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comatosebunny09 · 8 hours ago

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Wow! Thanks for the feedback, honeybun. 🥹🥹🥹 You’ve given me some great scenes to consider. This is such a cute idea.

He’s been off grid doing something taxing or laying low until he cleaned up his mess so you wouldn’t get involved. It sucked being without him for so long, but he texted you whenever he found time, maybe sending you pictures throughout his excursions of the difference places he visited that reminded him of you.

Despite who he is, he’s excited to finally be back. You’re his consistency through chaos. You’re what’s powered him through most of this. Hilarious if when he first crosses the threshold, he has a mini panic attack because he can’t find you in the house until he goes to the garage and sees you and Mephie playing table tennis or something.

Where he expects a hug or for you to jump into his arms, you punch him in his chest for being away for so long. You’ve gotten stronger. That’s why you’ve been checking into the gym while he was away—to vent.

You step back, and instead of “I missed you” or anything of the sort, you say, “Wow. You look like shit.”

He smiles fondly, chuckling. There you go, constantly subverting his expectations. But that’s a massive part of why he fell for you in the first place. And even though you want to keep wailing on him for leaving you alone, your maternal instincts kick in, and you start bombarding him with questions.

Have you eaten?

Have you been wearing sunscreen?

Were you kidnapped?

You look like death. Did you even sleep?

—all while you shove him into the guest bathroom, Mephisto expressing his own chagrin from your shoulder, and force him onto the toilet seat so you can give him some proper pampering.

Would love to incorporate this into the fic somehow. Again, thank you so much for the feedback, lovely. I’m grateful you enjoyed it, and I’m even more appreciative for the ideas. ❤️❤️❤️

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.

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comatosebunny09 · 8 hours ago

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Apt 2 | Xavier | Prelude

now playing: senses by MICO

“Go for it!”

You stare at the dunk tank in front of you—Xavier yawning on a hinged plank, ball poised in your hand.

This should be illegal, you grimace.

His sleepy eyes find you.

And that one look nearly swallows you whole.

Endless blues rippling like summer lakeshore waves, making you trip off piers into cool waters, gasping for air. Your stomach flips as his lips turn upward. The roar of the crowd behind you dissipates into nothingness.

You grip the ball even tighter.

He blinks slowly, snapping you out of your reverie. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.

You gulp. You sure?

He nods.

You throw the ball.

It never makes its way home.

….

“Told you so,” he laughs softly, warm air buffeting your ears.

You squeak as he materializes next to you.

He teases you about your horrid throwing skills, you rebuke him for walking too close, he pouts, you glare, he nudges your arm, you smack his shoulder.

He’s always been this way.

The guiding compass when your eyes swam trying to interpret campus maps. The encouraging voice introducing you to your shared professors. The steady hand that takes most of your grocery bags after a midnight snack run. The fluffy hair that always manages to tickle your forehead as you both snore away in the library. The refuge when you need peace and quiet in a sea of noise.

It’s nice having a friend like this.

Even though you sometimes wonder what his hand would feel like to make its home in yours.

You skip past him, turning around to gesture at a nearby skewer stall.

“C’mon, let’s go eat, I’m starving,” you grin toothily, hoping to hide these impossibilities, these minuscule hopes you don’t dare entertain for your fear of losing him.

He smiles, eyes crinkly effortlessly.

Little do you notice the way he gravitates towards you (little do you notice how he’d like for you to call him yours.).

….

He remembers meeting you like it was yesterday.

A bunny lost in a horde of wolves.

Welcome week.

The start-of-the-year flurry of recruiting new members for clubs, fraternities and sororities.

You were gripping your backpack strap until your fingers turned white and he could tell from the scowl on your face that you hated every second of this.

He almost wanted to laugh. Maybe more like fox than a bunny.

Intrigued, he watched a little longer, not wanting to intrude. You sidestepped every sign, every flyer, every waving piece of merchandise (though you blushed furiously at the rainbow condoms from the university clinic—he chuckled then), only to be stopped by the most intimidating wall:

The sports clubs.

They were a special brand of vicious. Tearing apart personal appearances through blatant avoidance. Dragging newcomers into various physical challenges meant to boost masculine egos. Promising victory and glory in team tryouts through grueling training regimens.

It was not for the faint of heart.

But you were always strong in that regard, weren’t you?

You stepped forward towards the volleyball stand, finger tapping against the flyer plastered on the table. Barely over five feet, you met the advisor at eye level, blazing through questions at a rapid-fire pace. His jaw slackened, impressed by the fire you presented despite knowing you would most likely be pushed aside due to height alone. You stood taller in the crowd, a star burning brightly across galaxies—a comet streaking trails in the dark. You didn’t just make yourself known, you demanded presence.

And unfortunately, your presence became keenly known.

In a matter of seconds, the surrounding stalls swarmed you. Tennis, racquetball, badminton, soccer—they vied for your attention like seagulls diving for fries.

Ah.

And there was that scowl again.

He pushed through the mob with ease, fingers finding purchase in yours.

“Come with me, star.”

And the way you turned to face him—shock, elation, relief trickling through like light parting clouds—solidified the thought, that if anyone could hold his heart close…

It would always be you.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

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#xavier to the rescue #honestly could see myself dating someone like xavier in my university days #he’s such a sweetheart to the reader and yet he’s the perfect amount of playful #loooooove iiiiiiiit #in my wheezie from dragon tales voice #lads xavier #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x reader #xavier x you #love and deepspace #xavier lads #xavier lnd #feeding the neighbors au #lads fluff #xavier fluff #fic recs

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