Summary: Now that the ice is finally broken, Zayne has a few questions. Some of them are serious, some silly, and some that finally allow you both to share your true emotions. The tension breaks.
Word Count: 4793
Note: soooooooo, this took way too long. please forgive me 🙏🏻 I went on a trip and then proceeded to get sick so i've been very out of it, and then it ended up being stupid long because I have no control.
Warnings: more mention of scars (reader's), insinuated past violence, and then the end gets a little steamy (quiet literally lol), Zayne is a tiny bit of an animal because that man is cannonically thirsty, also the briefest moment of zero-description nudity
---
There’s a tenderness to the peace that follows after that day. Almost as though you’ve broken through the frozen surface of a lake and now you are left to rest under the ice, suspended, weightless, the world moving so slowly about you.
When before your days were listless, bleeding and blurring as though time had forgotten your existence, now you are keenly aware of it, aware of the constant and calm heartbeat of the man you’ve allowed to be at your side. No day feels the same, if only for the mere fact that his eyes seem to change with each rising sun, a different shade of green or brown or gray. As infinite and shifting as the land itself.
As infinite as Zayne’s questions.
It starts slow, tentative. Afterall, the ice is still fragile.
”May I ask you a question, my lady?”
Blinking, your attention shifts from the runes you’re carving into the stone threshold of Zayne’s new room, sparing the man a glance over your shoulder. Every cell of your body is aware of his proximity as he lingers closer than he did before, his eyes set on you with such burning curiosity - though you do not find it as unnerving as you once did.
”I said I would provide you anything, did I not?”
A glint of eagerness passes across his expression, hardly hidden by the stoic set of his features, like a child determined to hide their excitement over a new treat. It strikes a chord of mirth within you, a hal smile playing on your lips as you return to your sorcery.
“Ask away, my dear human.”
He does not need to be told twice.
”Have you always lived in the Tower, my lady?” Zayne asks, stepping forward ever so slightly to remain in your vision.
A good question. You give him a thoughtful hum, “No, I have not. I found the Tower of Thorns a mere hundred years ago.”
“A hundred years ago?”
”Yes, around the time you humans started your wars,” you continue, “I had no desire to remain amongst such…depravity.”
Zayne’s brow furrows, nearly imperceptibly. You can see the gears working in his sharp mind, still ever a man of medicine and logic, he understands what you have not directly said.
“Do you mean to say that you lived among my kind before then?”
Your smile falters, just as imperceptibly, “Perhaps.”
And you offer no more than that. Where most would press for more answers, Zayne does not, as though he can sense your unease as his own. Instead, he allows the silence to be soft, allows his presence to rest alongside yourself, like the low tide tracing so tenderly along the beach, a brush, a mere moment of devotion, before slipping back into the depths of the ocean and allowing you to breathe.
—
The next question comes while he assists you in organizing ancient scrolls in the cellar.
It is not important work by any means, but it keeps your mind sharp, and often you find the ancient texts bring about new life in some way. When you invite Zayne to join, he jumps at the chance to search for medicinal scrolls, though it is not long before you notice his attention shift.
This time, he does not ask permission, though you are more than expecting it.
“What are your prophecies like, my lady?”
Eyes never leaving the scripts in front of you, you answer him with a teasing trace of amusement, “That is a somewhat broad question, Zayne,”
A slight furrow to his brow, he presses for more understanding as he always does, “My apologies, should I be more exact?”
”The more precise your questions, the more detailed you may find my answers to be.”
Zayne stills, his mouth pulling into a thin line as he slips deep into thought. You watch him out of the corner of your eye. You have never met a mortal with such a wonderful mind, one to rival your own, and it feels near enchanting to watch him think. Also unlike any you have met, Zayne is a man willing to sit in the silence so that he may speak exactly what he wishes to, every breath deliberate. Your unusual human…
“How do you receive your prophecies?” He finally asks, jade eyes focusing back on you.
“Much better.” Your approval sends a thrill across Zayne’s nerves, and he subconsciously stands a touch straighter, a warm glint of satisfaction behind his eyes. You, of course, notice, but find no need to point it out. “Fate most often shows me prophecies in the form of visions. I assume they are similar to the dreams you humans have, though they occur when I am awake. Other times, when one’s fate is near, it shows itself as an apparition.”
”An apparition? Could you explain?”
“What your myths call the ghost of death, I suppose.” You shrug and reach for a fresh parchment to begin a transcription of your text. “Though it takes no human form, as your tales describe it. For those who can perceive it, it is merely a shadow of sorts. A sensation akin to dread. You humans cannot see it, however, it is my understanding that you can sense it.” Your eyes flicker back up to Zayne for a brief moment, pensive. “I am sure you are well familiar with it.”
He hesitate before giving you a tense nod, “I was surrounded by it. My- the kingdom was experiencing a plague at the time of my banishment. It was killing hundreds despite our efforts.”
“That must have been…difficult,” you murmur, brief pause weighted with understanding. You have been witness to far too many deaths yourself and if you’ve come to learn one thing of Zayne, it is this, “You seem like one to carry the burdens of the world on your shoulders. I hope you do not blame yourself for those deaths as well.”
A telling smile pulls at Zayne’s lips, one tinged with clear guilt, “Am I so easily known, my lady?”
It is as good as an admission.
Expression softening, a forlorn yet fond sigh passes your lips, “I am afraid so, my dear. While I am sure your act would work against most of your kind, I am not so easily mislead.”
”Of course,” he huffs out a low laugh, the tension slipping from his shoulders, “I suppose it is foolish of me to believe I might be able to hide something from you.”
“Foolish indeed,” you hum and lean against the table, “Though I am merely observant, not all-knowing. You may keep your secrets if you so desire to. I hardly wish for you to feel as though you have no privacy.”
“…I do not mind sharing my privacy with you.”
Ah. Fondness evolves into a fluttering in your chest that leaves your breath unsteady.
This admission is left without response as you both set back to work. Though Zayne is not so oblivious as to miss how you shift ever so slightly closer, your fingers grazing his in passing movements.
A subtle shift in the tide. The beach reaching for the waves.
—
And while some of his questions are intellectual and serious, you find that others are rather…innocent.
“Do you have a favorite flower, my lady?”
It is a calm morning atop the Tower. A rare lull in the harsh weather, one you would not waste. It is not often you get to bask in the light of the rising sun, feel the warmth of it on your skin, and you had not cared to be subtle when you had invited Zayne to join you. Your distant facade had already been shattered moons ago.
Turning your attention to the human, you find yourself faltering for a mere moment, words lost on your tongue. Drenched in morning light, Zayne looks rather…beautiful. His skin glows, as though touched by the rose tones of the sky. The soft light traces his features so lovingly, his brow relaxed, a rare, at ease smile drawn across his lips. He gazes back at you, eyes dark and dripping with a warmth that even the sun could not rival. A warmth that dares to melt you from the inside out.
It still terrifies you, yet now, you find yourself more than willing to bask in it.
“I am afraid you will have to repeat yourself, my dear,” you murmur, voice impossibly quiet in the still, morning air.
“I asked what your favorite flower is, my lady,” he repeats, eyes creasing with mirth.
It’s a silly question, though perhaps that is the exact reason why your pulse wavers. No one has ever asked you such a thing, and you find the answer sticking to your tongue, an unsteady weight, as though it is more intimate than what you have already shared.
Letting out a huff of laughter, you try to turn your attention back to the sunrise, as though that will help, “What an odd question.”
“Do you not wish to answer?” He presses, leaning against the wall in hopes of catching your gaze again.
“No…” You remain stubbornly aloof.
Zayne rests his chin in his hand, watching you with a touch of amusement. How blessed he must be to see you, the great, icy Foreseer, like this. Cheeks slightly flushed, lips pressed together in a far too innocent pout that kindles a simmering desire in the depths of his being. Has anyone ever had the privilege of knowing the touch of your lips? Would you ever be so lenient as to allow him such a privilege? What would you taste li-
“Jasmines.”
The man blinks, shaken from the dizzying rush of his own thoughts. You give him a look of mighty disapproval, though it holds no real ice considering the blush that still lingers on your cheeks.
“Does that surprise you?”
”No,” he answers firmly, because once he processes your words, he finds that the answer suits you, even with his lack of botanical knowledge. “What do they represent?”
”The jasmine has many meanings,” you murmur, still eyeing him with a begrudging frown. As wonderful as his mind is, it is truly a mystery to you at times. “Most revere them for their simplistic beauty, and they are often used as a symbol for divinity and purity. Though I admire them for the simple reason that they are one of the few plants that dares to grow in these hellish conditions.”
Zayne nods along, as though your words make perfect sense. Though to him, you’ve merely described yourself, so how could he not find them beautiful as well?
“Do…you have a favorite flower?”
The question sounds odd coming from you, your voice tentative in a way you find to be unbecoming, but Zayne gives you another of those small smiles, a faint curve at the corner of his lips, and the feeling slips away.
“I believe mine would have to be the jasmine as well.”
Your eyes narrow.
“You did not even know their meaning.”
“No, but now they will always remind me of you.”
Oh, he has certainly grown bold, hasn’t he? Comfortable even.
”Perhaps the sun is getting to you, my dear. I’m afraid you’ve taken me for someone who may fall for such flattery.”
”I am merely being genuine, my lady.”
Your gaze meets his again, calm, contemplative, searching. And, of course, you do not find even a hint of deception or teasing. That now all too familiar fluttering sensation returns to your chest.
Your own smile twitches at the corner of your lips.
“Yes. I suppose you are.”
—
In hindsight, you underestimated just how comfortable Zayne had become.
For so long, he reminded you of a sweet pup, that you’ve forgotten what he truly is. A man. Persistent, calculating, and far too bold. A prowling wolf, fangs sharp enough to tear through flesh yet wise enough not too. Feral desire collared by devotion. And you’ve allowed him a taste of your proximity, your touch.
It is only later that you become all too aware of the danger this man presents. Like sharp teeth pressed so reverently to your throat. Insatiable yet restrained. And oh so gentle. Even your keen mind and magic could never have foreseen such a thing.
Though you find that you trust those teeth more than you trust yourself.
If you were created to foresee the fates of many, Zayne was created to defy your every expectation.
All his questions. His new found confidence. It leaves you with many things to think about.
Thick steam fills the air. It settles, warm and heavy, hovering over the surface of the pool. It is not often you come to the baths, hidden in the depths of the Tower. With your magic, being clean requires nothing more than a flick of your wrists, but on the nights when the cold feels too sharp, when you wish to forget the ice in your veins for a mere moment, you find your escape here. Boiling the water, feeling the warmth slowly fill the room, it helps your mind settle.
Taking a deep breath, you savor the humid air, letting it curl in your lungs for a long moment before you let it slip past your lips. Fingers moving with practiced ease, you work the clasps of your outermost robe, each release feeling like a weight off your shoulders - quite literally. The thick fur falls from your shoulders to pool in the crook of your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare to the warmth of the room.
“My lady-“
Zayne’s voice cuts off abruptly.
Blinking, you cast your gaze towards the heavy-set door. Your human stands there, a basket in hand, filled to the brim with herbs you had requested he bring for you. Yet, he seems frozen in place, features flickering through a curious display of emotions.
Eyes slightly wide, pupils mere pinpricks, locked on your bare shoulders. Knuckles bleached white around the rim of the bowl. Jaw clenched so tightly you fear he might grind his teeth into dust. Like a man who has seen a ghost.
It is rather unlike him to express himself so blatantly, without clear provocation, no less. Brow lifting ever so slightly, you call out to him in a soft hum, “What has you so perturbed, my dear?”
Throat bobbing, Zayne’s eyes dart up to yours, and what you find there nearly makes you take a step back. Rage. Unadulterated and unrestrained and violent. The kind of rage you know all too well, that you have felt spiral within yourself. It simmers in the very depths of his gaze, shifting the hazel to hard steel in the dim light of the washroom.
Your fingers twitch in the thick fur at your chest. Unease prickles at the back of your neck. Something dangerous draws near.
But why?
“My lady, when you spoke of scars-“ Zayne cuts himself off again, jaw flexing.
Ah.
Realization settles your nerves. A small sigh passes your lips as you glance down at your shoulder. To think, you would forget something so significant. It would seem you have slipped too far into comfort, that you would be so thoughtless.
Your scars are countless. A true tapestry of violence on your skin. So senseless, you can hardly claim them as memories of your past, or perhaps you simply do not want to recognize them as such. They cover near half of your body, curling across each limb, drawn down your back, your stomach, your chest. Jagged lines of silver, like cracks in a frozen lake.
Fate gave you the magic to heal them, but no such power to make the remnants disappear. They have become a mere design on your skin, hidden under the layers of your robes. Forgotten. Unseen.
Until now, it would seem.
He must be feeling quite shocked, you imagine. They are a rather ghastly sight. Your scars have always scared the mortals-
“Who did this to you?”
You pause. Zayne’s voice rumbles through the dark room like a low roll of thunder in the distance, warning you of the storm to come. Foreboding. The air suddenly feels too thick, too warm, static curling along your skin. Your magic rises to meet it, frost pricking wherever his eyes touch.
What is this?
Unsure of what to expect now, you turn back on him, voice defensive, but not yet unkind, ”Do you truly need to ask such a question?”
Zayne’s jaw tenses, the lines of his neck straining. He doesn’t know what to say. When you had spoken of scars, he did not imagine this would be the extent. The sight of your skin, marked so senselessly, makes something hot curl in the depths of his chest. It claws viciously at his ribs, threatening to break him, swallow him whole and rip away his rationalities. But the way you watch him, guarded and uncertain, your shoulders drawn closer to your neck, it makes him bite his tongue, choke on the anger clawing at his throat.
”May I come closer, my lady?” He rasps, voice going quiet.
Eyes narrowing, you appraise him for a long moment. You should say no. You should dismiss him until he can gather himself and act appropriately, until the rage has dwindled. It is the only rational thing to do in a moment like this. Yet-
“You may,” you murmur unevenly.
You can’t bear to send him away when he looks at you so desperately.
The steam swirls into ancient patterns as he steps through it. Ebbings, flowing, clinging to his skin. It curls between the two of you, stirred by your breath, shared by your lungs. And you just watch. Watch as he stops a mere step away, eyes still dark, still maddeningly soft despite the rage simmering just below the surface. And they can’t seem to leave the scars on your skin.
“They make you angry,” you all but whisper, not quite a question, but not a statement of understanding, as though his rage is beyond your grasp, beyond reason.
Zayne wets his lips, dry despite the damp heat clinging to his brow, “I - I do not understand. Why would someone do something like this?”
Something in you softens. You had assumed that was the cause of his anger - the pain you once experienced - but there is a certain ache behind his voice, as though he truly cannot comprehend the fate you suffered, the cruelty of it, despite all he has been through.
“They believed themselves above the truth,” you murmur simply, “I stood in their way, so they sought to kill me…Fate would not permit it.”
Zayne’s jaw ticks, tone dipping into something harsh, defiant, “So she allowed you to suffer?”
You do not respond, shifting your gaze back to the pool. More accurately, you do not have a response. There is no denying that Fate was absent in those days, and you’ve never known why. Never dared to ask. And now it is far too distant to linger on such questions.
Instead, you whisper a different question, one curling in the back of your mind, “Would you have dared to stop them? Men much like your king, with the power to condemn whoever they wish to?”
“Of course,” Zayne murmurs viciously without a moment of hesitation, voice terrifyingly calm, “I would replicate every mark they’ve left onto their own skin and then force them to grovel before you and beg for your mercy.”
A shiver traces down your body, warmth settling in your core
“They would kill you,” you whisper.
“Dying for you is not something I must think about, my lady,” he replies as though it were a simple fact.
Because it is to him. While he has never been one for violence, yet the mere thought of you in such pain has him more than willing to drench himself in blood, if only to keep your hands stainless. Even if he must defy Fate itself.
“If anyone dares to lay a hand on you again, I will-
“Zayne.”
The man flinches when your cool skin suddenly touches his neck, the contrast of it scattering his thoughts, making his pulse race. For only the second time since he entered, he glances up, meeting your searching gaze. Something desperate glints behind your eyes, something vulnerable and uncertain.
“Why do you care so deeply?”
Gods, he wishes he could cross the distance between you. All these emotions, these feelings, he doesn’t know how to properly express them, how to make you understand the depths of his devotion, the lengths to which he would go for you. If words could even be enough to describe something so irrational, so all-consuming.
“Can I not simply care for you because I wish to? Because I believe you are worthy of care?” Zayne lets out a frustrated sigh and steps closer. The heat in your stomach coils as he towers over you, his warmth so close it fogs your mind. “You deserve far more than I can offer, but my life is yours to claim. Use me as you will. Break me if you desire to. I will give you all that I am if you would allow me to care for you.”
Your lips part, yet you cannot sort through your thoughts, you can hardly breathe. The air feels too thick, too charged with a tension you have never known. It draws you into the deep, threatens to consume you until there is nothing left but this heat.
Yes. This is certainly dangerous. He is dangerous. Such passion and ardent devotion. And you get the keen sense that he would not hesitate to consume you with it if you let him.
Thumb brushing thoughtfully over the hard line of his jaw, you let out a soft sigh when Zayne leans into your touch, those dark eyes still set so unwaveringly on you. The rage has dwindled, swallowed by that oh so familiar affection, bleeding and raw and gentle.
Perhaps being consumed by this would not be so bad. Perhaps you can allow yourself to feel the same.
“I do not believe I have been cared for. Nor have I ever cared for someone so dearly….What am I to do with you,” you breathe, fingers tracing along his neck to curl in the dark hair at his nape.
Zayne resists the urge to shudder, eyelashes fluttering at the sensation. Your touch is so cold compared to the unbearable heat, so dizzyingly pleasant against his skin. His voice trembles with it, “Anything you wish, my lady.”
“And what do you want?” You lift your other hand to trace his cheek, earning a low hum from the man. It rumbles through the steam, sets your heart off course. “Certainly you want more than just to care for me.”
For the shortest of moments, his eyes flicker down, lingering on the tender curve of your lips. Cheeks flush, he looks back up, pupils blown and dark like a lake in the dead of night. So easy to read.
“My lady…”
“Show me what it is like to be cared for, Zayne,” you command in a mere breath.
And Zayne will not be told twice.
His warm hands settle on your jaw, branding your skin, tilting your head so that his lips can slant so perfectly over your own. You stifle a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut as the feeling envelopes you. He kisses you like a man starved, desperate for even a taste, desperate to devour you whole. It’s maddening and gentle and all you can think is that you never want it to end. Your fingers tighten in his hair, drawing a raspy groan from his lips. It pours over you like molten heat, licking at your nerves, curling between your ribs, pooling in the depths of your soul.
When you draw away, you’re both unsteady, unable to catch your breath. His taste lingers on your lips, sweet like the fruit he enjoys. Your mind spins too fast for words. It’s too much, too intense, yet you can’t help but want more.
How do mortals do this?
Zayne fares no better. Like an animal driven by instinct, he draws you impossibly closer, presses his lips to yours once more, swallows your unsteady breath, needing just one more taste. He can feel your body trembling against his, your fingers grasping desperately at his hair as though to anchor yourself. It brings him back to reason, has him drawing back to collect himself before he loses all sense of control.
Gods he could lose himself in you and never come back.
You all but slump against him, pressing your forehead against his chest as you try to calm your racing heart. It feels like it may rip straight from your chest, as though your ribs are merely a cage it wishes to break free from.
Zayne hums as he presses a kiss to your hair. His fingers trace across your shoulders, down your gown, resting at the small of your back to hold you close.
“Have I frightened you?” He rasps softly at your ear.
An unbidden, wavering breath passes your lips, the faintest hint of laughter, “No, I am merely overwhelmed, I suppose. As you can imagine, I have not engaged in such…intimate behavior before. I may be in need of time to adjust.”
“Of course,” Zayne hums steadily, though your admission makes him feel anything but. The thought that he is truly the first allowed to see you like this, touch you like this, makes his chest tighten with a possessive sort of satisfaction. It chokes him with the desire to further taste your skin, to hear your voice whisper his name so sweetly, to memorize every detail of your form. But he can’t. Not right now, not when you’ve clearly expressed your needs. “Do you wish to be alone?”
Your grip on him tightens subconsciously.
You are so damned tired of being alone.
“No-” Pulling back a mere fraction, you look up at him with a contemplative pout, searching once more. It's a look that begs Zayne to kiss you again, but he holds back, exercising his perfect restraint. He gives you a small nod, beckoning you to share what’s on your mind. You take a long breath, truly gathering yourself to speak, “I came here to think. However, it would seem there is not much left to consider. I would not mind if you…wished to keep me company. If you can control yourself.”
The tension in the air eases with the slight upturn of your lips, the teasing glint in your eyes. Zayne chuckles, his hair tickling your face as he leans back in.
“Of course, my lady. As a physician, I am trained to have impeccable control of myself…Even around a beautiful woman,” he purrs as he presses another chaste kiss to your cheek.
You give his hair a small tug, earning a somewhat sly smile from the man, one lacking even a morsel of guilt. Clicking your tongue, you shoot him an unimpressed glare.
“Perhaps I should rescind my offer if my dearest has decided to be so cheeky,” you chime, brow perked.
“I am starting to think you do not know the meaning behind those words.”
“Would my lady like for me to demonstrate my remorse?”
“I would like to take a bath before you drive me to madness, my love.”
Those words seem to do the trick. Zayne stiffens, eyes widening. It gives you just a moment of satisfaction, and the opportunity to slip from his arms. Finally your coat slips to the ground, and you set to work on your gown, all while he is still frozen. It is only when that too slips from your body, and you cast him a glance over your shoulder that Zayne seems to come back to himself, inhaling sharply as his eyes travel down your bare form.
“Are you waiting for the water to get cold?” You tease, lips drawn into a small smirk.
And just like that, he is rushing to join you, hands moving with practiced precision to rid himself of his clothes. You step into the water, drawing into the depths of its warmth as you watch him, amusement curling in your chest.
For a while, Fate seems to fall silent, leaving you to this. Just you and Zayne, basking in the presence of each other, no longer strangers, no longer simply sharing the same space. With many questions and still many things left unsaid, though answers will come in time.
For once, you allow yourself to forget your responsibilities. To forget the world outside. To forget Fate.
If only for a while…
---
I enjoyed finishing this part and finally getting to a good kiss 😊 if i'm being perfectly honest, this may be where I leave this series. i have an ending in mind, so we'll see, but i might also work on some one-shots - i am craving a good highscool/college au piece with Zayne.
Summary: You pull a little joke on Zayne, and he is more than happy to play along. Though, you don't get away without a bit of teasing as pay back. (based on an instagram reel i saw and i just couldn't shake it)
Note: Just fluff really. A lot of cheese and a lot of teasing. I needed a break from my series so I wrote this and I love it. Unedited.
---
“Do you need anything before I leave?”
Breakfast is all but forgotten when you look up and catch sight of your boyfriend in his work clothes. Zayne, as always, is dressed dashingly. A classic, fitted dress shirt, cuffed precisely at his wrists. A dark gray suit vest that accentuates the pretty curve of his waist (really, it should be illegal how nice his waist is). And a pale blue tie, a nod to his wintery evol.
The memory of a video you watched last night pops into your mind suddenly, and the temptation is far too good to resist.
“Have I ever told you that you look amazing in your work clothes?” You hum, pushing yourself up from the table with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm.
Zayne’s eyes narrow. Having known you since childhood, the doctor prides himself in knowing how to read you. Every subtle movement and flicker of emotion across your face never goes unnoticed. Like the mischievous glint behind your eyes as you stroll slowly across the room towards him, like a cat trying to appear innocent.
Amusement kindles deep in his chest, though Zayne keeps his expression neutral for your game, “I believe you have. Quite…emphatically at times.”
You bite your lip, a light blush coats your cheeks as you reach him and stretch to curl your arms around his neck, “Oh shush, leave me alone. Someone has to appreciate it, since you cover it all up with a lab coat at work.”
“Hm, so what does this have to do with me leaving for work?” He hums, brow lifting ever so slightly, warm hands settling along your waist.
“It doesn’t,” you chime with a shrug, “I just wanted to say it. Buuut, you are wearing the perfect thing for a little…science trick I saw online yesterday.”
The slight pause in your words has the doctor’s mouth setting into a thin line. He doesn’t trust you for even a moment. But you slap on your biggest smile, pressing all the way up onto the tips of your toes to press a chaste kiss to his lip, which makes him soften slightly.
“Pleeease? It’ll be quick, I promise, I’m just super curious about if it’s true.”
His eyes narrow further, “And what is this ‘science trick’ you want to attempt?”
“Can’t I just show you?” You lean in even closer, your chin touching his chest as you bat your lashes up at him sweetly. “Come on, you wouldn’t want to stand in the way of scientific discovery, would you?”
Zayne huffs out a breath, something close to a laugh. It’s such an obvious trap, otherwise you wouldn’t be so intentionally vague. But the way you look up at him, eyes glimmering with such child-like excitement, he can’t help but play along, if only to entertain you.
“Alright, you may proceed.”
Yes! Nearly bouncing with giddiness, you draw back a little, enough to slip Zayne’s tie out from behind his suit vest. He watches, eyes sharp and curious, as you begin to curl up one side, rolling it all the way to his chin.
“Hold that,” you instruct, tapping his chin softly.
“Can I not use my hands?” He inquires, though he doesn’t hesitate in allowing you to tuck the rolled up tie under his chin.
“Nope,” you chirp, “That goes against the rules of the experiment.”
“Of course,” he hums, lips twitching with something fond.
You go to work doing the exact same thing to the other end of his tie. Your fingers graze his chest every so often, giving you the briefest hint of how your proximity is affecting him - his heart is racing under your touch. It makes your own heart stutter, especially when you glance back up and find his eyes set so intently on you. With a now shy smile, you present him with the other rolled up end of the tie.
“This one too,” you tell him, voice pitching up a little.
“I find your methods to be quite curious,” Zayne murmurs. The strain in his neck is mildly uncomfortable, but it’s easier to pay attention to you than the discomfort.
“All in due time.” You touch his cheek, smile growing by the second. “Now, every scientific experiment requires a question, right? So here it is - which end of the tie will fall faster? The big side or the small side?”
“Well, the laws of thermodynamics dictate that they will fall at the same rate due to-”
“Nope!” You interrupt, covering his mouth. “Big side or small side, Zayne?”
You can feel his lips pull into a smile against your palms, his voice muffled, “If those are my only options, then I will theorize the larger side will fall faster.”
“Good-” You draw back, steepling your fingers together. “-then on the count of three, let them drop, and we’ll find out. Ready?”
Zayne nods as best he can.
“Three. Twoooo. One!”
The doctor props his chin back up, allowing both sides of the tie to drop.
They hit their ends at about the same time, just as he said.
There’s a quiet lull between you. An expectant one. Slowly, you drag your gaze back up to his, struggling with all your willpower to keep from laughing. Zayne lifts a dark brow, waiting.
“I guess you could say,” you start, cheeks nearly hurting with how wide you’re smiling, “it was a tie.”
And, oh, the absolutely unimpressed look he gives you sends you careening over the edge. Your entire body trembles as you fall into a fit of giggles, loud and uncontrollable. You laugh until your chest aches, tears clinging to your lashes as you bend over at the waist, gripping his arm for stability.
And, god, does it make Zayne soft. Even though he will most definitely be late to work now, he can’t bring himself to step away, to deprive himself of your joy. Fondness spreads through his chest like the feeling of warmth you get from drinking hot cocoa on a cold day. It’s enough to break his serious mask, an amused smile slipping across his lips as your laughter pitters out into quiet, muffled giggles.
You try to stand up straight again, taking a deep breath as though to recover, “Sorry, sorry, that was just soooo good. God, your face was perfect!”
“I didn’t realize you haven’t aged in all this time,” Zayne murmurs teasingly, hand settling on the small of your back to support you, “To think you would still pull such childish pranks.”
“Oh, come on, it was funny!” You grin up at him and lean into his touch. “Plus, I’ve played far more childish pranks on you.”
“I don’t see how that helps your case.” Hand sliding up to your waist, the doctor draws you closer, leaning down until his nose is nearly touching yours. You blink, cheeks going warm again under the soft glow of adoration in his gaze. “Though I am more than willing to be your victim, as long as I am properly compensated.”
“My, Doctor Zayne, how forward,” you all but whisper, still unable to wipe the smile from your lips. “And what do you think fair compensation would be?”
Instead of answering right away, Zayne’s eyes dart down to your lips. Your breath falters, your mind suddenly all too focused on the sensation of his breath against your skin and the warmth of his body against yours. He leans in closer, so close-
“A box of macarons from the new bakery should do.”
Zayne presses a chaste kiss to your cheek before drawing back with the smuggest look you’ve ever seen on a man. You gape, all but frozen as he goes about fixing his tie back in place, sporting that stupid smirk he gets whenever he knows he’s won. Teasing bastard.
Pouting, you cross your arms over your chest and turn away, “I didn’t know you could be so cruel, Doctor Zayne.”
“It seemed only fair after your teasing, my dear,” he chuckles, slipping his arm around your waist to draw you back against his chest now that he's back in order. His lips press against your temple, lingering and soft. “I’ll share them with you if you wish. We’ll call it a compromise.”
“Will I get a real kiss then?” You grumble and glance at him over your shoulder.
Zayne’s eyes glint with something uncharacteristically mischievous as he leans in, his lips briefly touching yours, “Hmm, perhaps we can run another experiment. I do wonder how the taste may differ coming from your lips instead of the sweets themselves.”
If you weren’t flustered before, then you sure are now. It’s as though your heart is trying to break out from your ribs with how fast it’s beating, your whole face burning what you’re sure is a vibrant red. And Zayne looks even more satisfied with himself, his own ears tinged a soft pink.
Turning, you give him a shove, nose scrunching, “Get going! You’re going to be late for work at this rate.”
Zayne’s laughter echoes softly through the apartment.
Safe to say, you do pick up a box of macarons on the way home from work later that day, and you and Zayne spend more than enough time testing his…theory.
---
Kinda dying. Kinda love this. When I tell you I want to write a brat tamer fic for this man, this is the energy I want to bring. Just soft, teasing redirection and so much love. Zayne my beloved, he deserves more attention 😭 and more fluff!!! There's not enough fluff in this fandom.
Summary: You run away from a new revelation regarding Zayne's past and the part you played in it. The distance leaves you both feeling empty, and Zayne can't bring himself to leave you be. Confrontation sparks, confessions are made.
Word County: 3108
Note: we speedin up y'all, cause i'm worried of running out of motivation, and I refuse to not finish this series! there's still more angst to come, but at least now i can get into more fluff :3
Warnings: ummmmmm, mention of violence and murderous intent, also the concept of sending children to war - hate it, but it's for the lore.
---
“You dare stand before me with blood on your hands and ask for prophecy?”
Your rage burns, unbridled, against the envoy before you. A collection of men, skin sagging with age and gluttony, greed staining their teeth, eyes sunken with lust.
Men of such abhorrent sin. And here they stand, shameless in their expensive robes and fine jewelry while the people of their kingdom are begging on the streets and dying of hunger.
“Foreseer, we are simply-”
“I did not give you permission to speak,” you snap, and the men all flinch at the scathing ice of your tone, “I have seen the blood, the children you have forced to fight your wars in the name of riches. You are nothing but cowardly rats and the king you serve is but a mere disgusting beetle. There is no fortune for murders like him, or spineless puppets like you.”
“How dare you-!”
One of the men moves, as if to approach you in his indignance, but a mere twitch of your fingers brings your staff to hand, the Creatio Protocore gleaming maliciously with your rising ire. You slam it into the ground, ice spindling like webs across the marble, forcing the men to lose balance and fall to their knees. Where they belong.
“Your hubris is sickening,” you murmur, low and harsh, bearing your teeth with the rage of a wolf, “Now be quiet. For the sins your king has committed, Fate has given me this prophecy, so that he may know what it is to be powerless. If he does not repent for sending mere children to fight his wars, then he will pay for their blood with the loss of his own. Death will take his daughter as atonement, and no human medicine or efforts will be able to save her. That is your prophecy. Now leave.”
“My lady?”
You blink, taking a sharp breath as your mind returns to your body. A near physical pain eclipses your entire being, and suddenly you feel far too vulnerable, far too fragile. Too human.
You hate it, you hate that you’ve been brought to such feelings, by your own hand no less. The human race does not deserve sympathy, not from you, not after what they’ve done, rich and poor alike. And yet you have allowed this man to break past your defenses and wrap himself in your being, without even intending to do so. You’ve never met such a seemingly innocent soul, and yet it is because of you that he has suffered. Because of your supposed blessings.
It’s more sickening than any human greed you have faced.
“My lady?” Zayne tries again, brow furrowed sharply as he slowly shifts his hand to hold yours.
Your fingers are trembling.
It’s a complete contrast to mere moments ago, when he was shaking like a newborn lamb and you had comforted him so gently. Now you seem almost…conflicted, drawing into yourself as your expression shutters closed - hiding away your emotions. Yet still, your fingers tremble.
“My apologies,” you murmur, only the slightest tremor behind your words, “I was merely…reliving a memory. Heed me no mind.”
“I understand if you find my past…offensive,” Zayne rasps, thumb pressed hesitantly to your knuckles, “If you wish for me to leave, I will. I do not want to make you uncomfortable, my lady.”
The corners of your lips waver.
“Don’t be so foolish,” you scoff almost bitterly, resisting the urge to carve into your chest just to ease the aching, bruise-like tenderness between your ribs. “It is mere arrogance to believe you could interfere with Fate’s will.”
And yet, how you wish you had done just that. If only you had hunted down that pathetic man and cut his heart out before he could lay his filthy hands on such innocence. You wish you had fed him to the beasts and watched the snow run red with his disgusting blood.
Zayne falters, jaw clenching, “But it was I who failed-”
“Medicine cannot cure one’s sins, Zayne,” you interrupt him with a sense of finality, “An illness of the soul leads to death. I praise your efforts, but you were never capable of saving that girl. No one could. Her death was dealt by Fate, and I was witness to the hand. You cannot atone for a sin you did not commit.”
And oh, how his spirit burns at that. You can see it in his eyes, the desire to argue, to not accept such truth and to carry the blame so forcibly set on his shoulders. He is a man at war with his own confusion and brokenness, fighting so stubbornly to keep his head above water.
Because of you and Fate.
How cruel.
You should leave before you cause any more harm.
Gritting your teeth, you cast your gaze aside to the still dark sky beyond the window, “You have dealt with enough for tonight.”
You move to stand, but Zayne’s grip only tightens around your wrist, so you are left balancing in the in-between, aching aching aching-
“My lady…”
Stay.
A resigned smile pulls at your lips.
If only things worked in such a way.
“I will brew you a sleeping tonic, so that you may rest,” you murmur thickly, swallowing around the pathetic desperation choking your throat. “I do not wish for you to make yourself sick.”
And you pull your hand loose from his. Your world is cold again, but at least he may have the chance to stay warm.
---
Little do you know how proximity softens the vicious beast. Like ice exposed to the warmth of a fire, your very soul made space for the flames. Without it, you are left a hollow form, dripping in the long forgotten desire to simply be near another.
It is a horrible temptation. One you cannot give it to.
So you keep your distance and let the feeling fester, because that is all you’ve ever done.
Though Zayne does not seem so content to let you return to how things were.
Like the sun chasing after the moon, the man persists day and night for even a mere glimpse of you. Your absence is too sharp, too sudden, after you’ve allowed him such closeness. After feeling how tender your touch can be. Even if the harsh truth you’ve shared with him has set his world spinning, he can’t help but miss your thoughtful gaze, the serenity of your presence, and the ease of your conversations.
And as the days go by without you, he cannot ignore the fact that he is nearing full health. The deep aches have faded and his pulse no longer stutters as he climbs the stairs. It leaves him bereft of direction.
Medicine he understands. Illness, disease, injuries, they are a language he can speak, issues he knows how to address. Coping with his symptoms was easy. Coping with the emptiness in his chest, the sinking feeling that grows every day he doesn’t see you? Where is he even meant to begin?
He should leave you be, he should respect the clear distance you’ve set from him, he knows that, but for once Zayne wants to be selfish. He wants to draw close and and drown in the depths of your soul which you have shared so sparingly with him, to learn everything he possibly can about you, even if it takes the remainder of his second life. The second life you offered him.
His teacher always said he was a stubborn man when he set his mind to something. And that something is now you.
He can only hope that you will have mercy on him. Again.
So Zayne resorts to what he does best. He studies. He studies your habits, your movements, your tactics for avoiding him. And he sets himself in your way, if only to learn the answer to one question before resigning himself to his fate.
---
At a loss, you return to your former habits - avoiding the man by scaling the Tower and watching the horizon for hours on end.
Only, this time, as you step foot atop the snowy peak of the Tower, you are frozen in place by the sight before you.
Zayne leans against the wall, supporting himself with that staff you gave him so many days ago. His gaze is set out across the jagged outline of Mount Eternal. Dark hair, dark robes, surrounded by a sea of white, wishing to be seen, to be known. This is no coincidence.
Before you can dare to retreat, those jade eyes flicker over to you with a quiet intensity. Like heat pouring across your skin. You resist the urge to shudder, to crumble before such a heavy gaze.
For once, you feel as though you don’t have the upper hand.
Still, you try to avoid what you know is coming.
“You will freeze if you linger out-”
“Do you wish for me to leave?”
You blink, brows steepling together as confusion flickers across your face at his sudden boldness. Taking a second to actually look at him, you find that there’s something different about the man. He is still Zayne, yes, still the man you pulled from the snow, but there is a steeliness behind his gaze, a determination with which he holds himself. It feels as though if you draw too close, you may melt completely.
“I…do not understand,” you murmur while taking a step back.
Zayne notices, eyes narrowing in a way that makes your typically slow pulse jump. Slowly, he pushes himself off the wall, head tilting ever so slightly, “By medicinal standards, I am well. I am no longer suffering any symptoms from my exposure to the elements.”
A step forward.
You take another pathetic step back.
“Oh…” Has that much time already passed? “Are you certain?”
“Do you wish to check?”
Another step.
You keep your distance.
“I do not see the purpose behind that. Your knowledge of medicine rivals my own.”
“I would like to confirm my findings.”
Your back touches the cold, half-wall that lines the outlook. Panic seeps into your core as he takes another step forward. Like a feral cat, you feel yourself bristle.
“Stop,” you bite out.
And, of course, Zayne does. He falls still, only a few feet from you, watching you with that same calm intensity, as though he’s trying to peer into your soul. It makes your magic prickle under your skin, sharp and uneasy. How could you forget just how persistent the man is?
“You seem to be feeling quite emboldened by your health,” you all but whisper, throat dry.
“Am I making you uncomfortable, my lady?”
Yes.
No.
For once, your emotions are not quite clear. A part of you wants to keep your distance, to protect him from further harm that could occur from being close to you. The other part, however, relishes in the warmth of his closeness, in the certainty behind his mottled eyes. It soothes something in you, something you don’t want to recognize.
You’ve missed him.
“What do you want from me, Zayne?” You ask, though it takes all your efforts to keep your voice cold, like the snow touching your nape. “Because I am certain it is not for me to check your health.”
A smile flickers briefly at the corner of his lips. Of course you would see through him.
“I wish to know more of you,” Zayne answers earnestly. Simply. As if it makes more than enough sense.
It doesn’t.
Tongue clicking quietly against your teeth, you narrow your eyes at him, “You know more of me than most.”
“...It’s not enough.” The words pass his lips like a confession, a murmur of raw devotion, as he draws a step closer. Tension bleeds into the air, like a layer of static between you, setting every one of your nerves on edge. “I wish to stay by your side and learn everything about you. I wish to pick you apart and worship every piece of you in ways I do not understand.”
Every muscle in your body draws tight. This is not right. This is not right.
“You do not know what you wish for, human,” you grit out, “I will not be of use to you. There is nothing you can gain from staying in this hell.”
“I do not wish to gain anything aside from serving you.”
You bite back a scoff, “Do you not think that I have grown tired of your presence and perhaps have cast you aside? Do you not think I will kill you for this brazen show of defiance?”
His gaze is unwavering against yours, too calm, too certain, “I do not think you will harm me, my lady.”
Something in you snaps.
“I already have,” you all but seethe, teeth bared like a feral mutt forced into a corner. “Do you not see that? It was I who gave the prophecy to your king. I am the reason he called upon you, the reason your teacher hung in the gallows, the reason your hands were stripped of their use and your leg was fractured.” Your magic lashes out past its restraints, frost spreading across every surface you touch. “Only a fool would worship the one who has cursed him to such a life.”
A hateful mixture of anger and guilt constricts your chest, making it near impossible to breathe. You feel lost, drowning in such foreign emotions, grappling for anything to hold on to yet unwilling to reach out to him. Because you can’t rely on him. You don’t want to rely on him. You don’t want to trap him here.
“May I come closer, my lady?”
Gods, you want to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
But you are weak weak weak-
“Do as you wish.”
All too quickly, you feel his warmth ensnare you. His fingers brush against yours hesitantly, a question. When you do not draw away, he traces your palm slowly, reverently, before slotting his long, graceful fingers between yours. Your breath catches with uncertainty as he draws your hand up to press his lips to your knuckles, the touch featherlight. Yet, his skin is all but scorching against yours and this time, you can’t stop the shudder that passes through you. It makes you feel fragile. Soft.
When he speaks, his voice is hushed, lips still brushing tenderly against your skin as he gazes up at you so warmly, “I believe it was you that told me that no one is capable of interfering with Fate’s will, my lady. And I must admit that I am grateful for all that has happened.”
Lips pulling into a frown, you can’t keep your disbelief from shaking your voice, “How can you say such a thing?”
“If it were not for those events, I would not have found my way here. I would not have met you, or experienced the depth of your mercy-” He presses another kiss to your knuckles. “-the kindness you conceal behind your indifference-” His lips brush against your pulse. “-or the gentleness of your touch.” Resting your hand against the warmth of his cheek, Zayne presses into your touch, his lips against your palm. Your breath falters as his eyes flicker back to you, kindled with the same heated adoration from nights ago. “How can I not call myself blessed?”
How could you possibly deny him after that?
“You are a fool,” you try weakly.
“Perhaps,” he hums with a shrug.
“And infuriating.”
“My apologies, my lady.”
Unwillingly, a smile twitches at your lips
No, you’ve never been able to deny him in the first place. Not even when Fate commanded it.
Perhaps you are just as much a fool as he. You can’t ignore the truth of his words either - about your own hypocrisy. Though the guilt still festers, and you are still tracing the edge of uncertainty, you truly cannot force him away this time.
“...There will be conditions if you choose to stay,” you start slowly.
Zayne perks a brow, intently focused on you, urging you to continue with a nod.
“You mustn't disrupt my responsibilities,” you insist, becoming far more serious, “Though I detest most of your kind, as the Emissary of Fate, it is my duty to provide prophecies when she instructs me to. At times, though rare, that means traveling to your human kingdoms. You will not be permitted to join me on such journeys.”
For his safety, you think. And he seems to understand, a small glint of gratitude flashing behind his gaze.
“You will become my responsibility, meaning that I will be the one to provide you with anything you may need or want, you need only ask. In return, if you truly wish to serve me, I expect you to listen without argument and never question my judgement.”
“I quite enjoy listening to you, my lady,” Zayne hums almost playfully.
Eyes narrowing, you give his cheek a soft pinch, drawing a low laugh from the man.
Cheeky human.
“Also, I would prefer to have my room returned to me,” you snip back, “so I will provide you with a new room and your own bedding.”
Zayne blinks. His mind processes your words slowly. Then, understanding dawns on him. His eyes go impossibly wide and, much to your pleasure, his ears flush a dark pink, like the sunrises you’ve watched from this very spot.
“Do you mean to say that I have been sleeping in your…?” He can’t even say it, the pretty color spreading across his pale cheeks and down his neck.
“Generous, aren’t I?” You hum, brushing your thumb over his heated skin. It only makes his face flush darker, his chest stuttering unevenly.
“Please have mercy on your servant, my lady,” he pleads, though he’s uncertain what kind of mercy he’s referring to as he presses into your teasing touch.
“Where has that brazen confidence gone, my dear?”
You may as well have struck him down, because Zayne seems to cease working at that. He lets out a ragged breath, gripping desperately to his staff to keep himself standing. And while you are more than amused, you don’t wish to inflict a heart attack on him.
“Shall we return inside before you lose all your bearings?”
He nods, not trusting his voice.
You resist the urge to laugh.
Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. At least this way you can give him everything he could ever need. And you’ll do everything you can to protect him from further pain.
You truly never expected your decision to lead to this.
---
And we see the first instance of the petname :3 i freaking love writing flustered Zayne, you can't convince me that Zayne isn't the easiest LI to completely break with just a few words and touches. like, listen to his secret times, just saying. man's breath falter at a simple look. i love him so much.
Tag List: @pirana10 @antivanblessing @animecrazy76 @xx-riffraff-xx @seris-the-amious @king-dynamight
Summary: Things take a turn in the dead of night. Confessions are made after Zayne suffers a nightmare, and you realize you may have a bigger part in his Fate than you originally thought.
Word Count: 2993
Note: Things are picking up >w< in good and bad ways
Warning!!!! This chapter covers topics of illness, death, torture, and some intense emotions. There is a lot of angst. Zayne's backstory is not nice (woops) but neither is his in-game backstory! Also, he may be a bit ooc, but aren't we all in the face of trauma?
Anyways, read at your own peril and please be safe.
---
Sickness comes with a scent.
Every muscle in Zayne’s body draws taut at the familiarity of it. A cloying mix of bitterness and overly ripe fruit. Bile and medicine and sweat. It lingers in the stale air, thick and even more suffocating than the heat.
“Dab perfume under your nose if you wish to mask the scent.”
The familiar tone of his teacher’s voice murmurs from his side, muffled and distant, as if his ears are stuffed with cotton. Zayne looks, thinks he looks, but the hall before him is empty, stretching and warping and twisting.
A cold feeling sinks into his gut, violently screaming that he is meant to be somewhere else, he is meant to be working, doing something, helping someone.
And his feet are moving. Racing. Throwing him down the endless hallway. Panic buzzes like a thousand ants under his skin.
what have you done what have you done what have you done
The world blurs around him, details colliding, fissioning along the edges of his vision, drifting yet still. Dread curls around his throat like a noose as the scent thickens in the air, rusted iron and sweet perfume and sickness. So intense he can taste it on his tongue. So intense he could choke.
“Give me the medicine.”
“Teacher-”
“There is no time, give it to me, Zayne! We mustn’t let her die!”
The words echo down the grand hall. A thousand voices, overlapping, repeating, screaming, whispering, coming from nowhere and everywhere. They rake across his mind, so violent and clear that even covering his ears can’t drown them out.
Desperation forms like a pit in his stomach.
He can’t let that happen. He can’t fail, not when he’s come so far, not when he’s had to prove himself over and over and over again. He can’t.
It was merely Fate.
A door appears before him and he slams into the heavy wood without hesitation, forcing his way into the all too familiar room. The room he spent so many days in. The room drenched in floral perfumes to disguise the scent of death.
Everything stops.
A bed sits in the middle of the room. Small. Empty. White.
Except for the pool of blood at the head.
His knees hit the ground, the chill of the tiles seeping across his sweat-soaked body.
It was merely Fate…
“You killed my daughter.”
No no no
No, he did everything he could. He worked day and night, researching, brewing medicine, wiping the sweat from her small face. He sacrificed so much-
“I will watch you suffer, just as she did.”
Everything fades, blurs, giving way to a darkness that threatens to drown him.
And then the pain.
The sharp edge of a knife dragging across his fingers, digging into the flesh of his palms, drawing streams of thick thick blood. His skin burns, as though his hands have been forced into the coals of a kindled fire, the flames eating away at his blood and pouring into his veins. He chokes on the pain, on the metallic scent of his own blood, and it’s too much too much to-
“Zayne!”
Zayne jolts up in bed.
Panic strangles him, blinds him, his hands trembling so viciously as he grips at the thick pelts at his waist. The pain lingers so vividly in his skin and he can hardly breathe, his chest aching, throat burning.
Until a cool hand presses against his cheek, touch featherlight and hesitant, and his whole body lurches.
Frenzied, hazel eyes meet yours, and you stare back at him, unwavering.
“Breathe, Zayne,” you murmur, voice tense, commanding, desperate.
And so he does.
---
You’re not sure what wakes you.
The night is still, almost unnervingly so. No storm, no gales, not a single sound you would expect to hear at such a late hour. It is as though the weather itself has grown tired, though the peace feels far more dangerous than the storm.
Your body unwilling to return to a state of sleep, you find yourself wandering the halls aimlessly. It has always brought you comfort, tracing the lines of stone that make up your Tower’s walls. You can feel where your feet take you most often, the edge worn to smoothness under your fingertips, leading you to the staircase that ends at your former bedroom. Where Zayne rests.
You pause at the foot of the stairs, casting your gaze up into the dark, climbing spiral.
How odd that your instincts bring you here. It almost makes you feel a touch pathetic, knowing that your subconscious is drawn to him so certainly. Only a few days have passed since you allowed the ice to thaw between you, and here you are, seeking this man as if he is the only one capable of settling this unease in your chest.
Ridiculous.
Sharply, you turn away, ready to retreat back to your new room, to make another attempt at sleep -
Until a shuddering gasp echoes down the stairs, a gasp filled with pain.
Suddenly your feet are taking you up.
And the sight you find at the top has your whole body freezing over.
Zayne lays twisted in the pelts of your bed, every muscle drawn inhumanly taut as he arches off the bed, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his blanched skin. It is the body of a man ravaged by pure agony, his chest heaving with labored breaths, like his soul is being torn from his flesh.
You move to the side of the bed, magic prickling wildly under your skin as a foreign sense of panic sweeps over you, dropping the temperature in the room drastically. Your eyes scan him, just as wildly, looking for any injuries, any blood, any reason he might be experiencing such pain, but you find a disturbing lack of anything. His body is untouched, apart from his old injuries.
So why is he facing such torment?
“Zayne?” You call, wavering beside the bed. You can’t sit. That would be too close. Too comfortable. You can’t cross that boundary, you can’t.
Yet when the man cries out between his gritted teeth, the sound so completely broken, you can’t bring yourself to stay at a distance.
The bed shifts under your hesitant weight. Now that you’re closer, you can see the stark paleness of his face, the tight clench of his jaw and eyes, the way his dark hair sticks to his forehead. Your hand wavers in your lap, torn between waking him and being unsure of if you should interfere yet again. Could this not be Fate’s form of punishment?
Though, once again, the decision is made for you when Zayne turns his head, face going tight with such inconceivable pain, his fingers curling desperately into the edge of your cloak.
Your mouth sets into a thin line.
This is not atonement. This is torture.
“Zayne!”
---
“Breathe, Zayne.”
The man takes in air greedily. His whole body trembles with the effort, the cold air easing the burning ache in his throat. And your touch. Your palm is so cool against his heated skin, pressing tenderly against his cheek, like the soft touch of snow.
Mind too torn for proper judgement, he lifts a shaking hand to yours, nuzzling further into your gentle touch. His warm, quivering breath brushes over your pulse, filling your senses with him him him. The balmy heat of his skin, the light touch of his raven hair tickling your fingers, the desperation with which he holds to you, one hand still wrapped in the edge of your robes, as though you might disappear.
How long has it been since someone has wanted you?
A sickening tenderness grips you by the throat, the tension between your shoulders easing as Zayne takes a few deep breaths, face near buried in your palm. Your fingers skim gently over his cheek, magic seeping through your touch to ease his temperature, as you’re not sure what else you can do.
How does one comfort a human? You’re not sure. You have never wanted to. Yet, in this moment, with this man, you want to do nothing but. You want to ease the tightness between his brows and take the pain from his body, his mind, his soul, even if you have to experience it yourself. Oh, how far you have fallen.
Eventually, Zayne breathing begins to even out. The roaring pace of his heart eases to something normal, adrenaline dripping away and leaving behind a mess of sore muscles. Breathing out a sigh, his eyes flicker back open, pupils wide and dark, glazed with exhaustion.
And then he realizes just the position he is in - his hand trapping yours against his face, his other wrinkling the beautiful fabric of your robes, the mere foot of separation between your body and his.
He rips his hands away, a raspy apology lost on his lips, but you do not move. Your fingers do not waver against his cheek, tracing the dampness of his skin with such utter tenderness. A low shudder traces Zayne’s spine when he feels your magic curling within the depths of his body, like streams of cool water flowing over every nerve. It feels far too intimate, as though you’ve connected yourself to him, as though you are curling your very soul around him.
“I have never witnessed someone suffer such a violent dream,” you admit instead, hand drifting down to settle on the curve of his neck.
Another shiver wracks Zayne’s body, though this one you interpret as being due to the cold of your touch.
“My apologies.” You start to pull away, glancing to the side. “You must be far too cold now-”
“No-!”
Both of you freeze as his fingers wrap desperately around your wrist. His touch is still searing, such a stark contrast to your ice - a pleasant one. You turn your eyes back to him, careful to keep your emotions under control. You can’t both be lost.
Zayne wavers. He glances down to where his skin touches yours, his long fingers so effortlessly encircling your wrist. You could pull away with ease, you could reprimand him harshly for stepping too far, for being a mere human daring to touch such divinity, but you do not. You simply sit, watch, as if waiting to see what he will do next.
“I-” Wetting his lips, he allows his dwindling adrenaline to make him brave, and dares to press a little closer. Close enough to lean back into your touch. “I do not dislike the cold, my lady.”
I do not dislike your touch.
Quite the contrary. Zayne desires nothing more than to wrap himself in it, to indulge in the smooth satin of your skin, to press his lips to every curve and every plane, to see if your body will flush under his attention.
What a heathen he has become.
“Not many find comfort in my presence,” you murmur, almost doubtful, as if you wish to correct him in this. “Most claim my touch is as cold as the ice in my veins.”
“My internal temperature runs higher than most,” he assures you, unyielding, gaze soft but certain, “I suffered often during the heat of the warmer seasons. My teacher-”
A lump forms in Zayne’s throat.
His teacher. The dream. It flickers back through his mind, pain still lingering in his fingers, his scars. Ever since he arrived at the Tower, such memories have been so distant, he had almost thought the nightmares were over.
How foolish of him.
Reading Zayne is like reading a book, you find as you notice the subtle shift in his expression. One must pay close attention, lest they miss his soul. But you have grown too familiar with his being to miss the distant look in his eyes, as though they are locked on something you cannot see. His fingers curl tighter around your wrist.
The thin scars on his skin catch your attention, and you allow yourself to analyze them for a brief moment. Up close, there are far more than you originally thought. The sight makes your chest clench with something you don’t recognize, and your fingers move without thinking, tracing one of the thin marks.
The touch draws Zayne back and he flinches as though he has been burned. His hand drops to his lap, tucking close to his body, as if he wishes to hide it.
Is that what his dream was about?
Your voice comes out soft when you press, perhaps too soft, “Were the humans who injured your knee also the ones to do so to your hands?”
Zayne swallows thickly, jaw flexing.
“They were.”
“As punishment?”
“Yes.”
“...May I see?”
He takes a sharp breath, hands curling tightly around each other until his knuckles go white.
“They are unsightly, my lady,” he tries, voice raw. Afraid.
“If I were to show you my scars, would you deem them unsightly?” You challenge, brows steepling with gentle disapproval.
No, no of course he wouldn’t. He would rather cut out his tongue than speak such a blatant lie. No scar could tarnish your beauty, though the thought of anything marring your body, marking the delicate color of your skin, fills him with something violent and so uncharacteristically possessive. How dare someone harm you. How dare they spill your blood. He can only hope they are suffering a far worse fate than his own.
None of these thoughts pass the tight grit of his teeth, though.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he whispers instead, eyes downcast.
“Then I would ask you not to think so lowly of me,” you murmur, “Do not forget, mortal, I saved your life. I have been witness to you hanging between life and death and I have witnessed far more gruesome realities than anything you may know. Scars are merely Fate’s way of allowing us to remember what once was so we may continue into what is.”
It is meant to be comforting in some way, in the only way you know how. Fate may be cruel, but not all she allows must be viewed with an eye of suffering. You know that all too well.
And it seems to ease Zayne’s worries, if only a little. The stiffness fades from his body, and he only hesitates a moment before wordlessly offering you his hands, fingers still trembling imperceptibly.
Slowly, you allow your fingers to trace over his, touch lighter than the drifting snow. His muscles twitch, stutter, moving away before pressing back into you like a tide against the sand, more determined, more certain. Still, you keep your movements slow, keenly aware of the unsteady rise and fall of his chest.
His skin is still so warm against yours. It is like holding the sun compared to the biting cold that lingers in your flesh. You trace the fine lines of his knuckles, brush your thumb over the surprisingly soft skin of his palm, trailing down the inside of his wrist. He sucks in another short breath, pulse jumping under your fingers, but remains perfectly still under your attention.
His scars are many, indeed. They cover every inch of his hands, down his fingers, over his knuckles. Faint lines that gleam almost like silver on his pale skin. The marks are easy to recognize, likely from a small knife. How much pain each one must have inflicted…
“Humans can be quite cruel…” It is nothing but a whisper, shivering in the air with muted anger.
Zayne’s chest aches. He wants to agree, he wants to feel the rage you bear so easily. He wants to hate them as much as you do, and maybe a part of him does, but-
“You killed my daughter.”
He nearly chokes on the guilt.
Brows furrowing, your other palm presses more firmly to his jaw, slowly tilting his face up. Your eyes bore into him with such intensity, as if you can strip him bare and draw out every vulnerable thought trapped in his body. And, in part, you do. In the depths of his eyes, wide and dark like a lamb before the slaughter, you see his despair. It threatens to fracture your frozen heart.
“What sin could warrant such suffering?”
The words ache behind Zayne’s teeth, words he has never spoken, a story he has buried so deep under his skin, that drawing it out now feels like stripping his own flesh. What will you think? Your kindness, your mercy, wasted on a man like him. You may very well choose to end his life, as it should have ended in the kingdom, as it should have in the cold grip of Mount Eternal.
But he owes you far more than just his life, doesn’t he?
“I was a student under a renowned physician at the time,” he rasps eventually, fingers twitching in your grip. Anxious. “The royal court called upon us by name. The king’s daughter was ill, a broken leg that led to infection. My teacher claimed it was an honor to treat her, but it was worse than we expected. Her symptoms were unheard of together, and we spent every hour pouring over medicinal journals to find a cure. We tried everything…but nothing worked. The sickness took her only a few days after we arrived.”
So this is his sin, according to man. Being unable to stop the death of a child, a princess. A death seemingly no one could stop…
A feeling of sickness washes over you suddenly, like a pit opening beneath your feet.
You know this tale. You know it far too well.
It was a prophecy from your own lips.
Your fingers tighten around Zayne’s hand, his scars now burning against your palms.
Fate may wield the sword, but you may as well be the one who sentenced him to death.
---
Part 6
This chapter was interesting to try and balance. It started off way different, but I kept hitting a wall, so I changed it to start with the nightmare and it all made a lot more sense to me.
I hope there was enough comfort to balance out the angst, sorry!
Tag List: @pirana10 @antivanblessing @animecrazy76 @xx-riffraff-xx @seris-the-amious
Summary: You know you should stay away from Zayne. He represents everything you hate, yet defies every expectation you hold. His life brings warmth to your home, and since Fate is so noticeably silent, you find yourself slipping. Closer and closer and closer. Just who is this man? And why did he end up here?
Word Count: 3442 (it's a long one lol)
Note: sorry this took so long! I'm truly struggling with the pacing. I rewrote this part like three times. I don't want things to move too fast, but I also really don't want the story to drag. Let me know what you think! More backstory will be revealed in the next part so keep an eye out ;)
Warnings: there's a lot of religious speech and terminology at the end, and just a sprinkle of murderous intent from Reader, rightfully so (you'll understand)
---
For all your years, Fate has never been a fickle master. Unrelenting in her kindness or in her fury, but never wavering in between. You’ve witnessed every side she has to offer.
So when you wade into the depths of your magic, seeking answers, seeking anything to help ease the turmoil within your soul, only to find an empty room, a blank book, no hint of what’s to come, you feel almost swept under by the force of your own confusion.
For so long, you’ve devoted yourself to her work. You’ve done all you’ve been asked, revealed truths that society has so desperately hidden. You faced their wrath, you faced their scorn, you bare the scars of their anger. It has driven you to the brink of madness, yet you have always pressed on.
So why has she left you like this? Stumbling through a darkened room with nothing to guide you, no light to show where you are meant to go, even to see where you are stepping.
It is a cruel punishment, far crueler than you expected for saving a sole human life. But these are your consequences, and you must face them for defying the order of life. For simply choosing to follow your own desires. This is how she has decided to teach you a lesson, to make you regret that brief moment of disobedience.
Yet, as you watch Zayne recover, watch him grow in strength and learn more about his character, something deep in your frozen soul curls defiantly between your ribs, whispering so viciously that you were right right right.
Zayne is unlike any other human you have had the displeasure of meeting. He defies every expectation you may have. You expect him to be angry, to grow spiteful with his condition. The weakness brought on by his hypothermia. The limitations of a persistent limp. Like a wounded pup, he is trapped under your care, for which he should hate you.
However, where most men would respond by lashing out, threatening you, and cursing your home, Zayne faces his circumstances with an unthinkable…patience. Not a single complaint passes his lips, not a single moment of frustration, and he seems more than content to wander the endless halls of the Tower on his own, even though he must lean on the walls to support himself. He continues to carry himself with an elegant air of composure, treating the ancient building with nothing short of reverence.
He is a stoic man, you learn. More often than not, his face is drawn into a contemplative frown, always deep in thought, reflective. Yet his eyes cannot hide the depths of his emotions. The way they gleam with unbridled appreciation as he takes in the stained glass in the Tower’s chapel, how they soften with deep gratitude at every meal, and burn with such unabashed curiosity as he searches the tomes of your library.
He is just so undeniably alive. His sole presence fills your home with a new warmth, chasing away the biting cold you have grown so used to.
Watching him exist with such peace, such gentleness, you can’t help but stand in stubborn defiance against Fate.
You made the right choice.
Even if your instincts still bid you to keep your distance. You walk a perilous edge between caution and curiosity. To listen to your desires would draw you closer, would permit you to ask the boundless questions wavering on your lips. Though you’re sure Fate would rather you lock yourself away until he leaves, to build up your walls and allow things to go as they will.
But Fate is silent.
So you make the decision. No man would want to stay in this icy hell forever, so surely you can allow yourself a moment of reprieve, a moment to soak in the strange warmth of his life before he disappears, as they always do.
And who knows, perhaps if you learn more about him, you will find a reason to hate him like all the others. Every man has their sins, a darkness poisoning their soul. Once you discover that, it will certainly be easier to cast him away, to forget about his very existence.
Yes, certainly that will be for the best.
Even if it severs the remaining threads of hope you cling to.
Zayne notices the shift immediately.
After days of wandering the halls on his own, finding magnificent sculptures and walls and walls of fascinating books, but never catching even a glimpse of your robes, he could only assume you were avoiding him.
After a few days, he had resolved himself to the truth - that his time in this place is limited, and so he spends every waking hour memorizing the beauty of it, a beauty not unlike your own. Beyond time. Beyond human.
Given all of that, he can’t help but falter when he sets foot into the library. A familiar chill curls into the depths of his bones, the breath in his lungs stalling as his eyes land on your unexpected figure.
At first glance, one would simply assume you are a human of great beauty, but Zayne knows the truth. He can feel it, the power radiating from your form, even as you drape yourself so effortlessly in the armchair, an old leather tome perched intimately on your lap.
You truly are something otherworldly.
At first, he had seen you as the distant and ethereal demigoddess, the Foreseer with the power to act out Fate’s will in cold calculation, as he had been told. Then, when you allowed him to bow at your feet, he saw you as a vision of refined grace and broken faith, surrounded by insurmountable walls to keep him at bay, to protect yourself.
Yet here, you are something different again. Here, with your heavy adorning furs, surrounded by your single source of comfort, your fierce mask seems to slip away. The low candle light illuminates your face in a gentle manner, embracing the delicate curves of your features, accentuating the thoughtful draw of your lips. You are truly a vision of the goddess tethering herself to earth, hiding the power of your being behind the tender curves of a human form, allowing yourself to be soft, to be something so utterly breakable.
And still, he is aware that you are in control. Over yourself, over the air around you, over the tower he stands in. You are in complete control, and you are allowing him to see you like this.
Something akin to wonder floods his chest.
Why would a divine being like you have such mercy on a man like him?
It is truly a baffling question, one that repeats like a nagging whisper in his mind every waking moment he spends walking through these halls. Along with several others, all questions that draw him deeper and deeper into the mystery of you.
Why have you sought out such solitude? Why have you kept your distance from him yet allowed him to stay? Why do you offer him even this meager amount of trust when you know nothing of what he has done?
Zayne has never coped well with unanswered questions.
“I must admit, I find it odd how you humans like to stare,” you murmur, not once looking up from your book of poems. You can practically feel his gaze burning across your skin, and you don’t need to look up to read the intensity behind such a gaze. “Is it truly striking of me to enjoy my own collection?”
Heat creeps up Zayne’s neck and he immediately tears his eyes away. Hearing your voice is just as startling as your sudden appearance. The cool edge of your tone sets his heart racing, a strange sort of anticipation curling in his chest.
Finally, he has the opportunity to learn more about you.
“My apologies, Foreseer,” he starts, voice surprisingly steady, “It would seem my manners have slipped in my time alone.”
“Hmm…” You bite back a rye smile. Always so ready to apologize. Truly a strange one, this man. “No need for apologies. I am simply here to read in silence, and given the interest you have shown in my collection, I assumed you may want to join me.”
An offer of proximity.
One Zayne does not hesitate to take. If you are willing to bear his presence, he is more than willing to spend hours in silence by your side. Talking is not the only way to learn about someone.
You watch keenly from the corner of your eye as the man shuffles over to your bookcases, still favoring his right knee. A splinter of concern wedges itself between your ribs, small yet exceedingly uncomfortable. It must be causing him a great deal of pain with all his walking.
Did he have this before? Or did he injure himself on his journey? Why does he insist on walking on it if it causes him such pain?
So many questions.
You attempt to dismiss them for now, along with your concerns as Zayne sits down in a smaller chair across the room, an old medical journal in his hands. One he has been eyeing the past few days - you note. He must have an interest in medicine, another unexpected discovery.
All of those questions stubbornly stick to the tip of your tongue, buzzing but unspoken.
Thus begins a tentative pattern of relative peace. The mornings are spent apart, aside from when you bring him his morning meal and an herbal medicine you created, which you leave while he sleeps. In the afternoons, you both find yourselves in the library, reading in silence most days. At first, he sits across the room from you, keeping his distance as you originally requested.
As the days pass, though, you find him drawing closer. As if pulled in by an invisible force. Or as though you are some wild animal, and he wishes to acclimate you to his presence.
It is more than a little entertaining. Even with his overwhelming level of patience, he can’t help but reveal his hand so openly. All humans want something, and for some reason, Zayne wants to be close to you.
While you may not understand it, you can’t deny that you feel the same pull. Perhaps that is why you feel your already weak defenses lowering all together as time passes so languidly. You find yourself more at ease while sharing the room with him, as though his constant, soothing presence is a balm for your nerves, a lullaby that calms the cautious beast locked behind your ribs. Day by day, you feel more confident in your poor decision to save this man’s life.
Enough that you find yourself pushing the boundaries more than you should. It occurs when you notice him wince, none-too-subtle, as he lowers himself into his chair, now mere feet from you.
You break the silence.
“Most would call you unwise for walking on an injured leg,” you hum, keeping your focus on the flowing poems in front of you, “Though I assume you are aware given that you seem to have extensive knowledge of human medicine. Not many can read the dialect of those tomes.”
Zayne blinks, eyes tearing away from his book to look at you. Sharing the silence with you had become so natural, so comforting. Being in your presence is a blessing he doesn’t deserve, and he never once thought of pushing your boundaries to start a conversation, even though his lungs ache with the questions he wanted to ask. So having you address him, acknowledge him, feels like a breath of fresh air.
“It is an old injury, from before my journey,” he answers, voice a bit raspy from lack of use. You tilt your head towards him minutely though, obviously not displeased, so he continues, “And you would be correct. I have studied medicine quite extensively, my lady.”
You falter, eyes locking on the words on the page, but not reading them.
My lady.
A new title. One you have never been called before. And you have been called many things.
As if by instinct, or perhaps from practice after spending so many hours trying to memorize the subtle changes in your expressions as you read, Zayne notices the tension between your brows. And realization dawns on him.
“My apologies, Foreseer,” he sighs, frustration washing over him, at him. What a careless slip. “I will refrain-”
“No,” you cut him off, still not looking up, “I will…permit it. For now, you may address me as you please, Zayne.”
Your nose wrinkles ever so slightly as your own realization washes over you. It’s almost unsettling how soft you’ve become in such a short time. How unbecoming for a demigoddess.
Yet, when you chance a glance up, you can’t find it in yourself to regret your words, not with how Zayne’s usually stoic expression gives way to surprise, followed by a kindled warmth. He’s pleased. Too pleased.
“Thank you, my lady.”
And you hate that you feel just as pleased hearing him say it again, his voice curling around the title with such devotion, as if he reveres you so.
This whole endeavor was meant to reveal his faults, not give you deeper reason to care. You mustn’t get lost in human emotions, lest they tear you apart again, just as they did in your past. Caring too much causes nothing but pain.
Still.
“Does this old injury bother you often?”
You are more than capable of satiating your interest while keeping your distance, aren’t you? .
Zayne gives a rueful smile, one that makes you turn around and question yourself, “The cold makes one’s joints more sensitive which can lead to mild irritation of old injuries. It may worsen my limp for a time, though I assure you it appears more painful than it feels, my lady.”
A part of you wishes to deny such concerns, but you would rather not lie again.
“Why did you not seek medical attention?” You press instead, brows furrowing, “Did you not have a mentor in your studies? Could they not have treated you?”
The air in the library falls suddenly still. Zayne shifts, his jaw clenching as he looks back down at his current book, fingers fussing idly with the pages. A nervous habit. He’s uncomfortable talking about this for some reason, which makes you want to press further, though you restrain yourself.
When he does speak, his voice is impassive, as if mentioning the weather outside, “I was not permitted to have my injuries treated.”
Not permitted? A frown mars the gentle curve of your lips. Are humans truly so cruel to each other? You have experienced their cruelty yourself, of course, but you had thought they might treat their own kind with greater care. To force a man to exist with such pain for the remainder of his life? It is nothing short of vulgar.
A bitter kind of disgust festers on your tongue. If you were to meet such humans, you fear you might tear them apart with just as much cruelty and throw their flesh to the snowy beasts of the mountains.
“Who would deny you such simple care?”
“That is of little importance, my lady,” Zayne dismisses with that same rueful smile, “I do not wish to burden you with my troubles. My injuries are merely a…reminder.”
His assurance does little to ease the glimmer of rage behind your expression. And Zayne can’t tear his eyes away. He has witnessed such fury before, has been at the mercy of human wrath, but yours burns with the force of the world, violence bridled by righteous judgement, as though you wish to punish those who have done this to him.
You are truly a goddess. Untouchable in your grace and unyielding in your abhorrence. You do not disguise your emotions behind fragile politeness, and instead control each and every feeling like a tool, a weapon. The world would fall at your knees if you so wished it to.
It leaves him with a trembling urge to kneel at your feet once more. Though that would likely make you uncomfortable, so he remains settled in his seat, admiring from a distance.
You let out a slow breath, reigning in your anger with practiced ease. If he does not feel contempt for his past, then it is not your place to hold on to it. Instead, you choose to press a little further.
“Then I have another question, I suppose. Did you travel here seeking refuge from your kind?”
“Perhaps.” He worries one of the journal’s pages between his thumb and middle finger, letting the texture soothe his mind. “I had little choice in the matter, as I could not live in the kingdom any longer. In honesty, I hardly believed that the Tower of Thorns existed at the time. It sounded like a mere legend. As did you, my lady.”
You huff out a low sound, something between a laugh and a scoff, “I wish more believed I was a mere myth, then perhaps I could finally escape from your kind.”
Zayne’s brow furrows. This is the first thing you’ve shared of yourself. He studies the slight tinge of exhaustion in your features, as if a sudden weight has been draped over your shoulders. It is not lost on him, the standard you must hold yourself to as the Emissary of Fate, how harsh you have to be to protect yourself against his kind. It must feel…suffocating.
“You do not like humans.”
It’s not a question. Merely a conclusion in no need of a direct answer.
Still, you give one.
“No, I do not,” you hum matter-of-factly, leaning back into your chair. “Do you not feel the same after all they have done to you? Maiming you and chasing you from your home?”
“I-” Zayne falters, jaw clenching again. He should, he wants to, but, “I do not know, my lady.”
A beat of silence passes between you and it is as though you can read his conflicting desires.
“Then I shall hate them for you.”
Zayne inhales sharply. It is a solemn oath, as though you wish to take the weight of such a decision from him, as if you are not already carrying enough.
“My lady, the sins I have committed-”
“Are of little importance to me,” you murmur easily, almost startling yourself with how true the words are. “All humans have their sins. Those who fail to repent will suffer at Fate’s hands, and it is my destiny to warn them despite how I detest them. If you believe your sins to be so great, then I suppose I must warn you too.” Your eyes linger on him, somber and ancient, like that of an old painting. “Find a way to atone and move forward. I have chosen to give you a second life, and I will be sorely disappointed if you waste it. Do you understand?”
Swallowing around the thick lump in his throat, Zayne nods, “Yes, Foreseer. I hope my answers today have not displeased you.”
The faintest hint of a smile pulls at your lips, a glint of amusement softening your gaze, “They have not. I have actually somewhat enjoyed this conversation. While vague, your answers have offered me insight. For now, you have my interest.” You stand, straightening out your robes as you do. You brush the nonexistent dirt from the fabric. “You may initiate conversation in the future, if you wish, though I make no promise that I will engage. For tonight, however, I will be retiring to the main hall.”
You need time. Time to think. Time to reflect on your words, his words, all of it. Away from the devout attention he offers you, that seems to blur the lines of your rational thought.
Though, just like always, you waver in the door frame as you attempt to leave, something causing you pause.
Until the words pass your lips, “Have a good evening, Zayne.”
Yes, perhaps you cannot keep your distance, as you already seem to care too much. Perhaps this is destined to end in catastrophe and his sins will prove too gruesome for you to excuse. Perhaps you will have to seek your own atonement when it is all said and done.
But for tonight, you will relish in the shock-turned-wonder in Zayne’s eyes when he notices the intricately woven staff that appears with a flurry of magic light as you leave. In this, you find no regret.
For tonight, you will merely take it one step at a time.
Fate’s consequences be damned.
---
Part 5
I hope this wasn't too wordy - I got a bit carried away at parts, and I couldn't bring myself to simplify any of it. I also worry there is too much back and forth in Reader's thoughts/emotions.
Anyways, let me know what you guys think so far, and maybe what kind of scenes you'd like to see!
Tag List: @pirana10 @antivanblessing @animecrazy76 @xx-riffraff-xx
Summary: Zayne awakes and has no clue where he is, only to be greeted by who he believes to be an angel. You are no angel, though, and you find yourself struggling with the fact that this human seems...different. Different enough that you chose to learn his name.
Word Count: 2841
Note: So I lied about the parts being smaller haha... Lots of inner dialogue in this bit, but finally, we get some interaction :3 Foreseer!Reader tries to be mean, but who can be truly mean to Zayne?
Enjoy the flip flopping POV
---
When Zayne wakes, surrounded by warmth and silence, his first thought is that he must be dead. There is no other explanation, no alternate ending for the last memory he holds, that of falling unconscious in the snow outside of the infamous tower of Mount Eternal.
That’s what he thinks, at least, until he attempts to sit up. Pain shoots down his spine to every nerve ending like ice, sharp and jagged, drawing a rushed breath from his lungs.
He’s not dead. Not yet, at least. Death would not hurt like this, or so he hopes.
Taking a few breaths, eyes clenched shut, Zayne holds himself impossibly still until the pain fades. Only then does he crack an eye open and blearily survey the room. There must be a clue as to where he is.
Except the room around him is near empty, seemingly untouched. As if no one has lived in it for years. The walls are made of a light stone, near white if not for the shadows of age. The sound of a fire filters through the blur of his fatigue, quiet and crackling from an undecorated hearth. And the warmth surrounding him is from a decadent layering of thick pelts, the furs softer than anything he’s had the privilege to touch, a luxury he has never known.
It all leaves two questions buzzing in his head. Where is he? And who, of such high standings, would allow him to lay on such fine linen in this state?
“It would seem you are finally awake.”
Zayne jolts, eyes widening a fraction when they land on the figure now hovering in the entrance.
Perhaps he is dead.
How else could he rationalize the angel standing before him?
Cast in ethereal warmth from the low light of the fire, you peer at him from the shadowed entrance to the room, your features carved so delicately into a mask of righteous indifference. Your eyes cut through him, sharp and cold, piercing into his very soul. Decadent furs, even more luxurious than the pelts laid over him, drape around your form like a great set of wings, unblemished and snow white. Every breath, every slight shift in your posture, bleeds with such regal grace.
Like a statue one would bow before in complete devotion. An untouchable god. He has never seen anyone quite so beautiful.
The intensity of his hazel gaze makes it near impossible for you to breathe. They trace over you, heat dancing across your skin in their wake, and you find that you’ve never once had a man look at you in such a way. With greed, with arrogance, with hatred, yes. But never with such…reverence.
And that is somehow more unsettling.
“Do you know how to speak, mortal?” You ask in hopes of breaking the thick moment.
The man flinches, as if torn from his thoughts, and he winces at his own movement. Your brow furrows imperceptibly. He must be in a great amount of pain. The journey to your Tower is no doubt a harsh one, even for the most experienced soldiers.
“My apologies. Where- where am I?” His voice is low and raspy, but not unpleasant. Briefly, you wonder if you will find anything unpleasant about this man, besides the intensity with which he still looks at you.
“You are in the Tower of Thorns,” you answer coolly. Shock flickers across his features, as if he weren’t expecting such an answer.
“The Tower of…” You can almost see his mind processing your words, the meaning of them. Then his eyes go wide again, meeting yours with a certain hesitation. It would seem he is faster than most mortals, even in this state. “Then you must be the Foreseer…”
“Indeed, I am,” you hum, fingers lacing at the small of your back, scrutinizing him. “I found you near death outside of my Tower, and I was curious as to what kind of foolish mortal would brave such a journey only to risk dying in the end.”
The man grimaces. While your words are not unkind, in fact your tone holds more genuine curiosity than judgement, he can’t help but feel foolish, just as you said. He presses himself up, slower this time, and settles with his hands in his lap, his fingers curling into the comforting down of the pelts. Your eyes can’t help but follow the movement, noticing the abundance of scars on his hands. Strange.
“I- I apologize, for imposing, Foreseer,” the man hesitates, his jaw working harshly as he thinks his words out slowly. “I realize my actions have likely caused you undue burden.”
Yes, certainly strange.
“I merely did not wish to be left with a corpse,” you explain curtly, dismissing his apology as you begin to turn away, only to pause halfway in the shadows, seeming to waver. Your voice pitches lower, gravely serious, “This is my home, mortal, and as such, I would appreciate if you would respect it. You may recover here, within the walls of the Tower. I will provide you food and medicine, and in return, I expect you to keep your distance. Do not overstay your welcome, and do not disrupt my peace. Do we have an understanding?”
Zayne blinks. While your tone is near apathetic, he can hear something soft hidden beneath it, something almost…vulnerable. It draws him in, an innate curiosity creeping into his chest.
“Yes, Foreseer.”
You wait for a long moment, your gaze boring into his, as if you’re trying to search the depths of his soul. As if you’re just as curious about him and he is about you. The thought alone sets every fibre of his being alight with a strange warmth.
And then you’re gone.
The room falls quiet apart from the still crackling fire, as if you had never been there, though the faintest chill remains in your wake. Zayne’s eyes linger on where you once stood, his mind spinning from the onslaught of new information.
He’s in the Tower of Thorns, the home of the Foreseer, the demigoddess said to hate humanity more than any other. Rumors of your cruelty are not sparse within the human kingdom.
And yet…
A small flash of light draws his attention for a split moment. Runes flicker above the table beside his bed, fading slowly as the magic dissipates. In their place, sits a bowl of stew, steam rising from the surface. The heavy scent of meat hits him like a rock, as well as a painful clench in his stomach.
He’s starving.
Hands trembling, he snatches the bowl, the heat almost searing against his skin, but not unwelcome. The first taste is like heaven, a low shuddering breath escaping him. It’s nothing lavish, just a simple stew with sparse flavor, more broth than anything. Exactly what he would recommend to someone recovering from illness.
Ah.
The realization settles in his chest with a certain weight, making him slow down. His thumb rubs absentmindedly over the smooth, silver handle of the spoon.
Everything about you seems carefully crafted to communicate a cold disinterest, an air of judgement to keep others at a distance. Yet you offer him a warm place to stay, and food to eat, food intentionally chosen to not upset his neglected stomach.
It is more kindness than he has been offered in months, perhaps years. Even his own kind has not treated him with such…humanity. Yet you, a demigoddess of such overwhelming power, have taken mercy on him. Without even knowing him.
Gratitude lodges in Zayne’s throat like a stone. As well as a new resolve.
With this second chance at life, he will devote every day, every second, every breath to you. It is by your grace that he is still alive, and he will certainly lay down what is left of himself for you.
If you will allow it.
---
Sharing your home with another being is odd. Despite attempting to keep your distance and keep to your typical routines, you find that you are keenly aware of his presence. As if the Tower itself is changed by his breath, his warmth. It’s a ridiculous thought, but one you find yourself mulling over in your mind as you pretend to ignore him.
A task that becomes more difficult, you might add, as he regains his strength and begins to wander through the winding halls of your Tower.
Try as you might, you can’t help but watch him in secret. The taste of your own hypocrisy is bitter, but the curiosity in your veins is unyielding, demanding to be satiated. Though watching him only seems to sprout new questions.
Not many humans take the time to admire the home you’ve found, not as you have. Yet this man does. He spends hours in each room, sharp eyes seeking out every detail, as if to store it in his memory. As if he wants to remember his time here with precise clarity.
The man also takes care of him better than you expected, based on your first impression. He washes himself daily, unlike most humans, keeps his hair neat and short, and his frustratingly handsome face clean shaven with a razor he found in the kitchen.
But perhaps the most peculiar thing, is that he seems to gravitate towards you, usually ending his day in close proximity to you. And while he tries to respect your wishes, never coming too close, you find yourself hopelessly aware of that warm presence. Every day, wherever you spend your time, you can feel him watching, feel his curiosity burning the back of your neck, just as intense as your own.
Yet, you cannot let him know that, lest the distance grow shorter. Because the closer he becomes, the easier it will be for him to hurt you.
So, it comes to a head a week after he first awoke, when you’re perched on your throne, attempting to read your book, while he wavers on the very edge of your vision, standing at the entrance of the stairs he descended more than an hour ago.
“Is this your understanding of keeping your distance?” Your voice echoes through the grand room, sharp and clear with disapproval.
Zayne winces, realizing he’s been caught. His fingers curl hesitantly into the sleeves of his new robes. The ones you had left him after he first found the strength to take a short walk. They are much warmer than any clothes he ever possessed, and that is the only reason you left them. It was merely too pitiful, watching him shiver in the cold air of the Tower, like a pup left without its winter coat.
“If you wish to disobey me, at least do so with more courage,” you scold with a low sigh. “I am not one to lose my temper easily, but this game of cat and mouse you are playing is wearing my patience quite thin.”
“My apologies, Foreseer, it was not my intention to upset you” he murmurs, and takes a few steps away from the wall in hopes of appeasing you.
You shut your book, the pages coming together with a quiet snap. Face as impassive as ever, you appraise him silently, brow raised a fraction. He doesn’t hold your gaze this time, casting his hazel eyes down to the shoes you gave him.
The new clothes do suit him. He almost looks like he belongs here, now.
You shut that thought away, turning your eyes to the large windows that line the hall.
“You are forgiven. This time. Now, is there something you wished to say?”
He shuffles his weight, not quite hesitating, but thinking out his words, just as he did before. What a strange mortal indeed.
When he does speak, his voice is steady, “I wish to thank you.”
You blink.
Did you mishear him?
Against your will, your eyes flicker back to the mortal, meeting his now determined gaze. It’s a stark shift from the meekness you just witnessed, which leaves you all the more confused.
The man takes a step forward, expression far too open, far too earnest, “May I come closer, Foreseer?”
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you waver.
But a demigoddess cannot show such weakness.
“You may.”
You watch, brow furrowed, as he covers the space between you. His gait is unsteady, a slight limp to his right leg you notice, yet confident and somewhat refined, leaving you once more with the impression of royalty. Only those of high standings carry themselves with such grace. Again, you’re left wondering. Who is this man? Why is he here?
Zayne stops several feet from where you sit, still hoping to respect your desire for space, and before you can inquire of his intentions, he drops to one knee in a fluid motion, his chin touching his chest from how low he bows his head. Your eyes go wide, grip tightening around the book still in your hands.
“I wish to clearly express my gratitude,” he repeats, voice firm yet muffled by the collar of his cloak. “I am…undeserving of the mercy you have shown me. I owe you my life, and I will do whatever is within my power to repay this great debt.”
An unyielding knot forms in your throat. You are so taken aback by his words, and unwillingly softened by the honesty behind them.
How does this man keep catching you off guard?
“You may stand,” you rasp out, unable to hide the discomfort in your tone.
The man glances up, hesitating before rising back to his full height, those hazel eyes glinting with something you can’t place. Or perhaps you simply do not wish to name it.
“I accept your gratitude, but there is no need to feel such a way. It was merely Fate.” The lie slips past your teeth with a considerable amount of effort. You do not lie often, but right now it feels as though you need something to protect yourself. To hide behind, as though you’ve been laid bare by his profession. “Now, if that is all you wanted to say, please leave me. I wish to be alone.”
“Of course, Foreseer. As you wish.”
And just like that, he takes his leave. No argument, no pushing. Your nails dig into the leather bindings of your book, unease clattering in your chest as he steps into the stairwell.
“Mortal.”
He stops, turning back to you with an inquisitive expression.
You hesitate, the words on your tongue yet they somehow feel too heavy. Out of place. He doesn’t move, expression unchanging, unassuming, waiting. It somehow gives you the strength to spit them out.
“Tell me your name.”
The man seems to perk up at that, still so much like an innocent pup, mirth dancing across his face. And for a split moment, a devastatingly handsome smile pulls at his lips.
“Zayne. It would be my honor if you would address me as such, Foreseer.”
Zayne. You roll his name over in your mind, finding that you quite like the sound of it. It suits him far more than you hoped it would.
“Very well, Zayne. Now you may be dismissed.”
“Thank you. Have a good evening, Foreseer.”
His shoes hardly make a noise as he ascends the stairs.
Only when you can no longer sense his presence do you settle back into your throne, the tension dripping from your shoulders. Dealing with mortals has always been exhausting, yet this one seems to sap every drop of your energy with his continuous surprises.
Zayne.
The image of him bowed before you, the purest vision of humility, is burned into the depths of your mind. Has a mortal ever willingly bowed before you? Unwillingly, yes, you always make sure they know their place, but you have never met a man so ready to lay aside his pride, just to express his gratitude of all things. Not to ask anything of you. Not to deceive you in some way.
Unless he is simply playing out some long plan. The thought rests bitterly on your soul.
But the look in his eyes held no hint of such deception.
Your mind races as you try to comprehend it all. His actions. Your actions. You permitted him to come closer. You broke the one rule you set out for yourself. Keep your distance. You’ve never struggled to stay away from the mortals.
So why is this man, Zayne, so different?
Why are you so easily swayed by his straightforward, yet earnest nature? And why was he so persistent, only to express his gratitude? It makes no sense to you, and there is nothing more frustrating than not being able to make sense of something.
Even the entertaining humans come to you for a reason. And in exchange for their amusing stories, you hold back your contempt for humanity and their greed.
That is not the case here, because no matter how much you wish to, you cannot find an ounce of contempt against this man. Zayne.
And such a realization leaves you feeling terrified.
---
Part 4
When I say that this man would absolutely worship the one he loves, this is what I mean. This is why this story has me in a chokehold, because I can't get over the idea of such reverent adoration coming from such a stoic man.
Anyways, hope y'all enjoy! Thank you for reading :3
Tag List: @pirana10 @antivanblessing @animecrazy76
Summary: You face the internal struggle of your actions as you take in the mortal that has stumbled upon your Tower. You've defied Fate, something even you might not be able to get away with.
Words: 1550
Note: I'm realizing this is probably going to be a bit of a slowburn...by my standards at least. I don't write series often, so we'll see! I want to update regularly, so most parts will be smaller chunks like this.
---
Fate is inescapable and irrefutable. None can stand against her, a truth you know all too well. And yet…
Standing here, staring at this man, you can’t help but feel something stir in the frozen depths of your chest. He is young. Too young to be in such a state, a certain innocence still softening his face. And he is…beautiful. For a mortal, at least.
Like a magnet, you’re drawn closer. Drawn to kneel beside him in the snow, if only to get a closer look, you tell yourself. His hair is dark, impossibly dark in contrast to his fair skin. It falls haphazardly across his forehead, and before you can think better of it, you reach out to gingerly brush the rogue strands aside.
Fingertips resting featherlight against his temple, you are all but struck by his features. His long lashes, the same ebony color of his hair. The gentle curve of his nose. The sharp line of his jaw. If you didn’t know better, with such hauntingly beautiful features, you would think him to be royalty, but his haggard clothes are an obvious testament against such assumptions.
Why would a man like this end up here of all places?
You startle when the man suddenly takes a sharp, shallow breath, his whole body trembling from the effort. Still alive. Though, Fate is not quite so merciful. You can see it, for a brief moment. The looming ghost of death. His final breath. Alone, out here, a mere beggar caught in the wrong storm.
And while you are typically unphased by death, something remains unsettled in your chest as you gaze down at his furrowed brow, his frostbitten lips.
Is this not too harsh? Too cruel for someone of poor fortune?
For someone who knocked…
Gritting your teeth, you feel an odd sense of indignance spread through you. It takes you aback, foreign and more unsettling than the last emotion. No mortal should make you feel such a thing. You are a demigod, you are above such trivial matters. It is not up to you who lives and dies. It has never been up to you.
You move to stand, determined to return to your book and let Fate have her way as she always does, except you are left frozen by a weak grip on your wrist.
Eyes flickering down, you find the man’s fingers wrapped around your hand. They rest against your pulse, his skin more frigid than the snow. As tight as he can hold you in this weakened state. Desperate, even though he is yet to wake.
Your soul gives pause, your brow furrowing sharply. Another onslaught of emotions. Frustration. Confusion. Irritation. Sympathy. They swirl inside you like a fierce storm, them and many more you can’t name, that you don’t want to name.
You don’t even know this man. He means nothing to you. A stranger. You won’t remember his face when the sun rises the next morning. So how? How can he cause such a stir inside of you? How can he draw forth such a reaction that nothing else has ever been able to?
You grit your teeth. He is just a mortal. He is not worth your concern. You repeat it over and over in your mind.
Yet still, you can not bring yourself to pull away from his fragile grip.
…
To hell with it all.
Perhaps you are permitted one moment of choice, one instance of differing from Fate and her unyielding laws. You have endured enough for her sake, have you not? If this will displease her, you shall bear the consequences.
It will only be one night, you assure yourself as you banish your scepter to its protective realm.
Just until he’s up on his feet again, you insist to no one in particular as you lift the man into your arms.
He’s disturbingly light, purely skin and bones beneath his tattered garments. Every muscle of his body trembles in your hold, the rise and fall of his chest uneven and shallow. He doesn’t even wince as you hold him to your chest.
There truly isn’t a second to waste. Not if you truly intend to defy Death and Fate all at once.
With a mere breath, white sigils carve into the air around you. They pulse and then flash, blinding you for the briefest of moments. The added weight of the man in your arms almost makes you stumble as you land on the familiar stone floors of the inner tower. Catching yourself with ease, you blink in surprise. It seems your teleportation magic is not as rusty as you expected. You’ve landed exactly where you were envisioning.
Your bedchambers.
You surely must be going mad, you muse as you hastily pass through the threshold. It is the only prepared room in your Tower, though, as you do not expect (nor want) visitors, and the meager bedding in the other rooms will not be enough.
With another flicker of your magic, the furs on your bed draw aside, offering you enough space to gently set the man down. And oh, he’s tall. Much taller than you registered. Tall enough that his feet hang awkwardly off the end of your bed. If it weren’t for the dire circumstances, you’d be tempted to laugh, but you simply do your best to tuck him under the furs.
Your hands flutter uneasily as you draw the downy pelts up to his chin, your knuckles brushing the skin of his jaw. The man shivers violently, drawing deeper into the warmth. He curls closer to your form, a shaky hand curling into the edge of your robe and you freeze again. Eyes locked on his face, you wait to see if he wakes, if he’s perhaps more lucid than you believed, but his eyes remain shut, dark lashes flickering against his pale cheeks.
A breath you didn’t realize you were holding shudders past your lips.
And then the reality of what you’ve just done sets it.
A mortal, in your home. Your bed. Not only that, but you’re the one that brought him in.
Standing abruptly, you ease your robe from his grip and stride across the room. Distance. You need some distance from these emotions. To think. To form a plan, something you usually do before you act.
Though, as if forced by some unknown spirit, you pause at the door, casting one last glance over your shoulder. Just to be sure. Of what, you don’t know. But the slight flush now present on the man’s cheeks seems to do it. It’s faint, but it’s there.
Any feelings you have over such a sight are buried deep in your chest as you take the stairs up. It takes more effort than usual to keep your steps measured, to ignore the imperceptible discrepancy in your heart rate. He is even more beautiful when flushed with a bit of life.
And, as it is whenever you’re faced with such…complex emotions, you find yourself at the top of the Tower. The snow is somehow lighter here, only leaving a thin dusting along the stones. The flakes dance around you, catching the light in an almost tender manner, falling falling
falling.
From here, you can see it all. The white-capped mountains. The distant path curving between them. The far off glint of mortal buildings. From here, it all appears small, more manageable, like the world is far more reasonable than you know it to be.
Though, perhaps you are not as reasonable as you believed yourself to be.
You’ve never been one for spontaneity. Or emotions.
You are the cold, heartless Foreseer. Scorner of men. Wielding your powers as winter wields death.
That’s how you must stay. Lest you burn.
So why are you being lenient with this mortal?
A low sigh passes your lips, turning to wisps of fog that curl around the snow. Your fingers brush through the layer of snow atop the wall, the biting cold of the stone grounding you.
The man’s face appears in your mind. The tightness of his brow. The almost stubborn clench of his jaw. Determined to live…
Perhaps it is because he reminds you of the wilted flowers you see in the spring. Beautiful yet out of place. The stubborn plants always try to grow despite the harsh environment of the Tower, despite being unprepared for how merciless life can be. Still, they try to grow. Still, they reach for the warmth of the sun. They too, try to fight against fate, and you are always left to watch helplessly as they lose to the never-ending winter.
Perhaps this time, you wish to see something beautiful live. Perhaps this time, Fate will allow you one momentary difference in your always constant life.
You can still keep your distance. You’ll just…provide a safe place for him to recover. Then he can leave, and you can forget about his existence. The Tower is large enough that it will not be difficult for him to avoid you, as you’re sure he will.
The mortals do not seek you out for your hospitality, after all.
Yes, of course. This will simply be a brief period of cohabitation.
Then you will return to your solitude.
As you are always destined to…
---
Woooh, emotional conflict :3 I can't wait to write him finally waking up. Also I guess I've semi replaced Astra with the broader concept of Fate. For the sake of this story, Fate is just an entity of the world, not embodied by anything, just the irrefutable movement of life. Not going to be evil and sucky like Astra (all offense intended)
Summary: It's a normal day in the Tower of Thorns. Until someone knocks on your doors. No one ever knocks...
Word Count: 1094
Warnings: Brief mention of thoughts of death.
Note: This is still largely set up, but the end is just the beginning of the real story. I just love writing exposition :3 I'm laying the foundation for future parts of the story, and establishing how the Foreseer works in this AU. There is no cannon here lol.
---
It was a normal day within the walls of your Tower. Well, as normal as one of your days can be.
The longer you stay here, the more they seem to blend together, the more time seems to mean less. You’ve spent months sitting on your throne, just to see how long you could. No food, no water, just…sitting. Letting the cold creep into the depths of your bones.
To see what death might feel like.
Shaking your head, you turn your attention to the sole window of your library. A storm rages outside, snow turning the usually dark sky white. A perfect day for reading.
Such thoughts aren’t worth lingering on, after all. You cannot die. Not by natural means, at least. Your body will live on despite lacking everything, which must be why you can exist in such a hellscape while nothing else can. Blessing or a curse, you’re not sure.
Your fingertips linger on the worn spines of your books, most of which you’ve already read. Many are without clear titles, though you know the exact contents of each of them. Carefully, you slide a familiar one from its place - a lovely collection of romantic myths. You brush your thumb over the embossed, gold details, the leather seemingly enchanted with an unusual warmth.
Maybe that's why this one is your favorite. Certainly not because it allows you to forget your solitude, if only for a moment.
Your heels hardly make a sound as you follow the winding stairs down to the main floor of the Tower. While it is tempting to sit and read in the safety of your library, it is the time of year when the mortals often show up uninvited for their “prophecies”.
Presumptuous creatures.
Even so, it’s easier to crush their expectations than to try and avoid them. They can be rather persistent pests if ignored. And while most of the time, it is some corrupt noble’s envoy knocking on your door, on rare occasion, you have the good fortune of meeting a worn traveler with a bright fate and entertaining stories. If only they would come more often.
Tucking into your throne, you drape your fur robes over your lap. They offer a comforting warmth. You can’t help but gravitate towards it. The book, your robes, the fire you keep kindled in bedchambers. Anything to fight the frigid magic flowing through your body.
As you begin to read, the howling gale outside grows more fierce. The Tower groans and hisses, the old stones bracing against the winds. You swear you can feel it shudder from the force, yet you remain seated, unbothered as you read through the first story of your book. You’ve made sure to imbue the building with a fraction of magic, so it will stand for as long as you’re alive, if not longer.
As you’re reading through the second story, an odd knocking echoes through the main hall. You pause, eyes not leaving the page you’re on, but no longer reading the words. The sound fades, almost like it was never there. It wasn’t one of the common sounds of the Tower brought on by the storm…but the mortals never knock.
For a moment, you wait to see if it will occur again, but the Tower remains hauntingly quiet. Perhaps you imagined it…The many years you’ve spent here alone are bound to play tricks on even your sharp mind.
Shaking your head, you try to focus on the words in front of you. They ramble noiselessly through your head, disjointed and meaningless. All you can hear is that sound, playing over and over again in your mind.
Surely you hadn’t imagined it. Surely you’re not losing your mind to this solitude. Surely…
Before you can even process your own actions, you’re on your feet, robes cascading back to the floor as you march to the great doors of the Tower. If only to satiate your own curiosity, you assure yourself. Perhaps one of the wild beasts of the mountain stumbled upon your home. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Your magic prickles across your fingertips, a thin layer of ice forming on your skin. It always rises to defend you before you even need it, driven by something deep inside you, but you keep a firm grip on it. Still, you let it simmer just below the surface, finding yourself on edge as you reach the doors.
With only the briefest moment of hesitation, you press your palm against the solid wood, the door giving way with ease despite the harsh winds. You’re greeted with the fierce, biting cold. Blinking wildly, you shield your eyes against the barrage of snow. It makes it nearly impossible to see much, whiting out everything beyond a few feet.
With an annoyed breath, you flick of your wrist, your scepter appearing in your hand. The Creatio Protocore gleams from its twisted crown. You tap it against the ground softly, a pulse of your magic combining with the power of the Protocore and spreading through the air.
The snow abruptly stops. Suspended in mid-air.
It’s only then the the tracks become clear. A set of prints - human - hesitating at the threshold of your Tower. Brow furrowing, you trace them back down the path, what you can see of it at least. It’s the path most take to your Tower, the only safe passage through the mountains.
Following them back up, you track them off to the side, along the wall of the Tower. Your brow furrows a little deeper. Why would someone walk around instead of waiting at the door?
Unable to resist your now growing curiosity, you find yourself following them. Steps slow, calculated, you tread beside the tracks, observing their odd quality. They seem staggered, like whoever left them was off balance. Weak. Not uncommon if someone travels this area unprepared.
A part of you wants to retreat back inside, to not bother with this. Surely if they weren’t willing to wait for you at the door, you shouldn’t have to go looking for them. But you can’t smother your need to know, your need to satisfy this curiosity. Curiosity over who would knock.
The steps only seem to grow more shuffled as you go, your shield of magic following you along the wall of the Tower. Until you round the first turn from the entrance and you come to a sharp stop.
Because there, in front of you, lies a man in the snow.
A man with death hanging over his pale, shivering form.
---
Part 2
Ooooooo, things are kicking off! Time for some good ol' fashion whump recovery. My favorite.
Summary: You are the Foreseer, forced to live a near immortal life, gifted with the ability to see fate, yet cursed to live among mortals who hate the truth. In your bitterness, you retreat to the Tower of Thorns, where you find peace. That is, until a man appears on your door, a man on the brink of losing his future. Unless you choose to change his fate.
Disclaimer: This series will essentially be an AU, I am ignoring nearly all cannon, because screw it and SCREW ASTRA THAT-
Anways, enjoy this ~400 word intro of Foreseer!Reader hating mortals. ✌🏻
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3
---
Not many venture to Mount Eternal.
It is a barren, frigid landscape, snow so deep that it snuffs out all flickers of life. Not even the sun can touch her jagged peaks.
Mortals call it an icy hell, but in truth, it is a force they cannot conquer. Even with their audacity. Even with their brash foolishness. They know better than to try and tame the vicious beast that is ice and death and snow. Even they are forced to recognize how powerless they are.
And perhaps that is why you have found your peace in Mount Eternal’s glacial depths.
Why you now call it home.
Here, it is just you and the Tower. No more performing, no more kings trying to force you under their thumb, only to throw a fit of rage when you do not bow. Afterall, the truth does not bow for anyone.
So it is here you have found your refuge. Away from the mortals. Away from their arrogance and manipulation. Even though they appear every few years, you find yourself growing comfortable, tucked away, living out your years in near blissful silence.
That is, perhaps, what you hated most about living among the mortals. The noise. Incessant. Overwhelming. They liken silence to death in a way that you could never comprehend, for it is in silence that you find your solace.
And that is exactly what the weathered, stone walls of the Tower offer a demigod like you. The Tower holds your silence so tenderly, like it knows how secretly fragile you are. In a way, you almost see it as your kin. It, like you, is trapped in a state of timeless-ness. Seemingly untouched, though if you look close enough you can see how worn it is, how humanity has used it. A tower of unknown origin, from an unknown time, forced to live in solitude lest it breaks.
While most find it eerie and uncomfortable, you can’t help but feel at peace in its grand halls. The cold marble seems to muffle your very thoughts, like the layer of snow outside can somehow quiet the thrum of magic that constantly pulses through your veins.
So you sit. You sit in the quietness of your home, the Tower of Thorns. You sit so still, that sometimes you forget that you’re even alive. Day after day. Year after year.
Until one day, you find your peace fractured..
All by one human.
---
Y'all, I am fired up for this one. I've had literal brain rot for months. And I know it's Caleb season, but Zayne still has me by the throat. You won't catch me slipping!
Anyways, D don't expect this to get a lot of attention, but I'm going to enjoy myself writing it! Hope my fellow Zayne girlies enjoy it too.
hihi! i know you haven't posted in a hot minute but I wanted to just say thank you for writing! you are my favorite writer in the LADS community, and I often come back to read your weeks like, multiple times a week lmao! my fav pieces from you are the 'how would lads carry you,' the two sleepy times with sylus and zayne, and the tattoos drabbles :) but generally I love how often comfortable and cozy and genuine a lot of your scenarios feel, and I just wanted to send over some good vibes! part of me is on the edge of my seat for if you ever post anything else, but if not - thank you for ever sharing your works in the first place! know that they give people a lot of joy :D
Y'all I caaaaaaan't.
I lowkey lost my password and forgot which email I used for this account (I have way more than I should, don't ask lol). I got stuck in such a writer's block that I figured I'd just take a break and work on art instead.
This message literally kills me, because this is why I write. Sometimes I question writing reader inserts, but knowing that it can make even one person feel loved or happy makes it all worth it.
I can't guarantee I'll be writing a lot more LaDS content (the game won't open for me and I'm scared to delete it in case is deletes all my progress, so I've been keeping up through reels and stuff). But I'm not done yet! I've actually been having a lot of brain rot around my last Zayne fic and thinking about turning it into a small series.
Anyways! I'm back! Thank you for all the love while I was gone! I hope I can create a few more fluffy favorites for y'all!
Especially cause I can finally write for Caleb >:) whom I've always kind of loved.
Summary: AU where you are the Foreseer, and Zayne is a human you've given your blessing to who has devoted his life to staying by your side, protecting you, and worshipping you. He would do anything for you. Anything.
Word County: 2744
Note: Sooooo, I went a bit feral with this one... Could be interpreted as very sub-like behavior for Zayne, but I feel like we all know this man just wants to worship his partner. So yah. I'll be writing similar au's for the other guys too, but this one might be my magnum opus.
Coming soon: Sylus / Xavier / Rafayel
Warning: Gets a little, spicy at the end, but mostly by implication. Reader likes to touch Zayne's face a lot. Someone calls Zayne a concubine and you get pissed.
Enjoy!
---
“Kneel.”
You stare, features a mask of icy indifference, at the human envoy wavering at the foot of your throne. They shiver in their thick coats, no material warm enough to keep out the biting cold of the Tower of Thorns. The biting cold of your glare.
Yet, still, they don’t kneel. You can see the hesitation on their faces, the pride flashing behind their irises. Humans. They always come, high and mighty, thinking themselves better than you, a demigod.
Your lips part, a scathing reproach ready on your tongue, but you don’t get the chance to correct their insolence.
“I said. Kneel.”
Zayne slams his staff into the polished, white granite. The sound of it echoes all the way to the far halls of the tower. The thinly veiled threat behind his words is unmistakable. Kneel before I make you.
The humans all crumble under the weight of his command. They drop to their knees, one by one, trembling at the pure contempt burning behind his gaze. Contempt for them and their human greed. They don’t even deserve to gaze upon the threads of your robes, let alone kneel in your presence, yet they think themselves above it? You may have mercy on their kind, but Zayne would rather cut them to their knees than allow them to show you such disrespect.
A faint smile ghosts across your lips. With the barest flick of your fingers, Zayne returns obediently to your side. He drops gracefully to one knee, head bowed, eyes locked on the unblemished edge of your robes.
It’s almost amusing, watching him turn so docile, so small for you. A man who conquers you in height and strength, who holds himself with the regal poise of royalty, who you’ve blessed with powers no man can dream of - a submissive guard dog at your feet. Ready to kill if you desire him to. Willing to die for you.
“Foreseer-”
Your smile falls away. Right, the humans. Eyes icing over once more, you turn your gaze to the envoy, regarding them with disinterest.
“What do you want, that you’ve come all this way and disturbed my peace?” Your voice rings like a delicate chime, but carries the bite of a frigid river.
The one who spoke - a man dressed in expensive looking furs, his skin covered in a layer of sweat - flinches at the sharpness of your tone. He seems to steel himself for a moment, collecting whatever pathetic bravery he has gained from his comfortable life, and looks up at you with a determined glare.
“We’ve come here for a prophecy, Foreseer,” he starts again, voice muggish and demanding, “Our kingdom has experienced prosperity in the passing years and our king would like to be certain that it will continue.”
Zayne tenses beside you, his fingers tightening around his staff. You can see him fighting the urge to put this man in his place, his jaw drawing so taut it almost looks painful. Letting out a low hum, you reach out and brush your fingers through the dark strands of hair. A silent request. Zayne wavers, his breath faltering as all his attention falls back on you.
Always on you.
Your touch is gentle but insistent, your delicate fingertips tracing his temple, his cheek, his jaw. It leaves his skin tingling, pleasant and cold. It’s an addictive feeling and he can’t help but yearn for more. Zayne nuzzles into your palm, pressing his lips to your skin in reverent gratitude when you give him exactly what he wants, your fingers brushing more firmly against his face.
An uncomfortable cough breaks the silence, “Foreseer-”
“I heard your explanation,” you interrupt him sharply, a wave of frustration washing over you. Zayne can feel it, feels his own frustration at having your attention drawn away from him. But he doesn’t dare make that known, instead watching your face attentively as you speak. “And I will remind you that my prophecies will not be bound to your expectations. They are bound to nothing but fate, so I advise you to deliberate on what you are asking of me.”
“Our King simply wants to ensure that our prosperity will continue,” the man insists, as if you’re the fool who is missing the point. He levels you with a look of disdain, his eyes not so subtly darting to the hand you now have resting in Zayne’s hair. “Though I am certain now that our Highness would not care for the words of a mere oracle who keeps a concubine as her guard.”
The air in the chamber goes deathly still once the words leave his mouth.
Your eyes narrow at the man, glacier and even, but he keeps his chin held high. The rest of the envoy all shift, sharing uneasy glances between themselves. It seems even they know that what he said was a foolish mistake.
One should not anger a god so carelessly.
Slowly, deliberately, you stand from your throne. A flick of your hand and your own scepter appears from the air, the Creatio Protocore glinting dangerously from its tangle of wood. All eyes fall on it, a mix of fear and greed, all eyes except for Zayne’s, which remain glued to you.
Every step you take, every subtle movement, is controlled, the utter definition of grace. Even the air bows to you, shivering around your form, any remaining warmth fleeing from your presence. Tendrils of ice spread along the granite, creeping up the walls, covering the windows, turning the room into a prison of your anger.
And Zayne can’t help but watch, transfixed, adoration curling in the depths of his being. Because this is you, his goddess, his queen. He may be your guardian, but he is well aware that his title is by grace alone, and not necessity. You’ve never needed him. Not like this.
“You seem unaware of whom you speak to,” you murmur, patience tested and gone, “So let me remind you.”
The man lets out a yelp as ice suddenly grips his boots. You feel a flicker of satisfaction at the panic in his eyes, his confidence disappearing like a leaf carried away by the wind. His companions scatter back, looking on in terror as the ice travels up his legs, encasing the entire lower half of his body.
“I am the Foreseer,” you say, stopping a mere foot away from him. “The demigod of the Tower of Thorns. This is my domain, my home, and you are a pest. I owe you nothing. I owe your king nothing. As far as I am concerned, he is beneath me.”
“You insolent- He is our king!” The man spirts, turning a drastic shade of red. “I demand you show him respect, you despicable wi-”
A dagger presses deftly to the man’s neck and he goes silent, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.
“Be silent,” Zayne snarls, “How dare you speak to the Foreseer in such a way.”
You glance at him over the man’s shoulder, brow flicking up. Any other time, it would warm your heart to see Zayne stand up for you, and you would gladly let him cross the boundaries of his position, to act as he sees fit. To act freely. But in this moment, all you can feel is the rage boiling in the depths of your soul. It’s your turn to show them their mistakes.
So you click your tongue, eyes narrowing, “I did not ask for you to intervene, my dearest.”
Zayne doesn’t miss the sharp disapproval in your voice, his breath catching somewhere in his chest. How thoughtless of him. Dagger slipping back into the sleeve of his robes, he forces himself to step back, head bowed like a wolf bearing its neck submissively.
“I apologize, my lady.”
You don’t offer your forgiveness, only giving him a stiff nod, and Zayne can feel his skin prickle with unease. Every fiber of his being aches, desperate to earn your affection, to please you, to offer an apology you deem sufficient.
If you want him to grovel, he will. If you want him to beg, he’ll do so until his voice gives out. Even if you want to punish him, he’d take it with such deep affection, because anything from you is more than he deserves.
But until you ask anything of him, all he can do is wait.
And currently, you must deal with the nuisance in front of you, even if you can feel Zayne’s laden eyes locked on you so intently.
“Now let’s talk about your king, shall we?” You muse, turning your attention back to the man. He swallows, regret showing in the way his hands tremble so viciously. “You humans have such a twisted view of power. Whether it’s money or prosperity or health. You are all subject to fate and that is why you hate my prophecy. Your king is no different, and I presume he’s looking for someone to blame when your land inevitably falls into poverty. In fact, I feel confident in saying he already sees it coming, and I would wager that he is the sole cause of it. Am I wrong?”
A low murmur spreads among the envoy. The man goes nearly purple in front of you, face tight with indignation, but he doesn’t dare utter a word, not with the looming threat of Zayne’s blade still nearby.
You don’t need him to confirm what you already know, though. And you’ve had enough of this messing around. The day has been too long, and you desire nothing more than to rest.
“Tell your king that this mere oracle wishes him well in his remaining time on the throne,” you chime and turn to walk away. Your voice carries on over the clicking of your heels, “However short that time might be.”
“You can’t-! Foreseer!”
“See them out, my dearest, and then meet me in my quarters.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Foreseer-!” The man calls again, but Zayne doesn’t even allow him another glimpse at your figure. He’s lost that honor.
“I believe it’s time for you to leave,” he snaps, and breaks the spell of your ice.
The man immediately tries to make a run for you, desperation carved into every line of his face, but Zayne catches him by the collar of his coat and throws him back towards the rest of his party. His eyes set on them, harsh and cold, a sneer pulling at his lips.
“She has dismissed you. I suggest you leave quietly before you test my patience.”
“I will not listen to the orders of a-”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see a sigil carve into the air before a blinding light fills the space. The humans flee from the sudden ice clawing at their feet, voices tight with panic, boots slipping against the granite in their desperation.
A faint smile pulls at your lips as you dip into a hallway. Zayne always has been good at scaring people away.
It’s a quiet venture to your room at the top of the tower after that. The howling gale outside is all you can hear, muffled by the thick stone of the tower’s walls. It’s a somehow comforting sound, soothing some your prickled nerves.
Still, you feel tense as you settle on the edge of your bed. Dealing with the humans always does this to you. That’s why you ended up here, in the desolate, snowy mountains, far from any village or kingdom. Dealing with them is too exhausting.
How many humans have come to you, begging for an audience, only to throw themselves into a rage after you share one of your prophecies? A prophecy you can’t control, you can’t change. Yet they always blame you.
You can hardly be blamed for resenting their kind.
All of them except Zayne.
Your dearest. Your steadfast peace. The comfort of your isolation was no match when he came to your tower.
And your frustration melts like snow in the springtime when he appears at your door, wavering at threshold. Hesitation furrows his brow, his fingers twitching against the frame. Features softening, you gesture for him to enter.
“Come here, my dearest,” you murmur, tone impossibly gentle.
He hesitates for only a moment before sweeping across the room, reaching you with only a few long strides. You watch as he kneels at your feet, the thick fur of his robes gathering on the stone floor around him. And of course you notice the way his lips press together so vehemently, like he’s biting back something.
“Please speak, darling.”
Zayne’s eyes flutter shut, a shuddering breath passing his lips. You always say the term with such sweetness, such tenderness. It makes him feel dizzy and near breathless, loved in a way that makes his chest ache.
“May I touch you?” He asks, voice a low rasp.
You don’t even have to think to answer, “Of course you may, my dearest.”
With all the care in the world, Zayne gathers the edge of your robes in his gloved hand, drawing the silken material to his lips. His touch is reverent, like even the clothes on your body are deserving of worship. He takes his time, showering each fiber with devout affection, eyes slowly trailing up the material to gaze at you through ebony eyelashes. And you can’t help the way your breath falters so easily for him, always taken aback by the desperation, the hunger you find there.
Something dark glints behind those mottled depths at the sound. Slowly, experimentally he presses closer. When you don’t correct him, his fingers brush questioningly against your ankle, the warmth of his skin seeping through the leather of his gloves. And you’ve never been one to deny him.
Parting your legs, you let Zayne settle between them, your knees bracketing his wide shoulders. His fingers trace adoringly up and down your leg as he nuzzles into your clothed thigh, like a pup starved for affection. You can feel the warmth of his breath, even through the thick material of your cloak, and it makes your usually sharp mind spin.
“Please forgive my earlier thoughtlessness, my love,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing insistently against your inner thigh. “I will accept any punishment to atone for my actions.”
Gods, you never thought you would be so weak for one man. But how could you not be? How can you not crumble under such earnest devotion?
You’d freeze the world over if it meant having him forever at your side.
“You have quite the tactic for coaxing me to forgive you,” you breathe, reaching a hand down to trace through his hair. Zayne immediately leans into your touch, molten eyes soft with feigned innocence.
“I am simply a humble servant, unworthy of your favor, my lady,” he hums, eyelashes fluttering when your grip tightens momentarily in his hair. It’s only then a mischievous smile reveals itself on his lips. “How can I coax a goddess such as yourself to do something against your will?”
“You know full well what you’re doing, dearest.” You lean down, until your cool breath ghosts over his skin, sending a shiver through Zayne’s body. His bravado slips away, replaced by an uneven breath, his lips parting ever so slightly. “And there’s no need for it. Everything I have, everything I am, is yours, and that includes my forgiveness. All you ever have to do is ask.”
“You shouldn’t offer such things so lightly, my lady,” Zayne rasps, fingers pressing tightly into the softness of your leg as he forces himself to glance away. “You underestimate how selfish my desire for you is. I would take everything if you allowed it.”
Suddenly, your touch is on his chin, drawing his face back to yours, until he can feel the brush of your lips against his, taunting and delicate.
“If you want everything,” you challenge softly, gaze unwavering, “then take it.”
Zayne inhales sharply. And then his lips are on yours, kissing you so deeply, so tenderly, like he wants to draw the very breath from your lungs, like you’re the only one who can sate his hunger burning inside of him.
And you let him. You let him take everything he desires, because he always gives you everything you could ever desire.
That is how it has always been between the two of you. And that’s how it will always be.
---
This felt pretty different from what I usually write. I was inspired by an Xavier fic I read sometime back, and I just loooove the concept of truly feral levels of loyalty. And I love the idea of reader being just a feral for him.
The way you portray Sylus constantly makes me think of that one post that’s like “submissive in the way a livestock guardian dog is submissive to the sheep it kills wolves for”
Lowkey, exactly what I'm going for.
In my head, and I've used this metaphor before, Sylus is a feral dog who has decided to be loyal to the mc/reader. Like, he'd get himself maimed to protect you, he'd give up everything so you can continue to live a peaceful life. But he doesn't know what affection is, he doesn't know how to communicate his needs, and has learned violence is the best way to survive.
This is the hill I will die on.
I'm actually working on a series of the LaDS boys as "guard dogs" in different kinds of AUs, that's how feral I am for this idea, and I think it can also apply to the other guys.
Summary: This is my take on what supernatural creature each guy would be. They're pretty long, and either a fic where reader discovers what they are or a domestic moment they share together.
Rafayel - kitsune
Zayne - vampire
Xavier - guardian angel
Sylus - demon
Word Count: all roughly 1500 words
Note: These honestly came out soooo much longer than I expected. I might add a fic for Caleb, cause honestly, I'm really warming up to him. What supernatural creature should he be?
I'll probably come back and edit later, so let me know if you catch any mistakes!
---
Rafayel / Kitsune
“Rafayel…” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“What?! They deserved it,” Rafayel defends himself as he flops down onto the couch.
“That doesn’t mean you can screw with people whenever you want,” you chastise softly and sit next to him, “You’re supposed to keep your identity a secret.”
Rafayel gives you a pout. Letting out a dramatic huff, he falls over into your lap, stretching out lazily instead of giving you any kind of response. You bite back a laugh, his weight pressing you into the couch, effectively trapping you as he makes himself comfortable. It takes everything in you to not give in to his usual cute tactics, the concern gripping your chest not quite letting go.
“Seriously, Raffie, it could be dangerous,” you continue, worry seeping into your voice.
“It’s fiiine,” he sighs, ocean eyes glinting up at you with amusement, “You worry too much, cutie. You wouldn’t even know if I hadn’t told you.”
“Still-”
“Nope, no more worrying,” he cuts you off quickly, reaching up to pinch both your cheek with a teasing, cheshire grin, “Miss Bodyguard is off duty now. This spirit wants his girlfriend to cuddle with him.”
Swatting at his hands, you can feel a blush creeping up your neck. Sometimes it still surprises you how care-free he is, like nothing could ever touch him. Which maybe he’s right. And you know he’s never going to stop his antics. Still, you worry. It’s a part of your nature, wanting to protect people, especially the ones you love, especially him.
But Rafayel is persistent, coaxing you to relax with playful touches and banter. He knows exactly how to unwind you, and how to rile you up, every button, every nerve. You feel almost powerless to resist, to hold onto your lingering doubts. And it’s not even his powers, it’s just Rafayel, your Rafayel.
And of course you give in. With a weak sigh, you settle into the couch, your fingers finding their way into his curls to calm what’s left of your frazzled nerves. Rafayel hums, low and content, his eyes flickering shut as he arches up into your touch like a cat.
“Do you want to stop hiding your ears?” You ask quietly, something warm and tender winding through your ribs.
Rafayel lets out another low rumble, eyes opening a fraction to look up at you suspiciously, “You know, sometimes I wonder if you like my ears more than you like me. That wouldn’t be true, now would it, cutie?”
“Of course not,” you tease, ruffling his hair, “I just want you to be comfortable.”
“Mhm, sure.” A small smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, because of course he knows that you do truly love him for him, but the fox does love his games.
It’s almost unnoticeable, the way he dismisses his transformation magic. Every time you can’t help but watch, fully enraptured by the change. A pair of soft ears flicker up from his hair, as if they were simply hiding in his curls the whole time. And his tails. You blink, and suddenly they appear, fluffy and plush, the same color as his hair. They curl around you, as if seeking out your warmth, the same way Rafayel turns to nuzzle into your stomach. The spirit gives a happy rumble when you rub his ears, pressing impossibly closer.
“You have no idea how irritating it is to hide them all the time.” His voice comes out muffled by your sweater, his ears flicking back before pressing to your fingers again. “I imagine it’s how you humans feel when you wear itchy clothes.”
“That doesn’t sound fun,” you agree, “I’m glad you don’t have to hide them around me anymore.”
“You’re the first human I’ve allowed to see my true form in a long time, ya know.”
Your heart flutters a little at that. It’s a fact you’re well aware of, and one you try to never take for granted. It had taken a long time for Rafayel to share this with you.
Ever since you met in the park, you knew something was different about him. He was beautiful, after all. More beautiful than you thought a person could be. And there was always something about his smile, something that set you on edge but also drew you in. The mischievous glint in his eyes never wavering, the almost unnatural grace he moves with, even the way he talks, as if he remembers times long gone by.
It all clicked when he finally told you. When he showed you his true form. A fox spirit. Everything made complete sense, but also no sense at all in that moment. First, you couldn’t comprehend it. Wanderers, yes, those you could wrap your head around. Mystical fox spirits? No. No, that took a few days to really settle in.
Still, it was Rafayel. It was always Rafayel. And the moment he came to you after those few days of distance, tentative and quiet in a way you had never witnessed from the artist, you made your decision.
A life without him wasn’t possible. Not for you. Not with how you had fallen in love with him.
“So, tell me again why you tricked those guys into thinking a bear was chasing them?” You ask, tone fond as you continue to rub the soft fur on his ears.
Rafayel huffs, rolling on his back to meet your gaze more easily. The swirling colors of his eyes gleam with that familiar mischief, his canines flashing sharply in a dangerous grin, “They were hunting for sport, so I showed them what it’s like to be hunted.”
He really is scary sometimes, you think to yourself, biting back a smile.
“I’m sure they’ll think twice about hunting in your woods again.”
“They better,” he snips, “If I catch them again I’ll send a real bear after them.”
“I’m sure the forest thinks you’re quite a good guardian, mister fox spirit,” you tease, ruffling his hair fondly.
Rafayel suddenly shifts, and in the blink of an eye he’s leaning over you, his arms braced against the couch on either side of your head. You freeze, eyes going wide as you look up at him, pulse racing in your ears. The fox spirit leans down, nose brushing yours, that same dangerous smile pulling at his lips.
“And what do you think, miss hunter?” He asks, breath warm against your lips.
A lump forms in your throat, making it hard to speak, to even breathe with him this close. And Rafayel can tell, his eyes narrowing with amusement. He lifts one hand, fingers tracing delicately along your cheek so you feel the faint edge of his claws.
“What? Fox got your tongue?” He all but taunts, leaning closer. His eyes slowly trail down to your lips, his grin widening. “I could show you what that really feels like if you want.”
…
Heat flares across your cheeks. You gape at him, shock mixing with embarrassment mixing with something you don’t want to admit to. Did he just say what you think he did?
Rafayel keeps his cool facade for only a few more seconds before he cracks, bursting into a fit of laughter. You stare at him, blinking wildly, brain slowly catching up with it all. And then you’re shoving him.
“Rafayel!” You squeak, and he only laughs harder, which in turn, makes you more flustered. “You’re such a- I can’t believe you! God, you’re insufferable.”
The artist catches your hands when you go to hit him again, his ocean eyes crinkling along the edges. Snickering softly, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your angry pout.
“Sorry, my bride,” he hums unapologetically against your lips, pressing a scattering of chaste kisses along your pink cheeks. “It felt like the best way to change the subject.”
“My lover is such a sadist,” you grumble, trying to turn away from him. It’s difficult to keep pouting when he showers you in such soft affection. “My poor heart can’t take this, you know.”
Rafayel cups your face, drawing you back to face him so he can press another kiss to your lips, this one tender and gentle and slow. And just like before, you’re powerless to resist him. Your fingers brush against his neck as you return the kiss, letting the warmth of his touch wash over you. Everything about him is so addicting, so enthralling, like you could get lost and never find your way out. It almost scares you, how much you’re willing to lose for this man.
Eventually Rafayel draws away, if only to let you catch your breath, still teasing you, “Now do you forgive me, cutie?”
“Hmm, I guess so,” you sigh, pretending to be appeased. Your fingers trail innocently up into his hair, until you’re close enough to give his fluffy ear a playful pinch. Rafayel squawks and pulls away, giving you the most dramatic look of betrayal. Grinning, you lean up and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, “Okay, now I definitely do.”
Rafayel whines, reaching up to rub his ear, “Who’s the sadist now?”
“Watch it, or I might just pull your tail.”
“Okay, okay, we’re even…Now can we cuddle?”
---
Zayne / Vampire
You’ve known Zayne practically your whole life. Well, all of your life that you can remember, at least. He’s always been something constant, if not distant at times. And while you never assumed you knew everything about the doctor, you thought you knew more than most.
That is, until you wander into his office one day to find him passed out on the floor.
“Zayne?” You freeze in the doorway to his office, eyes blowing wide.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t show a single sign of life. Fear sinks deep into your bones, wraps around your lungs like a noose. And then your legs are moving. Your shoes desperately try to grip the tile as you dash across the room, panic dulling the throb in your knees as you drop to the ground beside him.
Pulse. You need to check his pulse. And his breathing.
Hands shaking, you press your fingers below his jaw, only to inhale sharply at the shock of how cold his skin is. Like ice. Too cold. No one should be this cold. And you can’t find a pulse. You skim your fingers down his neck, looking, looking, but still nothing.
Leaning over the still doctor, you press your ear to his chest and wait. Your lungs start to ache from how you desperately hold your breath, but it’s nothing compared to the terror gripping your heart. Because you hear nothing. Nothing at all.
You draw back, lips parting, ready to call out for someone, anyone.
Until a hand clamps firmly over your mouth.
A surprised scream escapes you, muffled by cold fingers, as you find yourself flipped, a hand holding the back of your head to prevent it from hitting the ground. Chest heaving, you draw a fist back, ready to fight back against your attacker, only to freeze when your eyes meet a pair of hazel ones.
Zayne.
Relief washes over you. Quickly followed by confusion. You quickly push his hand away, brow knitting together.
“What the hell, Zayne?” You bark, pushing yourself onto your elbows.
The doctor quickly backs away, resting back on his haunches. You take a moment to look him over, worry still clinging to your bones. He’s pale, somehow more pale than usual at least. Dark shadows rest under his eyes, which appear almost bleary as he gazes back at you. He looks exhausted.
Dead, even.
“You weren’t breathing,” you whisper, getting to your knees so you can check his temperature again. “Your heart wasn’t beating. I checked. What happened? How are you awake right now?”
Zayne grimaces, flinching away from your touch, and you freeze.
A deafening silence fills the office. It’s an odd stand-off, you staring him down, confusion burning behind your gaze, while he does everything he can to avoid it. For a split second, though, you see something you’ve never seen in the doctor. Uncertainty.
“Zayne?” You call again, voice going soft, “Talk to me. Please.”
Zayne hesitates, seemingly debating in his head before he speaks, his voice a low rasp, “I apologize for scaring you. That must have been startling to walk in on.”
“I’m fine,” you dismiss, slowly making your way closer to him, “I’m more concerned about you right now. You were dead. At least, I thought you were. So what happened?”
Another beat of silence.
“I must have lost consciousness from exhaustion. I haven’t slept much the past few days,” he tries, but even to your ears, it sounds like a weak excuse.
“Zayne, your heart wasn’t beating. You-” You press a hand to his chest, perhaps to prove a point, perhaps to knock some sense into him. To do something.
Except his heart still isn’t beating.
You're paralyzed. Eyes locked on his chest. Confusion creeps over you, like tendrils of ice spreading through your chest. Sharp. Suffocating. This isn’t right. This can’t be real. It can’t.
Zayne lets out another sigh, this one resigned and tired. Like he’s finally given up. His cold fingers gently cover yours. He draws your hand away from his chest, though he never lets go of it.
“I suppose there’s no hiding it anymore,” he murmurs, voice stiff, like how he speaks when he’s working. “Come, let’s sit on the couch. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there.”
You don’t say a word as he helps you to your feet. You can’t. Your tongue feels like a dead weight in your mouth. And even if you could talk, you don’t know what you would say. A million questions rush through your head, so blurred that you can’t pick out a single one, except-
“What are you?”
It echoes in your head raucously as you take a tentative seat on the couch. Zayne’s lips press into a tight line, and he clears his throat.
“That depends. There are many names for my condition.” His leg bounces ever so slightly as he continues, eyes still not meeting yours. “Though I suppose the most common term is vampirism.”
Vampirism.
You blink.
And blink and blink.
Vampire. He’s a vampire.
A vampire?
“Those aren’t real,” you immediately breathe out, mind racing.
A humorless smile pulls at the doctor’s lips, “I assure you, it is. I’ve suffered from the symptoms for as long as I can remember.”
A vampire. He’s a vampire. Your childhood best friend is a vampire.
“How did I not notice?” You all but squeak, examining him with this new information.
Sure, he’s pale, but Zayne’s always been pale. And it’s not like he avoids the sun. Aren’t vampires supposed to be weak to the sun or something? Plus, he’s aging, isn’t he? A million new questions race through your mind.
“Wait, do you have fangs?!”
Before you can stop yourself, you’re touching his face, basically making him open his mouth. Zayne startles, brow raising at your brazenness, but he does nothing to stop you. At first, his teeth look normal, the only thing worth noting being the excellent care he’s given them. But then you notice it. His canines seem to sharpen, just a touch longer than they should be.
And that’s all the proof you need.
“You’re a vampire,” you breathe, fingers settling along his jaw.
Zayne watches you carefully, waiting for some kind of reaction. Horror. Fear. Anger. All of those would be appropriate. But you don’t show any of them. Instead, you look at him with a mixture of disbelief and…curiosity?
Brow knitting together, Zayne reaches up to touch your wrist, just to check your pulse to make sure you haven’t gone into some sort of shock. Your pulse is steady though, if not a little accelerated.
“You’re not…frightened? Of me?” He asks slowly, confusion gleaming in the depths of his eyes.
You shake your head, a smile threatening to break out across your features, “No, Zayne, I’m not scared of you. I probably should be, but hey, I fight wanderers for a living. Do I have a lot of questions? Yes. But if you’ve really been like this since we were young, that means you’re not going to suddenly do something to me now, right?”
Your lack of concern should be worrying, but Zayne finds the tension is his shoulders slowly dripping away. Of course you would surprise him like this. You’ve always been too trusting, in his opinion, though he’s not about to correct you now.
“So, do you drink blood? I’m guessing you don’t hurt people, considering how strictly you follow your oath.” Head tilting, you give him a questioning look, eyes wide and almost innocent in their curiosity. “So where do you get it from? Blood bags? I’ve read that in a few books. Or animals? I’ve read that, too. How accurate are all those stories?”
“I could answer your questions if you slow down,” Zayne murmurs, fighting an amused smile. “I assure you, we have plenty of time.”
You flush, biting off the rest of your questions. Right. You’re not really giving him an opportunity to answer, are you? So where do you start?
“What is your first question?” The doctor prompts, thumb brushing calmly over your pulse.
“Hmm. The blood question. Do you have to drink it?”
“Yes,” he answers, though his voice rings with distaste, “I have to consume some form of blood every few months to keep my senses about me. I’ve perhaps waited too long this time.”
“Do you need some right now?” You press, brow furrowing.
Zayne hesitates. His lips pinch together again, a sign you recognize.
“No.”
“Liar. That’s why you passed out,” you accuse, though you keep your voice somewhat gentle.
He says nothing for a long moment, a mixture of guilt and discomfort crossing his features. Sighing softly, you give his cheek a light pinch.
“Zaaayne.”
“I’ve tolerated longer periods than this between feedings,” he murmurs, trying to sound dismissive, though you can hear the exhaustion creeping back into his voice, “My body must simply be enduring higher levels of stress due to the season. As long as I rest more, I’ll be fine until my next supply arrives.”
“Oooor,” you hum, hesitating only a moment before you offer, “You can draw some of my blood. Just enough to get you through till then. We know it’s clean since you always run so many tests on it, so that shouldn’t be a concern right?”
Zayne blinks in surprise. Even if you were taking this all well, he certainly wasn’t expecting you to make such an offer. But you meet his gaze, unwavering, expectant, mind already made up.
If his heart were beating, he’s sure it would stutter.
While he hates his condition, hates what he has to do to appease it, he can’t deny that the smell of your blood has always been tempting to him. Cloyingly sweet, like the sweetest dessert.
He should say no. He should just endure, as he always has.
But the determination in your eyes makes him waver. And Zayne is a weak man when it comes to anything related to you.
“It’s not advisable…” He starts, jaw tightening.
You perk up, not actually expecting him to consider it. It was a crazy idea after all, but you want to help. You hate the idea of him suffering by choice when you can do something about it.
“But…?”
“But I am not completely opposed to the idea,” he concedes, almost looking ashamed.
“Good,” you chirp, a smile lighting up your face as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. “Then let’s get to work, doctor.”
God, you would be the death of him.
Well, if he were fully alive, that is.
---
Xavier / Angel
“How is it that you seem to find danger wherever you go?” Xavier murmurs, voice as even as ever, yet cradling a hint of exasperation.
Biting back a smile, you keep your attention focused on his fingers. They work with a practiced precision to bandage the laceration on your arm, adept from the years of dressing your wounds. It has become a near weekly occurrence because of your work. Getting hurt is an unfortunate side effect of being a hunter.
“Maybe I wouldn’t be so reckless if I didn’t have such a sweet angel to take care of me afterwards,” you hum, tone bordering on teasing.
Xavier’s ears flush a soft pink, his wings ruffling in some kind of indignation, which only makes your smile stretch wider. He’s always so easy to fluster, and his wings give him away every time. It makes you want to tease him even more, but when you go to do exactly that, all that escapes you is a low hiss when he swipes a pad of alcohol across another of your cuts.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, his thumb brushing tenderly along your knuckles.
“S’okay,” you sigh, taking a deep breath, “Just stings. I hate the shallow ones more than the actual cuts, you know?”
Xavier gives a low hum, neither agreeing or disagreeing. You’re sure he would prefer you avoid all physical injury, but that is an argument the angel lost a long time ago, not long after you first met. And what a day that was.
Xavier came into your life in a flash of light. Literally.
You remember the day with quite a bit fondness despite how horrible it was. Everything had gone wrong that day. Exams were kicking your butt, as was training for the Association. To say you were down in the dumps was an understatement, which is why you had been out in the woods, trying to enjoy a bit of silence.
That is, of course, when a wanderer decided to appear.
You did your best to handle it, but you were still just in training at the time, and it was clear you were outmatched. Things would have taken a turn for the worse if Xavier hadn’t shown up.
All you really remember is seeing a blinding light, almost like a flashbang, and then there he was. Ethereal, face set with stone-cold focus, hair silvery white like a star, but most striking were the large wings stretching from his shoulders, impossibly white, the edge of each feather glinting like a knife. With a flourish of his sword, he clashed with the wanderer, killing it in seconds.
In that moment, you were convinced you were dead. That made a lot more sense than what you were seeing, after all - an angel. Sure, he didn’t have the halo, but what else could he be? And how could you be seeing an angel if you weren’t dead?
It took him kneeling down in front of you, eyes sharp with concern as he scanned your entire body for injuries, for you to realize you were, in fact, not dead. And that’s when the questions started.
“Who are you?”
“What are you?
“Where did you come from?”
Xavier being Xavier, he danced around each answer. And you being you, you didn’t relent until you got the answers you wanted.
Not only is he an angel, he’s a guardian angel, and you’ve become his charge. And since he revealed himself to you, he can’t go back to his realm without getting in serious trouble.
That’s how you ended up here, with an angel as your roommate. What else were you supposed to do with him? The man was like a lost puppy with wings. Sure, he can take down a wanderer like it’s nothing, but ask him to work a toaster and he’ll sit there for about an hour just staring at the thing. You couldn’t leave him to fend for himself.
And it was the best decision of your life, really. Not only has he become your best friend, but maybe something more.
“I do wish you would stop putting yourself in unnecessary danger,” Xavier rumbles suddenly, pouting a little bit as he examines your now bandaged hand.
“It’s not unnecessary,” you chime softly, slipping your hand from his to poke his cheek playfully. Satisfaction curls in your chest at the blush that spreads across his beautiful features, his pout only growing cuter. “If I don’t put myself in danger, then other people will, and then innocent people can get hurt.”
“Being so selfless could get you killed,” he sighs, rising to his feet, wings flaring behind him.
Your eyes follow him, steady and warm, head craning up to hold his gaze, “I’m perfectly capable of staying alive, Xavier. And if I’m ever in trouble, I know you’ll be there to help me.”
The angel huffs. You’re not wrong, as much as he’d like to argue. What was once just a job to him, a responsibility, is now something more, something carved deep into his soul. Every fiber of his being longs to keep you safe, even if it means breaking every rule he once followed. Even if it means he must fall some day.
Ignoring that thought, Xavier settles onto the bed next to you, letting out a heavy sigh as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. His hair brushes your neck, soft and ticklish, drawing a light giggle from you as you curl your arms around his shoulders.
“You really shouldn’t worry so much, starlight.”
“You make it incredibly difficult not to,” he grumbles, voice low and muffled, “I just want to keep you safe…”
“Hmm, such a sweet angel,” you hum and card your fingers through the feathers at the base of his wings.
Xavier holds back a shiver, his body arching into your delicate touch. His wings have always been sensitive, especially when you’re the one touching them. You don’t miss the way his blush spreads down his neck, or the way his wings instinctively curl around you, as if they can block out the rest of the world, as if to make a space just for the two of you. The smile that pulls at your lips is overwhelmingly fond, just like your touch.
You love the feeling of his feathers under your fingers. At first glance, they look almost sharp, but they’re surprisingly soft, downy and warm to the touch. Without thinking, you trail your fingers along the curve of his wing and fix any out of place feathers with the utmost of care. Xavier lets out another, shaky sigh, his eyes flickering shut.
It’s a soft moment. Everything else is muted, the only sound being that of your steady breath and his lazy, content hums. Xavier nuzzles even closer to you, his body impossibly warm, his weight too much for you to support. A giggle escapes you as you lean back onto the bed, the angel settling on top of you without an ounce of shame in his expression.
“I swear, sometimes I wonder if you’re actually a cat disguised as an angel, “ you tease, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing the corner of his lips. He leans into your palm without hesitation.
“Being a cat wouldn’t be so bad,” he murmurs, as if he’s given the idea some thought before. “I’d get to sleep all day and eat whenever I want instead of chasing a certain, reckless hunter around.”
He nips at your finger lightly, but your smile doesn’t waver.
“I think you’d get bored eventually.”
“Is that so?”
“Yah. I think you enjoy chasing me around, you just don’t want to admit it,” you chirp, tilting your head innocently, “And you’d miss me horribly, don’t you think?”
Xavier hums, turning his face to nuzzle into your palm. His lips brush your skin, a whisper of some kind of promise, making your heart flutter unevenly.
“I suppose I would…and would you miss me?” His eyes flicker back to you, narrowed, an undeniable spark of affection kindled in their blue depths.
You both know the answer.
“I’d miss you more than anything, angel.” Leaning forward, you press a kiss to his cheek. “I can’t imagine life without you.”
A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “Then, I guess I’ll have to stay by your side.”
“You better.”
“Of course, my lady.”
---
Sylus / Demon
“What does your real form look like?”
You perch on the edge of his bed, feet kicking in the air as you watch Sylus get ready for whatever meeting he’s about to go to. Something to do with one of the other head crime bosses in the N109 Zone, you’re sure. One certainly down on their luck and looking to make a deal.
Sylus glances at you through the mirror, long fingers slowing as he fixes his cufflinks. His eyes bore into you, glinting with something violent, something vicious and bloody that should unsettle you to your core, but you don’t flinch, you don’t even blink.
Such a brave kitten, the demon thinks, amusement curling his lips.
“Curious, sweetie?”
The smile he gives you is sharp, too sharp, and your skin prickles with an instinctive kind of unease. It’s something you’ve grown used to, the way your body reacts to him. Like a lamb cornered by a wolf, everything screaming at you to run, yet you chose to stay cornered. Choose to trust the teeth pressing so gently to your throat, violence and desire so perfectly restrained to keep you safe.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” you chime, head tilting ever so slightly. “I just…want to understand you better, you know?”
Sylus hums and turns his focus back to straightening his cuffs, “Is that so? Aren’t you scared of what I might look like?”
“No.” Your answer is quick, unwavering, and Sylus perks a brow.
A brave kitten indeed. He’s almost impressed. The rumors about him are none too kind, and yet here you are, seeking the truth. Without knowing what the truth means.
Giving himself one last look in the mirror, the demon turns to you. He studies you for a long moment, gaze dark, pensive, intense in a way that makes your breath hitch. His eyes darken, something predatory glinting in their cardinal depths. You look at him so innocently, as if you’re not staring down the devil himself, as if you know he’d never hurt you. It makes him want to ruin you, to see that pretty blush stain your skin all over, just to curb the morbid desire burning in his chest.
But you are right, he’d never hurt you. You’re too pure, too good. So he lets himself be soft, to the best of his ability at least.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors,” he murmurs eventually.
His shoes barely make a noise as he slowly approaches you. Each step is measured, confident, like he always is, and each step makes your heart flutter a little more. You’re all but holding your breath as Sylus comes to stand in front of you. His fingers, calloused and rough from a life of violence, graze your jaw so tenderly, drawing your face up to his.
“Are you sure you can handle it, sweetie?” He asks, voice almost taunting, though his features remain soft, unassuming.
Still unwavering in your decision, you nod, “I want to know you, Sylus. All of you.”
He holds your gaze for another long moment, as if he’s trying to read your soul. Which he very well could be, you realize. But when you look into his eyes, what you see isn’t his usual smug composure. Instead, you see a flicker in hesitation. Uncertainty. And it makes your heart ache.
Lifting a hand, you carefully cover the one Sylus holds against your cheek. You lean into the warmth of his touch, a gentle smile pulling at your lips, “You won’t scare me away, Sylus. I promise.”
So perceptive. Sylus gives a low chuckle, shaking his head, “You really aren’t like most humans, sweetheart. Most wouldn’t want to know me even in this form.”
“Well that’s their loss,” you hum, eyes crinkling up at him, “But that means I get you all to myself, so I can’t feel too bad for them.”
“My, what a selfish little kitten I have.” His thumb brushes lovingly over your cheek as his expression turns more serious. “If you want to see my true form, all you have to do is ask. Your desires are mine to fulfill, and I will do so with pleasure.”
“I want to see it, Sylus,” you repeat, “I want to see you.”
“Alright.” He draws back, that wicked smile returning, “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, kitten.”
You watch, enraptured, as he rolls his shoulders, tendrils of dark smoke curling around his body. It envelopes him completely and the air in the room grows tense, fizzling with a static that has the hair on your arms standing on end. The lights flicker, plunging the room in darkness for a split second.
And when they come back on, you have to swallow down a gasp.
Because there he is. You’re not sure exactly what you were expecting. You had heard the rumors, the whispers about the monster that haunts the N109 Zone, but this somehow seems different from everything you’ve heard.
Smoldering eyes, sharp and cat-like now, stare you down with an apprehensive gleam. A pair of dark horns curl from his silvery hair. Veins of the same color curl around his neck and down his forearms like webs, the skin of his hands bleeding pitch black. His fingers look more like claws, glinting dangerously in the dim light of the room. Your eyes catch on the tail waving behind him, the spade-tip just as sharp. And the wings. They unfurl slightly, ink-like feathers brushing the floor.
What’s most shocking though, is his size. He stands almost a foot taller, his already imposing stature now threatening. The air shivers around his form, and you can feel that familiar, foreboding sensation creeping up your spine.
But the only thought running through your head is that he’s beautiful. Beautiful like a storm. Devastating and destructive, yet you can’t tear your eyes away. And you just want to be closer.
“Are you scared, kitten?” His voice rumbles with an almost imperceptible dissonance, a hint of concern beneath his tone.
You blink, gaze snapping back up to his, “No, of course not, Sy.”
The tension seems to fall away from his shoulders at that, but he still doesn’t dare move, like he’s still worried you might run away. So you, in a bout of confidence, push off the bed and walk right up to him. Sylus watches you carefully, expression reserved.
“Can I?” You ask, keeping your tone soft as you brush your fingers against the back of his hand. You look up at him questioningly, and Sylus relents, allowing you to take his hand in yours. Your touch is unbearably soft and curious, trailing along the dark tendrils marking his skin. “Does any of it hurt? To change, I mean. Are you comfortable in this form?”
“I used to spend more time in this form,” he hums, tail flicking back and forth, “but to do business in the N109 Zone, one must be able to live in the shadows without being noticed. This form did not benefit me, so I took the form of a human to…blend in, one might say. Humans are more willing to make a deal when they believe they’re on equal ground.”
“That makes sense, but it didn’t answer my question.” You pout, tapping his hand. “Does it hurt to switch between the two?”
A small grin pulls at Sylus’ lips, revealing a sharp set of fangs, his eyes narrowing in amusement, “No, sweetie, it doesn’t.”
“Good.” You nod and brush your thumb over his knuckles. “Then I want you to take whatever form you’re more comfortable in when it’s just the two of you.”
Surprise flickers across his face, barely noticeable, but you catch it. Sylus covers it up quickly, his smile turning mischievous, “I didn’t expect you to be so comfortable with this. Does my kitten have a soft spot for monsters?”
“Maybe,” you hum, stretching up to curl your hands around his neck despite how much taller he is than you now.
Sylus relents once more, leaning down so you don’t have to balance on the tips of your toes, even though he finds it quite cute. His hands rest tentatively against your waist, his fingers nearly interlinking at the small of your back. The size difference makes you bite the inside of your cheek, heat creeping up your neck.
Pushing the thought away, you lean up and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, humming happily, “You’re not a monster, though. I think you actually look quite…charming like this.”
The demon huffs out a laugh, his forehead coming to rest against yours, “Whatever you say, sweetheart. I’ll be whatever you want, as long as it makes you happy.”
“You make me happy, Sylus.”
“Well then, I suppose this arrangement will benefit us both greatly.”
You roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, “I suppose it will.”
---
I felt most of my choices were pretty expected, but let me know if you guys think they'd be other supernatural creatures! And Happy almost Halloween!
okay halloween request... PUMPKIN CARVING WITH THE BOYS ? for some of them I feel like it'd be their first time, and for others I think it could get so chaotic and messy 😭 it's always something I've personally enjoyed and look forward to every year, so I'd super interested to see your take on it !
Carving pumpkins with them (LaDS)
Note: LOVED this! This is what I was hoping for this season. I honestly just went with the first idea I had for each, and I hope it suits what you wanted!
Also, there might be a few mistakes because I just really want to post it. I'll go through and edit it later.
Hope y'all enjoy!!!
---
Rafayel
“Rafayel! Hey, wait- No-!”
“Inspiration can’t wait,” the artist declares, twirling his scoop theatrically before diving into his pumpkin. “Sometimes you have to make a mess for the sake of creativity.”
“You can’t just wait ten seconds for me to put the tarp down?” You can’t help but laugh, desperately trying to spread the plastic out before pumpkin guts end up everywhere. And failing, you might add.
“It’s my studio, it’s used to my mess already.” Rafayel shrugs his shoulders with one of those stupidly charming smiles. “Now hurry! This lighting is perfect for carving.”
“Okay, okay, don’t leave me behind,” you chirp, all but abandoning the stupid tarp. If he doesn’t care about the mess, why should you? “Scoot over, fishie!”
Rafayel easily makes room for you to jump onto the couch next to him. Besides the tarp, everything is already set out. Your pumpkins, the tools, even a few sketched designs you both worked on. While yours are all pretty simple, or classic as you would so vehemently insist, Rafayel’s are intricate and full of life, much like the rest of his art. Much like him.
A warm mix of nostalgia and giddiness swirl in your chest as the smell of pumpkin slowly fills the air. There’s something so satisfying about hollowing out your pumpkin, sticky, orange insides falling to the floor around you. It’s a mess. A huge mess. But that makes it all the more fun. It feels exactly like when you were a kid.
You glance to the side, biting down on a smile when you take in the equally excited look on Rafayel’s face. He looks so carefree in the golden light of the evening, completely focused on the task in front of him, tongue poked out between his lips ever so slightly. So adorable.
“How are you going to finish if you stare at me the whole time, cutie?”
Rafayel casts you an amused look, having completely caught you in your moment of admiration. Heat creeps up your neck, tinging your skin an adorable shade of pink in his eyes. He loves the rare moment he catches you off guard, leaving you a sputtering, flustered mess. Like now.
“I wasn’t staring,” you try to defend yourself, though your voice pitches up, a telltale sign of your lie.
“Mhm.” The artist’s lips quirk into a smirk and he leans his chin against his hand, eyes never leaving yours. And that only flusters you more.
“Don’t look at me like that!” Heart racing, you give Rafayel’s cheek a playful push, just to break away from the warmth in his eyes, the warmth you could drown in if you look for too long. Though the low chuckle he breathes out against your palm only makes you blush darker. “I was just- I was just thinking. That’s all. And I just happened to be looking at you when I spaced out. That’s all.”
“Hmm, and what were you thinking about?” He presses, leaning into your touch with that infuriating smile, trying to find your gaze, though you keep it stubbornly locked on your pumpkin.
“Well, I was uh- I was thinking about um- How we could put a wager on who’s pumpkin will look better?” Oh, that’s a stupid idea. A really stupid idea.
And Rafayel knows it, too. He perks a brow, smile turning almost wolfish, “Oh yah? Alright. What would you like to wager?”
Time to backpedal. “Ummm, maybe the winner gets to pick the movie for our next movie night?”
“That’s not very interesting,” he hums, that all too familiar mischievous glint sparking in his eyes, the one that makes your pulse flutter. You’re totally done for. “How about the winner gets one wish from the loser? And they have to fulfill it, no matter what.”
Yup. Definitely done for.
But you can’t back down, right?
“Deal.”
“Alright then, you better try your best, because I don’t plan on losing, cutie.”
“You’re on, fishie.”
What begins as an excuse quickly fans into a real competition. You dive into your pumpkin with a new enthusiasm, as does Rafayel. Even if you have no shot at winning, you’re not just going to give up and let him swipe victory out from under you. You may not have an artistic bone in your body, but surely your determination can make up for some of that.
Or not.
You bite back a laugh when you finally draw back to survey your sad carving. It’s definitely a step up from the ones you carved as a child, in no small part to the skills you’ve developed in handling sharp objects, but it’s nothing jaw dropping. Still, you’re proud of your little pumpkin pal. You do your best to hide him from Rafayel’s curious eyes, determined to have your big reveal.
“Done, yet?” You ask, unable to hide your building anticipation. You’re practically vibrating on the couch.
“Just one mooore…aaaand…” Rafayel pulls back to appraise his work, the look on his face brimming with satisfaction. “Finished.”
“Okay, okay, let me see!”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he clicks his tongue, turning his pumpkin away. “We have to do it at the same time?”
“Fine.” You pout, but oblige. “Three. Two. One-”
You both reveal your masterpieces.
And your jaw drops when you see his.
Sure, you expected Rafayel to go all out. The man isn’t just a painter after all. While he doesn’t sculpt often, you’ve seen his work from school and the few commissions he’s accepted, and each one blows you away.
So of course carving a pumpkin is a piece of cake for him.
He’s designed a full underwater scene, the main focus being a somewhat spooky looking angular fish. He’s carved layers upon layers into the flesh of the pumpkin, so with the light inside, it gives the piece a depth, the shadows practically moving with the flickering flames.
It’s stunning.
“I think we have a winner,” you admit with a low whistle, “Yours puts mine to shame.”
“You did better than I was expecting,” Rafayel hums, inspecting yours with pensive expression, as if it were some deep work and not just a silly, little face.
Your eyes narrow, “That doesn’t sound like a compliment, Raffie.”
“It is,” he insists, though you can see the teasing glint still in his eyes when they meet yours. “Your line work is clean and you used a lot of details. I’m impressed, really.”
“Mkay.” You shake your head, amusement curling in your chest. Even if he’s making it up, you’re still proud of your work. “So, what’s your wish, winner?”
“You’ll have to wait and find out,” Rafayel says, giving you an all too mischievous wink that tells you that whatever he has planned, it certainly won’t be good. “I can’t let this opportunity go to waste, now can I, cutie?”
---
Zayne
“I’m really okay,” you grumble under your breath.
“I’d prefer to check myself, if that’s alright,” Zayne murmurs, hand held out expectantly.
A blush spreads across your cheeks. There’s really no point arguing with him, you know that, but you can’t help but feel a touch embarrassed.
It was just meant to be a fun night. Both of you finally had the time off, so you spent weeks planning the perfect fall night. You would carve pumpkins and watch the classic seasonal movies, just like you did when you were kids. You’d gotten everything ready before he even came over, hot cocoa, a fall scented candle, everything. It was going to be perfect.
Until you go to actually carve your pumpkin, and end up cutting your finger. You, one of Linkon’s best hunters, fumbling with a simple carving knife. How could you not be embarrassed?
And, of course, Zayne immediately switched into ‘doctor’ mode, dashing whatever hopes you had of breezing by the incident.
“Your hand,” he insists again, slipping into his usual professional tone. It’s only when you give him a sharp frown that he softens a bit, voice taking on a soothing warmth, coaxing you to listen, “Please, my love.”
With a defeated sigh, you give up your injured hand, “Okay. I really am fine, though.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, as your doctor.”
You almost shiver when his fingers circle your wrist, his touch overwhelmingly gentle, his skin cool against yours. It almost feels like a chilly autumn breeze brushing your skin. You watch, heart fluttering uneasily, as he examines your finger. It’s nothing too bad, you weren’t lying. You’ve definitely experienced worse as a hunter, but you also know Zayne to be overly cautious with you. He would put you on bedrest for the most minor fever if he could. And some days, you’ll let him, since it means he’ll spend the day taking care of you, but you’d rather tonight not be like that. Tonight you just want to have fun and enjoy the season with him.
“It’s nothing concerning,” he hums eventually, “We’ll simply apply an antibiotic and wrap it for the night.”
You practically deflate at that. The breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes you in a long, relieved sigh. Zayne’s eyes narrow a little at your dramatics, amusement burning in their depths. He gives you wrist a slight squeeze, thumb brushing thoughtlessly over your pulse.
“Were you that worried we would have to reschedule?”
“I mean, a little, yah.” You shrug, cheeks going red for a new reason. “It’s already hard to find a night when we're both not busy, you know? I’ve been planning this for weeks…”
“Well, we certainly can’t let your plans go to waste.” Zayne says, somewhat teasingly, the tiniest smile flickering along his lips. “Is your first-aid kit still under the bathroom sink?”
You nod. With one final squeeze, he slips away to go retrieve it. You turn your gaze to the untouched pumpkins on the table, letting out another sigh. It really has been a long time since you’ve done this. You remember the times when you were young, when you, Zayne, and Caleb would carve pumpkins while your Grandma would bake the seeds. Afterwards, you would all settle in and watch a movie, tucked up in thick blankets with massive mugs of hot cocoa. You remember you would always wedge yourself between the boys so you could hold the snacks…
Maybe that’s why this felt so important to you. Maybe doing all this was a way of keeping their memory around. And a way of keeping him around.
“Are you alright?”
Blinking, you jump when the couch sinks beside you. Your eyes flash back to Zayne, a forlorn smile pulling at your lips.
“Yah, just thinking about when we did this as kids, you know? With Caleb and Grandma,” you hum. Zayne nods understandingly and reaches for your hand. You let him take it, mind still lingering on the past. “I don’t think I’ve carved a pumpkin since that last time we did it together. It never felt right without you…”
Zayne stays silent as he cleans your cut. You hardly notice the sting of the alcohol, keeping your eyes focused on his face. The focused draw of his brows. The slight purse of his lips. A shadow of something you can’t quite describe passes over his eyes, something worn and aching.
“I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t continue the tradition…” He murmurs, voice tight, as he applies the antibiotic.
“No need to apologize,” you chime softly. You let your gaze fall to his hands, watching the way he works, efficient and quick, yet devastatingly gentle. Always fixing things, even when it’s not his fault. “From now on, we’ll make sure to keep doing it, yah? It was just on pause for a little bit. I bet Caleb and Gran will be happy we’re bringing it back.”
The doctor stills as he finishes wrapping your finger in a bandage. He traces the edges of it, thoughtful and slow, before lifting your hand to his lips. They brush tenderly against your knuckles, a whisper of a cool touch.
“I’m sure they will be, though I’m certain Caleb would scold you for being so careless.”
You snort, eyes crinkling, “Yah, I wouldn’t hear the end of it. Though I bet you’ll make sure of that anyways.”
“As your doctor, it’s part of my job to make sure you’re taking care of yourself,” Zayne rumbles, his breath warm against your skin in contrast to his touch. “Speaking of which, change the bandage once a day and reapply the antibiotic. If it begins to look infected, please come see me at the hospital.”
“Yes, doctor,” you answer, nose scrunching a little impatiently, “Now can I have my knife back? We need to get carving!”
“Will you be more careful this time?”
“Yeeeess.”
Zayne bites back a smile, “Good. If you cut yourself again, I will have to confiscate all your knives. I can’t have my favorite patient getting hurt at home as well as at work.”
“Zayne-!”
---
Sylus
“What’s all this, sweetie?”
A gleeful laugh escaping your lips, you dump an armful of materials on Sylus’ table. He raises a fine brow at you, looking mildly unimpressed as you spread it all out.
“We’re having a pumpkin carving contest at work!” You explain, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “So I decided we’re going to make a night of it! I got the pumpkins, carving knives, a fall scented candle, for ambiance of course, and a vinyl with my favorite halloween tracks! Also for ambiance, but I thought you might appreciate it, too.”
“And if I already have plans for the night?” Sylus hums, leaning his hip against the table as he surveys your bounty.
“You’ll reschedule them,” you sing, stretching up on to your toes to curl your arms around his neck with an absolutely innocent smile, “Because you loooove me, right?”
The tilt of his lips stretches into a full smirk as his hands settle firmly on your hips, his voice low and teasing, “My, what a brave kitten you’ve become. It almost sounds like you’re not asking.”
“Sooo…is that a yes?” You peer up at him questioningly, still holding the innocent facade.
“Hmm…” Sylus hums, as if mulling the decision over. You fuss with the strands of silver at the nape of his neck, trying to give him the best puppy dog eyes you can manage. And despite what he might say, Sylus has never been good at denying you. So, carmine eyes dancing with a touch of fondness, he softens into your touch and concedes, “I suppose I can rearrange my schedule just this once.”
Though that’s what he said before, and this certainly won’t be the last time either.
Still, you let out an excited squeal, dragging him down to press a kiss to his cheek, “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Ah, we’re going to have so much fun! Let me lie out the tarp, I know how much you like this table.”
Sylus chuckles as you jump out of his grasp to get everything ready. It’s like watching a little bird flutter around, rearranging its nest to perfection. You move as if he might change his mind at any moment, though he subtly offers his help, using his evol to set the vinyl. The music crackles softly in the air before it smoothes into the familiar tunes you adore, only adding to the buzzing excitement in your chest.
Once everything is ready, you drag him to sit down beside you. Sylus lets you push him around, amusement curling his lips at the unbridled enthusiasm in your voice.
“Okay! So I got everything we need. Even stencils, though to be honest, I’ll be really disappointed if you use one. I really want to see what the leader of Onychinus can create. Have you carved a pumpkin before?”
You plop down on your chair, round eyes set on him expectantly.
Brow perking, Sylus huffs, “What do you take me for? An uncultured heathen?”
“A little.” You bite back a giggle at the deadpan scowl that earns you. “I’m kidding! Kind of. It’s not like you’ve told me a lot about how you grew up and all that. And I don’t really care, not for now at least, but I figured it’s better to ask.”
“How considerate of you, sweetie,” he hums sarcastically. His eyes shift over to observe the pumpkin you’ve set him in front of, head tilting ever so slightly in thought. “While I didn’t carve one when I was young, I’ll admit that after seeing them over the years, I grew curious. Luke and Keiran insisted on having a contest one year, so I decided to join.”
Now that, you believe. Sylus could also be remarkably lenient with the twins at times. You’re still not exactly sure of what kind of relationship they all have, but it’s certainly cute at times. You can just imagine the boys begging Sylus to join them and him giving in begrudgingly.
“Good,” you chirp, snatching up a marker from the table, “Cause I really want to win this, so I’ll take all the help I can get.”
“Wouldn’t it be considered cheating if you were to submit a pumpkin carved by someone else?” Sylus still follows suit, picking his own marker and setting to work. “What is the prize you so desperately want? You are aware I could just buy it for you myself?”
“One, no, it’s not cheating. They said it could be a family submission, so for all intents and purposes, you’re my family in this.” You try really hard to ignore the look Sylus gives you at that, your cheeks already tinging a soft pink. You’re quick to move on before he can tease you, “Two, the prize is a set of tickets to that new movie that’s coming out on Halloween. You know, the one I’ve been telling you about. And three, it’s not as fun if I don’t earn it!”
“You know, sweetie, there are other ways you could earn-”
“Shush!” You cut him off, ears burning the same color red as his eyes. “Just start carving!”
Sylus chuckles, but obliges. The two of you fall into comfortable conversation as you design and carve, talking about work and the twins and all the plans you have for the season. For the most part, Sylus just listens. Your excitement is nearly tangible as you talk, lighting up the room more than any light could. And it’s quite entertaining to watch you gesture so animatedly as if you’re not holding a knife in your hands.
You eventually focus in, though, falling into the groove of carving out your design. It’s been too long since you’ve done this, you think to yourself, but it’s just as fun as you remember. And getting to look over and see Sylus working with the same level of dedication he gives everything else? Well, you’re not sure a more perfect night exists.
“Aaaaand…” You draw back, surveying you work with narrowed eyes, before clapping your hands together. “Done!”
Sylus, who had been done for a while, raises a brow. He subtly leans over, eyes scanning your carving. Biting your lip, you watch, delight warming your chest when you catch the flicker of surprise pass through his eyes.
“Is that…Mephisto?”
“Yes! Isn’t he so cute?” You twist the pumpkin so he can see it more clearly. While it’s maybe a little rough around the edges, “I think I captured his essence pretty well.”
Sylus leans back, lips twitching with a suppressed smile, “It certainly is…accurate to his character.”
“I’ll take it! What did you carve?” You jump from your chair and drape yourself over his shoulder. And the sight in front of you makes your jaw drop. Because of course this is Sylus, and of course Sylus is good at practically everything he does. “Is that a wanderer? It looks so accurate!”
“It seemed to suit the theme.” He shrugs as if it’s nothing, though a tiny smile twitches at the corner of his lips, betraying his satisfaction with your reaction. “So which will you submit to your little work contest?”
“I don’t know,” you hum, resting your chin on his head.
Sylus huffs, reaching up to squeeze one of your arms, glancing up at you with a smug look, “Perhaps you can think about it over a movie, hm? We still have much of the night left, afterall, and I did move around my schedule for you.”
Something warm flutters in your chest, and you nod, “Yah, I’d like that.”
“Perfect. Then, shall I grab some wine?”
“I’ll grab the blankets!”
---
Xavier
“What are we doing again?”
“We’re carving pumpkins!” You cheer excitedly, dashing back into the room with the pack of carving knives you bought. “You said you’ve never done it right? It’s basically a right of passage!”
Xavier sits perched on your couch. Two large pumpkins rest on the coffee table in front of him, on top of a rather large tarp. There’s no way you’re getting orange stains on your rug after all, but getting messy is half the fun. You drop down onto the couch beside him, biting your lip to hold back some of your giddiness.
“And what do we do with them once they’re carved?” Xavier asks, peering down at his pumpkin as if it might attack him suddenly, like some kind of Wanderer.
“We put them outside your front door, so everyone can see.”
“Why?”
You shrug, using your teeth to break through the packaging of the carving set (though you definitely have scissors somewhere). Xavier watches you carefully, wariness shifting from the pumpkin to your feral techniques. You just shoot him an unabashed grin when you successfully get it open.
“I think people used to do it to scare away bad spirits. Now it’s just a part of the season.” You carefully lay out all the tools, going through a mental checklist of everything you need. “We carve pumpkins, bake the seeds, and watch scary movies.”
The mention of snacks makes Xavier perk up. A glint of curiosity brightens his sleepy, blue eyes. “Baked seeds? Like the ones sold in the stores?”
“Yah, but way better,” you hum, “We can season them however we like! I like to make them how my Grandma used to, but we can also try some other seasonings if you want?”
“I’ll rely on your expertise,” the hunter murmurs with a small, teasing smile, “You seem to be quite the master of this season.”
Your cheeks flush a faint pink. You do love this time of year. You always have. There’s something about the chill in the air, the scent of pumpkin spice drifting from the cafes, the perfect crunch of the leaves under your boots. All of it just makes your heart feel so…happy.
And now you get to share it with your favorite person. Your partner. Your star.
How could you not love that?
“Okay, first things first, we draw our designs.” You snatch a sharpie from your pile of tools and hold it out to him.
Xavier takes the pen, looking almost hesitant, “And it’s meant to resemble a face, correct?”
“It can be whatever you want,” you tell him, “Most people try to do scary faces or silly ones, but I’ve also seen plenty of tombstones and moons, stuff like that. That’s the fun part, it’s all up to you.”
“I guess I’ll just have to use my imagination then,” he murmurs, as if the concept is completely foreign. Which, honestly, given his straightforward tendencies, wouldn’t be surprising to you.
“Exactly.” You lean over and nudge your shoulder against his playfully. “Just have fun, Xav. We don’t even have to put them outside if you think your pumpkin will get bullied. This is just for us.”
Xavier huffs out a faint laugh, some of the tension finally slipping from his shoulders. “One might think you’re doubting my artistic capabilities.”
“Xavier, I once turned in some paperwork that you doodled on and Captain Jenna asked if my nephew was visiting.”
You watch with a rather delighted smile as his ears go positively red, his eyes looking everywhere but you as he tries to move right past your truthful jab, “Shall we begin, then?”
Of course. You don’t even hesitate in snatching up your own marker, if only to give him a moment of peace, even though you really want to tease him further. Cradling your pumpkin in your lap, you start by mapping out a classic jack-o-lantern face. You don’t want to do anything too fancy and actually make him feel bad. This isn’t about making the best one, after all, it’s about doing it together. And the classics are classics for a reason, anyways.
Every so often, you steal a glance at the man beside you. There’s something divinely sweet about the moment, the contented breath in the room, the slight shuffle of your sweaters brushing against each other every so often.
It almost surprises you how much Xavier seems to get into it. His brow furrows ever so slightly, eyes taking on that serious gleam they only get when he’s focusing. The sleeves of his sweater bunch around his elbows cutely, like a little kid trying to stay clean, though you can already spot a small fleck of orange on his cheek.
How adorable…
“Shouldn’t you be more focused on your work?” Eyes never leaving his pumpkin, a small smile tilts the corner of Xavier’s lips, his ears still a pretty shade of pink. Embarrassed by your staring but confident enough to tease you back a little now.
“Hmmm, but it’s so fun to watch you,” you tease back, tone dripping with something soft, “And you have something on your cheek, by the way.”
Xavier blinks, eyes widening a fraction. He quickly swipes at his cheek - the wrong cheek - and glances at you expectantly, to which you shake your head.
“Here, let me-” The hunter freezes when you lean across the couch, reaching toward his face. You don’t miss the way his breath falters, or how his skin flushes even darker when your thumb brushes against his cheek. Drawing back, you give him an amused grin, “All gone. Just a little pumpkin. Now, back to carving, mister.”
Your grin only grows wider when he grumbles and turns back to his pumpkin, as if ducking his head can hide his blush from you. For someone who’s so impassive most of the time, he’s so easy to fluster when it’s just the two of you. Like a cute little bunny that doesn’t want to admit how cute it is.
Biting back a giggle, you turn back to finish your own carving.
It doesn’t take long for you both to finish, since neither of you went with particularly complex designs. You went with a spooky face, sharp teeth, horns, the works. And you’re definitely proud of how sinister it looks.
Xavier’s also turns out much better than you were expecting, all his experience with swords and daggers really paying off in a strange way. It’s adorable really. You can’t help but smile when he turns his pumpkin to reveal a small star with a smiley face on it. It’s a little wobbly and uneven, but still absolutely cute.
“That looks great, Xav! He’s so cute!” You gush, tracing the outline. “I’m impressed.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs, unable to hide his own glow of pride, “So now what do we do?”
“Noooow…we bake the seeds!”
---
I'm incapable of writing short blurbs apparently, which is really annoying. Sylus' was my favorite though. Best spooky boy.
hihiiii I adoreee your writing, it’s so good! genuinely so fun to read. if it’s not too much trouble, could I possibly request some sylus fluff?
maybe something along the lines of MC craving lots of affection/being a bit clingy towards him and just wanting to be near him after a while of being apart?
absolutely no rush or obligations if this doesn’t exactly pique your interest!! have a lovely day ❤️
Soft
Sylus X Reader (LaDS)
Summary: Just a little fic of you and Sylus reuniting after a while apart. You doesn't want to be apart from him and he obliges.
Word Count: 818
Note: Hi anon! I know this isn't super long, but I hope you like it! I love describing how soft Sylus can be for MC, and it felt like a cute, simple piece. I can write something longer if you'd like, just let me know!
---
“Sylus!”
The man lets out a low chuckle as you practically throw yourself at him. He catches you with practiced ease, arms wrapping securely around your waist as he spins you around. It’s like one of those cheesy romance flicks, other travelers rushing around you to greet their own waiting families, a bubbly yet tired kind of mirth warming the frigid, fall air.
It had been a month since you’d seen Sylus. A long, grueling, horrible month. While you love your job, you hate the extended training camps you have to attend every few years. Always in the middle of nowhere. Always with limited contact with the outside world. Limited contact with Sylus.
You don’t know how many nights you spent staring at the blank walls of your tiny dorm room, sleep nowhere to be found when all you could think about was how much you missed his touch, his warmth, him. It was like being terribly homesick, and all you wanted was to be back in his arms.
And now you are.
Even when your feet touch the ground again, you don’t want to let go. And neither does Sylus. His arms stay curled around your waist, face tucked against your hair as he pulls you impossibly closer, just breathing you in. You all but melt into his warmth, nuzzling against his chest with a happy, content noise.
“My, my, it seems my little kitten missed me,” he murmurs, low and teasing against your ear. You can practically hear the smirk curling his lips.
“Can you blame me?” You draw back a fraction to pout up at him. Those vermillion eyes glint down at you with a smug amusement, but you don’t mind fanning his ego a little right now. “We barely even got the chance to talk on the phone. It was awful and cold and exhausting. I don’t know why they wanted us training in the north, we were all just a bunch of sad popsicles.”
“Mm, sounds quite tragic,” Sylus hums, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. Your theatrics are endearing, and who is he to not play along? Hands tracing slowly up and down your waist, Sylus gives you a look of teasing sympathy, “Poor kitten. Perhaps I should take you home and find a way to warm you up, hm?”
Home. God, you love the sound of that. You’re home. With him. The thought fills your chest with a fluttering sort of excitement.
“Home sounds perfect,” you sigh, nuzzling back into him with an absolutely giddy smile. “Just, don’t let me go, mkay?”
The man softens and for a moment, he’s not Sylus the leader of Onychinus. He’s just Sylus. Your Sylus.
You make him different. You turn him into something soft, something tender, with your love. Like a balm soothing his sharp edges, his harsh nature. He never thought himself capable of such gentleness until he held you, until he felt the plushness of your body in his hands. Even though you are one of Linkon’s most capable hunters, something in him desires to treat you like porcelain, something otherwise vicious and bloody. Like a feral dog, licking your chin, body curved to be small and nonthreatening despite the sharpness of its fangs pressed against your skin.
And you never once flinched. Never once pulled away from his hands, even when his grip would edge on painful, even when his teeth would sink into your skin with a sinful need to possess something so soft, so sweet.
Though, he’ll play nice tonight, seeing as your body curls so tiredly into his, practically all your weight in his arms.
“Alright, sweetie,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, “I accept your conditions. You won’t have to worry about anything tonight, I’ll take good care of you.”
You hum your approval, though it sounds more like a purr. A smirk dancing across his lips, Sylus leans down and curls an arm under you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. He grabs your bag with his other hand, and starts back towards his motorcycle.
You forget all about the cold that night. Even the soreness in your muscles seems to fade away as you lay curled against Sylus’ side on his couch, a large, fluffy blanket thrown over the both of you, some movie humming quietly in the background.
And Sylus keeps his word. Not once does he let you go. Even when you start to yawn, eyelids heavy with sleep, Sylus simply lays out across the couch and drags you over his body, until you can stretch out like a cat over his chest. He keeps an arm locked around your waist, making sure you won’t fall as you finally, finally give in to the sleep your body so desperately needs.
It’s perfect.
He’s perfect.
And you hope you never have to go on another blasted training mission again.
---
I'll be real, I think my personal headcannon is that Sylus is like a feral yet loyal dog. I use the comparison a lot, I feel. Like, he can be vicious and wild, but he'd bow for you, he'd get himself killed for you (if he could lol). He would have a loyalty so unwavering, and that's terrifying in a way. But also? Kinda sexy 👀
