darkeskye

[darkeskye]

Exactly what OP said 🤣

save a cow ride a boy or what um save a uh ride a horse no its save a uhh guys who we saving

[darkeskye]

Why do I love oblivious reader trope so much?? It’s endearing, maddening, and makes for SUCHHH good tension.

The taste of apple and pomegranate

Ch. 7: Three tickets and a lie

Nav: Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 (coming soon) // AO3

Summary: You just wanted to survive university, not fall for either of them—let alone both. Two handsome idiots who somehow made your apartment their second home. You, Sylus, and Caleb were supposed to be just friends. So why does everything feel like their is more going on?

Character: Sylus x f!reader x Caleb // Tara, Rafayel // AU - College, Student

Genre: romantic, fluff, intimacy, sexual content, humor, friends to lovers, poliamore, slow burn

Word count: 3.1k | Reading Time: 12 min | AO3

Tag list: @thechaoticarchivist @peacedreamer14 @blessdunrest @strwberriiblnde @plzdonutpercieveme @sylusqt @sakuraneko-sakupanda-chan @peacedreamer14 @escapeis @plzdonutpercieveme @blorbohunter @yuurisfavblog

Ch 7. Three tickets and a lie

Everything seemed normal, at first. Another night, another takeover. Caleb and Sylus had settled into your apartment like it was theirs, lounging in their usual spots with the casual entitlement of stray cats that had claimed the couch. The smell of take-out still lingered in the air, boxes stacked high in the kitchen creating some greasy urban sculpture. The TV buzzed faintly in the background, but no one was really watching. This is incredibly uncomfortable.

You cracked open a can of beer, the soft pssst cutting through the quiet. A moment later, you slipped out onto the balcony, cigarette in hand, the evening breeze warm against your skin. From here, the city hummed softly below, wrapped in that golden haze that only late spring carries. Everything felt suspended, not quite summer yet, but close enough to taste it.

The wind carried hints of jasmine and distant barbecue smoke. You could hear laughter from another balcony, the faint buzz of a moped passing by. People were shedding layers, windows were left open, and the heat stayed a little longer each day.

But inside that peace wasn't there. Those two were… quiet. Too quiet today, you missed the teasing and the insult that usually flies over your head. They didn't even fight over the last spring roll. You peeked back through the open door. Caleb was half-sunk into the beanbag, arms crossed, eyes on the ceiling. Sylus lounged on the edge of the sofa, one leg bouncing ever so slightly, fingers fiddling with the cap of his water bottle. Not a word passed between them. You narrowed your eyes. Did they really fight? Even that could happen between those two? You leaned against the balcony door frame, eyeing them both with a raised brow. 

“Okay… what is wrong with you two? Did you lose a beat or something?”

Caleb glanced your way, his usual easygoing smile flickering across his lips.

“Don’t worry, pips. We’re…”

“Fine,” Sylus cut in, sharp but smooth, like he’d rehearsed it. “Caleb just messed up in training. That’s it.”

“Hey!” Caleb’s head snapped toward him. “Didn’t...” He stopped, catching Sylus’s look. The one that said drop it . 

Caleb exhaled and scratched the back of his neck, turning back to you with a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Right. My bad. Played like an amateur today.”

The tension between them wasn’t just leftover adrenaline. It had edges, strange ones. You squinted, not buying it for a second. You take one last drag on your cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray. 

“Weird. You two usually fight with volume.” You watched them for a beat longer, then pushed off the door frame with exaggerated casualness. “Hmm.” You took a sip of your beer. 

Caleb looked up. “Hmm what?”

You shrugged, wandering over to the couch and plopping down. “Just thinking. The vibe’s off. Like… way off. No fight, no sarcastic comments, no who can stuff more dumplings in their mouth without dying contests.”

“Kitten…” Sylus exhaled. He wasn’t even looking at you, he was staring at the floor. You leaned into Caleb with a faux whisper. 

“Is he mad about losing his Pretty Boy Title?”

Caleb snorted, but it didn’t carry the usual spark. You nudged him with your elbow. “Come on, something’s up. Did one of you break the bro-code?”

“Bro-code?” Sylus echoed, finally glancing up.

You pointed dramatically between them. “Yeah. You know like, don’t steal each other’s shampoo, don’t crash a date without warning… don’t fall for the same girl…”

You trailed off, eyes narrowing at how both of them tensed at the same girl part. Bingo!

“Oh.” You raised both brows. “Ohhhh. Did I hit a nerve?”

“No,” Sylus said flatly.

Caleb ran a hand over his mouth, like he was holding in a groan. “No one’s fighting over a girl, pipsqueak.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You two? Walking magnets. I bet there’s a graveyard of broken hearts I’ve never even heard about.”

“You make it sound like we’re playboys,” Caleb muttered. Sylus scoffed quietly, but his smirk didn’t reach his eyes. 

You gave them a long, deliberate look. “Aren’t you?” Neither answered. “Mmm,” you hummed, tapping your beer can against your knee. “Sure. But just for fun, if you were fighting over a girl… who’d win?”

“Me,” they said at the same time.

The way they both looked; tense, guarded, just a little too quiet; pressed something cold against your chest. Your gaze drifted between them, studying their body language: Sylus, suddenly fascinated with a torn corner of a take-out box. Caleb, scratching at the back of his neck, like he didn’t want to meet your eyes. Something inside you twisted.

There is someone. You hadn’t meant to think about it, but it was there. There’s someone, and they didn’t tell me. The thought hit harder than expected. You’d joked about it. You’d teased them. But suddenly, the idea that they might have fallen for someone stung. More than it should’ve.

Maybe it was the way they always made space for you in their lives, as if you were permanent. Maybe it was the late nights, the way Sylus always saved you the last dumpling without saying a word, or how Caleb always waited to walk you home even when he said he was “too tired to move.” You sat back, hiding your shift in mood behind a sip of beer. The bubbles fizzed against your lips, masking the bitter taste growing in your chest.

“…Right,” you murmured, forcing a grin. “So nobody’s in love, and everything’s just fine. ”

It wasn't… 

----------------------

Caleb had been multitasking all morning, replying to the team group chat, organizing files for an upcoming project, and stealing glances at your last Instagram story where you were laughing with Rafayel over coffee. It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous. But there he was, half-smiling like a damn fool and pretending the soft ache in his chest was just indigestion. He wasn’t in love, obviously. He was just... overly invested. A little stupid. Perhaps, just tired.

Sylus, on the other hand, had taken refuge in detachment. His poker face was flawless, his composure near surgical. Yet Caleb noticed the way Sylus’s eyes lingered too long on doorways, his irritation flaring when Rafayel’s name came up. There was a wire tension between them ever since the wine incident. As long as Sylus can’t classify this… emotion, he would just keep it down and wait for what happened. 

Meanwhile, you were with Rafayel at his private studio.

Paint-stained hands, lavender-scented incense, and Rafayel sketching loosely as you talked. He was trying to get you to admit something about the two men hovering over you. But your face stayed infuriatingly neutral.

You sit on the edge of the studio table, legs dangling, fingers absently tracing the rim of the coffee mug Rafayel insisted on giving you, some flowery porcelain thing that didn’t match the rest of the mess around you.

Rafayel was sitting on his sofa, paint smudge on his cheek, watching you with that unreadable little smile he always wore when he was about to stir trouble.

“You’ve been weirdly quiet,” he said, tilting his head. “That’s not like you.”

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About your two guard dogs?” His tone was light.

You looked down at the coffee. “They’re acting strange lately. Especially around each other.”

“Mmm. And you?” Rafayel walked closer, voice softening slightly. “Are you acting strange too?”

You hesitated. The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I don’t know what I feel, Raf.” You look up to the ceiling. “I— I don’t even know where to start… They’re good to me. I care about them. I do. But…” You let out a frustrated breath, rubbing your thumb along the side of the cup. “I just wanted to go on a date. And I suggested that threesome just because I was drunk” you shook your head, the weight of it building. You sighed dramatically. “And anyway,” you added quietly, “it doesn’t matter. It seems like they already have someone in their life.”

Rafayel leaned forward, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Are you sure it’s not you?”

“As if…” 

He shrugged with theatrical nonchalance. “I’m just saying… people don’t start spiraling like panicked jellyfish unless something’s stirred the water.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.

“Wait. Let’s try something else. Just for fun.” His grin softened a bit, a little too knowing. “Imagine you had to go on a date with one of them. Just you and him. What would it look like?”

You stared at him. “Raf.”

“Humor me.” He walked over to you, tapping your forehead. “Picture it. Where would he take you? What would he order? How would he make you laugh? And more importantly…” His eyes sparkled now. “How would he make you feel?”

You didn’t respond right away. Your brain scrambled, images flashing: the way Caleb always handed you your favorite snack without asking, how Sylus pulled you close in a crowd without thinking. How both could feel like a safe place and a storm at the same time.

Rafayel leaned back, clearly enjoying the wheels turning in your head. “It’s funny how people always say they’re confused,” he said lightly, “but when you ask them to imagine what they want —really want? Their body answers before their brain does.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart beat louder than before.

“Yeah, yeah… Truly a genius”

“I am,” he said proudly. “And don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”

You took a slow breath, your mind betraying you with flashes: Caleb’s smile under golden light. His smile, soft and lopsided, when he handed you his hoodie without a word because you said you were cold. The way he always offered the last fry. Sylus’s fingers brushing yours when you were sitting next to him, watching a movie. The way he’d nudge your drink closer if you got distracted talking. 

You swallowed hard, cheeks warming. Why were you thinking about this now? Worse. Why did it feel like something?

Then more images came, uninvited: the three of you knocked out on the couch after one too many late-night movies, your head on Caleb’s shoulder, Sylus’s arm slung lazily across the backrest behind you. The weight of the blanket draped over you, and the heat of each one was so comforting. You remembered waking up between them, the scent of shampoo and cheap takeout, and thinking just for a second, that you could stay like that forever. Your face was burning now.

You cleared your throat, shook your head once like it might help. They were just friends. Stupidly attractive, deeply confusing friends with far too much history and a habit of being in your space all the time but still. Friends. So why the hell couldn’t you stop smiling?

You laughed under your breath, pushing a hand through your hair. “Honestly? Might be easier if I just went on a date with you.”

Rafayel stilled. The grin he usually wore faltered but not in a bad way. It shifted, like something sharper slid underneath. He took a step closer, closing the distance between you two with that feline grace of his. When he spoke, his voice dropped, low and velvet-soft.

“Do not tease me,” he said, eyes dark, tone suddenly dangerous in a way that sent a pulse through you. “If you keep looking at me… I won’t show you any mercy.”

Your breath caught. He leaned in just a fraction more, his presence humming like static across your skin. “I can promise you, cutie, a date with me wouldn’t be easier. It’d ruin you for anyone else.”

You blinked, heart skipping. Hard. Heat rushing up your neck. “I—I wasn’t— I mean, that was a joke…”

Rafayel cocked a brow. “Was it?” 

Your confidence wavered. Wait… was he actually flirting back? Then, just as quickly, he pulled back with a wink and that infuriatingly soft laugh. The tension evaporated so smoothly it made you dizzy. Like sugar melting into warm tea. You exhaled, unsure whether you were relieved or not.

“Now go back to thinking about the boys,” he teased, flopping dramatically back onto the sofa and snatching his sketchbook. “I want a front-row seat when you fall for them.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying to act unfazed but your pulse hadn’t quite settled. You blinked, flustered and a little breathless, trying to sort out what exactly had just passed between you. Right. Maybe teasing him wasn’t the safest idea after all. Or maybe you were just too easy to fluster today. Your thoughts were already slipping elsewhere. The three of you on the couch, tangled in blankets. You didn’t even remember which movie had been playing. You just remembered how good it had felt.

The weight of it hits you in your stomach at the exact time the door rings multiple times. You jumped slightly, your head snapping toward the door.

Rafayel groaned. “Noooo, I don't want to open the door to strangers. Can you do it Miss Bodyguard?” Somehow, he’d already placed his sketchbook over his face like a makeshift mask, as if preparing for a nap. He looked less like a renowned artist and more like a bored prince avoiding his royal duties.

“Such a spoiled brat” you muttered, pulling the door handle. “What will your fans think of you?”

“Don’t care,” Rafayel replied lazily, waving it off from under the sketchbook.

You sighed and opened the door, already half-preparing a polite Can I help you? but you didn’t get the chance. The door flew open, pushed with a force that caught you off balance. Two tall figures rushed in like a gust of wind.

“Rafayel!” Sylus barked, sharp and cool as glass. Caleb was right behind him, red-faced and clearly pissed.

Behind you, Rafayel let out a dramatic groan. “Oh, what now?”

You nearly got hit by the door. “Whoa—what the hell is going on?”

“Don’t worry, cutie. Just some drama.” Rafayel rose, folding his arms as Sylus marched over.

Caleb lunged first. “I’m gonna kill him—”

“Caleb!” You caught his arm, planting your weight against him, trying to pull him back. “Hey—HEY! 

Sylus didn’t move to help. He was already across the room. “What the fuck was in that wine, Rafayel?” he demanded, each word laced with threat. “You’re lucky I didn’t sue or bury you under your own gallery.”

“Oh, that ?” Rafayel passed by Sylus with ease. “I had it tested. Apparently some deranged fanboy decided to spike the bottle before it got to me. Aphrodisiacs. Very high-end stuff, actually.”

Caleb stopped struggling for a second. Then he cursed, yanked free of your grip, and advanced again. “You absolute freak! We could’ve—”

“Could’ve what?” Rafayel raised a brow, arms still calmly crossed. “Finally worked out all that unresolved tension?”

Sylus gave a sharp bark of laughter. “You really are a caricature,” he said with a tilt of his head. “I’ve met snakes with more charm and less venom.”

Rafayel gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. “You flatter me.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m gonna smash your perfect face in for drugging us, you asshole!” Caleb moved closer, every muscle in his body tight, ready to launch himself. 

“You drugged them?!” you blurted, stepping between all three. “Are you serious?!”

“Nah, didn’t, cutie,” Rafayel said smoothly, his gaze flicking to you with a disarming calm that just poured gasoline on Caleb’s fire. “The stalker was arrested last night. It’s handled.”

Sylus narrowed his eyes. “So your apology is... what exactly?”

With a grin, Rafayel reached into a drawer and pulled out three glossy tickets. “Amusement park,” he declared. “Full access. VIP bracelets. Unlimited food.”

“You think cotton candy is going to fix this?” Sylus snapped.

“No,” Rafayel said with a shrug, “but it might buy me fifteen minutes of silence.”

Sylus and Caleb looked at him with murderous eyes, the tension in the studio grew bigger. Rafayel, of course, remained entirely unbothered. If anything, his smile deepened with the kind of mischief that belonged more to a fox than a man. “Oh, if you don't want them…” He smoothly pivoted towards you, almost floating. taking your hand in his and pressing a small kiss to your knuckles. 

“Miss Bodyguard,” he murmured, gaze flickering up at you, “do you want to go on a date with me? You looked so down just a few minutes ago.” He was absolutely doing it on purpose.

“Eh?” you stammered, heat spreads on your cheeks.

Rafayel pouted childishly. “You did say you wanted to go on a date with me, didn’t you? We could have so much fun.” He pulled out his phone as if it were scripted, thumb already moving across the screen. “Oh! I can even ask Thomas if we can get a hotel reservation, too. Maybe in the suite with the sunset views over the park. Very romantic.”

The atmosphere shattered.

The aura around Sylus and Caleb swelled with terrifying intensity, almost monstrous. They were about to explode. Caleb stiffened, his hand clenching into a fist so tight you could hear the faint creak of his knuckles. Before Rafayel could utter another word, Sylus lunged forward with a fury that startled even you. His hand closed around Rafayel’s collar, yanking him back from you. 

“You really have a death wish…” Sylus growled. 

“Woah—Sylus!” you stepped forward. Caleb was behind him in an instant, like backup firepower. 

“Let go of him, Sylus.” Caleb looked just as close to throwing a punch. Maybe even more so.

Rafayel, to his credit or insanity, simply chuckled. “Ah,” he mused, “so the guard dogs do bite.”

Before anyone else could speak, Caleb snatched the tickets out of Rafayel’s hand with a growl. “You’re lucky I’m too tired.”

Sylus finally released Rafayel, but not before giving him a sharp shove that sent the artist stumbling back a step. His gaze, however, remained fixed on you, unreadable but undeniably intense.

Rafayel smoothed his shirt as if nothing had happened, then turned to you with a soft, almost dreamy smile. “So brutal...” he purred, brushing an invisible fleck of dust off your shoulder, “it must be exhausting to be loved so ferociously, cutie.”

You blinked, completely thrown.

He leaned in just a bit closer, voice a whisper meant only for you. “You really don’t see it, do you?” A teasing glint danced in his eyes. “They’d burn cities for you. And all I did was mention a hotel.”

Then he stepped back and twirled toward his easel like a man who hadn’t just nearly gotten throttled. “Anyway,” he chimed brightly, “this’ll make a stunning painting. Everyone out, inspiration is calling me.”

Release every 1-2 week

Nav: Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 (coming soon) // AO3

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[darkeskye]

i love being a 30+ woman in fandom. reblog if you also love being an old dame in fandom

[darkeskye]

Part 3 of roomies reader x sylus 🤏 close to kissing. Got me like

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, slow burn, mild language, mutual pining, romantic tension, cheesiness, 1.3k wc now playing: still - you’ll never get to heaven part 1 | part 2 | part 3

Sleep won’t find you tonight.

You’re hyper-aware of everything, from the wind weaving through the maple leaves outside to the moth fluttering about your room, hurling itself against the windowpane like it pays rent. 

The comforter’s wrapped around your legs in a cocoon. Moonlight bleeds in silver streaks across your body as you sit up. 

With a sigh, you smooth back your hair, studying the wrinkles in your bedspread. 

There is no singular thing that’s got you on edge. It’s a bit of everything—work, life, your future, your roomie back and roaming the halls of your house like an apparition, and that moth nearly giving you a heart attack, flying into your face.

He’s thankfully quiet, Sylus. Always is, mindful of your sleeping schedule despite being a night owl himself. A glance at your phone reveals it’s a little past midnight. You’re gonna be hurting later. 

Maybe it is him. You’ve been all jittery and tongue-tied since last week when he alluded to something you were too stupid to pick up on. When he came so close to kissing you and shifting the tide of your relationship after months of tiptoeing around this budding feeling. But you just had to open your big, dumb mouth and drive that wedge even deeper.

Lately, your mind’s been a whirl of confusion, every little smirk, mischievous glint in his eye, and idle brush of fingers taking on new meaning. 

Figuring some cold water would help ease your nerves, you haul yourself from your bed and shrug into one of your cardigans.

Arms crossed to ward off the crisp whisper of the AC, you pad down the stairs, mindful of each creak in the floorboards, trying not to rouse your roommate on the off chance that he is asleep. 

The jaundiced glow from the kitchen spills into the hallway as you make your way down. Cold beneath your bare feet. You stop at the common area’s threshold when you see him—that hulking figure hunched over the table, tinkering with something too small for his hands. 

There’s a tiny divot between his brows, lips tight with concentration. He’s got his AirPods in. Sweater sleeves rolled up to the crooks of his elbows, fingers shifting between a small Philips head and wire cutters.  

You watch him a little longer, hip propped on the doorframe, waiting to see if he’ll notice you. Come to think of it, his hair’s gotten longer, sweeping over broad shoulders, a little tousled and damp, probably from a shower. He doesn’t look as spent as he did when he first came back. Things must be going well at work.

Done ogling him like a creep, you pad into the dining room. He startles slightly when he catches sight of you, expression easing from mild surprise to an effortless crook of the lips. He tugs out an AirPod, fixing you with those brilliant, boyish red eyes.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

You wave a dismissive hand, moving to settle beside him on the table. Rest your feet on the chair, ignoring the static discharge between your bodies, tingling your skin. “Nah. The existential dread did.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, turning his attention back to the contraption out front after taking a swig from his mug. “It tends to do that.”

You eye the mess of wiring and microchips with a raised brow, slightly curled over, nudging his thigh with your toes. 

“That looks like a detonator.”

“It is,” he answers too quickly, matter-of-factly, not looking up.

It takes a beat, but you catch onto his sarcasm. He’s messing with you. Your Sylus, obsessed with Classical music, film noir, talking to a mechanical bird he built like it’s a real one, and helping old ladies pull weeds out of the kindness of his heart, constructing a detonator? 

Yeah. You are tired. 

“You planning to blow up a hospital?”

He holds one of the chips strewn across the table to the light with a set of tweezers, turning it over, scrutinizing it like a gem. “You have no idea.”

You snort, peeling yourself from the table after clapping him on the shoulder. Squeeze, and—has he always been this pleasantly rigid?

“Alright, Heath Ledger,” you taunt, walking into the kitchen. “You have fun with your plans to take over Gotham City.”

You’re halfway to the fridge when the hot scrawl of steam catches in your periphery near the stove. You turn towards its source—your favorite mug on the counter, filled with something dark and earthy, the faint scent of broken apple skin beckoning to you.

“Chamomile,” Sylus’ voice carries from the dining area, “to help you sleep.”

It’s like he has eyes in the back of his head. That, or he knows you too well, and you suppress those delightful little thrills and that stupid smile threatening to break out onto your face when you take the mug between your palms.

You lean against the counter for a sip. It’s warm. Delightfully warm, pooling in your belly, the right amount of sweet buried beneath its bitter bite. 

“Do you always make tea for two?” A shoddy attempt at flirting. A thank you masked by sarcasm.

You watch his shoulder blades swim beneath his sweater as he shrugs. “Only when I know someone can’t sleep.”

You scoff, venturing back to his side, sliding onto your spot on the table that’s still warm. You study him from the rim of your mug held to your lips as the crackle of plastic and copper wiring salts the air—those unfairly pretty lashes, the quiet confidence in his eyes, his sloped nose. 

You’re staring again. A tad too long, blinking away your reverie, the steam watering your eyes, and you sip your tea.

If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. Just smiles that knowing smile, in on a secret you know nothing of.

“You know, I once read that insomnia is a byproduct of avoiding something.”

You stiffen. He doesn’t have to look at you for you to know he’s calling you out in that way that bleeds Sylus. You’re in this picture, and you don’t like it.

Your tone is sagely. “You read that somewhere? I’m assuming from one of those old, moldy tomes in your room?”

He chuckles, and you love that sound. It pinches something in your belly. Reminds you of fall and mahogany and cured leather sliding against your fingertips.

The silence settles again. Comfortable, typical. You’ve moved closer without noticing, his arm teasing your thigh each time he shifts. You could conquer the space between you with a breath out. You’re closer than roommates, both physically and metaphorically.  

You’re both keenly aware of that fact, yet neither of you makes a move to bridge the gap. 

Setting down your mug, you stuff your hands in your cardigan pockets. Drop your shoulders along with your defenses, voice thick in your throat.

“What if I said I wasn’t trying to avoid anything, but instead trying to confront something?”

You don’t know what it is about him that makes you feel so at ease. Gives you diarrhea of the mouth. 

He sets his supplies down with a soft, definitive clack. Slowly turns your way, and you’re holding your breath. His eyes slide over your features like he’s searching for something. Like he’s weighing something in his mind before they snap to yours. 

“Then I’d say you’re not alone.”

The atmosphere between you tilts. Thickens with particles rubbing together so fast, it grows hot. Neither of you looks away, and neither of you makes a move to go. 

You’re just two idiots wordlessly feeling each other out, trying not to burn up like meteors streaking across the stratosphere. 

One step forward feels like another ten back.  

[darkeskye]

This shot had no right being this majestic. Can’t decide if I rather kiss Raf or my MC because HELLO??

Also, I now need separate cards of each boy crying over MC because oh. my. god. Infold really listened to us and said… BETTTTTTT.

[darkeskye]

As a SnowCrow main… I need to stay strong and not pull like a psychopath for Raf’s new myth. Especially because the predictions have been dead on so far and I’m about to get royally fucked for the rest of the year at this rate.

…but as a battle girlie…

I NEED.

ALL .

THE.

COMPANIONS.

[darkeskye]

I’m sorry, I’m sorry… but for the nth time—WHO TF actually let him be so damn gorgeous???

And yes. For any poor souls that haven’t seen it. Let me just tell you. As someone who works in the medical field… the Figs jogger scrubs… on men?? God-tier level dangerous. Ass-tastic.

ZAYNE IN SCRUBS OMG

[darkeskye]

Speaking of hot...

Sylus' silhouette hello like the fucking shoulder to waist ratio???

[darkeskye]

I have fantasized about this exact scene so many GATDAM times. I need it so bad my chest hurts.

play pretend

summary: It's the end of the week, and your last task is a routine checkup with Dr. Zayne. You're childhood friend, the only stability in your life. You wouldn't trade him for anything, and if that means keeping your feelings in check, then so be it. But when the topic of an unwanted suitor comes into question, your check-up is lost to a game of pretend. Do you have the strength to let him pose as your boyfriend for a quick fix, or will you forget where the line between real and fake is drawn? Spoiler: you forget.

tl;dr: plot with porn?? going yearn for yearn with Zayne 😼

zayne x fem reader

authors note: this is purely self-indulgent LMAO I was so hurt by the new main story update that I had to write a cutesy first fuck. And yes there IS a build up to the smut people lock in I’m here to fix your attention spans. Alsoooooo there's nothing else on this account cause I got too embarrassed to post a fic on the main. Can’t have friends and fam stumbling upon smut written by my own hands. Haven’t posted a fic of any kind in years so please be kind 😘 also cross-posted this on AO3

one-shot; smut (p in v, unprotected, fingering); 9.8K words

Hands subconsciously smoothing out your still-pristine uniform, you smile at the familiar nurses who breeze by. It’s an exchange that, no matter how frequent, still strikes you as, well… funny. Never would you have pictured yourself on a first-name basis with half of Akso Hospital. Not without help, at least. You suppose such a privilege comes with the package deal that is Dr. Zayne.

Zayne, whose office is two more turns to the left. Your fingers absentmindedly fix your hair for the nth time. 

Thanks to your hasty stride, you’re a tad out of breath. And late. In hallways where staff and patients vanish from view, you shamefully jog, only to awkwardly press the brakes when those familiar faces attempt to greet you. Of course, they let you go quickly, for this is not an unusual occurrence. While you’re punctual in any other professional setting, your unique situation with your primary care physician seems to influence some tardiness. Maybe it’s because you know that, behind all the mockery and lethal side-eyes, he doesn’t really care. Not anymore; months of buttering him up and trying to coax a long-lost bond from him have undoubtedly paid off. 

But this time, it wasn’t your fault. You physically cringe at the fresh memory moments before you throw the door to Zayne’s office wide open, uncaring of what you might be interrupting. Most of the time, you had some decency to knock during your lateness. Naturally, manners were the least you could offer as an apology. Today, however, your head was a foggy mess.

“Sorry—“ You blurt out. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Zayne sits comfortably at his pristinely organised desk, and—as dramatic as ever—he does not look your way. The soft clicks of his slender fingers typing on the keyboard are the first to greet you. The reflection of the computer screen on his glasses is especially harsh at this hour as the last remnants of sunlight slip away. Beyond the wall of windows, the vibrant Friday night life of Linkon begins to stir, its pulsating energy a stark contrast to the air of serene focus in this room.

“Again.” He hums absentmindedly as you sheepishly enter and shut the door. Those tired feline eyes remain on the computer screen. “What’s the excuse this time?”

The thought of why coaxes an awkward laugh out of you. “Nothing interesting.”

Zayne’s brows ever so slightly pinch at the sound, and he finally throws a glance your way. No doubt he registers your exhausted, flustered look as you settle into a chair. “Even children are more creative when lying. You look…dishevelled.”

“No, I don’t.” You definitely do.

“Overworking yourself again?”

“What? No.”

You brace yourself for the onslaught of questions his words threaten. Whenever the topic of your work’s physical demands comes up, the conversation becomes a never-ending back-and-forth. He insists you need to take a step back. You insist he’s overreacting. Despite your best efforts, neither of you can sway the other. 

“Then what?” He presses. “Something interesting?”

You frown as the picture of your desk back at work comes to fruition, decorated with a flamboyant yet stereotypically boring gift, one that you could not bring with you. Following it is the unfavourable closeness of the gift-giver’s desk to your own. 

“I was just about to leave work—on time, mind you—when I got given a gift, so I got held up in conversation.”

“A gift?”

“Some flowers.”

“Flowers?”

There’s an inexplicable flutter in your stomach as you hint at the event to Zayne, a cringe pressing in on your shoulders, though you can’t quite justify why. Perhaps it’s the invisible, warning whisper of unspoken boundaries years in the making, as if flirtation and romance were forbidden topics in his presence. Like standing barefoot in the cold. Like a puritan child burdened with silent shame, hesitant to speak on the prospects of young love before a disapproving parent. 

The very idea of acknowledging your own desirability feels taboo. And yet, beneath that suffocating truth, a sinister and smitten urge blooms. It is a fragment of your heart eager to dangle those delicate ideas in front of him. Could you coax even an inkling of jealousy from those otherwise unreadable eyes?

Zayne busies himself for a brief, silent moment, arranging papers that are presumably yours into a neat pile and grabbing simple equipment from the drawers. You’re following gaze is spurred by the conflicting apprehension and interest. The dull scratch of a pen on paper, a breath, your heartbeat. Finally, he rests his chin on one hand and taps the pen against his desk. 

“Who gave them to you?” 

“One of the guys I work with. We happen to be stationed together often.”

“A co-worker, huh?” A moment ago, you could have sworn the usual indifference in Zayne’s face had softened. But what you’re looking at now isn’t exactly a soft look. “I presume he didn’t just want to give you flowers for the sake of it?”

“He also asked me to dinner.” You pretend to find interest in the distant view of neon lights outside the window. “Tonight.”

“What did you tell him?” 

Are the taps of his pen on the desk becoming more aggressive?

You shrug as if your answer is painfully obvious. “That I was busy. Maybe another time.”

“Why not tell him no?”

“Well…I don’t know.” You shrink in on yourself slightly, as if confined by the physical manifestation of social pressure. The man you were talking about, while friendly enough, was oftentimes difficult to deal with. Not outrightly so, but it was the little things: the subtle knack of being argumentative, an ego as inflated as a balloon ready to burst. All while you had to see him every day? …You had really drawn the short end of the stick here. “I felt bad.”

Something about your answer makes Zayne sigh. He drops the pen and reaches for the blood pressure monitor. As he speaks, his tone is both exasperated and annoyed. “Don’t worry about being polite with those things. You’re just giving him hope by saying ‘another time’.”

You shrug off the thick, leather-like jacket of your Hunter uniform reserved for office work and present your arm. Beneath it is a tight, white button-up. You try not to be aware of the few unfastened top buttons.

“What if he’s one of those ‘pay for everything’ types and takes me somewhere fancy?” You tease as Zayne wraps the band around your forearm. “One date might not hurt.”

Zayne’s grip on the arm band shifts subtly, slender fingers tugging the band unexpectedly tight. The coarse fabric presses against your pulse. His brow furrows — an indication of focus, but on what, you wonder? Zayne’s medical prowess is above the mechanics of velcro or the calibration of blood pressure machines. The clinically harsh overhead lights cast a white halo behind him that cuts sharp lines across his jaw.

“What happens when he expects more than one date?”

“You never know. I might be swayed in his favour.”

The weight of Zayne’s stare is noticeable only when he looks away, turning his focus to the machine’s screen. “You can have fun without going on pointless dates. Especially with someone you work with.”

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I’m mostly joking, but a girl can dream.”

Zayne raises a brow. “Dreaming about your coworkers? How professional of you.”

“You’re one to talk about ‘professionalism’,” you retort with a hmpf. “You’re my doctor, after all. I thought there were strict rules about interpersonal relationships with patients.”

“Rules, yes.” Scarred fingers reaching blindly for his stethoscope. As he speaks, there isn’t much authority in his voice. Instead, it’s almost quiet, far away as he sinks into thought. “But we’re friends first.”

“It still surprises me, though.”

“I’d be more surprised if you went to someone else.” 

Now it’s your turn to raise a brow. “How so?”

“Well, I know your medical history like the back of my hand, you’re comfortable with me, your condition is compatible with my specialisations…” A hint of mischief burns in the few bright specks of his otherwise dark eyes. “And I highly doubt anyone else would want to put up with you.”

Your face contorts as if his words attack your senses like a bitter lemon slice. “Ouch, Dr. Zayne. Am I that much of a pain?”

“More like a constant headache.”

Zayne reaches forward, and instinctively, you straighten up, welcoming the further tests. But the chest piece of the stethoscope isn’t in his hand. Instead, he leans down, one hand wrapping around your chair legs. The low groan of wood against wood cuts through the room as you slide towards him. He does so with ease. Incredible ease and attractive ease. 

Though his uniform usually leaves little to the imagination, the white coat pulls taut, offering a delicious view of firm muscle. You swallow hard, almost ashamed at how easily the casual display of strength weakens your knees. The man opposite you is otherwise unbothered, straightening to fix the stethoscope in his ears. 

Considering he’s about to listen to your racing heart, you look away, searching for a quick fix. Any sight except him will do. Your eyes fall to the floor…and to the very usable wheels on his own chair.

“In that case, maybe I should switch to someone else.” The cold metal presses in the open V of your button-up, right below your collarbone. “You’re so busy. I’d hate to overwork you.”

Zayne looks up at you through his lashes as he draws close. “Now you’re being dramatic. You wouldn’t last a week.”

“And what makes you so confident?”

He chuckles. Clearly, he’s enjoying the back-and-forth. “Because I know you. You’re stubborn, never listen, never follow any of my advice. Besides, you’d miss me too much.”

Your heart flutters right beneath the stethoscope.

“I do listen.” You choose not to acknowledge the latter half of his answer.

“Prove it then.”

You tilt your head, confused. He makes a zipper gesture over his lips. Oh.

For the duration of his observations, you keep quiet, allowing him to focus on the task at hand. Just as he sets the metal against your chest for the last time, your phone dings. The double chime is unmistakable: the secure messaging platform used for Hunters. You often exchange words with your colleagues through it, but at this time, those who didn’t have your personal number wouldn’t bother you. 

Your heart flutters again—this time for the wrong reason. Spurred by morbid curiosity, you fish your phone from your pocket without disturbing Zayne. Through the notification centre you scroll until the dreaded name pops up. Great.

“What’s with that look?” Zayne questions.

There’s not much more to say than the message itself. You flip your phone around to show it.

Sooo… how busy on a scale of 1 to 10 are you really tonight?

Zayne adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A subtle squint creases the corners of his sharp, cat-like eyes, the faint glint of curiosity quickly giving way to something sterner. The amused tilt of his mouth from moments before fades, replaced by a slight frown.

“This is the flower culprit?” His tone is painfully dry as he pushes back to grab a pen and paper, jotting down something probably related to your heart rate. 

You hum in thought. “Time to come up with a good excuse, since I have nothing to do after this.”

“Or, and hear me out on this…” Zayne turns to face you, pen still in hand, as he leans back and spreads his legs. The sarcasm in his voice cuts rather than teases. “You just say no.”

Exhausted with even the thought of it, you sigh. “You don’t get it. He’s just a little…much. He tried something with Tara a while back, as if he shares a single similarity with her type, and he’s only just moved past the aftermath.” You huff a laugh. “My guess is that the only thing that will deter him is making myself incredibly uninteresting or pretending I have a boyfriend.”

“What awful options.”

Though you wouldn’t agree, you don’t argue, instead continuing to wonder aloud. “The second option would be the most effective. Two birds with one stone, even.”

Knowing him, a rumour will start at work that you have a boyfriend. A perfect excuse for the earlier gesture just being friendly, considering the flowers were presented with a considerable audience. The rumour wouldn’t be bad if there was an inkling of truth to it. Opposite you, Zayne folds his arms and taps the pen against his arm in a slow but forceful rhythm. 

…Could you use him as a scapegoat? 

The idea creeps in, sly and tempting, an offer as distracting as the taps of his pen. But no — you snuff that worrisome flame the second it sparks. The guilt it brings is akin to admitting aloud the things that cross your mind in his absence. Pretending would be more than a harmless lie, should he agree; it would cheapen your priceless bond. At least to you. The idea leaves a bitter aftertaste.

“What happens when he asks for proof?” 

“Maybe I’ll get one of my friends to play along,” you respond matter-of-factly, although the finer details are nothing more than an afterthought to you. In all honesty, you’ll probably ignore the message, but for some reason, you have yet to drop the conversation.

“And who exactly are you going to rope into this?” 

God, it’s like he’s determined to highlight every flaw in your plan. You grin. “Depends on who can be most convincing. Maybe I’ll hold an audition.”

Zayne taps the pen a few beats faster as you become stuck in a standoff-ish staring contest. Why, you’re not so sure. There should be nothing left of value in this conversation.

“I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.” You lean forward, anxious for his answer.

He tosses the pen onto his desk. “What if…I helped you out?”

You couldn’t be more thankful that the stethoscope is no longer in his hands. There’s a beat of silence as you look back at him with eyes wide in astonishment. Just moments ago, you had disregarded the idea with a sound resolve, considering it distasteful and disastrous for yourself. Now, with the offer coming from him, your stance has shifted. 

He could convince you to get away with murder. You stifle a laugh.

“You? Could you be convincing?”

“So you doubt my acting skills, huh?” He seems to relax at your light laughter, even flashing you a grin of his own. Your routine checkup has been abandoned entirely. “I’ll have you know I’d do perfectly well.”

“Prove it then. Time for your audition.” You clap your hands together twice before leaning against his desk, arm on the surface and chin in hand. “Question one: Imagine we’re going out for dinner. Where will you take me?”

Zayne looks out the large expanse of window as he considers your question with genuine depth. As he does so, he leans against his desk, vaguely mirroring your own position. “Somewhere we can have privacy, but not so secluded that it feels forced. Good food and candlelit tables. Cozy. If I really wanted to impress you, which I probably do, we could go somewhere exclusive.”

When the answer comes to its conclusion, his eyes slowly drift back to meet yours. Still unreadable. Typical. The carefully crafted response renders you speechless for a moment. You remind yourself not to let it show, pursing your previously parted lips. 

“We’ll split the bill fifty/fifty,” you add after a moment.

He scoffs. “Silly of you to think I’d let you spent even a cent.”

Don’t smile. 

“…Okay, question two: Where do we go after?”

“After…we could walk around the city if it’s a nice night and stop at some of the food stalls for something sweet—like the one I took you to after work the other week. Then I’ll drive you home. A little aimlessly, though, so I can waste time and spend more with you.”

Like the one I took you to. You raise a brow. “Nothing extravagant?”

“What, is this supposed to be a first date?”

“What if it was?”

He flashes a look of mock offence, as if the answer could not be clearer. “Realistically, how extravagant do I need to be to win you over? We’re not strangers.”

“But just like you said, we’ve done those things before. What makes this special?”

A tsk. “If you weren’t seeing the situation in a different light in accordance with our different relationship, I’d be a little worried.” 

You bite back a smile. “Fine then. Question three: I get that text while we’re out and show you. What do you say?”

“Tell you to text him something straight forward so that there’s no wiggle room. ‘I’m busy with my boyfriend, can’t talk’ should do it. Simple. If he questions the legitimacy, send him a picture where he can’t deny what we are.”

Reality suddenly draws you from the conversation’s alarming immersion. How did you get here? When did the conversation take this turn? Did the offer leave his lips on a whim, or was it brewing the second you mentioned receiving flowers? …Why? Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to even consider a version of the answer where there’s real jealousy in Zayne. This was a conversation between two friends, where one is in an awkward predicament and the other is offering a clear escape. 

Except it wasn’t clear. 

You could lie or swallow your pride and reject your colleague, but instead, you were hanging on Zayne’s every word in a daze. Though his descriptions were simple, it was almost as if you could taste the remnants of a shared dinner on your tongue, feel the chilly evening air on your cheeks and the warmth of his hand in yours as you strolled aimlessly through the streets. Imagining it isn’t an impossible task, either. Most of the outings you shared were the taunting shell of a date.

Zayne watches with an immeasurable intensity as silent seconds tick by, waiting for an answer. Should you agree? The date was only theoretical—no harm, no foul. Just a story to tell your colleagues. At most, a picture was all you needed. You match his gaze for a moment longer. Then…

“Alright. Fine.” You drum your thighs as you announce: “You’re hired.”

Zayne leans back in his chair at the news, grinning as if he’s just won a childish game of tug-of-war. “Before we start, I have one condition.”

“And that is?”

“As your employee, things will remain strictly professional, right?”

Those simple, serious words douse out the little spark in your chest—something you’re grateful for, and yet stubbornly wounded by. You snort. “I’d be worried if that wasn’t the general consensus already.”

With a hum, Zayne is the first to look away, eyes drifting behind you to the expanse of Linkon City. For once in this strange interaction, you recognise the look on this face: thoughtfulness. Oh, how you wished to pick apart his brain. Should the universe allow it, you would dive into his mind and make a nest of those fleeting thoughts otherwise destined to be unheard. In this moment, you can’t help but admire him from afar. You could swear a merciless ocean stands in the way, or a glass wall thicker than bullets could pierce. Then he stands with an outstretched hand, and suddenly, you’re back in his office, acutely aware of your physical closeness.

You place your hand in his with underlying hesitance. Before he shakes your hand, he pulls you to your feet. Warm fingers delicately apply his strength.

“Deal.”

“Deal,” you echo. You can’t help but feel surprise at his formal, dedicated approach. “Should we take a photo now, or should I just text him first and see if he believes��?”

“Photo first.” He’s quick to cut you off, shrugging off his pristine white coat in the process and haphazardly throwing it over a chair. “Who knows how long it might take for him to reply? We don’t have all night. By the time he does, I might be long gone.”

While that could be true, you knew your colleague would be waiting with bated breath for a reply. But you don’t bother to challenge Zayne in that regard and instead reach for your phone. “As you wish, Doc-tor. …How should we stand?”

Wordlessly, he takes you by the elbow and gently shuffles you to stand before him, your back to his chest. Over your shoulder you watch, quiet and nervous. There’s a pathetically large gap between the two of you. When you don’t step back to close it, he chuckles. 

“You can come closer,” he says. Then, in a more sheepish tone, he adds, “If you’re okay with that.”

You’re affirmation is nothing more than a hum, too cautious to give voice to nerves that may betray you. You’re step back is carefully calculated; not too far so that every inch of you is flush with him, not too quick to suggest eagerness. Zayne leans against his desk in an attempt to adjust his towering height according to yours. As a result, you find yourself standing between a pair of large, spread thighs that faintly brush your own.

Zayne’s movements mirror your deliberate caution, slow and measured. His hands first guide you by the shoulders, then shimmy you by your sides. Then, at a pace so gruelling it was like he wished not to disturb you, his arms slowly snaked around your waist. Each movement is made in such silence that you wonder if he’s even breathing. Were you? His arms hover an awkward inch away, giving you the opportunity to smack his wrists and lecture him on the professionalism he just swore to. You don’t. Of course you don’t. So he comfortably settles them, and you wonder if that opportunity was wasted.

Maybe if you leave your camera facing the ceiling, you won’t have to face the situation you’ve found yourself in. But unfortunately, time was moving at a very real pace, and standing around doing nothing would be just as bad. Stealing yourself, you raise your phone, nervous to make eye contact with your own self. Zayne cranes his neck to fit in the frame. Warm breath fans across your neck and ear as he does so. You shiver.

“Smiling is a must,” he murmurs. 

All you can do is nod, swallow, and smile as he instructs. Though it’s a nervous, timid smile, it is one nonetheless. Satisfied, your finger ghosts over the shutter button, only to forget all about it as he leans in a little closer, voice little more than a whisper in your ear.

“Smile wider.”

You can’t help but giggle at the feeling of his breath on your neck. It transcends the physical barrier of your skin, travelling down your spine tauntingly, leaving behind an overwhelming desire to chase the high. At least you don’t need to force a bigger smile—you take the photo the second he elicits the vulnerable reaction, capturing the fleeting appearance of a genuine smile and crinkled eyes. Though beneath it all, the ache of this hollow pretence remains.

“That tickles,” you say in a tone that is borderline accusing. 

“Sorry.” His voice remains quiet and breathy against the shell of your ear, this time with a hint of playful remorse. “It was intentional.”

“Mm-hm.” Focus. “I’m going to take one more.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Kiss me on the cheek.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to make the request. Sure, from an outside perspective, it is reasonable enough considering the act you’re mutually playing. But such a simple approach disregards human complexity. If he accepts, is that a reflection of blind obedience, or does it stir something deeper, enticing him beyond the agreement? If he refuses, does that mean he respects those boundaries out of disinterest or fear?

“…Okay.” 

That’s all he says. You’re as clueless as you were ten seconds ago. Shooing away the silly internal debate, you turn your head more his way. 

You are entirely unprepared for how he complies.

Nimble fingers trace a path beneath your jaw before finding purchase on your chin, tilting it with a subtle insistence. Fingers splayed, his grasp is all-consuming and possessive—perfect for a photo and detrimental to your moral compass. His free hand finds purchase on your hip, consistently firm despite being nowhere in frame. Were you always this close? 

The final graze of his lips against your cheek is devoid of his hand’s inescapable demand. Instead, the kiss is gentle. Cheeks red and heart racing, you have half the mind to take the photo. Then another. He lingers long enough for you to take three, your face in different stages of submission.

When you lower the phone, his touch disappears with it. What he doesn’t do is usher you away. Curious.

“Got enough photos?” He asks after a moment. The casual nature of his question is almost laughable.

“More than enough. Now to see if it was worth it…”

Zayne peers over your shoulder as you navigate to the message that caused this all. The quickly crafted response reads with little room for argument. 

Look, I think you’re great and I appreciate the flowers, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I have a boyfriend, and he thinks I should convey that I’m taken to spare both you and me, which I agree with. I am not and will not be free to spend time with you outside of work. 

It’s read immediately. The first message follows soon after.

Come on, y/n.

He continues to type. Then comes the second message.

What boyfriend? I’ve never heard of or seen any boyfriend. You don’t have to lie to me. Just give me a chance, sweetheart.

Sweetheart? You scoff aloud in offence. The gall he has to not only doubt you, but throw in a pet name is beyond you. Nevertheless, you couldn’t ask for a better opening. You don’t miss a beat before attaching the photo of Zayne kissing your smiling face with a simple: this one. You can’t deny the satisfaction it gives you to prove him wrong, regardless of the real truth. A soft laugh sounds behind you.

“A photo was worth it after all.”

“I see what you mean, now,” he muses. Though there’s a slight smile on his face, there’s a line between his brows that can’t be missed. “He’s got some nerve, calling you ‘sweetheart’ and all.”

“Sounds like someone is still in character,” you tease, nudging him with an elbow.

“Hey, I’m just making sure the message is clear,” he retorts in mock defence. “Can’t have anyone calling my girl ‘sweetheart’.”

Your breath barely has time to steady before a familiar chime sounds, drawing your attention to the unlocked screen in your hand. A shocked gasp escapes you at the few bold words staring back defiantly. What, it reads. Can he not share? Any words of indignation are snuffed by Zayne’s hand closing firmly around your wrist, angling the screen his way. The shift from subtle indifference to something far more intense is evident in that now-familiar frown.

“Ignore it.” The playfulness is gone.

“Someone really wants to get in my pants.” You sigh. “Well…work is going to be a little awkward. Thanks for your help, though.”

He huffs a laugh, though there's nothing humorous about it. “You’re welcome. Just let me know if he tries to bother you again.”

You half-turn in your spot between his legs and poke him in the chest. “What would you do then, hm?”

“I don’t know…” He trails off as he grabs your wandering hand and settles it back at your side without letting go. He continues, eyes watching where his fingers toy with your bracelets. “Maybe I’d come to the Association myself.”

“Too bad Tara knows you.” It’s a miracle your voice doesn’t waver. The pictures have already been taken; there’s nothing more to fake. “She’d see right through the act. Or should I swear her into secrecy?”

You’re unsure of how long the two of you have been absentmindedly inching closer. The room has shrunk entirely, walls dissolving as tunnel vision settles in. No longer can you pick up the sterile scent of antiseptic that clings to every surface of the hospital, nor do the fluorescent lights bother you. Now, the only tangible thread tethering you to this moment is him. Zayne. Your breath catches in your throat. A dead giveaway. His eyes flicker back to yours. Is it possible that the featherlight drag of his fingertips over your wrist has caught your pulse?

At this distance, you could count each gold fleck in his heavy-lidded eyes. Now, that look is a characteristic you’re less confident in labelling as fatigue. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s found in your eyes, his gaze trickles downwards. Over the imperfections of your skin to the curve of your lips, down your neck, skirting the scandalously low neckline of your button-up.

“I can be plenty convincing.” There’s a soft sensuality in the way each word leaves his lips, foreign and addictive. “No one would have to know it’s an act.”

His index finger teases your inner arm before finally making the jump to your waist. Suddenly, you can’t find the line between real and fake, hypnotised by a hazy want. You lay your hand over the one on your hip and speak with hesitance.

“You’re…doing a good job of convincing now…”

Now there’s a hand on either hip, angling you to face him entirely. His words are little more than a breath in your ear. “You think so?”

A moment of clarity draws your anxious attention to the unlocked door. Though it was late in the evening and Zayne should be leaving by now, you were also no expert in the inner workings of Akso Hospital. How often do people walk in unannounced? Would he get in trouble if someone saw him like this? In you’re peripheral, Zayne tilts his head to follow your gaze, curious. Then he laughs, the sound soft and deep, and boldly caresses your hips upon the understanding of your anxiety.

“Don’t worry.” Without lifting a finger, a subtle frost blossoms over the handle. Soft cracks echo as mounds of ice creep along the locking mechanism. The surrounding wooden frame glitters. “No one can open the door.”

You lift your chin in an attempt to tease. “Why would I be worried?”

“No reason.” His fingers continue to deftly draw circles on your hips, slow and intentional. When he leans in again, his lips almost graze the skin of your jaw. “Sweetheart.”

Not only were the lines blurred, they were gone entirely. That fact is enough to feed your confidence. Timid fingers skim over forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. Jagged scars rise to meet your fingertips. They whisper stories you’ve been too wary to pursue. Zayne’s biceps are pronounced beneath the black fabric of his dress shirt, his shoulders broad and inviting. Your travels come to a shy halt just short of his collar.

“You’re a tease.”

“Don’t make it so easy.”

“You’re not making this easy, either.” His grip tightens with those words.

“What do you mean?”

“Playing this game with you…” His voice wavers then, torn between sanity and delusion. “I don’t know where to stop.”

You’re unsure of what to say or do. A chill is emerging from the tips of his fingers, so cold that it seeps through the fabric of your skirt. Zayne is naturally the embodiment of his Evol; cold and unforgiving to those who don’t know him. There’s a subtle, physical aspect to the manifestation, too, from the sharpness in his features to an arresting chill that follows him. But this is different. The temperature in his hands is dropping rapidly, so much so that the shocking cold almost has a bite to it. Is he…aware that his Evol is activating? You shiver.

“You’re hands are cold,” you whisper.

Those few words connect with him like a punch—a harsh reality check. It’s evident in the way that his entire frame goes rigid, the clouded look in his eyes overshadowed by a minor horror. The daze is gone. So is the cold. Zayne withdraws his hands entirely, sinking further against his desk.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick with tangible guilt.

Without missing a beat, you lean forward to match his slight escape, grabbing his hands and bringing them back before he can protest. The act is not a sensual show but instead an admittance of trust.

“I’m not afraid of it, you know,” you try with a small smile. “I don’t mind if your hands are a little cold.”

“You…don’t?” he asks, earnest in his perplexity.

You nod. He swallows.

“Why?”

Once you recognise that his hands won’t move, you slowly drape your arms over his shoulders. The expression on his face is akin to that of a wounded puppy. You’re both surprised at how quickly his hard exterior has melted and saddened by his martyrdom. Instincts rooted deep in your flawed heart pull you in, resting your cheek in the crook of his neck—a place equally as cold. Your fingers, which trace alone his nape, make contact with what you can only guess is a fine film of frost.

You sigh. “Well, you know my Evol can help ease it. If it hurts you, I can help. Besides…I’m not as delicate as you think I am.”

As you speak, the physical apprehension in his body eases. With it is the release of a shuddered breath as his arms tentatively encase you.

“You trust me too much,” he says with a light scoff.

“Sometimes you can be so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

You lift your head to squint at him. “Hm… Agree to disagree.”

You’re faces are incredibly close. The question of how close or why is entirely out the window. This wasn’t some pretend play anymore. You find nothing artificial in the position of his hands, in the way his gaze dances between your expectant eyes and parted lips. Not in his voice, not in the subtle red hue on his cheeks, not in the complaisant confessions of his ragged breaths. Nowhere. The substance that supported an illusion is suddenly weightless, dissolving alongside the frost beneath your fingertips.

“You truly are the most stubborn woman I know,” he mutters. His own stubbornness is endearing, but you’re tired of this game of cat and mouse. 

“So you don’t want to kiss me?”

Eyes less guarded than ever before stare back at you as if you’ve spoken another language.

You withdraw your hands and tilt your head away, half-joking, half-nervous by the lack of response. “No answer? Fine. I was offering, you know—“

Blinded by his previous dumbfoundedness, you don’t anticipate the speed of his reaction. Cold hands force you’re face back towards his. His head is slightly bowed, reverent eyes staring up through thick lashes. It’s as if he’s cradling an object of worship, like you’re a deity to whom he must repent. For he has sinned, disgraced by an ailing infatuation that has festered over the years, devolving into a mind-numbing greed.

Instead of the gentle tone that his words have melted into, a low, husky voice rings in your ears.

“I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.”

His thumb slides towards your lower lip, gently tracing the dip below to substantiate his claim. Air seems to escape you at the feeling of his breath, of his hands, at the way his gaze triangulates between your eyes and lips.

“I think about kissing you all the time.” 

His nose brushes against your cheek as he cranes his neck, breath fanning across your neck. All you can muster is a whispered, “Oh?”

“When I’m at home.” A warmth against your collarbone cuts through the overarching cold as his lips finally press down. Your heart stutters violently. “When I’m at work.” He kisses the expanse of skin between your neck and shoulder. One hand angles your head from the nape of your neck, fingers fervently tangled in your hair, the other cradling your waist. “When I’m with you.”

Another at the curve of your jaw. While his lips are warm, his breath comes out cold between each peck, each word. The conflicting temperatures are both shocking and enticing. 

“I’m tired…” He kisses your cheek for the second time today before pulling back to catch your eyes in earnest. “Of fantasising about it.”

Your faint smile flickers, a fragile torch that illuminates the path he no longer resists. Restraints shed, your breath mingles, and his lips come crashing against your own. It is unlike the nurturing kisses against your skin. In fact, it is anything but gentle; desperately crushing, a confession condensed into a press of mouths. Slender fingers explore the landscape of your lower abdomen, insatiable cartographers drawing maps of mystical lands. Here, he stakes his claim. A low groan echoes deep in his bones and resounds against your equally curious hands.

You suppress a groan of your own as you melt into putty kneaded by Zayne’s precise hands. Lower they go, pulling you closer by the hips, tracing the waistband of your skirt, testing how close to your ass he can get.

The results are in: he can get very close.

His grin doesn’t go unnoticed as his hands dip down with purpose, massaging the plump flesh. You’re hum of content is an addictive contingency. His grip becomes brusquely firm. You kiss him harder. Suddenly, they drop down to your thighs, and the floor disappears beneath you. A sharp gasp of surprise escapes your lips at the loss of support. Instinctively, your hold around his neck tightens, fingers grasping at the fabric of his black button-up.

Zayne’s grip on you is unwavering as he spins you both. Muscle flexes beneath your touch. One arm hooks beneath your knees and supports you effortlessly. The other reaches behind your back, pushing half of his desk’s contents onto the floor in one fluid swipe. Loose paper flutters towards the floor like fragile autumn leaves, settling soundlessly as pens clatter everywhere. The book on dream analysis that you had teased him about reading just last week lands face down with an accusing thud. It faces the ceiling with open pages, displaying the annotation of an electroencephalography. 

When Zayne sets you down on his desk, the action is gentle. The hand that helped to support you pushes apart your knees, allowing him to settle between and press a quick kiss to your lips.

“Sorry,” he says between peppered kisses. “Should I have asked before I did that?”

You chuckle against his mouth. “It’s fine. I’m giving you consent entirely. …Unless it’s something outrageous.” The latter part you add with a teasing tone.

“Is this too outrageous?”

Forehead rested against yours, he looks down to where his hand settles on your thigh. Your legs are spread wide to accommodate him. As a result, your skirt rides up dangerously high. Any higher and nothing would be left to the imagination. Slowly, his hand slides forward, aiming directly for the improper scene. You both watch in silence for a moment as he traces the raised hem, massages your thigh, then retreats slightly, only to repeat himself again and again. He meets a higher milestone each time. The urge to beg for more is debilitating, yet all you can do is shake your head, pathetic in your submission to desire.

When his lips meet yours again, his pace is slow, vaguely cautious, echoing that of his hand. Each kiss grows deeper and deeper, pushing you further back each time. The wooden surface of Zayne’s desk presses into your back before you know it. 

Angling one of your thighs against his hip, he settles over you with a new closeness. You’re skirt is as good as gone. The fabric bunches around your waist as he pushes your thigh up further. Neither of you pays verbal mind to the physical manifestation of his desire that presses against your aching core.

…Were the two of you really about to fuck in his office?

Zayne was always prim and proper. In the way he dresses, in his sophisticated speech, in his profession and borderline-OCD cleanliness. You would never peg him as the type to yield to sinful wants in scandalous places. And yet here you are, arching your back off his desk and accepting the hungry sweep of his tongue. The only thing protecting him from disciplinary action is the ice embedded in the door. You pray that all the times he insisted on his Evol’s temporal durability were not lies.

When his mouth is drawn back to your neck, your eyes flutter open. They adjust strangely to the overhead lights as little spots glitter in your vision. Confused, you squint. Instead of the specks disappearing, their forms refine into tiny snowflakes drifting through the air. They’re too faint to survive long; as soon as they settle in Zayne’s hair and on the desk, they melt into nothingness.

A question is brewing on the tip of your tongue at the sight. Though it’s quickly lost to the uninhabited corners of your mind when his fingers glide over the edges of your panties and directly across your clothed cunt. Your cheeks flare. There’s no hiding the desire that pools between your legs.

“Is this all it takes to get you so wet?” His voice is a purr against your skin.

You pout. As if you couldn’t feel his erection a second ago. “That’s not fair.” 

“What’s not fair is how long it’s taken to get you like this.” A shameful whimper builds in your throat as he circles his fingers with added weight. His free hand creeps over your mouth. “Shhh. You can stay quiet for me, can’t you?”

With wide, begging eyes, you nod with a muffled mm-hmm. Before retracting his hand, he circles above your clit a second time, then a third, testing your obedience. 

The ecstasy that burns beneath your skin from the slightest of touches is obscene. You would think that you’d been trapped in hours of foreplay, denied even the thought of release. But still, it is not enough. The feeling was akin to wearing layers on a cold day, yet still shivering. Like biting into a promising fruit that hasn’t hung from the vine long enough. It just wasn’t right, wasn’t enough. You roll your hips in an attempt to convey as much.

“Impatient?”

Through a sigh, you answer, “Just a little.”

His teeth graze your ear. “Then use your words. What do you want?”

What an unfair question to ask now, with your mind clouded in drunken lust. Articulation was difficult. So was trying to pinpoint exactly what you wanted. There were too many things you could want and not enough words in the dictionary to do them justice. So instead, all you can offer is, “You. I just want you.”

Thankfully, he seems to understand. His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties. Lifting your hips with one hand, he uses the other to shimmy them down to your ankles. A single beat isn’t missed before the adept fingers of a surgeon slide between your folds. His mouth is back on every exposed inch of skin he can find, needy and hot. You hide quiet pants behind a bitten lip. You almost pierce the swollen skin when his fingers finally find entry. 

“Keep quiet,” he reminds you in a soft voice as his index and middle fingers curl. “Only I get to hear you like this, right?”

You nod, eyes fluttering close. But your agreement doesn’t seem to be enough. He catches your rolling head and forces a moment of sobriety. Acknowledgement from every legible medium, including that of your eyes and mouth, is what he truly wants.

“Right, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Yes, Zayne. Just you…just…”

You’re words die out into a sharp inhale as he presses down on your clit.  He pumps in and out in tandem with the exterior pressure, stimulating screaming nerves that turn your knees to jelly and your jaw slack. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of your arousal around his fingers, your bitten-back moans, and the wet kisses trailing from your chest to your jaw, then to your mouth and back. 

A small part of you wishes for him to bite down. To leave a mark that was unmistakably his. But, although you were little more than a stranger to Zayne’s sexual nature, you could almost hear him calling hickies childish.

The steady rhythm he’s set calls for release. Like the sliver of morning light on the horizon, you can feel it approaching, an all-consuming warmth that flutters deep in your stomach and creeps up your legs. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers in an announcement of his skilled work’s reward.

“Right there,” you pant, head rolling, and fingers tugging at his hair. “Don’t stop—“

Except, he does exactly that.

You whine as he retracts his fingers, looking at him with indignation, silently demanding an explanation. Only smugness stares right back. Euphoria sinks back into the confines of your bones at the absence of stimulation. You can barely get out the question of why before he cuts you off.

“Believe me when I say I could please you for hours without question,” he says with a quick kiss before withdrawing to tower before you. “But I don’t know how long we have. I can’t let you have all the fun.”

You’re about to roll your eyes when he raises two glistening fingers to his mouth. His eyes remain trained on you as he glides his tongue over the remnants of your arousal before sucking them clean. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight.

“Sweet,” is all he says, as if he’s describing one of the new desserts sold at the cafe across the street. Your cheeks turn bright red.

Satisfied with the taunt, he reaches for his belt, and suddenly you’re reeled right back in. Your unashamed gaze tracks every movement with hunger as he undoes the buckle, then the button below. When he reaches for the zipper, he averts his eyes. Now it’s his turn to feel shy. The top of his boxers comes into view, followed by a mouth-watering outline of the exact thing you crave.

One hand hovering at the waistband, he settles back over you. A palpable shift in the air has taken place. Gone is the initial display of hunger and desire finally brought to light. In this moment, as he looks down with eyes full of affection, there’s a sense of pure, shared intimacy. Not the exhiliration of stupid decisions or a quick fuck. No. Zayne was not one to hook up with someone on a whim. Nor were you.

“You’re sure about…this?” He asks. The previous displays of confidence are nowhere to be found. You don’t think he can even bring himself to say the word, as if an explicit understanding would chase you away.

“What, having sex with you?” You kiss the tip of his nose with a smile. “I couldn’t be more sure.”

You catch an amused yet curious look on his face before he presses a slow kiss to your lips. Your heart races at the sound of shuffling fabric. Then you feel it. You can’t fight the urge to look.

Zayne holds the entirety of his impressive length in one hand. With ragged breaths, he teasingly drags the red, weeping tip across your folds. At the sight of it in his hold, of the tip circling your clit…You can only hope that he fits. 

“I’ll go slow,” he says quietly. You’re almost unsure if he’s talking to you or himself. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much? If you want to stop at all—“

You try to give him a smile as sincere as possible instead of the giggles that threaten to arise. Nerves are obviously kicking in on his end. Not that you aren’t nervous. God knows you are. But suddenly, he can’t meet your gaze for more than a few seconds, and it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever done.

You quickly cut him off before he can ramble. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Zayne nods, presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and sinks into you.

If your senses weren’t already overwhelmed by him, they were now. The stretch aches at first, his sheer size foreign and unforgiving. Your jaw falls slack at the feeling, and a stuttered gasp leaves your lips. Zayne echoes the sound. Slowly, he pushes further with each roll of his hips, acutely aware of the initial shock. He sweeps away stray hairs plastered to your skin.

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, though he quickly begins to lose his coherence. “So good… You feel so…”

He cuts himself off with a low groan, and his head falls to the crook of your neck. Another careful thrust, then another. Finally, he bottoms out...and his teeth sink into your skin.

It takes everything in you not to cry out his name at the overwhelming sensations. Just moments ago, you wrote off the idea of leaving this room with physical reminders. Now, Zayne’s tongue was gliding over the fresh indents of his teeth to soothe the sting. Today was a day for many firsts.

Resisting the urge to sing your praise is becoming more and more of a punishment. You can only hope that the soft whimpers and incoherent strings of ‘yes’s and ‘keep going’s are enough. Zayne muffles his own voice with the press of his mouth to your skin, desperate and low. Where his throat leans against your chest, the reverberation of ecstasy echoes. What neither of you addresses, however, is the lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and each scraping groan of the desk legs in tandem.

When your fingers tug his hair, his tempo becomes sloppy. Heedless and disorganised, like he’s barely holding on. You’re own high is re-emerging from its previous denial. Nothing seems to register anymore, not beyond the connection of your bodies, not beyond this room, not before this moment. Every sense is reduced to your simple need for him. Sensibility no longer exists, like ink bleeding on damp paper, words blurring beyond recognition. What were the ethics of fucking your doctor? Ecstacy. That’s what.

You squirm in his partial hold, hips aching with the gruelling pace. When your eyes flutter and roll, he hums in content, suddenly slowing down.

His face contorts into something reminiscent of sympathy, brows pinched and eyes pooling with an inescapable intensity. “Right there?” 

Each syllable sounds with a deep roll of his hips. When you whimper out a drawled mmh-hmm, he suddenly picks back up. He’s so close, reaching so deep that his pelvis grinds against your clit. You’re an overstimulated mess of tangled limbs and ragged breaths.

“Zayne—“ You’re legs begin to tremble, inner walls fluttering with that telltale sign. “Fuck—I’m going to—“

When you can’t finish the sentence, he captures your slack lips in a messy kiss. 

“I know.” He trails a hand down to draw slow circles into your clit. “I’ll pull out—“

While it was the most sensible course of action, not an ounce of you wanted that. Spurred by a fraction of sobriety, you look up at him and speak solid yet shaky words.

“You can cum inside me.”

Glazed eyes look back, attention caught entirely. Parted lips attempt to form words that are lost to open-mouthed groans. He shudders. “Fuck. Are—are you sure?”

“You know I’m on birth control.” Hiding a devilish grin, you clench around his length. He sinks further into your embrace with muttered curses. Had you ever heard him say such obscene things before? “Please.”

“How could I say no to you, gorgeous?” 

His words are barely more than a whisper, lost to the scrape of the table and slap of skin. You’re shared sobriety is spent in the short exchange. Your head rolls back, nails digging into a clothed back; his teeth graze against the inches of flesh that spill out of your bra, an indicator of delirium. Everything dissapears behind eyes screwed shut. 

The song of sex is threatening to reach its crescendo, each melodic note vibrating through your entire being. Like a tide pulled by unseen moons, a shared pulse that races beyond the confines of mortal flesh. You hold him close in the moment it engulfs you, and despite Zayne’s intoxicating effect, you are suddenly very sure that this is right. The explosion of pressure in your hips that shakes your legs is right. The perfect alignment of your bodies is right. The stuttered moans as he paints your walls white are right.

For a moment, you two bask in a comfortable silence, arms slung around his shoulder and his head in the crook of your neck. When he lifts himself to hover at eye-level, you can’t help the girlish giggle at the sight of his pretty face and that pretty blush. He smiles back, albeit confused.

“What?” He asks as he absentmindedly fixes your hair.

“You’re cute,” you whisper back. 

“Cute?” He laughs. “Wouldn’t be my first pick of words, but I’ll take it—“

Zayne, who leans in to kiss your forehead, stops just a hairs breadth away when a jarring knock sounds. It cuts through the moment like a distasteful dose of medicine. Both your heads whip towards the door as the handle jiggles. Every function in your body stops. But, for the nth time today, your lucky stars seem to align; the embedded network of ice keeps the door firmly shut. 

The relief isn’t long-lived, though. Underwear God knows where, half of Zayne’s desktop scattered on the floor, hair a mess and skin splotched in shades of purple… You cringe at the disgraceful scene. Zayne sighs, fixes his clothes, and momentarily drops down to fish for your underwear—the first step to regaining modesty. When he slips it over your ankles and up thighs glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, he offers an apologetic look.

“That’s my karma for ignoring the time,” he grumbles.

You slide off the desk and into your underwear, aided by his fingers at the waistband. As he sits them on your waist and pulls down your skirt, you reach up to fix his hair. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, as if it truly was your fault. Well…half of the accountability was yours to claim.

“Don’t apologise.” Stealing a quick kiss, he adds, “Trouble.”

He slips from your grasp before you can retort.

From the view of the door, the criminalising array of pens and paper on the floor is mainly hidden, save for maybe an item or two. But even a single paper was evidence enough. Anyone witness to Zayne’s perfectionism would know as much. But by the time you recline in the chair, he’s already reaching for the thawing door handle. His tall frame blocks the view of the hallway as he pulls the door half open.

He nods. “Yvonne.”

Yvonne. Her presence teeters on the precipice of a blessing and a curse. A blessing, given your growing companionship with the kind nurse from Zayne’s division, yet a curse for precisely the same reason. She had the confidence in your connection to claw something juicy out of you in private, no doubt. Considering how often she brings up the gossip between nurses regarding Zayne and your relationship, this was information right up her alley.

Yvonne shifts her weight to the side to peer in the room—an act of curiosity you read clearly. When your eyes lock, the spark you were picturing stares right back. Interesting, her lively eyes seem to say. After wiggling her fingers in a small hello, she turns back to Zayne with a raised brow.

“Everything okay, Dr Zayne?” she asks plainly. The question is anything but plain. “This door was locked.”

Zayne’s grip on the door turns white knuckled. He clears his throat. “Everything is fine. I must have locked it by accident.”

It takes everything in you not to lose yourself to laughter. Zayne’s quick wit would one day be the death of you, but now his lack of sensibility would be the death of him. Yvonne scoffs at his jarringly poor excuse.

“Accident, huh?” Her amused gaze dances between the two of you, painfully knowing behind the war of words. “I see. Maybe be more…aware next time.”

“I will.”

She hums, posture straightening to indicate seriousness. “Well, I brought those files you requested. Sorry for not bringing them earlier—they slipped under my radar.”

“…Right. Yes. Thank you, Yvonne.”

She purses her lips for a moment and regards him with a scrutinising look. Seemingly satisfied, she says, “That’s all. It’s about time you head home, Dr Zayne. You two have fun now.”

With a wink your way, she disappears down the hallway. Zayne is quick to shut the door. You snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“You ‘accidentally’ locked the door? Good one.”

“…Shut up.”

His words are accusing and gruff, but there’s no bite to them. He crosses the room in a few strides, taking in your features with a new softness. The two of you simply stare for a moment. Almost subconsciously, his fingers reach forward and skim the curve of your neck, following the path of fresh bruises peaking from your shirt collar. 

“Sorry for those…” he murmurs absentmindedly, lost in thought. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You chuckle. “You don’t?”

He hums. “Heat of the moment. Hickies are childish, but I…I just couldn’t help myself.”

“You may think it’s childish,” you challenge, “but I quite like them.”

A huff resembling something between a sigh and a laugh tumbles from his lips as his fingers graze the curve of your cheek. Delicate and loving, he handles you with a softness you could only read about in tragic odes. You meet his eyes with a look you can only hope shows a sliver of your own overwhelming affection. Although, regardless of the ache between your legs and skin flushed with sex, you can’t shake the disbelief. 

When did the quiet boy you shared stolen sweets with on your grandmother’s porch turn into this accomplished man who dictated your every thought? When was the first time you stole a tentative glance at your childhood crush? On the playground, perhaps. Or maybe outside the store that sold popsicles in the ruthless heat of summer. Those were memories you often basked in. Now, you begin to wonder when he first mirrored your shy gaze. 

“So,” he starts quietly, pulling you from the memories of shared smiles with a very current, very real kiss on the forehead. “About that fake date…”

[darkeskye]

Logged in today and apparently it’s Love and Deepspace: Baywatch edition.

Welcome to my internal monologue role-play with Sylus:

You weren’t expecting him to be the one sitting on the lifeguard chair. Not Mr. “Daytime is best enjoyed in a photo album” Sylus.

But there he is… towel around his waist, Prada sunglasses low on his nose, one arm draped lazily over the chair like it’s a throne. He’s watching something in the distance like he just caught it lying.

You slow blink like you’re seeing a mirage. Because clearly you have to be.

“I thought you didn’t do sun,” you call, approaching with what dignity you can muster while walking in ever shifting sand.

Your voice and everything else here is desert dry. Your mouth? …not so much.

Of course he doesn’t turn. He does, however, offer his trademarked smirk.

“I don’t,” he says, voice smooth as melted chocolate. “But someone opted to sunbathe on a public beach when my private resort was available.” He says public beach like it’s a slur but there’s a flicker of amusement in the curve of his mouth. “So I figured I’d supervise. For safety reasons.”

You snort, arms crossing. “Since when did tanning become a dangerous sport?”

Sylus tilts his head slightly, gaze flicking briefly past you, then back. “Since Chad over there thought it’d be a good idea to snap a photo of your ass while you were laying your towel down.”

You glance over your shoulder. Sure enough, there’s a man—forty-something, probably rich based on the excessive amount of designer jewelry and aggressively decked out VIP section—tapping at his phone with increasing confusion, like it just betrayed him.

The screen won’t respond. He jabs at it again.

You turn back to Sylus who looks very pleased with himself. “The photo’s gone.” He shrugs, casual. “…and his ability to take another.”

Your mouth falls open. “The fact that you were able to brick his phone without a laptop in sight is… terrifying.”

His gaze dips to your lips and his smirk sharpens just enough to be criminal.

“If you keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, I’m gonna think you’re in distress.” He leans in, towel shifting, eyes unreadable behind his glasses.

“Good thing I’m certified for mouth-to-mouth.”

[darkeskye]

Oh.

Oh.

My damn heart. ❤️‍🩹

THE DRAGON & THE SORCERER. having a go at @two-bees-poetry's wonderful contrapuntal form

[darkeskye]

So. Invested. In. This. Fic. My GOD.

Ikigai, Part 8

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

The walk to Sylus’ room is reminiscent of one to the gallows. You’ve seen those walks in people’s souls, how each step makes their throat tighten more and how they seem to mentally wait for each heartbeat to come. Like every step or every breath or ever beat is going to be their last.

That’s the only way you can think of to describe how you feel right now. A place that once meant safety and comfort to you has been tainted. It’s been warped, smeared, and destroyed in a way that a you from a few weeks ago would’ve never imagined.

Because now, you’re walking there with fear. Fear of Sylus of all people. Your partner in crime. Your confidant. Your closest friend. Your Morana.

You don’t want to think of him this way. Far from it. But Miss Hunter’s words, her shaky tone and fidgety hands, make you this way. The chaos of emotions in her threads make you this way. Everything about how she was when describing her time with Sylus make you this way.

Modification of her Evol.

You know very well what those words mean. You know what it looks like, feels like. You know all of this because it’s woven into her soul.

And her own soulmate tried to do that to her. Tried to split her open. Try to warp her and smear her and destroy what makes her her.

Rage and betrayal and whole other slew of emotions boil up inside of you. Each step makes you wonder when you’ll explode, when you’ll break from all of this.

You try to combat this with each breath. Each deep, hard-fought, breath. You try to embrace a wave of calm, to tamper down the craziness and be who you normally are: in control.

Nothing helps. Nothing works. And before you know it, you’re knocking at that accursed bedroom door.

Since when am I so polite with him?

A weak laugh escapes your lips. You stifle it down the moment the door begins to open.

Sylus is disheveled, an odd sight for someone who can look put together even in the middle of a gun fight. He just stares at you. His eyes refuse to leave yours, as if you’ll vanish if he so much as blinks.

It’s awkward, strained. An uncomfortable atmosphere that hasn’t been between you two in years. You can’t stand it.

“May I come in? I believe we have some things to discuss.”

Sylus says nothing. He looks deeply uncomfortable. It’s subtle, something most wouldn’t notice. But you’ve known him far too long. The slight flicker in his eyes down to the way he walks tells you everything. He’s off. He’s lost.

Not that you’re much different. Your tone earlier was cold, professional, and distant. Entirely lacking the usual playfulness or joy you’d have from simply interacting with Sylus.

You quickly step in his room once he moves aside for you. You don’t spare Sylus a glance. Any further looks would just deter you from your task.

This cannot go on.

Sylus’ treatment of Miss Hunter weighs on you. If you thought it was bad before, it’s far, far, worse now. Experiments? Changing her Evol? Scaring her so much she subconsciously rejects her own soulmate?

It’s arguable the worst start to any love story you’ve ever heard or seen. And you have more experience with that than anyone. You see them in every thread. You hear them in every soul.

All except mine.

You stare at Sylus’ empty bed to distract yourself from that rabbit hole of emotions, one you’re familiar with. You walk towards the bed. But you don’t sit on it. Rather, you just trace mindless patterns into the sheets to calm yourself.

Eventually, you turn to face the man whose room you stand in. Sylus stands with his back on the door. The lock is turned shut. And his arms are crossed, as if he’s shielding himself from you.

Since when were you two like this: weary and afraid of one another? After the argument today? After the one a few days ago? When Miss Hunter arrived? Or was it always there, brewing silently beneath your soft touches and charming smiles?

Whatever the case, you’ve never quite felt such distance from Sylus. You stand in the same room you two have shared for god knows how long, looking right at each other. And yet, you couldn’t be farther apart.

You tap your fingers on the bed like you did the night before Miss Hunter arrived. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s the only sound that fills your ears until Sylus finally speaks.

“Can I explain now?”

To anyone else, his tone would be calm, demanding, and dripping with that usual hint of arrogance that he has. To you, he practically begs. Screams, even.

He only does that rarely. Like earlier today during your argument after your collapse. Which, given that specific context, made sense. Sylus was out of rhythm. His emotions were chaotic. He does care for you, after all. And you had just screamed your lungs out and passed out in front of him.

Who wouldn’t be shaken by that even a little?

You think over your next words for a moment, pushing that memory of your mind. What is there to explain? You’ve heard everything from Miss Hunter. You know what he tried to do.

Old wounds open up the more you think about it. The pinpricks of needles. Your home becoming a revolving door of doctors when you had no sign of a soulmate by age 10. The increasing prevailing sense of something being wrong with you the longer it went on.

They’re phantom pains, echoes of a past that only emerges when you sleep. They’re ghosts you tell no one about. They’re wounds that only you have ever dressed.

What was done to you was done in good faith. Much like what Sylus did. You could see it in his soul, see it in his thread. And it told you he wanted her to remember. He wanted his sorceress back at any cost.

But you wanted here his words. His interpretations and thoughts from his own mouth.

“Go ahead,” you gesture with your hand.

So Sylus does explain. Just not what you thought he would.

He goes into detail about his deal with Miss Hunter. About the brooch. About her search. About the twins and their pranks. About everything.

You look at him with scrutinizing eyes. You don’t search his soul; you have no need to.

In him, you find the truth and only the truth. You find no deception, no hidden meanings, nothing. It’s probably the most honest he’s been with you since Miss Hunter’s arrival.

“I never even had the brooch on me,” he chuckles a bit before he continues. “I don’t know why she ever thought I did.”

“Then where is it?”

“In your favorite book. On page 70. You know the scene.”

You absolutely do know the scene. It makes you smile even in this moment.

“Seriously? How on Earth do you expect her to know anything about my taste in literature?”

“You two spend so much time together I figured you were “besties” by now,” he says the words a great amount of sarcasm that makes you relax a bit.

It’s not much. But, you lean into the familiarity.

“Besides. Even if she didn’t know the significance of the book, I thought I’d do her a favor and introduce her to something good to read. She claims to be bored during her time here, and I wanted to be a more gracious host.”

You snort at his comment. Sylus tilts his head at you.

“What?”

You want to say, ”A gracious host? After kidnapping her and threatening her and almost turning her into a lab rat for the second time in her current life?” But you shake your head and say nothing.

Sylus seems to brush it off. His eyes soften and he takes a step towards you. When you don’t move away, he comes even closer, standing beside the foot of the bed while you stand in the same position next to the head.

“That’s all there is to what you saw. It wasn’t,” he pauses for a moment, searching for the words. “It wasn’t anything like you thought it was. Just a series of… interesting events.”

You just nod once more, turning your head to the bed again. You go back to tracing patterns in it, trying to rally yourself for the real conversation.

“Gamayun?”

You give him a quiet hum, but you don’t look up at him. You trace words into the bed, words from the scene of the book he placed the brooch in. They comfort you.

“Say something?”

You say nothing.

“What’s got you so quiet? Normally you talk my ear off, even when I’m being a fool.”

You make a hasty drag against the sheets, and the irritating sound that follows shocks both of you.

“Because I’m not here about what you just talked about and you know it.”

Or, at least, he should know it. He should know that him taking Miss Hunter to Philip is why you’re here. He should know why you’re so angry about him doing that. He should know.

He should know because he knows you were the one to find the twins. Two boys in agony, one covered in crystals. Children suffering because of selfish adults. Just like Sylus did. Just like Miss Hunter did. Just like you did.

The logical part of you knows that his goals for what he did weren’t anything like the ones that got the twins in that state. But, the other part of you, the one that made you come here, won’t listen.

That part of you remembers all those doctors. It remembers the padded rooms and the repeated cycles of accusations. It remembers the fear. It remembers the pain. And it remembers when you finally decided to run from all that.

That part of you is loud. It’s loud, it’s obnoxious, and it wants to cry. It wants to shed vicious tears and wretched sobs. But it doesn’t. It can’t. Because it wasn’t listened to in the past.

Why would this time be any different?

Because Sylus isn’t them, you remind yourself.

He’d listen to you. He has to listen to you. Sylus is a flawed man, not a monster. He’s a desperate and flawed man who just wants the love of all his lives back. He’s a desperate and flawed man who made a mistake.

And he has to know that, right?

“Than why are you here right now, my sweet Gamayun? Surely not to repeat the earlier interesting series of events? Or maybe go even further?”

“You’re deflecting,” you say immediately.

His usual jokes don’t make you flustered. Instead, they make you angrier as he avoids what you need yet again.

“That’s not an answer, sweetie.”

Something in you snaps. Maybe it’s the use of an old nickname. Maybe it’s due to another deflection. Maybe it’s both.

Either the case, you finally address the dreadful elephant in the room, “Why did you bring her to Philip?”

You ask because you want him to admit it himself. Hearing him say the words, the man you’ve loved for over a year, rather than Miss Hunter, the soulmate of said man, will makes things clearer.

Maybe it’ll undo the knot in your stomach and the dread that courses through your veins. Maybe his explanation will make the phantom needles go away, and drown out the screams of your precious boys.

Part of you knows that neither will happen. The other, more optimistic and the one that clings to your love, begs for something otherwise.

All that hopes drains away when you see the color leave Sylus’ face. His color seeps away at the same pace as your fleeting hope.

Oh God, what did you do, Sylus?

Miss Hunter didn’t give you any details. You can only speculate. But with this severe of reaction, especially coming from Sylus (who’s done a lot of questionable shit that he knows you’d never judge him for), you’re not sure you can handle the answer.

Miss Hunter avoiding your questions and looking apprehensive to tell you anything is one thing. Sylus doing it is a whole other can of worms. You steel your heart for whatever happens next.

“We weren’t resonating. I thought there was a problem with her. There isn’t, so we left.”

It’s about the same thing she told you. Enough to give you the gist. Enough to explain her fear and her discomfort. But not enough to explain Sylus’. Not nearly enough, given everything he’s seen and been through in both of his lives.

So you push, “Did you two rehearse your excuses, or did you both conveniently give me the same nonsense in hopes I wouldn’t press? Whatever the case, you ought to practice lying to me better.”

Sylus appears unaffected by your words. You, of course, know better. The slight knit of his brows, the way he holds himself and leans a tad more to one side. He’s so obvious to you that it’s painful.

“You really going to lie to me again, Sylus? After what happened last time?”

That full on makes him flinch. Your heart wavers as a result. That was a low blow. You both know that. And yet, you can’t back down. Because all you can see in your mind’s eye is the twins.

Luke trying to claw at his face, to etch in the same scars his brother carries. Kieran forcing himself to grow up even more as a result of that instability. The way they would both duck from mirrors, or even flat out shatter them, during those first few days.

Dozens and dozens of memories like that just sit in your mind. A weight unlike any weight you’ve ever carried. It festers there. It seeps into your veins, into your heart, and into your words.

You can’t escape it.

“What exactly are accusing us of, sweetie? Be specific. You how I hate to beat around the bush, and waste time.”

You do. And that’s exactly why you’re the negotiator of this business and not him.

Soon, she will take that place. Soon, I’ll need a new role in a new place.

“Is there anything in particular I should be accusing you of?” You counter.

“Not in my mind,” he glances you over from head to toe. “But that seems to be the case in your mind.”

A smirk crosses his lips. It’s not one of humor.

He words hit you to the core.

“That’s not an answer,” you shakily manage to get out.

“Well, if my answers aren’t satisfactory, maybe you can give me a direct question? As you say, it’s harder to avoid something if there’s no room to do so.”

That stupid smirk is still there. His eyes are still cold, colder than you’ve ever seen them directed at you.

“Did you or did you not hurt her?” You tone gets firmer the more you speak.

Sylus’ expression changes again. Not to one of humor or playfulness or anger like you expected. No, the Sylus before you was none of those right now.

He was betrayed.

“Who exactly do you think I am?”

“I don’t know!” You finally raise your voice despite all efforts not to. “I don’t know… why do you think I’m here? I need answers, Sylus. I need conformation that I’m missing something and that you didn’t do what I think you did.”

You pause for a moment, choking on your own words and emotions, “I need the truth from you. Please. I need the truth about this at the very least.”

Sylus says nothing for a moment. And you worry that this’ll be a rehash of your first fight. The fight that broke you. The fight that drove you away.

“My relationship to her isn’t your problem.”

Suddenly, you feel sick. But then, Sylus finally says something and you chase that nausea away, kicking it down with your professionalism.

“I want her gone,” he says with an odd amount of levity. “She isn’t worth the trouble she’s causing, so I pushed my plans forward ahead of schedule.”

You don’t entirely know what to say to that.

“Pardon?” You laugh a deranged laugh. “You brought her here. Why ever would you want her gone now after no progress on what ever it is that you need from her?”

“Like I said: she isn’t worth the effort. And I refuse to waste my time on useless things.”

“Useless? You have the gall, the absolute audacity, to call her useless?”

You aren’t yelling, despite how much you want to be. And that want gets stronger the amused Sylus appears.

“Why do you care so much about her, sweetie? She’s my guest, not yours.”

”Because she’s your soulmate. Because she’s the key to your happiness,” is what you want to say.

Instead, what comes out is, “Because I’ve become quite attached to her. And I find your attitude towards her appalling.”

“Of course you would, sweetie,” his voice gets quieter and softer. “Of course you would.”

Sylus gets close to you, putting his fingers beneath your chin and tilting your head upwards. You don’t resist; in fact, you embrace the small touch as much as possible.

“Because you have such a bleeding heart.”

You roll your eyes at him. Normally, Sylus says that to tease you. Like on negotiations where you spare the business partner in question. Or when you talk him down from simply killing his opponent and into seeing their usefulness. Or any of the numerous times you’ve brought in a stray animal and nursed it back to health.

He always says it in a teasing tone, almost mocking. But now, he says it with fondness.

Or love, your delusional and desperate brain says.

As soon as that thought cross your mind, you take a step back. Sylus immediately releases his hold on your chin, disappointment flashing across his face. Or, at least, that’s what you think you see.

“My heart aside,” you say to calm yourself and get your heart to stop racing. “That doesn’t change the fact that your behavior towards her has been reprehensible. Deplorable, even.”

“Why are so obsessed with her, Gamayun? Should I be jealous? She’s been tearing us apart just by being here. Don’t tell me she’s gone even further…”

He says it with jest and usual nonchalant attitude. But something in you tells you there’s more to it.

“Because of my bleeding heart, as you say,” you smile a bit before going back to a more serious expression. “And the fact that you two seem to hold so many secrets that I’m not privy too despite your less than stellar relationship.”

Suddenly, something in Sylus changes. You can’t quite put your finger on it, other than the fact that you strangely feel like prey. Like he’s hunting you or something like that. You’re on your guard. You’re waiting for him to strike.

Sylus lets out a bitter laugh. “You’re not being truthful with me either, sweetie.”

That makes you pause.

“This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it?” He takes a step closer to you, the smirk on his lips thinning and his expression shifting to a more softer one.

You don’t know exactly what’s in that smirk. Anger? Bitterness? Hurt?

Hatred? Annoyance? Grief? your thoughts whisper before you can shut them down.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Sure, sweetie,” he’s surprisingly genuine and not sarcastic with his tone. “Sure it isn’t.”

“What in the world are you going on about this time?”

Fear drips into your words. You hope it isn’t noticeable. But judging by Sylus’ face, you didn’t succeed.

I’ve lost my touch.

Being so utterly emotional for the past few days has done this to you. Made cracks in your armor that show more and more with every passing second.

Sylus reaches for you again. And you, again, accept the touch. He cradles you head, hands delicately cupping your face, thumbs rubbing your cheeks in a way he knows soothes you.

Foolish man and his foolish tenderness when you’re supposed to be angry at him.

“Your obsession with her. I’ve never seen you act this way.”

You’ve never seen me try to mend the bond between someone I love and their soulmate before. But, hey, there’s a first time for everything?

“I am not obsessed. I do not do obsessed.”

Sylus frowns. You’re the one doing the deflecting now. You’re the one using humor as a distraction now.

“Than what you call all this?” He keeps stroking your cheeks with a featherlight touch.

“Care? Empathy? Because, as you know, I have a bleeding heart.”

It’s getting harder to keep your tone light. You hope that your voice never wavers. You pray that Sylus doesn’t notice how your skin warms from embarrassment or how fast your heart rate is.

You can’t even look him the eyes. And you struggle with all your might not to squirm.

“Your bleeding heart has never gone this far. Nor made you this mad at me,” the chuckle he lets out at the end of his sentence is bitter, but his eyes are still as sweet as ever.

Every statement Sylus makes feels like he’s ripping you open more and more. Like the claws of the fiend he was has made their way around the individual bones of your ribcage and is slowly but surely prying them open. It’s like he wants to expose your heart to the world.

Your brain is beginning to fog. Your mouth is beginning to dry. And the urge to run from here is getting heavier and heavier. Your feet are glued to the ground, and at the same time, they feel like they want to take flight.

When was the last time I felt this way? When I was still back home? At the jewelry store? Or maybe my old bar job?

“Well, most people I deal with are people of the N109 Zone. They’re far more secretive and, how do you and the twins put it, murderous than little Miss Hunter.”

You speak in hopes of cutting off your own horrible train of thought. It doesn’t work very well.

So you keep talking, “Speaking of Miss Hunter, I’m no closer to having an earthly idea of why she’s here. And whatever plans you have with her seem sloppy for your standards. I’d give them negative reviews. Maybe that’s why you didn’t share them with me?”

Another crack in your armor shows with your final teasing question. A crack that Sylus sees judging by how he takes his hands off your face and a step away from you.

“Than I’ll share my ideas with you to get some feedback for a better showing next time.”

You consider your words. Because this is your chance. Your chance to be in the know. The chance to know the truth. The chance to hear from Sylus’ own lips about why he brought this woman here.

But, you’ll also have to hear about their connection. Their past. And their future as soulmates.

You couldn’t hear that. You can barely think about it and see the proof with your own eyes everyday. Hearing it… well, that’s another story.

If he had offered this before their bond, you would’ve taken it. Jumped for joy, even. But you can’t now.

I can’t hear you say that you two are soulmates. I can’t hear you talk about your destined love and what that means for your future. I can’t.

Because hearing that means I can’t lie to myself any longer.

Hearing Sylus’ conformation means you take away that last layer of protection you have, that last bit of lies you tell yourself. Because you’ve know for years what the threads you see mean. You’ve confirmed it several times since you first saw them at age 7.

But, with Sylus, sometimes you cling to thought of being wrong. Of not seeing what you think you’re seeing. His words are all that it would take for that temporary peace to come crashing down.

Who in their right mind would do that to themselves?

“No. After all, I’m just a lowly actress in this show of ours. I’m no director.”

“Oh, you are no actress, Gamayun. If anything, you’re my director and writer. I’m merely here to finance whatever your heart desires to create. So, let us discuss our visions for Miss Hunter, and draw up a new episode this season.”

“I’d rather you consider this my resignation from that role into a new one. Because acting is starting to sound more appealing.”

Sylus pulls back. His face falls, and lets out a deep sigh that shakes you to your core.

“Than what do you want from me, Gamayun?” He pulls you close again, your head resting on his chest. “I’m so tired of fighting with you over something, someone, so trivial.”

Tired.

That one words carries so much weight. It seeps into your lonely soul.

It’s exactly how you feel. How all that’s happened recently has made you feel. How all the secrets and the soulmates and the unrequited love has made you feel.

You’ve been tired for years. For so long you no longer know what “rest” really feels like.

Tired of loving a world that would reject you in a second. Tired of holding it together. Tired of lying.

And maybe that’s why you did what you did. Maybe that’s why you hurt Sylus. Because you’re tired of always being the one to run.

People in your life drifted from you, yes. But it was always you that had to put the final nail in the coffin of your relationships.

So maybe that’s why you’re so tired. And maybe you wanted to make Sylus tired. Tired of you. So tired of you and your shit that he just turns his back on you permanently.

Tired.

“I’m tired too,” is all you can muster at the moment.

You pull back from Sylus. But not for long. As soon as you slip out of his embrace, you sit on his bed and pat the place beside you. He sits down immediately.

The way you two sit, facing each other and knocking knees together, reminds you of the position you and Miss Hunter sat in not too long ago. It warms you heart in an ironic and bitter way.

But you chase those thoughts away to focus. Focus on Sylus and focus on what you need to do right now. You take his hand, giving it light squeeze, before you look him directly in the eyes and begin speaking.

“I’m sorry,” it’s hard to get the words out, not out of pride, but out of pain. “For pulling away. For being so hostile earlier. For saying… no, threatening to leave you. And for not trusting you.”

For hurting you, and doing that so you’d chase me away. For making you believe I could just abandon you. For being jealous of you finding your destined love. For acting like a complete ass. For being hurt by some silly words.

I’m so sorry, my Morana.

“I’m sorry too.”

“For?” You press him, despite the discomfort on his face.

“For the lying. For what I said when you confronted me. For not telling you about my plans to bring Miss Hunter here. For not telling of my plans with—“

“You don’t need to apologize for that.”

The shock on Sylus’ face is evident. Even if he doesn’t completely show it.

“I’m not entitled to every little thing in your life. Just as you aren’t mine. We both need to learn to be okay with that.”

You pause before continuing, “And we both are entitled to space whenever we want and for however we want. Just as long as we communicate things.”

Sylus just nods. He squeezes your hand tighter. His eyes have his signature glimmer back. One so uniquely Sylus you don’t know how to describe it.

My selfishness dulled that glimmer.

As you and Sylus just talk for a bit, you think to yourself about your new plan.

I can’t just leave. And even with Miss Hunter as my replacement, I need a better idea for my departure. Somewhere away from the two of them, but with ties to my current life so that there’s no suspicion._  An idea hits you: Onychinus has many connections, many of which you forged yourself.

Kai did always want to recruit me. Maybe I’ll finally take her up on the offer?

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

2nd Author's Note: Do you prefer long chapters or short chapters? This story will be pretty long regardless, i just want to see what people prefer.

3rd Author's Note: Ikigai, Fun Fact = I originally was going to make this a one shot (and then plot ran away after breaking my kneecaps) and one where Reader didn't realize they were dating the entire time (but I wanted Sylus to suffer more, so I just made them very touchy, but with a line in the sand).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano, @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

[darkeskye]

Okay. But why does this make me horny and NOT brought back to reality. Am I broken?

I’m broken. I’m broken, right?

Nobody:

Sylus randomly once in a while:

[darkeskye]

You may now formally call me by my new government name: Puddle.

I don’t want to be saved.

oral fixation | sylus

sum: “sit,” he orders on a rasp, signaling to his lap with a flick of his eyes. when you make no move to obey him, he effortlessly tugs you forward until you fall into his lap. this is how he loves you. how he holds you close when everything in him refuses to be held.

cw: female reader, female anatomy described, right hand woman reader, reader’s attire is described, glimpse of power play, gagging, oral fixation, vaginal fingering, smidge of angst, ooc, i was horny i’m sorry, mdni

now playing: no manners - superm

The last of his company slips out of Sylus’ office with a curt bow. 

A business meeting to address a new family moving into town, trying to encroach on Sylus’ territory. And push they did until they realized the shop owner they were beleaguering for property worked for The Devil himself.

His red-tinged, low-lit office lapses into a heavy silence once the door clicks shut, save for the shifting of the ice in his whiskey glass held between long fingers.

He leans back in his armchair, leather squeaking, ankle propped on his knee, shoulders rolled back, and he taps his temple in that customary way as if processing all the world’s secrets. 

You stand in good form behind him, one hand clasped over the other. You’re dressed to kill, to maim—a dark, long-sleeved, high-necked number boasting the devastation of your thighs.

You knew what you were doing when you poured yourself into it. Knew the effect it would have on him. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you throughout his exchange, scarlet gleaming like heated silver when he squinted back at you from his shoulder.

You stiffen when he shifts, your jaw rigid, pulse rabbiting in your throat. You watch with bated breath as he crooks two fingers from beyond his throne, beckoning you closer. 

“Come here,” he husks, the sound of it rolling in your chest as if it’s your own, and puddling hot in your belly to drip down honey-slow.

You move on autopilot. You always do, as if he’s possessed your body with his Evol. Sank those corrupted tendrils of power into your mind, puppeteering you like an amiable little doll. 

But you both know he would never do that. Doesn’t have to. You come to him of your own volition, drawn to him like smoke to a vent. 

You move wordlessly. Mechanically, the carpeted floor swallowing up the clip of your heels. You stop at his side, blood turning to icicles in your veins, fingers tight at your sides. Twitch when static builds beneath deft knuckles grazing your naked thigh, and you suck in a breath. 

He smirks when you shiver. Huffs out a sound akin to a chuckle through his nostrils, setting down his glass, and peering up at you through dark, swept lashes.

Your breath abandons you when his fingers fully engulf your thigh, searing you down to the bone. It’s halfway possessive, how he touches you. Yet it’s gentle despite the smolder of his eyes, like you’re a butterfly’s wing he could easily swipe away with his thumb. 

He strokes up your inner thigh on an unhurried excursion to feel more, to tease, tracing the garter housing your knives, and your tongue feels too thick for your mouth when he strokes beyond the warm steel, coming dangerously close to the line of your panties.

To worsen your plight, he turns slightly towards you, tugging you closer, pressing his cheek to your skin. You don’t deter him, make no move to push him away, even though he holds you loose enough to escape. 

You shudder when he nuzzles your thigh, turns, lids hooded, to brand you with his lips. So warm, so intimate, you’re dizzy, nearly losing your footing if not for his fingers holding you steadfast as if tethering you to consciousness. 

He peers up at you once more, eyes the color of the sun sinking beneath the horizon, and had your stomach not been gnarling and folding in on itself, you’d mistake that look for tenderness. 

But this is Sylus you’re talking about—sin incarnate. He’s a paradox of softness and violence, the latter of which he’s never turned on you. At least, not of the bloody, visceral persuasion. He displays his cruelty in ways that transcend mere descriptions, in ways that would make others think you insane.  

He pilfers whatever’s left in your lungs when he tugs on your thigh once more, dragging you stumbling in front of him. And somehow, he’d undone the latch of your holster, the thunk of your knives dropping to the floor making you tense.

“Sit,” he orders on a rasp, signaling to his lap with a flick of his eyes.

He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t coerce. Doesn’t have to. You’d throw yourself into an inferno if he asked, so painfully, disgustingly loyal. Still, you hesitate, throat constricting at the sluggish stir of his eyes, the challenging lift of a brow. 

When you make no move to obey him, he effortlessly tugs you forward. You catch yourself with your hands on the chair’s rim, eyes round, lips parted. But he doesn’t grant you a reprieve, pulling you down at the back of your thigh until you fall into his lap, legs propped on one of the chair’s arms, and your back curved against the other.

Your skin prickles when his lips pan in, brushing the throb of your throat, the erogenous zone behind your ear. He sweeps an errant curl behind it, breathing hot, a palm clasped between your quivering thighs, thumb stroking shy of where your dress rides up.

Your breath hitches in anticipation. He doesn’t kiss your neck. Not right away, opting to tease the artery there with his nose, with the ghost of his lips, voice rumbling something distant in his chest. His fingers replace his mouth, nails dragging up your throat to chase the slope of your jaw.

He creeps them further up, outlining the thick bed of your bottom lip, tugging it down with two fingers to test its elasticity, its fullness. 

Instinctively, your mouth spills open for his soundless bid for entry, and he slips his fingers past the barrier of your teeth with a pleased breath out as if sinking home, the sound of it burning hot like greying coals between your legs. He rewards you with his mouth blistering your throat with languid kisses, pleased with your compliance. Your submissiveness.

He throbs against you, searing and weighted beneath the layers of your clothes, when your tongue intuitively curls around the pads of his fingers, slipping up his knuckles to test their texture. 

He presses down, the tang of salt and the citrus bite of an orange peel he’d squeezed into his whisky earlier, overhauling your tastebuds. 

You hollow out your cheeks, sucking on his fingers, the obscene noise of it staining the atmosphere, accompanied by a moan you try vainly to suppress.

Breath ragged and shaky against your pulse, he eases further down your throat until he agitates your gag reflexes, and the way your body convulses in response earns the most filthy, guttural, low-weighted sound.

“There she is,” he husks against your skin, the weight of him pulsing beneath you. Pressing against the underside of your thigh, intimidating, so delightfully hard. And all for you. 

Your fingers clasp around his wrist. Though your eyes water with a hot film of tears, you make no effort to move his hand away. In fact, you lock eyes over the sluggish glide of fingers in and out of your mouth, and he nips your jaw in reward, thoroughly wrecked by how pliant you are. How deep you take him. How soft and wet your mouth is, how glossy your eyes are as you watch him through those bowed, dewy lashes. 

His unoccupied hand slips further down your inner thigh, wordlessly encouraging you to part them. And you do just that despite the din of a voice at the base of your skull telling you to run. You’re clay in warmed palms—sand at the mercy of the surf. 

To your dismay, he retracts his fingers from the molten cavern of your mouth. A whine settles at the base of your chest, and a sticky string of saliva branches between your lips and the tips of his fingers. He traces the swell of your lips with them, glossing them with your spit, smearing the rouge of your lipstick down your chin, before using those same fingers to ruck your panties to one side and to prod the sticky pucker of your sex.

You don’t need much preparation, already so shamelessly wet. Dribbling down the cleft of your ass, thighs tight as he strokes his way home.

You inhale in tandem, gazes interlocking as you arch off his lap from the intrusion, your fingers buried in his shirt. He shushes you with pursed lips. With fingers curled around your neck whilst he works his thumb between your lips to pacify you.

He pumps a steady rhythm with his fingers inside the hot clench of your cunt. Cradles you like you’re made of glass while you suck on his thumb. The layers of his composure slowly slough off, making way for the wild stir of his eyes, and his hair’s a little mussed, white strands slipping from that careful coiffure to frame his face.

“You always make threats with your eyes, but your mouth and body tell the truth on your behalf,” he taunts, crooking and testing that spongy nest of nerves inside you.

You huff out a sweltering, shuddering breath through your nostrils, recalling that defiance you displayed prior to his meeting. That cheekiness, that flirt with danger. The tease of your perfume, of your dress when you shouldered past him, boasting the curvature of your waist for his guests. 

The fight is gone now, and all you can do is suck. Quiver like a fawn while he fucks you until the obscene squelch of your cunt salts the air, and your stomach clenches tight. You love the feel of his skin in your mouth. His fingers disappearing inside you. Fingers that have drawn back the trigger of a gun, ended lives, coated with a perpetual veil of blood. Fingers capable of unspeakable violence, so very soft and tender for you, working your body to primordial sludge. 

It’s an ego boost despite it all, knowing how thoroughly destroyed he is for you. How soft-kneed you make him despite the power he boasts over you. He’ll never admit it aloud, but you’re the one truly in control of this game of keep-away, of push-and-pull.

You’re almost gone—sinking below the seafoam, your vision dancing with spots of white—when you feel him dragging his teeth across your shoulder before he bites down. Hard. 

Hard enough to steal a gasp from your lips, and he licks over the raw indentations of his teeth as if to soothe. You fall apart so easily for him thereafter in the form of shaking tendons and a whimper of his name you can’t control, body humming, phosphenes jumping behind your shuttered lids.

He retracts his fingers once the pulsing of your walls slows around them. Holds them to the light for you to see, mouth hinged open as the dewy slick webbing between them. 

“Open,” he rumbles, bringing them to your swollen lips. And you don’t hesitate to take them into your mouth once more, the amalgamation of your taste and his skin causing you to tingle all over.

He cradles you in his lap like something to be bestowed on an altar. Rocks you gently, your arms coiled loosely around his neck, mouth seeking refuge at the hollow of his shoulder as you fight to remember the art of breathing. 

He strokes over the ripples of your spine, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. Holding you like he wants to shield you from the world. Like he wasn’t just violating you in the best of ways moments before. Like he isn’t the source of your undoing, 

This is how he loves you. How he holds you close when every piece of him refuses to be held. Your lips curve against his skin. You know this won’t be the end of your game. But at least he allows you to be close in these moments of tempering fever. You’ll take whatever you can get. 

[darkeskye]

There’s a reason why I’ll always be team SnowCrow… inside my ribcage is not close enough to hold Zayne. 💔

[darkeskye]

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, romantic tension, innuendoes, smidge of angst, 1.3k of self-indulgence now playing: honey - raveena part 1 | part 2

The weather app forecasted rain all week.

You never truly relied on the damn thing, seeing as how there was always a high chance its predictions wouldn’t come to fruition. It’d been hot as Hell’s gates the past few days, pasting your clothes to you like snakeskin.

Well, now, as the evening sky pelts down in grey torrents beyond the awning of your porch, you feel silly for doubting it this time around. 

You love the rain—the scent of wet earth it ushers in with it, the ambient sound it carries. How, as cliché as it might sound, it washes away everything, starting the world anew. A second chance. A cover.  

What's most ironic is the rain didn’t start until your roomie disappeared once more, swept away for a “business trip,” leaving you to fend for yourself where you’d grown accustomed to having him around again. 

A quiet little tick to your lips, you gaze skyward, beholding the darkened clouds from your seat. A crisp breeze kisses your cheeks, water drip-dropping down the gutter, the symphony of the rainfall chasing away the sounds typical of your neighborhood.

Clad in your work attire, you rise from your chair and push into your home. You opt for a warm shower to chase away the cold. Ease into something comfortable, lounging on the sofa with a drama you’ve practically memorized queued up on the TV screen. 

It isn’t long before the stress of your day trickles in, and your vision fades, scorched around the edges like a vignette. You settle onto your side, feet kicked up on the couch’s armrest, drawing your blanket further up your body. 

Guided by the rain, the muted dance of light from the screen, and the exhaustion of socializing, you lapse into a heavy spell of sleep. 

—

You’re lucid. Carefully treading the line of consciousness and dreams, when the jiggling of the front door’s locks pulls you to the surface. 

You sit up with a yawn, joints crackling as you stretch, muscles stiff from your nap. The door creaks open, and warmth leaks through you at the familiar mop of white in the threshold.

He’s massive in the open door, stepping inside, quiet, careful, as if he’s up to no good. As if the darkness carried him in, snowy strands beaded with rain and a thin film of it lining the neck of his coat. You watch him slip off his boots and sling his jacket on the rack before you make your presence known with another yawn.

Brilliant, red eyes snap to you. Their intensity tempers, as does the rest of his face, and the pressure in your living room shifts when he steps towards the couch.

“Still awake?” he prompts, the low roll of his voice contending with that of the thunder brushing the horizon. 

You nod, trying to appear unfazed by his presence. Like you aren’t secretly vibrating, grateful to have him back.

He tugs off his gloves with practiced ease, dropping them onto the table behind the sofa. His eyes crease with a quiet mirth behind the backrest, and he studies you as he drops a hand to your shoulder. Squeezes, sending pins and needles through your chest.

Crossing the living room to the hallway, he disappears up the stretch of stairs leading to the upper floor. You’re straining your ears for every lick of sound, every creak in the floorboards, the slamming of a drawer, before it falls quiet. 

You take up the remote from the coffee table, scrolling through things to occupy the time. Your roommate reemerges after a minute or two, clad in a loose-fitting tee with a towel slung over his shoulders. 

He falls onto the cushion beside you, exhaling, towelling off his hair. He’s closer than what’s typical, thigh brushing yours, and your throat thickens. 

An amalgamation of scents coils around you like a breath out—petrichor, the faint trails of his cologne, undernotes of iron and smoke. You’ve stopped breathing as the cords in his bicep flex in the outskirts of your vision when he ruffles his hair, gaze trained on the television screen, unfocused,

Wanting to dispel the weighted atmosphere, you clear the phlegm from your throat. Sit up a little rigid, toying with the drawstrings of your hoodie.

“So…rough day?”

His jaw tenses in your periphery. He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lets the weight bear down. And for a moment, you think you’ve nicked skin. Agitated a nerve—he’s always hush-hush about what he does. The life of a real estate agent must be top secret. 

“It was…tedious,” he finally answers after murdering you with the suspense. 

The set of your shoulders uncoils. You exhale, feeling a little less like you pissed him off.

“That bad, huh?”

Fuck him for shifting like that. For getting a little more comfortable, draping an arm across the backrest, legs splaying open. The hairs littering the surface of your skin stand rigid, and again, you’ve forgotten what it means to breathe when he turns towards you, ingesting you with those cruelly beautiful eyes.

“I’ll spare you the details. I don’t lead an exciting life. Not like you do.”

You glower when he pokes your forehead. 

After chewing on your lip, you ask, “Well, you want me to distract you?”

A brow lifts with intrigue. Lips cant in one corner to match it. You roll your eyes, scoffing. You’d think by now you’d be better at catching your words before they leave your mouth.

“Is that an offer, sweetie?” 

“That’s not what I meant, you perv.”

The fight dies down inside you, and it’s like being struck by lightning when his gaze drops to your mouth. It lingers, scrutinizes, his pupils dilating before he takes you in once more. 

You’re mindlessly leaning closer as if gravity’s drawing you to him. Don’t realize you’re watching his lips, taking in their suppleness, wondering if they’re as soft as the flower petals they resemble, until his knuckle slips beneath your chin, tilting your head back.

His voice is scratchy, tempered low, and you feel it pulling in your stomach when he rasps, “You’re becoming more difficult to resist. Do you know that?”

You both stiffen as the air sparkles with something electric. 

He sifts through the drunken, confused haze of your stare, chewing on his lip as if he let something slip that he shouldn’t have. 

You work your mouth around a shaky, “What?” 

And there’s war in his eyes. A battle of self-control when his fingertips trace the slope of your jaw, drag along the swell of your cheek, brushing some hair from your face. He’s gentle as if he isn’t meant to touch. Careful like you’re glass and he’s a brute that could easily crush you in his fist.

With a resigned sigh, he draws back, lifting himself from the couch and from the dreamy film that had covered you, leaving you to blink at the space where he once resided, as your pulse thrums a battle cadence in your throat.

“Tea?” your roommate calls from the kitchen, the sound of cupboards shutting and porcelain dragging accompanying him.

You try not to let your disappointment show as you sit back. Try not to let your voice flicker, your hands fisted in your blanket, mouth open, mind utterly confused.

“Sure.”

You wonder what you might’ve done this time to scare him off. If it isn’t his phone ringing or another obligation keeping you apart, surely, it must be you. 

tags: @eialovescats, @animecrazy76, @souppooppie, @stxrrielle, @pemhpredo, @bluesidez, @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @freeprincesslove, @raginginferno267, @dyeinsomniadontwake

[darkeskye]

SOS. Bunny’s Sylus fics make me want to nom things like a whiny teething baby.

Sylus would absofuckinglutely destroy my cool girl mystique with a singular million dollar chuckle and sideways smirk. One minute I have dignity the next I’m a just a dumb plushy that lives on his bed. Roommates? Pfffft. Cooked.

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 is shorter than sylus, flirting, gendered terms (good girl), mild jealousy, 2.2k of self-indulgent dribble now playing: sweet time - raveena part 1

Coffee. 

Cuban, aromatic, sweet, bold. Nostalgic.

It’s the first thing to bring you to consciousness, followed by birds chirping outside, and the unbroken purr of a lawn mower.

You’re in your bed, swiping along the sheets in wide arcs as if chasing the remnants of sleep. Dreams of cerulean beach waves, sand caught in the interstices of your toes, the sun warming your cheeks.

Morning announces itself in the form of a golden strip cast over your eyes. 

You peek them open, throat dry, mouth sticky. A little sad to see you’re not at the beach, not tucked safe in your childhood home.

You push up with an unflattering yawn and crackling limbs. A glance at your phone reveals it’s a little past eight. It’s your day off. Still got some time to get ahead of the morning rush for grocery shopping.

The scent of coffee curls around you like a wispy shawl, and you’re warm inside. Smiling, lugging yourself off the bed to the window where you know he’ll be.

A glance outside and across the street reveals that familiar thatch of white, contrasting with the vibrant grass as Sylus pushes the lawn mower back and forth.

You’d almost forgotten he was back, kind of used to getting along without him. And of course, he’s up bright and early, helping your elderly neighbor tend to his yard. Made time to make you coffee on that expensive espresso machine he refuses to let you touch.

Funny. 

For someone who claims to abhor the sun, he’s best friends with it—the way it threads through his hair like he’s Atlas himself, bearing the sky on burly shoulders. How it highlights the rippling muscles in his back beneath a sweat-slicked tank, the tendons flexing in his legs as he works. 

You cross your arms and lean near the window, watching him push to a standstill when your neighbor approaches with water and a towel. Like clockwork, the old man draws him into conversation, nonsensical things in no particular order. And Sylus is always patient, letting your neighbor ramble like he’s got all the time in the world.

As if remembering yourself, you blink away your reverie. Shake it off. You sound like a lovesick fool. A secret admirer. Aren’t you? You’ve got better things to do than pine after your roomie.

So you strip down and crowd into the shower, the crisp spray a welcome reprieve for your stiff muscles. You slip into something that fits the heat—the kind that refracts light waves off the pavement, scorching enough to fry eggs outside and bring the mosquitoes out.

You sweep your hair into something passable, trotting down the stairs to the kitchen. The coffee’s still hot, warm in the mug between your palms and down your gullet. 

Not only is he a tolerable housemate, but he listens. Made it a point to stock your pantry with coffee that chased away your homesickness—imported—probably sick of you bitching about how much you missed it. Tired of asking why you’ll never go back.

A plate covered in a cheesecloth awaits you on the stove with a sad excuse for a cat scrawled onto a sticky note on top. You snort. Fish out a piece of bacon, pop a few blueberries strewn across your pancakes into your mouth. 

From the kitchen window, Sylus and your neighbor have moved to the old man’s porch. They’re seated on his rocking chairs, mouths moving, expressions easygoing beneath the flag fluttering in the balmy breeze. It’s infectious, that rare quirk to Sylus’ lips. Everything about him seems infectious these days. 

Swiping your keys from the counter and toeing on your sneakers, you push through the front door, and the humidity slaps you with zero remorse. 

Both men across the street perk up when you hit the remote start, your neighbor waving at you with a wrinkly, knowing smile.

You return his greeting, prickly when scarlet eyes track your every step as you round the car to the pooped-up trunk. 

You’re shuffling things around to make room for groceries when you feel him behind you—a tingly pressure between your shoulder blades, his shadow pressing into you and blotting out the sun.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, amused.

You jolt, a hand over your heart. You knew your roommate was back there, yet that voice is something lethal. Always manages to make you forget the world is a thing, breathing and thriving around you.

You turn, propping against the trunk’s edge, trying to play it cool over crossed arms. “God, warn me next time, will you? For your info, I’m going grocery shopping so my roomie doesn’t think I’m irresponsible and broke.”

There goes that lethal combo—that smirk, that chuckle. It’s not fair that he makes something as simple as roosting his hand on the edge of the trunk look cool, so close, you make out the veins and sinew jumping in his arm. Smell the sweat salting his skin, the grass staining his shorts.

“Irresponsible, yes.” Sylus pokes your forehead, and you sputter at how rough he pushes. “Broke, never. Not with me around.”

You huff, looking off to the side, pretending to be annoyed. Pretending like it wouldn’t take much to grab the front of his shirt and tug him down and—

Enough of that.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m assuming you’re done being a good Samaritan since you have time to talk.”

He straightens, that humor never leaving, that gaze sliding over you, stopping center mass, before finding your eyes again. He tugs on the towel around his neck, and you’re swallowing when his Adam’s apple bobs, chasing the sweat pouring down his throat. 

“Mostly. Want company?”

You jut your chin out defiantly, haughty, like you’re not giddy at the prospect of him tagging along. “Thought you didn’t like crowds.”

Something shifts in those lava fields. A glimmer of something burrowing deep before he’s back to his usual, smug self. Angles himself closer, making your heart skip a beat.

He’s all teeth when he says, “They’re bearable when I’m with you. Give me ten, and I’ll come with.”

You’re nodding like a lovelorn idiot, mouth halfway open, still processing what he said as he wanders into the house.

It’s hard to keep your walls up when he says shit like that. Chips away at those aged bricks you put up around your heart after you assumed he was seeing someone—the feminine name he’d say in hushed urgency, stepping out of earshot to take her call.

Whatever. 

It’s just a trip to the store. And he’s always been a tease. 

You brush it off, slamming the trunk shut, and slipping into the driver's seat to wait for this enigma of a man to clean up. 

—

Mornings have never been your forte. 

But you take advantage of them when it means getting a leg up on the housewives and boisterous teens who like to crowd the supermarket later on.

It’s eventless inside, a few customers scuttling about, music echoing from the speakers. The overhead lights compete with that of the sun bleeding through the windows, and your cart squeals and sticks.

One hand is tight around the buggy’s handle, the other pressing your phone to your chest. You’re tense, tight-lipped, pulse jackhammering in your throat. 

The source of your anxiety walks a comfortable distance behind and to the side, perusing the aisles with as much interest as someone out of their element. He’s not as close as he was before when he’d manipulated you into bringing him with you, but you’re still all prickly like he wrote sin into your bare skin with his fingers.

You always get like this when he’s gone for a while and comes back. Like meeting up with a stranger, sifting through the filing cabinet of your mind on what to say and how not to sound stupid saying it. 

You’re nestled between towering aisles of cereal when you glance over your shoulder, mouth moving, but nothing coming out. Sylus watches you, brow lifted, expectant. And your tongue’s suddenly too heavy for your mouth as you laugh it off, facing forward again.

You’ve never been this shy before. Never been this hesitant to fill the space between you with shit-talking and an interrogation on where he ran off to this time. Real estate conferences typically don’t last for most of the month. But you know your prodding won’t get you anywhere because he’s so good at diverting your questions and changing the subject.

“So,” you finally begin, attempting to break up the dense air between you. “We need milk, eggs, and bread. Maybe that bourgeois yogurt you like. Butter, oatmeal, and—ah, fuck. Forgot the plums.”

You stiffen, prepared to turn around, abandoning the cart in the middle of the aisle, but Sylus cuts you off. You almost run into him, that solid wall of strength, the heat of his skin overwhelming, the crisp notes of his cologne like chloroform. 

You look up to that knowing cant on his lips, and with a hand in his pocket, he tells you, “I’ll take care of it. You handle the rest.”

Nodding, you watch him walk off before venturing further down the aisle by yourself, grateful for the save.

At the end of the aisle, of course the oatmeal you want is on the top fucking shelf. And you’re straining on tippy-toe, fingers just barely grazing it. You purse your lips, contemplating stepping on the shelves for an assist, but it seems some higher being pities you today.

“I got you,” chimes a friendly voice from behind. 

His hand reaches over you before you put a face to a voice, plucking the tub of oats down for you. Almost close enough to crowd you against the shelves. You turn, following the stretch of his arm as he steps back, a nervous chuckle in your throat when he deposits the container into your hands.

“Hey, thanks,” you say, smile courteous, the container pressed to your bosom. “I owe you one.”

It’s awkward. Blinking. Staring. Averting your eyes. 

Your savior makes no move to leave, instead making himself comfortable, all teeth and confidence as he leans against a shelf. 

“Hard to believe a pretty thing like you shops all by herself. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in town. You live around here?”

You have this nasty habit of letting your face convey your emotions in place of your words. It’s instinctual. But this guy was nice enough to help, so you tamp down your discomfort, chuckling anxiously. Maybe if you entertain him a little, he’ll take the hint and leave you alone. 

“Um, yeah. Just out running errands. Trying to get my life together. You know.” 

Mr. Smug Smiles still doesn't budge, doesn’t pick up on your unease, instead taking you in like a starving wolf ogling skewered meat. 

“Maybe I could help you out. Grab anything else you can’t reach.” He steps closer, voice descending. “And maybe you could give me your number.”

Before you can work your mouth into a retort, you feel it—quiet, intimidating pressure behind you. Swallowing you whole, though the ire pouring off his skin isn’t directed at you. 

You nearly leap some fifty feet out of your body when a sizable hand falls to your back. The touch is light, but it’s hard not to sense the possessive flex of his fingers as he scorches you down to the bone.

You peer up as Sylus steps in, glare unrelenting on the man before you, and he drops a bag of plums into the cart like they’ve personally offended him. Your breath corks in your throat as his jaw pulls, the tendons in his throat twitching. If looks could kill, you’re sure he would’ve murdered this guy a thousand times over. It’s kind of…hot. And it convinces you just for a second that maybe your roomie’s into you, too.

Sylus’ demeanor shifts from murderous to sweet, giving you whiplash when he looks down at you. Asks, “Do you have everything you need, sweetheart?”

The way the name rolls off his tongue drips hot into your belly, and you’re nodding like a mindless little thing, lost in the soft stir of his irises. He reaches around you to grip the cart’s handle, trapping you between cool metal and sweltering strength. He turns you away from the sputtering man who had no idea you kept such company, walking you down the aisle into another.

Moments pass, and Sylus doesn’t let go. Doesn’t release you from the cage of his body, doesn’t loosen the clench of his jaw until you’re in the frozen section.

You start when he angles low, his hair tickling your neck, your cheek, lips a tease by your ear. It’s pleasant, satisfying, the way his voice drags like chalk against a sidewalk, igniting a flurry of goosebumps across your skin.

“The next time you need assistance, don’t ask a stranger. Wait for me. Understood?”

You have this nagging feeling there’s more to his words than what’s at surface level. And you have half a mind to tell him you didn’t ask for anything. Yet you stutter out a quiet, “Ye-yeah,” absently nudging closer to his mouth.

You feel it curve against your ear—his sly smile. Watch his fingers tighten around the buggy’s handle, forearms just barely brushing your sides.

“Good girl.”

And you don’t realize you’re still clutching the damn oatmeal for dear life until you drop it on your foot.

tags: @pemhpredo, @bluesidez, @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @freeprincesslove, @raginginferno267, @dyeinsomniadontwake