Hey gaymers.
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.
Claire Keane

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
RMH
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occasionally subtle
ojovivo

#extradirty

izzy's playlists!
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trying on a metaphor
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h

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Show & Tell

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@peter-pumpkin-eater
Hey gaymers.
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.
Zayne is no stranger to seeing you injured.
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.
“Did you take care of it?”
“I did.”
“...Good.”
You almost felt sorry for them.
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.
You tap his hand. Everything goes dark.
“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.
🩵 “reach for me, kiss me, hold me close”
⋆. — 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.
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 Can Never Stop Being The Kid In The Corner Of The Playground
Any LI x gn!Reader
Needed to get out my emotions tonight. Wrote it with Zayne or Sylus in mind, but it's open enough to be read with any LI (I think)
Warnings: angst, emotional hurt, crying, self-indulgent, loneliness, isolation
Word Count: 577
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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.
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
Prompts from this list
Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, kidnapping, murder, blood, guns, implied torture, crying, injuries, bruises, kissing, hugging
Word Count: 421
Fifth Love and Deepspace Masterlist
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 three of us are going to get along great.”
The first kiss with sylus
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.
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.
۶ৎ meanie sylus never lets you top !
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
ATTENTION - LOVE AND DEEPSPACE SYLUS
A/N: Jealous Sylus in the houseeee
"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.
------------------
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 (❁´◡`❁)