I usually just do business memos with bullshit jargon for the investors, and even then I typically get my secretary or my assistant to write them for me. But this was important, so I wanted to write it myself. There was a lot to say. Important shit. Personal. Intimate even.
I guess I should start with… ugh, fuck.
I'm sorry.
I really wanted to see you. I was so excited when I found out that finally… finally it was going to be our time. I know you didn't realize, but I'd been waiting so patiently to meet you for so long. Years, at this point. It felt like an eternity. And don't make some joke about human years and dog years. It's not that it'd be a bad joke or that it wouldn't be funny, it's just… well right now, it'd just hurt.
I know you only just found out about me, but I have been waiting for so long. This should have been our defining moment. I wasn't sure how it would all go when the time came. I hate to admit it, but under all the excitement, I was nervous as hell. You seemed to have mixed feelings about me, and I get it. I know how I must look, big scary wolf man running through the woods, but I knew that once you got to know me, you'd see the REAL me.
I wanted this to work. I really did.
I don't know what happened. One moment I was counting down the days until I would finally be able to be with you, and the next I'm being told it was all over. All it took was one week, and they not only stole three years of waiting, but an untold number of years of our future.
Sorry, wolf boy! Go back to the woods where you belong.
I'd watched you with the others. I got to know you - all of you - from afar. Your scents carried stronger on the wind than you realize, and I have a very sensitive nose. You can learn a lot about a person through their scent, you know. I get it, to people like you it might seem weird or maybe even creepy, but that's just a thing with my family. It's normal.
And your scent…. it was intoxicating. It always stood out from theirs. They have scents like sea lavender and bookstores, paint thinner and ocean spray, antiseptic and jasmine, brimstone and wine, sweet apple and jet fuel. Yours though, it was far and beyond the strongest.
You just smelled like… home.
If your nose was as sensitive as mine, from me you'd get sweat, ceder, grass, dirt and iron, plus even more layers that don't have names so much as they have feelings. I've even been told once by my cousin that my scent has hints of chocolate, but I think she was just bullshitting me.
Why am I telling you all of this?
Maybe something will change. Maybe they'll change their mind, and I'll be able to come out of hiding and finally… FINALLY we can meet properly.
I guess I'm just afraid we'll never get our chance.
Shit… I was so close. I could practically touch you. Your scent was stronger too, and no longer mixed with the scents of the others. It was there. YOU were right there.
Years of waiting, gone in less than a week.
And now it gets to the part where I feel like I need to apologize again. There's so much I wanted to say to you, things I wanted to show you and do with you that now…. I might never get the chance. So, just in case, I want to at least tell you. I can't just go without even telling you everything I had hoped and planned for us. I'm sorry if it's a lot, but hell… I had years to think about it.
I wanted to go on long walks with you. It probably seems cliche, but I love the woods. There's something nostalgic about the smell of rotting wood and fresh leaves. The best is either right after it's rained, or just an hour after sunrise when the sun is at the perfect angle to shine through the canopy. It's like a stained glass window. Don't even get me started on the bird song. You would have loved it.
I wanted to spend cozy nights in with you. I'm a big movie buff. You give me a comfy couch, throw blanket and unlimited streaming, I'm a happy guy. Not so big on the horror though, but I'd have watched them with you if they're your favorite. Movies are always better with company anyway. Shit, I was really looking forward to binging all of your favorites with you.
I wanted to take you to meet my family. They would have loved you. Especially my grandma. I told her about you, about how you were a Deepspace Hunter. She told me, "You better be good then, or she'll knock you out!" I bet you could probably give me a run for my money. I always loved a bit of play wrestling, if you know what I mean.
Do you like to cook? I do. Everyone says my recipes are weird, but I like them. I bake sometimes too, though I'm not great at it. I'm still working on perfecting my auntie's chocolate chip cookie recipe. I'm getting pretty close actually. I'd hoped I could have made the perfect batch before we met, but…
Fuck.
There's more. So much more. But my hands are shaking. Too much to say.
I don't want to believe it's all gone. I want to believe there's still a chance. I've never just rolled over for anyone, though I might have for you. But this? I can't. I won't.
I don't want to go yet.
I want those walks through the woods. I want movie and game nights. I want family dinners. I want to go on long drives, with the wind in our hair and the smells of the world rushing past.
I just want to hold you…. is that too much to ask?
I'm sorry.
I really hope this isn't the last time you hear from me. I hope something changes and we are able to meet properly, like we were supposed to. Like we were always meant to.
I just wanted the chance. Even if things didn't work out and you decided you wanted one of the others instead, but… I hoped that we could have at least had the chance to meet and get to know each other first. Even if I wasn't your type, you should have had the opportunity to choose at least.
That choice got taken from you. From both of us.
And I'm sorry.
With any luck, something will change and things will be different. I'll finally be able to tell you all of this and more in person. Hell, maybe you won't even get around to reading this until then, in which case… well, I guess I was afraid for nothing. But like I said, this was important. YOU are important. And it had to be said somehow, even if I feel awkward as hell about it, just in case it was my last chance.
Just promise me something, ok? If things truly have gone sideways and this is the last time I'm able to reach out to you… Live your life in the best way you can. Whatever will make you happy, go for it. Don't hold back, and don't apologize. Even if I can't be there beside you, I just want to know that you're happy. That will at least make the sting of all of this a little easier to bare.
And if you do end up with one of those other guys, they better do a damn good job at filling my shoes. If they don't, well… the next time they're out late at night during a full moon, they just might meet the Big Bad Wolf.
I will be watching, waiting, and hoping that our time will still come someday.
If you're waiting for me too, listen for the howls.
I'll be singing just for you.
- Valko 🐺
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
@lunariadew asked: 'Can you write a poly fic maby like a feel good fic or date night or something with all the boys! I’m greedy and I think there’s not enough poly fics as there should be'
I've wanted to do a fic with all the boys for SO long! (Infold, hire me to write a sitcom-style show for the guys, PLEASE)
Have kept it platonic since it's early stages, but if ppl want more of this, I'm all over it!
Game Night
Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus x Reader
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 coming soon!
Summary: The most important men in your life can manage one evening together, right? For you? Please? Pretty please?
Warnings/Additional Tags: f!reader, a lil conflict, non-canon (I know some of the guys probably know each-other but we're pretending they don't 😇)
“Rafayel… what do you think this is?”
The artist stands at your open door, wearing a self-assured smile and one of the flashier outfits you’ve seen him in (and that’s really saying something). Between you is a bouquet of lilies, petals curled like frozen licks of fire that compliment— deliberately, if you had to guess— the warmer fires within his eyes. Those eyes narrow at your question.
“What do you think it is?” he asks suspiciously, lowering the flowers.
“… Game night?”
You’re not sure why you phrase it so tentatively. You know what it is; you’re the host. You open your door wider, stepping aside to give Rafayel a better view of the apartment behind you, and the remainder of his smile sinks.
“Hi!” Xavier calls out, and you don’t have to see him to know he’s giving a wholesome sort of wave.
“Hey,” Rafayel answers, gaze darting between everyone else in the room. He’s the last to arrive. “Game night, yeah,” he nods assertively, “I knew that.” Then a deep breath: “Can I, like, put these somewhere…?”
“Kitchen counter,” you gesture.
“Got it.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice. Closing the door behind him, you watch as he skirts past the lounge and makes for your kitchen, where another bouquet is already lying, awaiting a vase. He zeroes in on it like a fly sensing rot. “Looks like mine’s not the only heart you’re breaking tonight, huh, cutie? What are these?” He pokes at a petal. “Daturas?”
“They’re her favourite,” speaks a distinctly low voice.
Rafayel doesn’t look up. He plonks his bouquet on top of the other and winces: “They’re really not, though.”
“He’s right,” you chip in— the addendum made with a sheepish smile in Sylus’s direction. Now Rafayel chooses to look up, beaming.
“It’s roses,” Zayne clarifies for you, as matter-of-factly as he’d quote a medical journal. On the sofa beside him, Xavier nods, and you grin at them both.
“Noted,” Sylus chuckles.
Rafayel is less convinced. “Since when?!”
“Since forever, Raf. I like lilies and daturas too, so I didn’t say anything, okay? I’m not picky! Now c’mere…” You beckon him back to the lounge, ignoring his splutters of disbelief. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”
The man slinks to your side like a reluctant shadow, and your hands find your hips.
“This is Zayne. Xavier,” you point out, putting faces to names; Rafayel’s heard stories about each. Then you nod towards Sylus. “Over there is Skye.”
From his place by the window, Sylus lifts a hand in greeting.
“So… yeah,” you conclude. Oh, wait! “Guys, this is—”
“They know who I am,” Rafayel shrugs, his fame apparently heavy on his shoulders. He looks around the room for validation, but gets none, so he makes a more obvious grab. “You do know who I am, right?”
“Sorry, no,” Xavier admits with an awkward smile, glancing back at Sylus: you?
Sylus has to think about it. You know for a fact he’s traded more than one of Rafayel’s paintings for a profit, but he smirks and gives an even more exaggerated shrug than the artist himself.
You narrow your eyes. Really?
“You’re Rafayel,” Zayne states plainly.
“Yeah! See, I told you, cutie—”
“You slipped on a paintbrush and checked yourself into Akso. The nurses still talk about it.”
Rafayel’s enthusiasm drains. His posture slackens. “In, like… a good way?” he hazards.
Zayne stares back at him, wielding silence like the threat of a scalpel. Then, an incision: “… Sure.”
You bite back a smile. Leaving the two to discuss the finer details of Rafayel’s notoriety at the hospital, you wander over to the kitchen, where you fish out a vase from the back of a cupboard. You fill it, set it down on the counter, then reach for Sylus’s bouquet. A black satin ribbon binds the flowers together; you slide it undone.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, sweetie?” asks the man himself, joining you discreetly.
The others can’t hear you; they’re still talking. Well… bickering. “What,” you smirk, retrieving scissors from a drawer, “you worried Xavier’s gonna arrest you?”
Sylus laughs lowly, quietly. “That’s adorable.”
“Good.” You pick up a flower and trim a leaf from the stem. “Because even if he wanted to?” It’s waved, just short of his face. “I’d protect you, okay?”
He regards the flower beneath his nose. Smiles. “These can be toxic, sweetie.”
“Really? Whoops.” You put it down, then snatch up a fire lily from Rafayel’s bouquet. “En Garde!”
“These too.”
“What the hell?”
The flame-red flower drops from your fingers, and Sylus laughs more sincerely. “Stick to roses, kitten. Or…” He moves his hand over his deconstructed bouquet, his Evol pruning the rest of the leaves from the stems. A tendril of it gathers the flowers, delivering them to him so he can hold them out to you with a flourish. “Live dangerously. Who am I to judge?”
You take them, then plop them into the vase. “Cute.”
“I’m here all week,” he grins. “You’d better wash your hands, hmm?”
With a hmph of agreement, you turn to the sink. You spend half a minute rubbing soap and warm water over your hands, and when you turn back around? Something is different. Missing.
The fire lilies are gone.
Sylus is looking at you— a nonchalant bystander, minding his business.
“Real mature, Skye.”
He makes no effort to defend himself. You’re about to tell him his magic better extend to making flowers reappear when your attention is jolted back to the lounge. The voices from that side of your apartment have raised, so you lean forward on your kitchen island, watching their owners. It’s a stakeout.
“I take it you have a plan?” Sylus whispers, leaning in with you.
You glare at him. He smiles back. “The plan is for hosts,” you scold, “not guests.” He’s close— his nose almost brushing yours— so you step away, reaching for the vase of daturas and holding them out like you’re not afraid to use them. “Go back to the guests, deserter.”
Sylus lifts his hands in surrender, smirking in a way that says he concedes… for now. You usher him back into enemy lines, then resume your stakeout. Xavier is sharing his own ‘embarrassing’ medical story— talking about a time where he once passed out from exhaustion while fighting at your side during a Hunter’s Contest. You think it’s supposed to make Rafayel feel better.
It doesn’t, of course, and even Zayne is gazing down at the floor, self-conscious.
Sylus meets your eyes across the room. Signals with a tip of his head: now’s a good time for that master plan, sweetie.
Right. Your plan. Your master plan, yeah.
…
“You should have picked the doctor.”
Sylus’s words are near-silent: intended for you, not anyone else, and you pretend you don’t hear them. “But no…” he carries on in a whispered drawl, because he knows you’re pretending, “you just had to have the artist.”
“It’s Pictionary!” you snap.
Lounging beside you, Sylus lifts his eyebrows in ‘surprise’, while on the other sofa, Zayne and Xavier stare, actually taken aback. You give a smile of apology. Briefly fantasize about beating Sylus with a cushion.
“Guys, concentrate!” Rafayel clicks his fingers at you. He’s stood by a large drawing pad, and he goes back to frantically sketching on it now he has your attention. The drawing is… interesting. Abstract. Maybe even beautiful? But you don’t have a clue what it is.
“Twenty seconds,” warns Zayne, studying the little egg-timer he’s guarding.
You tilt your head at the drawing. There’s maybe a— wait, where did those extra colours come from? Where did he even get those pens?! Anyway, there’s a circle. “A globe?” you guess. “Earth! No? Umm… oh! The sun! The moon!”
Rafayel shakes his head with every suggestion, adding even more intricate, unhelpful scribbles. Is that a fifth pen?! You nudge your other teammate, calling for back-up.
Sylus regards the drawing listlessly. “A unicorn.”
“What?!” Rafayel’s tone has reached a pitch that makes you grimace. “No! C’mon, are you even trying?”
“No,” Sylus lilts with a pleasant smile, lifting the drink he’s been nursing to his lips.
You kick his foot. “A bowl of fruit!” you exclaim, determined to make up for the lack of enthusiasm. “A plate? A plate with food? Breakfast! Lunch! Dinner!”
“Time’s up,” Zayne interrupts, and it’s a mercy, really; you deflate with a sigh.
Rafayel puts his hands on his hips as he takes a step back to observe his work. He tucks four fine-liners back into his pocket— purses his lips as though he really can’t see a problem— and he’s keeping you all in suspense. What is it? You want to know. You have to know.
Sylus is up in an instant, stealing Rafayel’s prompt card from where it’s been discarded on the coffee table. He reads the answer, then rolls his eyes. The original pen was also abandoned, so he plucks it up, then strides to the drawing pad.
He draws an oval. Then a triangle.
“A fish! A fish!” you cry out.
“You’re good at this, sweetie,” Sylus grins. He puts the lid on the pen with a click before dropping it into Rafayel’s hand.
“Oh, is it my turn?” Xavier asks, trying to relieve the tension of the room. He gets up and smiles as Rafayel passes him the pen. “Your drawing is pretty. The composition is really—”
“Don’t,” Rafayel says. “Like, thanks? But don’t.”
“Fair enough,” Xavier chuckles.
You all prepare for the next round: Zayne handing you the egg-timer, Xavier re-organising the stack of prompt cards. Sylus takes a photo of the drawing pad before ambling back over— a moping Rafayel in tow— and they both sink down either side of you. You glance at the latter, giggling. “A fish, Raf? Really?”
“So I didn’t just wanna draw you some basic fish, okay?” The artist crosses his arms with a pout. “But fine! Enjoy mediocrity, I guess.”
To your left, Sylus raises his glass in toast to the notion. There’s a noise: Xavier tearing the used page away from the pad. You look up. “Xavier, can I have that?”
“Sure!” He brings it over to you.
You look at the drawing again, holding it at arm’s length and rotating it experimentally. You’re seeing a lot, but nothing that screams ‘fish’. There’s a circle, still. Oh! “It’s a fish bowl! Wait, wait, wait— is that Reddie?”
“Yeah!” Rafayel beams.
“Aww!”
The renewed team spirit drops off with Sylus; he’s on his phone, not paying attention. He seems to sense your scrutiny, because he peers up, gives a ghost of a smile, then returns to whatever he’s doing. Meanwhile, Xavier is ready for his turn, so he signals for you to start the timer. You give him a thumbs up as you turn it over. “Go!”
He starts drawing.
“A car,” Zayne guesses after all of five seconds. Correct. Next. “A river? No? Oh, a snake.” Yes. “A cupcake?” Also yes. (In fairness, he was never going to struggle with that one.) “A person? Okay. Oh, a scientist, no? Ah, a doctor.” Yes again, and really— what?
Zayne continues to list correct answers. You watch on, vaguely in awe, until you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. You check it casually, aware that Sylus is next to you, looking down at it too.
It’s a text from him: The drawing… Can I have it?
You glance up at him subtly, meeting his eyes and giving a discreet yet firm shake of your head. He frowns. You’re not having this debate here, now, so you let your gaze return to the drawing pad while idly retrieving your drink.
A few seconds later, there’s another text: Found buyer
Then another: Quarter of a mil
You almost choke on that drink.
“Umm… cutie?” Rafayel asks, poking you. He points at the timer you’ve left on the coffee table, and the top half is empty.
“Shit, yeah. That’s time!” you call.
Xavier stops drawing. The small, crude sketches behind him have reached double digits; he’s glowing with the same pride he wears when his weekly Wanderer kill-count hits triple. “Great! How many was that?”
His eyes find you. Zayne and Rafayel’s, too. Were you supposed to be counting? Uh…
“Eleven,” says Sylus, and it’s way too smug to be a lie.
“Awesome!” Xavier flips the drawing pad over to where you’ve been tallying point totals. He adds eleven marks to one side. “That’s—” he counts both— “ah, thirty-three to nine.”
A silence falls over the room. Unsure of what else to do, you give a half-hearted round of applause at which Xavier laughs awkwardly, still humble, despite it all. “I think we’re kinda done with Pictionary, yeah?” you suggest, rising from your seat. “I should probably get started on food, anyway.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
The insistence came from Xavier, and you freeze suspiciously; he’s never turned down free food.
“You’ve already done so much,” he explains, “setting this all up for us. You should relax, really! Leave it to me.”
The word ‘relax’ is not synonymous with the image of Xavier anywhere near your kitchen, but he’s looking at you so earnestly, blue eyes brimming with warmth, and what are you supposed to say? No thanks, Xavier— I value my life? Everyone’s watching you. Gods help you. “That’s really sweet, Xavier. Thanks.”
Your fellow Hunter’s smile widens even more. He heads off to the kitchen, a spring to his step that makes your heart sink with dread. “Actually—” you glance at your ex-teammates— “could you two go help him? Zayne and I’ll tidy up over here.”
Rafayel and Sylus do as they’re asked, even though their expressions complain that cooking is not, typically, a three-man job. It’s a tactical reassignment, though; you wanted a moment alone with Zayne. “Are you okay?” you ask, once the others are out of earshot. “I know this must all be a lot. The guys can be, well… yeah.”
He knows what you mean, right?
Zayne has slipped away from the couch; he’s crouched on the floor, collecting a few prompt cards that have wandered astray. He glances up at you, pushing his glasses back on his nose. “I’m okay,” he assures with a fond smile. “Thank you, though.”
“You’re welcome.” He hands you the cards and you slot them back into their deck. Then you turn to the drawing pad, studying the difference in scores. “You and Xavier make a good team, huh?”
The doctor straightens to his full height. “Mm. It helped that we didn’t spend the entire game comparing the size of our… drawing abilities.”
You laugh unashamedly. The pen’s still at-hand, so you pick it up— reward another point to his team.
Zayne chuckles.
“Food’s gonna be a while.”
You both turn, following the voice back to Sylus, who’s apparently decided he’s had his fill of kitchen duty. What was that— a minute? He seems to have anticipated your dissatisfaction, because he’s brought a bribe with him: the box of chocolates that had come with his bouquet. It’s already open, and he holds it out, tempting you.
He’s right— you don’t know when you’ll next be eating something that won’t kill you— so you select a heart-shaped chocolate, popping it into your mouth with a smile and a muffled: “thanks.”
Sylus smiles back. Then he holds the box out to Zayne. “Doctor?”
It takes a nod of encouragement from you to prompt Zayne into taking something. He chooses a white chocolate truffle, mumbles his own thanks, but Sylus doesn’t relent— not yet. He shakes the box slightly, enticingly, and he doesn’t move it away until Zayne takes two more.
Your physician shoots you a surreptitious smile as Sylus falls back onto the couch, content he’s won your hearts, and that he won’t be sent back to the kitchen anytime soon. His long fingers lift another chocolate from the box, and he meets your eyes as he slips it slowly past his lips, humming like he’s enjoying himself. It’s nothing short of pornographic.
You cross your arms, unimpressed. He gives you the least convincing look of innocence you’ve ever seen.
There’s an exclamation from the kitchen:
“Hey, where did my flowers go!?”
Shit. You hastily push the drawing pad aside, scurrying over to assist Rafayel. You don’t have a plan, exactly; it’s not like you can help him look for them. Sylus might have sent them into the Deepspace Tunnel, for all you know. “Umm… they’re around, Raf. I moved them somewhere safer, that’s all.”
“Where?”
“Uh…”
“Does it matter?” Sylus speaks from behind you, because he and Zayne trail loyally at your heels. “They’re somewhere safe, didn’t you hear? Or…” He leans against the counter. “Are you calling our host a liar?”
Rafayel scoffs. “What? No! Don’t— ugh, you’re twisting my words!”
Sylus is close again, his breath tickling your ear. “I would never call you a liar, sweetie.”
“Skye…” you caution, stepping pointedly aside, “stop.”
Sylus does stop, but not because you told him to. He’s done enough, hasn’t he? Rafayel is bristling with indignance— a short fuse lit by an incendiary red gaze. Across the kitchen, Xavier is sneakily checking the trash can, looking relieved by what he doesn’t find. Then there’s a subtle glance to you: Hey… where actually are the flowers?
You lift a shoulder an inch: Beats me!
A soft, almost imperceptible crackle turns the quiet into a monologue, coaxing your focus to the daturas on the kitchen island between you. They’ve caught light— their petals twisting, darkening, within larger flowers of fire.
“Rafayel!” you gasp. “No, no, no, the fire alarm!”
The torched flowers are encased, all of a sudden, in a fine layer of shimmering frost: looking more like crystal than something that ever craved sunlight. Sylus blinks down at them, unmoved by their destruction. Zayne’s hand is still outstretched, snowflakes etched over his palm.
Then something odd happens; the ice doesn’t stop. It creeps down the flower stalks, soon claiming your vase, and then the countertop, to your bewilderment.
“Zayne?” Your voice is fraught with worry, but you don’t care about your kitchen.
The doctor winces— a distracted, anxious acknowledgement of your presence— but he’s losing his fight with himself. The silver-white patterns have crawled up his wrist, disappearing into his sleeve so you can no longer keep track of their progress. They might stop there. They might go further.
You think you can see them peeking over his collar. On the kitchen island, the ice is spreading: sharpening into points that inch out into every free space. Even Sylus steps back.
“Zayne…” you try again.
He drags air through his teeth, and the kitchen goes still. Spikes of ice glisten between you. The ones close to the oven drip, drip onto the tiled floor, spattering in cold, tiny puddles, and the silence is just as slippery.
Your other guests don’t dare move— they're suspended by that momentary uncertainty that always marks the discovery of something dangerous. You share café-tables with that danger, though. Entrust your heart to it at bi-monthly appointments.
You rush to Zayne’s side, taking his hand so you can warm the unease from his fingertips.
“What was that?!” Rafayel exclaims, his palm caging a pinkish flame so he can thaw an icicle too close to his face for comfort.
Xavier answers: “He wouldn’t have needed to use his Evol if you hadn’t used yours.”
It’s an argument you’d expect from Sylus. The Hunter’s tone is gentle, but there’s something behind it this time: frustration that lends his innocuity an edge.
Rafayel hears it too. “Hey, I’m not the one who started this!” He points to Sylus. “He—”
“Has been lighting fires all evening,” Xavier finishes. “But at least his were only figurative.”
Sylus laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh where you just know he’s vying to make things worse. “Look at that,” he says, “the boy next door can bite.”
Xavier’s eyes sharpen. Beside you, Zayne slips his hand from the sheath of yours. It’s an instinct you know well: when the safety on your gun becomes a few seconds you don’t want to lose. Precautionary. Anticipatory.
This moment is waiting for a spark.
“Guys…” you manage to get out, “please, just… everyone take a breath, okay? No harm’s done, everything’s fine. Raf, you can help me thaw the kitchen. The rest of you can just—”
A spark.
There’s smoke. Actual smoke. “Xavier, behind you!” Zayne alerts.
It’s seeping out of the oven and Xavier turns— eyes wide— to throw open the door before any of you can stop him. Thicker smoke billows out, filling the air, and you scramble backwards, burying your face in the crook of your arm. Sometime between you yelling at Xavier to get away from the oven, Zayne calling out fire safety instructions, and Rafayel and Sylus ‘helping’ each-other away from the smoke, the fire alarm triggers. Sylus is shouting. Maybe Zayne, too. You can’t tell; the alarm is louder, shriller. It’s making you dizzy.
Or is it the smoke? You try to spot Xavier through the plumes, your eyes watering. You’ll have to venture into the thick of it. Get closer. You can almost make out a—
A hand lands on your shoulder, and everything changes.
Nothingness, for a second: black as deepspace. Then your senses are alive— cold air brushing over your skin, filling your mouth and the word you never managed to utter: Wait!
Vague voices resonate nearby. A street— cars, pedestrians, noise. Your alarm is echoing, far away. You’re stood on the pavement outside your building, staring up at line after line of shining windows, and yours is the easiest to spot; it’s flashing red with lights.
Sylus leans into your field of vision, repeating your name, voice bleeding into focus. “Stay here,” he’s saying, squeezing your shoulder briefly, “you’ll only make things worse.”
He’s gone in another moment, lost to a swirling flicker of crimson-black darkness, ebony feathers, and he’s right, you know he’s right. Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel… Sylus. They can all take care of themselves, but that actuality slips whenever you’re in the picture— becomes something expendable.
You put four self-sacrificing idiots in a room together. Let Xavier near your oven.
Gods, you’re so stupid.
…
You sit on a low wall outside your building, and the street is thick with people. Most of them are your neighbours: united by a common address, and now, a bitterness towards you. You didn’t just sabotage your own evening— no, you had to take everyone else’s with you. You’re waiting for the fire alarm to cut out. The all-clear to be given. The fire wasn’t that serious in the end, but there’s still a procedure.
This isn’t exactly your first evacuation.
The guys all made it out safely, which is good, because you get to kill them later. Each has gotten lost in the throng— Zayne playing diplomat, Rafayel offering autographs and selfie opportunities. ‘Skye’ is on a charm offensive with his wallet (the fruit business is very lucrative, these days).
Your neighbours can keep the lot of them. With any luck, they’ll kill them for you.
“Hey, cutie.”
You’d been staring down at your feet, but you look up at Rafayel’s voice. He’s coming towards you, evoking a sense of déjà vu, because he’s clutching a bouquet of flame lilies. That’s… the bouquet of flame lilies. How—?
“Skye gave ‘em back to me,” he explains, chuckling at your transparent expression, and he’s close enough now to hold the flowers out to you. “I don’t know where he was keeping them. His Evol’s weird, huh?”
“Yeah,” you say timidly, taking the bouquet and gazing down into the petals; they still smell sweet.
Rafayel sits next to you, shuffling close, and he leans his head on your shoulder with a tired sigh. You want to be mad at him. You really, really do— but you’re suddenly not.
“I’m sorry, Rafayel.” The admission barely escapes your throat.
You feel his head lift. “You’re sorry?”
“I know it was just a misunderstanding,” you speak into the flowers, “but tonight… wasn’t what you were expecting. I get it. I mean, I kinda threw you into the deep end with all this. You didn’t know you were gonna be around other people, and I—”
“Whoa… cut that out, yeah? You’re killing me, cutie. I spend the whole evening causing trouble, and you’re gonna take all the blame? Nope. Nuh-uh. Not happening. It was a collaborative effort at least, okay?”
You giggle. “Okay.”
“Good.” His head slumps back down on your shoulder, and yours relaxes against it. “Thanks, though. Really,” he murmurs, heartfelt and quiet.
Footsteps draw you from the intimacy of the moment. The others are wandering back to you, having finally escaped the mob of your neighbours. They all look tired. Xavier settles down the other side of you, and Zayne sits beside him. Sylus takes the seat next to Rafayel with a performative huff.
All of you sit in silence, gazes torn between your window— still flashing lights and shadowy figures— and everyone else who’s been evacuated. For the first time all evening, the quiet isn’t tense. It’s peaceful. Easy.
“We’ll do better next time,” Zayne speaks softly.
Next time? You scoff. “Do any of you actually want there to be a next time?”
“I had fun,” Sylus chuckles. He’s taken his coin from his pocket, and he flips it, amusing himself.
“I had fun too,” Xavier grins.
“Cooking again, Xavier?” quips one of your neighbours as they pass by.
Your partner laughs, but you can tell it’s forced, so you squeeze his hand in reassurance. His heart was in the right place; it’s one of the few that always is.
You nudge Rafayel away from you so you can sit up straighter, your free hand rubbing over the prickled skin of your arm. You’re about to ask one of them for a jacket when something heavy drapes over your shoulders. It’s a coat— still warm— and its owner is stood behind you; you didn’t even notice him get up.
Boss-man 2nd anniversary!❤️🐦⬛
Honored to be reach out for be part of this Sylus 2nd anniversary project planned by @/SYLUSBDAY (on Twitter/X)🙇🏻♀️🥹 i'm incredibly thankfull for invite me and be part of it with all those amazing artist🫶🏻🙇🏻♀️
Part 1 * Part 2 * Part 3 * Part 4 * Part 5 * Part 6
to be continued...
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"House Guest" is a Deleted Scene comic from my FanFic "Gravity", which is the 2nd in a series. You can read the comic without reading Gravity or it's predecessor "Greedy", but I'd recommend it!
Link to the full comic on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84944561/chapters/224234201
Frost & Feathers series (feat. GREEDY & GRAVITY), for those who want to read the full fics this scene was almost a part of: https://archiveofourown.org/series/5732626
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I'm considering starting a tag list. If anyone wants to get notified whenever I update this, let me know in the comments and I'll add you <3
When your daughter's psychiatrist suggests you get in touch with your abusive ex-husband in prison for her sake, you're not thrilled. Fortunately for you, he's dead. Unfortunately for you, someone else is alive and very keen on playing the part of a doting father. wc: 3.1k
Anyone who saw the way you were glaring at the red envelope sitting on your kitchen counter would assume you were trying to vaporize it through thought alone.
When your daughter's recuring nightmares had made you consult a children's psychiatrist, she'd come to the conclusion that your daughter missed her deadbeat of a father.
"He's in jail" You'd deadpanned.
"Perhaps, she could visit?"
"Thank you"
You weren't interested in any suggestions the psychiatrist had to make that revolved around getting your daughter involved with your criminal of a husband. Not that you could even if you wanted to.
Hell didn't really have a visitors' policy.
As you absentmindedly braided her hair that night, you wondered if it was your bad luck or good grace that he'd been killed in a riot in jail. When the penitentiary had phoned for you to come and identify his body, you'd been scared.
Scared that it wouldn't be him and the bastard would've cheated death itself.
You decided there was no need for your daughter to ever know what kind of person her father was. But as she grew older and the neighbors' kids started talking, it was clearly affecting her more than you'd realized.
"Hey, Bun" You softly turned her to face you "Do you miss Daddy?"
Her eyes widened like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar before she hid her hands behind her back, shoulders drooping "No.."
"It's okay if you do" You reassured her. You couldn't blame her for feeling left out when she watched all the little kids get picked up by both their parents. It was obvious she'd wonder why she didn't have that.
You weighed your options. If you played it right, you could satisfy her and also keep her in the dark at the same time.
"Would you like to write him a letter?"
Tears sprang to your eyes when you saw how instantly she bloomed in joy, nodding vigorously and trying to escape your hold so she could do it immediately. You stopped her, promised you'd help her write it the next day if she went to bed at once.
Three days after she posted her letter, you brought one home with a flourish, telling her that her father had written back after all!
If the little lie you told was the reason your daughter had the dopiest smile on her face, you'd never feel guilty for it ever again. Especially not as you tucked her into bed that night, her little fist still clutching the letter like it was her lifeline.
It was only a few days later that you felt your heartbeat nearly triple when she rushed into the house, clutching a blood red envelope "Mommy! Mommy look!" You'd been folding laundry when she barreled into your legs "Daddy wrote letter again!"
You didn't mean to, but you snatched the letter from between her hands so fast, it startled her. Lower lip wobbling, you saw the tears well up in her eyes and immediately decided to do damage control.
"Daddy said I should only give you this letter if you freshen up for dinner quickly!"
When your daughter turned and sprinted for the bathroom, you couldn't believe it had worked. Abandoning the laundry, you tore the envelope open and started reading.
My dearest Princess,
Daddy very much misses you as well. I'm always thinking of my precious daughter.
P.S You are very good at drawing! I'm proud of you.
Love,
Daddy
You stared in disbelief. Sure, you had really posted the letter to the penitentiary when your daughter had insisted to take it all the way to the post office herself. You'd come up with a random serial number on the spot and figured they'd just toss the letter when they realized there was no one with that number on the roster.
Not only had someone received her letter...they'd also written back? In character?
The obvious conclusion is that it's an accident. An obvious mix-up. But your daughter is so ecstatic, you can't possibly break her heart like this.
So, you let her write a letter back. Again going to the post office and posting it.
When the third letter comes back from the prison, you decide to take matters in your own hands. Writing a little letter of your own and enclosing it with your daughter's drawings.
I really appreciate you humoring my daughter, but this was just a way to cope since her father is dead. There is no need to keep up with the farce.
I don't mind it. I quite enjoy her little sketches of the three of us. Tell her that Daddy's hair is lighter in color (:
I will not be telling her anything of the sort.
So cutthroat. You wound me, darling.
Despite yourself, you found your lips lifting at his words, but you caught yourself in record time, shoving the little note in your jeans as you quickly skimmed over his letter to your daughter before you deemed it okay to hand it to her.
She squealed with delight, clutching her new bunny by the ear as she thundered down to her room to read her letter in "secret". You watched her go till she was out of sight, still staring after her and wondering if it really was a bad idea to exchange harmless letters. If some bored criminal wanted to play house with your daughter over some letters, was there really any real danger to it?
You'd always check the letter she'd write, illegible as it was, to see if she didn't accidentally reveal any information about herself. And after she'd go to sleep, you'd only change one little thing.
Erasing her name at the bottom, you used your non-dominant hand to sign a pet name. Not once had you let your daughter's letters carry her real name over to a criminal. For the sake of her mental health, you'd allowed the letters, but this was non-negotiable to you.
Like clockwork, every Tuesday his letter arrives, you skim the contents before re-sealing it and handing it over to your daughter when she comes home from pre-school. Subsequently, you post her letter every Wednesday evening, using an address that was four blocks away from yours, belonging to the sweetest old lady who lived by herself and had dementia. You felt horrible taking advantage of the fact that she never checked her mail so you could always just conveniently swipe out the letters from her mailbox, but you brought her enough baked goods to make up for it. The letters you sent were just addressed to the penitentiary; with the serial number of an inmate you'd never know the owner of.
He signed his letters Skye but after having lived a life in hiding with a criminal, you'd learned not to trust the lot. If your daughter's deteriorating mental state hadn't been in question, the first letter would've never gone out.
One Tuesday evening, your daughter pulls at your pants to grab your attention and gives you a tiny note that she says is from Daddy. Your senses immediately go on high alert, wondering how you could've missed it, worrying he's said something inexcusable and you would have to stop this little pen pal relationship.
Am I not allowed to know what my daughter looks like?
You feel a vein throbbing in your forehead, smiling at your daughter as she stares at you with her big doe-like eyes before you distract her with a snack.
If he wants to know what your daughter looked like, he would do something crazy like wanting to meet her if he ever got out. And if that wasn't bad, he'd probably kidnap her or do something inane, maybe he was already plotting it. Feeling your heart drop to your chest, you decide it really was the end.
That week, you don't send your daughter's letter. It remains in an unmarked envelope, hidden on the top shelf of your closet in a big box at the very back. The Wednesday of the week after, you wake up in cold sweat wondering if he sent a letter anyway. The morning of, you drop by the old lady's mailbox and quickly look through her mail just in case and sigh in relief when there's nothing in it.
The next week, you can't help the dread as you're swiping through the mailbox again, realizing how stupid you'd been. Not only had you probably endangered your daughter, but also the sweet old lady who always babysat for you whenever you had to pull extra shifts at work.
You can't keep the guilt off your face when you run into her at the grocery store that weekend, paying for her share as well when you realize she didn't remember to bring her wallet with her, heart pinching in agony at having taken advantage of her situation. Your daughter is skipping in front as you carry all the grocery bags, dropping the old lady off at her place with her stuff. She insists you stay for tea and you're about to decline but she's already bribed your daughter with cake and it's too late to retreat.
The sun is setting in streaks of orange and blue when you finally wave goodbye to her, adjusting the beanie on your daughter's head before she runs off again. You cross the mailbox, your stomach dropping as you backtrack and decide to doubly check.
Your hands are sweaty, forehead perspiring as you pluck out the blood red envelope, gulping as the dread overwhelms you, like hands wrapping around your throat and squeezing squeezing squeezing to see how long you'd last.
You quickly shove the letter inside your purse before your daughter can catch sight of it. There was no way she was going to read it- if at all- without you proofreading it first.
The entire walk home, you cannot keep your eyes off her. Heart palpitating like any minute you expect someone to pick her off the street and run away where you could never find her again.
Your mind is on the contents of the letter throughout preparing dinner, watching your daughter's favorite show, her bath time, reading her a story to bed and finally, like all the other nights for the past week reassuring her that her Daddy does love her even if he's not written back in a while.
By the time you're finally alone, you're about ready to rip off your hair from its roots as you hastily open the envelope and pluck the letter out.
You skim the letter, it is inconspicuous, nothing suggesting that he never received another letter, keeping the conversation going like always. Asked her about school, her best friend Kara (who was a plushie, but he'd never know) and what kind of cake she liked. Totally innocent. Picking up where they'd previously left off.
You checked for another note, and sure enough there was one. Hands trembling, you opened the twofold and started reading.
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
You'd have appreciated the sarcasm if your knees weren't fighting the urge to buckle and give in from the dread.
I suppose I have scared you with my little request. Thus, the lack of letters from your end for the past couple weeks. I apologize for the same, I only realized the implications of my request afterwards. I meant no harm and would understand if you would like to stop completely.
You trusted the man as far as you could throw him. Considering you knew nothing about him; you decided even that was unreliable.
But once in a while, with your permission of course, if the little bunny draws any more pictures, I'd be very much interested in seeing them.
In sickness and in health,
Daddy
You huffed out a laugh at his audacity, feeling your chest deflate. Years spent trusting your instinct to protect your daughter had wound you so tight that feeling even a single knot loosen was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.
As you posted your daughter's letter that Wednesday, you couldn't help but laugh at your inside joke, wondering how he'd take it. If his previous demeanor was anything to go by, you were guessing it'd be in stride.
"Mail!"
Complete silence filled the yard, all the inmates stopping where they were, at odds with how they'd usually be clawing over each other to get their mail first.
Because no one touched their letters till he had taken his.
The crowd parted like the red sea, hordes of men in orange clearing a path till the mailman who, for all the brave face he put on, was trembling in his pants as well. He could feel the bead of sweat on his back, lining his forehead as he watched him approach, praying to all the Gods up in Heaven that someone- anyone had written this man a letter.
When he'd realized there was no letter for him, yet again, no one had been allowed to take theirs. Not because he forbade them, but because they were scared of what he'd do.
He'd not raised his voice, barely bothered looking intimidating and yet no one stood in his vicinity as he carded through the envelopes, not finding one for himself before asking in a saccharine tone "Are you sure you didn't misplace any?"
The first week, the mailman had been cocky, confident. He'd tched as he snatched the mail back, wondering why no one else was stepping forward "Don't blame me just 'cuz there ain't a letter for you in here ya bloke"
But when no one else stepped forward to take their mail, all that confidence had wavered as he looked around at downcast eyes, no one willing to risk upsetting him any more than he already was.
For the past two weeks, inmates had been avoiding him like the plague. He wasn't amiable on any day but if he didn't receive his letters on Friday, it was a long weekend for all of them.
Especially the ones who challenged him in the ring on Saturday nights.
The second week, it was a similar outcome. The mailman didn't understand what exactly was going on but the nervous, fidgety energy of the inmates was making him nervous as he watched him go through the envelopes and come up empty.
This time he'd just raised an eyebrow, making the mailman sweat "I didn't misplace any!" The desperation and fear ringing clear in his voice.
He'd smiled, crimson eyes glimmering in the sunlight "No one's blaming you" He'd turned around but the wind still carried over the last word "Yet"
The mailman had found himself rechecking for any lost envelopes thrice. He didn't know what would become of him if he returned another week without a letter.
Everyone waited with bated breath as he flipped through the stack of mail the mailman had just handed over and a collective sigh of relief escaped when he plucked out a measly white envelope, lips lifting in a sinister smirk as he handed the rest of the stack back, uncaring of the crowd descending on the poor mailman now that they had the green signal.
He returned to his cell, littered with drawings lining the walls surrounding a single bed, desk and chair. His fingers were twitching with excitement as he tore open the envelope and three things fell out.
He picked up the one on the top first. His daughter had written back to him finally, describing in great detail that she had won a finger-painting competition in school, that Kara came second, her favorite cake was "stroubery". A wry smile lifted his lips at the little sketch of the cake next to the text with cherries lining the top.
Like always, she'd signed it
Luv u forehver
Princess Bunny
He admired your resolute, truly. Your daughter's writing was so dark that it would leave indents behind the paper and yet, you'd erase her name so cleanly every time that despite multiple attempts at shading over the lines of the pencil indents, he was yet to figure out her name.
Picking up the second letter, he couldn't help the smirk spreading over his lips when he saw what you'd addressed it.
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
God, he wanted to see you mouth off to him in person so bad.
I've attached a picture of her.
He was so surprised that he immediately dropped your letter to look at the polaroid you'd sent him. One he stared at for all of two seconds before throwing his head back and barking with laughter, unable to help himself as his shoulders shook with mirth.
Beautiful, isn't she?
She looks forward to your letters so I suppose you can keep sending them.
In happiness and in sorrow,
Mommy
Resting his forehead on the letter, he could faintly smell the perfume lingering on it and wondered what you looked like. He'd spent almost every day since your first letter wondering who you could possibly be. Sure, he had no reason to lie here and actually complete his sentence, he could get out whenever he wanted but he looked forward to his daughter's letters. There was no fun in finding out who you were through Luke and Keiran when he was sure he could get you to come to him. And you would. Slowly but surely.
As he pinned up the latest letter next to the others, he also pinned the polaroid next to it, unable to escape the huff of laughter escaping him when he gazed at the ultrasound.
Sylus would make you his. There was simply no other option.
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
She is, indeed the most beautiful little princess I've ever seen. She takes after her mother, I'm sure. For research purposes, would you be willing to provide evidence I can submit?
To have and to hold,
Daddy
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Do you want my ultrasound too?
For better or for worse,
Mommy
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
I don't mind. Although, I'll admit I usually save the ultrasounds for a third date.
For richer or for poorer,
Daddy
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Unfortunately for you, I don't have those ultrasounds or a third date for you.
To love and to cherish,
Mommy
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Why don't we start at a first one then? I would like to know the color of your eyes.
Till' death do us part,
Daddy
A/N: This has been marinating in my drafts for two months now. Time to unlock multiple chapter fics<3
synopsis: after a disastrous day on set, rafayel turns up at sylus’s apartment looking for whisky, attention, and a fight he can flirt his way through. what begins as sharp banter and petty provocation soon slips into something far more dangerous: being wanted by the one man who refuses to be fooled by the performance.
cw/tw: sylus x rafayel. crowfish. rafayel!actor x sylus!sponsor au. li x li. nsfw. mdni. smut. blowjob. brat behaviour from fishboy. teasing. anal penetration. edging. light powerplay. smut without plot.
read here: ao3 ⋅ tumblr
a/n: a little resurrection of a fic i once removed from the world. also, yes, i am deeply fond of watching my two men remember how much they enjoy each other.
Rafayel had spent years perfecting the art of appearing carelessly beautiful.
It required more effort than most people realised.
A jacket slipping from one shoulder could suggest exhaustion, provided it fell at the correct angle. Three undone buttons whispered of heat and impatience; four began to look desperate. Even the arrangement of his limbs across Sylus’s obscenely expensive sofa had been considered, though only briefly, because too much thought ruined the instinctive quality of the thing.
One leg stretched along the cushions. The other hung over the armrest, loafer still attached, its sole hovering perilously close to the pale upholstery. Beneath the open edges of his shirt, studio powder clung to the warm hollow between his collarbones.
He looked ravaged.
Tastefully so.
“They made me kiss her twenty-two times.”
At the windows, Sylus unfastened his watch. The clasp made a small metallic sound. Nothing else followed.
Rafayel tilted the whisky glass balanced against his stomach and watched amber climb the crystal. It was Sylus’s whisky, naturally. His own collection contained rare bottles, beautifully labelled and mostly chosen for sentimental reasons. Sylus bought liquor as though preparing to bribe kings.
“Twenty-two,” he repeated, placing great significance upon each syllable. “I can still taste her lipstick. Cherry. Artificial cherry. The sort that makes you think of cough medicine and poor decisions behind a nightclub.”
Sylus laid the watch beside his keys.
There came no sympathy from him, or even the grudging noise he sometimes made when acknowledging that another person had spoken.
Rafayel raised his voice. “Hello!? My lips may never recover.”
“They appear functional.”
A smile threatened at the corner of Rafayel’s mouth, though he smothered it beneath an injured sigh. “You could at least pretend to care.”
“I could.”
“How comforting.”
Sylus shrugged out of his jacket. The movement drew the dark fabric taut across his shoulders before it came away, revealing the cleaner lines of his waistcoat beneath. Every part of him remained offensively composed. After midnight, following meetings that had probably involved threats, bloodshed, or financial reports—Rafayel had never determined which Sylus disliked most—he still looked as though disorder had approached and been refused entry.
Rafayel drank. The whisky warmed his tongue, followed by a ribbon of smoke and spice.
“You know,” he continued, “I’ve kissed fewer people in my entire life.”
Sylus glanced over.
“I highly doubt that.”
The insult arrived with such calm precision that Rafayel placed a hand over his heart. “Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
“Cruelty disguised as accuracy remains cruelty.”
“You should put that on a pillow.”
Rafayel stared at him.
Sylus’s expression held for perhaps two seconds before amusement disturbed it, a brief tightening near the eyes, the ghost of a smile he clearly intended to deny.
There you are.
Rafayel shifted deeper into the cushions, pleased with himself. “She had no rhythm, either.”
“Tragic.”
“It was. I moved closer; she moved away. I turned my head; she turned in the same direction. We nearly broke each other’s noses during take fourteen.”
“A shame you didn’t.”
“Are you jealous?”
Sylus had begun rolling his sleeves. One precise fold, then another, revealing his forearms inch by inch. “Should I be?”
“At least a little. I spent eight hours with my mouth on another person.”
“And still came here.”
The answer settled lower than Rafayel expected. He covered the flicker in his chest by taking a sip.
“I came for the whisky.”
“Of course.”
“And your charming company.”
“I’m touched.”
“You disguise it well.”
Taking the empty glass from Rafayel’s loose fingers, Sylus examined it as though the evidence of theft had only just become apparent. Then he lifted it to his own mouth and finished the thin amber trace clinging to the bottom.
From the same edge Rafayel had used. A negligible act. Meaningless, perhaps. Rafayel’s gaze remained on Sylus’s lips anyway.
“How was the scene?” Sylus asked.
“Catastrophic. We may have destroyed cinema forever.”
“That bad?”
“The director wept.”
“With joy?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Sylus crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured another measure. Ice cracked beneath the liquor. “You usually enjoy making people weep.”
“Only when they deserve it.”
“And she didn’t?”
The whisky arrived before Rafayel could reach for it. Sylus held the glass just beyond his fingers, waiting. A petty punishment. Rafayel pushed himself upright enough to take it, though Sylus retained his hold for one beat longer than necessary.
Cold crystal between them. Their fingers touching.
Then the glass came free.
Rafayel settled back. “She smiled.”
Sylus’s brows drew together.
“During the confession,” he explained, watching the ice instead of the man standing over him. “Every time the camera came close, she smiled.”
“Perhaps she was nervous.”
“Perhaps.”
“Were you?”
The question slipped under his guard with irritating ease.
Rafayel scoffed and tipped his head against the cushions. “I have never been nervous in my life.”
“You threw up before your first opening.”
“That was food poisoning.”
“You drank champagne for breakfast.”
“The grapes had turned.”
Sylus lowered himself into the armchair opposite, one ankle crossing his knee. “Naturally.”
Rafayel took another drink.
Silence pooled around them, accompanied by the low hum of the city beyond the windows. Usually he could bend silence into whatever shape he wanted. A laugh would make it conspiratorial, a sigh turned it dramatic, one well-chosen remark could fill a room more effectively than music.
Tonight, it resisted him.
“She smiled,” he said again, quieter now, “as though she’d already seen herself in the trailer.”
Sylus waited. The patience of him could become unbearable. He simply watched, leaving Rafayel to decide whether the truth should live or be smothered.
“It was supposed to be ugly.” Rafayel’s thumb moved along the damp side of the glass. “The confession, I mean. He’s loved her for years and resents her for making it impossible to stop. She knows accepting him will ruin them both. There should have been shame in it. Anger. Something that cost her.”
“And instead?”
“Cherry lipstick.”
A small smile softened Sylus’s mouth.
Rafayel flicked a cushion at him.
Rather than strike him, it sailed past the armchair and collapsed several feet away with an undignified sigh.
Sylus followed its path with his eyes. “Impressive.”
“I adjusted for the air current.”
“There is no air current.”
“Exactly. Sabotage.”
“By the air?”
“It has always resented me.”
His own laughter came more easily this time, loosening something caught beneath his ribs. Sylus did not join him, though the amusement remained on his face.
Rafayel stretched his legs across the glass table. The soles of his loafers landed on its spotless surface.
Sylus’s gaze dropped.
“Remove them.”
“Come and remove them.”
Another sip of whisky concealed Rafayel’s smile.
Across from him, Sylus gave no immediate response. He merely studied the offending shoes, then Rafayel’s face, measuring the provocation for hidden edges.
“It must be exhausting,” Rafayel mused, “having everything exactly where it belongs.”
“It was, before you arrived.”
“And yet you continue giving me the access code.”
“A temporary lapse in judgement.”
“Repeated weekly.”
“I remain optimistic.”
Rafayel dragged one heel across the glass, leaving a deliberate streak. “About reforming me?”
“About the possibility that you’ll grow bored.”
“With you?” He let his attention wander over Sylus’s loosened collar, the rolled sleeves, the powerful lines of his hands. “Unlikely.”
The room changed.
Barely.
A thread had tightened somewhere between them, invisible and suddenly capable of drawing blood.
Sylus raised his glass. “You like the attention.”
Rafayel’s smile became sharper. “Everyone likes attention.”
“You need it.”
“I inspire it. There’s a difference.”
“You arrive complaining about being watched, then sprawl across my furniture until I look at you.”
“I’m tired.”
“You put your shoes on my table.”
“My legs are tired.”
“You opened another button while I was pouring the whisky.”
Rafayel looked down.
His shirt had, indeed, acquired a fourth opening.
“How observant.”
“You made certain I would be.”
A laugh hovered at the back of his throat. He swallowed it with the whisky, although warmth had already begun creeping beneath his skin.
“Perhaps I enjoy presenting you with something worth looking at.”
“Perhaps,” Sylus murmured, “you’re testing how much you must reveal before I stop seeing the performance.”
The warmth vanished.
Rafayel rested the glass against his thigh. “You’re very pleased with that sentence.”
“I’m pleased when I’m right.”
“Then I imagine you’re accustomed to disappointment.”
Sylus leaned back.
No retaliation came. No clever barb or victorious smirk.
Only that gaze.
Steady. Unimpressed by brightness. He looked at Rafayel the way he might look at a locked door whose mechanism he had already understood.
Rafayel nudged his knee with the toe of his loafer.
The gesture restored movement to the room, or seemed to.
“Nothing?” he prompted.
Sylus glanced down at the leather pressing against the crease of his trousers.
Rafayel pushed higher.
“Twenty-two kisses,” he said, voice softening around the provocation, “and I come home to a man who refuses even to pretend he wants me. Imagine what that could do to my self-esteem.”
“This isn’t your home.”
“Cold.”
“And you possess enough self-esteem for several minor countries.”
“Still cold.”
His foot travelled farther up Sylus’s thigh. The edge of his sole brushed close enough to feel the heat beneath the fabric. Rafayel watched the movement, then lifted his lashes.
“Maybe you don’t know what to do with me.”
Sylus placed his glass on the table.
A quiet click. Crystal against wood.
The sound passed through Rafayel more effectively than any raised voice.
Sylus’s hand closed around his ankle.
Firmness without force. Heat encircling the slim joint. Rafayel’s muscles tightened beneath the grip, a response so immediate that amusement flashed across Sylus’s features.
“Careful,” Rafayel warned, though the word emerged lower than intended. “These shoes are custom.”
“They’re on my table.”
“And therefore deserve execution?”
“They’re in my way.”
Sylus slipped the loafer from his foot.
The motion should have been ordinary. Practical. Instead, his thumb dragged along the hollow beneath Rafayel’s ankle, where the pulse fluttered close to the skin. He took his time removing the second shoe, fingertips following the curve of bone before the leather came free.
Both loafers landed neatly on the rug.
Rafayel remained held.
“You could let go,” he observed.
“I could.”
“You’re repeating yourself.”
“You’ve become quiet.”
“Enjoy it. A rare luxury.”
Sylus pressed his thumb against the pulse beneath his hand.
Rafayel’s toes curled.
A single betraying movement. Small enough that another man might have missed it.
Sylus didn't.
His gaze lifted, heavy now with recognition.
“Still want me to let go?”
Rafayel leaned farther into the cushions. “I want to see what you intend to do.”
“Liar.”
“Excuse me?”
“You already know.”
The fingers around his ankle slid beneath the hem of his trousers, gliding over warm, bare skin. Slowly enough that each centimetre registered. Rafayel suppressed a shiver by drawing his other knee up, adopting an ease he no longer felt.
“Presumptuous.”
“You came here for this.”
“I came here for the whisky.”
“You drank it.”
“I might want more.”
Sylus’s thumb travelled along the inside of his calf. “You want many things.”
“And you’re famously generous.”
“Only when asked properly.”
The statement hung between them, darkly polished.
Rafayel laughed, but something brittle entered the sound. “How tedious. You know I don’t beg.”
“Oh, I know you do.”
His breath caught.
Sylus released him.
The sudden loss of contact felt like a punishment. Rafayel drew his leg back before the instinct to follow became visible, folding both feet beneath him as he sat upright.
“Arrogant bastard.”
A tilt of Sylus’s head acknowledged the familiar accusation. “You’ve said that already.”
“I’m trying to help you remember.”
“I remember everything you say.”
The reply stripped the next joke from Rafayel’s tongue.
For a moment, the room held only their breathing.
He looked away first.
Below them, traffic passed through the city in streams of pale light. Thousands of windows, thousands of private rooms. People moving through their small lives, performing joy, grief, desire. Telling each other whatever was required to remain loved until morning.
“It gets old,” he admitted.
Sylus didn't ask what he meant.
Rafayel’s fingers worried the cuff of his shirt. “The staring. People decide what they want me to be before I enter a room. Charming. Difficult. Beautiful. Cruel. It saves them the inconvenience of meeting me.”
“You encourage them.”
“It’s my job.”
“It’s convenient.”
His jaw tightened. “You think you understand everything.”
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation.
“Only you?” Rafayel guessed, allowing mockery to return.
“Yes.”
His eyes snapped back to Sylus.
There was no smile waiting for him. No indication that the line had been offered for effect. Sylus watched him with an unnerving steadiness, his attention resting on details Rafayel could not conceal: the faster rise of his chest, his fingers gone still around the cuff, the pulse beating at the exposed base of his throat.
“You should teach a course,” Rafayel muttered. “How to make affection sound vaguely threatening.”
“Would you attend?”
“I’d heckle from the back.”
“You’d sit in the front.”
“And distract you.”
“You already do.”
The admission settled warmly between them.
Rafayel’s mouth curved. Softer this time.
Then Sylus stood.
The size of him altered the room. One moment he sat across from Rafayel, contained by the armchair; the next, his shadow fell over the sofa, darkening silk and skin.
Rafayel tipped his chin upwards. “Looming is terribly unsubtle.”
“I’m aware.”
“You could at least offer me another drink before taking advantage.”
“A third? I think you’ve had enough.”
“And there goes the romance.”
Sylus’s fingers found the open collar of his shirt. Rather than undo the next button, he traced its edge, following the line where silk met skin. Rafayel felt the path of that touch in places it had never reached.
“This is what you came for,” Sylus murmured.
Rafayel’s hand settled against his waistcoat. “You remain very certain.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
The challenge warmed Sylus’s breath against his mouth.
Rafayel could have denied it. The scene offered him every opportunity: a scoff, a laugh, some exquisite little insult to restore distance.
Instead, he hooked two fingers beneath Sylus’s collar and pulled.
Their mouths met without elegance.
The first kiss bruised rather than persuaded. Teeth caught, whisky passed warm between tongues, and Rafayel’s head struck the cushions when Sylus followed him down. He laughed into the kiss, startled and pleased by the sudden violence of it, then bit Sylus’s lower lip until a low sound vibrated through the man above him.
At last.
Rafayel drew back just enough to speak. “Twenty-three.”
Sylus’s eyes were darker at this distance. “What?”
“My total for the day.”
“You’re counting that among the others?”
“Jealousy suits you.”
One hand closed around the back of Rafayel’s neck.
“I’m not jealous.”
“No?” He brushed his mouth against Sylus’s, withholding the kiss at the last instant. “Then perhaps I should describe them.”
“I’m familiar with poor acting.”
“Her mouth was very soft.”
Sylus tightened his grip.
Rafayel’s grin flashed.
“She made this little sound whenever I—”
The rest disappeared beneath Sylus’s mouth.
He kissed Rafayel as though trying to erase every touch that had preceded him. The slow refinement vanished, replaced by hunger sharpened through restraint. Rafayel welcomed it with equal greed, hands moving over Sylus’s shoulders, dragging the waistcoat open until buttons strained beneath his fingers.
Sylus broke away only to seize the silk at Rafayel’s chest.
One button slipped free.
Then another.
He worked downwards with infuriating patience, exposing Rafayel a measured piece at a time. Cool air touched his sternum, his ribs, the tense plane of his stomach.
“Is this meant to intimidate me?” Rafayel wondered aloud.
Sylus’s knuckles skimmed the edge of his nipple.
His breath stumbled.
“Apparently not,” Sylus replied.
“Cheap trick.”
“Effective.”
Two fingers closed around the sensitive peak and twisted with controlled pressure.
Pleasure flashed beneath Rafayel’s skin. His spine lifted from the cushions before pride could interfere, chest pushing into Sylus’s hand.
The answering smile appeared slowly.
“I hate that expression.”
“You put it there.”
“Then I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“Another one.”
Sylus lowered his mouth to Rafayel’s throat.
A kiss first, warm and deceptively gentle. Then teeth. The bite drew a sharp sound from him, followed by the heat of Sylus’s tongue passing over the mark.
Rafayel curled a hand in his hair. “That will show on camera.”
“Yes.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“So you’ve mentioned.”
Another bite bloomed lower, over his collarbone.
Rafayel’s fingers tightened. “People pay a great deal of money for this skin.”
“They can admire what’s left.”
Laughter broke from him, breathless and disbelieving. “Possessive.”
Sylus raised his head. “Do you object?”
The directness of the question cut cleanly through the game.
Rafayel studied him, close enough to see the faint flush beneath his cheekbones and the strain hidden within his stillness. Control, he realised, had never meant indifference. Sylus felt it all; he simply refused to be ruled by it.
Rafayel slid his palm along the hard line of his jaw.
“No.”
The word came quietly.
Sylus waited.
“No,” he repeated, drawing him closer. “I don’t object.”
A kiss touched the centre of his palm.
The tenderness of it disturbed him more than the teeth had.
Before it could deepen into something dangerous, Rafayel caught Sylus by the front of his shirt and rolled, forcing him backwards into the sofa. Surprise widened those red eyes for a fraction of a second.
Rafayel straddled his lap.
“There,” he breathed, settling his weight over the hardening shape beneath Sylus’s trousers. “Much better.”
Sylus’s hands came to his hips. “You need the illusion of control?”
“I need you to stop behaving as though desire is something you supervise.”
Rafayel ground down.
The composure beneath him fractured.
A rough exhale escaped Sylus; his fingers dug through the thin fabric at Rafayel’s waist, strong enough to bruise. The response delighted him. He moved again, slower now, feeling the hard length trapped between their bodies.
“Look at you,” he murmured, echoing Sylus’s earlier tone. “All that discipline.”
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely.”
He opened Sylus’s waistcoat, then began on the shirt beneath, far less patient than the man had been with him. Buttons came free beneath hurried fingers. One tore loose and vanished somewhere between the cushions.
Sylus glanced down.
Rafayel followed his gaze. “I’ll buy you another.”
“That was custom.”
“So were my shoes.”
“Your shoes remain intact.”
“For now.”
With the shirt spread open, he dragged both hands over Sylus’s chest. Warmth and muscle shifted beneath his palms. A pale scar crossed one side, then another lower down, each mark carrying a story Rafayel had never been given in full.
His mouth softened over the first.
Sylus went still.
The kiss lingered. Less seduction than recognition.
Then Rafayel bit.
A hand caught sharply in his hair.
“Brat.”
He smiled against Sylus’s skin. “There’s the affection.”
Tugging his head back, Sylus exposed his throat. “You’ve been provoking me since you arrived.”
“I’ve been entertaining you.”
“You threw a cushion at my head.”
“It was a weak moment.”
“You put your shoes on my table.”
“You were neglecting me.”
“And now?”
Rafayel rocked his hips against him, mouth parting when friction dragged across his cock through the layers of fabric.
“Still undecided.”
Sylus rose with him.
The sudden movement forced Rafayel to catch his shoulders. A second later, his back met the sofa again, Sylus settling between his thighs with enough weight to steal the next breath.
“Decide quickly.”
The command darkened the air.
Rafayel’s trousers opened beneath practised hands. Button. Zip. The waistband peeled back from his hips, followed by underwear, cool air slipping across heated skin.
Sylus looked down.
The silence became almost unbearable.
Rafayel was already hard, flushed and wet at the tip, desire leaving no room for pretence. He resisted the impulse to cover himself beneath another joke.
“Nothing clever?” he asked instead.
Sylus took him in hand.
Every prepared sentence vanished.
His thumb passed slowly over the sensitive head, spreading the moisture there before gliding down. Rafayel’s hips jerked; a broken laugh caught between his teeth.
“That was clever enough,” Sylus decided.
“Smug bast—”
The grip tightened.
His voice failed.
Sylus stroked him with maddening steadiness, neither hurried nor gentle, learning each reaction as though Rafayel had not already given him this knowledge before. Pressure changed near the base. The next pass twisted slightly beneath the crown. Rafayel’s thighs drew closer around Sylus’s hips.
“Too slow,” he complained.
“You’ve been here less than an hour.”
“I’ve had a difficult day.”
“So I heard.”
“Twenty-two times.”
Sylus’s thumb pressed into the slit.
Pleasure speared through him. Rafayel’s head fell back. “Fuck.”
“Twenty-three.”
The correction arrived against his throat.
He laughed helplessly, the sound breaking when Sylus stroked him again. “If you’re trying to make me forget her, you’ll need to do better.”
Sylus’s hand stopped.
Rafayel opened his eyes.
“That,” Sylus murmured, “was unwise.”
He released Rafayel’s cock.
Before protest could form, Sylus moved lower. His mouth travelled over Rafayel’s chest, pausing to close around one nipple until Rafayel arched beneath him, then continued across the trembling muscles of his stomach.
Realisation came with the warmth of breath against his hip.
Rafayel’s fingers tightened in the cushions. “Sy.”
Sylus looked up.
The sight alone nearly undid him: broad shoulders between Rafayel’s spread thighs, hair fallen slightly out of place, mouth hovering close enough that each exhale ghosted across exposed flesh.
“Still remember her?” Sylus asked.
“I’m making an effort.”
“Poorly.”
His tongue traced the underside of Rafayel’s cock from root to tip.
Rafayel’s body bowed.
A sound tore loose, far too honest to reshape into laughter. Sylus closed his mouth over the head and sucked, slow enough to make every sensation distinct—the heat of his tongue, the pressure of his lips, the hand holding Rafayel steady at the hip.
“Fuck,” Rafayel gasped again. “You arrogant—”
Sylus took him deeper.
Words collapsed.
His fingers found Sylus’s hair, curling there without deciding whether to push him away or drag him closer. The latter instinct won. Sylus allowed the pressure, throat relaxing around him as Rafayel’s hips lifted.
A low groan vibrated through the wet heat.
Rafayel’s vision blurred at the edges.
The man had no right to look so composed while doing something so obscene. Even with his mouth stretched around Rafayel’s cock, Sylus maintained that watchful, infuriating focus, his gaze fixed upwards, reading each tremor.
“Stop looking at me,” Rafayel breathed.
Sylus withdrew with one last pull of suction.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
A lick passed lazily over the tip.
Rafayel’s thighs trembled.
“You’re impossible.”
Another slow stroke of his tongue.
“I hate you.”
Sylus’s mouth curved against him. “Still performing.”
He took Rafayel deep once more.
The pleasure became merciless. Wet sounds filled the room, punctuated by Rafayel’s faltering breaths. Sylus worked him with mouth and hand together, setting a pace that drove him towards the edge, then easing back whenever tension tightened through his body.
Twice.
Three times.
By the fourth, Rafayel’s composure had been stripped to threads.
“Sylus.” His voice emerged hoarse.
The mouth around him slowed.
“Please.”
That earned him another deep pull, followed by Sylus’s tongue pressing firmly along the sensitive underside.
Rafayel cried out.
His hips lifted, chasing the heat, but Sylus drew away before release could reach him. Cool air struck his slick skin.
“No.” Rafayel’s eyes flew open. “Absolutely not.”
Sylus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You said I was too slow.”
“I didn’t ask you to stop.”
“You didn’t ask me to continue.”
Murder became a reasonable response.
Rafayel seized his collar and dragged him upwards. Their mouths crashed together; he tasted himself on Sylus’s tongue, salt and whisky and something indecently intimate. The flavour only sharpened his hunger.
His hand slipped between them.
Sylus’s trousers had become intolerably restrictive. Rafayel opened them without finesse, pushing fabric aside until his fingers closed around hot, rigid flesh.
The breath against his mouth changed.
At last, some justice.
Rafayel stroked him, learning the weight and heat, the velvet drag of skin. Sylus’s forehead lowered against his, composure thinning with each pass of Rafayel’s fist.
“You’re very quiet,” Rafayel whispered.
A hand closed around his wrist, guiding the rhythm harder.
“Does that disappoint you?”
“It makes me curious.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Let me hear you.”
Sylus’s eyes narrowed.
Rafayel twisted his wrist beneath the head.
The response came low and rough, a sound felt through both their bodies.
His smile turned luminous. “There.”
Sylus kissed it away.
Clothes became intolerable after that.
A shirt shoved from one shoulder. Trousers dragged low enough to free movement. Rafayel’s silk lay open beneath him, wrinkled and damp against his skin. Each attempt at elegance dissolved under hands made impatient by hunger.
When Sylus reached towards the table drawer, Rafayel caught his wrist.
“Bedroom?” Sylus asked, breathing hard.
Rafayel looked at the distance between the sofa and the corridor, then at the man above him.
“Too far.”
Amusement flickered. “Impatient.”
“I’ve waited all evening.”
“You arrived forty minutes ago.”
“An eternity.”
The drawer opened. Lubricant appeared in Sylus’s hand.
Rafayel’s pulse quickened at the sight.
Playfulness remained between them, but something steadier had gathered beneath it. Sylus touched his thigh, his gaze holding Rafayel’s.
“Tell me.”
It took no effort to understand.
Rafayel reached down, taking Sylus’s slick fingers and guiding them between his legs.
“Yes.”
The first touch was exploratory, circling, spreading warmth over sensitive skin. Rafayel drew his knees higher, opening himself beneath Sylus’s gaze.
“Still yes?” Sylus asked.
Rafayel pushed back against the pressure. “Unless you intend to interrogate me all night.”
One finger eased inside.
His breath escaped through parted lips.
The stretch came gradually. Sylus gave him time to adjust, moving with a patience that contrasted almost painfully with the hunger in his expression. A second finger joined the first, pressing deeper until Rafayel’s body opened around them.
The teasing answer he had prepared dissolved when Sylus curled his hand.
Pleasure struck hard and bright.
Rafayel’s heel dug into the sofa. “Again.”
Sylus obeyed.
His fingers found the same place with devastating precision, rubbing until sparks climbed Rafayel’s spine. The open shirt shifted beneath his heaving chest; sweat gathered at his temples. No camera would have loved this version of him. His mouth hung open, eyes dark and unfocused, each sound arriving without polish.
Sylus watched as though nothing could be more beautiful.
The realisation hurt.
Rafayel reached for him, fingers closing around the back of his neck. “Come here.”
Their mouths met more gently than before.
Sylus continued working him open through the kiss. A third finger entered, the fuller stretch edged with discomfort, then warmth as Rafayel relaxed around it.
“You’re tense,” Sylus murmured.
“You’re large.”
“And you’re flattering me.”
“I’m complaining.”
“Poorly.”
Rafayel bit his jaw. “Fuck me before I change my mind.”
Sylus stilled.
The hand inside him remained steady, neither retreating nor advancing.
“Will you?”
Rafayel understood the question beneath the question. He softened his grip, stroking his thumb behind Sylus’s ear.
“Yes,” he answered, free of theatre. “I want you.”
A kiss pressed against his brow.
Then the fingers withdrew.
The loss left him aching. Sylus positioned himself between Rafayel’s thighs, one hand beneath his knee, the other guiding his cock against the slick entrance.
The first pressure forced the breath from both of them.
Sylus pushed slowly.
Rafayel’s body resisted, then yielded by increments. The stretch burned through him, each measured advance leaving less space for thought. He clung to Sylus’s shoulders, breath breaking against the side of his neck.
“Easy,” Sylus murmured.
“Don’t patronise me.”
“You’re shaking.”
“You’re still talking.”
That earned him a huff of laughter.
Sylus pressed deeper.
Rafayel’s nails scored his back. “Oh—Oh.”
“Too much?”
“No.” He tightened his legs around Sylus’s waist. “Keep going.”
The final inch seated Sylus fully inside him.
For several breaths, neither moved.
Rafayel felt impossibly full, stretched around the thick heat of him, every nerve awakened by the slightest shift. Sylus’s forehead rested against his. Their mouths hovered close without kissing.
“This,” Rafayel managed, “is a terribly inappropriate use of designer furniture.”
“I’ll have it cleaned.”
“How unromantic.”
“I’ll burn it.”
“Better.”
Sylus withdrew slowly, dragging against every sensitive place, then pushed back inside.
Rafayel’s laughter fractured into a moan.
The next thrust carried more force. Then another. A rhythm built between them, restrained at first, granting his body time to soften around the intrusion. Sylus’s hands held him securely at the hips, controlling the angle, while Rafayel met each movement with a lift of his own.
The sofa complained beneath them.
Somewhere, the abandoned whisky glass tipped against the wood but did not fall.
Rafayel buried his face in Sylus’s throat, breathing him in while pleasure gathered again. Each thrust travelled deeper, driving a rough sound from his chest.
“Harder,” he whispered.
Sylus obliged.
The force pushed Rafayel higher across the cushions. His shirt tangled beneath him; his hair caught at the corner of his mouth. All grace abandoned him. He moaned openly, one hand gripping the sofa while the other dragged along Sylus’s back.
“That,” Rafayel gasped, “is going to bruise.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Sylus made a sound that bordered on a growl.
The next thrust struck the place his fingers had found earlier.
Rafayel arched hard. “There.”
Again.
His vision flashed white.
“There—Sy, right there.”
Sylus adjusted the angle and gave him exactly what he had asked for, each drive of his hips forcing pleasure through Rafayel with brutal accuracy. The room filled with broken sounds, skin against skin, breath catching and releasing.
Rafayel’s cock dragged between their bodies, slick and neglected.
Sylus reached for it.
The moment his fist closed around him, Rafayel cried out.
“Too much?” Sylus asked, though his hand continued moving.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
“Ask properly.”
Rafayel opened his eyes.
Even now. Even with control slipping from both of them, Sylus held his gaze, asking for the one thing Rafayel found hardest to surrender.
Honesty.
Another thrust drove the answer loose.
“Please,” Rafayel breathed. “Make me come.”
Something fierce moved across Sylus’s face.
He kissed him, one hand stroking Rafayel in time with the movement of his hips. The rhythm turned relentless. Pleasure tightened low and hot, drawing every muscle taut.
Rafayel clung to him.
No room remained for charm. No audience waited beyond the glass. Nothing existed except the body above him, the body inside him, and the unbearable certainty of being seen without costume or light.
“Sylus.”
His name came apart in Rafayel’s mouth.
“Again.”
“Sylus.”
“Look at me.”
Rafayel did.
The climax broke through him.
His back arched from the sofa as pleasure tore along every nerve, violent enough to empty him of thought. He came across Sylus’s hand and his own stomach, each pulse wringing another helpless sound from his throat.
Sylus watched him through it.
Watched the exact moment performance became impossible.
The sight seemed to finish him.
His rhythm faltered. A curse escaped beneath his breath, followed by several deep, uneven thrusts. Sylus pulled out just before release, spilling hot across Rafayel’s hip and stomach, his hand braced against the sofa as tremors moved through his body.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Then Sylus lowered himself carefully, avoiding the worst of the mess, and rested his forehead against Rafayel’s shoulder.
Rafayel stared at the ceiling.
The chandelier remained intact. A mild disappointment.
His breathing slowed by degrees. Beneath his palm, Sylus’s heart pounded with gratifying disorder.
Hey!! Idk if youve seen this but theres a new scam going around thats hacking peoples accounts😭!! Arent we going through enough, these dumbass scammers taking advance of our emotions?! But anyway🥺, Can you warn everyone about this please? You have a bigger voice than i currently do;
I think this is a legit scam, ive seen this post on multiple facebook lads pages and the patreon lads page i follow.
Thank you for everything you do! Keep fighting the good fight for our beloved Wolf Boy! We appreciate you🥺💕💕💕!!!
As if taking Valko away wasn't enough
Be aware of scammers, everyone!! Thank you for passing along the info!
"House Guest" is a Deleted Scene comic from my FanFic "Gravity", which is the 2nd in a series. You can read the comic without reading Gravity or it's predecessor "Greedy", but I'd recommend it!
Link to the full comic on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84944561/chapters/224234201
Frost & Feathers series (feat. GREEDY & GRAVITY), for those who want to read the full fics this scene was almost a part of: https://archiveofourown.org/series/5732626
In collaboration with AKSO hospital, a certain hunter demonstrates how to perform CPR. Unfortunately, the audience isn’t taking notes on what to do, but of who is doing it.
thank you to everyone who has supported! <3
Many folks unfamiliar with Asian mythologies have expressed confusion regarding the addition of another LI. Truth be told, the existence of 6 LIs was part of the narrative’s design from the very beginning. This is because the story’s foundational lore is deeply rooted in Vedic and Buddhist traditions. And numerous elements of it’s worldbuilding, symbolisms, and structure draw inspiration from these scriptural and philosophical sources.
“Love And Deepspace” is a story about the perpetual cycle of संसार (Saṃsāra). As the MC, we are trapped within the cycle of never-ending suffering across countless lifetimes and timelines. Our journey is to break free from this eternal cycle, and transcend the suffering that binds us to it. The LIs are not merely romantic interests, but essential companions in that pursuit.
Each of them carries a unique connection to the MC across time, and each plays a vital role in guiding her towards the resolution of this long-standing Kārmic entanglement. It is precisely for this reason that all of them exist within the current timeline simultaneously. Their presence is neither arbitrary, nor accidental. It is a fundamental part of the narrative’s deeper mythological and philosophical framework.
To understand the purpose of the LIs, one must first understand the cycle of Saṃsāra: भवचक्र (Bhāvāchākrā). This cycle of existence which encompasses birth, suffering, death, and rebirth is divided into 6 Realms where sentient beings reside in. Each of these Realms is intrinsically linked to one of the LIs featured in the game —
🔥 Rafayel: देवलोक (Devālokā)
God Realm of pleasure and pride
🏹 Zayne: असुरलोक (Asurālokā)
Demi-God Realm of jealousy and strife
🗡️ Xavier: मनुष्यलोक (Mānuṣhyalokā)
Human Realm of opportunity and enlightenment
🌕 Valko: पशुलोक (Pāśhulokā)
Animal Realm of instinct, fear, and servitude
🩸 Sylus: निर्ऋतिलोक (Nirṛtilokā)
Underworld Realm of chaos and decay
🪷 Caleb: प्रेतलोक (Pretālokā)
Hungry-Ghost Realm of endless insatiable hunger
As we know, each LI possesses unique abilities and latent potential beyond their Evols, granting them the power to create, shape, preserve, or dismantle whatever they deem necessary. The intricate Strings of Fate connecting the LIs to MC was deliberately woven by CosmicMC Herself.
It’s purpose was to ensure that Her vessel on Earth could draw upon Her true power through all 6 Realms, with the aid of every LI. Only by uniting these connections can She access the fullness of Her divine potential, and ultimately shatter the endless cycle of anguish that has bound Her across countless lifetimes.
Needless to say, it is unlikely that any additional LIs will be introduced to the game. With Valko’s arrival, the narrative now possesses all the pieces it was designed to have from the very beginning, allowing the story to finally move forward.
[⚠️ Please note: There are numerous realms of the Underworld described throughout Vedic scriptures. I chose to highlight the one that appears most relevant to Sylus’s storyline. Pretāloka is another such realm, and it has connections to Caleb’s narrative. If anyone is interested in Vedic mythology and would like to learn more about these realms beyond the context of the game, please feel free to ask. I would be delighted to share and discuss them further. 🤍]
🔖 I would also like to add that primordial cosmic entities, such as Gods, are not beings who concern themselves with the opinions or expectations of mortals. In that regard, CosmicMC is no different. Much of what has transpired throughout the narrative can be viewed as the manifestation of Her own will, unfolding according to a design far beyond mortal comprehension, much like the whims of Deities within the real world. To truly appreciate the lore presented in this game, one must approach it through a non-Abrahamic lens. And remain receptive towards Vedic and Pagan beliefs, philosophies, and cultural traditions.
