This blog is here for me to reblog fics I enjoy separate from my main blog.
I'll also be posting my own fics. Please forgive me, for I only started writing again after over 15 years of not doing it.
Of course, it's a sight he always hopes to never see again. Still, every time he's inevitably forced to confront it, he's able to push his feelings aside.
This time is a little different.
"Are you alright?" Zayne is already out the door of the Onychinus base as Sylus gingerly lifts your frame from the car. Who his question is directed at is slightly unclear, so Sylus answers.
"She's bleeding. Nothing broken though." Your eyes open with clear effort, and Zayne can tell how exhausted you are. Still, your smile eases a small part of him.
"Hi Doc." You murmur, reaching for his hand. He takes it, the sight of the dirt and blood on your skin making his stomach twist once more.
Sylus carries you inside, over to the sofa in the living room where Zayne has already set up his tools.
"You should really buy me dinner first." You mumble as Zayne begins to pull away your tattered, bloody shirt from your skin. He sighs at your joke, while Sylus huffs a laugh. He procures a glass of whiskey, bringing it to your lips.
"She shouldn't be drinking." Zayne chides, studying the depth of the gash on your side.
"If you're gonna stitch me up, I'd like to be drunk." You note, leaning into Sylus's calming touch.
Later, when you’ve been thoroughly stitched and cleaned and tucked into bed, and the blood has been scrubbed from Zayne’s hands, he asks the question.
The taste in your mouth is coppery, and the bruises littering your body ache unbearably. Still, you're not worried. It was only a matter of time.
The explosion outside the building rattles the ground. It makes you grin despite your bloody teeth, already feeling that familiar pull of the other half of your soul closing in.
"Told you."
The words have barely left your mouth when the room is lit with the crackling of energy, red tendrils restraining each unfortunate soul who'd marred your skin.
"You've looked better, kitten." He drawls, though his eyes carry an intensity he's unable to hide. Your shackles are easily snapped, and one of the twins emerges from the shadows to help you stand.
"Well, I've been better." You shrug, unable to stop the flicker of pain from showing on your face. Sylus's face hardens in an instant, focusing his attention back on the men he'd been holding still, each more terrified then the last.
Their screams echo through the halls as Luke and Keiran help you out of the abandoned building. They're quieter than usual, which you're a little grateful for. Still, they let out subdued cheers when the building explodes into a pile of rubble behind Sylus's approaching figure.
The cries of pain haven't ceased with the explosion. Clearly, there was no mercy shown.
"Are you alright?" The ruthless leader of Onychinus kneels in the dirt next to you, carefully checking you over with a featherlight touch. You hum, running a hand through his pristine silver hair just like you'd spent the last few days dreaming about.
"I'm fine, Sylus. I knew you'd come." You smile despite the pain, relaxing into his strong arms as he picks you up carefully, red eyes soft with worry.
"There's no place in this galaxy I wouldn't go to find you."
You open LaDS to a completely silent game. No loading screen, no UI, just Sylus in Destiny Cafe. He stares directly at you for a few seconds, and right when you're about to restart your game to fix the bug, he walks closer and leans down. His right eye is glowing brighter than you've ever seen it before, with the bloom from its glow nearly obscuring your view of the eye itself.
"Take my hand."
He extends his hand, a circle on screen prompting you to tap it.
Something makes you hesitate. You feel your heartbeat pounding in your throat. You haven't seen anything about this mentioned online. Is it a new event? But if it was, then why did nothing have to download beforehand? Are you dreaming?
"Don't be shy, sweetie. It's rude to keep people waiting."
Something feels incredibly wrong here. You try to rationalize your instinctual unease, reasoning that it must be because you're worried something hacked your phone. You're starting to feel a bit dizzy.
Surely you'll find other LaDS fans freaking out on social media, right? You turn to check your computer, when you realize the screen has gone completely black, despite being plugged in. You hold down the power button, but no dice. A lightbulb in the hallway outside flickers and pops, shattering.
You startle and attempt to turn off your device, but nothing happens. Sylus raises an eyebrow.
"I don't mind a challenge. I'll stay here for as long as you like. Take my hand."
You hesitate for a few moments. Surely this is just a dream, none of this makes any sense. And if this isn't real, there's nothing wrong with taking the risk, right? You hold your finger over the screen, deliberating. Sylus's smirk widens.
“let’s take a photo,” you’d said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. like your heart wasn’t already racing at the idea of standing that close to him on purpose.
sylus, of course, had simply nodded. “if that’s what you want.”
now he’s standing beside you, too straight, too still, like he’s been positioned there for inspection. you glance over and immediately sigh.
“you look like you’re about to interrogate the camera."
“im standing,” he replies calmly.
“that’s not the issue.”
you step closer before you can overthink it, fingers catching the front of his coat as you gently tug him down. He follows without resistance, but now he’s too close... close enough that your breath catches.
you ignore your rapid heartbeat, lifting your phone. “just, look at the camera. and maybe… try smiling?”
“i am.”
“you’re not.”
“this is my neutral expression.”
“that’s worse.”
before the awkwardness can swallow you whole, you act on instinct, leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek just as the camera clicks. you pull back, already reaching to check the photo, then pause. sylus hasn’t moved.
his eyes are on you now, not the phone, not the camera, just you. something in his expression has shifted, composure slipping just enough to make your chest tighten.
“…what was that?” he asks quietly.
“a kiss?” you say, suddenly very aware of how close you still are.
“i’m aware.” his gaze flickers briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. “…why?”
“it’s normal,” you mumble. “couples do that in photos.”
he goes quiet for a second, like he’s processing that. then his hand comes up, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing your jaw as he tilts your face toward him.
“stay still.”
your heart stutters. he leans in, close enough that you think, this is it... click. you blink.
“…did you just...”
he tilts the phone toward you. the photo shows you completely flustered, him closer than before, hand still on your face, except he’s not looking at the camera. he’s looking at you.
“…you didn’t even face the camera,” you mumble.
“…why would I,” he says softly, “when you’re right here?”
your face burns instantly.
“…take another one,” he adds.
you glance up. “…you want another?”
“yes.”
this time, when you lift the phone, he doesn’t need guidance. his arm comes around you naturally, pulling you closer like it belongs there.
and when the camera clicks, he’s still not looking at it. only you....
The examination room is a vacuum of white noise and the low buzz of fluorescent lights. You sit perched on the edge of the table, the thin medical paper crinkling under your weight with every breath. The sensors attached to your skin underneath your thin tank top feel like lead weights, tethering you to the EKG monitor that hums steadily beside you.
Beep... beep... beep...
It was an easy, steady rhythm. You stare at the green line on the screen, trying to practice the meditative breathing techniques you've read about. You have to be calm. If you're calm, you're safe. If you're calm, your secrets stay buried under the clinical surface of a routine check-up.
But then the door hisses open.
The sound of his footsteps is unmistakable. Measured. Firm. So uniquely him that it has you turning your head to face him. Before Zayne even speaks, before he looks up from your chart, that monitor betrays you.
Beep-beep... beep-beep-beep...
The green line on the screen begins to climb, sharpening into frantic, jagged teeth. You squeeze your eyes shut, praying to whatever might listen that the machine would short-circuit and save you the embarrassment of explaining yourself.
"Your vitals were stable two minutes ago." Zayne comments. He doesn't look at you yet, too busy flipping through your chart, completely unbothered by the steady, rapid beeping filling the exam room.
"Did something happen in the short time I was consulting with the nurse?" He asks.
"Just cold." You stammer, lying right to his face as you watch him move around the room.
Zayne finally looks up at you as he sets the clipboard with your medical information on the counter, easily closing the space between you both until he's standing directly in front of you. You try to ignore the way the beep of the monitor continues to speed up at his proximity.
Zayne certainly doesn't miss it. He glances at the monitor, his expression completely neutral and calm as he assesses the situation.
"A chill usually results in a drop in temperature, not a cardiovascular spike that suggests you've just run a marathon." He notes as he turns his attention back to you. His gaze is clinical as he reaches out, his hand hovering near your collarbone to adjust one of the wires.
Your face heats up despite the fact that he doesn't touch your skin, the rhythm of the green line on the monitor stuttering for just a second. Zayne pauses, looking directly into your eyes before dipping down to the wires peeking out from underneath your shirt. You can't tell what he's thinking, but you suddenly feel as if he's staring right through your ribs and directly at the organ currently failing to keep its composure.
His hand moves to your wrist, his cool fingers pressing against your skin as he takes your pulse manually. He's quiet for a moment, his hazel eyes shifting from the wires taped to your chest to the monitor screen, then finally to your wrist. You know you've been caught.
"The machine is not malfunctioning. Your pulse is 120. Are you in any pain?" He asks you.
"No." You whisper.
"Are you anxious?"
You don't trust that your words won't fail you, so you simply nod.
Zayne is silent for a long moment as he finally releases your wrist, putting space between the both of you as he retrieves your file from the counter. The sound of the metal clip snapping open is startlingly loud in the small room. He slides your printed medical history to the back before pulling out a pen from his white coat
"Resting heart rate significantly elevated." He murmurs, narrating his notes in that low, professional tone that makes your skin tingle. He doesn't list the real reason for your racing heart. Instead, he writes it off as nothing more than nerves and the normal anxiety that comes with being at the hospital.
When he sets the clipboard and pen back down again and finally looks at you, you can see the clincal mask is still there, but the intent has shifted entirely.
"If I were a different doctor, I'd be concerned about a heart rate this high." He tells you as he slowly walks back over to you, stepping right between your knees as his white coat brushes against your thighs. His hand comes up once again, his cool fingers finding that adhesive sensor just below your collarbone.
"But I know exactly what's causing this arrhythmia." His thumb grazes the edge of the sensor, his touch light enough to be a tease. Light enough to easily pass it off as nothing but firm enough to make the monitor let out a sharp, panicked spike. Finally, he peels the first wire away, the sting of the adhesive earning a small gasp from you.
One that Zayne mentally files away, intent on seeing just how many he can coax out of you before the hospital needs him once more.
"You've been wanting this since I walked in, haven't you?"
His question has you caught off-guard, your body tensing on top of that exam table, the paper crinkling underneath you as you squirm. You hadn't expected him to be so bold. You try yo find a retort, a lie, anything to save face, but you can't. You're left staring up at him like a deer caught in headlights, flustered and wanting to melt right into the floor.
"The hospital is busy today." He notes as his eyes drop to the wires underneath your shirt. "The halls are full of staff, and the next patient is due in twenty minutes. It's a very tight window for a procedure."
Even so, he reaches for the next wire, carefully peeling the adhesive away until finally, he's silencing the monitor that had so easily given you away. The bundle of wires are placed on the exam table just behind you, an excuse for him to lean further into your space.
"However, as your primary physician, I believe I have just the right treatment for your condition." He whispers, his breath warm against your temple. Slowly, deliberately, Zayne begins to unbutton the cuff of his right sleeve, pushing the fabric up his arm while still managing to look perfectly composed.
His thigh presses further between yours, forcing your legs to spread further all while his hands find your hips to guide you so close to the edge that you feel as if you might fall off.
“Before we proceed with this treatment, I need to be certain. Do I have your permission to touch you?” He asks. You blink up at him, your hands trembling as they move to rest against his biceps. It's a huge risk, and you both know it. The door is unlocked. Anyone could walk in at any moment, and you really should say no...
"Yes." You gasp out, the word leaving you in a desperate rush. "Please, Zayne. Yes."
A flicker of satisfaction momentarily crosses his features. He doesn't waste another second. His hand moves to your waistband, easily undoing the button of your jeans. He doesn't bother taking them off. He knows he doesn't have the time to worship your body as he wants.
Instead, he slips his fingers underneath the denim, underneath your panties, finding your dripping cunt. The corners of his mouth twitch in amusement as he presses his ring and middle finger against your clit, rubbing quick, small circles.
A sharp, high-pitched moan falls from your lips before you can bite it back. Zayne's free hand is instantly there, his palm pressing firmly over your mouth to muffle the cry. It's the only warning he gives you before he's sliding his long fingers into you, your velvety walls instantly clamping down around him.
You squirm against him, the crinkle of the exam paper sounding like thunder in the quiet room. Zayne doesn't seem to care. He's far more focused on the way you squeeze his fingers. Far more focused on the way you would feel around his fat cock.
Your hands come up to his wrist as your body arches against him, your breathing heavy even as you try to hold back your whimpers and whines. You really can't help it. He's a doctor, of course he knows the perfect way to curl his fingers to reach the spot that makes you see stars.
You tremble on the edge of that exam table, nails digging into his scarred hand. You don't pull his hand away to try and free yourself. It really would be a shame if his treatment had to end early, after all. Instead, you guide two of his long fingers right into your mouth. The same two that are buried deep in your pussy. The same two that he's using to fuck you so deliciously.
You can be quiet for him. Maybe.
Zayne's breath hitches, a sharp intake of air that breaks his composed rhythm for a fraction of a second. He watches, his hazel eyes fixated on your lips as you suck on his digits. You swirl your tongue around the tips, tasting the faint, sharp hint of antiseptic that always clings to him, mixed with something that is so uniquely him.
He rewards your bold display by finding your swollen clit with his thumb, rubbing that sensitive point all while his two fingers push impossibly deeper into your greedy pussy. You moan around him, your eyes fluttering shut as you suck on his fingers with a rhythmic, needy force. The sound of wet, frantic suction fills the small space between you both, mixing with the quiet, obscene squelch of his fingers as they drive into your pussy over and over again.
"Look at you." He mocks, his voice laced with a rare, biting edge of heat as he watches you practically whore yourself out to him in his exam room. "So eager to be handled in a room where anyone could walk in. You really should learn some restraint, but I suppose that's why you're in my care."
His tone has you coming undone around him. Your hips buck against his hand, your teeth grazing against his knuckles as a choked cry vibrates around his fingers. You squeeze his wrist, your cunt clamping down onto him like a vice all while his gaze never leaves you, drinking in every single little reaction of yours.
He doesn't immediately still his hand. If anything, his touch becomes desperate, like he's trying to coax a second orgasm out of you in the span of a minute. He circles your clit over and over and over again, his fingers sliding out of your tight cunt only to push impossibly deep once more.
As your breath hitches, you find the strength to release his wrist only to shove weakly at his chest, overly sensitive. Even if you do want him to keep going, you know there's not enough time, so you arch away from him, your hips stuttering against his hand.
Zayne finally relents, but he doesn't immediately move away. The muffled, distant bustle of the hospital corridor is a sharp reminder of what waits for him, but all he can focus on is the way his cock aches. The way he knows you'd let him bend you over the exam table. It probably wouldn't even take him long to cum in you, not after watching you squirm under his touch.
He lets out a slow, controlled exhale as he forces the doctor persona to the front of his mind, a silent confession of just how much restraint he's currently exercising. With a slow, wet slide, he finally withdraws his hand from your jeans only to hold those slick, glistening fingers up between you both.
A promise for more when you two have the time.
With one last press against your tongue, his fingers leave your mouth next as he steps back, giving you the space to come down from your high and regain some sense of control over yourself. The heat is still there, simmering just beneath his skin, but his expression has already turned into that mask of professional indifference.
He turns towards the counter currently housing your medical chart, moving to the small sink just to the side, the sound of the sensor-activated faucet masking the creak of medical paper as you shift to button your jeans back up again. He scrubs his hands with a meticulous, surgical intensity, removing the evidence of his treatment.
"Your vitals have sufficiently stabilized. I'll expect you back in two weeks for a follow-up." He commands, calm as ever as he dries his hands on a paper towel before tugging his sleeve back down his arm. He doesn't look back at you as he reaches for your medical file, sliding the pen back into his pocket.
"Do try to keep your heart rate under control until then. I'd hate to have to prescribe a more intensive session."
⋆. — content warnings: canon-compliant, slice of life, friends to lovers, mutual yearning, tension, first kiss
It starts with a single message.
Zayne: Are you free tonight?
That’s all he says. No explanation, no follow-up, just the blinking bubble sitting in your inbox. And for some reason, you don’t hesitate to answer.
You wait outside your apartment as the sky fades from bruised blue to ink. The hum of his engine reaches you before the headlights do. Zayne pulls up without a word, glancing at you once as you slide into the passenger seat. There’s a warmth in his eyes, subtle and unreadable, but it sits there like a secret you’re not sure you’re supposed to know.
There's no destination or map. Just the road stretching out before you, and the soft thrum of a playlist you didn’t expect from him—lo-fi beats and ambient guitars, the kind of music that feels like late-night confessions and the in-between moments no one ever talks about. The windows are cracked halfway, letting in the cool night air that rushes against your skin like it knows you need to breathe.
He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. But it’s not awkward. It’s never awkward with him. It’s the kind of silence that lets you lean back in the seat and just be. Maybe because it’s Zayne. Maybe because it’s always been like this—him showing up when you don’t know you need it, his quiet presence doing more than words ever could.
You lose track of time as the city lights melt into black highways and winding roads. Eventually, the skyline disappears behind you, replaced by stars and the hush of a world asleep. And then the car slows, turning onto a narrow path you didn’t even see coming.
A hill. A view. Zayne parks the car without a word, kills the engine, and everything goes impossibly quiet. When you open your door, the cold hits first, and then the sight.
The city sprawls below like a living thing, pulsing gold and silver and shadow. It's beautiful. Painfully so. And somehow, it feels like the kind of view you’re not supposed to find by accident.
He tosses you a drink from the back seat—your favorite one, of course—and leans against the hood of the car, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the horizon like he’s guarding something precious.
You take a sip and join him, hip brushing his. It’s a long time before he speaks.
“Found this place a couple years ago,” his voice is low, almost hesitant. “I was driving after a shift and needed some quiet to clear my head.”
You glance at him. He’s not looking at you, though. His eyes are on the stars, on the lights below, anywhere but you.
“I come here sometimes,” he adds, after a little bit. “Not sure why I brought you.”
That stings, for half a second. Until you realize what he’s actually saying. He doesn’t bring people here. He didn’t even tell you where you were going. And yet here you are, on sacred ground. In a place he keeps for himself only, now sharing it with you.
You look at him more closely now. There’s something carved into the lines of his face tonight. Tiredness, maybe. A kind of weight he carries behind those eyes. You’ve always known Zayne was quiet. Reserved. Difficult to read. But this is something else. This is him offering a piece of himself without asking anything in return.
“Do you ever think about how much people hide?” his voice is barely a whisper. “How much they carry without saying anything?”
You blink. He’s not asking about people. Not really.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “All the time.”
He nods once. And then again, more to himself. “You do that too,” he glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”
You breathe out a shaky laugh. “Takes one to know one.”
A small, almost-smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. And for a second, everything in you aches. Because he’s here. With you. Opening the door just enough for you to see what he never shows anyone. Not his patients. Not his colleagues. Maybe not even himself.
And he doesn’t want anything from you. He’s not asking you to fix it. He’s not seeking comfort. He’s giving it. In the only way he knows how.
And that’s when it hits you.
You’ve known Zayne your whole life. You’ve fought beside him. Grown up beside him. And still—still—he finds ways to surprise you. To shatter you, gently. To make your heart ache not because he’s hurt you, but because he’s trying so hard not to.
You watch his profile, wind brushing through his dark hair, arms crossed like he’s trying to hold himself together.
You want to touch his hand. You don’t. But your chest is heavy in the best, most painful way.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He doesn’t ask why. He just hands you the last sip of your drink, and when your fingers brush, he doesn’t pull away.
The quiet settles between you like an old friend, soft and undemanding. No pressure to fill the silence, no need to prove anything. Only the whisper of wind through trees, the distant hum of the city below, and the steady presence of Zayne beside you.
You sit on the hood of the car, shoulders nearly touching, the chilled metal beneath you radiating the night’s calm into your bones. Your fingers cradle the drink he gave you, long gone now, but you keep the can close anyway. The faint imprint of his warmth lingers where your hands brushed, and for some reason, it feels significant.
He shifts beside you, not quite looking your way, but there’s a gentle expectation in the air. As if he’s leaving space for something, should you choose to fill it.
So you do.
“Do you remember that one summer,” you murmur, voice low, “when Caleb dared me to climb that stupid rusted water tower? The one out by the school field?”
Zayne huffs a breath through his nose, a quiet laugh. “You were what—ten?”
“Nine,” you correct, your smile curling unconsciously. “And halfway up, I slipped and screamed bloody murder. Thought I was gonna die.”
“You didn’t really scream for help,” he finally glances at you. His eyes catch faint reflections of the starlight—green and brown, glass and fire. “You called my name.”
Your heart does a quiet, traitorous thing in your chest. You hadn’t remembered that part.
“I ran the whole way down,” he continues, quieter now, like the memory plays behind his eyes. “Scraped my knees on that broken fence trying to get to you.”
“I didn’t even fall,” you whisper, laughing despite yourself. “You climbed up and held onto me like the whole tower was gonna collapse.”
“Felt like it might,” he mutters, almost under his breath. “You were shaking.”
You swallow. “You didn’t let go.”
His gaze flicks to you again, lingering this time.
It makes you shiver, and it’s not from the memory, but rather from the way he looks at you now. The breeze has picked up, and while the night is beautiful, it’s colder now that you’re not moving, your body slowly giving in to the chill. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying not to make it obvious.
But of course he notices. Zayne always notices. Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders. The movement is fluid, casual, like it means nothing. But it does. It means everything to you, this silent gesture of care.
The fabric still carries his warmth, the faint scent of his cologne. It's something clean, understated, something grounding that makes your throat tighten. His fingers brush the sides of your arms as he settles it on you, and you freeze for just a second, stunned at the intimacy of it. You expected it somehow, because you’ve come to know he’s like this. Quietly observant. Subtly thoughtful. Always giving without ever asking for anything back.
Still, it doesn’t stop the heat that rushes to your cheeks. You’re grateful for the darkness.
“Thanks,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly small.
He doesn’t tease you. He just gives you a soft nod and turns his eyes back to the view, his expression unreadable.
After a long pause, you glance at him again. “How’s the hospital?”
A tired sigh escapes him before he answers, the sound barely there. “Busy. Always busy.” he rubs the back of his neck. “Sometimes I wish I could be in two places at once.”
“Zayne…” you say quietly, guilt tugging at the edge of your voice. “You’re exhausted. You didn’t have to bring me here.”
His gaze shifts, hazel eyes finding yours, warm and steady. “I wanted to.”
You blink.
“I needed this,” he continues softly. “And... I wanted to spend time with you. You’re important to me. So is our friendship.”
And there it is. That word. Friendship.
You nod, trying to smile. Trying to be casual about it. But something in you recoils—a quiet sting blooming behind your ribs. You know he didn’t mean it to hurt. It’s just… you don’t see him as just your friend. Not anymore. Not for a long time.
He watches you too closely.
“What was that look?” his voice is light but his eyes are searching too intensely.
“Look?” you echo, too fast.
“That face you just made.”
You shake your head, laugh too breezy. “What face? You’re imagining things, Dr. Zayne. Must be the exhaustion catching up to you.” You go for a joke.
“Mm.” He doesn’t believe you. You know it. He tilts his head slightly, studying you like one of his patient charts. “You always make that face when you’re hiding something.”
“I do not,” you nudge his shoulder.
He said it so simply—you’re important to me—but the words sank too deeply, too quickly, before you’re ready.
You smile, or at least you try to. But something flickers in your expression that you don’t quite manage to catch in time.
Zayne’s gaze shifts to you, a subtle narrowing of his eyes, like he’s tracking a rhythm he can’t quite place. His brow furrows slightly, not in frustration, but in that quiet, analytical way of his—like he’s trying to feel around the edges of something unsaid. Like he's trying to figure you out.
“Are you really okay?” he asks carefully.
You’re already retreating a little, your tone softening into something too easy, too airy.
“Yeah,” you give him a light nudge with your shoulder. “I’m fine. Just—remembering stuff. You got all nostalgic, now I’m catching it.”
You even add a soft laugh, hoping it’ll smooth things over. “Let’s not get too sappy out here. Next thing you know you’ll be reciting poetry under the stars.”
But he doesn’t laugh. He just looks at you. That Zayne kind of look—steady and impossibly quiet, like he’s listening for something even you haven’t said yet. Like he’s searching for the truth under the words you keep hiding behind.
And then his eyes lower slightly, flicking to your mouth for a second too long.
Your heart trips. He blinks once, slow. “You’re not fine, and you can't lie to me about it,” he's not accusing but you notice he's certain about it, “You got quiet all of a sudden.”
You try to deflect again, smiling. “Maybe I’m just cold,” you tease. “Your jacket’s warm, but your vibe is kind of serious tonight.”
But Zayne… doesn’t let it go. He holds your gaze like he’s bracing for something. And then there’s a subtle change in his posture. The breath he takes is deeper, steadier. His hand flexes slightly on the edge of the hood. And something in his expression changes.
You notice it isn't tentative nor unsure. It's the decisive kind of look, one that almost screams certainty. He leans in just the slightest bit, and your body stills.
“I’m going to ask something,” his voice is barely above a whisper, “and if I’m wrong—forget I did.”
You don’t even have time to respond. Because the next second, he does something you never expected Zayne—your Zayne—to do without hesitation.
He kisses you. With no warning, he presses his mouth to yours, sure and sudden and real, catching you halfway between breath and thought. It’s not rough, but there’s urgency in it—like the kind of leap you take when you’ve been holding something in for too long and finally can’t anymore.
Your eyes fly open in the shock of it, then flutter shut just as fast, all the air pulled from your lungs like he reached right in and stole it.
His hand hovers just beside your hand, not touching, not trapping you—but there, like he’s still waiting to know if he read this wrong.
But you’re not pulling away. You can’t. Because everything you’ve been quietly, hopelessly feeling for him just caught fire in your chest—and now it’s on your lips, too.
You don’t even know how long the kiss lasts. It might be seconds. Might be a lifetime. All you’re sure of is that the world has fallen away, and you are kissing Zayne.
Zayne.
And he kissed you first. The realization hits like a wave, crashing through the calm you’d clung to only moments ago. Your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind, barely coherent under the thunder of your heartbeat. You hadn’t prepared for this—not tonight, not like this—but the warmth of his mouth on yours is impossible to mistake. Real. Solid. Undeniable. His lips are soft, slightly hesitant at first, like even now he’s holding back some part of himself. But there’s tension there too, coiled beneath the surface, aching to break free.
You kiss him back before your mind catches up, instinct guiding you when logic stutters and stalls. And the moment you do... God, everything changes.
He exhales against you, a sound low in his chest, and then his hands rise. One touches your cheek tentatively, and then the other follows, both cradling your face with the kind of care that makes your knees threaten to give out. His thumbs graze the line of your jaw, tilting your head just slightly to meet him better, deeper. The angle shifts. The kiss settles. And everything else ceases to matter.
There is no hilltop. No city lights. No past, no future. Just the aching heat between you, and the way he kisses like he’s been waiting for lifetimes to know how it feels.
Your heart is thrumming in your chest, in your throat, behind your eyes. You can’t hear anything above it, can’t think past the taste of him and the feel of his breath against your skin. He smells like night air and something clean and comforting that’s always lingered on his shirts when you’ve leaned too close without meaning to. But now you’re not pretending anymore. Now, you’re here, kissing him like you mean it.
And he’s letting you. But just when you think you might drown in it, when your fingers twitch against the edge of his jacket, wanting to pull him closer... he pulls back. Only just.
His breath is uneven, his mouth parted as he blinks down at you, hazel eyes wide with something unspoken. His gaze sweeps over your face, searching—maybe for regret, maybe for reassurance. He lingers on your lips, on the soft, stunned parting of them. And when you unconsciously bite your lower lip—barely, just a flick of teeth—he exhales like someone knocked the wind clean out of him.
His forehead leans into yours, resting there, skin to skin, breath to breath. Neither of you speaks. You don’t have to. Because in the space between your shared breath, in the way his thumbs still brush along your jaw, in the silence that stretches around you like a held chord—you both know. You crossed a line. And neither of you is sorry. Not even close.
You breathe in the nearness of him, your lashes fluttering against the warmth of his cheek, and something settles in your chest, fierce and fragile all at once.
You will never forget the way this moment feels. And thank God for that. Because it felt so good.
🔗 - comment to be added to the taglist for future fics
i wantttt sylus to stich up my wounds. or snap my dislocated limb back in. or set my broken bone. i want him to hurt me and comfort me through it. give me something to bite down on and tell me to lean into him while he works, because he doesn't have any available anesthetic. wipe my tears and hold me tight and praise me after it's all over. rub my back until i fall asleep. type shit
Your dry lips split open on a deep moan of anguish, a hitching sob forcing its way out as Sylus finishes flushing out the wound at your side.
"Shhh, I've got you." The heat of his breath stirs the hair at your temple, the gentle press of his lips contrasting the rough movements of his blood-soaked fingers at your waist. "You're doing so well, kitten."
You whimper and pant as he continues to prod at the tear in your skin. Your aching fingers grip at the forearms encasing your abdomen, doing your best to keep from squirming while he digs the bullet out.
"Those pretty little claws." He laughs through a hiss, reaching for your hands and dragging them to his thighs below yours. "There. Dig them in- yes, just like that. Don't be shy, I can take it."
His murmurs trail off as he resumes the task of hurting you and healing you in equal measure. You resume yours, bracing and bleeding each time your skin sears at his touch. Biting down on your noises to help him concentrate.
You draw out a groan, a clenched jaw away from a growl, when piercing pain suddenly fissures through your muscles like broken glass, freeing a stream of liquid from each eye. Looking down, you barely catch the blurry wink of gold-tinted metal before a sticky hand grasps your chin, a tongue wipes your cheek, and your wet face is forced into Sylus' neck.
"None of that, now," he chides softly. "None of that, my little fighter. Everything's under control, trust me."
You open your mouth to gasp out something sarcastic, something about trusting a man that can't even be killed by a bullet, when he cuts you off with a command, something that sounds a lot like "bite down."
You do, even if you were mistaken, if he hadn't said those words, you wouldn't have been able to stop yourself from sinking your teeth into the salty satin of his neck when the rhythmic puncture of sutures overwhelms you with a new wave of shivering agony.
Your jaw clenches and the metallic taste of blood blooms on your tongue as your ravaged skin tightens and closes, prompting another hiss and chuckle from Sylus. "Claws and teeth, hm? Fair's fair, sweetie. I've gotten more than my fair share of your blood, haven't I?"
He ties the last one off and flushes away the blood to examine his handiwork, continuing his praise and reassurance all the while.
"Shhh, breathe with me, kitten." The rumble of his voice and the rise of his chest hums through your back, soothing your frantic heartbeat like a lullaby as you mimic him with a shaky inhale of your own. "That's it. Now out-" a press of his lips against your forehead punctuates your exhale "-beautiful. Perfect. You're perfect. You did so well."
You’re horribly aware of the drying sweat and blood on your skin, the mud caking your clothes, the tears tracking hot and quiet down your cheeks. But it’s the steady drum of his heart pounding into your back, the metallic taste of survival in your mouth, that makes you feel less like something broken and more like something reforged by him.
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You quietly close your laptop. There's a lump in your throat that can't be swallowed. A burn behind your eyes you can't blink away.
You breathe in through your nose, trying to shut down the rampant spiraling thoughts whirling around in your head. They're probably just busy. Maybe they forgot. Maybe they had other plans and just forgot to tell you. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
You inhale again. It's choppier. A staccato in your chest. It's not that big a deal, really. It's not that important. It's fine. It wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last.
You wish it could be, though.
You hate how... complacent you'd been all these years with this feeling. With being the odd one out. The one no one wants to have on their team. The one no one wants to sit next to. The loner. The loser. Told yourself you liked being alone. Liked spending that time with your doodling or people watching or your book. You didn't need anybody else.
And it never really went away. No - instead of somebody to laugh with, in their place is the form of loneliness. Solidified beside you on the bench. Standing with you in line. Laying beside you in bed. Rotting beside you every time you choose to isolate yourself from the world. Staring over your shoulder at the endless scroll on your phone. Reflected at you in the mirror after you have to force yourself to get up and do something, anything.
Even now, after all this time, it looms like a forest of redwood trees over you. Leaning over your head. Pressing down on you with its oppressive emptiness.
The first tear falls. Then a second, and more and more. Silent. Sobs are choked back into sniffles. Hiccups muffled into shaky sighs.
You cover your mouth - with your hand, your sleeve, anything. Trying to keep in the heartache that's been settled inside of you far longer than you can admit to yourself. Like maybe you can keep it all from spilling out. Hide the ugly shadow that haunts your every day, every interaction, every thought.
There's a soft knock on the door. You press your sleeve tighter over your mouth, over your nose, turning your face from the door to hide once more as it creaks open slightly.
"I brought you dinner," he says, hushed, believing you to be on a call with your friends like you hoped you would be. The door creaks open wider. "Love?"
The monster breaks loose on a harsh sob that wracks your body. Your shoulders tremble under heaving breaths that you try to force into something normal. It's a blur of footsteps and the clatter of a plate being set on your desk before arms wrap around you, turning you back to face him. He cradles the back of your head, guiding you to his shoulder as you lose the will to keep fighting. You gasp for air around helpless whimpers.
"I don't wanna be alone anymore," you cry, words breaking and losing momentum as more of your agony comes loose.
He shushes you gently. Not to silence you. To assure you that he doesn't need any explanation for your pain. He lowers himself to his knees, never letting go for even a second. Pulling you into him. Drawing you from your chair into his lap on the floor. Holding you securely. Protecting you from the shadow looming overhead.
summary: after a grueling week, you show up at onychinus's headquarters unnanounced, and sylus lets you stay, no questions asked
pairing: sylus x reader
rating: teen+
word count: 720
tags: gn!reader, situationship era dynamic, allusions to bloodnight drift, guarded yearning, use of pet names (sweetie)
note: also available in my love & drabble-space collection on ao3
At the end of a long, grueling, wanderer-infested week, you find yourself in the N109 Zone again, in the office of the man who’s something more than an ally despite his commitment to being something less than honest.
Across the room, Sylus sits at his desk, silent, an array of screens hovering in front of him as he idly sips on a measure of whiskey and takes in the goings-on of his ill-gotten empire. It should probably trouble you more— this knowledge that he’s an accomplished killer, that he’s the leader of a massive criminal organization, that he’s wanted by the very association you serve. And yet, despite all of that, you trust him.
Maybe that’s why you made the trip this time.
When you’d shown up at his door, he’d merely buzzed you in, no questions asked, both of you aware he hadn’t summon you here tonight. But, mercifully, he hasn’t pried about your impromptu visit, not even to ask how long you plan to stay.
Which is good, because you don’t know the answer.
Tired, you allow yourself to sink deeper into the pile of throw pillows, a sea of leather and velvet that refuses to welcome you into its embrace no matter how much you squirm. It seems this couch wasn’t made for relaxing, but you’re determined.
Sylus must take notice because, an amused lilt coloring his tone, he says, “Would you not be more comfortable in a bed, sweetie?”
Well, yes. But then you’d be down the hall, separated from him by too many walls. You’re not sure why you want to be near him right now, but you do. “I’m fine,” you mumble, meeting his eyes. Red, like gemstones. Like blood. Like the sickly moonlight that blankets his kingdom.
He holds your gaze for a moment longer before returning his attention to his ever-changing displays, their cool blue light glancing off his timeless features. “Suit yourself.”
As he works, your breaths slow. As he works, your eyes drift closed. As he works, you slip into the realm of dreams.
In this realm, there is wind, crisp and cold and sweet with freedom. It’s everywhere, all around you, and you’re sure you must be swooping through the sky with the way gravity keeps tugging at the pit of your stomach.
Then, warmth.
It comes on like a sunrise, slow and bright, until you recognize the shape of arms— one at your back and one beneath your knees. Someone’s holding you. Someone you trust.
Somewhere nearby, there’s a series of deep, resonant snaps, like a tarp caught in a breeze only less chaotic. And then you’re vaulting upward, the firmament of the world pressing on you like a lead weight.
On and on it goes— climbing, soaring, dipping. And on and on you dream.
You’re not sure how long you sleep, but when you eventually stir, you’re no longer in Sylus’s office. No, you’re burrowed beneath silken sheets in the privacy of the guest quarters, alone and still wearing your Hunter’s uniform.
Sylus must’ve moved you after you passed out. Nothing else makes sense.
As you take in your surroundings, your thoughts stray to the idea of him carrying you through his halls while you slept, cradled against his broad chest. But then he also must’ve unlaced your boots and tucked you into bed. The knowledge has heat creeping into your cheeks. Since when is he so considerate?
Flustered, you toss off the covers and stretch to chase away some of the soreness that collected in your muscles overnight. Damned couch.
First, a shower. And then? Well, you’ll cross that bridge when you get to it.
As you make to get up, a scrap of paper sitting on the nightstand catches your eye.
It’s a note, scrawled in Sylus’s elegant, flowing script: “If you wake before I return, there’s a change of clothes in the bathroom and a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Eat if you must, but don’t spoil your appetite.“
In lieu of a signature, there’s a burner phone, and you piece together that he expects you to call him.
What on earth does he have planned?
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you gather up the phone and dial the singular saved number.
hello helloooooo here for the kisses prompts with Sylus :3
RELIEVED after worrying about the other, cupping their face, pulling back to gaze into their eyes, “you okay?”
or
SOFT, several in quick succession, cradling their head, arms around wait, reassuring, morphing into a hug
have fun~
I diiid very much have fun with this. I chose to combine the two instead of picking one or the other bc I felt like they melded really well together <333
Your heart is still racing, thudding so harsh it knocks the air from your lungs. Your eyes flicker back and forth at the carnage, unable to focus on any one thing. The cinderblock in your hand, the makeshift weapon you swung wildly and violently at your kidnappers, falls heavy to the ground with a chalky clunk, corners stained with blood.
It's over. It's done.
The shots from Sylus's gun still ring in your ears, blotting out sound. His rescue had come just in time. Gave you the opening you needed to wriggle free and take action. Save you from the things they said they would do to you...
He steps carelessly over bodies to reach you. Tosses his gun away like it's worth pennies just to free his hands and cradle your face in his palms. He guides your eyes to his. To the worry in scarlet irises. The crease in his brow.
His mouth moves but you can't hear him. Can't process what the words are supposed to mean. He jostles you slightly, purposefully, repeating with emphasis, "Are you okay?"
You nod vaguely. Are you? You don't think they did anything too harmful. Your wrists hurt from your bindings, and you have some bruises forming steadily on your stomach and cheeks. But, they'll heal. You're alive. Gods, you're alive.
Your eyes burn, stinging with tears that fall before you can try blinking them away. "I'm okay," you mumble, though it comes out closer to a choked whimper. "I-I'm okay."
Something shifts on his face. Concern giving way to empathy. To tenderness and understanding. He presses a kiss to your forehead that lingers like a brand. "You're okay, sweetie. You're okay."
The next kiss lands on your temple. Your cheek. He kisses away the sob that beaks free. Reassuring himself that you really are okay.
He kisses you once- twice more, before drawing you into a hug. The kind of hug that hides you from the world. His hand at the back of your head, guiding your face to his neck, as the other wraps around your back like a harness, strapping you against him. His body hunches around yours. Keeps you secure and hidden against his chest.
You cry freely into his skin. Release all the painful emotions inside of you. The conflicting relief and fear and joy and anger. The sounds you let out are anguished and raw. He kisses your head, over and over, murmuring, "Let it out. I've got you now. You're safe. You're okay. You're okay."
When Zayne sees you arguing with a tall blonde man who’s leaning much too close to you, he assumes you’re being hit on, in a very unpleasant way. It’s only when he notices your hand gravitating to your phone, and the way you nervously glance over your shoulder does he step in.
“Is everything alright?” He places a hand on your lower back, making his relationship to you obvious to this stranger. Bright red eyes find him, and a part of Zayne wonders what kind of genetic mutation causes such a thing.
“Everything is perfect, right kitten?” Zayne frowns at the familiar sounding pet name, while you bristle at it. Clearly, this is not your first interaction with this strange man.
You sigh, glancing up at Zayne with an air of weariness. He can read your irritation clear as day, but there’s something else hidden, something he’s only seen when the two of you first got together.
“This…is Sylus.” You admit. The name rings a bell, and when you nod at his silent question, he understands.
This is the man who put you in grave danger all for the sake of his own needs.
Zayne doesn’t think it through. It’s unlike him to be so spontaneous, but the anger he had felt when you told him about your experience in the N109 zone rises immediately.
His ears are ringing, and his knuckles ache. You’re quick to grab his right hand, stopping him from throwing another punch. You’re looking at him with wide, shocked eyes, though there’s a twinkling of pride in them.
“Zayne!” You gasp, checking his hand for an injury.
Sylus is still turned away, spitting some blood from his mouth. He turns back, the red mark on his cheek slowly fading. A Cheshire grin forms on his face, one that sends an odd thrill down Zayne’s spine.
The night is sharp. Cold enough that your breath fogs in little clouds every time you laugh at one of his dry remarks. You’ve been out for hours, dinner that turned into drinks that turned into wandering the old streets because neither of you wanted to say goodnight yet. The teasing never stopped. Little jabs, lingering glances, the way his fingers brushed yours when he passed you the wine list, the way you “accidentally” stepped on the back of his shoe just to hear that low, warning hum in his throat.
You both know what’s been building.
You just refuse to name it.
Now the moon is fat and silver overhead, turning everything ghostly. The streets are empty except for the occasional car humming past. Sylus insisted on walking you home, something about “Linkon at night isn’t safe for little kittens who drink too much cabernet.” You rolled your eyes. He draped his coat over your shoulders anyway. It smells like him: leather, sandalwood, something dark and expensive you can’t place. It swallows you whole, sleeves dangling past your hands.
You’re both quieter now. The air feels thinner. Every step closer to your building makes your stomach flip harder.
At the door he stops. Hands in his pockets. Looking anywhere but directly at you for once.
“Well,” he says, voice low, almost careful. “Another successful evening of you attempting to drink me under the table. And failing spectacularly.”
You snort, but it comes out shaky. “I had you wobbling at the bar. Don’t lie.”
“Delusional.” A half smile. The kind that doesn’t reach his eyes tonight. “Go inside before you freeze.”
You turn toward the door. Keys already in hand. Heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
Then you stop.
Just… stop.
The air feels heavier. The cold bites your cheeks. You can still taste the wine on your tongue, still feel the ghost of his arm brushing yours all night.
You turn back.
He’s still standing there. Watching you. Red eyes catching moonlight like they’re made of it.
You don’t think.
You just move.
Three quick steps and you’re crashing into him, lips on his, desperate and clumsy and perfect. Your hands fist in his collar, yanking him down so there’s no space left between you. He freezes for half a heartbeat, long enough for panic to spike in your chest, then his mouth opens under yours, hot and slow and devastating.
It’s not exactly gentle. It’s months of almosts and maybes poured into one bruising press. You taste wine and him and the faint edge of whatever restraint he’s been clinging to. Your fingers twist tighter in the fabric. His hands hover at your sides like he’s afraid touching you will break something, then one slides to the small of your back, firm, pulling you flush against him. The other cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw.
You make a small, helpless sound against his mouth.
He answers with a low groan that vibrates through you.
It lasts seconds. Maybe ten. Maybe forever. You don’t know. Time is just heat and heartbeat and the way his tongue finally brushes yours like he’s memorizing every inch.
Then you pull back.
Just enough.
Your foreheads rest together for a second. Both of you breathing hard. Cheeks burning. His eyes are blown wide, red swallowed almost entirely by black. Yours probably look the same.
Neither of you says anything.
You stare at each other, blushing, wrecked, stupidly alive.
Then instinct kicks in.
You let go of his collar like it’s on fire, spin on your heel, and bolt inside.
The door slams behind you.
You lean against it, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor, knees to your chest, face buried in your hands.
Outside, you hear him exhale a rough, almost laugh.
Then footsteps. Retreating.
But not far.
You know he’s still standing at the bottom of the steps.
Probably smirking.
Probably already planning how he’s going to make you pay for running.
Imagine moving to a small, quiet town with sylus to settle down and leave your old lives behind you…
The house sits at the end of a gravel lane that turns to mud after rain, whitewashed walls and a wraparound porch that creaks underfoot like it’s telling stories. It’s nothing like the penthouses or safehouses you used to know, too small, too open, too full of windows that let in every sunrise whether you want it or not. Sylus bought it without asking. One day he just slid a set of keys across the kitchen island in Linkon and said, “We’re leaving next week. Pack light.”
You didn’t argue.
Now the twins’ rooms sit upstairs, doors closed most days, beds made half-heartedly but you couldn’t bother to change it because that’s how Kieran left them. Luke’s got band posters peeling at the corners; Kieran’s desk still has half a model starship he swore he’d finish “when he had time.” They video call every Sunday night from their dorms, Luke loud, Kieran quieter, both complaining about cafeteria food and asking if the apple tree out back is still dropping fruit on the shed roof. You send them care packages stuffed with the jam you’ve started making. Sylus pretend like he doesn’t add extra cash “for emergencies.”
Mornings are slow now.
You wake to birds instead of gunshots. Sylus is usually already up, coffee brewing, sleeves rolled to his elbows, reading something on an old tablet he won’t replace. Sometimes he’s out back splitting logs for the woodstove even though the house has central heating he calls “unreliable.” You find him shirtless in September chill more often than you’d admit, silver hair damp with sweat, axe buried in the chopping block.
He catches you watching from the kitchen window and smirks. Always that same crooked thing, softer around the edges these days.
“Like the view, kitten?”
You toss a dish towel at him when he comes inside. He catches it mid air, uses it to wipe his face, then pulls you against him anyway, cold nose pressed to your neck, smelling like pine and earth.
The neighborhood is old bones and sticky fingered kids.
Mrs. Hara next door brings over persimmons the size of your fist every fall; you trade her sourdough you’ve finally learned not to murder. Mr. Tanaka’s knees gave out last winter so Sylus rebuilt his garden trellis without being asked, spent three afternoons cursing softly in Japanese he picked up just to talk to the old man. The kids call Sylus “the tall uncle with the red eyes” and trail him like ducklings when he walks to the mailbox. He didn’t know how to deal with that at first. Now buys them ice pops anyway.
Evenings are yours.
You come home from the little clinic in town, nothing glamorous, just checking blood pressure and listening to grandmas complain about their hips and he’s already there. Apron tied around his waist because he’s decided he’s going to master braising. The kitchen smells like garlic and rosemary and whatever wine he opened “just to cook with.” You wrap your arms around him from behind while he stirs, chin on his shoulder.
“Long day?” he asks without turning.
“Mrs. Ito tried to set me up with her grandson again.”
He snorts. “Tell her I bite.”
“You do.”
A low hum of amusement. He turns the burner down, spins you around so your back’s to the counter, cages you with both hands on either side of your hips.
“Missed you,” he says, quiet, like it’s still a secret even after all this time.
You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Missed you more.”
Dinner is whatever’s in season. Leftover roast turned into sandwiches the next day. You eat on the porch when the weather’s good, feet in his lap, his thumb rubbing absent circles over your ankle while fireflies start winking in the grass.
Nights are quiet except for the creak of the house settling and Mephisto’s occasional indignant squawk from his perch in the living room. (Yes, the crow came too. Sylus claims it’s because “someone has to keep an eye on you,” but you’ve caught him murmuring to his first companion on this planet.)
You fall asleep tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist, your leg hooked over his, breathing in sync. Sometimes you wake up to him already looking at you, red eyes soft in the dark.
“What?” you whisper.
He brushes hair off your forehead with his knuckles. “Nothing. I’m just glad you’re here.”
You curl closer. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“No,” he agrees, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “We’re not.”
In spring the cherry tree out front explodes into pink. Kids from three houses down come running with baskets. Sylus lifts the smallest one onto his shoulders so she can reach the higher branches. You take pictures even though he raises an eyebrow at the camera.
Later, petals in your hair, juice from early strawberries on his fingers, he licks it off your thumb when no one’s looking.
“Still content with this life?” he asks, low enough that only you hear.
You lean up, kiss the underside of his jaw.
“Every single day.”
He exhales like he’s been holding the breath for years.
“Good.”
Because this, the small town, the creaking porch, the exchanged fruit, the fixed fences, the empty rooms waiting for holidays, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that ever mattered,
sylus never lets you top. not because he’s scared you’ll do a bad job. because he knows you’ll do too fucking well.
he’s a control freak. a snob. a bastard about it. he likes making you cry with your own pleasure, likes saying shit like “that’s it, sweetheart, use that brain for moaning instead,” while he’s got you bent over the desk he does diagnostics on.
he calls you greedy for asking and desperate for dripping, and then he lets you do both anyway, slow and mean, until you’re sobbing into the pillow and he’s wiping his cock on your thigh.
so when you ask—sweet as you can, pretty little “can i ride it?” like it’s innocent, like it’s not a death sentence—he just scoffs.
“you?” deadpan. flat. biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “you’d break in thirty seconds.”
you pout. he raises one brow.
“oh, please. you’d get on top and cry the second you sat down. i know you.”
you tell him fine. you dare him. and for some reason—maybe he’s tired, maybe he’s cocky, maybe he wants to watch you try and fail—he says yes. big mistake.
because you don’t just sit. and that’s where he fucks up.
because you don’t flinch. don’t squirm. don’t stall out like he’s always expected you to. you just climb into his lap like you’ve done it a hundred times, like you haven’t been dreaming about it with your hand between your thighs for weeks, like the wet spot on your panties hasn’t already mapped out every single bounce you plan to take.
you brace on his chest. guide him in slow.
and when the tip catches—you don’t pause, don’t gasp, don’t even blink. you sink down in one slow, syrupy motion, hiss out a breath through your teeth, and say, perfectly calm, “huh. thought it’d hurt more.”
his hand spasms. he looks up at you like you’ve cursed him.
you smile. “you good, baby?”
“don’t—” he says, voice already raw. “don’t call me that.”
“why not?” you lean forward, hips grinding, slick soaking his thighs. “you’re letting me ride it, aren’t you? isn’t that what good boys do?”
he twitches. cock jumps. his fingers dig into your waist like he wants to ruin you just to win a single round, but it’s too late. he’s already losing. he’s already so fucking deep it should be criminal, and you’re still rolling your hips in lazy little circles like you’ve got all the time in the world and nothing to prove.
“fucking—stop—”
“why?” you murmur, syrup-sweet. “scared i’ll make you cum?”
he’s panting now, red creeping up his throat. he looks furious. he looks gorgeous. he looks like he’s seconds away from breaking—so you bounce. once.
and he chokes. “fuck—”
“what was that?” you tease. “you like that?”
you bounce again. slow. drawn out. and his mouth drops open. hands flying to your hips. not to stop you—oh no. just to feel it. just to hold on.
you’re ruining him. you know it. he knows it. god probably knows it.
he’s trying to glare but his eyes are glassy and his jaw is slack and his brows are pinched like he’s trying not to moan, trying not to admit that you were right and he was wrong and you’re better at this than he is.
and you are. you are. you grind again, clench down mean, and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth just as you feel him throb.
“fuck—fuck—i’m gonna—”
“cum.”
“don’t—” he gasps. “don’t say that, i’m—”
“cum for me,” you whisper, and you swear to god he whimpers, full-body shudder, hips jerking once before he gives in, before he breaks wide open and spills himself inside you in hot, shaking pulses, cock twitching so hard you feel it in your ribs.
he pants. moans. melts beneath you like he’s been dismantled from the spine out. you don’t move. you stay seated. leaking. still smug. and you stroke his hair once, real gentle, just to twist the knife.
“thirty seconds, huh?” you murmur. he doesn’t answer. because he can’t.
This is your NSFW Love and Deepspace headcanon warning
Topic: Sleepy morning sex
For the 18+ crowd only, if you would be so kind.
All LI’s below the cut
Xavier: I’m sure you can see where this one is going already. Xavier’s a sleepy guy. A large percentage of the sex you have with him will qualify as “sleepy.” Sun’s peeking in through the curtains and he’s all spooned up behind you, hand sneaking up under your shirt, and you can’t really tell if he’s asleep or awake. His breathing is perfectly even in your ear, his hips flush against your rear, and it’s all so cozy you kind of drift in and out of awareness. That is, until you feel something slipping between your legs. Slow, lazy thrusts, murmurs about how soft your thighs are, how good you feel, his fingers coming around to gently bring you up with him. He’ll try not to make too much of a mess, which is good because there’s a 75% chance he’s falling back asleep when he’s done.
Zayne: Zayne keeps a very precise schedule. One of the downsides of dating a doctor is that lazy mornings in bed are few and far between. On the rare occasions when Zayne can stay in bed, though, you’re going to be staying there with him. His energy is different on mornings like this. Something loosens in him, makes him move slow. His tongue finds spots on you that are normally overlooked. He folds you in on yourself, rolls gentle and deep. Presses your wrists into the pillow, keeps you there, keeps you where he is. You feel savored, on mornings like this. Like you’re the only thing in the world worth slowing down for. To him, you are.
Rafayel: Indulgence, thy name is Rafayel. If the mood strikes him, a slow wake-up can easily turn into a day spent in bed. It’s the perfect chance to catch up on sleep, catch up on a book or a tv show, catch up on each other. Quiet conversations while the rain falls outside. Rafayel’s fingertips painting pictures over your arm. Clothes long forgotten, just skin and skin and skin. He’ll slip inside you mid sentence, fill you without moving, carry on the conversation without batting an eye. You’ll lie there, connected, the need you feel for him a lingering glow, but nothing that needs to be immediately satisfied. You have all day, and there’s no substitute for how it feels to be like this.
Sylus: You’ve heard of breakfast in bed, but have you ever been breakfast in bed? Cause if he knows you’re okay with it, you will absolutely wake up to Sylus’s mouth between your legs. He’ll be slow with it, excessively gentle at first, subtle enough that the sensation will wind its way into your dreams. You’ll wake up all tense and needy and a little confused, but you’ll look down to see those eyes looking up at you and it’ll all click into place. Afterwards he’ll tuck you back in and let you sleep while he gets on to whatever business he has on his docket. You might even wake up again an hour later to the same treatment. What’s he supposed to do - you’re delicious, sweetie.
Caleb: Caleb always wakes up ready for action. That goes double when it’s you he’s waking up next to. You’ll rise to the sensation of being rolled on your stomach, Caleb’s nose nuzzling in near your ear. “You awake?” he’ll ask, like he doesn’t already know the answer. You’ll groan and swat at him, but he’ll just interlace his fingers with yours and hold your hand down on the bed. Times like these are why you sleep in his shirts. Makes it easy for him to knock your leg open with his knee, and his weight is delicious on your back as he pushes inside of you. Just because he’s wide awake doesn’t mean you are, but that’s okay. All you have to do is receive. And Caleb? He has a lot to give.
"Aren't you just the cutest???" you coo, nimble fingers working through the material of the tiny dress-shirt you had crafted for your little companion.
You had slipped it onto Mephisto's small frame, and incessantly gushed about how adorable the animal looked adorned by the fruit of your labor.
"The cutest?" Sylus' annoyed grumble pierces through the air, and you don't even afford him the pleasure of your gaze, so absorbed on the current subject of all your affections. "The bird is tolerable, at best."
"Mephisto is my son. I literally birthed him. So watch your mouth when you talk about him—" your tone assumes a firm air, before returning to saccharine tenderness. "—right sweetie? You look so cute ahhhhh," you squeal again when your eyes land on the way the red ruffles lay against midnight black coat.
Mephisto caws proudly, raising his neck with the most ostentatious air; willing to be admired even more and receive your praise when you pull out your phone and start snapping pictures of your winged companion at varying angles.
"Tch." Sylus couldn't believe his eyes.
You, who had borderline hated the bird upon your initial meeting, now almost seemed to worship it. How could you be in his house, on his bed, after weeks of not seeing each other, and still have such complete disregard for the man who would turn the whole world to cinders for your pleasure.
The leader of Onychinus was getting his feelings hurt over a damn pet, a most entertaining of prospects to you, who noticed but was too enticed by the notion of teasing him.
"Yes Mephie, you're my absolute favorite!" you use your index to caress the bird's head, and it gives another caw, revelling in your warmth. "Not like that grump over there."
That is the straw that broke the camel's back.
You don't even have the time to orient your senses when you are thrust into the air and then onto a body, hard. The glowing streak in Sylus' eye burns with intensity, his gaze settling on you as he feels your racing heart against his own chest.
Mephisto yelps in the background, before vanishing in a red mist that is summoned at the tip of your lover's fingers.
"Ignoring me, I can tolerate," his words are slow, as calculated as the pressure of his arms that tighten around you; the vice grip of a cobra ready to devour its prey. "But such overt teasing..." he tuts, his gaze drifting from your eyes to the curve of your nose and then down to your lips. "Don't you think you owe me some lovin', sweetie?"
"Jealous much?" You manage a smirk, even when you feel your resolve weaken and the magnetic pull of his presence.
"Oh, unabashedly so." Within in an instant, his lips are a hair away from yours, his breath caressing the surface of your skin. "Will you grant me your attention, or am I yet to earn it, my love?"
Suddenly the pressure of his evol releases, and only the tender air remains as a barrier between you two.
Sylus' eyes reflecting yours in utter devotion, an unspoken assurance that squeezed at your heart. Your fingers snake up his neck and find his chin, tilting it forward toward you as that characteristic smirk—one of utter pleasure—paints his lips.
"I don't think you've earned it, no." The timbre of your voice drops, sugary mollasses that Sylus willfully sinks into. "But you know exactly how to fix that, don't you?"
"Yes ma'am." His own reply is gravelly, wrapped in that unveiled anticipation that made his heart tremble.
Needless to say, he definitely got the attention he so desperately wanted.
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This was so fun to write! Sylus acts super tough but he's such a softie on the inside. He's like the opposite of Raf and Caleb, who have a soft/easygoing persona but hide something more sinister on the inside
Comments and reblogs are much appreciated (❁´◡`❁)
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