crystal13unny - Tumblr blog

crystal13unny · 2 days ago

Text

contact: HUSBAND💍💢 (DO NOT OPEN)

[ Sylus x f!reader ]

he asks what you saved him as. you dodge. he lets you—for now. but when your phone lights up mid-breakfast… he sees it. and he never lets things go.

ABOUT | 3.5k. fluff. comedic tension. mutual pining. spiraling girlfailure MC. smug menace Sylus. twins as chaos gremlins

TAGS | slice of life. flirting. banter. phone-based chaos. accidental intimacy.

NOTE : This story came as a request from @someprettyname, who pitched the idea with the perfect mix of chaos, delusion, and romantic doom. I simply couldn’t resist. It’s got Sylus, a cursed contact name, and the kind of spiraling girlfailure energy that lives rent-free in my heart.

IF I'D KNOWN...asking Kieran what he was reading would lead to this, I would’ve done the sensible thing and lobbed my entire cup of tea at him instead. Not hard—just enough to scald. Or, at the very least, shut him up.

“Apparently,” Kieran said, turning a page with the solemn intrigue of someone unearthing a state secret rather than flipping through a lifestyle magazine from the waiting lounge pile, “what you save your partner as in your contacts directly correlates with relationship longevity. It’s, like, a whole study.”

I blinked at him from the edge of the couch, cross-legged, one sock slouched pathetically down my ankle like even my clothes were losing the will to participate.

“That’s not a study. That’s clickbait.”

“It’s neuroscience,” Luke chimed in, somehow making everything worse by sounding confident. He was upside-down in the armchair, legs hooked over the back like a smug little bat. “Oxytocin response, personal language imprinting, affectionate tagging. All linked. I read a paper on it.”

“You read a BuzzFeed quiz,” I said.

“No, that was after,” he replied, contemplative. “To confirm my results.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. What did you even say to that? Congratulations, you’ve weaponized delusion?

Kieran shut the magazine with a flourish and gave me a look like I was a particularly slow puzzle piece. “So?” he asked, faux-casual. “What do you have Sylus saved as?”

I stared at him.

Then at Sylus.

Then regretted ever being born.

Sylus didn’t even glance up from the holopad he was scanning, thumbs moving in that precise, surgical rhythm that always made me feel like he could disassemble a bomb—or a person—without blinking. He hadn’t said a word the entire time, which only meant one thing: he was definitely listening.

That’s how he operated. Silent observation. Strategic patience. And then—just when you least expected it—the perfect moment to psychologically ruin you.

“I—what?” I laughed. A terrible idea. It came out too loud, too bright. The laugh of someone hiding something very stupid, very unhinged, and very true.

“Oh no,” Luke gasped, kicking his legs in delighted horror. “You’ve got a name. You have a name.”

Kieran leaned forward, eyes glittering like a journalist sniffing out a scandal. “It’s something feral, isn’t it? Like Champ Daddy. Or—God—Meow Meow Murder Man.”

“Excuse you,” I sniffed. “That’s private.”

“That’s not a denial,” Luke pointed out, still upside-down and grinning like he had five seconds before the villain’s lair exploded and he was fine with it.

And then—of course—Sylus looked up.

Just once.

That’s all it took.

No words. Just a glance over the edge of the screen. Brows lifted slightly. That quiet, clinical interest he always wore when cataloguing your emotional weaknesses.

“Well?” he asked, voice low. Mellow. The kind of mellow that made you aware of how sharp the blade was beneath it. “What’d you save me as?”

I died.

Just a bit. Quietly. With dignity.

I smiled like someone caught smuggling twenty kilos of emotional contraband through airport security. “Why do you care?”

“Research,” Luke supplied.

“Curiosity,” Kieran added.

Sylus didn’t say anything. Just kept looking.

Not accusing. Not teasing. Worse—interested. Calm. Patient. Which, from him, was a declaration of war.

I stared back, brain frantically flipping through every lie I’d ever told and wondering if now was the moment to add another.

I didn’t lie. Not really.

But I also wasn’t about to admit that I’d saved him under HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) and set his contact tone to the Onychinus anthem so I’d know—without question—that it was him texting when I was spiraling through my third existential scroll of the night.

I wasn’t proud of it. But I was delusional. Quietly. Tastefully. With a touch of grace.

“It’s just your name,” I said, breezy and innocent. “You know. ‘Sylus.’ Totally normal.”

Kieran snorted. Luke cackled.

Sylus said nothing. Just tilted his head, the faintest degree, like a crow spotting something shiny.

“Hm,” he said.

One syllable. One syllable with the weight of a dossier. Then he returned to his holopad like he hadn’t just slipped a microchip of psychological doom beneath my skin.

I looked at Kieran.

I looked at Luke.

I looked at my tea and considered drowning myself in it.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

I was normal. So, so normal.

So normal that I’d definitely go home tonight and absolutely not open my contacts app.

And definitely not change anything.

Definitely.

…Right?

Wrong.

So, so wrong.

Because two hours later, I was curled on the left side of my bed—the side I insisted I didn’t always sleep on, even though the right side looked suspiciously pristine—and staring down at my phone screen like it had personally betrayed me. Which, to be fair, it had.

HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) glared back at me from the top of my favorites list. Untouched. Intact. So alarmingly unhinged I wanted to launch myself backwards through time and slap the past version of me who thought it was hilarious.

Spoiler: it was hilarious.

Just… not right now.

When I’d first typed it in—on a mission, no less, during a half-sane lull between dodging rooftop snipers and failing to unlock a biometric lock—it had felt brilliant. Like a private joke between me, myself, and the delusion I fed like a very spoiled housecat.

He’d given me a ring. A real one.

Well. Technically it was a repurposed championship ring from some long-ago boxing match, but he’d slipped it onto my finger after a particularly nasty fight and said, “For luck.”

That was it. No heat. No deeper meaning. Nothing even remotely vow-adjacent. But my brain, ever the traitor, had orchestrated a full remix of the wedding march and sent me hurtling into an alternate reality where that gesture meant everything.

So naturally, I immortalized it by saving him as HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) in my phone. The rage emoji was for balance. Because my coping mechanisms were 90% sarcasm, 10% fear of actual feelings.

But now... now he knew something.

Not everything. But enough to make me feel like I was teetering on the edge of a very sharp rooftop, hoping the wind stayed kind.

I turned the screen off, set it beside me, then immediately picked it back up again. Because apparently I had the self-restraint of a soggy napkin.

The name stared back, smug as sin.

I hovered over “Edit.” Didn’t press it. Pressed it. Didn’t save.

God.

What if I changed it now and he somehow noticed later? What if he’d already seen it? A glimpse? An emoji? A vibe?

Worse—what if he hadn’t? What if the twins had just infected his brain with their oxytocin-tagging nonsense and I was the only one spiraling?

…No, that tracked. That sounded extremely me.

I sighed and flopped back against my pillow, which let out a low puff of air like it, too, was disappointed in my choices.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to know.

Okay, no. That was a lie. I absolutely didn’t want him to know.

But part of me—some shameful, masochistic fragment that had clearly watched too many fake-dating dramas—wondered what he’d say if he did.

Would he laugh?

Would he tease?

Would he—God forbid—change my name in his phone, too?

And if he did… what would it be?

Nightmare Girl™? Collateral Damage? Do Not Engage Without Caffeine?

Or worse. Something nice. Something gentle. Something that would melt me into a socially anxious puddle of goo I could never recover from.

My phone buzzed once.

I flinched so hard I nearly launched it into the ceiling.

System update.

I exhaled slowly through my nose and said aloud, like I was on some kind of deranged mindfulness app, “It’s just a name. It doesn’t matter.”

Then I shut the screen off, tucked the phone under my pillow like I was putting it down for a nap, and rolled over to the cold, untouched side of the bed.

I didn’t change it.

I could’ve.

But I didn’t.

Not because I was brave. Or honest. Or committed to transparency in modern digital romance.

No.

I didn’t change it because, somewhere in the shame-saturated crawlspace of my delusion-riddled lizard brain…

I wanted him to see it.

And that—more than anything—was the problem.

By the time Saturday rolled around, I had fully convinced myself I was back in control of my life.

Which, naturally, meant everything was about to go spectacularly wrong.

I hadn’t planned on seeing him that day. That was what made it worse. I wasn’t wearing my “emotionally stable and casually indifferent” outfit. I didn’t have talking points. Or backup banter. I hadn’t even exfoliated.

And yet—there he was.

In my kitchen.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Is that… my pan?” I asked, blinking from the hallway, tugging my sleeves down over sleep-wrinkled wrists.

Sylus didn’t look up. Just flipped something sizzling in my non-stick skillet with the kind of precision that suggested he’d done this a thousand times. His hair was still damp at the ends—fresh from a run, or a shower, or a very long, very moody shampoo commercial.

“You said your fridge was on strike,” he replied simply. “I brought eggs.”

He nodded toward the counter. There they were: a full carton of eggs. And toast. And coffee. And—of course—my apron.

“You’re wearing my apron,” I said.

“It was this or ruin my shirt.” He shrugged, unbothered. “You left it hanging by the door. Implicit consent.”

“I use that apron to deep-fry things. It smells like fear and oil.”

He finally glanced over his shoulder, eyes cool, voice dry. “Then it suits me.”

I stood there for a beat, vaguely aware that I probably looked like a stunned Victorian child who’d wandered into the wrong play. My hair was doing something unholy to the left of my temple. My socks didn’t match. One sleeve was half-stuffed into the cuff of my pajama pants like it had given up halfway through getting dressed.

This was not the image of composure I wanted to project.

And yet—he didn’t seem to mind.

He turned back to the stove. Quiet. Focused. Efficient.

Like he hadn’t just let himself into my apartment at 8:30 a.m. and decided to cook breakfast like we did this all the time.

(We did not do this all the time.)

I hovered in the doorway. “Did I… invite you?”

“You said, and I quote,” Sylus began, adjusting the burner with the grace of a man in complete control of both fire and social tension, “‘Come by whenever. Just don’t let the twins in unless you want chaos at dawn.’”

He slid the eggs onto a plate—perfectly done. Soft in the middle. Crisped at the edges. Exactly how I liked them.

Of course he knew that.

I collapsed into a chair and stared at the back of his head like it owed me rent.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was: avoid prolonged eye contact, and pray the contact-name incident dissolved into the same black hole as every other weird moment we refused to acknowledge.

But Sylus didn’t forget things.

He remembered everything.

Which meant he was either pretending not to care—or waiting. For the right moment. The exact second when dragging it back up would have the most devastating effect.

He handed me the plate without a word. Then set a steaming mug beside it.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” I said, stabbing the yolk before it could pass judgment.

“I can survive.”

“You’re not surviving. You’re thriving. This is suspiciously gourmet for someone who once ate a protein bar he found in the glove compartment.”

Sylus sat across from me, calm as Sunday morning. “I read a manual.”

“You read a manual on eggs?”

He tilted his head. “I like to be prepared.”

I bit into the toast—and hated how much I loved it. Not because it was delicious. But because it felt like something. Like he was already part of things I hadn’t meant to share.

Like I didn’t want him to go.

My phone buzzed from where I’d abandoned it on the end table behind me. I ignored it. Probably a news alert. Or Kieran sending me another random fact about Sylus.

Sylus glanced toward the sound. “Want me to check that?”

My mouth was full. I nodded before I thought twice.

And that was it.

The moment.

The one I would later refer to, in my head, with capital letters and dread: The Beginning of the End.

Because Sylus stood. Walked across the room. Picked up my phone. Turned it over.

And froze.

Just slightly.

Not dramatically. Not enough to trigger outright panic. But enough to notice.

My stomach hit the floor.

He turned, phone still facing him. Not me. Him.

Then he looked up.

Met my eyes.

And smiled.

Not the polite kind.

Not the dangerous kind, either.

The knowing kind.

And he said—

“You’ve got a message.”

Then he walked back. Calm as anything. Sat down.

Placed the phone beside my coffee. Face-down.

Didn’t mention the name.

Didn’t tease.

Just waited.

Like he wanted to see if I’d admit it first.

Like he knew everything.

And wasn’t finished yet.

The room felt different.

Not colder. Not tense, exactly. Just… still.

Like standing at the edge of a lake and realizing—too late—that the water wasn’t calm. It was holding its breath.

Sylus didn’t look at me. Not directly. But his presence was unmistakable—like the steady burn of a fire at your back. Quiet. Measured. Unrelenting.

I kept my eyes on my plate like the eggs were going to offer guidance.

They didn’t.

They just sat there, smug in their perfect seasoning, slowly congealing while I tried not to spiral.

I took a sip of coffee I didn’t need. It burned the tip of my tongue. I said nothing.

He didn’t press.

And that was the problem with Sylus—he never pressed. He simply gave you the silence. Just enough rope to hang yourself with.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a moment.

I shrugged. “You made breakfast. I’m eating it. This is me being grateful.”

He let out a sound. Barely audible. Somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Do you usually eat in tense, stony silence when someone brings you food?”

“Only when they break into my apartment to do it,” I said, eyes still locked on my eggs like they might offer a lifeline.

Another pause. And then—

“You could’ve just told me.”

I blinked. “Told you what?”

I knew what.

Of course I knew what.

But I wasn’t about to hand him the knife and hold still.

He tilted his head. Finally met my eyes.

That look—quiet, analytical—like he didn’t need words to dismantle you. He could do it with patience alone.

“What you saved me as,” he said, simply. “You could’ve told me.”

I swallowed. “It’s not that interesting.”

“Is it not?”

“It’s just a name.”

His gaze didn’t shift. Didn’t push. Just held.

Then he leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows—revealing scars, old and clean, and veins etched sharp like topography you didn’t realize you’d memorized until it was right there in front of you.

“I think you’re lying,” he said, not unkindly.

My heart decided now was a good time to audition for a prison break.

“I don’t lie,” I replied.

“No,” he agreed. “But you deflect beautifully.”

My fingers tightened around the mug. “Well, thanks. That’s a weird compliment, but okay.”

Silence again. Long. Weighted.

The toast on his plate remained untouched. I wasn’t sure he’d ever meant to eat it.

When he finally spoke again, it was quieter. No edge. No game. Just… honest.

“You’ve been doing it since the twins brought it up. Every time I’ve looked at you since then, you shift.”

I didn’t answer.

“And you practically gave me your phone,” he continued. “Which you never do. You always leave it face-down on the table. Angle the screen away when we’re close. Mute notifications if we’re in the same room. But today… you handed it to me.”

I cleared my throat. “I didn’t think—”

“Yes, you did.”

I looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t goading me. He wasn’t smug. He wasn’t trying to win.

He was just telling the truth.

A quiet cataloging of all the small things I thought I’d hidden.

Which somehow made it worse.

“So what?” I asked. “What does it matter if I did?”

His brow lifted a fraction. “Depends on what it said.”

I exhaled through my nose. “You saw it.”

“I did.”

My stomach folded in on itself. Not violently. Just… inevitably. Like paper creasing in slow motion.

“Are you going to say something?”

He shook his head once, calm. “I don’t think I have to.”

I pushed my plate aside and stood before I could second-guess it. My hands found everything—table edge, pajama tie, back of the chair—restless, unfocused.

He watched me.

Not like I was fragile.

Not like I was guilty.

Just like he was present.

In a way most people never were.

“Do you think I meant it seriously?” I asked. Unsure whether I felt embarrassed, angry, or just stupidly exposed.

He stood too. Unhurried. Close.

“I think,” he said gently, “you didn’t expect me to see it.”

I nodded once. “So now what?”

Sylus reached for the phone. Turned it over. Tapped the screen once. It lit up. His thumb brushed across the glass, and for one panicked second, I thought he was deleting something.

Instead, he looked down at it.

And smiled.

A faint, private thing.

“I’ve been called worse,” he said. “At least this one’s got a ring to it.”

He handed it back to me.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t retreat.

Just waited.

And this time…

I didn’t look away.

The silence stretched.

Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just stretched thin—like the hush inside a cathedral, where every thought echoed louder in your own head.

I held the phone in both hands like it might explain itself. Like I could offload all the emotional wreckage of the last twenty-four hours onto one glowing rectangle and be absolved.

But, of course, it didn’t say anything.

It just sat there. Still locked. Still glowing. Still stamped with the one contact name I hadn’t changed.

Still proof.

“You’re not going to make fun of me?” I asked.

The question came out quieter than I meant it to. Fragile. Like thin ice underfoot.

Sylus didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But his voice softened at the edges.

“No,” he said. “Not for this.”

My mouth opened, but no words came.

And because I couldn’t stand still, I drifted. The long way around the table—brushing a chair, skimming the counter—like a satellite refusing to orbit too close.

“I wasn’t trying to be weird,” I said. “Or clingy. Or… intense. It was just a thing. A ridiculous, harmless, no-one-will-ever-know thing.”

Sylus watched me, but didn’t interrupt.

So I kept going. Because stopping meant listening to my own thoughts, and frankly, no thanks.

“It started as a joke. Something I’d change later. But then I didn’t. And then it felt like changing it would mean admitting it mattered.”

I glanced down. The screen glowed back. Still bright. Still damning.

“And I guess it did matter. Just... not in the way I thought.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t fill the silence with soft reassurances or easy deflections.

But something shifted in the air. A quiet gentling. Like something bracing had eased.

I forced my fingers to unlock the screen. Turned the phone toward him. Slowly. Like peeling back a bandage.

“You can delete it, if it’s weird,” I said. “Or if it crosses some boundary. Or if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll just blame Siri. She’s always inserting emojis without consent.”

He didn’t take the phone.

He didn’t look away either.

Instead, his fingers reached—not for the screen, but for my wrist.

A light touch. A thumb brushing the inside, where the pulse beats quick and traitorous.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he said. “I’m… surprised.”

“That I’d be ridiculous?”

“That you’d let me see it.”

I couldn’t hold his gaze after that. Something about the way he was looking at me felt too precise. Not cruel—but exact. Like being traced.

Still, I didn’t step back.

He let go slowly, then reached into his own pocket. Pulled out his phone. A few taps. A swipe.

Then he turned it around.

I squinted.

WIFE 💍❤️ (Don’t pretend you’re surprised)

I stared. Swallowed. Opened my mouth. Closed it again.

“That’s not subtle,” I whispered.

He stepped closer. “It’s honest.”

There was no smile. Not really. But something flickered beneath the surface—quiet, certain, a little dangerous.

The kind of look that said yes, I meant it.

The kind that made you wonder just how long he’d been waiting to say so.

I laughed then. Sharp and breathless and absolutely real.

“You’re insane,” I said.

He shrugged. “You started it.”

I looked down at my screen.

Then back at his.

And finally—at him.

“You really think I wouldn’t want that too?” he whispered.

And that—more than the name, more than the emojis, more than the ridiculous, ridiculous spiral of it all—was what undid me.

Because he did.

God help me, he really, truly did.

And maybe now... I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t want it, too.

thank you for reading, and happy 500 followers!

431 notes · View notes

crystal13unny · 4 days ago

Text

LET'S NEGOTIATE ᯓ★

Character: Smoker x Reader

Warning: Female reader, slow burn

Summary: Reader is a pirate, who is running away, trying to escape Smoker in Loguetown. Unfortunately for her, she’s reached a dead end. What antic will she stir in order to get away from the White Hunter and get back to her ship?

The scent of salt and smoke clung to the air, sharp and dry. (Y/N) skidded to a halt in a narrow, sun-scorched alley, chest heaving as she faced the very last thing she wanted to see: a wall. Solid stone. No crates to climb, no window to slip through. A dead end.

“End of the line.” Then came the voice. Gruff, dry like gravel and cigar smoke.

Vice Admiral Smoker stood with one boot planted forward, his coat flaring in the breeze. The smoke curling off his shoulders made the hot air feel even heavier. The air grew heavier, thick with tension and smoke, wrapping around her ankles like it had a will of its own. Panic flared in her chest. Heat. From the adrenaline... or from the way his eyes flicked over her, calculated but lingering just a little too long.

“I was hoping I’d run into you” he said, his voice rough and low.

His eyes were hidden for a second behind the trail of his cigar smoke, but when they locked onto hers, sharp, unblinking. Her stomach twisted.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, trying not to let him see the panic clawing at her throat. “How romantic of you”

She takes a step back, bumping into the hot stone wall. The hot summer weather is not helping to ease her situation.

He took a step closer. The smoke at his feet curled forward, like a beast sniffing at its prey “Game’s over, you foolish pirate. Take in the damn sun one more time, it’ll be the last time you see it”

Masking the fear and panic rising in her chest, she took a step forward. The mist curled tighter. Her voice dropped to a soft whisper “Or... maybe we strike a deal. I give you something... valuable. You let me go.”

Maybe it’s the nervousness that she failed to hide the shaky tone of her voice, her words come off less of an offer and more like a plea for help. His eyebrow arched, lips curling upward, the cigarette between his lips moving along as a scoff and mocking laughter breaks through the thickening tension in the air.

“You think I’m that easy to bribe? Know your place, this isn’t your little pirate game. That pretty face of yours won’t help lift an inch of your bad deed”

“Not a bribe,” she said, a smile forming on her lips. “An offer. Information. A name, maybe. A route through the Calm Belt. Or something else...” Her gaze flicked to his chest then back to his face.

The smoke around him thickened. That flicker of interest in his eyes was almost imperceptible,but she caught it, it’s there. He’s definitely interested! He stepped closer. Now she could feel the heat of his body, smell the tobacco that clung to his coat.

“Alright” his voice low, rugged yet with that maddeningly smooth, teasing edge “Tell me.”

I stare into his light colored eyes, steady and piercing, clenching my fists at my sides, bracing myself to not give up in face of his intimidating aura, to not shrink beneath the weight of his presence.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

A soft chuckle. A crooked smirk. Words laced with mockery. All so ordinary, harmless in anyone else’s mouth.

But not his.

“What do you want to know?” I finally got the strength to let out my answer, soft and somewhat timid.

A long pause stretched between them, heavy with smoke and heat. Smoker’s gaze didn’t soften, but it shifted—curious now, lingering on her lips a fraction too long.

“What do I want to know?” he repeated, his voice a slow rasp, like it had been dragged over coals. “Everything. Starting with why a smart-mouthed little pirate like you keeps slipping through Navy hands like smoke.”

She tilted her head, letting a sly smile tug at her lips. “Maybe I’m just good with my hands.”

His brow raises just slightly. “I bet you are.”

The boldness of his reply caught her off guard—but only for a second. Seeing she’s getting her way, she leaned in, letting her shoulder brush his coat as she passed in a slow, measured circle around him. The alley was small, the space between them shrinking with every heartbeat.

“I could give you that route,” she murmured, trailing a finger through the smoky air as if drawing invisible lines between them. “Or I could give you something a little more…personal.”

Smoker’s jaw tensed. She could feel the war inside him, crackling just beneath the surface. Duty against desire, justice against temptation.

“Dangerous game you’re playing,” he said, turning slightly to keep her in his sights. “Flirting with someone who could snap you into two is not a good idea”

She laughed softly. “Flirting? I thought this was a negotiation.”

He stepped into her path forcing her to back up - so close now that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

“Then negotiate” he said, low. “But be careful with your offers. I’m not sure which ones I’d rather take... and which ones I’d regret not taking.”

Her breath caught in her chest, but she refused to back down. “Guess you’ll have to figure out which risks are worth it.”

Another beat of silence. His eyes searched hers, not for lies, but for the challenge she was daring him to accept. And maybe, just maybe, he was considering it.

The corners of his mouth lifted into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t entirely a threat either.

“You know,” he murmured, voice rough like a promise, “for a pirate... you’ve got a dangerously persuasive mouth.”

She grinned, slow and wicked. “And I haven’t even started talking yet”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the smirk lingering on his lips, but his guard didn’t lower, not completely. Still, something shifted in the way he looked at her now. Less like a threat. More like a temptation he wasn’t sure he should entertain.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low, gravelly. “Don’t push your luck, I won’t let it go then.”

(Y/N) leaned in slowly, watching every flicker of expression in his face, every twitch of the muscle in his jaw. “Maybe that’s what I’m counting on.”

Her hand brushed his coat, fingers ghosting over the lapel. The smoke curled tighter, rising between them like a veil. Still, neither of them moved away.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispered, barely audible over the heavy silence between them. “And I will.”

His breath hitched. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His eyes dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes, and for once, he wasn’t playing predator or marine.

“No need” a soft, quiet, barely heard chuckle left his lips.

And just like that, the gap closed.

His mouth was on hers - a kiss, urgent, heated, and unrelenting. Not gentle, not sweet. It was everything they’d been holding back, the frustration, tension, adrenaline, and something so much more. His hand gripped her waist, firm and unforgiving, while her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, grabbing harshly at the collar of his jacket like she was anchoring herself.

The smoke wrapped around them in lazy spirals, filling the air and their kiss intoxicatingly like even it had slowed to watch.

She kissed him back just as fiercely, teeth grazing his lower lip as if daring him to push further, arms wrapped tightly around his neck to bring his face down to her level. When they finally broke apart, breathless, the heat between them had nothing to do with the scorching hot sun anymore.

The kiss ended yet he didn’t let her go.

“Still think this is a negotiation?” he asked, voice hoarse, lips inches from hers, swollen, red, bitten.

(Y/N) smirked, her breath mingling with his. “Oh, I know it is. I just happen to be winning.”

Smoker chuckled low in his throat, the sound warm and dangerous. “We’ll see.”

42 notes · View notes