I def have been mia for a very long time but I will be coming back soon. Holidays have been kicking my ass, I got writers block, then got the flu đźâđš BUT IM COOKING UP SOME FICS FOR AFTER CHRISTMAS
I've come to the realization that I would rather write a different xavier fic for the series but I want your feedback before I change anything.
I know some of you have enjoyed the setup for his fic but I thought of something else and I would rather you guys choose which you would want more (poll will be below). I don't have a name for it but here is the plot!
Xavier, the crowned prince of Philos had always pushed his needs and wants aside to please his parents, anything for the betterment of his kingdom.
Until you came along.
Having been a servant for the royals for over a year now he hadn't been able to keep his eyes off of you, always watching you in secret, longing for you.
And then it happened.
One vulnerable night with him outside in the stars he confessed how he wanted you, craved you. And how you wanted him just as bad. The past few months you both had been sneaking around, sharing quiet moments in the night or far from watchful eyes and listening ears. But time wasn't on your side, Xavier had to marry, and his family couldn't have their treasured only child marry a lowly maid. Would your secret relationship stand the test of time?
Plots: secret relationship, forbidden love, prince!xavier, prince x servant, semi-modern au WILL BE MULTI CHAPTER, smut/fluff/angst
Synopsis: The morning after Rafayel and Sylus's first night together.
Tags: sylus x rafayel, MDNI IF YOU ARE A MINOR YOU WILL BE BLOCKED, fluff, domestic fluff, bl, suggestive, their first morning together
Words: 1.1k
an: I wont have another kitty fic for a few days so i hope you enjoy this short and sweet crowfish fic! Credit to my great amazing beautiful friend orvbunny on twitter/x for editing the photo for me! Go follow her she does amazing lads edits!!!
ao3 | kofi
The morning rays kissed Rafayel's pale skin, sun beams shining through the slit in the drawn curtains. The massive house lay still in the early morning air as he stirs awake. Unfamiliar bedding under him, his first night in this maze of a mansion, but he never felt so loved.
He kept his eyes closed, listening to the songs of the birds outside. The silken sheets under his near naked body kissed his skin, memories from last night running through his mind. Strong arms, warm chest, plump lips pressed to his.
The bed beside him dips, warmth of another body pressing on his back, strong and muscular. Rafayel pretends to be asleep, keeping his multicolored eyes closed, laying unmoving on the obscenely massive bed. A large hand threads through his messy purple locks, nails scratching at his scalp lovingly.Â
"Are you awake?" Sylus's deep, husky voice whispers in his ears, warmth spreading through his body, a flush already forming on his face. Sylus's other hand cups his throat, palm pressed firm as he turns Rafayel onto his back, hovering over his smaller lover.Â
"...no..." Rafayel pouts, bottom lip jutting out as he peeks an eye open. He is struck breathless at the man on top of him, silver hair messy and out of place for seemingly the first time in his life, a smile spread on his wide mouth, and blush painting the very tips of his ears.
"Can you be?" The hum of his voice vibrates Rafayel to his core. Sylus's red eyes flickering between Rafayel's and his pouty lips. His larger thumb rubbing a circle on the base of his throat, so warm it feels like a fire blooming on his flesh. Every little touch, every small glance made Rafayel's stomach explode with butterflies. How had he gotten so lucky to have this gorgeous man all to himself?
Rafayel's hand comes up, stroking up Sylus's cheek before his fingers thread through his lover's messy locks, pulling him towards himself. The chuckle that bubbles in his ear makes his heart soar, the most beautiful sound he's ever fucking heard.
"Dummy..." Rafayel sulks, huffing out as Sylus lays his full weight on top of him. Their bare torsos pressed together, skin on skin, bringing the memories from the night before into his mind.Â
They've been together for four months, dates, dinners, outings. But never have they spent the night together - until last night.Â
Sylus's hot mouth inching all over his entire body, his hands groping his flesh, kneading it. The noises of pleasure he drew out of the older man, the way he felt inside of him. Rafayel couldn't help but grow hard, his length pressing to Sylus's large thigh.
"Already wanting more, fishy?" His deep voice sent a shiver down Rafayel's spine, his heart speeding in his chest. "I thought after last night you needed a rest." Sylus ran his nose along Rafayel's warm neck, inhaling his scent, breathing him in. Rafayel tried to swallow his gasp, he found himself doing this often with his lover, every single thing Sylus had done took his breath away.
"Just..." Voice unfamiliar and soft. "Just thinking about you..." He allows himself to admit, to give in and open up to Sylus. Push aside his jokes and just bask in this love, allow to be loved.Â
"Mmm, but I'm right here, darling," Lips placed to the hollow of his throat, smiling and teasing only how Sylus would. The butterflies never resting in his gut. Sylus runs his hands down his half naked body, slow, almost like he was trying to remember it from touch alone. Making their way down to his hips, Sylus places a firm kiss to Rafayel's neck before flipping them both over, earning a shocked squeal from the shorter man.
"Sylus!" Rafayel yells, hands gripping his lover's strong arms. Sylus chuckles, warm and bubbling as he steadies him on his lap. Rafayel sits up, beautiful colored eyes wide, pink lips parting as he pants.
"What?" He mocks, attempting to match the shock of Rafayel's words, causing the growing blush on the younger man's face to brighten, a pout on his perfect shaped lips. Sylus wanted to cup his gorgeous face and kiss him senseless.Â
Rafayel doesn't answer, instead he looks down. A godly sculpted below him, abs and pecs aching for his touch. He reaches a hand out and flattens it on Sylus's toned stomach, feeling the dips of his muscles. Sylus watches without comment, his eyes gliding over Rafayel's face, watching every micro expression that crosses over him. He lets his eyes wander, to Rafayel's chest, watching it swell in deflate with every breath, down to his bare stomach, and finally landing on the tent that still sat in his pants.
Rafayel didn't notice, for the most part at least. Slowly gliding his hand up to Sylus's large chest, hand resting over his heart, the heart that now belonged to him. Feeling it beat its own special song, singing just for him and him alone. He wanted to record it, compose a symphony just to mimic this. But the growing movement under him stalled his thoughts.Â
"T-teasing me when you have the same issue..." He couldn't look Sylus in the eye as he spoke, stuttering out as he tried to focus on the heartbeat in his hand. Sylus's thumbs rubbed over his hip bones right over Rafayel's pajama pants.Â
"How could I control myself when my beautiful boy is sitting on my lap, looking ravishing with his messy bed head and the blush that is covering his blessed face?" Sylus's compliments never failed to hit Rafayel right in his core, something so lyrical, poetic the way he spoke about him. He could feel the heart race under his fingertips, the skin warm in a flush. He lifted his eyes up, meeting the ruby set that already stared at him, called out to him.
So many words lay unsaid in those mysterious eyes, Rafayel wished he could dive in and listen to them all. But he also didn't want to rush things, didn't want to scare him off with his past, present, and inevitable future. For right now, the look in those red eyes, that was enough for him. Being in these strong arms, feeling this racing heart, this would be where he always wants to be. Feeling those delicious but teasing lips on his skin, listening to the god awful singing that came out of them, he would crave that until his last dying breath.
Nothing warmed his heart more than knowing he is Sylus's and Sylus is his.
And everything that is now already existed then | ao3 | masterlist
Summary: Sylus shows you his favorite parts of his house, you are haunted by a strange feeling of familiarity, you spend some time with the twins and Noah, you learn about the bet they have going, no this is not a wattpad bet story that will be turned into a multi-part tv series even though i love that trope so much, the self control i exerted should be acknowledged if not praised. This part has less humor than other parts, I've been in a contemplative mood recently, sorry. Part 17 of the Sylus series.
Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV, some Sylus POV. They/them pronouns are used to prefer to reader as a placeholder for your preferred pronouns. The slowest of slow burns friends-to-lovers. This story contains: angst, fluff, banter, poetry, questions of morality, banter, video game violence, discussions of real life violence, profanity, alcohol mention, self-harm mention, mc with self-esteem and guilt issues.
The water is warm. The man underneath you is warm. Your heart, you realize, is also warm. Quiet. Nothing hurts. You marvel at the feeling. How long can you get away with this? Plastered against Sylusâs big body, his rough hands just resting on your back. You feel guilty for keeping him from doing something else. For not being at work. For doing absolutely nothing useful to anyone. For feeling so good.
Sylus holds you, seemingly content to just sit here with you as the water laps against the sides of the pool.
âDonât you have business to attend to?â you reluctantly ask, because youâre incapable of just trusting that good things can last. That the fulfillment of your deepest desires wonât be snatched away when you least expect it, so you push, push, push, seeking the weakness that will ultimately crack and cause the moment, finally filled, to break.
Sylus holds you a little tighter. âNo.â
You wait, but he doesnât elaborate. You should just accept it. Just enjoy this moment. All you have in this life is each momentâthatâs all there is. Why canât you just experience each one, savor it, suck it dry, until the next? Why must you always waste the pleasure of each moment by being in such a rush to get to the inevitable end?
But you canât just accept it. You donât know how. Your whole life has taught you that the moment you trust the permanence is the moment that the moment shatters. Might as well ruin it first, instead of fearing the end. And who are you to complain? What have you done to deserve it in the first place?
âBusiness slow in the Onychinus economy?â you ask.
âTch,â he responds, seemingly indignant at the mere suggestion that his business isnât printing him money even as he canoodles in a hot tub with you. âBusiness is booming, darling. The human capacity for cruelty is an endlessly growing market.â
You press your cheek harder against the sweaty skin just under his collarbone. You donât want to think about what he offers people to enable that endless cruelty right now.
âThen how do you have the luxury of lazing about with me?â
âIâve tasked Aidan with handling business that requires executive decisions for the foreseeable future. As much as it annoys me, I will likely have to answer calls like this morning, but Iâve informed him that I will not be leaving the base unless itâs absolutely necessary.â
You lift your head, curious. He looks down at you, relaxed, eyes glowing in the low light from the pool.
âWhy?â
One corner of his beautiful mouth lifts. âGuess.â
You stare at him. Heâs taking time off, not pursuing new deals, not focusing on growing his wealth⊠for you? Ridiculous.Â
âWhat will you do while youâre not doing business?â you ask, not able to bring yourself to guess out loud that he took time off for you, to spend time with you while youâre staying with him.
âWhat do you want to do?â He runs his fingers along your temple, brushes a lock of hair behind your ear, traces the shell of it with a fingertip.
âThatâs not an answer,â you say, softly.
âYes, it is.â
You canât believe it. The man who is always on the go, from one deal to the next, disappearing for weeks at a time, doing who knows what, who knows whereâthe man who probably gets bored out of his mind while instigating a riotâsays that he just wants to do whatever you want to do. You, whose idea of excitement is a new pair of sleep pants and a night off to watch letâs plays of horror games that you donât have the time and energy to play yourself anymore.
âYou canât mean that.â You frown at him.
âTry me,â he challenges.
You try to think of something that heâd hate just to prove your point that he doesn't actually mean it when he says heâll do whatever you want.
âOh, kittenâs plotting,â he snickers after seeing your expression.
âI want to watch every Justin Bieber documentary ever produced,â you say defiantly. You really donât. But youâre sure heâll balk at this outrageous suggestion.
He shrugs a little. âOkay. We can see if theyâre on demand in the theater room. If not, Iâm sure we can pirate them.â
You narrow your eyes. He canât mean it. Fuck, if heâs going to call your bluff, youâre going to have to actually sit through who knows how many hours of Justin Bieber: Our World. You barely suppress a shudder.
âActually, I want to fly to a warm seaside resort and swim with dolphins,â you try, the picture of casual entitlement. You do not want to do this. Youâre fucking tired. The last thing you want to do is get on an airplane.
âDolphins can be as vicious as humans, but if you really want that, we can pack some things now and be on our way by dinner,â he says calmly. As if the suggestion isnât utterly outrageous.
Is he being as petty as you, intent on not admitting that he didnât actually mean it when he said he would do whatever you want, or does he actually want to do whatever the fuck you want? You canât read him at all right now.
Youâre desperate and stubborn. âActually, I think the amusement park in Linkon City is having a furry event all week. Iâd like to dress up as our respective fursonas and ride the roller coasters all day.âÂ
Sylus doesnât even blink. âDo you have a fursuit already, or do we need one tailored before we can go?â
You laugh in disbelief and rest your forehead on his shoulder. âWhat about you? Do you have a fursuit already?â
âNo, I donât have a fursuit, because Iâm not a fucking furry,â he says drily. âBut I do think Iâd make a very majestic caracal cat. Which goes nicely with your kitten fursona.â
You blink. âThat's quite self-aware of you." And then you scowl. "My fursona wouldnât be as lame as a kitten.â
âOh? What animal do you think accurately portrays your personality?â
You lift your head and think. Youâve never really thought about it. Something small and mean, probably. âA mongoose.â
He tilts his head, considering. âThat actually fits you quite well. Good at hunting snakes, and very, very cute.â
You can feel yourself blushing. âYeah, well. Iâm not a furry, so it doesnât matter even if it doesnât fit,â you mumble a little.
âAnd yet you want to go to the furry event at the amusement park,â he lifts an eyebrow.Â
You stare at him, mulishly. Youâre not going to admit that youâre trying to poke holes in his patience because you canât trust nice things.
âBut I donât think thatâs what you actually want to do,â he continues, with a gentleness that hurts your heart. He urges you to wrap your legs around his waist. âWhen I said you could test me, this is not exactly what I had in mind,â he teases. âHow about you test me by telling me what you actually want to do, and then youâll see that I mean what I say when I refrain from complaining about being bored while we do them?â
You wrap your arms around his neck as he stands gracefully, the water sliding down both your bodies. âI donât want you to just not complain about being bored,â you argue. âI donât want you to be bored at all. You donât have to entertain me while Iâm here. You can do whatever you really want to do.â You mean this. Itâs enough, just being in the same house as him right now. Knowing that in the evening heâll end up in the same bed as you. You donât want him to tire of you too quickly by insisting that he spend every moment with you.
âThen I repeatâwhat do you want to do?â
Okay. Okay, he asked for it.
âShow me your favorite things to do at home, when youâre not being a warlord.â
He looks surprised. âThatâs it?â
âYeah. Iâm really tired. I never get a chance to just relax. I donât want to go anywhere, or do anything exciting.â You bite your lip, unwilling to admit that youâre desperate to learn more about him and that worried heâs going to think youâre boring.Â
He leans forward and catches the side of your lip not caught in your own teeth with his. With your lip between his sharp teeth, he pulls back, gently, until you release it from your own. He pauses, inhales, and then lets go, licking your bitten lip with a quick, soothing flick of his tongue.
âThatâs my spot,â he murmurs, pulling back.
Your brain is offline. You have no idea what you were just talking about, or what just happened. All you can feel is the slick of his saliva on the plush of your lip.
Fuck.
You want to fuck him so badly.
You search his face. Can he tell? Does he feel the same way? He touches you like this, and then does nothing. What does he want?
If he can tell whatâs going on in your head, he doesnât comment on it. âThen we can stay home. Iâll show you what I like to do when Iâm tired and donât want to do anything exciting.â His faint smile is tinged with self satisfaction.
âOkay,â you choke out. You will not slide down his body, push him onto the soft moss, and jump on him.Â
âBut first, I will feed you.â The tendrils of his evol bring the fluffy towels to his waiting hand, and he wraps one around you, all while you cling to his torso. He just drapes the other around his shoulders, over your arms still wrapped around his neck. His evol then ferries the two cocktails that remained untouched for the whole time you were in the hot tub, following you back through the pool room and into the chill hallway as Sylus carries you to the kitchen. Between the heat of Sylusâs body and the towels blanketing you, youâre still warm. You watch the drinks following you over his shoulder, and then glance at him.
At your look, he says, âWhat? It would be a shame to let perfectly good drinks go to waste.â
âWhat time is it? Donât you think itâs a bit early to start drinking?â
He shrugs. âItâs probably past midnight, sweetheart. Thatâs when one normally drinks alcoholic beverages, isnât it?â
You sigh. âSo itâs basically noon in your day-night cycle.â
âTime is a construct, and inherently meaningless,â he says serenely.
After this insufferable response, you give up trying to save his liver for the moment.
____________________
Later, after Sylus serves you a meal packed with protein that pairs nicely with the cocktails as the fire crackles pleasantly and the clouds, reflecting the N109 Zoneâs bright lights even at night, sweep across the sky outside his kitchen windows, after youâve showered and put on warm, comfortable clothes, you find him in the sitting area of his bedroom, reading a book, the Beatles playing on his record player. You recognize the songâ The long and winding road.Â
You stop, suddenly overcome with an overwhelming sense of sorrow. He looks up from his book and watches you curiously.
You left me standing here, a long long time ago
You feel like youâre forgetting something very, very important. Like your dream last night, but not about your family. About the man watching you inquisitively, his long, graceful fingers holding the book gently, the outline of his aquiline nose limned in the soft lighting of his bedroom.
Donât leave me waiting here, lead me to your door
You suddenly canât bear to be separated from him for one more second. You pad to him on your freshly bandaged feet, knock the book out of his hand, clamber into his lap, and hug him.
His arms come around you as if he doesnât mind that youâve just bulldozed your way onto his lap. After a few minutes, the song ends, and a new, more upbeat one begins.
You feel like you can breathe again.
You sit up, looking down into his face. You want to kiss him so badly. Youâre afraid that heâll gently push you away, as he pushed your hand away from the tie of his sleep pants that you were fiddling with recently. With such kindness, but a loud, resounding rejection of what he perceived to be you offering your body to him.
Heâll bite your lip, but youâre so scared that he doesnât want to kiss you. Sometimes it seems like he wants you, you, not just a body, not just anyone praising him or challenging him, but you. Do you really still not know? My beloved is perfect to me. Â
But what if youâre wrong? What have you done to earn this incredible man's devotion?
âWill you tell me what youâre thinking right now, without the guessing game?â he asks softly.Â
You shake your head. âNo. And I donât want to play the guessing game right now.â You canât bear to think about what you may be forgetting as you look into his blood-bright eyes. You canât bear to reveal how badly you want to kiss him, only to be rebuffed.
âNot even a hint?â He nudges your nose with his. âOtherwise Iâll spend every free moment sitting around reading, listening to classic rock music.â
You look at him in confusion. âWhy?â
âIt seemed to work in luring a kitten into my lap this time. Maybe it works every time.â
Your heart is doing something funny. It doesnât hurt. It feels⊠it feels so fucking warm. Like in the hot tub. What is happening to you?Â
âThe music made me sad,â you offer this truth, as a reward for his sweet response.
âNot a fan of the Beatles?â He fiddles with the hem of your shirt, his knuckles brushing against your skin underneath.
âI do like their music. My gran used to listen to them a lot.â
âIs that what made you sad?â
You give him a look. âI said I didnât want to play the guessing game.â
âIâm just asking questions,â he protests, the picture of innocence. âIs it a crime to want to get to know you?â
You gaze at him. Werenât you just thinking about how youâre desperate to know everything about him? âNot one Iâd arrest you for,â you say, looking down, smiling a little.
He laughs softly. âLucky me. It would be hard to uphold my end of our deal and show you the music room, the library, and my favorite part of the greenhouse from behind bars.â
âThat sounds like a busy itinerary,â you say, lifting a finger, tracing his clavicle revealed by his soft v-neck sweater.
His knuckles sweep over your skin just above the band of your soft pants.
âWe have timeâwe donât have to do everything today. Which one do you want to see first?â
You donât care. Your heart is being weird and Sylus is touching you, and youâre touching Sylus. You could just sit here, forever, and enjoy whatever this⊠feeling is. But youâre afraid youâll ruin it. Like you always do. If you take too much, he will actually get bored. You should pick one.
âLibrary,â you say firmly.
âAs you wish,â he says, standing, holding you all the while. You canât bring yourself to protest. You can walk on your own feet. Your feet already feel a little better after just a day. But heâs warm. And he doesnât seem to mind at all. You drape yourself over him, and let him carry you through the dark halls to his library.
He sets you down outside one of the ubiquitous black doors, and then opens it for you.Â
His library, like the greenhouse, the pool, the room like a mountain hot spring, is lovely in a way that the rest of his house simply isnât. Soaring ceilings, heavy built-in wooden bookcases lining the walls, a huge fireplace, electric as opposed to the wood-fireplace from the kitchen, at one end of the room. A wrought iron spiraling staircase leads up beyond the heavy wooden rafter beams to a space you canât see. Deep red, plush rugs in antique designs hush your footsteps. Plush, deep seated chairs and loveseats, side tables with Tiffany lamps gently illuminate the space. One wall of his preferred floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the N109 Zone night, the red moon bright in the sky as the clouds scuttle past.Â
Itâs like a library from an old, prestigious university. The kind of university you always wished you could have gone to, if you lived in another world. If this world didnât need people prepared to kill and die for existential threats to humanity. Where you could study something functionally useless, but enriching to the human experience. Like French literature or poetry. The room smells of wood oil, old paper.Â
You turn in a circle and find Sylus leaning against a bookcase, watching you take in the room. âThis is one of your favorite spots in the house?â
âYes.â
âWhy?â
âItâs quiet. The twins arenât big readers, so they donât come in here. Itâs a good place to think, and concentrate.â
âHave you read every book in here, like youâve seen every film in your collection?â
He straightens from the bookcase and walks to you. As he comes to a stop in front of you, he reaches for your face, holds your cheeks gently in his hands. âNo. This room is more about the future. Books Iâd like to read when life is a little less busy. Iâve read some, but not as many as I would like.â
âDo you think that someday your life will be less busy?â
âIf I have my way, yes.â
âAnd youâll spend your days quietly reading in the solitude of your lovely library?â
âNot in solitude. But yes. You think itâs lovely?â
You look at him strangely. Didn't he just say he enjoys it because it's quiet and no one bothers him here? âOf course I do. Itâs like someone designed it just for me.â
He looks down into your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones.
âLike I said. This room is about the future.â
You tilt your head at his non-sequitur. What does your loving the library have to do with his quieter future?
It almost sounds likeâŠ
The moment is full. You refuse to shatter it by considering such outrageous thoughts. You will enjoy this moment for what it is. A peek into the mind of this enigmatic man. The opportunity to explore a beautiful, private space in his home.
âRead to me,â he orders, striding to one of the soft couches and plopping down.
You snort. âWhat do you want me to read you, your spoiled highness?â
âAnything you want. Look around, pick something that catches your interest.â He lets his head drop onto the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded as they follow you walking to one of the bookcases, as you let your fingertips run along the spines of book after book. You see a lot of titles you donât recognize. You see a lot that you doâclassics as well as newer publications. You and Xavier spend enough time in the bookstore that you know a lot of titles by sight, even if these days you rarely have the time to read beyond the manga you share with your partner.
Your eyes catch on a familiar title.
âOh,â you breathe.
âFind something?â Sylus asks languidly.
âOne of my favorite poets. Gran had a copy of this.â You pluck the book from the shelf and walk back over to where Sylus is sprawled on the couch. The moonlight through the windows makes his eyes look even brighter than usual, glowing in the soft light.
âYouâre a fan of poetry?â he asks, eyebrows lifting.
âDonât act so surprised. Iâm not entirely uncultured.â
âYour manga collection could have fooled me,â he teases.
âManga is art. Youâre a pretentious fool if you canât recognize that.â
âNo need to get your knives out, kitten,â he smiles, one sharp tooth peeking from behind his full lip. âI have a collection of manga here as well.â
âYou do?â
He just steadily stares at you.
âWhere?â
He closes his eyes. âGuess youâll have to stay long enough to explore and find it.â
You stand over him, drinking in the sight of him. Surrounded by the scent of books, polished wood, the moonâs red light rendering him slightly otherworldly.
You want to stay long enough to find out. Itâs only been two days, and you want to live in this moment forever. You're so greedy. You're so unworthy.
âStill want me to read to you?â
Instead of answering, the tendrils of his evol wind up from your ankles to your waist, lift you, deposit you on the seat next to him. He scoots down, places his head in your lap.
âYou could have just said yes,â you say drily. âNo need to be dramatic.â
âI donât hear any reading. Chop chop.â
Oh hell no. You scowl down at him, but his eyes are closed. âLap service costs extra.â
âGood thing Iâm filthy rich.â
You scoff. âI donât want your money.â
He opens his eyes. âI suspected as much. It makes taming you all the more difficult.â
You look at him curiously. âIs that what youâre doing? All of your generosity, in order to acquire a tame hunter?â
âWhat use is a tame hunter?â He dismisses your suggestion. âYour imagination is distressingly limited.â
âOnce again, I disappoint,â you murmur. He clearly isnât in the mood to answer your questions.
He tsks and closes his eyes again, wiggles a little to get more comfortable in your lap. âMake up for it by reading your favorite poetry to me.â
You want to lean down and kiss the smug look off of his face. You donât want him to turn away if you do.
He interrupts you. âI see why you like Zagajewski. Someone else who shares your taste in middling wine.â
âNo comments until the end, thank you,â you jostle his head by bouncing your thigh a few times.
He scowls, places one big hand on your thigh and presses down. âStingy. This should be interactive storytelling.â
You ignore the howling need in you to grab his hand, to guide it further up your leg. You continue to read.
âThe nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You suddenly think of the N109 Zone and all of its misery. Paying the price of some shitty corporationâs greed. But you keep reading.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.â
You pause, thinking about Sylusâs wealth, the wealth of people like him, and everyone else. The yachts, versus the ships that will sink.
âThatâs not the end. Why have you stopped?â Sylus's voice jerks you out of your thoughts.
âYou know this poem?â
âI own the book, donât I?â
âYou said you hadnât read everything in here.â
âPoint,â he concedes. âBut yes, I know this poem. Iâm also an admirer of the poet.â
You think about him calling you kindred spirits, when you first met. How angry that idea made you. Now, you want to lean down and kiss him. You shake your head a little. You keep reading.
âYou've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.â
Sylus interrupts you again. âI always liked the imagery of the moments spent together, the simplicity of the white room, the curtain fluttering. What more can one desire, when at their loveâs side?â
You don't think you've ever heard him say something so romantic. But why would you have? You're not in a romantic relationship with him. Your heart doesn't seem to understand that factâsomething inside you thrills that his idea of romance mirrors yours so closely. But his focus on the gentle moment, instead of the rest of the poem, strikes you as strange. âThatâs what you see? Not the lovers enjoying simplicity, safety, while the refugees are going nowhere, and the executioners are singing joyfully?â
âThe point of the poem is that you must wrest joy from an imperfect world where you can. Youâre not helping the condemned by moping about their fate.â
âIs that the point? Perhaps the point is that all you can do is try to praise the mutilated world, but itâs fruitless. If that were the point, he would have entitled it 'Praise the mutilated world,' not 'Try to praise the mutilated world.' âTryingâ isnât succeedingâtry all you want, but itâs impossible to praise the world as it is. Better to use your yacht to save those drowning in the salty oblivion.â
âIdealist,â Sylus scoffs, as if the label is a profanity instead of a compliment.
You jostle his head again. âCynic,â you retort.
âYouâre not done,â he sniffs, closing his eyes again.
You resist the urge to buck your hips in order to dump him on the floor. You read again.
âReturn in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.â
You finish, filled with a strange feeling. Youâve loved this poem ever since the first time you read it with the sunshine gushing into your granâs living room on a slow summer day. As you grew, you loved it for different reasons, for its ambiguity, its hope and its resignation, its acknowledgment of the horrors of life and its simple pleasures. It always felt familiar to you, but the specific imagery reading it this time around is familiar in a way that feels concrete.Â
You think about the gray feather, the light that strays and vanishes and returns. You think about the feeling while listening to the Beatles, that youâre forgetting something important. You think about Sylusâs casual dismissal of the suffering of others.
Calling suffering fate seems like a convenient excuse to you. Why bother trying to make the world better, if fate deems that it should be miserable?
âStop torturing yourself, darling,â he says through your racing thoughts. He turns his head, presses his lips against your thigh, inhales deeply. Itâs not a kiss, but you feel the press of his mouth through the fabric of your pants as if it were. You resist the urge to spread your thighs further.
âShould I read another?â you ask quietly. You donât want to think about these things. You want to live in the moment. What kind of person does that make you? The desire to ignore the cost of this pleasure, your enjoyment of Sylus's home, proves that you donât deserve it.Â
âOf course,â he says, but his phone vibrates in his pocket. He grunts unhappily as he reluctantly sits up, sliding the phone from his pocket. âKeep exploring,â he says, heading to the door. âIâll try to make this quick.â
So you do. Wandering amongst the books, finding other titles that are your favorites, but so many that youâve never read, never heard of. Many of them are not in your native language. You wonder how many languages Sylus speaks.
After a surprisingly short amount of time, he returns. "Read more to me," he orders, sprawling on the couch once more.
You look back at him, admiring the wrought-iron staircase spiraling up, the moon through the windows, his long, strong body casually stretched along the couch.
âCan we light the fire?â
âOf course. Fire," he says, and the fireplace flares to life at his command. You wonder if such a system is in place in each room. You wander back to the couch, and he pulls you down. You read him the rest of the poems from this collection, arguing here and there, learning his favorite parts, both matching and diverging from your own. Until your stomach growls, causing him to nuzzle it, insist on taking you to the kitchen and feeding you another meal. After you're once again full, he offers to show you the conservatory.
âOkay,â you say, relaxed, satisfied. He wraps his arms around you, lifts. You let him, wrapping your legs around his waist. You think about a gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns. What are you forgetting?
He takes you to the music room. Itâs behind another black door. You would never be able to guess, walking through his solemn hallways, each expansive room unfolding behind each uniform door.
As you walk into the beautiful space, youâre struck with the realization that Sylusâs home is strange in many ways, and not just because it serves as both his home and his fortress, an armory and an indoor playground. The halls are winding and despite the height of the ceilings on each floor, theyâre oppressive. There is no open floor plan for the house itself. Each roomâs door can be closed, barricaded, turning the room within into a bunker. But behind each door, each room fans out, soaring windows, high ceilings, glass giving way to a savage view of the harsh landscape in a way that renders even the ugliness of the N109 Zone beautiful in a stark, barren-planet kind of way. You suspect that the glass is bullet-proof. You wonder what kind of impacts it can withstand beyond firearms. Could it survive a thrown grenade? A direct strike from a drone? Would anyone dare actually wage a full-on assault on the leader of Onychinusâs home?
âNot even the greenhouse rendered you speechless, kitten. Does that mean you like it, or hate it?â
You blink. You had been so busy wondering about the strategic choices of Sylusâs architectural design that you hadnât even begun admiring the metal support beams, curling like vines in a distinct art nouveau style between multiple panes of glass, each meeting at the pinnacle of a glass ceiling. Two of the larger glass panes are not the standard window glass, but are stained glass, continuing the art nouveau theme, depicting colorful curls of plants, flowers, as well as animalsâbeasts from mythology, dragons, phoenixes, winged chimeras. Luscious potted plants scattered along the white marble floor. A white grand piano sitting in the center of the circular space. Instruments of all kinds, from all parts of the world, hung or resting on more organically wrought metal display mounts along two-thirds of the glass walls. A seating area, filled with comfortable, low furniture, carved blond wood in flowing, plant-like designs, sits between the piano and the view of the landscape through the clear glass, framed by the murals of stained glass.
Itâs breathtaking. But youâve had your breath taken by the greenhouse, the pool, the room with the hot tub, the library. Each in a distinctly different style from the rooms of the house that see daily use by their owner: Sylusâs bedroom. The kitchen. The hallways. The imposing dining room and its equally imposing banquet table. The cave-like theater room. Each darkâblack marble, maroon accents, deeply masculine, modern, abstract art. But the rooms that have taken your breath instead of making you feel oppressed are so startlingly different from Sylusâs often-used spaces.
You canât accept the moment. You canât stand not knowing, even as you are afraid to know. You have to ask. âI donât understand,â you say, turning to him.
He glances around the room, and then looks back at you. âItâs a home conservatory, sweetheart. Not a trick question.â
You ignore him. Your curiosity will eat you alive if you donât ask him. You want to know. You donât want to know. âWhy does it feel like two different people designed your house?â
His eyebrows lift in surprise. âWhat do you mean?â
âHalf of your house is edgy, big-dick rich vampire man-cave, and half is this,â you sweep an arm to indicate the delicate yet sturdy steel beams, organically curving into the height of the room, the chairs carved like palms, stained glass, the lush vegetation.
âCan one person not appreciate more than one style of home decor?â he asks, walking over to you, winding an arm around your waist.
You stare at him. Nothing Sylus does is by accident. You know this much by now. You know a lot about him by now. You donât know enough about him by now.
âThe parts of the house you spend the most time in reflect your style. But the other parts⊠the parts that wait for an owner that rarely comes. Did you choose the design yourself? Or did you let your architect run wild?â
His smile is faint as he gazes down at you. âHow very observant of you, darling. But I designed every room in this house. The architect modified the plans where necessary to ensure the structural integrity was sound, but I chose the decor.â
You wait. It sounded like he ended that sentence with a âbut.â
âYouâre right. I didnât have just my preferences in mind as I was planning each room.â
You want to know. You donât want to know. What if youâre wrong? The very idea is insane. Presumptuous. How could he possibly know? You only met him a few months ago. This base isnât newly built. You have no idea how long Iâve already waited, his voice whispers through your mind.
âWhose preferences did you have in mind?â you ask, your heart doing that thing again. That weird thing that doesnât hurt but scares you with how good it feels. Donât leave me waiting here, lead me to your door.
His smile widens, just a little. âDo you really not know?â
You canât process this. How could he have known?
Itâs like these oases in his dark fortress of a home were designed with your deepest heartâs desires in mind.Â
You want to kiss him. You want to resonate with him again. You want to drop to your knees in front of him.
The enormity of your feelings is terrifying.
What if youâre wrong?
How much worse will it be, if you let yourself believe, and he turns you away. What if he designed all of this for someone else. Because how could he have known, before you met just a few months agoâhow could he have known the contours of your tastes, the things that make you most comfortable, the yearning of your heart in your small apartment, of what youâd give yourself if you could ever afford to make your home exactly how you would want? A refuge from the harsh world. Space to breathe.
Your feelings are choking you. You step away from his embrace, turn. You have time. He said heâll wait. You focus on this room.
Itâs beautiful. Because of course it is. You donât recognize even half of these instruments.
You turn back to him. He has moved to the piano, straddling the white bench, legs spread, just watching you.
âDo you know how to play all of these?â
He shakes his head. âNo. Most of these are collectorâs items, antiques. But I do know how to play the piano.â
You stand, resisting the constant pull towards him. You want to go to him, run your hands through his hair, tug his head back, expose his throat, bite.
âOnly the piano?â You satisfy your need to move by walking over to the sitting area, forcing yourself to sit away from him. You need to control yourself. You plop down on one of the beautiful chairs, carved like a ginkgo leaf.
He turns, sitting properly on the bench in order to face you, and opens the cover over the piano keys. He leisurely presses down on one key, and the note resounds through the lovely room.
âI can also play the organ,â he murmurs, before beginning to play in earnest.
You canât resist the pull any longer. You stand and walk over to him, stand next to him at the bench. His hands hypnotize you. Big. Rough. Delicately pressing the keysâsure, confident, flowing. Like his evol. Like him.
âSit,â he orders, and you obey, sliding in next to him. You try to give him space, but he takes one hand, still playing with the other, and pulls you by the waist until youâre shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.Â
You watch his hands, lost in the moment, lost in the feeling of recognition, of ⊠something. That warm feeling in your heart, threaded with the pain of having lost something that you canât remember.
Slowly, the piece comes to an end. His hands become still on the keys.
âWhat song was that?â you ask.
He flicks his eyes to yours.
âIt doesnât have a name.â
âWho composed it?â You hope that perhaps you can track it down later and listen to it again when Sylus isnât around.
âMe,â he says, turning his head to look at you.
Wait, what?
âItâs already shocking enough that you play, but when do you have the time to compose?â
He lifts one of your hands and threads his fingers with yours. âWhy so shocked that I have hobbies, like anyone else?â
âI just figured youâre always too busy with murder, mayhem, and munitions to have hobbies like a normal person,â you squeeze his hand as it swallows yours.
âI donât have a lot of free time, but when I do, I like to spend some of it practicing and composing. Sometimes when Iâm bored during business meetings I compose a little in my head and then write it out when I get home.âÂ
At your incredulous look, he flicks your forehead gently with his free hand. âWhat would you have guessed that I spend my free time doing if it occurred to you that I do not, in fact, work in every waking moment?â
You consider it. âI would have assumed you spend all your free time hanging out in your shady nightclubs.â
He frowns at you. âI own classy nightclubs because they make me money and provide convenient venues for business deals now that I no longer host such deals in my own home. I do not spend any more time in them than necessary.â
âIs that what you meant when you said that Amnesia isnât really your vibe?â
âYou remember,â he says, sounding pleasantly surprised.Â
âEven though it feels like weeks ago, you did just tell me that like, two nights ago,â you flick his forehead in revenge.
âFair point,â he concedes. âAll right, then, yes. Thatâs what I meant.â
âSo what is your vibe?â
âCurious, kitten?â
âYes.â That warm feeling you have is overriding your fears of admitting this to him. You want to know him. You want to know everything about him.
âItâs easier to show you my vibe,â he shrugs. âWeâll make a date of it.â
He dropped the âfakeâ part again.
His phone begins to vibrate in his jeans pocket again.
He frowns in irritation. You stand, forcing yourself to move away from him.
âIâll entertain myself,â you smile at his questioning look. He holds onto your hand as you move away, until your arm and his are stretched between you, and then he lets go.
Youâre thankful for the interruption. Too much unadulterated time being the subject of Sylusâs entire focus makes you think insane things. Like that he designed parts of his house with you in mind. That you know music that youâve never heard before. That youâre forgetting something important about him, even though you only met him recently. That a poem you read in your youth is a roadmap of things that have already happened between you and the man pacing behind the door, and what will happen before the light strays, vanishes⊠returns again.
You step into the hallway and wander back toward the kitchen. After a few minutes, you hear the flap of Mephistoâs wings. Heâs keeping you company again. You keep walking.
Youâre distracted halfway to the kitchen, however, when you hear voices coming from the theater room. It sounds like the twins, and someone else whose voice is familiar, but you canât pinpoint it. You knock.
âNo need to knock,â one of the twins yells.
You open the door and peek into the room. Itâs dark, with all the lights dimmed.
On the large screen where you almost watched a movie with Sylus the other night, a video game is playing.
Luke sits on one of the loveseats, holding a game controller, while Kieran is squished onto the same small loveseat with him, their two big bodies barely fitting, hiding his face in Lukeâs shoulder.
Noah is sprawled out on another loveseat, perfectly at ease. She gives you a lazy wave.
Luke pauses the game and looks over his shoulder at you.
âBoss busy?â he asks as Kieran lifts his head, a look of relief on his face at the interruption.
âBusiness call,â you say, nodding. You stare at the screen. It looks likeâŠ
âAre you playing the Silent Hill 2 remake?â you squeal.
âYeah! Since boss is on a little holiday, he gave us the time off as well. Figured weâd finally play it.â
âAre you a fan of the original?â Kieran asks.
You nod. âHuge fan. I was so excited when they announced the remake, but Iâve been too busy with work to play it.â
âWanna join? Kieran is too scared to look half the time. We can take turns, if you want,â Luke offers, sounding pleased to have another person to share the game with.
You seriously consider his offer, but youâre still so tired. You donât really want to learn the controls mid-way through a playthrough. Werenât you just thinking about watching letâs plays of horror games you havenât had a chance to play yet? You can watch Kieran play without having to do a thing.
âIâm good, but do you mind if I stay and just watch until Sylus is done?â
âIs that even a question? Get in here.â
Luke unpauses the game, and the familiar sounds of the world of Silent Hill, with amazing, updated graphics fills your vision. You slink inside the room and sit on another love seat, preferring to give Noah her space since sheâs sprawled out like she already owns the place.
You watch as Kieran hides his face in Luke's shoulder again as a lying figure jerkily lumbers towards James Sunderland.
Apparently Noah notices Kieranâs fear as well.
âArenât you one of the feared Raptors of Onychinus? Like, youâre famous in the Zone. How can the same person who is known for intentionally leaving mutilated corpses in public as warnings to your bossâs enemies be afraid of video game monsters?â
You turn and stare at the twins, a little horrified. Not entirely surprised, because you know what kind of man Sylus is. You know what his organization stands for. But mutilated dead bodies? Where normal people just trying to get through their shitty workday, where kids can see them?
âThatâs fucked up,â you say out loud.
âHey, youâre a fucking cop. We know what cops are capable of,â Kieran says softly, with a flatness in his tone youâve never heard before. Noah looks between you and Kieran like she wishes she has popcorn. âDonât act like what you sometimes do is any better than our calling card.â Luke kills a monster shaped like two shapely pairs of legs attached at the waist with a metal pipe, and it dies loudly. He stomps on it for good measure. âAt least weâre honest about it, and donât hide behind a shield of so-called legitimacy. People know what theyâre getting when they deal with us.â
You look at Kieran thoughtfully. Itâs difficult to admit, but he has a point. You know that there are corrupt hunters. The so-called Tenebrae. You also recognize that dark part of yourself, when youâre faced with someone who you know has done terrible things, and the itch to pull the trigger before you can bring them in. You know that innocent people suffer at the hands of criminals and law enforcement alike.
Kieran stares steadily back at you, his normally cheerful face serious. âHow did you come to work for Sylus?â you ask.
Luke pauses the game. âWe donât talk about that,â he says in the same flat tone that his brother just spoke in.
âOh?â you say, because you donât want to continue to pry, and you donât know what else to say.
âBoss says it doesnât matter where we come from. Only where weâre going. So thereâs no use talking about the past if we donât want to.â
âAnd you donât want to?â Noah asks, the look of entertainment morphing into something else on her face.
The twins shake their heads in unison.
You think sheâs going to say something snarky, but she just nods. âThen you shouldnât. No one is entitled to your story.â
âThatâs what boss says. I see why he hired you now,â Kieran says, smiling at her, the odd stillness broken.
âHe hired me because Iâm fucking awesome,â Noah sniffs, flicking her braids behind her shoulder. Theyâre down now, spilling over her back.
You tilt your head. âAre you a new hire?â For some reason you thought that Noah had been Sylusâs driver for a long time.
âDid he not tell you?â she asks, looking at you strangely.
âTell me what?â
âIâm not gonna do his work for him,â she says, rolling her eyes.
âHuh?â
âDonât worry about it,â she smiles at you, and itâs unnerving instead of soothing. âAnyway, yeah Iâm a new hire. Youâre gonna be seeing a lot of me in the future.â
Although Kieran seems to have reached some sort of approval of Noah, Luke still shudders and starts the game again.
You let it go. Youâll ask Sylus about Noahâs weird comment later. Instead of dwelling on it, you sink into admiring the awesome graphics, the atmosphere, your childhood nostalgia rendered in state of the art graphics
When the sirens go off as James is about to enter the Other World, you have a sudden flashback to playing the original Silent Hill 2 with Caleb. You were also too afraid, like Kieran, to play yourself, so you just clutched Calebâs arm as he held the controller, and you delighted in the safety of vicarious thrills, of Calebâs reassuring, solid presence at your side as you experienced the story. You suddenly miss him so, so much. The feeling of loss is overwhelming.
The sudden punch of grief leaves you breathless. Everyone else is so focused on the screen, they donât notice your gasp. You want to watch. Youâve been wanting to experience the remake ever since the developers announced it, over a year ago. You want to experience it with who you are tentatively thinking of as your new friends. But you need a second to ground yourself before you can bring yourself to keep watching.Â
Your force your voice through your throat. âIâm going to grab a snack. Do you guys want anything from the kitchen?â
âPopcorn!â Noah calls.
âWeâre good,â Luke answers, because apparently Kieran is almost catatonic with terror.
âAll right, be right back.â You take your time getting to the kitchen, Mephisto following you out the theater room door. You rifle through the fridge, shove some snacks into your mouth. Youâre shocked to find microwave popcorn in one of the cupboards. Sylus strikes you as the kind of snob who insists on popping loose kernels on the stove, or over the fire in the fireplace. Nothing so pedestrian as store-bought and in the microwave. You snicker, that feeling of sorrow fading as you engage in everyday tasks, with company to look forward to. Youâre not alone right now. Youâre excited to see more of what the devs retained from the original game and what they added or changed in the remake. You head back to the theater room, but accidentally drop the bag of popcorn before you can open the door. As you pick it up, you can hear Noah.
âYou know you donât actually have to kill every monster you encounter, right?â She asks in barely disguised disdain.
âYou know that you donât actually have to offer your opinion when no one asked, right?â Luke snarks.
âOooh, someoneâs grumpy because he isnât going to have an advantage in the bet like he thought,â Noah says through a snicker.
âWhat advantage? We agreed not to interfere. Boss is gonna have it in the bag even before the two weeks are up even without our help,â Luke responds.
âIf he doesnât fumble it by being too passive,â Kieran adds, thoughtfully.
âWhat âhelp?â I bet your help would result in more delay than progress,â Noah taunts. âI probably donât even have to do anything to counter your nonsense. Youâll do all my work for me.â
âHey, flooding the guest floor was a good idea,â Luke protests.
This is just met with a cackle.Â
You stand, frozen. You didnât mean to eavesdrop. But what is their boss going to have in the bag without their help? What bet?
Something inside of you already knows. Hadnât you thought earlier that the twins probably made a bet out of your obvious, pathetic crush?
But they said it was about their boss achieving something. Not about your feelings.
You donât want to know.
You try desperately to cling to that warm feeling youâve had since the pool.
Boss is gonna have it in the bag.
You spin on your heel, intending to return to the kitchen without them knowing you heard anything, just to buy yourself time to process. But of course, you promptly knock over another ugly sculpture. It shatters on the floor.
You stand there in your bandaged feet, holding the popcorn, staring down at the mess you just made.
The door swings open and Kieran, Luke, and Noah jostle each other to see what just happened in the hallway.
âSorry,â you say. What the fuck else can you say?
âWhat happened?â Kieran asks.
âJust me being clumsy,â you say, trying to smile.
Luke squints at you. âOh shit.â He turns to Kieran. âTheyâre making that horrible face again.â
Kieran stares at you.
Noah flicks her braids and tilts her head, examining you like an art critic trying to find meaning in a childâs finger painting. âWhat does that face mean?â
âIt means they heard what we were discussing,â Kieran says grimly.
Luke glares at Noah. âWhat are you even doing here? Now the bet is fucked and boss is gonna be mad because his hunterâs making that expression again. Look at them. Weâve hurt their feelings!â He gestures at you.
She glares back. âBoss told me to report here for duty every day to remain on standby in case the hunter wants to go anywhere. What are you doing here?â she sneers.
âWe live here,â he answers, looking confused that thatâs even a question.
You take a step back, away from the sharp shards of the broken sculpture. Maybe theyâll be too busy arguing to notice.
That good feeling is gone.
You think about every move Sylus has made since the auction. All of his attention, his gentleness, his kindness, his dogged reappearance at your home, his arranging for you to have sick leave.
Would Sylus do all that for a bet?
Is he that bored? Is he that good of an actor?
How on earth would you even know? You donât know shit about him. Youâve known him for a few months. In that time, youâve seen him a handful of times. What the fuck are you doing?
You think about that feeling you had while listening to the Beatles, while listening to Sylus play the piano, of forgetting something really important. You want to throw up.Â
Yeah, youâre forgetting something all right.
You canât stand the feeling inside you right now. Itâs too big. Itâs eclipsing everything youâve felt up until this point.
You think about what it will take to get out of here.
You think about picking up one of the sculptureâs shards and digging it into your thigh, anything to override this feeling inside you now.
You think about the resonance with Sylus when you woke up. Could he fake that?
His evol is unearthing a personâs deepest desires. But is it more than that? Could he make you feel adored without using his aether core? Did he promise not to use his evol on you because the terms of the bet forbade interference? Your fears send you spiraling.
âOh no. No, no, no, no,â Luke says, peering at your face again. He takes a step forward, reaching out to you like someone trying to calm a wild animal, his house shoe crunching on the broken bits of sculpture.
You take a step back.
Noah just looks between the twins and you, confused.
âIâm just going for a walk,â you lie. You take another step back, turn, and start to walk down the hallway that will eventually lead to the lift. The lift that goes to the underground garage.
As you round the corner, Luke says,âGetââ
âOn it,â Kieran says, with his phone to his ear.
Noah looks thoughtfully down the now empty hallway. âThe hunterâs fucked up, huh?â
Luke shrugs. âArenât we all?â
Noah frowns at him. âSpeak for yourself. You donât know shit about me.â
âI know that boss hired you after looking into your soul. Which means youâre fucked up too. He isnât interested in wholesome things or peopleâtoo boring.â
âAnd you?â
âYou said it yourself. I really enjoy carving people up.â He shrugs. âSoothes something from our shitty childhood.â
Noah considers him. âYour brother seems to be okay with me now. Are you going to have a problem with me?â
Kieran grins at her. âWhat makes you think I have a problem with you?â
âYou were mean when I suggested you try to stealth around the monsters. And donât think I didnât see your reaction when I said Iâd be around more often. And acting like the hunter being upset is solely my fault, when we all made the stupid bet.â She counts each piece of evidence on her pretty fingers.
âWho the fuck likes backseat gamers?â He pouts a little. âAnd I didnât like being hit on within an hour of meeting you. I donât like people like that.â
Noah scowls back at him. âYou donât like people like what? â
âI mean, I donât like, like people. I get the creeps when people hit on me.â
Her lovely eyebrows shoot up in surprise. âOh.â
âBut boss likes you, so I like you. Weâre cool, so long as you donât hit on me again.â
Noah nods.âI was just giving you two shit since you hauled me in front of your scary fucking boss. But I promised boss I wouldnât do it again.â
âThen weâre cool. And if you donât like how I play Silent Hill, then you can play if you want.â He opens the door again, gesturing for her to go in ahead.
âNah man, I like being in the peanut gallery.â
âDoes that mean youâre not gonna shut up?â
âYou know it.â Noah gives him a big, feral grin.
Luke grins back at her, equally frightening. âThen Iâll be sure to kill every single monster we come across, no matter how much ammo it wastes.â The door swings shut on Kieran standing in the hallway, looking thoughtfully down at the phone in his hand.
_____________________
Sylus hums the melody of the music he played for you as he ends the call with Aidan. Luckily the issue this time could be settled by answering Aidanâs questions, and he can still look forward to a mostly uninterrupted day with you. He wonders where youâll like to go next. Back to the library? To the greenhouse?
Heâs in a great mood, despite the interruption. Every conversation with you convinces him that youâre closer and closer to accepting the truth. That youâre his, and heâs yours. He wants to drag you back to the library, listen to you read to him, argue about poetryâthe way your eyes flash when youâre making a counterargument, the sneer in your retorts to his needling youâhe wants to kiss you. He wants to kiss you so much it hurts.
His phone vibrates in his pocket again. He clenches his jaw, pauses. He wants to throw the damn thing against the wall and just continue looking for you, business be damned. But he also doesnât want to leave Aidan in an awkward position. He fishes the phone out of his pocket and accepts the call.
âBoss, your hunter is making a strategic retreat again,â Kieran says breathlessly.
Sylus jerks to a stop.
âRepeat that?â he demands.
âThey overheard us talking about the wager,â Kieran explains, sounding pained.
It takes Sylus a second to remember what heâs talking about. âThe bet about how long it will take for kitten to realize that I want to date them?â
âYeah.â
Sylus thinks. Why would you be spooked by a stupid bet between his henchmen and your driver?
âBut theyâwell, they overheard us talking about it, and they donât know what the wager is actually about. I am afraid that they might have misunderstood something,â Kieran says carefully, like heâs waiting for Sylusâs wrath.
Sylus immediately realizes what probably just happened.
âI left kitten alone for less than twenty minutes,â he sighs. Just his fucking luck. Itâs like the universe or some cruel god wants to create obstacles in his path to winning your precious heart.
âYour bet is over,â he barks.
âUnderstood.â
Sylus ends the call and pulls up Mephistoâs app. Youâre walking quickly, with purpose. He squints, trying to figure out which part of the house youâre in. It looks like youâre trying to get to the lift that leads to the underground garage. Sylus dissipates into red and black mist.
_______________
As you walk, you make your way to the garage, not even sure what your plan is. You have that hollow, manic feeling filling youâthe feeling that always fills you when youâre hurt like this, when you just need to get out, to outrun your own body and the feelings it contains. This time though, through the noise in your head, you remember your promises to Sylus. About not hurting yourself, but going to him. If you have doubts about his intentions, to go to him. To ask him when you have questions, instead of making assumptions.
But how can you? Whatâs the point of honoring promises made to a man who thinks your feelings are fair game for a bet?Â
You need to think. You donât want to think. Youâre hurting so, so much. You need time. Your body feels like youâre out of time. You miss Caleb. You miss your grandmother.Â
It takes all of your self control to stop moving. You hear Mephistoâs wings flapping behind you. You close your eyes. You resist the urge to punch yourself, barely. If youâre just a bet to him, you should punch him instead. You open your eyes and realize you stopped next to a door with an electronic lock blinking on the handle. You turn and look at it fully, and you hear the lock click.
It recognized your face. Just as Kieran and Luke told you all the locks in this house would. Why would Sylus bother programming your face into his home if youâre just a bet?
You watch your hand reach out, grasp the handle. You pull, and the door opens easily. You slip inside and let it close before Mephisto can follow.
The lights flicker on.
You gasp.
Itâs like standing inside an upscale jewelry store, built inside a bank vault. Except instead of sparsely filled display cases, designed to emphasize and showcase a select number of precious jewels, each glass case is stuffed with the things. Diamonds. Rubies. Emeralds. A mind-blowing variety of beautiful stones that you donât even know the names for. Loose stones, as well as jewelryânecklaces, rings, earrings. Where most of Sylusâs house is the picture of meticulous order, this vault looks like a dragonâs hoard of priceless treasures, casually piled high without much thought.
Why would Sylus trust you with access to such wealth, if you were just a bet?
But more importantly, how much death must Sylus Qin sell, to afford such a vault?
How many lives in exchange for each gem?
You turn in a circle as you slowly process the fact that youâre standing in the middle of a sea of blood diamonds.
What are you doing?
What the actual fuck are you doing?
You were just marveling at the luxury of the rooms he designed, filled with the thrilling possibility that he had built them for you. You had thought about the cost of the heating in the hot tub, the pool. And yet you were willing to overlook such expenses. Why? Because at least the pool, the lovely architecture are useful? Because they provide some value to the human experience, even if only a select few will ever get to experience them at Sylusâs house?
But what value do diamonds have? Shiny clumps of compressed carbon. You canât burn them for warmth. You canât eat them. Okay, so maybe theyâre used in some industrial processes, but for fuckâs sake, artificially created diamonds could serve that purpose. And youâre absolutely sure that the diamonds Sylus has hoarded in this vault are real, products of millions of years of pressure, and not made in some lab.
You sink to the black marble floor. Itâs cold. You draw up your knees and hug them.
Thereâs too much happening in your brain right now. Your grief. Your uncertainty about Sylusâs intentionsâthe question of who his beloved is. The bet.
The realization that youâre falling in love with a man whose lifeâs work is bringing misery to others.
You hate yourself. Here you are, thrown into a tailspin from the idea that Sylus may have spent all this time on you because of a bet with his minions, when you should be in a tailspin about the fact that itâs probably already too late for you to stop falling for a man who not only praises the mutilated world, but is one of the people shoving the knife in deeper.Â
There is so much you donât know about him. But what you do know is that Sylus is too busy pouring salt into the wound of the world to dedicate so much time and resources to something as frivolous as a wager about how long it will take for him to get you in the bag. Itâs pure, self-pitying hubris to assume otherwise.
Youâre focusing on the wrong things, again. Youâre forgetting whatâs important, again.
What do you want? What can you live with? Why do you feel a connection with this complicated, cruel, ruthless man, as if youâve known him for more than a few months? What kind of person are you, if despite sitting in a sea of diamonds paid for in other peoples' blood, you still want this merchant of death to come find you, to hold you in his arms, tell you that he wasn't placing bets on how long it would take to have you in the bag?
You begin to rock, somehow resisting all of your terrible urges: to hurt yourself, to run, to set this awful room on fire. You rock, and you hurt, and you wait for the terrible man youâre falling in love with to find you, as he always does.
______________
Sylus finds Mephisto pacing on the floor in front of his gem vault. He caws in distress when he sees his owner re-materialize in the hallway. Sylus finds the fact that youâre in the gem vault, and not currently trying to procure a getaway car, to be a source of hopeâa strange feeling for him. What use does he have for hope? He has plans. Plans with contingencies, alternatives, backups. They either succeed because he planned well enough, or they fail because he did not plan well enough.Â
Hope has no place in his world.
People suffer and die. Deals are made and broken. Fate is cruel, inflexible. He knows this all too well, no matter how much heâs struggling against fate this time around.
Hope has no place in his world.
But.
You could have kept running. You could be in any one of his vehicles right now, trying to break land speed records to get the fuck away from him, convinced that he was involved in a bet about the biggest gamble of his life.
But youâre not. Youâre in his gem vault, for some reason. You strange, unpredictable, delightful creature.
He finds himself hoping that this misunderstanding hasnât just caused you to retreat beyond his reach again.Â
Your fingers in the dip of his clavicle.
The yearning look on your face, that he doesnât think you even knew you had, when he bit your lipâthe closest heâll allow himself to a kiss until heâs one hundred percent sure youâll welcome him while awake.
He opens the door.
He pauses, struck with the strange sensation of viewing his greatest treasure surrounded by so much of his material treasure. You belong here. The value of all of these precious stones nothing in comparison to you, shining like a beacon to him at the end of a long and winding road from the marble floor, dimming everything else in this room by comparison.
His house shoes whisper along the cold marble floor where youâre sitting, curled in on yourself.
He has watched you take down wanderers the size of an elephant. All that strength, contained in your huddled body. You look so small to him. He wants to protect you from all the horrors of the world. But of course, heâs the biggest horror of all. Is it any wonder that he keeps hurting you instead?
A better man might keep his distance in an effort to protect you. Like your partner. A better man might know when to quit. Like your dandy artist friend. A better man might be content with loving you from afar. Like your fucking doctor.Â
But Sylus is a terrible man, because heâs not going to stop trying to get it right, even as he hurts you in the process, until you order him to stop and mean it.
You donât look up at the sound of his footsteps, but you also donât retreat as he approaches.
He sits on the floor next to you, wraps an arm around your shivering shoulders. He pulls you into his arms, feels the rush of hope when you let him.
He cradles your head in his palm.
âThe twins bet on everything. Which snail is the fastest on a leaf. Whether it will rain or snow tomorrow. How long it will take someone to bleed out. Whether the traffic light will change in five versus ten seconds,â he says softly into your hair.
âAbout how long it will take to get your pathetic hunter in the bag?â Your voice is small, just as your body feels in his arms.
âAbout how long it will take for my beloved to realize how I feel about them,â he sighs.
You stiffen, and he feels a moment of paralyzing fear, before you melt into him. He breathes again.
âWhat did you bet?â you ask, and Sylus feels the sorrow in your voice like a gunshot in his chest.
You ran, but you stopped. You assumed, but youâre asking questions now. Youâre allowing him to touch you, to hold you. The hope in him surges again.Â
âI didnât place a bet in this particular wager,â he manages through the unfamiliar feelings. âBut if I had, the gamble would be my whole heart.â
âDoes a man who has a dragonâs hoard of wealth, bought with the blood of the guilty and the innocent alike, have a heart?â you ask, finally looking up, your eyes hollow in a way that he doesnât like.
Sylus is a terrible man. He has never lied to himself about this, or to you. He showed you the worst of himself, the day you met. He has to hope that the fact youâre still here, still asking him questions, means that he hasnât lost you yet. An unpleasant feeling of doubt slithers through him. Is it the bet upsetting you, or something else?
âEven dragons have hearts, darling.â
You close your eyes. He wants you to open them again. He wants you to look at him. He never wants you to look away from him. Even if youâre looking at him with doubt, or hate, so long as youâre looking at him, that means youâre not leaving him.
âWhat do you want?â he asks.
You open your eyes again. He is terribly tempted to use his aether core on you, because for once, he canât read how youâre feeling.
âYou offered me time.â
He leans forward, rests his forehead against yours. âAnd I will give you time.â
âI want to see your favorite part of the greenhouse.â
âAnd I will show you my favorite part of the greenhouse,â he whispers, breathing, breathing. He canât tell how youâre feeling, but you smell like home, a door at the end of a long road. The hope grows.
âI want to see Luke and Kieran and Noah play the remake of Silent Hill 2.â
The hope shifts, dissipates. There is no need for hope, once it is fulfilled. You want to stay, for now. He can work with that. Whatever damage learning about the bet caused, he can work with your willingness to stay. If that look in your eyes isnât about the bet, he has more time to dismantle your walls, to pull it out of you. Just two nights ago, you were running barefoot through the dark. Tonight, you stopped yourself and waited for him to find you. âYouâre in luck. Theyâre still playing.â
You watch him, as if youâre weighing something behind your hollow eyes. âWill you watch with me?â
Of course, he thinks. Of course. You could ask for so much more, and the answer would be the same. âDo you want me to watch with you?â
âI want you to want to watch with me.â
He smiles, his mouth a breath away from yours. You smell like popcorn. He wants to throw a piece in the air, catch it in his mouth, feed it to you. âAgain, you bring me luck. We have a win-win deal.â
He stands. Carries you out of his gem vault.
âWhy do you have so many jewels?â you ask, quietly.
âIn case the authorities freeze my accounts, physical currency will be useful. A sort of insurance.â
You gaze at his face, and he wonders what you see when you look at him. âYouâll escape with a truck full of precious stones?â
âSomething like that,â he says.
âNo other reason?â
He tells the truth. âIâve always been fond of shiny things.â
âDo you have a favorite stone?â
He laughs softly. âWhatever stone youâre wearing.â
Instead of looking at him with suspicion, a helpless look crosses your face. Like youâre in pain from his admission. He doesnât like it. But then you lean forward, press your face into his neck. He tells himself that he has time. Heâll figure out whatâs bothering you, and heâll fix it.
Outside the theater room, he pauses. Looks down at the pieces of shattered sculpture. "If you didn't like it, darling, you could have just said so."
You just mumble that you're sorry.
"We've talked about your apologies," he says, frowning down at you in his arms.
You huff. "Fine. I'm not sorry. That sculpture was edgy and ugly. You should replace it with something beautiful."
"Deal. But only if you come with me to choose something," he says.
"Deal," you say softly, and he still can't tell what's going through your head.
When you enter the theater room, Luke pauses the game. âWeâre really sorry for hurting your feelings and shit. The bet was about bossâs rizz, not about you. Please donât leave.â
Kieran nods in approval, as if he had helped Luke compose this little speech.
Noah just looks at you, face unreadable, as you rest your head on Sylusâs shoulder.
âI had planned to give you a lot of shit. But I think I wouldâve lost anyway,â she says, not looking apologetic at all. âItâs only been two days and youâre practically merging into one person.â
Sylus carries you to a loveseat next to the twins, with Noah on their other side.
âThanks,â you say. âNo worries.â
Everyone is awkwardly silent for a moment after your brief response. You seem to notice, and smile a little. âCan we hang out while you play?â
âFuck yeah,â Luke says, and Kieran groans as the game is unpaused.
After a while, you, Luke, and Noah start discussing the difference between the remake and the original. What everyone likes, what they donât. Sylus leans back, draws you onto his chest. His relief remains intense as you let him. The discussion moves on to which Silent Hill games are the best in the franchise, which are the worst. Luke and Noah have a good-natured clash about Silent Hill 4: the Room, with only a few insults flung at each other. You and Kieran share your admiration for Blooper Team's Layers of Fear, which Kieran liked because he didn't think it was scary, and which Luke hated, because he thought it was boring. Sylus doesn't give a shit about video games, and certainly not horror games. Life itself is already horrific enough, he doesn't have the patience for manufactured terror. He just listens, feeling your heartbeat against his chest, breathing in your comforting scent.
A feeling of wholeness settles in him, as unfamiliar as hope. As unfamiliar as the happiness from your movie night, just last night. You, Luke, and Noah have moved on to animatedly arguing about some characterâs outfit changes between the original and the remake.
He feels like heâs been standing, left behind in the dark for so long, and heâs finally being allowed home. Whatever is bothering you, heâll fix it. Heâll destroy the world if he has to, to preserve the scene in front of him, so that he can offer you this, so that he can experience this with you, again, and again, and again. His gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns.
End notes: I had planned shenanigans for the twins and Noah to increase their odds in winning the bet, but this story is already out of control with how long it is, and some of the things I thought of were really manipulative and fucked up even if I personally thought they were hilarious, but my brain is craving a softer vibe for this story I guess (lmao if this can be considered soft), so I hope this isn't too much of a let down for the resolution of the bet subplot. I've given up hinting at what's coming next because it turns out I'm very bad at guessing what's next.
I read Fluffy Treatment and it was so freaking good. I'm about to speed run your masterminds lolol. anyway, after reading it. I cannot stop thinking about how devastating it would be for reader to then be like "promised" or "arranged" to someone because I just live for those kinds of fics. Just wanted to share that thought I had đđ
you're def making me think of things now, and tbh i need to write more angst/hurt fics but this might come in the future fr! but thank you for your kind words and for reading! i hope you enjoy!!!
How I imagine the lads men (pre-relationship) react to you verbally enjoying them gently greasing your scalp.
A/N: This one is specifically for my black girls and anyone with thick hair who understands what it's like to have to grease your scalp. Also for those who understand what it was like growing up with your momma and aunties brushing your neck, ears, forehead, and inner most thoughts. Getting popped with the comb for moving too much and the dread of knowing theyâre about to pull out that hot comb.
[Requested by: Anon]
Summary: He was always curious when you would turn down plans because you needed to wash your hair. He never understood why you had Wash Days instead of just a quick wash while you're showering. Since you had a crush on him you took the time to explain how your hair is different from his and how there's no such thing as a quick wash while showering for you. You decided to let him see what all goes into your Wash Days. Now here you were sitting crisscross on the floor in front of your full length mirror surrounded by all your hair tools. You just finished blow drying your hair in four sections and it was a relief to drop your arms and relax them for a while. You hung your head knowing that you had one last step to do before you could lay down.
âDo you need some help?â
Zayne
Zayne would be so meticulous with his hands as if he were actually doing surgery on your hair. He would be so gentle gliding the rat tail comb through your roots and gently spreading the grease on your scalp and slightly massaging as he went. âIâve never had someone be this gentle with my scalpâ You couldnât help, but sigh however your sighs seemed to come out as soft whimpers. âRight there, scratch right thereâ he did exactly as you said and felt his ears getting hot in the process. Hearing you moan and whimper out soft âThat feels so goodâ and âwait wait massage right thereâ followed by the most sultry sound heâs ever heard come out of you.
Nearly halfway through he's standing at attention. His nerves are on edge and he doesn't want you to see him like this. "Iâm sorry, but I have to head home I have an early out-patient to attend to in the morning" You turn suddenly making him jump. "We're only half done" Your words came out more whiney than you intended.
Youâre a little confused at his sudden need to leave, but you nod and stand to walk him to the door. "I'll make it up to you. Good Night." You donât miss the very obvious bulge in his pants as he quickly grabs his coat and slips out your front door.
Rafayel
Rafayel is unintentionally rough as hell when he starts parting your hair. âOw! why are you tugging so hard?!â You smack his hands away opting to do it yourself, but he begs to try again and you give in to those big puppy dog eyes he has. âBe gentle!â
Second time around heâs so gentle it almost feels like a lovers touch as he massages the section of your hair before going through with the rat tail comb like you showed him. You canât help the noises that escape out of you as he smears just the right amount of grease on your scalp. âAre you always this vocal during this process?â He asks in almost a whisper. You try to turn to look at him, but he quickly snaps your head back towards the mirror, hiding his face behind your head. âIt feels good when someone else does itâ Another sigh leaves you as he keeps going âPlease donât stopâ Once he reaches the last section you end up leaning slightly back into him and thats when you feel something poking your lower back.
Y/N: Raf are youâŠ..are you turned on?
Rafayel: Youâre the one moaning my name while im doing this!
Y/N: So itâs my fault?
Rafayel: YES
Y/N:Â pokes it
Rafayel: do that again and im calling the authorities
He quickly excused himself out of the room while you cleaned up your mess of hair products.
Xavier
Xavier is hanging on by a single worn thread while heâs greasing your scalp. He can barely make it through the first section before heâs already nearly panting listening to you moan âThank you Xavierâ Hearing his name on your lips like that had him near feral. âYouâre welcomeâ He whispered in a raspy tone. You feel him constantly adjusting his position and clearing his throat while he slowly works his way through the next section of hair. âRight there rub right thereâ You whimper and he inhales deeply as he does as you say. âRight here?â His voice is low and gravelly it actually sends tingles through your body.
Xavier literally canât take it. His composure was slipping the minute you sighed his name. He managed you finish the job only to turn and tilt your head back to look in your eyes. The tension was always thick between you two. His gaze bounced from your eyes to your lips and you melted when he whispered âCan I kiss you?â
Sylus
Sylus is outing you right then and there he donât care. The minute you whimper from his fingers gliding across your scalp heâs smirking. Heâs so gentle while he does it you almost forget this is a Mafia Don that you have greasing your scalp in the middle of the night. âPeople would get the wrong idea if they could hear you nowâ He teased in that sultry voice of his. You felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you that quickly dissipated the second he started massaging your scalp again. âIt just feels so goodâ You whimper again while he slowly works his way through your hair. âI can tellâ
He would be able to hold his composure throughout the entire process and by the time heâs done you can finally think clearly. You quickly slip your bonnet on and turn to face him thats when you notice his red cheeks and ears. âYouâre never going to do this for me again will you?â You see the corner of his mouth quirk upwards.
Heâs enjoying this.
âI donât mind making you moan againâ You shove his shoulder and he just chuckles as you pound your fist into his chest. âYou owe me a scalp massage now sweetieâ
hi there! just wanted to say thank you for all of your wonderful writing <3 i totally understand the burn out and iâm happy that youâre doing whatâs best for you!! also, ty for recommending @/rose-tinted-kalopsia !! i read their xavier writing and you were so right it was amazing đ i was wondering if you have any other lnds writers to recommend!!
thank you for your kind words i love you sm sm my entire heart is yours đ„č
omg thereâs so many let me try and remember someeeee if i miss any please TAG YOUR RECS IN THE COMMENTS GUYS đ€
Some of my recs!! @zara-renata has one of my FAV ongoing sylus fics rn I need everyone to read it I shout them out on twitter every chance I get ngl
@acciotaitlynn @poisonf0rest @chaos-in-deepspace @syluslovies @rose-tinted-kalopsia @jinwoosbabyboo @chibichibi-mia @beneathashadytree are all some of my recs as well!!!
Sylus x gn reader | A stupid, short drabble that got stuck in my head while peeling potatoes yesterday, no warnings
âSylus, would you love me if I were a worm?â
Sylus doesnât even look up from the book heâs reading, sprawled on one of the leather couches in his library, the full red moon spilling through the windows and blanketing him in a softly sinister light. âYes.â
You lift your head and scowl at him from your position stretched out along his long body, hands folded under your chin, resting on his firm stomach.
âYouâre not taking the question seriously.â
He lifts a dark silver eyebrow, eyes still not lifting from his book, the gold-rimmed reading glasses heâs wearing glinting in the warm light from the Tiffany lamp next to the couch. âAnd how did you arrive at that conclusion?â
âIf you had actually properly considered it, you would have taken a little more time to answer.â
He finally deigns to look at you over the rims of his glasses. âI gave it the exact amount of attention that such a question deserves.â
âWhy doesnât it deserve more attention? I want to know your answer.â
âAnd I gave you my answer.â He returns to his book. Itâs some pretentious title, about the sociology of ingroups and outgroups, the banality of evil.
âHow can I take your answer seriously if you donât think about it properly?â
He sighs. Looks over his glasses at you again. âYouâve been spending too much time with the twins.â
You sit up, leaning against the armrest of the couch opposite of Sylus. He frowns as you move away. âI donât think I spend enough time with them, actually. Theyâre hilarious.â
His frown deepens. âIâm hilarious.â
âNo, youâre a pretentious edgelord who wonât properly consider my question.â
âYou speak so sweetly to the twins. Whereâs that honey when you speak to me?â
âHoneypotâs empty until you tell me why youâd love me if I were a worm.â You prod his thigh with your bare foot.
He sighs again, sets the book on the side table. He takes your foot in his hands and begins to rub it, thumbs gently pressing into your arch. You suppress a moan.
âIâd love you if you were a worm because even as a worm, you are still you. Iâd love you in any universe, in any world, in any timeline, in any form.â
You stare at him for a moment. âNow I feel bad about being mean to you.â
âAs you should,â he gloats. âHow will you make it up to me?â
âNo, no. Iâm not done.â He continues to caress your foot, one hand drifting up to your ankle, circling it between his thumb and forefinger. âYou may love me as a worm, but what would you do with me? And would you seek out company in other people, since I couldnât provide it to you as a little wiggly worm?â
âI would construct the most extravagant terrarium with all of the most luxurious provisions that a little wormâs heart could desire.â He pauses. âIâd also have to construct some sort of grate to protect you from Mephisto.â
You shudder, thinking about what it would be like to be a worm facing down Mephistoâs ruby stare. âIâd probably just be happy in some dirt,â you say, giving him your other foot. He takes the hint and begins to rub it too.
âTch. My worm deserves only the finest in compost and enrichment activities in their terrarium. I wouldnât be happy with just giving you some dirt.â
âOf course, and we must keep his royal snobness happy.â
âSee? This is why I love you,â he smiles, just a little. âEven though your tongue is so sharp with me.â
âYouâre avoiding the question about seeking other company,â you say, sinking lower into the couch as you enjoy the foot massage.
âWhatâs the point in answering what is clearly a trick question? You will not be turned into a worm. This whole discussion is a waste of time we could spend doing more interesting things.â He gives you an exaggeratedly lascivious once-over.
âI could be turned into a worm! Modified protocores have resulted in weirder shit happening!â
Sylus sighs yet again in resignation.
âI would miss your human company terribly, but thereâs no replacing you,â he says smoothly.
You scowl at him again. âThat doesnât answer the question.â
âDarling, I was fine with my own company until you came into my life. I was fine with my own hand until you came into my life. Iâd miss your company, and your sharp tongue, and your blowââ
You jerk one of your feet out of his hands and prod him in his stupid sexy abs. âOkay, okay. I get it.â
âI donât think you do,â he says, sliding out from under you, dropping to his knees on the plush rug in front of you. He lifts one of your legs over his broad shoulder. âI think a demonstration is in order, of all the things Iâll miss that are irreplaceable, should the unthinkable happen and your lovely human form is reduced to that of a worm. Iâll start.â He lifts your other leg over his shoulder and looks up at you smugly.
You look down at him, heart so full with how much you love him that it hurts. âPromise youâre not lying?â
âWhen have I ever lied to you, beloved?â
You tilt your head. You think he really would love you if you were a worm.
âIâd love you if you were a worm too, Sy.â
âOh good, I can stop losing sleep at night,â he says, voice dripping sarcasm. You punish him by tightening your thighs, squishing his handsome face between your knees.
He laughs a little breathlessly. âIf youâre trying to encourage me, itâs working, kitten.â
You laugh and release him. âDeviant,â you say affectionately.
âYour deviant,â he says, leaning forward, big palms gliding up your thighs. âWhether youâre a human or a worm, that wonât change.â
That being said I'll still be continuing my fics, as well as posting my oneshots regularly! I just figured if anyone wanted a fic for me to wrote about their fav I could!