Notes: i wrote it so long ago and i honestly hate this work, but i like the prompt of it so here my old draft :)
The message Sylus sent was hollow, maybe even dry. It sounded like he was typing it next to his death angel. Simple to anyone else but you know this man. He never write stuff like this.
“Not feeling great. Have some soup?”
The man who faces down the whole city and rules it with the most bored expression you’ve ever seen. Getting a message like that from him? Either a death trap or he’s craving soup delivered by your hands or something .
Not that it matters. You push open the heavy-ass door to his room and yep. there it is. Sick boy vibes punch you in the face from the hallway.
Now you’re stuck taking care of a city level threat in a room dark as sin, blackout curtains swallowing every inch of light, and a bed that looks like belong someone with money and trauma died dramatically on it. The room smells rich, expensive cologne mixed with that weird sick scent you can’t prove the existence of but in every sick person’s room. At least it’s clean. A bit dramatic, but clean…except for the bed.
Tissues are scattered around the coffee table. Half of the blanket is on floor. And there he is.
Your menace. Your problem. Your hot, sick boyfriend.
Half sitting and half melting into silk sheets, a blanket rolled down to his legs. His shirt barely clinging to his chest like even it gave up. He looks like a sad burrito… Actually, a burnt sad burrito. Cheeks and nose all flushed like blush applied by a drunk artist. And those crimson eyes? Oh yeah, he’s definitely sick.
It’s almost ironic. But mostly pathetic.
You smirked slightly while stepping closer to Sylus’s bed. “What’s with the face? They finally poisoned you?”
He tilts his head slow and extra like he rehearsed it. “It’s nothing,” he rasps, trying to shrug like it isn’t killing him. “Just a little cold.”
“It’s always just a little cold until you’re sweating through your mattress at 4 a.m.” You plop the grocery bag down and take a seat on the edge of Sylus’s bed. Inside the bag? The cliches. off brand meds, green tea, weird soup, and a pack of gum because he still deserves the basics.
“Didn’t know you make house calls, kitten,” he murmurs with a bit rough tone. He tosses the blanket off his legs a bit like he’s proving he is not that sick, which is not working. “Missed me that bad?”
“Missed you? Why should I, to take care of your sick ass? I don’t think so, Sy,” you said with sharpened eyes that might cut the air between you two like a knife.
And he? He just let out a soft laugh, a bit rough, sounded like he smoked cheap cigarettes every day but was still somehow usable.
His phone lifts weakly. “The texts say otherwise,” he smirks, waving it like a murder evidence. “You’re clingier in text than I am, kitten. Why don’t you show it in person too?”
You just rolled your eyes, clingy? You? Is he seeing the state he is in right now?. “Don’t flatter yourself, Sy.”
He tries to sit up straighter, tries to be that smooth talking, chaos running Sylus you know. But the man sways. You can see the fatigue weighing down his body. His eyes flicker tiredly, struggling to stay open. He’s fighting it. The weakness. The sickness… maybe the ego.
Honestly? It’s kind of cute. In a way that makes you want to bully him gently for the next six hours.
You pull out a dry ass medicine tablet and grab a bottle of water. Without warning, you press your knee to his stomach and shove the pill to his lips. “Open up, love.”
Expecting some kind of dirty remark, but no.
His eyes widened at first, but softened quickly. Parting his lips slowly and taking his bottle to drink the pill. After swallowing the pill, he looked into you with those tired and somehow cute eyes, your knee falling and rising so slowly on his stomach.
How does someone built like this suddenly feels so soft?
“So you’re serious about taking care of me, huh?”
And damn, that tone. Meant to be teasing, flirty but it lands genuine. Vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard from him. Not puppy eyed, just quietly… pathetic. In a lovable way.
Like he doesn’t rule the damn city.
“Don’t give me those eyes, you little- ugh, gross.” You shake your head, but you’re already sliding closer on the bed. “Or I’m breaking this mug over your head and letting the shards lull you to sleep.”
He rasps a chuckle and leans his forehead against yours.
“Sounds like you’re learning a lot from me.”
“Needy bastard,” you mumble. But your hand finds his anyway, like it has its own sick person radar.
And then he says it.. softly, the worst way possible.
That’s it. That’s your final straw.
You get inside his blanket and lean forward to him, putting your bag between your legs and grabbing his arm so there is no escape.
“Oh, I’ll take care of your sick ass. Since you’ve been tempting me all damn day.”
Sylus just grins. Half sick, half-devilish. His hand slides to your waist lazily.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
The fever hits you like bitch. Your nose is basically just decorative at this point. Your skin’s clammy. Your soul left your body and called in sick too.
Your head’s on Sylus’s arm, using it as a pillow. Your legs are tangled between his, your face is pale and fade. and your voice? Gone.
“You infected me, you manipulative bastard…” you mumble while gripping the edge of the blanket tighter like it’s your last defense.
He just shrugs with that same weak smirk.
“At least now you won’t miss me.”
You make a mental note to stab him later. Right after this nap. Maybe. If your arms start working again.
For now, you both lie there… hot, sick, clingy.
Revenge can wait. Maybe after this nap.