 

“No. Just don't get hurt.” You press your hands against your face. “I don't want to see get hurt.”  

Your voice is tight, and Sylus’ heart squeezes. “I'll be as good as new in a few days,” he promises. 

You lower your hands just enough that he can see your eyes. They're tinged red. “Does that make it hurt less?” 

He deliberates his answer, but eventually, as always, settles on the truth: “No.” 

You close your eyes again, hiding them behind your hands. When you remove them it's to wipe at your cheeks, and Sylus belatedly realises through the haze of painkillers and blood loss that you're crying. 

“Sweetheart?” he asks, alarmed. 

"I'm fine,” you say thickly. “I'm going to call Kieran to pick us up.” 

Sylus watches you dial the twins silently. Your voice is quiet and tense, though no longer as frantic as when you were trying to press down on his side to keep him from bleeding out. Neither of you says anything while you wait, though Sylus doesn't take his eyes off you.  

This is the first time you've shown him your tears. He wants to understand them. Stress? Shock? But you're used to this. You've been trained to be used to this—and this is hardly the first time you've played nurse for him. Anger he can understand; it's an emotion as familiar to him as breathing. And you are angry, he thinks—there's also just that elusive something-else. A smile that falters. A step back. Eyes tinged red, averted. 

Sylus keeps mulling over it until Kieran arrives. He's feeling much better, if more fatigued, and he could probably make it home himself by now. You refuse. You tell him that if he dies after your hard work you'll resent him for the rest of eternity. Also you prefer riding in a car that isn't splattered with his blood.  

Kieran serenely twirls his car keys around his finger, leaning against the hood while his boss and his boss’ beloved argue. 

It doesn't take long for Sylus to give in. Not because your threat scares him; you'll already haunt him for the rest of eternity whether he dies or not. He just feels sorry for the night you've had so far, and guilty for the tears you shed over him. As Kieran helps him into the back he resolves to plan things more carefully next time. He'll take you somewhere remote for your next outings, places his adversaries don't know to look for. You told him not to make you do this again. He'll do what he can to make your wish come true.  

To his surprise you climb in the back with him, holding out an arm for him to lean into. “Lie down,” you say. You sound tired. “You should rest.” 

Sylus wordlessly complies. You don't protest when he puts his weight on you a little more heavily than he normally would, and you don't say anything when he takes your hand and laces your fingers together. If you'd asked, he'd have told you it helps with the pain. 

The quiet hum of the car is peaceful. Kieran asks you if you need anything and you shake your head, and after that no one speaks until you return to the base.  

Sylus realises barely two hours have passed since you left. It feels like much longer. His body is heavy, but he declines Kieran's offer to support him as he walks. You'll feel better seeing him on his feet by himself. 

“You wanna go home after this? I can take you,” Kieran says. You glance at Sylus. 

“Thanks, but I've got a patient to look after.” 

“Okie-doke. Let me know if you change your mind. Luke's on his way back, by the way,” Kieran adds, jerking his chin at Sylus. “Got the guy. Didn't find anyone else there, but we'll keep looking.” 

Sylus nods. “Page me with updates.” 

Kieran salutes, then turns around on his heel and marches off, humming to himself as he does. Just another day on the job. 

“You should lie down,” you tell Sylus once the two of you have watched Kieran disappear through the door. “You lost a lot of blood... Don't you have IVs here somewhere? I'll—” 

Sylus stops you by taking your hand. “Stay with me,” he says. 

You consider his demand. “I will if you lie down.” 

Easily done. Sylus walks to his bedroom, your hand still in his, and carefully lies down on the bed. When he tries to pull you down with him you swiftly slip out of his grasp and instead start to unbutton his blouse. “You're getting blood on everything, you know.” 

“Doesn't matter. I'll just replace it later.” 

“Wasteful,” you tsk. Your eyes have gone dark again, quiet and thoughtful as your fingers slip the last button through its hole. You lightly fan your fingers over his naked skin. “It's so easy for you to discard things.”  

Your mouth sets, suddenly bitter, and your touch disappears. Sylus watches you closely. Are you coming closer, or are you backing away? You're off-tempo, moving along to a rhythm he can't follow. “I just know how to distinguish between what's important and what isn't.” 

Your gaze flits up to his for a moment, and then away again. What little he can glimpse is unknown to him. “Do you need help getting clean? Or do you want something to drink?” 

“I want you to tell me why you cried earlier,” he says. 

“You're a very demanding patient.” 

“Well?” 

You sigh. “The average person doesn't enjoy being shot at and then having to cut through someone's abdomen to fish out bullets in a car. Seriously, and you ask me to work for you. I'd quit after a day.” 

"Does that mean you're still considering my offer?” Sylus asks, lips curling up. 

You shake your head. “Didn't you hear what I just said?” 

What Sylus hears is the bluster of a kitten caught in a corner, and none of it is an answer to his original question. He considers what you've told him so far. You don't want to see him get hurt. You wanted to kill the person that tried this stunt on him previously. You did kill him, in fact, and you're angry.  

“Sylus.” He blinks out of his thoughts when you call his name, and he looks at you. You’re wary again. He wishes he knew why. “Did you know this would happen?” 

He didn't expect this question; his brows rise, then furrow. “I didn't. I suspected there was a leak somewhere,” he says, “and tonight confirmed that. The good thing is that we can now trace who it is, and after that they'll be no more.” He takes the hand you pulled away, and you let him. “But I didn't know it would happen tonight.” 

He does his best to sound sincere because he is, and he doesn't want you to think that he'd go through the trouble of involving you just for tonight to end the way it did. You're silent for a while, studying the hand holding your own. “You must have really rotten luck, then.” 

He smiles. “You think so? Then what should we do? Will you share your good luck with me?” 

“You can have all of it if it means people stop trying to kill you.” 

Sylus’ breath stops for a moment. Your eyes are downcast, still on his hand cradling yours. Both are smeared with red. A blood pact. 

As long as he's alive, this is one of the few things he can't promise you. There will always be people hunting him, and he takes this in stride. This is just his life. The bullet-proof windows, the base that is really more like a fortress, with locks and cameras and double walls and secret exits. The gun on his nightstand. Do you hate it? 

“I'll start to think you care about me when you say things like that,” he says softly. 

“I told you,” you say. Your voice is trembling a little. A step forward. “You can dare to presume a little.” 

Sylus laughs—then winces, because ouch; the pain in his abdomen flares. He doesn't let it deter him. “Only a little? What else will you let me do?” 

You open your mouth, then close it. You shake your head, already turning your body away from him, getting ready stand up, to leave. “We should talk about this some other time. Right now, you need—” 

No, no. No. His hand waiting at your back. Your fingers digging into his flesh. You can't leave him now. Sylus tightens his grip on you. “Right now I need you. Tell me what you were going to say.” 

“There's—I don't know,” you protest. But you don't tug free from him. “Sylus...” 

“How else will I know?” he asks. “Tell me. Please.” 

Tell me I can touch you. Tell me I can kiss you. Tell me I can take your shoes off for you, take your clothes off for you, tell me I can love you with my heart and my hands and my body.  

“I already gave you all of my luck,” you chide. “And you still want more? You really are a greedy man.” You push the hair that’s fallen over his brow away with gentle fingers, and your voice softens. “Why are you asking me things you already know?” 

He doesn't know. Or rather, he dreams. He hopes. He wants; a delirious, despairing desire. He's afraid. Terribly so. If he's too forceful, if it's too soon, too heavy, too much, you'll leave again. You won't pick up his calls, won't answer his texts. You'll disappear again, wink out like the stars glimmering on your bloodied dress. 

You spare him from answering you by lifting his hand and pressing it against your cheek. It's the first time you've invited his touch, and Sylus burns with it. He dares to thumb over your lower lip, and you part them for him. 

“Come here,” he says, low and beckoning and desperate, and then he waits. He waits then for your eyes to search his, waits for you to hesitate, to weigh your own stakes, and he waits for your lashes to flutter as you lean down, guided by his hand, and press your lips against his. 

You're so very soft. 

A groan rises in Sylus’ throat. You kiss him so, so gently. Your hand mirrors his, on his cheek, stroking so carefully over his jaw. Like he's precious. Like he's something to be cherished. You pull away much too soon and Sylus chases you, lifting himself from his lying-down position. You deny him by placing a hand on his chest. “Your wound—” 

“Is fine,” he supplies, and tries again. You push down a little harder. 

“No,” you say firmly, though the effect is greatly diminished by the flush on your cheeks. “Rest first. Please?” 

Ah. The trump card. 

Sylus sinks back into the mattress with an unhappy frown. “For how long?” How much longer must he wait? He has you here, now, and his side is mending up nicely now that the bullet is out. He could fuck you like this, if you'd let him. 

The corner of your mouth ticks up. “Until you're all better.” 

“My love,” he complains. “Must you torture me like this?” He expects a laugh; a teasing remark. You'll tell him that he likes it. That he deserves it. That it's your job to torture him, because who else will take him down a peg. That you're the only one who can do this. That you're the only one. 

Why does he keep being surprised when you don't act the way he thinks you will? 

You don't smile, and you don't tease. You lean down to press your forehead against his, eyes closed; your breath is warm against his lips. 

“I was scared for you,” you say quietly. “And angry. I'm still angry. And that kind of scares me, too.” 

He thinks he understands. “There's nothing to be afraid of,” Sylus says gently. “We're here together.” 

You draw back far enough to look into his eyes. He looks back into yours. Then, finally—a smile. 

“Okay.” 

Sylus relaxes. “Kiss me again,” he says. He tucks your hair behind your ear, stroking gently over your head, your ear, the back of your neck. This is torture, too. Having you hover so close, noses brushing, breaths mingling. The sweetest kind. When he reads the hesitation on your face he adds: “I won't move.” Then once more: “Please.” 

You oblige. You kiss him with your soft lips and your sweet breath and a shiver when you sigh into his mouth. Sylus does as he promised and stays still, although his hand presses gently against the back of your skull to keep you from pulling away just yet.  

When he bites at your lip you make a little noise that has his cock twitching and he presses you into him a little harder, coaxing your mouth open with his, giving you his tongue and inviting yours in return. You whine, a high, needy sound he files away carefully, and he digs his fingers harder into your hair.  

“Sylus—” you try to say against his mouth. He swallows the words and pulls you into another kiss. He's breathing hard; so are you. You've fisted your hands in his ripped-apart blouse, fabric bunching between your fingers. 

“Wait, wait,” you say, and this time he reluctantly lets you go. “We should—slow down.” 

“Do you want to?” he asks. He enjoys the way your eyes drift down his neck as he speaks, his Adam's apple bobbing around the words. 

You push yourself upright from where you'd been leaning over him. “It's not about wanting. It's about not hurting you.” 

“I'm feeling great,” he says with no small amount of cheek, because he is feeling great. This night is working out wonderfully for him. No matter the blood, or the bullet, or the ruined date. Who cares about a concert when he can hear you making sounds straight out of his dreams? “I'm sure I'd feel even better if you kept going.” 

You laugh and poke his cheek. “Why are you making me be the responsible one here? Is this what blood loss does to people?” 

“No,” he sighs. “This is just what you do to me.” 

You shake your head, smiling. “We should get cleaned up first. And change clothes. And sheets, probably. Also, you need an IV, like, yesterday. I'm worried your wound will get infected.” 

“Then at least stay until I recover fully.” 

You give him a look. “You know I have work, Sylus.” 

“Not tomorrow you don't. And may I just say that Onychinus offers excellent work hours? Very flexible. Working remotely is an option, too—” 

Exasperated, you clap a hand over his mouth, but you can't stop the smile from tugging at your lips. “Okay, okay. Enough. I'll stay.” 

Satisfied, Sylus licks your palm and laughs when you yelp and snatch it away. 

You clean each other up. 

It's foreign and a little odd, to be cared for like this. To have you peel off his socks while he lies on his bed, skin damp from the rag you used to clean the blood away. You help him into clean, comfortable clothes, and then do the same for yourself. Sylus watches with dark eyes as you turn your back to him, unzipping your dress and letting it pool at your feet. He traces the curve of your ass, your thighs, and thinks of his big hand splaying out over your flesh. Squeezing. Holding. All his. 

It takes a little more coaxing for you to sleep next to him, but Sylus is quickly finding out that he's not the only one with weaknesses. You falter when he says my love. Your mouth softens when he says I need you beside me. You stroke your fingers through his hair when he asks you to touch him, and you curl up like a kitten at his good side when he dims the lights. 

“I'm not hurting you, am I?” your voice says in the dark. 

“Quite the opposite.” 

It's quiet for a while, then. Sylus lets himself drift comfortably, anchored to you where his fingers lace through yours. Your warmth presses against him like a perfect puzzle piece. 

He is content like this. Watching your breath even out, chest rising and falling slowly. You've put on one his shirts, much too big for you, and it slips over one of your shoulders. He ignores the way his cock stirs at the sight. There'll be many more nights like this, many more opportunities to have you here every which way in his bed wearing things he's carefully collected in a locked dresser.  

He slips in and out of dreams, of memories, of wants and needs. In between that line of waking and sleeping he'll feel for you, squeezing your hand, assuring himself you're still there, and then his body's fatigue pulls him under again. 

When he wakes for real he's dismayed to find the bed empty. 

Sylus pushes himself upright. His side throbs, but it's muted. He knew you'd do a good job. He stretches to test his range of motion and flexes his fingers, Evol dancing forth with a crackle. His reserves aren't back up to full yet, but what has been restored is buzzing, new and alive and impatient to move. To be used. 

He's just about to swing his legs over the side of the bed when the door opens, and you step through holding a glass of water and a bowl of something that smells warm and sweet. 

“Good morning,” he says. 

You still in surprise, lips parting, and then you're hurrying over to him. The bowl and glass are placed on his nightstand, and you push against his shoulders. “You shouldn't be up yet,” you frown. “Lie down. Rest some more.” 

Sylus goes with your touch, but not without pulling you onto his lap. You flail, hands and knees pressing into the mattress so you don't put your weight on him. 

“Sylus—” 

“Is that for me?” he asks, glancing at the dishware. 

You settle for placing your palms on his shoulders, looking down at him from your seat. “Maybe. Only obedient patients who listen and rest when they're told get my special recovery oatmeal.” 

Sylus laughs. It doesn't hurt much anymore; just a dull throb. He drags his hands up your bare legs and squeezes at your hips. “Really? Then tell me. Have I been a good boy?” 

You flush. “Let me check your injury first.” 

Sylus gestures with his hand. “Be my guest,” he says, amused. He already knows what you'll find, and then you'll tell him what he wants to hear. One way or another. You shuffle back on your knees and peel away the bandages, chewing at your lip. Your gaze darts up when Sylus brushes a thumb over it. “Don't bite,” he says. “That's mine.” 

You sputter, half-heartedly smacking his hand away. “That's—well—stop that. Let me focus.” 

The blush has spread from your cheeks to your ears, but otherwise you make a valiant attempt at appearing unruffled as you inspect the entry wound. You keep your teeth from your lip. 

“...Your body really is remarkable,” you say. You gaze at Sylus’ skin, looking fresh and new and pink. On his side sits a puckered scar that on any other person would have taken several weeks to form; tomorrow, there will be no trace left that it was ever there. “Does it hurt?” 

“Barely.” 

Your shoulders relax, and you give Sylus a real smile. He drinks it in greedily. “Good. I'm glad.” 

“So?” Sylus asks. “Am I your good boy?” 

You laugh a little, hands fanning out over his chest. It feels so incredibly good to have you touch him. “Yeah,” you say, amused. “You're a good boy, Sylus.” 

Sylus’ hips buck up instinctively; he can't help it. A groan is trapped behind his teeth. “Then give me my reward,” he demands. 

You look down at him, cheeks flushed, smile fading into surprise and arousal. “The oatmeal? Let me—” 

“Forget the food,” Sylus says impatiently. “I want you. Kiss me. Touch me.” 

For a moment you look like you want to argue with him, but then you lean down with a shaky exhale and press your lips to his. He bites down on them like he said he would, and you make a needy sound that immediately has him doing it again. You taste so sweet, lips sliding over his own, letting him palm your skull to kiss you deeper. You're still hovering over him, so his hands move to your hips, lifting you over his clothed cock and pressing down. 

You gasp into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “I don't know if—I don't want your wound to reopen.” 

“Is that the only reason?” 

You breathe out a shaky laugh. “You're overestimating my self-restraint.” You lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth. “If I didn't have to be so worried about you I'd let you do whatever you want. But I am worried. So...” 

Whatever he wants. Sylus is going to make good on that promise to the fullest extent possible. Your concern is endearing, but it seems like you're the one who's overestimating his self-restraint if you keep saying things like that. If he can take whatever he wants he'll take it all. Everything. 

“Doesn't hurt,” Sylus says, voice rough. He bucks his hips up again and groans when your nails dig into his chest. “I'll tell you. Trust me?” 

“Yeah,” you sigh, and finally you stop resisting when he coaxes you down again. “I do.” 

Sylus hums into the kiss. It's a pure sound, a relief, a want, an invitation. This is what he needed. This is what he's been needing for lifetimes.  

He palms your thighs, digs his fingers in your flesh when you rock against him, and drinks from you. You shudder against him, making wanton little sounds in the back of your throat that encourage him to press harder, kiss deeper. The shlick of spit against spit is loud and wet in his ears; the good kind of drowning. His cock aches, the friction of your clothed cunt against his sweatpants sending little zaps of pleasure through his body. You said whatever he wanted. He wants more. 

He slips his hands under your—his—shirt and groans when he realises you're wearing nothing under it. Your skin is hot to the touch, soft and toned. His strong Hunter. He runs his hand over your naked back, and you don't flinch from him. He presses his fingers against your spine, swipes down, and you arch against him when he grips the fat on your hips. 

You break the kiss, saliva clinging to your lips, and press your forehead against his shoulder. His name, moaned softly in his ear. You rock against each other while your wet little mouth slides over his neck. He hisses in pleasure when he feels teeth against his pulse. “Yes,” he rasps. He threads his fingers through your hair, pulling you against him. “Again. Harder.” 

You bite down and Sylus shudders on a gasp turned moan. His other hand roughly palms your ass. He's leaking, rock-hard and aching, and he breathes your name when you nip his ear. 

“Still okay?” you ask breathlessly. You push yourself up, resting your weight on your forearms. 

He laughs. His pupils have dilated fully, and his teeth feel sharper than normal. Your scent, your arousal, is thick in his nose. “More than okay.” He dips both hands back under your shirt. “Can I take this off?” 

You lift your arms in silent assent, and Sylus sighs when your skin is bared before him. Yes. Finally. Everything. He tugs at your shorts. “This too.” 

You have to sit back for that one, swinging your legs over his for a moment to shimmy it off. You hesitate when it's just your panties left, eyes flicking to his, and then, cheeks burning, you slide those off too. You hold his gaze while you do, and Sylus swallows. 

“Yes,” he says. 

Yes. Everything. 

His Evol neatly catches your underwear when you drop it, tucking it away somewhere you can't see. You crawl back over him fully naked, a little shyly now, like he isn't about to bust with just the sight of you on hands and knees over him. He moans when he feels you settle back into his lap. You're wet enough he can feel it through the dark spot on his sweats, and his cock twitches again when he wonders how much of that is yours and how much is his.  

He kisses you again, palming your breasts, and he marvels at their softness, how perfectly they fit into his hands. You mirror him, hands traveling over his chest, down his stomach, fingers playing with the faint white hair trailing down his pelvis as they go. You pause when you reach his waistband. “I want to touch you, too,” you murmur. “Can I?” 

Sylus lifts his hips, and you help him slide down the clothes you put on him just hours ago. You sit there on your knees in front of him, gazing down with dark eyes. Your hand reaches out tentatively, feather-light, and you stroke over his leg. 

“Acceptable?” he asks, lips curling up. 

You smile, too, face soft and open, and a weight swings loose in Sylus’ chest. You could ask him for anything right now. His money, his men, his bike, his card. The world. His eye. You could take a knife and cut out his heart and hold it in your hands, and it would only be right. 

“Do you really need me to tell you? You know what you look like.” 

“I want to know. Tell me what you see, when you look at me.” 

You lean down and kiss his abdomen, carefully, just a little to the side of his entry wound scar. “I see someone who is strong and proud and beautiful,” you say against his skin. “On the outside, too. Every part of you is.” 

Sylus brushes the hair out your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Come,” he says softly. “Come here.” 

You go, settling yourself across his lap as you were before. The silken heat of you right on top of his most sensitive parts is divine. He watches you open your mouth, spit in your hand, and wrap it around his cock, and that's about where the hindbrain takes over the wheels and he stops thinking about anything else. 

Your hand is warm, callused, wet. You work him slowly, squeezing down gently while you swallow down his ragged breaths with wet kisses until he has to clamp down on your wrist to stop from coming. 

“I want to feel you,” he rasps. “Can I? Inside?” 

You whine against his mouth. “I want to. I want to, just—don't wanna hurt you. Don't want you to hurt.” 

“I know,” Sylus says roughly. “I know. My sweet girl. You're not hurting me. Really. I promised you.” 

“Okay,” you say, finally, a whisper against his cheek. “Okay, Sylus. I want you.” 

That's all he needs. Sylus reaches down and works his fingers in you, curling and stretching and languishing in that wet heat, burning with the anticipation of feeling it elsewhere. Of being inside you, of sharing himself with you as deeply as possible. To become one being with you again, two halves of the whole, for a little while. 

You tremble above him, fingers digging into his hair, rocking your hips against his touch. “Good,” he encourages. “Good girl. Perfect for me. Shall I make you come like this? Just like this, on my fingers? I can feel how tight you're getting. Just a little more. Good, yes, just like that...” 

Your body gives out on you with a choked moan. You collapse on top of him, pulsing around his fingers, and Sylus works you through it until you go limp and swat at his arm for him to stop. He puts his arms around and squeezes tight enough for his side to hurt. 

“More?” he noses against your hair.  

He can feel your laugh more than he hears it. “Impatient,” you tease, and Sylus snorts. Can you really blame him? He's waited so, so long, and he's been so good all this time. He thinks he's allowed to be a little impatient. 

You push yourself up with still-trembling arms and reach behind you, line his cock up with your sex, and then you sink down slowly. Sylus’ fingers squeeze your thighs hard enough to bruise. He grits his teeth. It's like sinking into a hot bath, wet and warm and welcoming, except this bath squeezes down on him like a tight little vice and pulses against his cock when he shifts. He wants to roll you over and mount you, fucking you into the bed until you forget everything but his name, but you told him he's a good boy. He'll stay like he is now, indulging your worries and your concerns. He'll make you come on his cock as many times as you let him to make up for it. 

“Doing okay, sweetie?” he manages, brushing over your cheek. You're panting, eyes gone a little glassy, and his hips buck without thinking. You whimper when he does, eyes squeezing shut. 

“'M okay. You're just— ah. You're huge, holy shit, give me a minute—” 

Sylus would laugh, but it's all he can do to keep from fucking up into you. Instead he circles his thumb over your clit to encourage you to take him deeper until you finally sit down on him fully. His head nudges against your deepest spot, and every time you so much as breathe it sends pleasure up his spine like lightning. 

You start moving, slowly at first, then faster, aided by his hands and his hips. He kisses you messily, hungrily, biting down on your neck, your shoulder, right over that little spot that's always been his alone to have. He claims what is new and reclaims what was lost. Everything that's his will always be his. He'll never let you go after this. He's never losing anything ever again. 

He keeps touching you, stroking your sides, your breasts, your hips; your clit, too, until you begin to shake and your movements start to falter. “Sylus,” you moan against him, sweaty forehead pressed against sweaty forehead. “I need—please, little more? Feels so good, you feel so good—” 

Sylus wraps his arms around you and presses you flush against him, drawing up his knees. He moves his hips again to fuck you for real, now, the slap of flesh against flesh loud and wet. He grows rougher as his pleasure builds, teeth sinking into your skin, eyes wild, a low rumble in his chest. His side throbs as an afterthought, but it's washed away by the feeling of your body curling around him, clenching, straining, that soft heat burning through his restraint until he's coming with a desperate whine high in his throat. He rolls his hips without thought, reduced to the animal want of release. He buries it deep inside you until eventually his breath evens and you slump into the sheets, together.  

Sated. 

Sylus breathes. He turns his head and presses kisses where he can reach: your hair, your temple, your nose when you lift your head to look at him. You kiss him, too, gently on his lips, then his cheek, down to his neck where he asked you to bite him. His marks match your own, a trail of teeth down your neck, your shoulder, and your chest. 

“My love,” he murmurs. 

“Was that okay?” you ask him. “How does your side feel?” 

“Perfect. Let's do it again.” 

You laugh and quickly slip away from him before he can try to roll you over. And let your oatmeal get cold? Absolutely not, you tease him.  

He eats; you clean up. He coaxes you back into bed; you agree, as long as he holds you and you get to pick what you watch. 

You never have made him an offer he can refuse. 

The bows trill low; the flowers dance. 

Sylus gently releases the tonearm. The flutes pick up with a slight crackle through his record player; then they're carried away by the violins. He hums along with first notes, off-key, then turns around to hold his hand out for you. 

“I like it. Is this what you were taking me to hear at the concert?” You put your wine glass down on the table and drift over to him, placing your hand in his. You're barefoot, wearing his shirt again, and it keeps sliding off the shoulder no matter how many times you readjust it. You've refused offers of other (appropriately sized) sleepwear. 

Sylus draws you closer, placing one hand on your lower back and dipping his head down for a kiss. It's impossible to stop doing it now that he can. “Correct. Though you are by far the loveliest flower partaking in this particular waltz.” 

You laugh, resting your head against his shoulder while you sway together. One, two, three, slowly and off-beat.  

“I couldn't let you be the only one who grew legs out of roots. I have to keep up with you somehow.” 

Sylus hums. “I'd never go without you, beloved. We dance together or not at all.” 

You curl your hand over his heart. “...It's going to take some time for me to get used to you calling me that.” 

“That's alright,” Sylus murmurs. “I've got time.” As much of it as you like. Everything you can't accept yet will be here waiting for you until you do. 

He, too, can wait. As long as you let him hold you like this in the meantime he thinks he can bear a little more patience. And then, when you're ready, he'll tell you how much he adores you. How much he needs you. He thinks you already know, but he also knows his kitten is skittish.  

That's alright, too. He's happy to keep holding out his hand and let you come to him. He'll show you over and over that you don't need to flinch from him. That for all the violence and anger that soak his hands red he will still cradle you in them gently.  

You stay there, swaying together in the dim evening light, long after the waltz has ended.

[demon-master-zero]

You've been "trapped" in a "VR" game for years, learnt magic, had a family, etc. But now they've "rescued" you from it all. Waking up on the hospital bed you reflexively cast a shield. Which works.

[demon-master-zero]

Cuddle Me!

✰ summary: Sylus cranks the cold air conditioner after a petty argument, so you cuddle him ✰ pairing: Sylus x reader ✰ content: fluff, established relationship, you being petty and Sylus is needy but doesn't want to admit it ✰ w/c: 771 ✰ notes: Had this random idea so i had to write it! this was written super quick so forgive me if its not as good. pls ignore that you could've gotten a blanket/jacket 😭. also Sylus debut on my blog yippeee <3

🪷Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

The chilly air raises goosebumps along your arms as you shiver where you sit in Sylus’s living room. Moonlight filters in through the silk curtains, and the sound of soft classical music playing on the vinyl speaker is the only sound in the room. Both you and Sylus are quiet, neither of you making a sound as your pettiness refuses to speak to him after the argument. You’re keeping to yourself with a book you promised yourself to finish reading while Sylus is cleaning a gun from his personal collection.

You don’t even know what it was about, just something silly that transpired into his smug attitude egging you on. Rationally, you know that he wasn’t mean or rude to you—Sylus would rather fall face first off his penthouse before being intentionally mean to you—you can't help but give him the silent treatment.

The chill of the living room gets colder and colder. You’re in a pair of red, satin pyjamas, one of the many that Sylus has bought you, and it’s not doing anything to protect you against the frustrating cold. You could’ve sworn that it would’ve been warmer, considering the heater was just on moments ago.

You stride over to the thermostat to crank up the heat. To your surprise, the screen displays an overwhelming blue, explaining the sudden coldness. You slide the dial high, until it turns a bright red and head back to lie down on the couch with your book.

After a few minutes, the cold seeps in again. You try your best to ignore it, curling up into a ball and tucking your legs under yourself. You don’t want to get up again. The leather couch is not helping your case. In fact, it’s actively making it worse.

“Cold Kitten?” Sylus’s smug voice calls out from the other side of the room. He seems completely fine. Content even. Watching you freeze to death as you’re curled up like a literal kitten. You huff and purposely ignore eye contact. Sylus seems ever more amused watching you try to conserve your heat in the bitter temperature.

Eventually, you can't take it anymore, so you stand up begrudgingly once again to head to the thermostat. It’s set to a cool blue yet again.

“Sylus, for all your boasting about your amazing house in the N109 zone, your heating system sucks.”

“Why don’t we use our body heat to warm us up Sweetie, hm?”

“Did you do this on purpose?” You phrase it like a question, but you know that Sylus is the one behind this. The dark red tendrils of his evol hover behind the thermostat like thieves hiding from police. You try to fiddle with the settings of the thermostat, but it remains frozen at the cold temperature.

You huff again and resign yourself to sitting on the cold couch in misery. Several minutes pass as the cold air runs over your skin, wrapping around your limbs until they stiffen. Your teeth slightly chatter and your hands shake until the book you were intent on reading is neglected.

You look up at Sylus. He’s wearing his signature slacks paired with a dark sweater. His legs are spread enticingly as he continues to polish the gun in his hand. You know for sure that his body heat will be more than enough to warm you up. He’s basically a heater personified. Whenever you both cuddled to sleep, it was common for you to wake up overheated.

You sigh. You can't believe you’re about to give in. But it’ll be worth it in the end, despite the teasing you know you’ll have to deal with. You stand up and stalk towards him.

“Sylus.”

“Yes Sweetie?”

You don’t answer as you sink down onto his lap like you own it, which you do, Sylus can attest to that. You wrap your limbs around him and bury your head into his comfy chest. His calming, natural scent and overwhelming warmth instantly cocoon you. Sylus wraps his muscled arms around your body, further warming you up. He presses a loving kiss to the top of your head as he blissfully cuddles you.

“You purposefully made it cold didn’t you?” You look up at him, chin digging to his chest.

“I did Kitten, but you weren’t talking to me no matter what I did. I had to do something.” Sylus crowed.

“Just say you’re needy next time,” you hide your smile in his neck, tightening your grasp around him. Previous pettiness floating away now that you and Sylus aren’t at odds anymore.

“I will always need you Sweetie, no matter what.”

[demon-master-zero]

Sylus: Sweet Temptations

~ this started as a quick imagine, meant to end where the "read more" tab is currently located. And, well, it spiraled.

~ Warnings: smut with no plot, reader is female! Cunnilingus, Sy hits it raw per usual, evol use, creampies. Pretty tame lol

A note from Soul: Heyo idk how I got here. It really started to spiral lmfao I miss writing full length stories. Perhaps I'll try and give it a whirl with a previous Sylus idea I teased a few weeks back. Enjoy! WC: 2.3k

"You... can't wear that."

You freeze, eyes widening as you stare at Sylus. Fresh out of the shower, your hair still damp, and a fresh set of comfy clothes adorning your clean skin. "Wha-why not?" Glancing down, you can't figure out what is so scandalous about a t-shirt and shorts.

"Your shorts are... too short." There is an odd tremor in his voice, one that freezes your confusion as it barrels down the train tracks of pure spiraling. "My shorts are too short?" You start, a smile creeping onto your lips as you cross your arms. "Are you saying I'll tempt the twins by showing so much of my legs?" Your grin turns wicked.

"Your legs? Sweetie, look behind you." So you do, catching a glimpse of your back in the full length mirror. No, it's not just your legs. The shorts are hiked up a little, teasing the round curves of your ass cheeks just below the cotton surface. Oh. oh.

"I don't see anything wrong." You bat your lashes at him as you turn to face him again, hands reaching back and poking the plush of your ass. Something Sylus catches in the mirror reflection, something you notice makes his throat bob. "Sweetie..."

"I'll be fine." You stand firm, the teasing lit in your voice making him clench his jaw. "We promised the twins we'd watch that movie with them, can't back down no-hey!" Your legs are kept in place by the familiar black and red tendrils of Sylus' evol.

But, he's stalking forward, long strides closing the distance. You feel the need to back away, but your legs are cemented in place. Before you can ask what he's doing, he's squatting down in front of you.

"My kitten is being naughty." He states simply, hands hooking in the elastic waist of your cotton shorts and tugging them down.

"Sylus!" Your face flushes, heat radiating through your body as he reveals exactly what he expected to find. "No panties, Kitten? I thought we were just watching a movie with the twins... instead you're trying to tease me, huh? Shorts riding up that perfect ass, just to forgo underwear. Easy access for me, right? How considerate."

You wanted to melt into the floor, eyes frantically looking between his face and where it hovered inches next to your exposed cunt. "I-I just didn't bring underwear into the bathroom with me." But Sylus is laughing, shoulders shaking as his hands move to hold your hips.

"You parade naked around our bedroom all the time, kitten. That's a silly excuse and you know it." You feel the urge to defend yourself, but, dammit, he's right. "C'mon, pull my pants back up the twins are probably wait-ngh!" You flinch, struggling to stifle your noises as Sylus nudges your cunt with his nose.

"They can... wait. I'm craving a pre-movie snack."

You’re struggling to swallow, mouth feeling impossibly dry as his words ghost warm air along your center. “Sy…” but you’ve already lost the battle, lost the war, this isn’t what you wanted to happen anyways, no?

“Hush, kitten. Let me eat.”

You can't stop the strangled yelp that leaves your mouth, hands immediately flying down to tangle in the silky soft white strands of Sylus' head. His nose is settling on your pubic bone as his tongue prodded between your slick folds. You could tell by the look he shot you that he wasn't at all surprised at how quickly you got worked up.

"S-shit, Sy. C'mon... I'm gonna fall." You could feel your knees trembling, even with his hands and evol holding you up. Still, Sylus didn't stop. His warm tongue poking at the pulsating bud residing at the apex of your cunt. As if to drive his point home, he squeezed your hips as his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking until you squealed.

"S'too intense! C'mon!" But your lips were parted, fingers tugging on his hair so hard you were certain a few strands would come with you when you let go. But Sylus didn't stop, didn't even try to hide the obscene noises leaving his mouth as he slurped on your juices.

He was in his own form of heaven, face caged by your thighs, mouth glued to your cunt, your fingers yanking his hair so hard it sent delicious thrills of pain down his spine. Fuck, he could cum just like this and be satisfied. "S-shit I'm already gonna cum..!"

Your entire body trembled with pleasure, your cunt clenching around nothing but Sylus could feel the movement against his chin. Every nerve ending seemed to light on fire, to the point you wanted to tell him to ease up just to extend your pleasure.

But if there was one thing about Sylus, he loved to eat. And he certainly did not take well to any interruptions. That, and he always went back for seconds, thirds, hell even fourths and fifths and sixths and…

"Shit'm so close!" The tension in you cunt spread up to your gut, down your thighs, you had half the sense to realize his evol was the only thing keeping you upright at this very moment. Sylus hummed at your words, vibrating your now sensitive clit and making stars spark across your vision as his tongue flicked left and right.

Drool pooled in your mouth, damn near spilling out had you not swallowed to try and gain any sense of sanity. Sylus didn't relent, no, his eyes seemed to sparkle up at you as he started slurping again, suckling on your pulsating clit until he could see the tears brimming in your eyes. If his mouth wasn't so occupied, he'd tell you to cum.

"Boss man? Are you and Miss Hunter going to watch the movie with us?" Sylus didn't freeze, but you sure snapped out of your daze. You expected him to unlatch himself from your cunt, to gruffly answer Luke and then continue. Instead, he doubled down.

It was up to you to give a verbal response... that devil.

"Boss man?" Sylus merely sucked on your clit, you swore you could feel his lips curling into that goddamn smirk. "W-we'll be out in a minute. Sylus is j-just finishing up." What was he finishing exactly? You'd let Luke make his own assumptions. "Oh! Alright... we'll get it ready."

You could feel the confusion in Luke's words, but it didn't matter when your orgasm was teetering right on the edge. "Sylus please, oh fuck I'm so close to coming, please..."

He obliged just as you nearly hunched over, fingers spasming in his hair as you sought for some sort of grounding. The pleasure building up was far too much, and you knew your orgasm would absolutely destroy you. You just prayed you'd be able to keep your voice down.

Sylus' mouth was hot as he shook his head against your cunt, slurping and sucking as your eyes squeezed shut. Your release covered him, drenching his lips and chin as your pussy trembled and clenched all over his mouth.

Your ears rung, eyes swimming with tears and you tried to blink them away. Sylus barely relented, not until your hands tugged at his hair weakly. Then, with a soft kiss on your sensitive cunt, he pulled away.

"Sylus..." You weren't even sure what you were going to say, but he didn't give you a chance. No, there was something lingering in his gaze. Primal hunger, need, you knew you were in for it now. He wasn't done yet, the poor twins would be waiting forever.

"Sylus the twins are waiting-" but you were being scooped up in his arms, shorts still around your ankles as he walked you over to the bed. "They can start without us, I'm not satisfied yet." A dark gray patch had leaked across the front of Sylus' sweatpants. His cock visibly straining against the material. "Oh fuck..."

“Do you see what trouble this little stunt of yours has caused us, my naughty little kitten?” You pushed up on shaky arms, watching Sylus pull off the flimsy material of your shorts and toss them onto the bedroom floor.

“You’ll need to make it up to me, y’know. You can’t just go and dangle the sweetest of treats in front of me and expect me not to…” he sunk lower, crowding your space as his lips brush the shell of your ear. “…bite.”

An involuntary shiver racks your body, eyes dazed as your legs spread wider to accommodate him. “Then take your fill, Sylus. Devour me.” You swore you could see his self control snap in half, but his lips were crashing into yours with bruising force before you could process it.

Sylus took his time exploring your mouth, something he had done countless times, but it never quite got old. He didn't think it ever would. All the while, one hand reached down to yank his cock out of the confines of his sweatpants. He hadn't been wearing underwear either... but you didn't need to know.

You had been so lost in the feeling of his mouth that you didn't process anything else until it was a second too late. The dull head of his cock was pressing into your entrance, the pressure of the stretch making you whimper. Sylus soothed you by kissing you harder, drowning you in the feeling of his mouth.

"Good girl, take it." The whisper was enough to send a shrill of pleasure down your spine, walls quivering as inch after inch was buried in the warmth of your velvety walls. "Feel so good, baby. Such a good girl f'me. Taking me so well..." every praise was a whispered sin into your parted mouth, enough to have you gasping.

The pressure built, until your legs trembled as they crossed around his waist. "Sh-shit so big... so full..." He had bottomed out, a breathy laugh leaving his lips at your shameless praise.

"Don't inflate my ego too much, kitten."

You could only roll your hips in response, you didn't mind inflating his already large ego. "C'mon, Sy. We still have a movie to watch." His head fell forward at that, a reminder he wasn't all that willing to accept. "Quit rushing me, Kitten."

Your mouth opens to complain, but you can't manage to spit the words out. Not when he draws back half way just to push in again. "I want to take my time with you." he shifts, pushing you both further up the mattress so he can get better leverage.

"Only you, my love, would dare to order the leader of Onychinus around." And if you weren't grappling with your fraying sanity, you probably would have made a smart remark back to him. Instead, your nails dug into the material of his shirt, yanking it up his back in the process. You needed something to scratch.

Sylus found his rhythm easily - he always did - somehow knowing just how to fuck into you so you're seeing stars. If you thought he was ruining you, you should see the mess you were making of him. His shirt bunching at his neck, your nails digging into the muscled flesh, his sweat pants hanging around his thighs.

If anyone were to see the leader of Onychinus like this? It would be proper blackmail material. "S-shit Sylus! Just like that... fuck!"

It was incredible how quickly he could work you up. Your stomach was twisting, cunt fluttering around his size as it plunges in and out of your heated center. You could cum just from this, from the pap pap pap of his hips rutting into you, from his abdomen ghosting your sensitive clit. All of it had you forgetting to keep your voice down.

"Sy, m'gonna cum again..!" You pulled his face towards you, mushing your lips together in a sloppy kiss as his hips worked you senseless. "Cum for me, kitten. Make a mess." There was already a creamy ring of your arousal collecting at the base of his cock, it drove him wild.

His hand sunk lower, angling himself just right to begin rubbing eager circles on your twitching clit. "Feels so good, huh? Do I make you feel good, kitten? Ruining this pretty pussy cuz you wanted to be a brat? Wanted to get a rise out of me? You got it, fuck you got it."

You clamped down on him, walls suffocating him so harshly his hips stuttered in their steady pace. "Shit!" He almost came just from that.

You weren't faring much better, entire cunt spasming as your second orgasm hung just out of your reach. "C-cum with me, Sy. Please?" He was a devil? He'd beg to differ with that one. You were so effortlessly sin-incarnate. "Course, k-kitten." And you were falling apart, cunt gushing around him as his hips slammed into you one last time.

Hot ropes of cum poured into your cunt, filling you to the brim as a rumbling groan vibrated Sylus' chest. He was twitching, forehead pressing to yours as your uneven breathing mixed together.

"Pleased with yourself, Kitten?" A kiss lands on your nose, then your cheek, then your lips. You're struggling to keep your eyes open, a dopey grin on your lips as you try and calm down. "Very."

"Boss man... miss hunter?" This time, it was Kieran knocking at the bedroom door. "We can uh... reschedule the movie night. Or just uhm... Luke and I can just watch it together." A mortified shiver was creeping up your spine. How much had they heard?

Sylus sighed, a devilish look in his eyes as he called back. "Start watching, Miss Hunter and I will be out in a few minutes."

"C'mon Sylus!" But your lover only smirked down at you, "I thought you wanted to watch the movie, kitten. You were so eager to rush me every time I was looking to take my time."

This was his form of payback. "You're evil, Sy"

"...I know."

[demon-master-zero]

How to write hospital scenes 

From someone who’s definitely been in too many and would very much like a refund...ツ

⊹ Waiting rooms are emotional purgatory. They’re too bright, too quiet, and weirdly timeless. Fluorescent lights buzzing, TVs playing muted news no one watches, coffee that tastes like burnt stress. People aren’t relaxing in there, they’re just existing, awkwardly pretending their phones are interesting while dissociating at 40% battery.

⊹ Everyone talks in a whisper, but not because it’s respectful, no, it just feels wrong to speak normally. Like the walls might be listening, like if you talk too loud, something worse might happen, even the loud people get quiet in hospitals.

⊹ Overnight stays are hell. hospital chairs? medieval torture devices with upholstery. even if someone’s trying to nap next to a patient, they’re not sleeping. They’re half-listening to the symphony of beeping machines, nurse shoes squeaking, the occasional cough, and distant Code Something crackling over the intercom. it’s anxiety with a blanket.

⊹ The smell is unforgettable, like it’s not just antiseptic. it’s plastic and cafeteria meatloaf and sweat and fear and the smell of a place where people are very much not okay. the first time your character walks in, it’ll hit them like a wall. later, they might not even notice, or maybe it’s the only thing they can smell for days after.

⊹ Talking to doctors is a weird performance. You're trying to be calm, they’re trying to be calm. But no one is calm, your character wants to ask 47 questions and not sound desperate. The doctor explains things like they’re narrating a science video, and when they leave, someone will immediately go “wait... we forgot to ask” every. single. time.

⊹ Monitors beep constantly. half the time, it’s nothing. A wire got loose, someone rolled over. But the second it is something, the vibe shifts fast. Nurses appear like ghosts, machines start going off, and everyone starts moving. And your character? they might freeze, or panic, or forget they have lungs. Go with whatever makes sense for them, but make it visceral.

⊹ Time goes full funhouse mirror. Ten minutes waiting for test results feels like a year. A full hour stretches into eternity, meanwhile, three hours can pass without anyone realizing it. You can use this in your pacing, make it drag when the waiting is unbearable.

⊹ Hospital cafeteria food: Garbage. It’s either offensively bland or stupidly overpriced. The grilled cheese is six dollars and tastes like regret, and someone will 100% cry into a cold sandwich at 3am, because grief doesn’t care where you are.

⊹ People start fixating on tiny, random things. They can’t control the big stuff, so their brain zeroes in on a sock slipping off, a crooked IV pole, the repetitive drip-drip-drip of medication. Let them obsess over something small, it’s how the brain copes with being completely powerless...

[demon-master-zero]

His pregnant wife | Sylus

Sylus x fem!Reader

The silence in the spacious bedroom was thick and heavy, like expensive velvet. Broken only by the steady ticking of the clock, it wrapped around you like a warm blanket, refusing to release you from the clinging embrace of sleep.

New life was growing and strengthening beneath your heart. Your belly had long since rounded, becoming heavy, making movement difficult, so you spent more and more time in bed. Under the strict supervision of your beloved husband, this life felt truly paradisiacal. Surrounded by care, tender as pure silk, you drowned in this intoxicating feeling. Pregnancy felt more like a resort with service above five stars. All inclusive, exclusively for you—for the one who first mercilessly stole his heart, then gifted him hope for a bright future. A future where he has a family. And Sylus would never tire of thanking fate for this.

Truly a gift from the universe—sensitive and shifting like hot coastal sand—yet it stirred all his senses, adorning his stern face with a barely perceptible smile.

A fragile sense of peace flickered where, by its very nature, it shouldn't exist. Sylus pushed away the nagging, acrid feeling of anxiety. The house was quiet. Even the floorboards didn't creak under the man's weight, and the black soles of his boots left no trace on the deep-pile carpet. Now everything was perfect. He was where he belonged—in love, boundless devotion, and the feeling of order, where everything was under control.

Sylus entered the bedroom without knocking. Not a single rustle under the veil of the first sunbeams. They avoided touching your face, wary of disturbing your sensitive sleep, tearing you from Morpheus's grasp. The baby was growing restless. Strong, healthy, robust like his father, he scarcely slept during the long autumn nights: tossing, kicking his tired mother in the belly and ribs, as if cramped in his allotted space. Such a tiny thing, yet already staking a claim to power.

In the pinkish-orange light of the morning sun, you looked especially pale. The dark circles under your eyes were more pronounced, and the hollows of your once-rounded cheeks struck Sylus as somewhat painful. His own flesh and blood was methodically destroying the most precious thing he had. It was cruel.

"Sy?" – still half-asleep, yet you sensed your husband's presence from a mile away. His aura, heavy and dense, enveloped the space like a grey thundercloud, and the saturated scent of ozone in the room overpowered any perfume.

How many times had you changed fabric softeners? Lit incense and placed diffusers, trying to add coziness, but his smell… thick and persistent, it seemed to have seeped into the very walls of this house, refusing to leave.

"There, there, kitten. I'm here. Why are you awake?" – His voice, deep and velvety, calmed your frantically pounding heart—an unwelcome remnant of nightmare, clinging like clammy sweat to your temples. "You look tired. Even more than yesterday."

You wanted to wave off his words, bite your tongue, keeping your worries to yourself, and just savor the moment where everything seemed too flawless. But his warm hands were already sliding behind your back, helping you sit up. That intuitive gesture of care lodged like a prickly lump in your throat, preventing a full breath. Some absurd sense of guilt settled deep within, as if lying to someone who sincerely, without a shadow of doubt, cared for you was fundamentally wrong?

"Don't waste energy on lies. You promised to be honest, remember?" – Long fingers carefully adjusted your pillow, fluffing the soft down inside. He did it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, as if he were born solely to lavish all his care upon his beloved—as if killing wasn't etched into his very destiny.

Reaching towards the nightstand placed right beside the bed for your convenience, Sylus picked up a glass cup with a chipped handle and handed it to you. The sweetish aroma of ginger, honey, and something more pungent—something you could never quite place—touched your sensitive nose. Your mouth went instantly dry, like a traveler's in the midst of an endless desert.

He knew your desires and needs better than you did yourself. Knew when it was time for vitamins, the exact time of your doctor's appointment, and the G-index of magnetic storms during which you constantly complained of migraines. He would never allow himself to miss the slightest detail and would always be there when needed.

"Drink. Nothing beats a vitamin bomb for morning sickness."

Your hands trembled almost imperceptibly as your slender fingers curled around the slightly warm, rounded sides of the cup.

Taking small, slow, careful sips, you tasted the water, slightly cloudy with lemon zest, and took a deep breath. The feeling of the night's nightmare on your skin evaporated as quickly as a trace of steam vanishes from a fogged-up bathroom mirror. Better, lighter—your body no longer felt like a heavy weight pulling you back into bed.

"Bothering you today?" – A broad, masculine palm gently covered the swell of your belly. Beneath that warm touch, faint kicks could be felt. Sylus found it amusing that this little one remained so active at any hour. "Little rascal. Already learned to demand attention." – A familiar note of mockery laced his tone. He enjoyed watching this new life grow within his woman, but you, attuned to his subtleties, saw the deep, almost indecent pride radiating beneath it.

"He's just active. Like his father."

"Then he needs to learn the cardinal rule: His mother is inviolable, and her comfort is the law for every member of this family. No exceptions."

[demon-master-zero]

Sylus, laughing to himself as he sends you nudes.

Fresh out of the shower, the world’s tiniest towel clinging to his waist, water running down his body in rivets and… oh he’s so hard. The towel pokes out almost comically.

Of course he’s snapping pictures of the sight, arm extended all the way to his right as he snaps photos of his dripping wet torso, annoyingly small waist, and massive hard on. Each one getting sent right to you.

And you? You’re lying in bed, jaw hanging open as picture after picture comes in. You can’t even be mad at him for it. Hell you’re more upset at the fact that you’re alone in your bed in Linkon and he’s bricked up in the N109 Zone.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you, kitten.”

You swear you can hear the seductive purr of his voice as you read the message. “Quit leaving me on read, say something. I see you viewing each one.” And you’re struggling to swallow the lump in your throat.

“You’re a devil, Sylus.” You shift uncomfortably, suddenly too hot, wearing too many layers, your body aches. “You must be pretty needy to be that hard.” You follow up quickly, contemplating how bad of an idea it would be to get out of bed and drive to his place.

Really? Answering the late night booty call of the leader of Onychinus. You’ve lost it… a long time ago. Your legs are swinging over the side of your bed as he types.

“Course I am. Always need for you, kitten.” You groan, rummaging for your overnight bag as he types something else. “Kept thinking about you in the shower with me.” You’re already drafting the message you’ll send Jenna in the morning. A headache… no, a migraine. Can’t come in.

“What was I doing to you in the shower?” You smiled as you grabbed the bag, you already had it packed just in case. You always kept it packed because Sylus’ schedule was so wishy washy that if you wanted him? You needed to be ready to drop everything at any given moment.

This went for more than just sex of course.

“Nothing, it was everything I was doing to you that got me so worked up.” Your knees nearly went weak, feeling like a newborn dear as you stumbled to your living room.

“Keep those thoughts to yourself, memorize them even. I’ll be there soon, you can demonstrate in person” your bike helmet in one hand, your bag slung over your shoulder, and your keys jingling as you left your apartment.

“Fuck, I love you so much. Drive safe, I’ll be waiting, kitten.” You couldn’t move fast enough at that point. Your entire body lit on fire as anticipation fuels your movement.

[demon-master-zero]

isekai and in over my head.

chapter two | this is fine (i am absolutely lying)

it starts with you waking up in what might be a coma, probably isn’t a otome game, and is definitely not your life. It ends with five dangerously attractive men forming an unofficial committee to keep you alive, loved, and under constant emotional surveillance.

ABOUT | 3.3k words. f!reader x 5 LI (non-romance so far). slice of life.

TAGS | isekai. for shits and giggles. flirting. banter. fluff. survivors guilt.

NOTE: before anything else: thank you. genuinely. for the likes, the reblogs, the tags that made me clutch my heart, the comments that felt like being seen in a thunderstorm. i write these things half-feral and full of feelings, and the fact that any of you resonate with them?? i’m holding that close. i'm so, so grateful.

INDEX | chapter one ✧ chapter two ✧

chapter two | this is fine (i am absolutely lying)

THE THING...—the Wanderer—moved with the grace of a nightmare.

Not fast. Not slow. Just… deliberate. Like it didn’t need to rush because it already knew how this ended.

Its limbs—those too-long, too-smooth limbs—coiled inward, then snapped outward with a twitchy, too-slick motion that flung it forward across the fractured terrain. Each step felt wrong. Reversed. Like someone had animated it backward and forgotten to hit undo.

I couldn’t look away.

Not because I was brave.

Because I was locked.

Some deep, animal part of me had short-circuited, whispering ancient survival strategies like: Play dead. Think smaller. Maybe it eats confidence.

Caleb didn’t hesitate.

He stepped ahead of me with the kind of solid, unshakable certainty that made the world shrink around him.

And then he fired.

Light tore from his weapon, clean and precise, slicing across the Wanderer’s chest.

It hissed.

Not in pain. In acknowledgement.

Like Caleb had just rung the dinner bell.

The glowing sigils along its skin pulsed—faster now. Urgent. Hungry.

Then it surged forward.

“Back!” Caleb shouted, still firing, still unshaken. “Stay behind me!”

Yes. Good plan. Excellent plan. I loved that plan.

I did not move.

I didn’t even breathe.

Because that was the moment my brain chose to whisper:

Hey. What if this is real?

Not a dream. Not a coma. Not a dissociative episode with disturbingly good CGI.

But real.

Real monsters. Real guns. Real consequences.

Caleb fired again—this time hitting something vital. One of its limbs buckled with a wet, crunching snap. The Wanderer shrieked, the sound slicing through my skull like glass.

“Your sidearm!” he called. “Draw it!”

My what now?

Then I remembered.

The gun.

Strapped to my thigh like I was starring in a Bond film I hadn’t auditioned for.

I looked down.

Still there. Neatly holstered. Like it belonged.

(It didn’t. We both knew it didn’t.)

But my hands moved anyway. Mechanical. Detached.

I gripped the handle. It was heavier than it looked. Warm from my skin. Too real.

My fingers didn’t shake until I pulled it free.

Then they wouldn’t stop.

“Breathe,” Caleb said—firm but steady. “Line of sight. You've got this.”

Do I? Is that a thing I've got?

My arms lifted. The barrel wobbled.

The Wanderer—still fixated on Caleb—tilted. Just slightly. Like it had sensed something else.

Something smaller.

Something me.

I aimed for center mass. Or maybe center goo. It wasn't exactly big on traditional anatomy.

I swallowed. Pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked harder than I expected. The sound wasn’t just loud—it was a crack, sharp enough to slap the air sideways.

I stumbled, ears ringing—

And then—

Contact.

The shot landed.

The Wanderer reeled, spasming violently, as if something had yanked its spine from the inside. It shrieked, staggering back on its misshapen limbs, sigils flashing in a frenzy.

I blinked.

Stared at the gun in my hand. Then at the smoke curling off the barrel like it belonged in a movie. Then—

I laughed.

Loud. Breathless. Wild.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, turning to Caleb with my mouth hanging open and my face lit up like someone had just crowned me Miss Post-Apocalyptic America. “Did you see that? I did that!”

Caleb glanced over.

Still calm. Still alert.

But something flickered in his expression.

Approval.

Not a smile.

But close.

“Not bad,” he said.

And I—swear to god—I beamed.

For a solid three seconds.

And then the Wanderer shrieked again.

And my legs remembered how to panic.

I stumbled backward without meaning to—my heel catching on a crack in the concrete that hadn’t existed a heartbeat ago. The ground tilted—just slightly, but enough. My balance slipped. My arms flailed for something, anything.

But there was no anything. Just air. And noise.

The creature was recovering.

Its limbs jerked once. Then again. Twitchy. Violent. Like a puppet being yanked by too many invisible strings. The sigils across its body flickered like dying neon, re-igniting one by one. One pulsed a furious, unnatural blue—and I felt it.

Not in my ears. Not in the air. Inside.

Like a hum beneath my skin. A frequency just wrong enough to itch in my bones.

Caleb said something—short, sharp—but I didn’t catch it.

Because that’s when the Wanderer lunged.

Not at him.

At me.

And just like that, every brave thought I’d had a minute ago—every triumphant laugh, every “hell yeah I just shot a space demon” glow—shattered like wet paper in a thunderstorm.

The world rushed forward. Or maybe I rushed backward. Didn’t matter.

Because the thing hit the ground in front of me like a meteor wrapped in bone, and the impact exploded.

A shockwave ripped out in all directions—raw, concussive power that hit before I could brace. And suddenly I wasn’t standing anymore.

I was airborne.

No scream. No thought.

Just instinct.

Then impact.

Hard.

And not the cinematic kind. No slow motion. No graceful tumble. Just me, slamming into the ground like a collection of limbs and bad decisions. Elbows scraped, breath punched from my lungs in one graceless exhale.

Something sharp bit into my shoulder as I rolled.

Glass? Metal?

A fractured idea of who I thought I was before today?

I lay still for a beat, blinking up at a sky that had gone weirdly pale. The edges of my vision pulsed. My ears rang. My body hummed like I was made of exposed wiring.

Then—

Weight. Heat. Movement.

Caleb.

He was over me—in front of me—on me, really. One hand gripping my forearm, the other braced beside my head, solid as steel.

His body curled around mine, forming a shield. A wall. Like he’d dropped out of orbit and made me his crash site.

“You okay?” he asked, voice close. Breath brushing my cheek.

I blinked.

Swallowed.

Tried very hard not to notice how… present he was. Everywhere.

His chest pressed against mine. One arm curled around my waist. His knee—oh, hello, we’re very familiar now.

My mouth opened. Nothing clever came out.

“I think I forgot how to have bones,” I whispered.

A pause.

Then—to my absolute disbelief—he huffed a quiet laugh.

“Still sarcastic,” he murmured. “Good sign.”

He shifted his weight, giving me enough room to breathe without accidentally inhaling his shirt.

(Which, by the way, smelled like metal and clean sweat and something faintly smoky—like the air right before a storm.)

He reached up, brushing something from my hair. Dust. Debris. Possibly a chunk of my dignity.

“You took the hit better than I expected,” he said, scanning my face. “Not even a scratch.”

I didn’t know what to do with that.

Not the compliment exactly—but the way he said it.

Like he knew me.

Like we’d done this before. Like I’d fallen before. Gotten up before. Always survived. Always gotten right back in the fight.

I wanted to say: You've got the wrong girl. I wanted to say: I shouldn't even be here.

But I didn’t.

Because maybe one wrong word would break the logic of this place. Maybe it would shatter him. Maybe it would snap this whole thing like paper in the rain.

So I said the only thing that felt safe.

“I think my watch is broken.”

Caleb looked at me for a beat too long—like he was reading a language etched across my face.

Then he shifted back on his heels and offered me his hand.

I took it.

His grip was warm. Steady. Grounded.

Mine was cold and static and not entirely sure it belonged.

Still, he pulled me up like I weighed nothing. Like the universe had decided I wasn’t a problem worth resisting.

“Stay close,” he said, eyes flicking toward the still-flickering rift. “We're not out of this yet.”

I nodded.

Because my lungs were working again.

But my heart?

My heart was still somewhere on the ground.

Caleb stepped ahead of me again, moving like the fight wasn’t over.

Because it wasn’t. Not really.

The Wanderer was still alive.

Sort of.

It dragged itself through the rubble with a stuttering limp, one leg folding at the wrong angle beneath it. Sparks flickered where the sigils on its body had begun to decay—like a dying circuit board—but it didn’t stop. It didn’t surrender. It just kept crawling.

And Caleb didn’t hesitate.

He raised his weapon.

Eyes steady. Stance sure. No uncertainty. No delay.

The blast was quieter this time.

Mercy has a different kind of volume.

The creature folded in on itself with a final, twitching shudder. Its limbs curled inward, its glow sputtered. And then it slipped back into the rift it had come from—like someone pulling a zipper shut on another dimension.

One last hum of static. Then nothing.

Gone.

The silence that followed was deafening.

For a few suspended seconds, all I could hear was my own heartbeat—tight and steady in my ears. A drumbeat written just for me.

Then Caleb turned.

“You're bleeding.”

I looked down.

So I was.

A thin red line trailed down my arm, seeping slowly through the fabric of my sleeve. It wasn’t gory. Barely even painful. Just… there. Unignorable.

“Oh,” I said. “How rude of me.”

Caleb didn’t smile. But something behind his expression eased, almost like a twitch of warmth behind glass.

He thumbed his comm device.

“She's hit,” he said. “Not bad. But we need med.”

I stiffened.

Med?

No. No, no. Not yet. Not until I understood the rules of this place. The logic. The boundaries. I hadn’t had a tutorial. No dialogue tree. No pause menu.

I needed time. Not trauma kits.

“I'm fine,” I said, too quickly.

“You're not,” Caleb replied, calm and immovable.

He wasn’t being mean. Not annoyed. Just factual.

And that somehow made it worse.

He stepped forward again and extended his hand—like it was nothing. Like shielding me from monsters, catching my fall mid-battle, and now guiding me out of the wreckage were just routine maintenance items on his daily checklist.

I took it.

Because my pride was somewhere beneath a pile of cosmic shrapnel.

He guided me toward a tilted slab of what used to be a road divider, his palm pressed lightly to the small of my back. Steady. Warm. Grounding.

I tried not to notice it.

Or how close we were. Or how my legs still hadn’t fully signed the walking contract.

But mostly, I tried not to speak.

Because every part of me wanted to say something dangerous. Something obvious.

Like: You're even hotter up close.

Or: I downloaded your character arc on a rainy Thursday two months ago and now I'm bleeding inside it.

Nope. Nope. Absolutely not.

So instead, I focused on walking.

Left foot. Right foot. Don’t trip. Don’t overshare. Don’t mentally short-circuit in the presence of fictional military-grade jawlines.

And then—

Buzz.

My wrist console vibrated sharply.

A low beep echoed, followed by a voice crackling through the speaker—smooth, composed, and just faintly amused.

“Well. That's not the worst field report I've seen.”

I froze.

No.

No way.

Caleb didn’t miss a beat. He tapped his wrist and replied, all steady calm: “She's stabilized. Light laceration. Possible minor concussion. We're en route to evac.”

But I wasn’t hearing him anymore.

I was hearing him.

That voice.

Zayne.

I swallowed hard.

Don’t react. Don’t panic. Don’t do anything that might implode the fictional atmosphere currently pretending to be your life.

“I'll prep medical,” the voice said, as cool as a snowstorm. “Bring her in gently.”

Caleb muted the channel with a flick of his wrist.

“Almost there,” he said, voice low. “Just keep walking.”

Sure.

Right.

Walking.

Left foot. Right foot. Don’t cry. Don’t blurt Doc Daddy? out loud.

Don’t say anything.

We crested the edge of the crumbling hill and—

There it was.

The evac shuttle.

Matte black. Sleek. Still humming like it had somewhere more important to be. A few Farspace medics moved between open panels, their motions brisk and impersonal—like this was just another line on the Thursday rota.

Caleb led me toward the boarding ramp.

His hand was still at my back. And while some part of me was undeniably thrilled about that, the more rational, anxiety-ridden portion of my brain had questions. Like: How long am I expected to play along with this? What if I get caught? What if I sneeze and break the gravity engine or—

“Careful,” Caleb murmured as I stumbled.

The ramp hissed beneath our feet as we stepped inside. I blinked against the dim lighting.

Sterile. Clean. Cold-gray walls etched with glowing panels. A row of fold-out medical chairs that definitely doubled as interrogation seats. And in the center of it all, standing with his back turned—

Zayne.

He didn’t move at first.

He was typing something into a console—deliberate, precise. His lab coat hung perfectly from his shoulders, sleeves rolled and collar crisp. His hair was pulled back, revealing the clean cut of his jaw.

He hadn’t even looked up.

And yet my entire body had already decided to classify him as both threat and imminent system overload.

I froze.

Not from fear.

From buffering.

Brain short-circuited. Tongue gone. Stuck somewhere between what do I say and what if I forget how to say anything at all.

Then he turned.

His gaze swept the shuttle once—clinical, detached—before landing on me.

And holding.

His expression didn’t change. Not exactly.

But there was something slow in the way he looked at me. Measured. Like he was reading a chart only he could see.

“I was told you'd taken a hit,” he said.

Oh no.

That voice.

That voice had a body.

And that body was here. In 3D. Breathing. Wearing tailored sleeves and weaponized cheekbones.

“I—uh. Yeah. Sort of. Light scratch.” I cleared my throat. “Barely counts. Definitely not worth interrupting your very important... science?”

Science. Brilliant. Absolutely nailed it.

Zayne blinked. Slowly. Like a lizard assessing prey.

“I wasn't aware a concussion came with a stand-up routine.”

Caleb didn’t react.

Of course he didn’t.

This was his normal.

But me? I was a puddle in boots pretending to have bones.

Zayne stepped closer. His gaze didn’t waver.

I had the very stupid thought that if he stared any harder, I might forget my name and start answering to Patient just to please him.

“I need to assess you.”

Right.

Yes. That made sense.

Medical things. Healing. Professionalism.

None of which prepared me for the moment he touched me.

Just two fingers under my chin—light, practiced, impersonal. He tilted my head toward the light. Scanned my temple. My pupils. The line of my jaw. Each motion precise, cataloguing damage like a surgeon mapping a battlefield.

“You're flushed,” he murmured. “Could be trauma. Or stress. Or... other causes.”

His thumb brushed my cheekbone once.

I blinked.

“I—um. Sorry. I usually have better... circulation?”

Zayne arched one brow. Barely.

Behind me, Caleb made a sound. Low. Indecipherable. Disapproval? Amusement? I didn’t look.

I was too busy trying not to combust beneath the pressure of one hot, gloved, fictional doctor’s undivided attention.

Zayne’s fingers dropped away.

“Sit,” he said. “Before you fall.”

I nodded too quickly and backed toward the nearest seat, trying not to trip over my own limbs or dignity. I perched like a Victorian ghost unsure of modern furniture.

Zayne turned back to the console. A screen lit up, displaying vitals I didn’t recognize.

And then—

My name.

Except… not the one I was born with.

The one I typed in two months ago, wine in hand, assuming this game would be a harmless distraction from real life.

Now it pulsed on-screen in bold white letters.

Familiar. Intimate.

Not mine.

Zayne’s voice cut through again. “No cranial bleeding. Vitals steady. Light metaflux disruption.”

“I don't know what that means,” I said, trying to sound casual and not like someone quietly hiding the apocalypse in their back pocket.

Zayne didn’t answer. He tapped a few keys, then turned to Caleb and said, with surgical precision:

“She's stable. You did well.”

Caleb nodded.

My chest ached.

Not from the injury. Not even from fear.

But from the quiet gravity of this moment. This place.

Because they knew her. They believed in her. And I had no idea how long I could keep the illusion from cracking.

Zayne’s voice broke the silence.

“You have a concussion.”

Not a question. Not a suggestion.

Just truth—delivered with the blunt finality of an email notification. No emotion. Just inevitability. Probably followed by a PDF.

I blinked.

“You'll need rest,” he continued, already typing. “Monitored, ideally. You're lucid now, but I'd prefer someone nearby in case symptoms shift.”

I nodded. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth. Lucid was doing some heavy lifting.

“I'll take her,” Caleb said smoothly, arms folded across his chest.

The effect was immediate.

Like someone pressed a button labeled Mild Tension: Now Simmer.

Zayne didn’t look up from the data pad. “She needs medical supervision.”

“She needs peace and quiet,” Caleb replied. “And space.”

Zayne’s tone edged a degree colder. “Yes, well. Space is my specialty.”

And that was it.

That was the moment I realized I had walked into a full-blown Caretaking Standoff between a deadly sharpshooter and a terrifyingly composed neurospecialist with the emotional availability of a marble bust.

They weren’t shouting. They didn’t need to.

The testosterone was deafening.

“I've brought her in once already today,” Caleb said, voice casual as a trigger. “I think I can manage a few more steps to a couch.”

“While ignoring possible neurological trauma?” Zayne countered, not missing a beat. “How comforting.”

“I know her limits.”

“I know her brain.”

Okay.

Time to intervene.

I sat up straighter, willing my spine to perform under pressure. “I could just—uh—go with whoever's... closest?” I offered, voice high, smile brittle.

Neither of them moved.

It was like watching a very intense chess match, except the pawns were my internal organs and the grand prize was me.

And then—

“Hey, you're still alive!”

A voice burst through the shuttle doors like sunlight cracking through a hangover.

Tara.

She strode in like chaos incarnate—dark eyes wide, bobbed brown hair half-tucked under her gear hood, fringe spiking from static.

My entire body lifted.

Tara.

Friend. Game character. Comic relief. One of the few people I knew wouldn’t overanalyze if I tripped over my own existence.

I stood too fast. Wobbled.

Then pointed a slightly trembling finger at her, full of righteous, cliff-dangling dramatic flair.

“Tara will take me home.”

The room paused.

Zayne raised a brow.

Caleb’s jaw flexed.

Tara blinked. “Uh, I mean—sure?” she said, stepping inside like someone had just invited her to a surprise talent show. “I'm heading to HQ anyway. I don't mind a detour.” She beamed. “You can crash in my bunk if you want. Still smells like those vanilla wax tablets you made me smuggle.”

I nodded furiously, already moving toward her like a baby duck who had just imprinted on survival.

“Perfect,” I said. “Yes. Wax tablets. Love those. Let's go.”

Behind me, Caleb exhaled through his nose. Barely audible. Not quite a sigh. Not quite approval.

Zayne clicked his stylus against the screen.

“Monitor her,” he said, still not looking up. “Any sign of nausea, confusion, disorientation—call me immediately.”

Tara gave a lazy salute. “Roger that, Doc.”

And just like that, we were out.

The air outside was cool and sharp—like the aftermath of something you didn’t want to name. The terrain stretched wide and broken, shadows crawling where the light hadn’t returned. Above us, stars blinked faintly through thinning clouds.

Tara looped an arm around my waist, steady and casual.

She didn’t question the clinginess. Just matched my pace, like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

I nodded.

Not a lie. Not exactly.

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Sooo... you're gonna tell me what the hell that was, right?”

I smiled at her. Tried not to cry. And lied through my teeth.

“Later.”

To be continued...

♡ taglist : @spicypomegrana2 @asilaydead