Prompt: provoke.
This follows some hours after the 'Shared Bliss' memory.
When next she wakes, it is to near darkness and the distant, lazy realisation that she has most definitely slept for far longer than she intended.
Sprawled on her front, she stretches her arms before her and attempts to conceal a yawn against her shoulder, the bed dipping slightly as she notes an almost simultaneous raising of the lights in the room to a soft and hazy glow.
A low murmur – not quite a true word – encourages her to accept the glass of warm tea that she finds within her line of sight, the scent of peach and ginger drifting closer as she gladly accepts it and takes a few cautious sips before handing it back.
She lounges back down and yields the tiniest of smiles as a fingertip traces a light path from the bridge of her nose and hovers for a moment, inviting the snap of teeth, which she answers just so.
“Trying to provoke me?” she utters sleepily.
Sylus surrenders a low sound of amusement and a faint sharpening of his lips, something vulnerable playing about his eyes as he momentarily slides his gaze from hers.
“Isn’t that my line?”
Gently, she covers the hand he has planted in the sheets with one of her own, then secures a delicate hold on his wrist.
“Come here.”
On another occasion, she might have endeavoured to make it sound more like an invitation.
But now, in this moment, perhaps it is that he needs it to be a command.
He watches her so very closely, silent and unmoving, until she gives a light tug at the collar of his sweater and he turns to set down the tea and pull said sweater over his head, the rest of his attire finding the floor shortly after.
Slipping back beneath the sheets, he lies down beside her, so close that they are almost nose to nose.
She brushes a kiss against his shoulder and feels a tremor run through him.
“Has it been like that before? Since we met...?”
The quiet now is a heavier one, eased a little by the wry tug of his lips to one side and an almost bashful wandering of a hand through his hair.
“...Sometimes,” he confesses, rough-voiced. “Not as bad. Flickers and... days when it’s been difficult to focus.”
“Days when you’ve stayed away,” she assumes.
“Days when... it’s best to be occupied. Distracted. When I wake up the next night and realise I bought out the auction rather than the lot I intended.”
Lifting a hand, she gently brushes the backs of her fingers against his cheek; a soothing touch that he ever so slightly tilts his head into.
Sylus closes his eyes, how his features twist a fraction the only betrayal of some internal struggle that yields a half-hesitant, “...Did I hurt you?”
“No,” she tells him, so emphatically that he blinks his eyes open once more to interrogate her response for falsehoods.
She shakes her head.
“You... left some marks.” It is her turn to stumble a little over her words. “...Nothing I didn’t... want. But no, you didn’t hurt me.”
He takes in the sight of her flushed cheeks and seems unable to do anything other than let a light pink blush of his own dapple his cheekbones, before he winds his arms snugly around her middle, gathering her close to tuck her head beneath his.
Her, “I meant what I said,” is a quietly firm affair, one of her hands resting over his heart. “Earlier. About—“
“I know,” he promises just a touch abruptly, the realisation of which must be what has a sigh following on its heels. “It’s... I enjoy... flirting with you. Teasing. Picking up the phone to say ‘I need you in our bed’ or ‘I can’t sleep unless you’re here’ sounds distinctly...”
(Does he realise that he has said ‘our’?)
“Well, it doesn’t have to be in our bed...” is purely in hope of making him laugh, rather than dwell overlong on the weight of it all.
It works, a warm ripple of reluctant amusement escaping him.
“If I call you and ask for cuddles or suggest we go out for dinner, do you show up because it’s an obligation?”
The idea is refuted with a swift, “No,” that sounds a little as if he has aimed for stern tones, only to inadvertently land somewhere back amidst that aching vulnerability.
She curls a gentle hand to the curve of his shoulder.
“Well, then.”
He huffs another soft sound of feigned surrender, this one, she knows, meant to make her smile.
“Are you tired?”
“Yes,” he admits. “But the night is young and there is work to be—“
“Stay here with me a while.”
An invitation this time, spoken against his collarbone in soft tones.
Sylus exhales slowly; not a sigh, but an easing back into the sheets, drawing her with him to lie comfortably draped over him.
There is a way yet to go. A navigating of what is finally out in the open.
a possessive kiss to show the world they belong to each other with LaDS trio 🥰
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know.”
“Funny... You don’t look like you know.”
Indeed, his observation seems only to deepen Rafayel’s scowl all the more, and while there are occasions when such expressions are thinly plastered over true anger, this particular variety is one that Sylus finds it impossible not to needle at in an affectedly idle attempt to coax him from his...
Jealousy.
He is jealous, and it is so absurd as to be almost comical – made more so because he is so very aware that Rafayel most certainly knows that he is being absolutely and utterly ridiculous.
(...It is a charming sort of scowl, it must be said. Something that it is a little too tempting to point out in this, what is precisely not the moment to do so.)
The sight of their beloved engaged in animated conversation with the creator of the crystal creatures that she has so longed to see at this new exhibition affects him not in the slightest. That is, not in any fashion in which it appears to be affecting Rafayel. Her eyes are bright and she is talking quite as much with her hands as with her voice, and there is the faintest shift in her balance every now and then that betrays a rocking up onto her toes, and—
...It is cute.
But he knows that what Rafayel can see is also quite true: that her new acquaintance is standing just a little too close, and that he seems quite taken with her.
Not that it is anything to be concerned about.
Truth be told, Sylus finds himself more worried about the fact that he has spent the past twenty minutes trying to convince himself that he does not need to buy every single one of the fantastical creatures that he can see. Oh, they are not carved from precious gems, but they are beautiful and they catch the light just so, and, combined with her evident delight in them, it is increasingly difficult to tell whether he actually wishes to acquire them or that it is not his own hunger that there is every threat of him yielding to.
Perhaps that is why Rafayel keeps shooting him those sideways glances. Maybe it is that he has not done as good as job as he believes at keeping his own darker facets from flickering to the surface; that his jealousy has hoped for companionship and found only an incomprehensible desire.
(Either of them could buy out the collection without a second thought. But for Rafayel... For Rafayel, it would be a much easier affair. A transaction. Items now his – more likely hers. Not a matter of obtaining and hoarding and keeping, hoping for her to catch glimpses of them so that he might ration out her joy in them and not have it evaporate all at once.
...It would be much better if he were merely jealous.)
“Come and meet them,” has him blinking back to reality to find her approaching with a quizzical little furrow between her brows.
Not quite concern or chastisement, but...
Something.
She knows.
Hearing a soft huff of discontent from Rafayel, Sylus straightens his shoulders and takes in a deep breath, ready for—
She hooks a hold on the front of Rafayel’s shirt, seemingly deliberately tight enough to rumple fabric, and tugs, pressing a fierce kiss to his cheek that betrays precisely how she would like to kiss him, were they not to be in public and were they plainly not about to be introduced to her new friend.
He barely has time to settle into his amusement at how so easily she has disarmed their lover before she has a lighter touch at his own collar – the pad of her thumb ghosting over his pulse – to encourage him to bow his head to let her brush her lips against the line of his jaw.
Beyond her, the mind behind the exhibition averts his gaze, as if he means to avoid witnessing something a touch too private.
“Everything okay?” she murmurs, one brow arched in enquiry as she looks from him to Rafayel and back again.
Sylus almost laughs.
Rafayel’s scowl is a flimsy thing that he does not look to be able to maintain command over.
Just as expected for this time in the morning; a time that she would once have considered quite an unreasonable hour to be waking up or going to bed, and now accepts as a common enough hour of the day to see for myriad reasons that all lead back to a particular individual.
A particular individual who does not stir as she closes the door behind her and pries off her boots, flinging them aside with a carelessness she is half-certain she will regret later when it potentially leads to one or both of them stumbling over them. Her jacket follows, left to fall where it may as she continues her way across the room with only memory and instinct to guide her, then her shirt, hauled over her head after slipping free only a couple of buttons. What remains of her attire finds the floor over her next few steps, her knees colliding with the foot of the bed and confirming she has indeed roamed in the right direction.
It is not an especially dignified affair, how she scrambles her weary way up onto the bed and paws her way over it until she can fling back the blankets and drape herself over the figure who cannot possibly be sleeping, yet continues to let her do as she pleases as she drags said blankets back over them both and settles down with a quiet, content sigh.
A soft huff of sound.
Amusement, assuredly.
Confirmation that he must have known exactly what was happening from the instant that she opened the door and not so quietly made her presence known with her blundering about in the dark.
Perhaps before.
Sylus folds his arms around her and presses a kiss to the top of her head, murmuring, “This is a nice surprise.”
Purely in hope of hearing him laugh, she needlessly asks a sleepy, “How did you know it was me?”
She smiles into the low rumble that rises from his chest.
“Besides the fact that you are one of very few people who can get into this place, you are certainly the only person on this planet who would wander into my bedroom and crawl into my bed as if they belong there.”
Humming a note of absolutely unrepentant agreement, she tips back her head to nudge a kiss against the underside of his chin and hears him answer her with a fond purr of a noise that doesn’t quite make it into true words.
“Long night?”
“Wanderers insisting upon unsociable hours.”
“I assume you instructed them in better manners?”
“Of course.”
Sylus tightens his embrace, bringing her with him as he rolls onto his side to nestle closer, tucking her head beneath his as she tangles their legs together and slides an arm around him to let fingertips ghost along his spine for a moment or two.
“Good,” he whispers. “Get some rest.”
On the cusp of sleep, she thinks to ask a belated, “Did I wake you?”
Toying with the ends of her hair, he asks a hushed, “...Which answer might encourage you to do this more often?”
“...I’m not watching, I’m gazing. It’s much more poetic.”
Sylus’ lips twitch with a moment’s mirth, a soft huff of laughter shaking his shoulders for an instant before he opens his eyes just a fraction to regard her with what she decides is a faintly cultivated air of bemusement that does not quite conceal his pleasure in having woken to find her content to do nothing more than drink in the sight of him.
“And what have you learned over the course of your... gazing?”
She lifts a hand, soothing her thumb against his temple before threading her fingers through his hair.
“That I’ll need at least another hour before I can report my findings,” she tells him as he bows his head to gently nudge his nose against hers.
He presses a kiss to her cheek, followed by another grazed against the line of her jaw, declaring, “I suppose I can comply with your desire to conduct further research,” in warm and leisurely tones that suggest he nevertheless has little intention of settling back down to sleep.
Lying back, she smiles as he props himself above her and brushes back her hair.
“I thought I was supposed to be studying you,” she levels at him, turning her head to touch a kiss to the backs of his fingers.
“Turnabout’s fair play,” Sylus insists quite unrepentantly, his words accompanied by a one-shouldered shrug.
For as long as it takes her to breathe in and out, she recommences her gazing, before remarking, “You’re very beautiful, you know.”
A low sound catches at the back of his throat, his eyes widening ever so slightly for just a second, his expression soon hidden from her as he ducks his head to rest his forehead against her shoulder, one of his hands fumbling for one of hers to hold.
(She had hardly thought about what she was saying – heard it escape her in a so matter of fact fashion that, once, she might have been embarrassed by it – and that her observation has flustered him is both a delightful and interesting development.)
When he looks up at her again, his features are pink, gaze soft and almost bashful as his eyes seek hers.
There is no resisting the impulse to lift her free hand to trail the edge of a finger across his cheek and catch her fingers in his hair once more to encourage him down to her to seek out a kiss.
“Look at you with a new weapon at your disposal,” he accuses in teasing tones, words tucked into the crook of her neck with the gentled sharpness of teeth.
Draping an arm around his neck, she sighs out, “I promise to use it wisely.”
“Oh?”
“Only in bed... The shower... Maybe in the back of the car...”
He groans, shifting against her in a manner that makes his intentions rather clear.
“Perhaps to win the occasional video game...”
Laughter – an odd little strangled sound – before his hold on her hand tightens and he pursues one kiss, then another as they tangle themselves together.
Sleepily, she blinks up through rays of golden, late afternoon sunshine into a ruby gaze that takes in the sight of her lounging sprawled before the tall windows on nothing more comfortable than the floorboards themselves with a faint amusement and just a hint of consternation sharpening the corners of Sylus’ eyes.
And then his focus drifts to Rafayel, who lies beside her with one of his hands tangled up with hers, bathing in the warmth of the same light, his shirt half-unbuttoned and a serene contentment playing about his features.
“It’s a discussion about furniture.”
From Rafayel, there is a soft hum of agreement and the beginnings of a smile that betrays a willingness to lean into what is both the truth and the seizing of an opportunity to tease the man they love.
Folding his arms, Sylus responds with a drawled, “I see.”
“We were wondering whether it might be nice to put a couch here to catch the sun, or a table to eat at. So, we had to test what it would be like. It was only sensible.”
“Only… sensible…”
“We were going to get snacks,” Rafayel sighs out, “but now we’re nice and toasty… it seemed silly to move.”
Still half in shadow, Sylus turns to fall back onto the couch that has not yet been settled in the full path of the broad beams of light that the windows allow to spill into the room - windows that she made sure to have swiftly framed with the option of heavy curtains mere days after she received the keys to her new home.
The low huff of what might be laughter that she hears from his direction, she answers by reaching to tug at the cuff of one trouser leg and undo his shoelace while she is at it, her efforts met with a half-hearted twitching of his foot.
“This is no different to you lounging in-front of the fire with that very smug and pleased look about you,” she tells him.
Before he has the opportunity to reply, Rafayel gives a soft, appreciative murmur and remarks, “Oh, that look.”
Perhaps it is that she catches a glimpse of soft pink colouring Sylus’ cheekbones.
For he knows very well that, on the mornings when they are beneath the same roof and their schedules cannot drift into sync, he comes to bed just as they are leaving it, the warmth of the fire still blanketing him, something of its glow about his eyes, and does his best to keep them with him for a lazy sharing of pleasure at the end of his day and the beginning of theirs.
Silence.
And then:
“...If it’s no different…”
An idle, leading, comment.
A leisurely invitation, to do with what they will.
At her side, Rafayel holds her gaze for long enough to give a little twitch of a smile and a slow wink.
Lifting herself up from the floor, she stretches her arms high over her head and knows immediately that she has caught Sylus’ attention, yet he does not reach to capture her.
No, he waits until she casts aside her sundress and lets fabric fall where it may; until she sits herself astride his lap, to then settle a hand in the small of her back, the pad of his thumb soothing over sun-warmed skin.
And then she bows her head to his to offer a ghost of a kiss, only to secure his bottom lip between her teeth in a delicate hold and bite.
The delighted groan that rises from him hums through her, Rafayel’s soft laughter following on its heels as he slides an arm around her middle and leans over her shoulder to press a kiss to Sylus’ cheek and demand, “Are you going to let her provoke you like that?” against the line of his jaw.
Those ruby eyes have taken on the warmth of the sun they have brought to him, all heat and thrall and–
Sylus lifts her, curling a tight grip on Rafayel’s now fully unbuttoned shirt.
Five times Mephisto stole something, and one time he received a gift.
Sylus/MC. Rated T. A drabble sequence.
i.
“I can’t find the bracelet I was wearing last night.”
“Have you checked under my pillow?”
“Why yours?”
“In your sleep, you threw yourself over me and grabbed my pillow with one hand, and one of my wrists with the other, and held me there for at least an hour.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
Sylus watches her ever so closely for more than a moment.
“I was comfortable.”
Just as she is lifting up onto her toes to claim a kiss, a cawing shatters the quiet, wings swooping low with a gold and amethyst bracelet in curled claws.
ii.
A grating cry, albeit a familiar one, draws her attention away from her phone and skywards, just as claws dig into her shoulder and metal feathers ruffle in her ear.
“Mephisto? What’re you—“
He drops a fragile silver flower into her palm; a flower that yet feels too heavy for it to be—
...The new dessert shop down the street. Their outdoor display decorated with ornate sugar blossoms and...
“Mephie! You can’t just take those!”
Tilting his head, he gives her the crow equivalent of a shrug.
And she finds herself forced to eat the evidence of his thievery.
iii.
“Mephisto, hold still.”
“Maybe he wants to keep it,” Sylus suggests.
“It’s meant for the cat. The tabby that keeps catching birds?”
Ironically.
“I thought the bell would—“
Mephisto gives a nip clearly meant to warn, not to hurt, and she darts her fingers back from the collar held in his grip.
A drawled, “I think that’s your answer,” is full of warm amusement.
“Maybe I could bribe him...”
“Exchanging one vice for another. I see.”
Snatching up a pillow, she launches it across the room and hears the dull thud of it striking true, followed by low laughter.
iv.
“He isn’t allowed to undo all my hard work! That’s cheating!”
“He isn’t rescuing me. You chose hair ties with little plastic gems. It’s theft, not altruism.”
Indeed, Mephisto next secures a brilliant green ‘gem’ in his beak and tugs, determinedly dragging free his trophy from his master’s hair as Sylus flinches, but allows him to continue all the same.
“I’ve been trying to encourage him not to—“
“And you bring little prizes to his home? Rather... mixed messaging.”
From beneath a cushion, she draws her phone, brandishing it.
“Oh well... At least it will make a nice picture...”
v.
A tangle of silver and gold tips from Sylus’ palm into hers.
Earrings. A collection of her earrings – just one from each pair – that she had long given up on locating.
“I found them with two of my necklaces and a tangle of silver wire,” he informs her in dry tones.
“Maybe he’s nesting. Trying to attract a mate.”
“...I’m quite sure he’s not programmed for that.”
She bites down on her lip before sliding a sly look up at him.
“He can... learn from examples, can’t he?”
A faint smirk.
“Do you have any suggestions for our nest, then?”
vi.
With the window left open just enough to accommodate a certain visitor, she takes her time in scattering across the breakfast bar the vibrant mix of little gems and crystals in sunset hues.
Birdseed for one very particular bird.
As Mephisto flits back and forth, always when her back is turned, she sneaks glances to see whether he has been discerning in his selection and identified precious treasure from created crystal.
“You can’t steal a gift, Mephie,” she tells him as he absconds with a fragment of rich citrine.
He caws.
And waits for her to turn before claiming another.
