ardently-verdandi

[ardently-verdandi]

If you were an art piece, then whoever created you must have loved you dearly-

🐈‍⬛

[ardently-verdandi]

i know nothing about horses and cowboys but i want cowboy sylus so badly please i need him to teach me how to ride like a good girl—

[ardently-verdandi]

Demon Sylus if he was in Saja Boys

[ardently-verdandi]

i voted for more tension and made silly little notes earlier before even reading this new chapter and oh my god i really want them to kiss already but my heart yearns for more suffering‼️

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, slow burn, mild language, brief mentions of violence & torture, evols exists here, mutual pining, romantic tension, brief jealousy, alcohol, 3k wc track list: le carrousel - james quinn fig. 1 | fig. 2 | fig. 3 | fig. 4

The air reeks of mildew, dust, sweat, and disinfectant. 

A lone lightbulb winks tawny overhead, casting ominous shadows along the concrete floor and walls, highlighting the savagery taking place within.

Four men occupy the room. 

Sylus is the only one seated on a chair like a throne, legs crossed—the paradigm of poised, twirling a folding knife between his fingers while a henchman stands in good form at his back. 

The muffled screams have now dulled to wet whimpers. A grown man crying has never been a pretty sound. But Sylus has grown accustomed to it, sometimes dragging the fragmented remains of a man out himself. 

He’s a good foot from the show, watching with all the interest of someone used to brutality. Lowered lids cloak vacant eyes. He sighs for the umpteenth time, leaning back, clearly bored with this game.

Lackey number two rucks up slicked sleeves, swiping the sweat from his brow before getting back to work. 

The victim—a self-proclaimed freelancer discharged from a rival faction, boasting about having antimatter weapons to sell—snivels as Sylus’ henchman drags him across the floor. On his knees, ankles and wrists bound, breath shaky behind the bite of a makeshift gag, the man levels Sylus with a pleading look. 

It’s fruitless. The kingpin is in no mood for mercy. He waggles his fingers, signaling for his henchman to begin another round of mind-warping torture. 

Blood and viscera aren’t Sylus’ thing. 

If he can help it, he prefers more neat, conventional methods for extracting information. Which is why he doesn’t flinch when the goon’s cries rise again as if he’s being electrocuted. 

The lightbulb glints once more, and a moth beating its wings as it orbits it, casts a foreboding shadow below.

Sylus toys with the knife again, mind slowly detaching itself, when his phone lightly buzzes in his coat. 

He catches the blade’s handle in his palm, fishes his cell from his inner pocket, and scrutinizes the screen. Arching a brow, his lips twitch, threatening to curl upward. 

It’s a message from you, your name accented with a lone heart emoji. 

When he draws up the text, your voice invades his mind. He envisions you all frazzled, dramatic as ever, and his heart swells from the imagery.

(You): help me!

It reads half-cryptic. He’s sitting up now, the knife returning to its home with a sharp shlink!

When he starts to feel an inkling of concern creeping in, thumb hovering over the keyboard, prepared to key in a response, another message comes through. It’s a picture of a menu, sharp print against cardstock, the restaurant's name scrawled in cursive at the top. 

(You): don’t know how to read this. i’m hungry as hell and about to have a whole attitude.  (You): heeeeellllp 🚨🚨🚨 (You): and don’t say escargot. i will literally fight you.

This time, he does allow his lips to pull in that Cheshire Cat sort of way. It’s endearing how you need him. How you rely on him to translate what you call “rich bastard speak.” Even if it’s for something minor, he’s grateful to be of use to you. You give him purpose in a world that bleeds grey. The shine of a lighthouse amid a tumultuous storm. 

He’s been there before, the eatery you’re fretting over. They have good liquor and decent grilled scallops. He’s about to send back a personal rec, but then it strikes him—the gleam of silver in the photo’s corner, half-hidden by the menu, but glaringly obvious. 

An expensive watch wrapped around a wrist that’s inherently masculine catches his eye. Bigger than yours, veins and sinew spilling from the links down to manicured nails. 

Sylus’ jaw ticks. 

He knows you’re on your lunch break. Has your schedule down to a science, pocketing it in case he has to do something irreversible to clear his tracks. He’s aware that you primarily work with women—you sometimes vent about the things they do and don’t, using him as a confidant whenever your day is too heavy to shoulder. 

And maybe he’s done background checks on all of them, ensuring they wouldn’t pose a problem later. To you and him.

But you’ve never spoken of a man working in your small, hodgepodge department. A man too close for Sylus’ comfort. Casual familiarity that makes his eyes narrow.

He’s already chased off one deranged ex. He’d rather not come back to you missing while he’s in another city conducting business.

(Sylus): whos that sweetie? (You): ??? (Sylus): the tudor watch. (Sylus): in the corner. friend of yours?  (You): oh! intern. he’s cool peeps. i’m like 6 years older than him and he keeps reminding me. 🙄🙄🙄

Sylus certainly does not release the quietest, most relieved breath. And the rigid set of his shoulders doesn’t slacken upon discovering that you’re not secretly courting someone without his knowledge.

It’s not stalking. It’s ensuring his assets are secured. 

(You): anyway, can you help me? you know i don’t understand this fancy shit. (Sylus): avoid the rack of lamb. its a bit overseasoned. (You): lol (You): you forget who you’re talking to. i sprinkle seasonings on my food until my ancestors whisper, “enough, child.”

He chuckles something throaty, something endeared. And he doesn’t realize he’s let his guard down until his henchman shifts behind him, clearing his throat. Sylus cuts his eyes over his shoulder, daring the man to utter a word. He doesn’t, straightening his tie and returning his attention to the scene ahead.

(Sylus): it might be a bit overpowering even for you sweetie. (Sylus): go for the duck confit or the grilled halibut. those are more your tastes. (You): thank youuuuu! 🙏🙏🙏 (Sylus): pair it with a glass of pinot gris. (You): gesundheit. (Sylus): and be sure to introduce me to your new intern friend before he whisks you out on a date next time. (You): 😛😛😛 (You): jealous?

Sylus doesn’t do jealous. It’s never been a word in his repertoire. Possessive, maybe. A little overprotective, sure. But jealousy suggests uncertainty—belly-baring surrender. Weakness—and Sylus is everything but weak.

He keys in a response that he knows will have you tipping out of your chair.

(Sylus): jealousy would imply that youre not already mine sweetie.

He can virtually hear the cogs turning in your mind when you take a few beats to respond. The resulting surprised dog meme you send makes him stifle that rich man’s laugh behind his hand. 

You’re cute. Do you know that?

Leaving you with something to think about, he concludes your playful exchange.

(Sylus): have fun.

Peeling himself from the chair, he shoves his hands into his pockets, the arms of his coat dramatically fluttering behind him when he turns to exit the warehouse. 

He pays no mind to the cries of agony behind him. Just clips over his shoulder to a stationary henchman by the entrance, “Finish up quickly.”

The sooner he cuts out the middlemen, the quicker the suppliers will start sniffing around themselves.

—

It’s a little past 6 pm when the front door’s lock jiggles. 

Good. Perfect timing.

“You’re home early,” you call from the fridge when that messy thatch of white appears in the doorway. 

He stiffens, taking a little time to appraise you like he didn’t expect you to be home. You snort, kicking the fridge door shut, a handful of grapes clutched in your hand.

You pop one into your mouth, leaning on the countertop. Syus approaches after toeing off his loafers and dropping his coat on the rack. The particles in the air seemingly bend and shift to accommodate him. 

You try not to get hung up on what he said earlier—you know, when he insisted you were his.

Maybe he’d been drinking himself. You had a little Pinot at his behest to combat your flaring nerves. To knock a little sense into yourself.

“Why do you look like someone hacked Mephisto?” you jibe, trying to lighten the mood. 

Sylus’ expression morphs into something easier. Something more like him as his lips pull into that familiar smirk. Without warning, he swipes a grape from your palm, and his eyes shine with a challenge as he deposits it in his mouth. 

“Why do you look like you’re up to no good?” he returns in that deep gravel, tone threaded with a tenderness you’ve never heard expressed elsewhere.

Your jaw shifts. He’s lucky he’s cute. The pinnacle of manliness. Handsome as all hell. You’ve never known someone to make something as simple as eating look hot.

Clearing your throat, you swipe some invisible dust off the counter after finishing off the last of your grapes. “Not up to anything bad. But since you’re home, you can watch a movie with me.”

The silence hangs for a moment. You glance up to see your roomie eyeing you with an intrigued brow. He reaches over the counter to flick your forehead. You let out an unflattering yelp. He’s trying to scramble your brain matter, you just know it.

“Do I have a say in the matter, or are you just going to manipulate me with those dangerous eyes of yours?”

Your heart was already rabbiting in your chest. It works double time now, and your stomach drops to your feet. You’re stricken with something cold. Something halfway pleasant. 

Oh. Oh, he was flirting, wasn’t he?

Opting for coy, you tug at some frayed threads at the end of your sweatshirt, caught between a laugh and a scoff. 

“Unless you’ve got some mysterious phone calls to take, you’re mine for the night. You owe me for babysitting Mephie. You know he secretly wants to murder me.” And for leaving me all by my lonesome again, you inwardly add. 

If at all possible, his smirk deepens until a dimple craters his cheek. You have pins and needles in your legs. What the fuck even is breathing?

“Doubt that. He’s programmed to…appreciate pretty things.” The way his eyes slide to you as pretty things leaps off his tongue—

You typically keep the AC low for the summer. Pretty comfortable for you both. But it feels it’s reached boiling point in your quaint kitchen as your skin grows embarrassingly hot.  

After a deep breath to get your head together, you move to the pantry to fish out some popcorn. Your movements are noticeably stiff as you tear through the plastic, not daring to turn around, lest he get a look at that crooked smile on your face. 

“Batman it is,” you say, loud enough for him to hear above the beep of the microwave when you set the timer.

You feel him between your shoulder blades. Drilling down to the marrow with those brilliant, scarlet eyes before he huffs a laugh, tapping the counter. You peer over your shoulder as he pulls away, disappearing across the house, probably towards his room to change.

He comes back down while you powder the popcorn with seasonings. He’s over your shoulder, static growing between your bodies. And you get a whiff of his worn cologne, of the clean cotton laundry detergent woven into the fibers of his shirt.

You move to the fridge, rifling through it to give your hands purpose. Something to occupy them, to keep them from shaking as you sort through your wine stash.  

“What goes best with popcorn? I’ve got red, white, pink—oh, something I bought ‘cause the label looked cute.”

Propped against the counter’s edge beside you, arms crossed over that unfairly solid chest, Sylus shakes his head. “How about a glass of Michter’s 25? Bourbon pairs best with popcorn.”

“Uh, sure?”

You’re not entirely sure how the two mix. Probably something about the dolce colliding with the saltiness. Whatever. You like surprises. Your roomie’s always had pretty good taste.

He shoulders past you to reach for something at the top of the pantry. Amber gleams in an intricately designed bottle clutched in his hand. You give him a look, haughtily throwing some popcorn into your mouth.

“Has that been up there the whole time?”

You track him with your eyes as he draws two lowball whiskey glasses from the cupboard, then fetches some ice from the freezer. His expression’s amused while he pours. He plucks the glasses from the counter, signaling you to follow him to the living room. 

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to find it, seeing that you’re the height of a gopher. I’d say I found a pretty good hiding spot for it.”

He laughs that bewitching, throaty sound, effortlessly avoiding your foot aimed at his ankle to trip him up. 

—

The TV swaddles you in its sporadic lighting as each scene unfolds.

You turned down all the lights, save for the one above the stove, to add to the ambience. The sounds of scuffling and explosions fill your living room, with occasional quips from your roomie about the exaggerated action and how unrealistic the mobsters are. 

There’s familiarity in the way you sit on the couch. In how Sylus idly smooths his thumb over your ankle, propped in his lap, beneath a throw blanket. He put up with you shoving your cold feet under his thighs to pilfer his warmth until he tickled them and allowed you to use him as a footrest. 

One of his arms is draped along the backrest, clutching his half-drunk glass. He paces himself. You’re already on your third.

He turns to you with a twitch of a smile whenever he feels you staring at something other than the screen. Squeezes reassurance into your ankle before pretending like he’s consumed by the movie. 

That Michter, whatever-the-hell it was called? It’s smooth. Dangerous. It crept into your bloodstream when your guard was down, and your head’s a little fuzzy. Skin warm and tingly, inhibitions slowly sloughing off.

You’re on your sixth round of Sylus-watching when the doorbell chimes. Both your gazes snap to its source.

“I’ll get it,” says Sylus, tapping your foot for you to let him up, and setting his glass onto the coffee table with a soft clack.

You shake your head, feeling like you’re swimming through molasses, eyes all low, smile goofy. “Nah. I got it.”

It’s a feat. Almost losing a fight with the blanket, you make it to the door. Sylus snorts behind you. The delivery driver is kind as he hands you your pizza and receipt.

Somehow, you make it back to the living area. You’re a mess of giggles and sluggish limbs as you fall back onto the sofa beside Sylus after dropping the pizza box onto the coffee table. So close, you could conquer the distance with an exhale.

His thigh’s warm beside yours. Devastating. You contemplate grabbing it, letting your fingers test the rigidness of his quad under the pretense of being tipsy.

He closes the distance for you as if parsing through your nebulous thoughts.

There’s no preamble. No remarkable setup when his arm slips from the backrest to snake around your shoulders. It’s a loose hang. Not tight, giving you room to wiggle free if you’re uncomfortable. You peer up into his face, and his eyes crease with something you mistake for affection beneath the glinting light of a chase scene.

The movie’s no longer interesting. It hasn’t been for a while. You’re warm inside, unsure if it’s a consequence of the alcohol or his proximity. Regardless, you toy with his fingers near your shoulder, smooth over his knuckles, testing the waters.

He makes no move to deter you, instead sinking deeper into the couch, legs spreading a little wider, hold on you a little more confident. He tugs you into his side without really thinking, fingers burning through the layers of skin on your arm.

Your hands drop to his tapered waist to ground yourself through the slurry haze of inebriation and infatuation. His heart is steady in his chest, whereas yours bangs like a war call. You’re close enough to bury your face into the hollow of his shoulder. That warm scent he carries is enough to soften your knees, to loosen your jaw.

Moving on autopilot—or maybe you’re fully aware of what you’re up to—you pitch yourself closer. So close, you’re halfway across his lap, watching his Adam’s apple bob beneath the blue wash of light. Your eyes flit to those full lips, slightly parted, quivering. Those pretty lashes sweeping his cheeks, those scarlet eyes jumping like cinders in a hearth fire beneath.

Your head tilts up. He meets you halfway. Draws you closer at the waist, and you roost your hands on his chest as your lids droop, as his lips pan in.

But the union never comes.

He hesitates for a beat. Hovers, a breath left between your mouths. Shaky, ragged, hot. He drops his forehead to yours, his grip on your hip tight, and he forces out an anguished sigh.

“You’ve been drinking, sweetie,” he says, hoarse, barely restrained, almost like he’s reminding himself instead of you.

You giggle, trying to tamp down your nerves. The disappointment flaring like plasma ejections across the sun’s surface beneath your skin. “So have you.”

He huffs through his nose, lips pulling into a tired smile. “Yes. But I’m also better at holding my liquor.”

“Says who?”

His gaze consumes you. Like liquid spilled over smoldering coals. He gathers your cheek into his palm, so tender as he thumbs over your chin, your bottom lip. He watches it when he tugs down, how it snaps back into place, its texture, and you can sense the edges of his resolve eroding like a rock face worn down by the surf.

“You’re warm. You can barely keep your eyes open.” His voice drags pleasantly along with his fingers along the skirt of your jaw. “You can hardly sit upright, sweetheart. If I do this now, I won’t be able to stop.”

Quivering fingers close around his wrist. You adjust on the couch until your knees meet the side of his thigh, nuzzling your molten cheek into his palm, head reeling. “Who says you have to?” you counter, voice crackling. Pleading.

He presses your foreheads together again. Your eyes slip shut as he slides his fingers into the space between yours, guiding your hand to his mouth instead for a kiss. He’s warring with himself. Berating himself for even letting things get this far. For getting too close.

He draws back slothfully, like it stings, like he’s leaving a bit of himself with you. And maybe he is, his defenses halfway buried beneath the floor. The moment hangs between you, stretched like the fragile spindles of a spider’s web. He doesn’t want to break the spell. You don’t want him to, either.

“Not yet,” he rasps, settling against the cushions once more and drawing you back into his side. “Not like this. You’ll thank me in the morning, sweetheart.”

Somehow, you have a hard time believing that, a wobbly pout taking hold of your lips.

It annoys you to no end.

Sylus is a man who doesn’t take what he isn’t given freely. Coherently. He’s such a fucking gentleman, you want to punch him sometimes. This emotional warfare is maddening.

Still, you curl into his side, burying your face into the nook of his neck to chase that heady scent. His pulse quickens, a sharp intake of breath when your lips graze his carotid, before he rests his chin on the crown of your head. He smooths over the goosebumps flaring over your arm as the credits roll, offering a quiet apology, both for getting your hopes up and shattering them like rock candy against the concrete.

Another almost. Another could-have-been. Another bout of shitty timing.

[ardently-verdandi]

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, mild language, mutual pining, reader implied to be shorter than sylus now playing: congratulations (piano version) - goated part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

The downside of having a roommate? You can’t walk around your house pantless anymore. 

The upside? You know when he’s home.

Hell, the whole neighborhood knows. 

There’s no mistaking the distinct roar of that motorcycle engine. How it echoes through the cul-de-sac, causing dogs to bark and ornery Boomers to bitch about the racket.

You peek through the blinds of your bay window like a nosy housewife. Try not to get too ahead of yourself as he sweeps into the driveway, the late afternoon sun bouncing off the sleek trace of his bike and helmet, limning his silhouette in gold like a halo. 

Your heart rabbits in your chest, throat thickening. Dry. 

Relax. 

It’s only been three weeks since you last saw Sylus, your roommate. Not like he up and left without a trace. And it’s not like he hasn’t disappeared for longer bouts of time before.

So, you try to play it cool like you didn’t halfway miss him—his stupid dad jokes, his rich bastard laugh, his sassy takes on your taste in booze—as you pry the front door open.

Clad in your hoodie, sweats, and house shoes, you bound down the steps towards him, hands shoved in your middle pocket. And man, it’s like the world stops spinning, working in his favor. Like you forget what breathing is, as the ambient sounds of your neighborhood fade into obscurity.

Because he’s cool without trying to be, donned in his black riding leathers, like something out of a dark romance novel. The real kicker comes when he tugs off his helmet, shaking out that riotous mop of white hair, and his scarlet-spun eyes crease with an untold joke when they land on you.

You watch him kick out the stand and kill the engine. Pull a long leg from over the seat, tousling his hair with slender fingers and meeting you halfway up the driveway with an easy swagger, helmet tucked beneath his pit.

He’s close. So close, the heat of the sun absorbed by his jacket—or is that just him—permeates your clothes. He has to crane his neck to look down at you, the tall bastard. You want to wipe that smug look off his face, but you’re too busy trying to remember how the English language works. 

“Miss me?” he asks in that deep gravel. So deep, so unintentionally gritty, you feel it playing up your spine like a xylophone. 

He pats your head like you’re his little admirer. You jerk away, remembering yourself, scoffing. 

Crossing your arms and hip poking out, you say, “About as much as I miss a hernia.”

Your roomie shakes with laughter. A chuckle smooth as velour streaked by sunlight. It makes you all warm and prickly, and you’re smiling for real this time, caught in this comfortable pocket of space with a man as mysterious as the depths of the ocean. 

Conveniently, the wind kicks up when his laughter dies down. It stirs the leaves on the ground, the scent of petrichor and summer, and it snatches some hair from your messy do, pushing it into your face. 

You watch his expression morph from amusement to something unreadable with bated breath. Stiffen when he tugs one of his gloves off, fingers curled loose towards his palm, knuckle brushing just beneath your waterline to sweep some hair back.

You burn where he nudges you, and his fingers linger. Hover, not really touching, but the static between skin is enough to make your pulse rocket. 

He looks like he might say something. Like he’s grappling with words he’s been keeping to himself for a while. But your quiet little reprieve is short-lived when your neighbor greets you both from across the street.

You spring apart like you touched fire, smoothing down your hoodie with sweaty palms. Remember how to breathe, blinking away that sweet little haze. Sylus keeps his eyes on you for a few beats, taking in every little feature as if he’ll never see you again, before turning to acknowledge the old man with a two-fingered salute.

He’s a veteran, your neighbor, his telltale black cap with his ribbons settled on his head. A little rough around the edges. War-torn. Alone, but where most everyone on your street hates Sylus for the din of his bike, your neighbor loves him for stirring the shit pot. 

You wave as Sylus shoulders past you, starting towards your house. And you follow after your roomie once your neighbor hobbles back into his home, two of your steps to keep up with his one.

—

You pause at the foot of the stairs leading up to the attic. Gnaw on your lip, arms crossed, brows pensive, socked toes nudging the floor. 

The sun’s long since sought refuge behind the horizon, making way for stars littering the sky like glitter spilled over a violet tablecloth. It’s quiet, save for dogs barking somewhere far off, the errant sounds of your house settling on its foundation, an occasional car sweeping by, and Mephisto’s wings fluttering every now and again upstairs in Sylus’ room.

You didn’t want to badger him right away. Not as soon as he came back, figuring he needed some time to settle in. Unpack. Readjust to the humdrum of suburban life. 

You’re always like this when he returns—antsy, vibrating like a golden retriever, eager to yap his ear off. To see what he’s been up to, though he’s always cryptic about it.  

But he looked more exhausted than usual when he came home, eyes rimmed purple, shoulders lax. So you left him to his own devices while you scrolled through the catalogue of your mind for what to make for dinner.

Not much you can make with what little’s in the fridge—you haven’t had time to go grocery shopping with work kicking your ass. And it’s late, and you’re hungry, so you use your stomach as an excuse to bug your roomie. 

You finally work up the gumption to knock on the handrail—how you signal to him you’re around—and it’s quiet for all of five seconds before you hear footsteps, and he pokes his head from around the partition. 

He reveals himself fully at the crest of the stairs, dressed in something cozy. Something loose that doesn't detract from the power his body houses. 

Lips rucked up in a smirk, he leans against the rail, massive in the entryway, folding his arms. Cocks his head to the side, the shadows cast beneath the ceiling light glazing over chiseled features. 

“What’s up, sweetie?”

Your eye twitches. Before, the pet name used to make you cringe. But you’ve grown more accustomed to it with time, accepting it’s a part of him that’ll never go away. 

And maybe a side of him reserved just for you.

Propping your hip on the rail to mirror him, you try for cool. Casual, like your heart isn’t on a mission to leap out of your chest. 

“You hungry?”

He shrugs. “I could go for something. What’s on the menu?”

You absently scratch your cheek, looking off to the side. “It’s late. Thought about ordering out or something. I don’t know.”

He considers your offer before he nods his head. You relinquish a breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

“Sure.”

Sylus begins descending the stairs like he intends to join you downstairs in the kitchen. He makes it halfway before something stops him. You glance at his pocket as it vibrates. Back at him.

His expression bleeds ruefulness as he pulls out his phone and brings it to his ear. You watch his brows knit together, and he turns away, starting back up to his room, hand cupped around the mic like he’s partaking in a world-ending secret. 

You catch a familiar name on his lips before he’s out of earshot. 

Shrugging, you venture to the kitchen alone to snatch your phone up from the dining table. Cue up the DoorDash app, swiping through options for food, but not really focusing on any one thing. 

Because you’re too busy wondering who’s got Sylus on the phone, all urgent and stone-faced like Bruce when Rachel calls him with bad news. 

[ardently-verdandi]

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, slow burn, mild language, brief mentions of violence & torture, evols exists here, mutual pining, romantic tension, brief jealousy, alcohol, 3k wc track list: le carrousel - james quinn fig. 1 | fig. 2 | fig. 3 | fig. 4

The air reeks of mildew, dust, sweat, and disinfectant. 

A lone lightbulb winks tawny overhead, casting ominous shadows along the concrete floor and walls, highlighting the savagery taking place within.

Four men occupy the room. 

Sylus is the only one seated on a chair like a throne, legs crossed—the paradigm of poised, twirling a folding knife between his fingers while a henchman stands in good form at his back. 

The muffled screams have now dulled to wet whimpers. A grown man crying has never been a pretty sound. But Sylus has grown accustomed to it, sometimes dragging the fragmented remains of a man out himself. 

He’s a good foot from the show, watching with all the interest of someone used to brutality. Lowered lids cloak vacant eyes. He sighs for the umpteenth time, leaning back, clearly bored with this game.

Lackey number two rucks up slicked sleeves, swiping the sweat from his brow before getting back to work. 

The victim—a self-proclaimed freelancer discharged from a rival faction, boasting about having antimatter weapons to sell—snivels as Sylus’ henchman drags him across the floor. On his knees, ankles and wrists bound, breath shaky behind the bite of a makeshift gag, the man levels Sylus with a pleading look. 

It’s fruitless. The kingpin is in no mood for mercy. He waggles his fingers, signaling for his henchman to begin another round of mind-warping torture. 

Blood and viscera aren’t Sylus’ thing. 

If he can help it, he prefers more neat, conventional methods for extracting information. Which is why he doesn’t flinch when the goon’s cries rise again as if he’s being electrocuted. 

The lightbulb glints once more, and a moth beating its wings as it orbits it, casts a foreboding shadow below.

Sylus toys with the knife again, mind slowly detaching itself, when his phone lightly buzzes in his coat. 

He catches the blade’s handle in his palm, fishes his cell from his inner pocket, and scrutinizes the screen. Arching a brow, his lips twitch, threatening to curl upward. 

It’s a message from you, your name accented with a lone heart emoji. 

When he draws up the text, your voice invades his mind. He envisions you all frazzled, dramatic as ever, and his heart swells from the imagery.

(You): help me!

It reads half-cryptic. He’s sitting up now, the knife returning to its home with a sharp shlink!

When he starts to feel an inkling of concern creeping in, thumb hovering over the keyboard, prepared to key in a response, another message comes through. It’s a picture of a menu, sharp print against cardstock, the restaurant's name scrawled in cursive at the top. 

(You): don’t know how to read this. i’m hungry as hell and about to have a whole attitude.  (You): heeeeellllp 🚨🚨🚨 (You): and don’t say escargot. i will literally fight you.

This time, he does allow his lips to pull in that Cheshire Cat sort of way. It’s endearing how you need him. How you rely on him to translate what you call “rich bastard speak.” Even if it’s for something minor, he’s grateful to be of use to you. You give him purpose in a world that bleeds grey. The shine of a lighthouse amid a tumultuous storm. 

He’s been there before, the eatery you’re fretting over. They have good liquor and decent grilled scallops. He’s about to send back a personal rec, but then it strikes him—the gleam of silver in the photo’s corner, half-hidden by the menu, but glaringly obvious. 

An expensive watch wrapped around a wrist that’s inherently masculine catches his eye. Bigger than yours, veins and sinew spilling from the links down to manicured nails. 

Sylus’ jaw ticks. 

He knows you’re on your lunch break. Has your schedule down to a science, pocketing it in case he has to do something irreversible to clear his tracks. He’s aware that you primarily work with women—you sometimes vent about the things they do and don’t, using him as a confidant whenever your day is too heavy to shoulder. 

And maybe he’s done background checks on all of them, ensuring they wouldn’t pose a problem later. To you and him.

But you’ve never spoken of a man working in your small, hodgepodge department. A man too close for Sylus’ comfort. Casual familiarity that makes his eyes narrow.

He’s already chased off one deranged ex. He’d rather not come back to you missing while he’s in another city conducting business.

(Sylus): whos that sweetie? (You): ??? (Sylus): the tudor watch. (Sylus): in the corner. friend of yours?  (You): oh! intern. he’s cool peeps. i’m like 6 years older than him and he keeps reminding me. 🙄🙄🙄

Sylus certainly does not release the quietest, most relieved breath. And the rigid set of his shoulders doesn’t slacken upon discovering that you’re not secretly courting someone without his knowledge.

It’s not stalking. It’s ensuring his assets are secured. 

(You): anyway, can you help me? you know i don’t understand this fancy shit. (Sylus): avoid the rack of lamb. its a bit overseasoned. (You): lol (You): you forget who you’re talking to. i sprinkle seasonings on my food until my ancestors whisper, “enough, child.”

He chuckles something throaty, something endeared. And he doesn’t realize he’s let his guard down until his henchman shifts behind him, clearing his throat. Sylus cuts his eyes over his shoulder, daring the man to utter a word. He doesn’t, straightening his tie and returning his attention to the scene ahead.

(Sylus): it might be a bit overpowering even for you sweetie. (Sylus): go for the duck confit or the grilled halibut. those are more your tastes. (You): thank youuuuu! 🙏🙏🙏 (Sylus): pair it with a glass of pinot gris. (You): gesundheit. (Sylus): and be sure to introduce me to your new intern friend before he whisks you out on a date next time. (You): 😛😛😛 (You): jealous?

Sylus doesn’t do jealous. It’s never been a word in his repertoire. Possessive, maybe. A little overprotective, sure. But jealousy suggests uncertainty—belly-baring surrender. Weakness—and Sylus is everything but weak.

He keys in a response that he knows will have you tipping out of your chair.

(Sylus): jealousy would imply that youre not already mine sweetie.

He can virtually hear the cogs turning in your mind when you take a few beats to respond. The resulting surprised dog meme you send makes him stifle that rich man’s laugh behind his hand. 

You’re cute. Do you know that?

Leaving you with something to think about, he concludes your playful exchange.

(Sylus): have fun.

Peeling himself from the chair, he shoves his hands into his pockets, the arms of his coat dramatically fluttering behind him when he turns to exit the warehouse. 

He pays no mind to the cries of agony behind him. Just clips over his shoulder to a stationary henchman by the entrance, “Finish up quickly.”

The sooner he cuts out the middlemen, the quicker the suppliers will start sniffing around themselves.

—

It’s a little past 6 pm when the front door’s lock jiggles. 

Good. Perfect timing.

“You’re home early,” you call from the fridge when that messy thatch of white appears in the doorway. 

He stiffens, taking a little time to appraise you like he didn’t expect you to be home. You snort, kicking the fridge door shut, a handful of grapes clutched in your hand.

You pop one into your mouth, leaning on the countertop. Syus approaches after toeing off his loafers and dropping his coat on the rack. The particles in the air seemingly bend and shift to accommodate him. 

You try not to get hung up on what he said earlier—you know, when he insisted you were his.

Maybe he’d been drinking himself. You had a little Pinot at his behest to combat your flaring nerves. To knock a little sense into yourself.

“Why do you look like someone hacked Mephisto?” you jibe, trying to lighten the mood. 

Sylus’ expression morphs into something easier. Something more like him as his lips pull into that familiar smirk. Without warning, he swipes a grape from your palm, and his eyes shine with a challenge as he deposits it in his mouth. 

“Why do you look like you’re up to no good?” he returns in that deep gravel, tone threaded with a tenderness you’ve never heard expressed elsewhere.

Your jaw shifts. He’s lucky he’s cute. The pinnacle of manliness. Handsome as all hell. You’ve never known someone to make something as simple as eating look hot.

Clearing your throat, you swipe some invisible dust off the counter after finishing off the last of your grapes. “Not up to anything bad. But since you’re home, you can watch a movie with me.”

The silence hangs for a moment. You glance up to see your roomie eyeing you with an intrigued brow. He reaches over the counter to flick your forehead. You let out an unflattering yelp. He’s trying to scramble your brain matter, you just know it.

“Do I have a say in the matter, or are you just going to manipulate me with those dangerous eyes of yours?”

Your heart was already rabbiting in your chest. It works double time now, and your stomach drops to your feet. You’re stricken with something cold. Something halfway pleasant. 

Oh. Oh, he was flirting, wasn’t he?

Opting for coy, you tug at some frayed threads at the end of your sweatshirt, caught between a laugh and a scoff. 

“Unless you’ve got some mysterious phone calls to take, you’re mine for the night. You owe me for babysitting Mephie. You know he secretly wants to murder me.” And for leaving me all by my lonesome again, you inwardly add. 

If at all possible, his smirk deepens until a dimple craters his cheek. You have pins and needles in your legs. What the fuck even is breathing?

“Doubt that. He’s programmed to…appreciate pretty things.” The way his eyes slide to you as pretty things leaps off his tongue—

You typically keep the AC low for the summer. Pretty comfortable for you both. But it feels it’s reached boiling point in your quaint kitchen as your skin grows embarrassingly hot.  

After a deep breath to get your head together, you move to the pantry to fish out some popcorn. Your movements are noticeably stiff as you tear through the plastic, not daring to turn around, lest he get a look at that crooked smile on your face. 

“Batman it is,” you say, loud enough for him to hear above the beep of the microwave when you set the timer.

You feel him between your shoulder blades. Drilling down to the marrow with those brilliant, scarlet eyes before he huffs a laugh, tapping the counter. You peer over your shoulder as he pulls away, disappearing across the house, probably towards his room to change.

He comes back down while you powder the popcorn with seasonings. He’s over your shoulder, static growing between your bodies. And you get a whiff of his worn cologne, of the clean cotton laundry detergent woven into the fibers of his shirt.

You move to the fridge, rifling through it to give your hands purpose. Something to occupy them, to keep them from shaking as you sort through your wine stash.  

“What goes best with popcorn? I’ve got red, white, pink—oh, something I bought ‘cause the label looked cute.”

Propped against the counter’s edge beside you, arms crossed over that unfairly solid chest, Sylus shakes his head. “How about a glass of Michter’s 25? Bourbon pairs best with popcorn.”

“Uh, sure?”

You’re not entirely sure how the two mix. Probably something about the dolce colliding with the saltiness. Whatever. You like surprises. Your roomie’s always had pretty good taste.

He shoulders past you to reach for something at the top of the pantry. Amber gleams in an intricately designed bottle clutched in his hand. You give him a look, haughtily throwing some popcorn into your mouth.

“Has that been up there the whole time?”

You track him with your eyes as he draws two lowball whiskey glasses from the cupboard, then fetches some ice from the freezer. His expression’s amused while he pours. He plucks the glasses from the counter, signaling you to follow him to the living room. 

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to find it, seeing that you’re the height of a gopher. I’d say I found a pretty good hiding spot for it.”

He laughs that bewitching, throaty sound, effortlessly avoiding your foot aimed at his ankle to trip him up. 

—

The TV swaddles you in its sporadic lighting as each scene unfolds.

You turned down all the lights, save for the one above the stove, to add to the ambience. The sounds of scuffling and explosions fill your living room, with occasional quips from your roomie about the exaggerated action and how unrealistic the mobsters are. 

There’s familiarity in the way you sit on the couch. In how Sylus idly smooths his thumb over your ankle, propped in his lap, beneath a throw blanket. He put up with you shoving your cold feet under his thighs to pilfer his warmth until he tickled them and allowed you to use him as a footrest. 

One of his arms is draped along the backrest, clutching his half-drunk glass. He paces himself. You’re already on your third.

He turns to you with a twitch of a smile whenever he feels you staring at something other than the screen. Squeezes reassurance into your ankle before pretending like he’s consumed by the movie. 

That Michter, whatever-the-hell it was called? It’s smooth. Dangerous. It crept into your bloodstream when your guard was down, and your head’s a little fuzzy. Skin warm and tingly, inhibitions slowly sloughing off.

You’re on your sixth round of Sylus-watching when the doorbell chimes. Both your gazes snap to its source.

“I’ll get it,” says Sylus, tapping your foot for you to let him up, and setting his glass onto the coffee table with a soft clack.

You shake your head, feeling like you’re swimming through molasses, eyes all low, smile goofy. “Nah. I got it.”

It’s a feat. Almost losing a fight with the blanket, you make it to the door. Sylus snorts behind you. The delivery driver is kind as he hands you your pizza and receipt.

Somehow, you make it back to the living area. You’re a mess of giggles and sluggish limbs as you fall back onto the sofa beside Sylus after dropping the pizza box onto the coffee table. So close, you could conquer the distance with an exhale.

His thigh’s warm beside yours. Devastating. You contemplate grabbing it, letting your fingers test the rigidness of his quad under the pretense of being tipsy.

He closes the distance for you as if parsing through your nebulous thoughts.

There’s no preamble. No remarkable setup when his arm slips from the backrest to snake around your shoulders. It’s a loose hang. Not tight, giving you room to wiggle free if you’re uncomfortable. You peer up into his face, and his eyes crease with something you mistake for affection beneath the glinting light of a chase scene.

The movie’s no longer interesting. It hasn’t been for a while. You’re warm inside, unsure if it’s a consequence of the alcohol or his proximity. Regardless, you toy with his fingers near your shoulder, smooth over his knuckles, testing the waters.

He makes no move to deter you, instead sinking deeper into the couch, legs spreading a little wider, hold on you a little more confident. He tugs you into his side without really thinking, fingers burning through the layers of skin on your arm.

Your hands drop to his tapered waist to ground yourself through the slurry haze of inebriation and infatuation. His heart is steady in his chest, whereas yours bangs like a war call. You’re close enough to bury your face into the hollow of his shoulder. That warm scent he carries is enough to soften your knees, to loosen your jaw.

Moving on autopilot—or maybe you’re fully aware of what you’re up to—you pitch yourself closer. So close, you’re halfway across his lap, watching his Adam’s apple bob beneath the blue wash of light. Your eyes flit to those full lips, slightly parted, quivering. Those pretty lashes sweeping his cheeks, those scarlet eyes jumping like cinders in a hearth fire beneath.

Your head tilts up. He meets you halfway. Draws you closer at the waist, and you roost your hands on his chest as your lids droop, as his lips pan in.

But the union never comes.

He hesitates for a beat. Hovers, a breath left between your mouths. Shaky, ragged, hot. He drops his forehead to yours, his grip on your hip tight, and he forces out an anguished sigh.

“You’ve been drinking, sweetie,” he says, hoarse, barely restrained, almost like he’s reminding himself instead of you.

You giggle, trying to tamp down your nerves. The disappointment flaring like plasma ejections across the sun’s surface beneath your skin. “So have you.”

He huffs through his nose, lips pulling into a tired smile. “Yes. But I’m also better at holding my liquor.”

“Says who?”

His gaze consumes you. Like liquid spilled over smoldering coals. He gathers your cheek into his palm, so tender as he thumbs over your chin, your bottom lip. He watches it when he tugs down, how it snaps back into place, its texture, and you can sense the edges of his resolve eroding like a rock face worn down by the surf.

“You’re warm. You can barely keep your eyes open.” His voice drags pleasantly along with his fingers along the skirt of your jaw. “You can hardly sit upright, sweetheart. If I do this now, I won’t be able to stop.”

Quivering fingers close around his wrist. You adjust on the couch until your knees meet the side of his thigh, nuzzling your molten cheek into his palm, head reeling. “Who says you have to?” you counter, voice crackling. Pleading.

He presses your foreheads together again. Your eyes slip shut as he slides his fingers into the space between yours, guiding your hand to his mouth instead for a kiss. He’s warring with himself. Berating himself for even letting things get this far. For getting too close.

He draws back slothfully, like it stings, like he’s leaving a bit of himself with you. And maybe he is, his defenses halfway buried beneath the floor. The moment hangs between you, stretched like the fragile spindles of a spider’s web. He doesn’t want to break the spell. You don’t want him to, either.

“Not yet,” he rasps, settling against the cushions once more and drawing you back into his side. “Not like this. You’ll thank me in the morning, sweetheart.”

Somehow, you have a hard time believing that, a wobbly pout taking hold of your lips.

It annoys you to no end.

Sylus is a man who doesn’t take what he isn’t given freely. Coherently. He’s such a fucking gentleman, you want to punch him sometimes. This emotional warfare is maddening.

Still, you curl into his side, burying your face into the nook of his neck to chase that heady scent. His pulse quickens, a sharp intake of breath when your lips graze his carotid, before he rests his chin on the crown of your head. He smooths over the goosebumps flaring over your arm as the credits roll, offering a quiet apology, both for getting your hopes up and shattering them like rock candy against the concrete.

Another almost. Another could-have-been. Another bout of shitty timing.

[ardently-verdandi]

shamelessly rereading my favorite filthy fanfics in a coffee shop while waiting for my best friend :)

[ardently-verdandi]

18+ sharing your warmth with caleb. size difference. pet names. breeding. use of gravity evol.

“You can’t feel me at all?” you ask again, your fingers stroking up his forearm.  It’s still hard to believe his arm is not entirely his anymore – that they’d modified it. It still felt like him – like he always had: warm and strong and yours. 

He watches the meandering path you make up his arm, fingers ghosting over his skin. “Not like this,” he answers in a whisper.

It wasn’t right. They’d taken part of him from you. It makes you angry.

He hisses as you pinch the skin at his elbow. 

Then, he smiles. “So cruel.” 

His smile drops off his lips as you intertwine your fingers with his. “I hate them,” you mutter, bringing his hand towards your lips. You hold him there, a breath away, knowing he can’t feel the warmth of your breath against his skin.

He’d held your own hands like this just the day before, warming them with his hot breath and shoving them into his pockets before they could turn to ice again.

He’s reminded of the same thing; he’s having the same thought. You see it in his eyes as he pulls your intertwined hands towards his own lips now. “I won’t always be able to tell if your hands are cold,” he says. “Not unless you always walk on my left… unless you hold my left hand.” He pauses, eyes moving from your joined hands to look back at you. “Will you do that for me, Pips?” He asks. “So I know when you’re cold?” 

“I can just tell you.” 

He smiles again, squeezing your hand a little. “Can I trust you to tell me?” 

You frown slightly. 

He laughs. 

“On my left, then,” he says, decision made.

It’s a familiar end. His decisions were hard to shift once he’d made them. He was hard to steer. Still, you would always try.

You readjust your position on his lap, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs. 

“Would you tell me if you were cold?” you ask.

He tilts his head, his hair falling across his forehead. 

You know the answer before you’d asked. But it wasn’t about getting an answer. You were attempting to make a point: the same point you’d been trying to make for months now – since he’d come back.

You tug your hand from his and place your hands on his chest, pressing him back into the pillows propped up against the headboard. Answer me, you threaten silently.

“Why would I?” he asks as his right hand settles on your hip, like you might need help just to stay perched in his lap – like you could fall and he needed to be ready to catch you.

“So I can help you, like you would help me,” you answer.

His lips part, then close. He looks to the side, out into the snowy night, then back at you. “I’m never cold.”

In the past, you might’ve huffed and crawled off him – left him there to stew in his own stubborn refusal to admit to a completely human weakness. Instead, you cup his cheek with your palm, gentle, “Don’t tell childish lies. We’re adults now, you know.” 

He smiles softly – a slight curve of his lips that seems to soften his eyes, too.

“I can warm you when you’re cold,” you whisper, quiet, unwilling to risk scaring the softness away.

He blinks. His eyes drop to the hand at your hip. He’s quiet.

You wait.

Then, “What if I can’t feel your warmth?” he asks, so quiet you almost can’t make out the words.

You take a shallow breath, and then you lean forward into him, pressing your chest up against his. Your face rests comfortably against his shoulder — warm breath ghosting over his neck. “You can feel me everywhere else,” you remind him. Everywhere but his right arm.

His fingers press into your hip, and then his hand drops away. 

Retreating.

You turn your head a little and press your lips to his skin, just in the crook of his neck.

He freezes.

Retreat paused.

“Right?” you prod, lips brushing against his warm skin as you speak. “You can feel it here?”

He takes in a shaky breath, and you’re sure he’s about to lift you off him, say something to lighten to mood, distract you like he always does: retreat again.

You part your lips and exhale against his skin, “It’s warm, yeah?” you ask, determined.

You swear, just for a second, that you feel the brush of his hand at your back, but it’s gone before you can be sure of it. He’s still, apart from that, until, finally, “Yeah,” he breathes.

Victory.

You know it, just in that little word. He wasn’t backing away; retreating.

He was giving in.

You take in a few shallow breaths, shaken by the prospect of him finally surrendering. Then, gently, you press your lips to his neck in a kiss. “You’ll tell me then?” you ask. “You’ll tell me when you're cold?”

His hand presses to your lower back, you’re sure this time. It’s heavy and unwavering. “So you can warm me?” he asks in return, his voice far less steady than his hand at your back.

“Mm,” you hum, moving your head side to side a little so your lips graze his skin in the spot you kissed him. 

“All right,” he breathes.

“Promise?”

He’s silent, unmoving.

You hook your finger into the collar of his t-shirt and pull it down slightly, enough that you can press your lips to his collarbone. “Promise,” you prod, never moving far enough away that your lips aren’t touching him. Always touching. “Promise me you’ll tell me when you’re cold.” 

His head moves a little, chin dipping. Then, like an afterthought, he speaks, “Yes. Yeah. I’ll tell you. Promise.” 

Then his hand presses into you harder, like he’s trying to close the little gap between your bodies. 

You resist for a moment, then give in, letting him press you up against him. 

You’re forced to lift your head from his neck as you readjust; forced to meet his eyes. 

His pupils nearly engulf his purple irises entirely, darkness swarming and mixing with the softness that still hasn’t left. That’s how he was these days, you ponder as he looks back at you: soft and comfort and all those things that made him so familiar, but also, dark – cold, unpredictable, different – someone capable of igniting fear in a crowd of uniformed men. 

“It makes me feel greedy,” he says, pulling you from the swirling in his eyes.

You blink, “Greedy?” 

“Just thinking about it,” he clarifies. “You’re so warm that I…” His eyes dip to your lips as he speaks, short little glances that wouldn’t be so noticeable if they weren’t so frequent – if he didn’t linger there the more he looked, like the act of looking away was wearing him down. “I might… take it all. I might never stop. I might want it all and never ever stop.” 

You squirm a little, just slightly, an involuntary almost roll of your hips. “That’s okay. You’ve been cold for a long time, yeah? You need lots and lots of … of warming up.” 

He nods, but it looks a little uncontrolled, like he wasn’t thinking much about answering you at all. It’s a lazy kind of nod; distracted.

Lazy. Kind of like the way you begin to roll your hips.

He doesn’t look away as you roll against him, transfixed there as your breathing slowly shifts into deeper, unsteady, puffs of air between parted lips.

You can feel his hesitation, like breaking himself from his frozen trance might make it all stop – as if he were in a dream. 

“Am I warm here?” you ask on a shaky exhale, rolling your hips with a little force this time – pressing your heated centre into him.

Then you’re still, captured by the invisible force you’ve always known as his evol. It holds you there as his hand snakes up your back, a firm warmth that shifts the fabric of your shirt a little with it as it goes. It only stops when he reaches the back of your head. There he holds you, fingers tangled in your hair. You blink. His gravity releases you, and he falls forward – his forehead pressing against your own. 

His breath mixes with your own as he holds you there, waiting on his response. 

“That’s where you’re warmest,” he says, finally. “There,” he closes the gaps between your lips a little more. It almost tickles, the ghost of him – so close. “And here.” 

Then he’s on you, delving into your mouth in a way that leaves no room for escape. His hand holds you to him as he takes and takes and takes, tongue’s dancing and spit making a mess down to your chin.

Your hips move on their own.

You grind into him as you consume each other, assisted a little when his other hand presses into your lower back. 

Warm.

It’s all you’re thinking.

You’re so warm. He’s so warm. His warm hands holding you close; his warm chest pressed to yours; his warm thighs underneath you; his hot tongue, slick against yours. 

An embarrassing sound slips from your throat. You pull away, gasping in much-needed air as his eyes flick across your face.

His fingers twitch against your back. 

You shiver.

His hand, at the back of your head, drifts down to cradle your cheek. 

It’s his left hand.

His thumb brushes against your skin in gentle strokes.

“I’m cold,” he says.

You shiver again. It’s not from the temperature. The truth is, it’s not cold at all. His apartment might even be a little warmer than most people would find comfortable. He kept it that way for you, especially on winter nights like this: the ones you felt a little harsher than he ever did.

“You are?” you question, bringing your hand up to his cheek, mirroring him. 

Warm. His cheek is soft and radiating heat to match the red flush of his skin.

He nods, looking suddenly a little like a wounded puppy. You could almost swear his lower lip, wet from your kisses, was protruding a little… almost like a pout.

You press against him, chest to chest, as if there was any space left to close between you. “Even after…” you pause. “But I thought that was my warmest part?” you question, reaching up to touch your lips with your fingers.

His eyes drop and linger there, watching where you touch your mouth. Then, “Yeah, it is. You’re so warm there. So, so warm,” he says, distracted.

You wrap your arms around his neck. His arms fall to your waist, wrapping around you tight. 

“But you’re still cold?” you ask.

His eyes flutter closed. One shaky breath. Two. They open again. “Greedy,” he breathes. “I told you, yeah?”

Your cunt pulses between your legs, hot and sensitive. “Maybe…” you drift off, distracted by the increasingly desperate urge to shift a little to the side and press down directly onto his firm thigh. “Maybe you need to use both.” Your voice is breathy. It might be embarrassing if you weren’t so distracted.

“Both?” 

Your lashes flutter as you fight closing your eyes and giving into temptation. “Both my warmest places,” you whisper.

His fingers press into your waist, and then, he’s pulling you down, firm, into his lap. “I need to use both?” he asks, breathy. 

You nod. “I’m warm there, I promise.” 

He looks between your eyes and his head drops back a little, eyes closing, before he catches himself. He rocks forward again, keeping you close. “Yeah?” he breathes.

“So warm,” you say with another nod, your voice taking on a desperate, pleading, sort of tone. “Hot. It’s hot. I’ll warm you up, Caleb. I promise. I’ll keep you warm.” 

His lips nearly brush yours when he speaks, “Yeah, baby? I might need to stay inside, though. You might have to keep me in there so I can stay nice and warm, yeah? Is that okay?” 

You nod. It’s a little frantic, as desperate as your pleading.

When his lips press to yours again, you’re vaguely aware of movement elsewhere, of him using a combination of his evol and his hands to lift you just enough to shove his pants down his legs a little and resettle you in his lap, one less layer between you.

You nibble at his lower lip as his warm fingers play with your flimsy shorts, slowly, lazily, snaking their way into one of the legs. You gasp into his mouth, jolting at the tickle of his fingers as they brush over your underwear, over your throbbing cunt.

“I can feel it,” he says as he sucks in shallow breaths. “I can feel how warm you are.” 

You blink at him, incapable of saying anything at all – focused instead on catching your breath. 

He continues, warm fingers brushing lightly back and forth against the cotton between your legs, “Right here,” he breathes. “Hm? Right here, yeah?” 

Your lips part, and close, and part again. Then, you nod.

Your world tips. He lifts you and lowers you onto the pillows before tugging you backwards against his chest – flush against his body, each of you lying on your sides. His breath is warm on your neck when he speaks, “I should check,” he says. “Just to be sure.”

It’s easier to speak like this, with your eyes on the snow falling though the window, instead of looking at him. “How?” you ask, a little crack in your voice.

His palm moves to your lower stomach, settles there a moment, then presses, forcing you right back against him. “You’ve gotta be close,” he says, his voice taking on the tone he’s always used when he was helping you study, gentle, patient – listen closely, it says, I’ll help you. “Just like this,” he continues. His hand leaves your stomach. He shifts a little. Then, his finger sneaks back through the leg of your flimsy pyjama shorts, forcing them to rise up right around the tops of your thighs until they’re basically a second layer of underwear. “We’ll leave these on for now, okay?” 

You nod, nonverbal.

He tugs your underwear a little. You have no idea what for, distracted by the pulsing between your legs. 

Then, heat, soft. His cock slips beneath your underwear, and in one smooth motion, slips along your sensitive cunt, skin to skin. 

You whimper, twist towards him, and grip his bicep – stunned by the sudden reality of feeling him like this, pressed hotly against you. You’re sharply aware of the wetness he finds there; of the way you’ve been leaking for him.

His hand moves back to your stomach, holding you steady. “Just like this,” he breathes. You can’t see his eyes like this, twisted back towards him just enough that he can take your lips in his. 

You whimper into his mouth again, unable to stop your hips from rocking back and forth.  You take him with you as you rock – his cock trapped in your underwear. 

You can’t get enough friction. He’s hot, and he’s hard, and you desperately want to reach down and press him against your cunt harder, so you can grind against the length of him like you did to a pillow when you were younger. As it was, you were pushing closer and closer to something almost painful.

You whimper and whine against his lips as he laps at you, making his own sounds – each one triggering a tightening of your walls, empty and desperate. Empty. 

Empty.

Empty.

It’s an internal mantra that eventually seeps out of you in a pathetic, murmured, incomprehensible whine.

He separates from you enough to mutter, “What?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, suddenly overwhelmed without the distraction of his lips.

“What was that?” he asks again.

Your eyes flutter open, “I’m so empty.” It’s a pathetic sort of sound, the way those words slip out of you. But it was hard to be embarrassed when his pretty brows were twisting up and his lips were falling open and – “Fuck,” he breathes. 

His hips roll into you, a satisfying pressure that has you gasping and gripping onto the arm that holds your waist. 

“Say that again,” he groans into your neck. “Tell me how it feels inside.” 

“So empty,” you answer, pressing back into him – bodies aligned perfectly now you’re twisted back to face the window. “All empty inside.” 

“Yeah?” His cock slips against your slick hole, soft and warm. “Here?” he asks. He rocks against you as he mumbles into your neck, breath hot against your skin. “You all empty, pretty girl? Just here? Just for me?” 

He could be saying anything. You nod, hardly hearing his words, just rocking back to meet the roll of his hips. “For you… for you,” you mutter breathlessly.

His hand slips beneath your shirt, pressing to your lower stomach. His breath ghosts behind your ear, and then he whispers as close to your ear as he can get, “Here?” His hand presses firm, right where that emptiness hurts most.

The sound that leaves you could be a cry. It’s a squeaky, broken sound. 

The weight of his evol settles over you, a comforting weight that holds you still, preventing you from rocking against him. Then he’s rolling his hips back a little, just enough that his leaking tip prods at your swollen entrance. He plays with you like that, rocking in tiny movements – prodding over and over and over. 

“Your hot little mouth isn’t your warmest spot, baby,” he says, still holding you still. “It’s right here,” he breathes, stilling prodding at your twitching hole, “Right between your soft thighs. Where I can’t see. Where no one can see.” His hot breath hits your neck as he speaks; as you hopelessly fight the weight preventing you from pushing back into him. “You’ll let me see, won’t you?” he continues, wrapping his arms around you fully. 

“Caleb,” you whine, desperate.

“Mm? What’s wrong, baby?”

“Let me go. Please. Let me–”

“Why? Will you be a good girl? Or are you going to try and take me inside? Hm? You being greedy?” 

“Inside,” you answer without thought, too desperate to do anything but say exactly what your mind is screaming. “Inside.” 

“Mm,” he hums, nibbling at your earlobe. “That’s what I thought. Naughty girl.” 

He shifts his hips back a little, taking away the only thing keeping you sane. “No,” you whimper.

Caleb kisses at your neck, wet, lazy kisses that feel a lot like how he was kissing your lips earlier, but then he sucks. It comes with noises. Wet, messy noises. 

“Let me go,” you cry. “Let me–”

The weight lifts. He lets you go. You shift backwards, forcing his length along your cunt, over and over – an uncontrolled type of movement resulting from the build up of desperate need. 

Then you catch the tip of him. You can’t reach down between your legs with the way he’s wrapped around you. You’re forced to roll your hips and try and guide him inside. His hand drop to your hip, preventing you, just as you get close.  It’s too much. You’re at the end. And just when you’re about to break, he rolls you over onto your belly, his body covering you completely. He seems bigger like this – so big the world seems to disappear. 

“Okay, okay,” he says in that way that so often makes you want to stamp your foot or punch him in the gut – a tone of voice that usually makes you feel like a baby having a tantrum. Not now, though. Now, it’s sweet relief. 

His big hands reach down and drag your shorts down your legs, then your messy underwear, soaked through.

Then, his leaking tip finds you again, right where you’re desperate to take him inside. He prods a little, feeling the way you attempt to suck him inside, slick and warm. “You can be greedy now,” he whispers, letting his tip nestle at your twitching cunt as you grind back against him, trying to push onto him. “You can be greedy with me, baby.” 

He sinks inside, letting you suck and clench around him with a pathetic sort of broken cry. 

It’s not without suffering all of his own. You feel the vibration of the sound he makes into your neck. It sounds like he’s in pain – like maybe it’s too much. 

You’re suffering together as you pulse around his heavy cock, twitching where it’s buried deep inside. 

“Warm,” he mumbles, lips pressed to your neck. “Oh, fuck.” 

You clench around him. 

He whimpers.

“Warming you up,” you mutter, feeling very much out of your mind – like maybe you’ve forgotten how to string words together to make a sentence.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s right. Keeping me warm. Pretty little pussy. So warm.” 

Your responding hum sounds more like a squeak. 

His arms tighten around you, warming you in his own way – his body heavy all over you.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he mutters, hips starting to grind a little, hardly pulling out at all, just pressing you into the mattress over and over. “Can I keep you like this? Hm? Keep you under me, fucked full, fucked… so full.” His palm shifts to your belly, right where he’s buried. “Here,” he groans, then bites at your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “Right where you’re warmest, yeah?”

“Mm,” you hum, gripping the sheets in your hands, desperate for something to hold onto.

It’s not until he’s pulling out and dropping his hips back into you that you speak again, overwhelmed by the feeling of his hips smacking against you loudly with each drop – shoving you into the mattress. “Don’t leave,” you sob. “Ple-please, don’t stop.” 

His harm loops around your front, draped across your collarbones, holding you firmly beneath him. “Greedy girl,” he says, breathless. It sounds like praise. “It’s okay,” he says with a soft kiss to your neck. “Need to stay inside. Gotta stay warm. We’ll get you nice and full, yeah? Full of hot cum? Hm?” 

“Okay,” you agree with a sob.

His responding, “Okay,” sounds like a sigh. “Yeah, nice and full. And we’ve gotta keep it there. Gotta stay inside.” His hips snap against you a little faster, a little less time pressed heavy and still at the end of each drop. “Until I’m hard again,” he continues between shallow breaths. “Until I can fuck you with it.” He sucks at your throat. “That okay? Can I breed my pretty girl? Hm? Get you all messy?” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever been capable of speech in your life. It’s gone. Your lips part and you can’t make anything come out apart from a tiny, broken, call of his name.

“You can do it,” he coos. “Say it for me, baby. Tell me I can fill your little belly with cum. Tell me I can make you nice and warm inside.” 

One of his hands finds your jaw, then his finger is pressing between your lips, like he’s trying to help you get the words out. 

“Yes, please,” you manage. It’s small and pathetic and a little muffled by his finger in your mouth.

He shudders, his entire body suddenly a little heavier over you.  It’s still then, all tension and weight. The next time he moves, it’s the pad of his finger pressing against your tongue. “Gonna give you everything.” His finger presses into your mouth in tandem with his cock deep inside you. That’s how he fucks you, pressing inside each of your warmest places, where he belongs. 

[ardently-verdandi]

Absolutely desperate for more filthy horny reader content. WHERE THE PERVERT READERS AT!?

- Specifically Viktor finding out that their lil innocent lab assistant seems to not actually be so innocent and has a problem "borrowing" Viktors things and so he finally decides to confront them about it. Would be a real shame if he bent them over his knee and spanked them as punishment till they were a sobbing babbling mess and then proceed fuck them stupid…a real shame indeed -COUGH-

Stolen and Punished — Viktor x Reader

synopsis: viktor discovers his seemingly innocent lab assistant is a pervert who’s been stealing his things. after a humiliating spanking, she still doesn’t learn—so he punishes her again, this time by edging her to tears in his lap.

cw: nsfw, fem! reader, pervert! reader, d/s dynamics, mean! viktor, spanking, humiliation, degrading, edging, begging, calling him sir (😭)

a/n: please dont mind that I it changed a bit 🙏🏼 hope u can still enjoy it :P

Your thighs burn. Your face is hot and your voice is hoarse from sobbing into your arm, stretched over the desk you usually take notes on. But tonight, you’re not writing data. You’re not documenting Hextech tests. You’re bare from the waist down, stretched over Viktor’s lap, and every inch of your skin feels like it’s glowing with shame and heat.

How this happened?

Simple.

He found your drawer.

Or rather—he broke the lock on your locker after he noticed things of his kept disappearing. One shirt. Then two. His lab tie. And more. You thought you were clever, hiding them away in a zippered pouch labeled “personal items.”

But Viktor? He’s not stupid. And you’re not as sneaky as you thought.

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice” he murmurs, fingers dragging across the curve of your ass, feather-light. “My clothing slowly vanishing… and you always smelling like my cologne?”

He tsks, his touch drifting lower, to the spot just beneath your cheek, where the soft skin meets thigh.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

SMACK

The slap lands with no warning. A clean, open-palm strike that ripples through your body and rings in your ears. You jolt with a broken gasp, pressing your thighs together. But Viktor just sighs and uses his knee to shift them apart again.

“Don’t do that” he says, his voice calm but firm. “You’ll keep them open. Understood?”

You nod—choking on the breath that stutters out of you. “Y-Yes…”

“Yes what?” His voice darkens instantly.

You swallow, shame flushing high in your throat. “Y-Yes, sir.”

He hums. Pleased. His hand coasts lazily over your tender skin. “Good girl.”

SMACK.

Another one. Sharper. You can feel your skin giving under the force now, blood rushing to the surface. He doesn’t let you recover—his palm returns again, again, each slap a precise punishment meant to sting. Measured. Methodical.

You’re gasping now, tears slipping hot down your cheeks. Not just from pain—but from the way it makes your whole body hum, your stomach fluttering, your thighs trembling as the heat spreads across your skin.

“Tell me what you did” Viktor says softly, hand resting heavy on the small of your back. “I want to hear it. Every detail. Every disgusting little thing you thought I’d never find out.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. But the words come out anyway, shamefully wet, broken between breaths.

“I—I took your shirts. I slept in them. T-Touched myself in them—”

SMACK

You wail, jerking forward. The burn makes your thighs twitch.

“And?” he prompts, unhurried.

Your voice hitches. “I wore your tie under my clothes… in the lab. It smelled like you. I—I kept your stuff—used them—and I thought about you while—while—”

SMACK

It cracks against the underside of your ass—raw and flushed. You sob outright now, hiccuping with the humiliation of it all, drool wetting the crook of your arm.

“You filthy thing” Viktor breathes, the roughness in his voice betraying how much this is affecting him. “I gave you a position in my lab. I trusted you.”

You nod helplessly, whimpering.

“And this is how you repay me?” He grabs a fistful of your hair and gently tugs your head back so you’re forced to look at him over your shoulder. “With secret orgasms and ruined underwear stuffed in your locker?”

Your lips tremble. “I’m sorry—I didn’t— I just—”

“You just what?” he snaps.

“I couldn’t help it…” you whisper.

He stares at you for a long, heavy moment. Then—he lets go. Pushes your head gently down again. And with a sigh, slides his hand between your thighs.

You twitch violently. His knuckles glide over slick skin.

“Pathetic” he murmurs.

You sob, hips shivering. “I know—I’m sorry—!”

He chuckles—low and amused, but not kind. “No. You’re not. You’re enjoying this far too much.”

His hand lifts.

SMACK

You cry out, the sound shameless and high, echoing off the walls of the lab. It lands square on the most tender part of your ass, and your whole body flinches from the force of it.

“You’re not innocent at all, are you?” he murmurs. “All that shy eye contact. Helping me with my notes. Laughing like some bashful little thing at my compliments.”

You hiccup through your tears. “I-I wanted you to notice…”

Another pause.

And then, slowly, you feel him lean in, his chest pressed against your spine. His breath warms the shell of your ear.

“Well” Viktor whispers, “you got my attention now.”

His hand slides up your back again, fingertips teasing over your spine, then slipping back down to your bruised ass. He traces the lines of each handprint.

“I should make you stay like this for hours” he says. “Arched over my knee, dripping like a bitch in heat. Let you think about what you’ve done.”

You mewl softly, your thighs slick and sticky where they press together. You feel so raw. So open. Your entire body hums with tension.

SMACK

You jerk forward again, breath breaking in your throat. That one hurt. But it leaves a heat that makes your clit throb with need, your hips grinding down before you can stop yourself.

Viktor laughs. A warm, cruel sound.

“Can’t help yourself, can you? So desperate you’re rutting against my thigh like a needy little animal.”

You wail into the desk. “I-I’m sorry—I c-can’t—”

SMACK

Another strike. And another. You lose count.

By the time he slows, your skin is bright with flushed heat, handprints like painted stains across your ass and thighs. You’re sobbing, face wet, hips twitching involuntarily with every shift of his lap beneath you.

Viktor strokes your back softly, at odds with the harshness of before. “That’s better,” he murmurs. “There she is. My good little lab assistant. All flushed and well-behaved again.”

You whimper.

“Next time” he says, “if you want something of mine…” He brushes your ruined panties back up with care, fingers ghosting over your inner thigh as he tucks the fabric into place, “…you’ll ask.”

You nod, broken. “Y-Yes, sir.”

He helps you sit up, cradling your hips as you wince from the movement. His eyes trail over your tear-streaked cheeks, the wet shine on your thighs.

“Good girl” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

Then, with a dark smile:

“Now clean yourself up. You look like a mess.”

You thought he wouldn’t find out again.

That you’d learned to be sneakier.

Quieter. More discreet.

But when you opened your locker this morning, expecting your stash to be safe and undisturbed, there was a folded note waiting inside. Neat handwriting. Sharp pen strokes. A single line:

My office. Now.

Now you’re in his lap again—but not the way you daydream about.

Viktor doesn’t even look at you.

His jaw is set. His eyes are on the opposite wall, and his grip around your waist is firm—stern fingers pressing into the dip of your back, forcing your spine straight, your legs spread wide on either side of his.

“Third time” he says, voice low and cold, vibrating through your thighs where they sit flush to his. “Third. And I was going to be merciful.”

You open your mouth—but the look he gives you slices through any excuse before it can form.

“Don’t even try it” he mutters. “I found my handkerchief in your drawer. Ruined. My undershirt—again. And a photo of me. Where did you even get that, hm?”

You can’t speak. You just squirm. The shame sits low in your stomach, curling like a knot, especially when you feel the shape of him under you—hard beneath the fabric of his trousers. He hasn’t moved you an inch since pulling you down onto his lap, but the threat in his stillness is clear.

“You like being punished” Viktor says, almost to himself. “The spanking only got you wetter. You want me to lose patience.”

His hand slides from your back down to your hip, then between your legs—finding you wet already through your panties. He breathes in slowly, then gives a hollow, humorless laugh.

“See?” he murmurs. “Dripping.”

You whimper softly. His fingers rub in slow, maddening circles over the soaked fabric, just enough pressure to make you roll your hips without thinking—just enough to make your clit throb.

“Desperate little thief” he whispers. “You just can’t help yourself.”

Your breath hitches. “P-Please—”

But his hand stops.

He stills everything. Even his breath.

“No” he says. “No, no. Not yet. You don’t get to beg.”

You try not to squirm. But you can’t help it. Sitting on his lap like this—needy and humiliated—makes it impossible to stay still. Especially when he finally begins to move his fingers again, slow and cruel, brushing over the damp fabric without mercy.

“You’ll sit right here” he says softly. “And you’ll take everything I give you. But you will not come. Do you understand?”

You nod frantically. “Y-Yes—yes, sir—”

His hand grabs your throat. Not tight. Just a warning squeeze as he brings his lips near your ear.

“Say it properly.”

Your thighs quake. “I’ll take everything you give me, sir. I won’t come.”

A low sound vibrates in his chest—pleased. And then he does reward you: fingers pushing the soaked fabric aside, slipping into the heat between your folds. Just the pads of two fingers, circling your clit. Featherlight. Over and over and over.

You choke on a gasp, already twitching. His other hand holds your hip down to keep you from rocking forward too much.

“Look at you” he murmurs. “Soaked and shaking just from this. If I dipped my fingers in, I’d drown.”

You whine, high and broken. Your clit pulses under every stroke, the pressure building too fast to make sense. You press your face into his collar, hot tears forming as your legs begin to tremble.

“Sir—I can’t—I need—”

“No” he says, and stops.

Your whole body jerks. A strangled sob escapes you—raw and pathetic. Your hips grind down helplessly against his thigh, but he doesn’t move.

“Did I tell you you could come?”

“N-No—”

“Then stop whining.”

You clamp your mouth shut. Your thighs twitch again. He starts again.

Slower. Meaner.

Two fingers now, circling your clit in tight, precise movements. Every time you start to shake—every time your breath breaks or your hips twitch—he stops. Holds you there. Lets your body flutter with the emptiness of it. Lets the orgasm sit on the edge and wither.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Your slick is coating the inside of your thighs now, soaking into his pants. You’re crying in earnest—hot, breathless sobs that leave you choking. Not just from the frustration—but the shame. You can feel how desperate you are. Feel how your cunt clenches around nothing. How your body writhes for him. How you’re being turned into a pathetic mess without even getting off.

“You’re going to remember this” Viktor whispers. “Every time you touch something of mine again. Every time you lie. You’ll remember what it felt like to be made a useless little toy.”

You sob again, your lips brushing the side of his neck. “Please—please—sir—!”

“Do you think you deserve to come?”

“I—I don’t know—”

“Wrong answer.”

He slaps your clit. Just once. One wet, sharp slap to the swollen bundle of nerves, and your body jerks like it’s been shocked. It doesn’t hurt—it burns. The frustration bubbles up your spine, tears spilling fast now.

He starts again.

Softer this time. Barely touching. But you feel everything. Every flick. Every stroke. And your thighs twitch uncontrollably, your hips bucking, your pussy fluttering around emptiness with a sobbing gasp.

“I feel you clenching” he murmurs. “You’re close again.”

You nod wildly.

“Beg.”

You whimper. “Please, sir—please, I—I need it—I need to come so bad—please—”

“Say you’ll be good.”

“I’ll be good—! I swear—I’ll never steal again—”

“You said that last time.”

“I mean it this time—! Please—I’ll do anything—”

He strokes once more. One final, devastating flick.

And stops.

Your orgasm dies on impact.

You scream, clutching at his shirt, soaking the front of his trousers with slick and tears and drool and sweat. You’re shaking like a leaf, your thighs spasming, your clit swollen and throbbing with denied pleasure.

“I—please—I c-can’t—I can’t take any more—!”

Viktor just holds you.

Silent.

Unmoving.

“You don’t get to come” he says quietly, brushing your hair from your face. “You didn’t earn it.”

Your entire body trembles in his arms.

“Maybe next time” he adds, voice like velvet and iron, “if you ask first—before stealing—you’ll be treated like something other than a needy, filthy brat.”

He kisses your temple once.

Then he lifts you, gently, and sets you down on your knees in front of him.

“Now sit” he commands. “Hands on your thighs. And be still.”

You obey. Bare, swollen and soaked—your ruined cunt twitching between your thighs. Tears dry on your cheeks. You don’t dare move.

Viktor just watches you with cold, quiet satisfaction.

“Maybe I’ll let you come tomorrow” he muses. “Maybe I won’t.”

[ardently-verdandi]

“i wanted to set you free.”

“you did. you gave me my soul back. and now… i give it to you.”

[ardently-verdandi]

i have this habit of taking a nap after reading the most beautiful piece of literature or seeing the most oscar-worthy film, and when i wake up my brain just repeats scenarios from the book/movie and i just go into overthinking mode for like an hour where i review and critique that piece of media in my head and it gets overwhelming sometimes since i can’t write them all in time because the thoughts are just rushing through my head fast and furious style and

[ardently-verdandi]

new hyperfixation dropped (jinu)

[ardently-verdandi]

caleb as jinu caleb as jinu caleb as jinu caleb as jinu

[ardently-verdandi]

i am currently thinking about the love and deepspace men as the saja boys from kpop demon hunters

[ardently-verdandi]

i want sylus to **** ** ** **** ** ********* ********* ***** * *** *** ** **** *** ** **** ***** **** ** **** **** ** **** ******** ***** * *** **** *************** *** ***** ** ******** ** **** *** *** ******* *** **** ** **** ******* *** **** *** ** ***** ** ***** ***** *** * *** ************

[ardently-verdandi]

the past few days have consisted of me trying to collect and make lists of my favorite fanfics and authors i want to share here but then suddenly getting an intense overwhelming feeling mid typing i had to stop and stare at my laptop screen until it feels like the lists i’ve made so far look unorganised so i delete everything and start over

[ardently-verdandi]

Another wippieeeeeee