#doesn’t he know the devil when he sees him?

[andromeda-starship]

AHH! Yes! I love all the little details and nuances you put into this! I think you so accurately characterized both Matt and Frank in this, including how their unique traumas (and violent coping mechanisms to appease their guilt, giving them a sense of control) affect those around them.

Matt is such a complicated character, and it’s true that without all the explanations and complex that come from the viewer’s omniscience- he’s a difficult book to read. He hid his powers from his best friend for a decade, he lies to everyone, and even though WE know that there are some compelling reasons for those actions- those who are living their lives alongside his own only see the results of his choices, of his traumas, his coping mechanisms, and how he hurts those around him by leaving so much of his past hurt unresolved. Festering within him, poisoning his relationships by limiting his perception to something that is ultimately selfish and self-serving.

Don’t get me wrong- taking in Matt’s experiences in life, it’s somewhat understandable. He lost his father because Jack thought he’d be worth more to Matt dead, leaving him alone and vulnerable, his world on fire. Stick trained him, cruel, cold, and ruthless- then abandoned him when he couldn’t be who he wanted him to be. Elektra, the first person Matt could be himself around 100%, had loved him- but not enough to stay. To not try and force him into being someone he’s not. That he’s worked so hard NOT to become.

I can’t imagine what it was like all those years, lying in bed, hearing every terrible thing hiding in the darkness. That one story of the day he first let the devil in him win, when he beat the father who was touching his daughter at night, after all his other attempts to help failed… How could we fault him? How could we fault him for caring? For doing something when he saw how the system failed the vulnerable? How could we not love the man who had restrained his inner beast for so long, only to snap- now balancing on the unraveling moral tight rope of a line every single night because he couldn’t lie there and do nothing.

The thing is, Matt is a hero to us because he can’t hide it like he does in his own reality. Like he does in all his relationships. So who can blame the reader for her perception of reality when it’s all she knows?

I think with Frank, he is so forthright with his motivations. With his reasoning. He doesn’t hide, he doesn’t lie, he knows who he is. Why he does what he does. And so does everyone else, especially those close enough to see the reality of his broken heart- the one of a loving father and husband. One who lost everything which anchored him. One who decided he had nothing to lose, and took on all the consequences without any hesitation. One who would take on the blame for the reader, because in the end he’s the one who is oh so willing to make the sacrifice.

I think it’s funny how Matt has so many religious themes, but Frank really is a martyr. Matt is reluctant, he can’t take the consequences of his actions, he hides his shame and his confliction behind blistering anger and stubborn pride into everything falls apart. I think it also has to do with their relationships with faith, their ideas of god.

Matt believes.

Frank does not.

Frank sees a chaotic world in an unfeeling universe, sees how the good are hurt by the powerful, and decides to bath in the blood of the unrighteous, wades steadily through as an unwavering force, an angel who smites the wicked- all with his face bare.

Because he is unafraid. He knows what he’s doing has consequences, but that won’t stop him from doing what he feels needs to be done to ease the unbalanced scales of the world we live in. One which Frank sees clearly and accepts as it is- no romanticization. Just the truth.

I think this characterization is really represented so well in how the reader perceived these two men.

Matt is a force of guilt.

Frank is a force of acceptance.

And at some point, you have to let the burden of guilt go, and fall into the loving, unwavering strength found in the open arms of acceptance.

And get a dog with him.

SAME SIN

pairing - frank castle x reader

summary - in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings - blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count - 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a no nonsense Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

[briarberrythornedhart]

Let loose, I’ll hold you tighter

18 plus, my sweethearts.

Contains: Eddie Munson x Female Coded reader, fluff and implied sex, established relationship

🦇 🚍 🦇

Even though Eddie had been doing okay in the dating department before you:

with you it’s serious right away.

Very, very serious

He’s down bad.

He doesn’t want to scare you off. He’s been told so many times that he’s too rough and too loud and too annoying. Too much everything.

So with you he's gentle as a dove for the longest time.

All gentlemanly manners and careful, respectful goodnight hugs and kisses like candy floss - kisses that are soft and sweet but over too soon.

However, eventually when he figures out that you aren’t fragile. And that you are into being manhandled and wrestled with and that what he thought was ‘pestering’ you is actually, your love language.

Then. He. Lets. Loose.

Because he's happiest if you have one or both sets of your limbs around him and will maneuver you into that kinda position any moment he feels it’s slightly feasible. He loves to grind against you even through clothes.

So everywhere you go he's like:

“Tired, Sweets? Climb on my back and I’ll carry you around the store.” and then tickles your sides so you’ll grab him tighter.

And...

“Can’t you see the stage, babe? Get up on my shoulders.” and then bites your thighs to get your attention during the show.

And...

On movie night “There aren’t a lot of seats in Gareth’s living room so I’ll sit on the floor and you can put your legs over my shoulders and I’ll massage your feet.” And then spends the whole night seeing how far he can get his hands up your skirt without anyone noticing. Which as it turns out is pretty damn far.

—-

“Can’t you get closer?” He’ll ask you at the movies, scowling at the un-adjustable armrest.

“Lay on top of me.” He’ll beg when he finds you napping on the couch.

“You are soooo warm… I need to be inside you.” He’ll purr at night, as he slots his hips between yours and holds your hands above your head.

You get on the greyhound bus to Columbus for the Megadeth show and it’s been at the most 10 minutes before you feel his hands grip the back of your knees and start to tug you closer.

“Eddie. We are on The Bus. I can’t ride in your lap. Hey now,” you swat at his insistent hands, “Stop trying to get me to straddle you.” You whisper.

“Me??? In public????!! I’d never do that. Just… turn sideways and scootch closer, put one leg behind me and one on my lap and hold me safe and snug like a better seatbelt so I don’t fall off these bus seats, you know how I am, always falling off seats.” He says with a butter- wouldn't- melt- in- this- pretty-mouth expression on his sweet face and the devil in his eyes.

[synnicall]

I’m a slutty tattoo ghost truther. I don’t know I just think that he has a lot. He’s always fully covered, so why not? It’s a part of him that he can control, putting ink on his skin in pretty patterns and cool images.

He’s got both sleeves done, all in an array of military paraphernalia and skull iconography. They were done when he first enlisted, still working through the lifestyle change and mental trauma like a bull in a china shop. Bear with him, his frontal lobe wasn’t developed.

He doesn’t get anything else for a while, until he finds an artist that draws his eye, walking into the shop and letting them go wild with any design. Ends up getting something along the width of his upper back in a design of sharp shapes and curves that makes up the shape of a bat. He gets a neck tattoo later that year.

He gets a combat knife down the length of his sternum, a flash (from his beloved artist of course) of a little devil pinup on his left hip (the slut). They suggest to get a matching angel on the right one at some point. He considers it. Cheekily gets the words “good luck” tatted on his navel, something no one will probably ever see even if he does get laid (it’s covered by a thick layer of hair by now) but it does give him a laugh every time he sees it.

He’s got an appointment for a thigh piece next month, in the same style as the one on his back. Only because he enjoys the little community of sitting in the chair and listening to his artists’ day to day while he was on deployment. It’s one thing he can sink his money into that he believes is going towards a good thing. And he will say he doesn’t mind looking at himself in the mirror as often seeing their art on him.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

senate blessing malleus with the power is such a great reveal; it finally puts malleus struggling with his control in perspective in a serious way (unlike previous comedic bits with the same idea). the diasomnia finale is so dense with payoff, i'm very excited to hear what you liked-disliked about it :)

[You can read my thoughts on the book 7 finale and its payoffs here!]

Hmm… 🤔 I have mixed thoughts on the senate blessing Malleus with Extra Magic Juice.

On one hand, sure, this explains why he’s particularly powerful. On the other hand, I… don’t like that it easily passes accountability for the events of book 7 onto the senators. Yes, they’re terrible people. Yes, they isolated Malleus and they put him on a pedestal and never held him responsible for his mistakes. But by giving him the blessings of power he didn’t ask to have, it… paints Malleus as a kid that “just couldn’t control his excess magic” and the senators as targets to attack. If he had naturally been born ultra powerful or as the result of all the love poured into hatching him (since Lilia did give up his lifeforce), I feel like that would have been a more neutral way of powering him up. Having other people consciously give him magic he didn’t already have from birth or need to survive has different connotations.

This is a very similar situation as theorists who claim Maleanor’s final words to egg!Malleus were a blessing to make him feared by humans in the future. It explains away his isolation and loneliness by saying “it was actually the blessing at work, not Malleus or his peers’ behavior causing this.” The locus of control—and the onus—shifts from the individual, which he can control, to the circumstances, something he cannot control. It’s almost as if to say, “there’s nothing he can do about it, so he can’t be held accountable; the ones who shoved this unwanted power on him are the ones who should take accountability.”

I appreciate Twst attempting to be more serious in how it presents Malleus’s OPness instead of defaulting to its usual comedy bit. I just don’t know if I care for… this interpretation.

Context: In Malleus’s post-OB flashback, we see that he was blessed with particularly strong magical gifts from the senators. He considers these blessings as curses that kept him from being able to fully express himself + socialize with others.

That’s a good observation 🤔 Sometimes there will be notable differences in opinion due to cultural differences between JP and EN, but I’ve actually been seeing both sides sharing beef with the Briar Valley senators since the main story update. JP side in particular has been pumping out a ton of fan art of the NRC boys lining up to pummel the senators, which is quite unusual. You normally don’t see this much… concentrated disdain from them. (Though you can definitely still see differences in how we express disliking characters; EN fans tend to use very strong language whereas JP fans’ wod choice is demurer. JP also tends to use art as an outlet for expressing negative emotions.) I guess the one thing that’ll unite people is a common enemy, huh? 😂

But allow me one moment, if you will, to play devil’s advocate. Listen, I don’t like the senators as much as the next Twstie does—but giving Malleus blessings does make sense in-universe. They lost their princess and tons of land to humans. Malleus himself almost died in his egg. They’ve suffered devastating losses and just barely came out of the conflict with what is essentially a miracle baby. The future of their country, the next and only surviving member to the queen’s bloodline. If I were a senator, I would fear losing that, and what little land, power, and influence we have left in the world. I would want to ensure that this child had all the resources at his disposal to drive off future threats and to protect the valley, so that the same tragic end his mother and most of their country met doesn’t happen to him, too.

When it’s put like that… didn’t the senators bless Malleus to help him and their country? I doubt any of them intended to give him this strength to isolate him from others and drive him to OB. So… the senators had good intentions, but it had unintentional consequences which were harmful—which is a point often brought up about Malleus’s actions in book 7. If we’re going to forgive one party for the unintended consequences (or, alternatively, hold one party accountable for them), then should the other be treated differently? Yes or no, and why?

Just some food for thought, because this sure made me think about how I see the situation myself.

[vandme12]

Could I please request Ronin with a reader who got a stalker after their book got popular? They don’t really see the stalker as a threat, they’ve dealt with the devil after all.

But what if he gets a little too close and it forces Ronin to do something about it, but the reader beat him to it?

Have a great day!

Your first mistake was underestimating the appeal of a killer.

The book—your book—was never supposed to blow up like this. A bloody, intimate little crime novel, loosely inspired by the slasher-flavored chaos you’d somehow made a life out of. It was supposed to be niche, a cult hit at best. But now? Every other day, there’s a new notification about someone thirsting after your fictional killer. Reviews drool over his sadism, his devil-may-care attitude, the way he breaks his victims like it’s a love language.

They have no idea he’s real. That he kisses you with the same mouth he uses to threaten lives.

Ronin thinks it’s hilarious.

“‘The Devil’s Butcher could get it, tbh,’” he reads aloud one night, cackling over a tweet on your phone. “Aw, sweetheart—why didn’t ya tell me I had fans? Coulda started a damn fan club. Goreboy Nation. Merch n’ everythin’.”

You roll your eyes, shoving his face away from your screen. “You’re already insufferable. If you start selling t-shirts, I’m out.”

Ronin just hums, teeth grazing your neck—playful. Sharp. “Nah, ya ain’t goin’ anywhere, darlin’. Face it: ‘m the only devil who’s gonna put up with ya.”

You let him think that. Let him croon against your skin like the world itself belongs to him—like you belong to him. (He isn’t wrong.)

But the thing is, while the fans are fun and the money’s nice, you know better than anyone that obsession isn’t cute.

So when you first notice the messages—subtle at first, just a little too knowing—you don’t think much of it. You’ve been stalked before. Hell, your boyfriend is a stalker if you squint a little. What’s one more weirdo with boundary issues?

But then your inbox gets weird.

The stalker doesn’t ask normal fan questions. They pick apart the details—the parts you shouldn’t know, shouldn’t be able to write about. Things only Ronin would recognize. Things you shouldn’t have access to.

They know too much.

“You think it’s a cop?” you ask one night, lounging on Ronin’s ratty couch while he sharpens one of his knives.

He snorts. “Please. If the cops were that competent, I’d be in cuffs already.” He tilts his head, glancing at you through dark lashes. “You worried, baby?”

Worried? Not exactly. Not when your boyfriend has a body count higher than his IQ.

You shrug. “I can handle it.”

Ronin grins, wolfish and bright. “I know ya can.”

The first time you mention the stalker, Ronin laughs.

You do get it now..

"Aw, c’mon, darling," he drawls over the phone, voice honey-sweet with a razor’s edge. "You’re tellin’ me some pencil-idiot creep thinks they can rattle you? After all we’ve been through? Cute."

He’s not worried—why would he be? You’ve survived him, after all.

To Ronin, there’s no comparison. Some obsessive fan sending you weird, clingy emails and waiting outside your apartment doesn’t rank high on his list of threats. Not when you’ve faced worse and walked away with your heart still beating—his, too, if he’s feeling sentimental.

You’re not worried either. Not really.

You’ve danced with the devil and kissed him in an alley soaked with blood. Some guy with a parasocial complex doesn’t exactly make your skin crawl—not in the way it should. But it’s annoying. Persistent. And starting to piss you off.

At first, it’s small things. A note on your windshield after a signing. Flowers sent to your P.O. box with no return address. Emails signed Your biggest fan that come in the dozens—rambling, incoherent praise. Nothing that feels threatening, not really. Just… there.

You don’t mention it again for weeks. Ronin’s busy, anyway. Uptown’s been keeping him occupied—more bodies in Purgatory, more sinners to crucify. You don’t blame him for being distracted. If anything, you like that he’s got bloodier things on his mind.

Still, when he catches you laughing over a particularly unhinged email, he makes a sound low in his throat. Dangerous. Interested.

"That your little stalker again?"

"Yeah," you say, spinning lazily in your office chair. "Dude thinks we’re soulmates or something. Poor guy has no clue what he’s up against."

"Mm." A pause. His voice dips, velvet-soft. "They better not touch you, baby."

You smile, tilting your head. "What, you gonna rip their heart out for me?"

Ronin chuckles, low and indulgent. "Only if ya let me."

The first time the stalker crosses the line, it’s almost funny. Almost.

You find the package outside your door one night—a plain cardboard box, taped neatly shut. For a second, you think it’s something you ordered. But there’s no address. No label.

Inside is a photograph.

It’s you.

You, sitting at your favorite café last week—head down, lost in thought, writing notes for your next novel. Taken through a window, your face blurred slightly by the glass. Beneath the photo, there’s a single line of text.

"You’re even prettier in person."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, tossing it on the counter.

Ronin doesn’t find it funny.

"You didn’t tell me they were that close," he says when you send him a picture.

"It’s fine," you reply. "They’re harmless. Just desperate."

"Yeah? Let’s see how harmless they are when I wrap my hands ‘round their throat."

His protectiveness is hot—obviously—but you don’t want to wind him up too much. This isn’t his mess to clean. Not yet.

Besides. You can handle yourself.

The next time, they get bolder.

A text pings your phone at 2:47 AM. No number. No name.

I saw you tonight.

You glance toward your window. It’s locked—has been since Ronin waltzed into your life and made paranoia a love language. Still, your skin prickles.

"Still harmless, darling?" Ronin asks the next morning.

You know what he wants—to unleash that wicked temper, to make a statement in blood. It’s sweet, in its own fucked-up way. But you tell him the same thing as always.

"I’ve got it under control."

He hums. Doesn’t argue. But there’s something sharper in his silence.

It escalates three days later.

You’re walking home from a late-night grocery run—plastic bags heavy with cup noodles and the cheap, trashy snacks you practically live on. The city hums around you, neon lights flickering in and out of focus.

And then you feel it.

That creeping sensation of eyes on your back.

You don’t panic. Panic is for people who haven’t kissed a serial killer and walked away grinning. You duck into a side street instead, cutting through a back alley to lose them.

Footsteps follow.

A thrill rolls through your stomach—part fear, part excitement. If this idiot thinks you’re an easy target, they’ve got another thing coming.

"Y’know," you say casually, turning on your heel, "if you wanted an autograph, you could’ve just—"

They lunge.

Wrong move.

Your elbow slams into their ribs before they can touch you. The plastic bags hit the ground, scattering instant ramen everywhere. You twist, slamming your knee into their gut next—hard enough to make them stumble.

The guy isn’t much—skinny, twitchy, desperate. He gasps, scrambling back as you advance, heart hammering with adrenaline.

"You’ve been watching me for weeks," you murmur, stepping closer. "Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?"

He doesn’t answer. Just wheezes.

Pity. You were hoping for more of a fight.

Ronin shows up at your apartment less than an hour later, eyes bright with anticipation.

"Where’s my new friend?" he drawls, cracking his knuckles.

You tilt your head toward the bathroom. "Tied up. Not much fun, though."

His grin sharpens. "Fuckin’ knew ya had it in ya, baby."

When he sees the guy—slumped against your shower wall, wrists bound tight—Ronin practically purrs. He crouches low, brushing a blood-specked thumb across the stalker’s cheek, and laughs.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. "Ya really are somethin’ else."

"You’re disappointed I didn’t let you have him first," you tease.

Ronin leans back on his heels, gaze lingering on your face like you’re his favorite kind of crime scene. "Ain’t disappointed. Proud of ya."

It’s the truth—you can feel it in the heat of his stare, the way his smile curves sharper. He’s proud. Because you didn’t need him to save you. Because you’re just as much a monster as he is.

And God, if that doesn’t make him love you more.

By the time Ronin’s finished with the guy, there isn’t much left. Nothing that’ll be missed.

"Y’know," he muses later, lounging on your bed with his bloodied hands behind his head, "if anyone else so much as looks at ya funny, I’m takin’ their eyes as a souvenir."

You roll your eyes, crawling onto the mattress beside him. "Possessive much?"

His smile widens—feral and unrepentant. "Always. Ya like it, don’t lie."

And maybe you do.

Because the devil doesn’t share.

And neither do you.

[redsrooftopprincess]

*comes skidding into your inbox with a pant*

Speak of the devil girl because I was literally stalking your blog just today with a thought that’s been bouncing around in my head for a bit about our favorite big boy Red and wanted to ask your thoughts about it when I saw that your asks were open! So here me out on this (and if this isn’t something you don’t feel comfortable no worries at ALL I’m just in a chatty mood and thought I’d swing my shot) but how do you think Raph would handle being in a relationship or being interested with someone who is demisexual? AKA someone who doesn’t feel sexual attraction until after a deep emotional connection? I know I know at first thought that wouldn’t make sense at all because like look at him…that man must be a late library book because he is FIIIIIIINE and the best/worst part? He knows it. Or at least, knows his body and is confident in it. I just think it would be so interesting for Raph to meet with someone who thinks like “hey yeah cool I can tell you work and you look great but like has anybody recently told you that your soul is beautiful?” Because Raph never really gets that chance to explore that emotional vulnerable side of himself? I know a lot of folks expound on these moments in sexual light and we all know how good those parts of the story can be *eyebrow wiggle* but I am curious on how Raph would handle exposing that part of himself and having to like work his way into more physical moments by first being emotional upfront with someone.

Again, ramblings of an insane person that you are MORE than free to do whatever you’d like. I just think you’re cool and I’m curious to see/ hear your thoughts on the matter if you’re up for sharing.

AnYhOo, you’re cool. You deserve good things and I hope all the good things you do come back to you this week. Kay love ya BYEEEEE!

When it comes to humans, I, myself am Demi (though, if Red ever shows up in the flesh, my partner knows where they stand), and many of us know the pain of "too late," well.

...

Demi

Raphaelxgn!Reader

No warnings

It was disappointing at first. Mike had introduced you at one of his parties. Raphael had only been to a few, and they had all been fun as hell. Honestly, being the center of attention in a large group of people and it's not a bad thing? Sign him the fuck up.

It did have it's drawbacks. It could be exhausting. He never thought he'd be sick of beautiful people fawning all over him, but some nights he didn't have it in him to "perform."

The second he walked in, the usual throng of enamoured humans flocked to him, and to his credit, he was prepared to do his best. He'd been in a low lately, and Mike had basically dragged him out in hope that it might keep him out of his own head for a while. Raph didn't want to disappoint him, but he *didn't* want to be there. He'd stay for an hour and then slip out once the party was in full swing, and Mike would be too busy hosting to notice.

But if Hamato Michaelangelo excels at anything, it's knowing people, and he knows his brothers better than anyone.

The adrenaline barely had time to hit his system as the crowd descended, before his brother had him by the elbow and was steering him through a crowd of disappointed whines toward the back of the club.

He patted Raph's shell, comfortingly, as they moved beyond the throngs of the thirsty, to a secluded booth in the back decked out in white, purple, black, and grey. You smile up at them from your gaming laptop as they approach, and Raphael is a little worried that his brother is trying to set him up with someone again.

"Hey Mike!" you chirp, as he pushes his brother into the booth, sitting beside him and trapping him inside. You raise an eyebrow.

"Big bro needs a breather," Mike says, Raphael gives him an annoyed look and you suppress a smile. "Raphael, this is Y/N, Y/N, this is Raphael."

You smile politely, "Pleased to meet you. I've heard wonderful things from your adoring fans!"

Raphael smirks, half chuckling, a little intimated. Out on the floor he had swagger and he could play the part, even if he wasn't entirely up to it. He could hide in the crowd. Pretend that he was like everyone else. He didn't have to do much to show off, people wanted him. Even those that weren't directly turned on were at least a little curious. But you're beautiful, alone, and while your not being rude or anything, you don't seem all that impressed. It was nice. And terrifying.

"Welp, I'm needed elsewhere," Mike says smoothly, sliding out of the booth. Raphael's head snaps to look at his brother. No. He wasn't just going to drop him here with this gorgeous person and leave. Mike shoots him a wink and disappears in a crowd of passing patrons.

It takes you a few minutes to get through the initial awkwardness of introduction, but after a while, Raph starts to relax and despite the low he's currently slogging through, he actually has a really good time. You're funny, and smart, and gorgeous, and you don't look at him like a piece of meat or a monster.

For the next few days he's quiet, contemplative. The day before another party he catches Mike in his room.

"Hey, you got a second?"

Mike pauses his third playthrough of Assassin's Creed 2 [aka, the best one, fight me] and looks up from his pillow pile, "Sure! Sup?"

"So, uh, you know Y/N?"

Mike raises a brow, "Yeah...?"

"Are they, uh," he clears his throat, fidgeting uncomfortably, "are they... seeing anybody?"

Mike sighs, looking at his brother almost apologetically, of course you're the first person he'd *actually* be interested in. "Dude, they're Demi."

Raphael looks confused.

Mike sighs, "Okay, crash course in the ace/aro spectrum. Most people hear ace and they think no sex ever. Which is only true for some people."

Raph looks more confused.

"Just, stay with me," Mike encourages, "asexuality and aromanticism is a spectrum like anything else. While yes, people that are totally ace don't really get turned on by anything, you also have grey ace, demi, and other fun combo ones where sex drive and romance isn't necessarily a 'no' it's more of an 'only under certain circumstances,' situation. Demisexuals can't get turned on until they're already really close with someone. Most people, you turn on their body and their heart will follow, Demi's are the opposite. The only thing that gets them going with someone is a strong emotional bond. Your heart has to turn them on before your body even has a chance. They pretty much wrote the book on friends to lovers."

"...oh, okay," Raph nods, before furrowing his brow, "so..."

"So," Mike continues, "if you want to pursue something with them, it'll take time for them to be anywhere near ready for a relationship. And a hookup is fully off the table."

Raph thanks his brother for the clarity, and thinks about that for a while. You're beautiful, and he had a lot of fun just hanging out with you, but realistically, if your going to end up close to and attracted to anyone, it's probably not going to be him. Which was disappointing, sure, but you were still an awesome person, and he was pretty new to this whole "making friends," thing. He decides that even if nothing more was ever going to happen, your still more than worth hanging out with, as long as you feel the same about him. He doesn't need you to like him back as long as you like having him around.

And thus began, honestly, the best friendship either of you have ever had. Without the stress of "do we like each other" on the table, the two of you could just be together. You talked about anything and everything under the sun, and he told you things he would never, could never, tell anyone else.

You were the best wingman anyone could ever ask for, and were able to get him more than a few dates with beautiful, interesting, and fun people. For over a year, you were the closest of friends. It actually ended more than one relationship when Raph's potential partner couldn't handle the fact that you were basically a packaged deal.

Not long after your one year "anniversary," he noticed some changes. The last few people you tried to set him up with, you didn't seem as enthusiastic about. You're usually all about helping him get a date, but lately you've seemed almost... upset?

You tried to hide it. But as time went on, watching him leave the party with someone else was becoming more and more difficult. It took you a few weeks, but when you finally figured it out it hit you like a train.

It happened the third time you watched him leave a party with Sarah. Hand at her lower back, holding open the door like a gentleman, he caught your eye on the way out and you tried your best to make your smile look genuine before hiding behind the glass you'd raised in his direction. He noticed and gave you a quizzical look as you quickly buried your face in your glass, before Sarah called him away and the fire exit door closed.

You'd drained your glass and left right after.

The last time you developed feelings for someone it was a good friend of several years. They began the friendship wanting you, and tried for a long time before giving up. Once they did and you finally had the freedom to get close, you developed feelings, and they accused you of playing games. It ruined your friendship completely. This was before you knew what Demisexuality was, but knowledge is a pretty useless power when you're the only one who gets it.

Mike had let slip over daiquiris one night that you were the first person Raphael ever showed any actual interest in. Until he learned that you were Demi. And of course he didn't push, he probably didn't think there was any way you could ever want him. Despite his swagger he really doesn't think all that much of himself, even less so back then.

But that was a year ago, and while his own insecurities haven't exactly gone away, he's definitely becoming more confident. Sarah is gorgeous, the type of woman he'd never have considered approaching when you met. And you really like her. If you didn't you wouldn't have set them up in the first place.

So you're going to keep your mouth shut where it's safest for you, and everyone else involved. Raphael is the best thing that ever happened to you. You can't lose him.

You've started distancing yourself, hoping some space might help things go back to some kind of normal. You just need time to breathe, to take a step back and collect yourself and pretend like it doesn't kill you that now he's on his sixth date with Sarah and things are going really really well. Why can't you just be happy for your friend?

Eventually, one night, you just don't go. He would be spending all night with her, so it's not like you'd be missed. You would honestly be surprised if he noticed your absence at all. And you aren't bitter, honestly. And you aren't mad at him, how could you be? It just seems a little unfair that you could never feel anything until it was too late.

Surprisingly, he texted you near sunrise,

Red: [Missed you tonight. You okay?]

Y/N:

Y/N: [Yeah, work was just really hard today.]

Red: ...

Red: ...

Red:

Red: ...

Red:

Red:

Red: [Okay.]

You don't work on Wednesdays, but you're pretty sure he doesn't know that. You hope that will be the end of it. He won't press. What you aren't expecting is a certain orange-clad ninja in a seafoam jacket tapping at your window the following night.

"Hey, Mike," you say curiously, opening the window so he can move inside, "what's up?"

"Hey," he says, fixing his lapels, "Raph said your probably not coming to the party tonight. Aaaaaaand that you're lying to him." He gives you a genuine look, "So, what's up, buttercup?"

You know your not getting out of this. He gives you a look that says he already knows, he's just waiting for you to say it. Raph says he gets that from their dad.

Your cheeks burn and you look down and away. He dips his head to recapture your gaze. "The real reason you bailed wouldn't have anything to do with a certain reptile in red and the pretty blond bombshell hanging off his arm... would it?"

You sigh heavily and close your eyes, before turning, and walking over to the couch, "It doesn't matter. It's too late," you sit heavily, defeated. "It's always too late," you mutter to yourself.

"Wow," Mike says, watching you, a small smile working the corner of his mouth, "you know, in all the time I've known you I think this is the first time I've ever seen you actually into anyone."

"Not that it matters," you snap back, gently, the smile annoys you a little, "he's got Sarah. And they're really good together. And I'd be some kind of asshole to say anything at this point. And you don't say anything either," you demand, pointing at him, "He's happy. I'm not going to fuck that up for him."

Begrudgingly, he acquiesces, and not long after unsuccessfully trying one last time to convince you to go to the party, Mike makes his way out, and you put on a movie and curl up on the couch to distract yourself.

A little after two, you hear a quiet tapping on the window before the unmistakable sound of it sliding open in the casement, and a familiar soft landing on carpet.

You stand as he slides the window shut, "I thought you were with Sarah tonight. Everything okay?"

He turns to face you... and you know.

"Fucker ran his mouth," you laugh sardonically, shaking your head. "We don't have to talk about this, " you say, turning around to walk, somewhere, anywhere else.

"Yeah, I think we do," he argues. You stop walking with a sigh.

"Raph, please. Just go back to the party. Back to Sarah, have a-"

"Can't."

You turn and give him a quizzical look. "Wha- Why not?"

"We broke up." He says simply.

Your stomach drops, "You didn't break up with her because of- Raph, that's-"

"Relax," he says, holding up a hand and moving slowly toward you, "I didn't have to. She saw Mike and I talking, and she knew the score. Said to tell you, 'no hard feelings.'"

"But, I-"

He takes your hand before his eyes meet yours once again.

"But, I was too late..." You say softly, confused.

He can't help the smile that blooms across his features, "Not for me," he raises your hand to his lips and kisses the back of it, "Never for me." He looks at you, earnestly, and you can see the trepidation in his eyes. In the last year, the guy has developed one hell of a game, but you know the heart of him. He can't hide from you, and when you look at him, you see everything. He's terrified it isn't real. That he's getting his hopes up. That all that he is isn't enough.

And you want to tell him that he is. You really, really do. That he's more than enough. That he's so damn beautiful there was no way for you *not* to fall deeper the deeper you came to know him. But you don't. Not yet.

You just kiss him.

...

Tag list!

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll @silverwatergalaxy @gornackeaterofworlds @daedric-sorceress @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @milykins @sacred-holy-light @celeste-clearwater-06 @pheradream-15

[g0ldenrav3n]

the first time I’ve read Neil saying “you gave me a key and called it home”, my world shifted. I thought omg he just confessed. Did he rlly confess now??. I thought it was the most romantic thing he had ever said. So honest, so vulnerable. When I think about love like between lovers, there’s always a time in which two people are first acquaintances, then friends, then they’re fond of themselves, then they like each other, then they fall in love. At that stage, you can start to love someone and include them in your life, that’s when you’re not lovers anymore, but family. As someone who holds family in high regard, when I first read both Andrew’s and Neil’s stories, I thought they need someone, they need a family. Who in this world doesn’t need a family? Everybody needs somebody, even the devil needs a friend. So to read such big words, I don’t know, it was legendary. I want to talk first about the big act of love Andrew did at the end of the first book, he gave him protection, but not just that, he gave him a key, and he called it home. I remember in the first pages, Neil used to sleep in abandoned houses and sometimes his old coach used to fake forget the gym open so he could sleep there. You understand what I am saying? Andrew looked trough him, he didn’t see a liar, a lonely boy, a frightened one at that, a runaway, someone with an attitude problem. He saw Neil and for a moment he was looking into a mirror. He loved him to the point of giving him what he didn’t even had in the first place: a home. To love someone to the point of creation.

[inseobts]

Idk if u do request but can you do Scary reader x One piece men? Law, Shanks, Sabo, Ace, Croc, The monster trio & whoever else you want! Basically the reader is really scary but {{char}} finds their scariness attractive.

Attractive Scariness

a/n: sorry but at some point I got out of ideas lmao

characters: luffy, zoro, sanji, law, ace, shanks, sabo and crocodile

words count: around 0.4k - 0.9k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Monkey D. Luffy:

You’re used to fear.

The wide eyes, the shaky hands, the people stumbling over themselves to get away, etc. It’s always the same. Ever since you ate your Devil Fruit, people have called you a monster. Even when you’re not fighting, your presence alone makes people nervous.

So when you land on this island and step into a small village, you already expect the usual reaction.

And you get it.

The streets clear as soon as you walk in. The market stalls empty. Even the shopkeepers pretend not to see you.

You sigh.

“Again?” you mutter “I just want some food…”

You’re about to turn around when someone doesn’t run. A boy in a red vest and a straw hat stands right in front of you, grinning like he doesn’t even notice how scary you are.

No. He notices. He just doesn’t care.

“Whoa!” he exclaims, eyes shining “You’re super strong, huh?”

You blink “What?”

“I can tell!” He nods, completely sure of himself “Strong people have this feeling about them. And you feel really strong!”

You stare at him. That’s… new. No “stay away from me” or “please don’t kill me.” Just pure excitement.

Luffy tilts his head “What’s your power?”

You hesitate. Usually, this is the part where people scream. But he’s looking at you like a kid waiting for a magic trick.

You raise your hand. A shadow swirls around your fingers, shifting like smoke. The air around you grows heavy, dark, unnatural.

Luffy gasps.

“That’s so cool!”

“…Huh?”

“You can control shadows? Or darkness? Or... wait, is it nightmares?” He’s practically bouncing “Can you do giant shadow hands? Or make yourself super big? Or—”

You blink at him “You’re… not scared?”

Luffy grins wider “Why would I be? You’re awesome!”

This has never happened before. Ever. You don’t know what to do.

Then Luffy grabs your wrist “Hey, join my crew!”

Your brain short-circuits “What?”

“I’m Luffy! I’m gonna be King of the Pirates, and I need strong people on my crew. And you’re really strong!”

You open your mouth, then close it. You look at him, at his bright, careless smile, at the way he’s just standing there, holding onto your wrist like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’re just a person.

Not a monster.

“…You’re weird” you say.

Luffy laughs “People tell me that a lot.”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then, for the first time in forever, you smile.

“…Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll join you.”

Luffy cheers, throwing his fists in the air “Yes! This is gonna be awesome!”

You have no idea what you’ve just signed up for. But for once, you don’t feel like a nightmare.

You just feel like you.

Years have passed since you met Luffy. Since he grabbed your wrist, called you strong, and changed your life without even trying.

Back then, you weren’t sure what you were getting into. Now, you know.

Being with Luffy means chaos. It means waking up to find him hanging upside down from the ship’s mast, laughing like it’s normal. It means fighting beside him, watching him charge straight at danger without fear—because he trusts you to have his back.

It means love.

A love that is loud and wild, but also simple. Easy. Because Luffy has never been afraid of you. Not then, not now.

Right now, you’re on an island, sitting in the shade while the crew runs around. The villagers are keeping their distance, just like always. Even after all these years, people still fear you.

But it doesn’t matter anymore.

Because across the field, Luffy is waving at you, smiling so wide it makes your chest feel warm. He doesn’t care that people avoid you. He doesn’t care that you’re “scary”, to him, you’re just you.

He runs over, plopping down next to you with a grin “Whatcha doin’?”

You raise an eyebrow “Sitting.”

Luffy gasps dramatically “No way. That’s crazy.”

You snort, shoving his shoulder. He just laughs, leaning against you without a care in the world.

For a while, you sit there together. The sun is warm, the breeze is nice, and Luffy is… Luffy. He hums a little song under his breath, playing with your fingers like he’s fascinated by them.

Then, he says “You know, you’re kinda scary.”

You pause “Oh?”

He nods “Yeah. Like, super scary. When you fight, people freak out. Even Zoro said you’re the last person he’d wanna fight seriously.”

You wait for the usual words to follow. Monster. Freak. Too much.

But instead, Luffy grins and squeezes your hand.

“I love it.”

Your heart stops for a second.

Luffy keeps talking, like he hasn’t just turned your entire world upside down “It’s awesome! You’re so strong, and you do that cool shadowy thing, and when you get serious, even the bad guys look like they’re gonna cry.” He laughs, eyes shining “It’s really cool.”

You don’t answer right away. Because what is there to say?

For so long, your power was a curse. Something that made you different. Something that made you alone.

But here, with Luffy, it’s just another part of you.

“…You’re an idiot” you mumble, looking away.

Luffy laughs “Yeah, but you love me.”

You roll your eyes “Unfortunately.”

He gasps “What?!”

You shove his face away, and he just laughs harder, wrapping his arms around you like an octopus. He clings to you, laughing and warm, and you sigh, pretending to be annoyed.

But the truth is, you wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Because you are strong. And scary. And Luffy loves it.

And that is more than enough.

── .✦ Roronoa Zoro:

Zoro knows strength when he sees it.

He can sense it in the way people move, in the way they breathe. Some fighters hesitate, some carry doubt, but you don’t.

From the moment he meets you, he can tell. You don’t just fight. You hunt. And for some reason, he can’t take his eyes off you.

It starts on an island known for its warriors. The crew stops to rest, but Zoro wants a challenge. A real fight. So when he hears rumors of a swordsfighter so deadly that even bounty hunters avoid them, he doesn’t hesitate.

But when he finds you, it’s not what he expects.

You’re not some old master or a towering brute. You’re just… you. Sitting under a tree, sharpening your blade like you have all the time in the world.

Zoro stops a few feet away, arms crossed “You’re the one they’re all scared of?”

You glance up. Your eyes are sharp, your aura heavy, and for a second, it’s like the temperature drops.

Zoro grins. Oh, yeah. This is gonna be good.

You sigh, standing up “You here to fight me too?”

He smirks “Yeah. Unless you’re scared.”

Something flickers in your gaze, something dark and dangerous. Then you smile, slow and sharp “You’ll regret that.”

And then you move.

It happens fast. One second, you’re standing still. The next, your own blade is inches from his neck. Zoro barely blocks in time, his instincts the only thing keeping his head attached.

His blood rushes.

You don’t fight like normal swordsfighters. Your movements are smooth, calculated, but there’s something more. Something predatory.

Zoro grins “Not bad.”

You tilt your head “Not bad?”

And then you attack for real.

The clash of steel echoes through the trees. Zoro meets each strike, but he can feel the difference in the way you fight. You don’t waste movement. You don’t test him. You go straight for the kill.

Most people would find that terrifying.

Zoro finds it hot as hell.

His smirk widens “You don’t hold back, huh?”

You don’t answer, but there’s something in your eyes... curiosity, maybe. Like you’re testing him.

Good. He likes a challenge.

The fight goes on, fast and brutal, but in the end, neither of you go all out. It’s just a taste, a promise of something more. When you finally lower your blade, Zoro does the same.

You study him for a moment, then nod “You’re not bad either.”

Zoro huffs a laugh “High praise.”

You sheath your sword and turn away “I’m going back to town. You coming or what?”

He watches you go, smirking to himself.

Yeah. He’s definitely interested.

Years Later – Zoro should probably be concerned that his partner is one of the most terrifying people he’s ever met.

But he’s not.

In fact, it just makes him like you more.

Right now, you’re standing on the deck of the Sunny, staring down a group of bounty hunters dumb enough to challenge you. You haven’t even drawn your sword yet, but the way you look at them, sharp, unreadable, deadly, makes them hesitate.

Zoro leans against the railing, watching with amusement. He already knows how this will go.

One of the bounty hunters shifts nervously “Y-you gonna fight or what?”

You tilt your head, smiling faintly “You first.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. Then they charge. Big mistake.

Zoro watches as you dodge effortlessly, your blade a blur. The fight lasts seconds. By the time you sheath your sword, your opponents are on the ground, groaning in pain.

Silence. Then, Luffy cheers from the mast “That was awesome!”

Zoro smirks. Damn right it was.

You turn to him, raising an eyebrow “You just gonna watch?”

He shrugs with a smirk “I was enjoying watching... and didn’t wanna get in your way.”

You walk over, stopping in front of him “You’re getting lazy.”

He scoffs “Oh yeah?”

You lean in, voice low “Yeah. Maybe I should fight you next.”

Zoro feels a familiar rush of excitement. His hand twitches toward his swords “You sure you can keep up?”

You smirk “Try me.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Lost in you, in the fight, in the thrill of having someone who meets him blow for blow.

You’re terrifying. And beautiful. And stronger than hell.

And he wouldn’t have you any other way.

── .✦ Vinsmoke Sanji:

Sanji has seen all kinds of people. Beautiful women, powerful warriors, even actual monsters. But he’s never met anyone like you.

You meet in a quiet, dimly lit tavern. The crew stops for a meal, and Sanji, always on the lookout for interesting faces, notices you immediately.

You sit in the darkest corner, barely touching your drink. Your posture is relaxed, but there’s something wrong about it, like you could strike at any moment. The air around you feels heavy.

People glance at you and quickly look away. A group of bounty hunters at a nearby table seem tense, whispering among themselves.

Sanji watches as one of them inches toward the door. His hands are shaking.

That’s when he realizes, they’re afraid of you. A lot.

Sanji takes a slow drag of his cigarette. Interesting.

“Hey cook, what are you doing there, standing like an idiot.” Zoro says while they all sit at a table.

He’s about to turn back to his crew and reply to that marimo when the bartender makes a mistake and accidentally spills a drink on your sleeve.

The entire tavern stops breathing.

The bartender goes pale “I—I’m so sorry—”

You say nothing. You don’t even look at him. Just slowly, carefully, you pick up a napkin and wipe your sleeve.

The silence stretches.

Sanji almost laughs at how scared everyone looks. What, do they think you’re gonna kill him for a drink spill?

The bartender swallows “Please, let me—”

“It’s fine” you say.

Your voice is quiet. Smooth. Too calm.

The bartender flinches anyway.

Sanji watches as you set the napkin down, push your drink away, and stand. You turn toward the door, and the crowd parts around you, everyone desperate to get out of your way.

Sanji, curious as hell, does the exact opposite.

He steps into your path, smiling “Leaving so soon?”

You stop and lift your gaze, as everyone there gasps.

Most people can’t meet Sanji’s eyes for long. His confidence, his sharpness, it makes them squirm. But you?

You stare right through him.

For the first time in a long time, Sanji feels his heart skip.

“…Who are you?” he asks.

You tilt your head slightly “Does it matter?”

That voice. Calm. Slow. Like a knife dragging against silk.

Sanji exhales smoke, smirking “I’d like to think so.”

You study him. And for some reason, he feels like he’s the one being hunted.

Then you smile, small, unreadable “See you around… cook.”

And just like that, you’re gone.

Sanji stands there, heart pounding as he thinks, oh, I’m in trouble.

Years Later – Sanji likes to think he doesn’t scare easy. He’s faced warlords, monsters, and the wrath of Nami’s fist.

But nothing terrifies him more than the way you just appear.

“Sanji.”

“GAH—!”

He jumps, nearly dropping the plate he’s holding. You’re suddenly right next to him, quiet as a shadow.

He clutches his chest “How do you do that?!”

You blink “Do what?”

“That!” He gestures at you wildly “I didn’t hear you at all! You just—just materialized!”

You tilt your head, amused “I walked in.”

“No, you haunted in.”

You hum in thought “Maybe you should pay more attention.”

Sanji groans, running a hand through his hair “You’re gonna kill me one day, I swear.”

“Wouldn’t be much fun,” you say, smirking slightly “I’d miss this.”

Sanji pauses. Then, with a slow, dramatic sigh, he pulls you into a hug.

You stiffen at first, but he’s patient. He knows you’re not used to softness.

When you relax, he kisses the top of your head “You’re cruel, y’know that?”

“Am I?”

“You make my heart stop every damn day.”

You smile against his chest “Good.”

── .✦ Trafalgar D. Law:

Law prides himself on being composed. No matter the situation, he never loses control.

But then he meets you, and for the first time in a long time, he feels something close to unease.

It happens on a stormy night. The Heart Pirates dock at a quiet island, and Law sets off alone, drawn by rumors of a dangerous individual hiding in town. Some say you’re a ghost, others call you a demon.

He doesn’t believe in superstition. But he believes in threats.

So when he finds you in the ruins outside of town, standing perfectly still, eyes dark and unreadable, he watches you carefully.

“You’ve been causing trouble” he says, testing your reaction.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. The wind howls through the ruins, but you remain as still as a statue.

Most people shift under his gaze. But you? You don’t even blink.

Law narrows his eyes “Who are you?”

Finally, you tilt your head “You already know, don’t you?”

Your voice is calm. Steady. Wrong.

It reminds him of the quiet before a scalpel slices skin.

Law tightens his grip on Kikoku “What’s your ability?”

You step forward, and the ground cracks beneath your foot. A shadow flickers at the edge of his vision, stretching unnaturally.

“Does it matter?” you ask.

Law doesn’t flinch. But something deep in his chest tightens.

Because he knows that feeling. The quiet hum of danger.

And yet, instead of fear, he feels something else. Intrigue. He's actually really attracted and he can't deny it.

It takes Law a while to notice. To really notice.

Because you’re fearless in battle. You fight like a force of nature, silent and merciless, the kind of presence that makes enemies pray they don’t cross your path. You don’t just win fights, you end them.

And yet, when you’re with the crew, you’re… different.

Law catches it in small moments.

The way you ruffle Bepo’s fur when you think no one’s looking. The way you always make sure Penguin and Shachi get extra food after a long day. The way you quietly fix things around the ship before anyone else notices they’re broken.

And he feels it most with him. Like when you sit beside him in the submarine’s dimly lit halls, comfortable in silence, just existing next to him without expectation. Or when you lean against him after a rough mission, exhaustion making you a little softer, a little less guarded.

Or, most obviously, when you think he’s asleep.

He catches you once, fingers brushing against his hair, barely there, like you’re memorizing the shape of him.

He should say something. Call you out. But he doesn’t.

Because for some reason, the realization that the person who terrifies even seasoned killers, is so unbelievably gentle with him?

It does something to him.

Something dangerous.

Years Later – Being in a relationship with you comes with some complications.

Like right now.

“Sit still, damn it” Law mutters, pressing bandages against your side.

You sigh “It’s just a scratch.”

Law glares at you “It’s a stab wound.”

You shrug “Same thing.”

He clenches his jaw, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him “I swear, you are the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

You smirk “And yet, I’m still your favorite.”

Law groans, but he doesn’t deny it.

Because despite everything, your terrifying strength, your eerie presence, your complete disregard for injuries, he can’t help but be drawn to you.

You are the only person who unsettles him. And somehow, you’ve also become the one person he trusts the most.

He huffs, finishing the bandages “Try not to die.”

You grin, leaning in “Worried about me, doctor?”

“Tch” He flicks your forehead “Shut up.”

And despite himself, he smiles.

The next time you get hurt, Law doesn’t even bother hiding his frustration.

“You’re reckless,” he mutters, tightening the bandage around your arm “One of these days, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

You watch him, amused “Would you miss me?”

He scowls “Shut up”

You smirk “You would.”

Law clicks his tongue, looking away. He hates how smug you sound. Hates it even more because you’re right.

Instead of answering, he sighs, finishing the bandage. Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he presses a hand against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You’re lucky I like you” he mutters.

For the first time, you freeze.

Then, slowly, you smile. And Law knows he’s in so much trouble.

── .✦ Portgas D. Ace:

On a nameless island, a pit stop for pirates and criminals alike, Ace hears the rumors first, stories about a lone warrior, someone so deadly that even bounty hunters won’t go near them.

He thinks it sounds like fun.

So when he walks into a bar and sees everyone stiffening at the mere sight of someone sitting in the corner, he knows he’s found you.

You sit alone, idly spinning a knife between your fingers. Your expression is calm, unreadable, but the tension in the room is thick.

Ace grins, making his way over “Mind if I sit?”

You don’t look up “Do what you want.”

He plops down across from you, resting his chin in his hand “Y’know, people are real scared of you.”

Silence.

Ace watches you carefully. You don’t move like a normal fighter. There’s something off about the way you breathe, the way your presence lingers like a shadow stretching too far.

It should probably freak him out.

Instead, it makes his blood rush.

“So,” he continues, smirking “What’s your deal? You a bounty hunter? Are you here to fight?”

You finally meet his eyes. Your gaze is sharp, calculating, like you’re dissecting him without lifting a finger.

"I was just curious who everyone was talking about, turns out it was you."

“…You’re not scared of me?”

Ace grins wider “Should I be?”

The knife in your hand stops spinning and or a split second, the air feels heavy.

Then, slowly, you smirk “Maybe? You tell me. That's what you came here for, isn't it?”

Ace laughs. Loud, bright, genuine.

And just like that, he decides that he actually finds you very attractive, and isn't letting you go so easily.

Years Later – Ace still remembers the first time he saw you fight.

He has always been the kind of guy who laughs in the face of danger.

He doesn’t hesitate to charge into battle, doesn’t flinch at the thought of death. He’s faced warlords, marines, even entire armies.

But when he saw you fighting? For the first time in his life, he felt like prey, even if you weren't fighting him.

How you moved like a phantom, striking fast, silent, merciless. How your enemies barely had time to scream before they hit the ground.

Everyone calls you terrifying. A monster. A nightmare in a human form.

And yet, right now, curled up against him, grumbling sleepily as he wraps his arms around you Ace can’t help but laugh.

You groan “What? You going crazy now?”

“You,” he teases, resting his chin on top of your head “You’re supposed to be the scariest person alive, but look at you.”

You swat at his chest “Shut up.”

Ace just grins, pulling you closer “Nah. I like reminding you.”

"You're always so annoying..." you say turning to not let him see you blush.

Because despite the way you fight, despite the way you terrify your enemies, Ace has seen what no one else has.

How you tuck into his blankets when you're alone. How you always make sure the crew eats before you do. How you fuss over him when he pretends his injuries don’t hurt.

You act all tough, all sharp edges and killing intent.

But Ace knows the truth.

You’re soft. At least, with him.

And that makes him fall for you even more.

He turn your head so that he can see you and with a smirk he says "Don't worry you're hot both ways, I don't mind your soft side at all"

Then he kiss your forehead and you try to hide again, making him laugh softly.

── .✦ Shanks:

Shanks has seen a lot in his life.

He’s fought warlords, crossed paths with the most dangerous men on the seas, and stared death in the face with a grin.

But when he meets you, he realizes he’s never met someone who could scare him and turn him on at the same time.

It happens in a crowded port town, where pirates and mercenaries walk side by side, tension thick in the air. Shanks and his crew are enjoying a round of drinks when Benn nudges him, nodding toward a shadowed corner of the bar.

“Oi, I found out that one’s got quite the reputation.”

Shanks follows his gaze and sees you.

You sit alone, posture relaxed but too still. There’s something about you... something in the way the people around you refuse to meet your eyes, in the way the bartender serves you with hands that tremble, scared to even do his own job.

The crew isn’t easily shaken, but even they seem wary.

Shanks just grins. Because if there’s one thing he can’t resist, it’s a challenge.

“Think I’ll go say hi.”

Benn sighs “Of course you will. Never doubted it.”

Shanks strolls over, drink in hand, and slides into the seat across from you without asking.

You don’t react. Just lift your gaze and meet his like you’re peering into his soul.

He whistles “You’ve got quite the stare.”

“You’ve got quite the nerve...” you reply smoothly.

Shanks chuckles “I get that a lot, actually.”

Silence stretches between you. He expects you to get annoyed, to tell him to leave, but surprisingly you don’t.

You just watch him. Measuring. Calculating. And damn if it doesn’t send a thrill up his spine.

Finally, you speak “You’re not scared of me.”

Shanks smirks, tipping his drink toward you “Should I be?”

Your eyes glint with something sharp. Dangerous. Interested.

“Maybe not, but who knows.”

Shanks leans forward, grinning “I like my odds.”

"I can see it..."

Years Later - “You’re doing it again” Benn mutters.

Shanks blinks “Doing what?”

Benn nods toward you. You’re across the deck, casually sharpening a blade, the crew giving you a very wide berth.

“You’re staring like a love-struck idiot” Benn sighs.

Shanks laughs “Can you blame me?”

Because despite years of being with you, despite knowing exactly how terrifying you can be, Shanks still finds himself completely captivated whenever you're fighting or not.

He’s seen you end fights with a single strike, watched entire battlefields fall silent at your presence. You are ruthless when necessary, the kind of person who doesn’t waste time with threats, just action.

And yet when you think no one’s watching, he sees the little things.

How you make sure the younger crew members eat first. How you adjust someone’s coat when they’re not paying attention. How, late at night, when exhaustion weighs heavy, you let yourself lean into him.

And Shanks?

He eats it up.

Because out of everyone in the world, you choose to be soft only with him.

Later that night, as you both sit on the deck watching the waves, Shanks stretches, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

You roll your eyes but don’t push him away.

He grins “Y’know, for someone so scary, you’re kinda sweet.”

You turn, raising a brow “Wanna say that again?”

Shanks chuckles “Not if I value my life, and I do.”

You smirk, leaning against him just a little.

And that small, rare gesture is worth more to him than any treasure. He's totally in your hands, can you believe it? Because even he something looks at himself and shake his own head at the thought, but at the end who cares? He's with the most attractive person out there.

── .✦ Sabo:

Sabo isn’t the type to scare easily.

He has fought world nobles, infiltrated enemy territory, and stared death in the face more times than he can count. Fear isn’t something he entertains, it’s something he’s learned to push aside, to control.

But when he meets you?

For the first time in a long while, he actually hesitates.

It happens in a revolution-friendly town, the kind of place where people whisper about rebellion but fear retaliation too much to act. Sabo’s here on business, but what he doesn’t expect is to hear a name spoken in hushed, almost fearful tones.

A name that isn’t a government official or a bounty hunter, but yours.

“Who are they?” he asks a local, intrigued.

The man pales “Someone you don’t want to cross.”

Sabo just smirks “Is that so?”

He should probably be cautious. Should probably listen to the fear in the man’s voice.

But instead, he just wants to meet you more.

You’re exactly as the rumors say. You're cold, calculating and dangerous.

When Sabo finds you, you don’t attack him. You just watch him. Still. Silent. Your presence alone feels heavy, like the weight of an unseen blade resting against his throat, daring him to make a wrong move.

Most people would crack under it.

Sabo just grins “Heard a lot about you.”

You don’t react “Likewise.”

He hums, studying you. Most would be unnerved by your unwavering stare, the cold calculation in your eyes. But Sabo finds it fascinating. Finds you fascinating.

He hums, studying you “And? What’s your verdict?”

Your eyes narrow slightly, assessing him like he’s prey “Too early to tell. I don't judge based on rumors.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, a quiet tension settling between you. Sabo knows he should be cautious, he knows he’s facing someone whose strength is being feared even among revolutionaries.

But all he can think is — Damn. They’re kinda hot.

Years Later – It’s funny.

Everyone fears you. The Revolutionary Army sees you as a force of nature, one of their strongest, deadliest members. You’re efficient in battle, merciless when necessary. People whisper about you in the same breath as high-ranking officers, speaking of you like a phantom, something to be respected, but never approached.

But Sabo sees more than just the deadly aura that makes people tread lightly.

He sees the way your eyes gleam with amusement when a mission goes exactly as planned. He sees the way you tilt your head in interest, studying your enemies as if they’re puzzles to be solved before being discarded. He sees the way you move, every motion precise, effortless, a dance with death that you never lose.

And he loves it.

Loves the sharp edges, the lethal grace, the way you make his heart race, not with fear, but with something far more intoxicating.

And yet, he also sees the moments no one else does.

You, sitting beside him late at night, absentmindedly tracing circles against his palm.

You, making sure Koala doesn’t overwork herself, leaving her favorite snacks on her desk without a word.

You, rolling your eyes but still letting Sabo pull you into a hug after a long mission, even though your reputation could probably shatter just from being seen indulging him.

“You know,” he teases one night, tilting his head, “for someone so scary, you’re kind of a softie.”

You give him a flat look “Take that back.”

Sabo laughs, eyes gleaming with challenge “Nope. Never gonna happen.”

You grumble something under your breath but don’t pull away, and he counts that as a win.

Because out of everyone in the world, he knows you’re only ever like this with him.

And as much as he adores every part of you, it’s that razor-sharp danger in your eyes, that power in your every movement, that makes his blood sing.

It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating.

And damn, does he love you for it.

── .✦ Crocodile:

Crocodile has met aaaall kinds of people.

Cowards who grovel at his feet. Fools who think they can challenge him. Liars who smile while plotting his downfall.

But you? You don’t fit into any category.

Because when he first meets you, standing over the broken bodies of bounty hunters, face calm, eyes cold, he doesn’t see fear. He doesn’t see arrogance.

He sees power.

And for the first time in a long while, he’s interested.

When in Rainbase, long after the fall of Baroque Works, Crocodile has been rebuilding, regaining influence, cutting down anyone foolish enough to think he’s lost his edge.

And then you show up.

A ghost in the desert, they call you. A storm without warning. The kind of person who doesn’t make threats, just leaves bodies in their wake.

Crocodile hears the whispers. He almost ignores them.

Until one of his men ends up dead.

Then it's when he decides it’s time to meet you himself.

He finds you in a back alley, wiping blood from your blade.

You don’t look surprised to see him.

“You’ve been causing many problems” he says, exhaling smoke.

You tilt your head, unconcerned “That depends on who you ask.”

Crocodile’s lips curl into something amused. He’s used to people trembling in his presence. But you? You just stand there, watching him with the same detached intensity one might give a corpse.

It should irritate him.

Instead, it makes his blood thrill.

“I don’t like loose ends,” he says “So tell me, why shouldn’t I kill you?”

For the first time, you smile.

Not kind. Not warm.

Just sharp. Cold. Dangerous.

“You could try, I'm happy if you try.”

The air shifts.

Crocodile’s grip on his cigar tightens. His instincts, honed from years of surviving the worst of the worst, tell him that fighting you would not be easy.

And he likes that.

Years Later – Most people don’t look him in the eye.

Most people don’t speak without permission, don’t challenge his decisions, don’t dare to stand too close.

You do all of that.

And Crocodile lets you.

Because unlike the weaklings who grovel before him, you don’t need protection. You don’t need his power to survive.

You’re strong. Cold. Unshaken by blood or war.

And that makes you the only person truly worth his time.

One night, you’re both on the balcony of his hideout, looking down at the city below.

Crocodile exhales smoke, glancing at you “Most people would rather die than be in my company.”

You don’t even blink “Most people are weak.”

He chuckles, low and dark “That so?”

You finally meet his gaze, and in your eyes, he sees something sharp. Something dangerous.

Something that matches him.

He smirks.

Because finally, after years of dealing with fools, liars, and cowards, he’s found someone who is exactly his kind of monster.

[naneki-maid]

reading interview with the vampire rn and it’s crazy because I feel like I’ve spent nearly the entirety of the novel thinking about wtf lestats problem is and now after meeting the vampires of France im like ohhh—wait. nothing was wrong with Lestat. as a matter of fact, I really wish Louis and Claudia could go back to their home in New Orleans along with Lestat, where their only real problem was the occasional existential crisis, because these vampires are trash.

[thismission]

major ofmd s2 spoilers but it’s kind of beautiful in a way to see the youngins call That character dying a “typical” bury your gays trope, in a show that is specifically about queer love filled with queer characters who have happy endings, where both casual and passionate gay affection is shown again and again, and always portrayed as something beautiful and tender and good to be embraced

[telephoniii]

REALLY…HIM?

☆彡 in which professor trein judges your relationship with the NRC boys

NRC boys x Reader (minus Ortho)

Word Counter: 3K

Warnings: Reader is Prefect, Trein is your father figure, established relationship, possible OOC

A/N: life’s getting pretty hectic so i’m sorry if my upload schedule slows down. i hope you enjoy :>

ace trappola

Can’t say he’s surprised, just disappointed. It makes sense; he was one of your first friends. However, that doesn’t make him any less troublesome. Despite being a first-year, Ace is one of the biggest slackers and troublemakers on campus— much to Trein’s dismay. His main worry is that Ace will poorly influence you. He’s already seeing it with the two of you getting a crazy amount of detentions and scoldings for unthinkable reasons. You’ve got it rough already being from another world, you don’t need a devil on your shoulder convincing you to get into all kinds of trouble. It’s a real shame said devil is your boyfriend. He’ll allow the relationship and all will seem swell. Little do you know that he pulled Ace aside and had a long chat.

deuce spade

A fine pick; Trein is neither severely impressed nor disappointed. He doesn’t think Deuce is too bad, but he believes you could do better. Deuce will need to somehow prove himself to Trein. On the outside, Trein looks like he absolutely hates his guts. His eyes are always staring at Deuce with this sharp look and it gets the card soldier real nervous real fast. In reality, it’s just Trein keeping a closer eye on him + his RBF. He’s relatively neutral on the first year, yet Deuce is fully convinced that his professor wants to set him on fire.

cater diamond

Trein is very annoyed with your choice. He doesn’t like Cater’s social media addiction and would much rather have you hit the books than scrolling through Magicam. Not to mention, he feels as though something about Cater’s happy-go-lucky attitude is a facade, and doesn’t trust him around you. Cater finds Trein scary, but he’s not as intimidated as Deuce. As he does with Ace, Trein takes Cater to have a talk, and—surprisingly— his opinions on the third year improve. He doesn’t fully like him, but he’ll tolerate Cater more so than beforehand. Cater also offers to help Trein make a social media account; it’s cute yet chaotic all the same watching them bond.

trey clover

Before Trein can form a solid thought on Trey, the vice housewarden is subtly trying to win his favor. Trey knows how about his father-like connection to you and immediately shapes up. He gifts Trein different pastries and learns which ones he’s partial to. What really wins the professor over is when Trey starts volunteering to help clean his classroom after class. Trein won’t even know the two of you are already together and he’ll make comments around you like, “That Clover boy is real nice…” Needless to say, Trein approves of Trey long before he finds out you both are in a relationship.

riddle rosehearts

Trein immediately scowls when he hears the news of your relationship. You’d think he’d approve due to Riddle’s intellect and dutiful behavior. Admittedly, Trein does like that about Riddle. But he despises the boy’s bursts of anger, finding them childish and unfitting for a future mage. He’s seen the housewarden go berserk on one too many students and doesn’t trust he won’t do the same to you. Trein doesn’t want you walking on eggshells around your own partner. This is another one who’ll have to prove themselves to Trein. Riddle will be upset when he hears of Trein’s low opinion of him, but gets a surge of motivation to convince him otherwise. You’ll find Riddle working even harder on his studies than before you didn’t even think that was possible in hopes of gaining Trein’s favor. He’ll eventually get it. I imagine that Riddle does some small, heroic deed for you that really shows his love, and Trein just so happens to be passing by and sees it. Once your unofficial official father in Twisted Wonderland gets along with Riddle, expect to be nagged about missing assignments and homework a WHOLE LOT.

jack howl

Similar to Trey, he immediately knows about your bond with Trein. Instead of trying to win over the professor, Jack takes a more blunt approach. He goes straight to his desk after class and tells him about your relationship, being upfront about his feelings towards you. Trein respects it. He thinks that Jack has more guts than most on campus and trusts him to protect you. He’s quite supportive of the relationship, acting as a mentor for the both of you. You can catch him watching the two of you with a tiny smile, murmuring something along the lines of, “Young love.” The two of you remind him of his own marriage with his late wife. It makes him sentimental in a way.

ruggie bucchi

A BIG 180 FROM JACK. Trein thinks this guy is sleazy. Ruggie couldn’t care less in the beginning, finding it funny to practically hang off your shoulder while Trein stared daggers into him. Then it started to seep in that it may or may not be important to get Trein’s approval for a long-term relationship with you. That’s when he gets his act together and completely starts sucking up to Trein. He’ll help out with paperwork, errands, cleaning up, etc! All for free! much to his dismay All Ruggie asks for in return is Trein’s support for your relationship. He catches Trein by surprise with how well his work ethic is. The lengths the hyena goes to for you ends up leaving the professor impressed.

leona kingscholar

Professor Trein is both surprised and disappointed. Now how did this happen? He didn't think Kingscholar was capable of being nice to anyone, let alone get into a whole relationship. Well, he bugs you to tell your boyfriend to start showing up to class. He’s not exactly happy with you dating a huge slacker like him, but Trein knows that Leona is a smart boy. Brash and not his first pick, sure, but he wouldn’t play with your heart or rope you into anything stupid. He trusts Kingscholar to protect you. But if he starts seeing you begin to skip class— which is going to happen, Leona’s going to make you do it at least once— he’ll pull YOU aside and give you an earful. Tough love, unfortunately.

floyd leech

Hell no. All the red blaring flags. Now why would you go and do that? Really? Out of EVERYONE? You bet your bottoms Trein is actively speaking out against your relationship every single time he sees you. He doesn't even want to try to talk to Floyd. Trein is convinced you are addicted to getting in trouble and lets out the biggest old man sigh. Is there any way Floyd can win the professor’s favor? Probably not. And if there was a way, would Floyd even do it? Big fat no. Floyd thinks it is hilarious that Professor Trein disapproves, upping his affections around him with that toothy grin of his. And if you guys have a class together that Trein teaches? Chaos. Expect a lot of paper balls to be thrown at you.

jade leech

“Are you okay??” Is the first thing Trein asks when you tell him you and Jade are in a relationship. Doesn't exactly trust the boy, but Jade tends to behave around him. The professor has always seen him being picture-perfect whenever he’s around which is 100% suspicious, but Trein doesn't have any solid reasons to disapprove. Jade, like his brother, finds the whole situation very amusing. He’s always figuring out new ways to appear like the ‘ideal boyfriend’ to Trein. If he ever talks to the professor he’ll slip in a comment like, “I never disappoint, trust me” and it makes Trein distrust him even more.

azul ashengrotto

Now what bet did you lose for this to have happened? At least Ashengrotto is a star student, you need to hang out around more of those in his opinion. After confirming that, “No, no bet was lost,” and “No, he’s not paying for my love,” Trein was pretty alright with it. The Monstro Lounge is a student-ran organization, it's clear from that the young boy is capable and responsible. He just keeps a very, very close eye on you two. The last thing Trein wants is for Azul to take advantage of you since— knowing him— he seems like the type to do so. Expect frequent questions of “How’s your relationship going?” and “He’s treating you right, right?” Azul is going to get asked to stay after class to talk. Trein then proceeds to threaten lecture him on how to properly treat your lover. He just wants to make sure you don't get wrapped up in one of those contracts he’s heard about. Azul has quite the track record.

kalim al asim

Automatically assumes you’re dating him for the money and begins to ramble about how you should marry for love. Tells you about his late wife and how much he loved her— it is so sweet I'm actually crying. That's the kind of love he wants you to have. You’ve got to reassure him that, “Yes, my certified father figure, I do love him very much and I’m not just in it for the money.” After that talk, he finds the relationship sweet but kind of concerning. Kalim is a nice boy but severely naive and, frankly, incompetent. Trein starts to go a little harder on Kalim in class, not that he was going easy anyway. He scrutinizes the essays he turns in and chastises him for missing an assignment. As he watches you kiss Kalim on the cheek after getting an A, Trein can only sigh and think, “He’s lucky he’s rich.”

jamil viper

Trein’s pretty okay with him. He’s a level-headed guy with passable grades and the title of a vice housewarden. However, the professor did hear about his Overblot and does think that there's more beneath the surface. He doesn't judge him for his Overblot, no. But Trein does keep a closer eye on him to make sure he isn't scheming anything involving you. The professor also tries to push him to do better academically. He’s heard from you about how smart Jamil truly is and can see his potential, so he tries to get him to stop holding back. Jamil is a little appreciative of it and respects Trein as your father figure, but still isn't a fan of sticking out. Nor does he plan on giving into Trein’s attempts.

epel felmier

Is fine with the relationship at first. He was polite, soft-spoken, and a part of Pomfiore. Most students belonging to that dorm are pompous, but respectful nonetheless. Then Epel’s true nature comes out and Trein is constantly reprimanding him for horseplay. It's kinda funny how surprised Trein is by Epel’s country toughness. The professor definitely had his suspicions— nobody at NRC is innocent, he’s learned every student here has some sort of dark side— but he definitely wouldn't have expected this. A part of Trein actually prefers him like this. You are dating someone with a backbone who will defend you. He encourages Epel to be himself around him, promising a judgment-free area. They get along pretty well surprisingly, with Trein being a sort of mentor to him. Overall, very sweet and Trein approves.

rook hunt

In the most blunt way possible, Trein tells you, “Your boyfriend weirds me out.” He thinks Rook is an oddball for sure. No way around it. Is half convinced Rook is stalking him. Because he is. When you explained to your boyfriend about the bond you had with Professor Trein, he got way too intrigued and ended up ‘watching’ Trein like he does to Leona. It's not until the professor makes a passing comment about being paranoid that he’s being watched that you realized, “Oh shit my boyfriends stalking you.” You don't say that to him— you don't want Rook getting in trouble. So you settle on having a really long talk with Rook about it who reassures you he’d never disturb your father figure or the absolutely beautiful bond between the two of you. He still worries you sometimes when he goes missing and randomly reappears by walking out of Trein’s classroom.

vil schoenheit

Trein worries that Vil won’t make the time for you. He’s aware that Schoenheit is a busy boy as he’s missed his class plentiful in the past. He’ll make Vil stay after class for a little to talk to him about it, giving him a fatherly warning about being ready to fully commit to a relationship and the time it takes to manage one. Vil is, admittedly, insulted that Trein doubts his ability to wholeheartedly love you but takes it in stride. He sees this as a sign to up his game in the romance department and properly does so, dedicating more time to pampering you. The professor expresses his concerns to his coworker, Crewel, who talks his ear off about how much of a “good pup” Vil is and that he won't disappoint. Trein can’t help but agree when he spots you walking into class looking more freshened with slight makeup on and a new hair-do that Vil definitely did for you.

idia shroud

Once you break the news to Trein, he immediately asks to meet with Idia one-on-one. The blue-haired student rarely shows up to class! And that iPad isn't going to cut it forever! He needs to be able to size him up in person. Idia, naturally, is scared to death. At first, he immediately declines, insisting that they don't really need to meet up, the whole idea is stupid, and it’ll be fine if he stays right there in his room. Then you sit down with him and tell him how important Trein is to you and… sigh You landed a natural 20 on the dice of persuasion. Idia can’t believe he's doing this. You’re beside him the whole time as he stutters in front of Trein. Is Trein impressed? No, not at all. Yet your confidence in the Shroud and constant praise is reassuring. The professor’s going to make you force Idia into showing up in person in class. His attendance rivals Leona's.

sebek zigvolt

Doesn't really care for Sebek despite the first year's desperate attempts at trying to impress him. Sebek lost him after he started talking about Malleus when Trein asked about you. Ever since then, it’s just been him trying to win him back to no prevail. Kinda sad to watch. He’ll be the biggest gentleman ever: rushing to doors to open them for Trein, scrubbing his whole classroom for him from top to bottom, and yelling at other students to be quiet— though he was pretty much doing that before you two even got together. But every time Sebek gets close to winning the professor’s favor, he ends up going on a tangent about how amazing his liege is, and we're back at square one. You’ve got to rub him on the back and kiss him on the cheek while telling him, “Trein will come around one day!” Even if that day never comes.

silver

Not a fan. He’s witnessed Silver fall asleep in his class one too many times and thinks it's disrespectful. Once you tell Silver, he’s upset as it's not exactly something he can change, but will put in extra effort not only in Trein’s class but in all his classes. He studies with you beside him so you can prevent him from falling asleep when you see him get all drowsy-eyed. Trein immediately takes note of Silver’s hard work and grit as the boy passes his class with flying colors while asking if there’s anything he could do to help him after hours. It's only when he hears from his fellow teachers that Silver has been doing exceptionally well is he actually impressed. Afterwards, Trein will start being more understanding of Silver’s constant sleeping. He won't be any less strict, but he won’t lay into him for it as hard as before since learning it's out of Silver’s control. Trein thinks rather positively of your relationship, comparing it to the ones in the fairytales.

lilia vanrouge

A bit disturbed, to say the least. Lilia is older than him after all. Trein tried to keep a close eye on the two of you, but Lilia always caught him and pursued a staring match. Trein was always the first to look away. Lilia finds it entertaining. He tries to play tiny tricks on the professor, but you stop him at the very last minute. You sit down and try to explain that you deeply care about Trein and, by extension, what Trein thinks of him. Lilia proceeded to suggest that he brings Trein some cookies to win him over to which you immediately say no. Honestly, I don’t see Trein really ever warming up to Lilia. He just pretends the old bat doesn't exist and isn't your boyfriend. Lilia finds that incredibly funny while you're dying inside.

malleus draconia

The fact you were able to get close to the Draconia is an impressive feat to Trein. However, future ruler of Briar Valley or not, he intends to make sure that Malleus treats you right. Right when you tell Malleus that Trein is basically your father, the fae goes straight to the professor, confesses to him about your relationship, and swears to take good care of you with this ominous tone. Trein isn’t very fond of Malleus at first, struggling to decipher whether or not that introduction was genuine. It isn't until you go to him after class, gushing about the late-night walk you went on with Malleus yesterday and shoving cute little polaroid photos in his face does Trein begin to trust the fae. He makes sure to scold you for not being asleep at that time, yes, but he stares at one of the photographs for way too long, imagining you and Malleus as him and his late wife for a moment. A small smile appears on his face. However, he can’t help but think that the two of you are down a similar path; the happiest marriage ever, kids, and one lover outliving the other. A tragedy, but he’ll let you enjoy it while it lasts just like he did. As long as you’re happy.

[poisonf0rest]

Between Flames and Shadows

♱⋅── sylus x reader x rafayel

♱⋅── about: Rafayel agreed to smuggle you into the N109 Zone, unwittingly thrusting you into danger and the arms of an even more dangerous man, Sylus— who you promised your soul to long ago. Just as you had promised Rafayel your heart. And now they both want what you have so cruelly denied them.

♱⋅── word count: 10.6k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, threesome, pwp, enemies to lovers, jealousy, bondage, exhibisionism, voyeurism, size kink (sylus is big), mating bites/bond, double penetration, minor breeding kink, another horribly nasty duo

art credit to @/sakimenz on x, dividers by @cafekitsune

It’s been six days, fourteen hours, and three minutes since you’ve last contacted Rafayel. 

Not that he’s been counting.

Again, he flips his phone around, scrolling through dozens of notifications, and not bothering to read a single one as he fails yet again to find your name among them. A scowl, and he tosses his phone across the couch. Insane doesn’t begin to describe the spiral Rafayel has descended into since you infiltrated the N109 Zone— since he reluctantly agreed to set you up as bait and watched you get taken away. 

Since he made a deal with the devil on your behalf. 

“The Nest, you actually got it? How?” 

“You doubted me, cutie?”

“Doubt?” You snort, rolling your eyes as you yank Rafayel closer by the collar, gaze flickering from his lips, eyes, and back again. Leaning in closer, you wait until Rafayel’s eyes nearly flutter shut before pulling back, snatching the invitation from his hands with a smirk. “Never, fishie.”

Rafayel now wishes you had. Wishes he finally kissed you, wishes he never let you go. At least, not alone. 

The memories and regrets tug at him so violently that he can’t stand it, every “what if” fear blending in with shattered memories of you dying before him in lives past, bloody and heart torn from your chest as he’s doomed to chase after you again and again and again. 

Rafayel stands abruptly, chair falling back with a bang. 

Fuck it, he’s going after you. 

The damned N109 Zone never changes. 

Different venues, different gang names, different “world-ending” weapons. But even after several millennia, the greed and stupidity of humankind remains forever stagnant and forever their greatest weakness. That, and the nauseating smell of gunpowder and whiskey. 

It all makes Rafayel’s stomach roll, and he thumbs at his tie, slacking against his neck before he snatches a glass of champagne from a waiter. Unsurprisingly he does recognize a handful of faces, some from his own gallery exhibitions, others as past targets, or grandchildren of someone he used to know. Not that any of them mattered.

He walked down a hallway filled with Protocores leading up to the banquet hall, and yet strangely enough every last one was bought for an exorbitant amount, even the smallest fragment that barely emitted any kind of energy. What kind of idiot…

Rafayel’s frown deepens, and he shoots down yet another glass, moving from champagne to whiskey as he winces from the burn. 

Then, Rafayel spots you.

You’re alive. 

You’ve alive and you look absolutely fucking gorgeous, prowling across the auction in a cocktail dress, fabric dark enough that it only shimmers a deep red when you dance from spotlight to spotlight. 

Before he even realizes it, he’s running. Trying and failing for it to look as natural as possible, slamming into a waiter and mumbling out an apology as he rushes to your side, nearly dashing onto the dance floor when the shadows seem to lunge– growing and shifting and laughing in an ancient language Rafayel can barely understand as something else steps out from them. And wraps a clawed hand around your waist.

Another man, infuriatingly tall and reeking of the sky and ashes, his hair bleached the same pale color, leans down to whisper something into your ear as you laugh. Laugh. 

And gods new and old, Rafayel sees red. 

Rafayel’s breath catches, chest tightening with a fury so raw it feels like it might crack him open. The din of laughter and clinking glasses becomes a dull roar in his ears, drowned out by the pounding of his heart. He barely registers the heat raging down his veins, a warning that his restraint is fraying faster than he can piece it together.

An uproar of murmuring steals your attention away from Sylus, and you finally allow your fake smile to drop.

Only for your jaw to fall entirely as you see Rafayel standing only a couple of meters away, violent white flames licking against his fingertips as other guests begin to gather. 

What the fuck is he doing here. 

“Rafayel.” Your voice cuts through him, hissing in warning. But the sound of it— alive, steady, and wholly unimpressed— does nothing to soothe him. If anything, it stokes the fire.

Sylus turns slowly, his lips curling into a lazy smile. When his eyes land on Rafayel, something flickers in the depths of his right pupil. “Oh?” he drawls, voice dripping with amusement, “Looks like you picked up a stray, kitten.”

The nickname grates against your nerves, but it’s nothing compared to the way Rafayel reacts. His flames flare brighter, casting eerie shadows across the room as his fists clench. “Take your hand off her.” 

More patrons are beginning to notice. 

Sylus’s grip on your waist doesn’t waver. Instead, he tilts his head, “Her? Oh, you must mean my companion for tonight.” He shifts slightly, leaning down as if to make a point, his hands brushing against the small of your back, right where the silk meets bare skin. “I think you have it mistaken though, she’s the one who practically dragged me here. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and frustration coursing through you. You force yourself to step between them, planting a hand firmly against Rafayel’s chest before he can close the distance. Thankfully, it makes the flames sputter down to a dull glow in his palms. 

“Stop,” you hiss. “What the hell are you doing here, Rafayel?”

His eyes lock onto yours, wild and burning with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. “I came for you,” he snaps as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, congratulations,” you snort, “you found me.” Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the glint of recognition in the eyes of more than a few guests. “And so has everyone else I’ve been trying to avoid.”

Rafayel doesn’t flinch, his gaze darting briefly to Sylus before returning to you. “I don’t care about them,” he mutters, brows furrowing. “I care about you. I never should have left you, let you go. Come back with me.”

Before you can even respond a deep chuckle cuts through, Sylus stepping forward as he tucks you into his side and reaches around to place a hand on Rafayel’s shoulder. Pinning you between them. “Touching. But you should know better than to interrupt our business, artist.”

Rafayel’s flames reignite instantly, searing white-hot as he shoves Sylus’s hand off his shoulder. “I already told you to get your hands off her,” he growls, stepping forward, entire body radiating heat as he’s mere inches from Sylus’s face.

“Or what?” Sylus taunts smoothly, something in his eye flashing with amusement. “You’ll set this whole place on fire? Very subtle. I can see why you’re such a popular target.”

Target? You linger on it longer than you should've, pieces about Rafayel’s surprising knowledge about the N109 Zone and Sylus’s insistence on resonating as your partner begins to swirl around again. That is, until you physically feel the heat from Rafayel’s flames begin to char into the wooden floorboards. 

“Stop it, both of you!”

Snapping, both of their heads whip down to you as you struggle to shove them apart. “You’re drawing attention. Do you want to blow this mission completely?”

“Mission?” Rafayel scoffs, his gaze snapping back to you. “If this was a mission, why would you agree to work with him?” He tilts his chin to Sylus, who simply shrugs, shadows flickering and rising at his back. Shit. 

“Her choice, really,” Sylus says, voice dripping with false sincerity. “Not that I blame her. All bark and no bite, aren’t you, puppy?”

Rafayel goes deathly still.

So Sylus allows himself to step closer, chest now pressing up against your bare back, the gesture irritatingly casual. Intimate. “It must be exhausting,” he continues, “Running around, chasing after scraps of attention. Does she even notice? Or is this just another case of unrequited devotion?”

“Say that again,” Rafayel growls, flames licking up his palm.

Sylus grins wider, clearly enjoying every second. Enjoying his reactions. “Oh, I’m sorry, did that strike a nerve? You must be used to following orders by now, so tell me, does she ever let you off leash, or do you only bark when commanded?”

“Sylus,” you snap again, cutting off whatever retort Rafayel has ready. You glance around, realizing the murmuring crowd has turned into a full-fledged audience, their gazes sharp and curious. “You’re both acting like children. The target—”

The sound of shattering glass cuts you off.

You whip your head around, just in time to see a hooded figure perched atop an overturned table. A small, cylindrical case glints in their hand, and your blood turns cold as you feel the overwhelming pulse of an unleashed Aether Core. 

“Run!”

The word barely leaves your mouth before the world explodes.

A deafening boom shatters through the venue, blast wave throwing you backward. The force knocks the air from your lungs, glass and debris raining down like jagged confetti. You hit the ground hard, pain shooting through your side as the heat of the explosion sears your skin.

Through the haze of smoke and ringing in your ears, you catch fragmented images: chandeliers crashing to the floor, tables splintered, and guests scrambling for cover and weapons as gunshots ring out.

Sylus is a blur of movement, his shadows coiling and slashing through the chaos. Rafayel is kneeling beside you, flames erupting instinctively to shield both of you, looking down with wide eyes.

“Get—” you try to shout, but another powerful wave of the protocore squeezes your heart, and your vision blurs as you heave for breath.

The last thing you see is Sylus stepping over Rafayel’s crumpled form, hauling him over one shoulder before beginning to carry you, too.

Then, nothing.

It’s cold. 

The explosion. The Aether Core. Sylus. Rafayel.

A gasp tears from your lips as you jolt awake, your body reacting before your mind catches up. The world spins in protest as you try and sit up, chest heaving like it’s trying to claw back air that’s been ripped away. Spinning, the world is still spinning as control of your body returns to you—pain prickles along your limbs, your skin freezing against the stiff leather beneath you.

Blinking hard, you push up on trembling arms, the faint scent of dust and something metallic clogging your nose. The ache in your skull is relentless, pulse hammering against your temples. You’re not in the banquet hall anymore. There’s no fire, no rubble, no echoing gunshots. 

Instead, shadows claw at the corners of a room you don’t recognize. Empty walls of an office greet you, dark and seemingly abandoned with an unlit fireplace, heavy drapes smothering the windows, and a lavish seating area you’re in the midst of with a couch, coffee table, and—

Someone’s there.

Slumped in a leather chair near the fireplace, head tilted at an unnatural angle, is… “Rafayel.”

You call out to him in a gasp, a raw mix of relief and dread. His head hangs low, chin brushing his chest, his arms seemingly tied behind his back. For one desperate, fleeting moment, you think he’s asleep. But the light catches on something wrong, something warping along his body. 

Shadows.

They slither down his chest and around his legs, dark, writhing tendrils of unnatural energy that pulse and coil, anchoring him to the chair. They’re the only thing keeping his unconscious form upright, taut and unyielding, glowing faintly at the edges with an unmistakably familiar red glow. 

“Relax, he’s not dead.”

The voice is a smooth drawl, and your head whips around to find a heavy desk in the center of the office, and of course, the origin of the voice seated at the head of the desk, arms crossed as he watches you with an amused smirk.

“What did you do, Sylus?”

Your hands instinctively go for your guns but only brush against empty holsters instead. Weaponless, you stumble off the couch, placing yourself between Rafayel and the still-seated man as you glare down at him. 

Sylus doesn’t even flinch. If anything, your anger only seems to amuse him further. 

“We had a chat while you were sleeping.” With a sigh, he rises from his chair, every movement exuding practiced ease as he encircles the desk, making his way to you. A crow circling a corpse. “Turns out you’ve been keeping more from me than I thought. That, and your memory truly is terrible.”

Sylus stops just short of you, tilting his head back as his eyes roam your face, his grin growing sharper, fang peaking out. “Not one but two immortals? You certainly are greedy, aren’t you, kitten?”

Your stomach twists. 

Nothing he’s saying makes sense, but the words cut into your gut regardless. Like a broken promise, like an old wound. “Let him go, Sylus. Now.”

But Sylus doesn’t move. He stands there, tapping a hand to his chin, studying you with a look that makes your heart throb, his right eye beginning to glow a crimson red. Amusement flickers behind his eyes, but there’s something else, too. Something darker.

“Twice,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his gaze slipping briefly to Rafayel’s bound form. “Twice, you’ve cursed those who thought themselves unstoppable. Twice, you’ve bound your heart and soul.” His eyes snap back to yours, glinting with a sharp, cruel edge. “Not that you’d remember.”

Almost like he’s in pain. You stiffen, breath catching in your throat.

“Humans,” Sylus continues, the word dripping with scorn. “So quick to lay claim to what they desire, so insatiably greedy.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, heavy with mockery, hands ghosting down your side as you shiver despite yourself. “And you, sweetie, are no different.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A chuckle, “Of course you don’t.”

Sylus fights the urge to laugh. No wonder the god of the ocean itself followed you around like a lovesick puppy— Sylus was hardly taking it any better, but at least he just had the self-control to hide his obsession.

A strained groan echoes through the room, low and guttural. Your head snaps toward Rafayel, the sight of his head lifting weakly making your heart lurch. His hair is matted with sweat, and when he looks up, his sunset eyes are furious blue, darker than the ocean itself, narrowing to slits as the shadows twist tighter around his body. 

There’s a moment, just a heartbeat, where you see something raw in his gaze. Relief. Desperation. And then, it’s gone, replaced by a scowl that’s as sharp as any blade.

“Well, look who’s awake,” Sylus hums, and you nearly collapse in relief, turning to rush to Rafayel’s side when something stops you halfway. 

Two simple threads of shadow chain you down, dragging you back to Sylus as the other binds your hands behind you, unaffected by your sudden thrashing. In faux comfort, Sylus curls an arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace as the other rests against your ribs, drawing comforting circles against your tattered dress—the once pristine silk only just gifted to you destroyed with gashes and holes from the explosion and chaos that followed.

Rafayel’s lip curls, his voice a growl despite the rasp of exhaustion. “Should’ve known a snake would take a deal and twist it. This is your plan? This is what you call a friendly competition?” 

Sylus tilts his head, his smirk turning predatory. “Careful, puppy. You’ll get your turn, I never specified who went first.”

Silence. 

You feel like you’re playing catch-up, each word only adding to the confusion as the tension grows thick enough to choke on.

And then Rafayel laughs. His entire body shakes with it, head thrown back against the chair he’s still bound to, laughing and laughing until he’s all but spitting flames. They erupt from his palms, climbing down the marble floors, vibrant pinks and reds curling into empty air as shadows dance to put them out. 

Sylus doesn’t release you, though his fingers twitch against your ribs as the flames light up the room. His smirk falters just slightly, replaced by something harder to read—a flicker of recognition, perhaps, or respect.

Rafayel’s laughter fades, his head rolling forward again as if it took everything in him to laugh at all. When his eyes meet Sylus’s, they’re cold and dark, an abyss in the ocean.

“You really think this will win her back?” Rafayel spits, tremors of barely-contained fury ripping through him as he struggles against the tendrils that hold him. The shadows only tighten in response. His glare cuts to you, begging. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a liar, a snake. All those ugly cold-blooded beasts do is lie.”

Sylus snorts, hugging you closer as the low scoop back of your dress causes your skin to brush against his chest. “Lie? Are you always this dramatic?” He tilts his head, mocking. “Perhaps you should’ve asked about the rules before we began. Backing out already?”

Flames spark from Rafayel’s body again, this time uncontrolled, swirling in frantic spirals like an inferno around him. His body trembling against the leather. “Release me then! Let me go first, let me show you she doesn’t need you. She’ll remember me.”

“You’re awfully bold for someone tied to a chair.” 

Sylus leans down to graze your neck with his lips, tilting his head like he’s savoring the sight of Rafayel’s frustration as he whispers into your ear just loud enough for him to hear. “Your puppy never stops barking, does he.”

Rafayel takes the bait, fire searing through wood, flickering in and out. “She’s not yours to take,” he seethes, shadows and flames casting violent shadows across the room. “Not yours.”

This is beyond ridiculous. 

You try and jerk away from Sylus, forgetting about the shadowy tendrils also holding you in place. Instead, you settle for pushing Sylus back with your bound arms, glaring at the both of them bickering like feral cats once again. “Both of you, stop! Whatever grudge you have with each other, leave me out of it!”

Sylus chuckles, the sound low and unnerving. “Leave you out of it? Oh, kitten, you’ve always been at the very center. You just don't remember yet.” His hand slips from your ribs to lift your chin, tilting your face toward his as he gazes down at you with something almost… reverent. “But don’t worry, we’ll help you remember everything.”

His words send a pang through you, a strange and unbidden ache that threatens to consume you from the inside out. You’re left suspended between them, chest heaving, mind a whirlwind of confusion and doubt. And yet, somewhere deep inside, you can feel it—an echo of something ancient and unshakable, something you don’t understand. Something they both seem to know.

That alone seems to calm Rafayel, at least, for long enough that Sylus can bind his hands together, unable to conjure any more flames before gagging him with a veil of shadows too. Something that immediately sends the man into a frenzy as he curses and squirms against the restraints. 

“What are– Sylus, release him right now—”

“Relax.”

You’re also being hoisted higher up into the air, feet barely touching the floor as your arms strain above your head. “He’s simply upholding his part of the deal. Besides, he’s not the one who deserves to be punished tonight. That, sweetie, would be you.”

But before you can rebuke, a huff of hot breath caresses your neck, Sylus humming against your ear as you shiver involuntarily. “You can’t blame me. After all, you’re quite cruel to curse both of us and then go about forgetting entirely.” 

Sylus drags his hand down your ribs, thumb catching a rip in your dress as he tears it all the way down until his fingers reach the bare plush of your thigh. His grip tightens, and your sudden moan startles you nearly as much as it does the other two, shaking and needy at barely a touch, your body pulled upwards by Sylus’s shadows as you’re now balanced precariously between his hold and the brush of your toes against the floor. 

“Tell me, does it hurt? That part of you that used to belong to us?”

The sensation is so foreign, the warmth and gentleness of his touch such a contrast to the cruelty he's displayed, but your traitorous body welcomes the contrast, leaning into his palm. “What are you talking about?” Your voice is shaky, unconvincing even to yourself. “I don’t—”

“Oh, you don’t remember,” Sylus cuts in, mockery dripping from his words. “But your body does. That’s the funny thing about bonds, darling. They don’t care about your memories. They care about promises. The ones you made. The ones you broke.”

You can feel the heat of Rafayel's gaze on you, watching as Sylus slowly runs his hand up your leg, the heat of his touch deliciously contrasted by the cool iron of his rings, making you shudder as they circle the tender flesh of your inner thigh. You fall forward, pulling against the restraints, unable to resist the urge to push into his touch.

Behind you, Rafayel lets out a muffled roar, thrashing against his binds. His fury burns through the room, flames licking at the air around him, casting wild, flickering light that illuminates the shadows writhing against his skin. Even gagged, his expression a storm of conflict, boring into Sylus with a fire that refuses to be smothered.

“See how desperate he gets?” Sylus laughs, his breath hot against your ear. “Always so loud, so needy. So quick to burn himself, like that’ll make you notice him more.”

Rafayel’s muffled snarl grows louder, and the flames around him surge, threatening to overwhelm the shadows keeping him bound. He jerks forward, the chair groaning under his strength, his entire body trembling with the effort.

Sylus smirks, unbothered, even amused. “Careful, puppy. Else I might think you’re trying to cheat.”

You wrench yourself away from Sylus’s grip as much as the shadows will allow, suddenly aware of how exposed you are with your torn dress.

“Cheat at what?” Thrashing, you try to slip from the restraints, which only has Sylus’s Evol squeezing tighter, pulling your wrists from behind your back to up in the air.  “Let us go, now.”

“Feisty,” Sylus purrs, hand moving from your thigh to your jaw. Squeezing your cheeks between his forefinger and thumb, he wrenches your gaze off Rafayel, forcing your neck to crane up to look him in the eye as he presses up against your back.

“That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? Always resisting, even when you don’t know why.” His lips quirk into a wicked smile. “In that case, say no.”

And then Sylus’s lips are on yours, warm and insistent.

Your eyes widen, a muffled sound of surprise rising in your throat as the warmth of his kiss spreads across your lips. It’s instinct, the way your body immediately leans into his embrace, desire and confusion tearing at your chest. 

The logical part of you wants to pull away, but oh, something deep inside you sings so sweetly at his touch, making your mind fuzzy and body hot as Sylus tilts your head to the side. The angle has your neck screaming in protest, trapped between Sylus’s possessive grip on your neck and his chest, yet you swear it’s the dichotomy between the pain of his grasp and the devotion of his lips that has you addicted.  

This close, his scent is entirely intoxicating, a heady mix of spices and smoke, breath hot against your mouth, his lips surprisingly soft, gentle against yours. He doesn’t rush, a low, contented noise humming in his chest as you deepen the kiss, already licking against his bottom lip as you crane your neck for more, grinding back against him as best you can with your arms now bound above you. 

You don’t even realize you’re doing it. 

The bond with Sylus purrs in realization, and he has to summon up every ounce of strength and control left to break away, groaning into your skin as his lips trailing along your jaw, down to your neck, teeth grazing every spot that makes you shiver, and yet refusing to sink in. Refusing to mark you as his own. Not yet. 

When Sylus finally pulls back, you're panting, flushed and breathless. An absolute mess. 

"You're fussy, kitten," he murmurs, panting, his large frame practically surrounding you, heaving as you stumble forward under the weight. "But if you want more, you need to answer me."

"I don’t understand.” You’re panting, and fuck, it’s hard to breathe. ”What does this have to do with…"

The hand not busy laying claim to your throat travels down to meet the rip in your dress, brushing across your bare ribs. You feel Sylus smile into the nape of your neck as you moan at the icy burn of his rings caressing the flushed skin of your chest, his hand large enough to cup the entirety of the poor, sensitive flesh. 

That is, until his touch retreats entirely, the searing heat of his presence replaced with an empty chill. 

“Yes or no?” Sylus’s voice is low, rough, and commanding, but there’s a crack in his tone that gives him away. “I need to hear it, kitten. I need to hear you say you want this.”

You groan, head lolling forward, feeling the last shreds of your resolve crumble. It’s almost too much to bear, shadows coiled around you like velvet chains, holding you upright even as your strength falters. 

Why were you even fighting in the first place? The thought slips from your grasp, fleeting as a wisp of smoke. You can barely recall why you’re mad at them, at Sylus, at Rafayel. The failed mission, the target slipping away…it all feels inconsequential now, eclipsed by the molten desire in your chest.

Did you not want them both? Did you not dream of this? Did you not die for this? 

The flicker of Sylus’s red eye pierces through the dark, pulling you out of your own thoughts and anchoring you back to this reality as you feel the rumble of his laugh vibrate through your chest even though he’s no longer touching you. You wish he were. 

“Then say it.” You hear him step closer, but still refusing to touch you. “Say you want this, or else it stops.”

And then it’s back.

A violent surge tears through your chest, flashes of color—of memories—fluttering by in a tempest, in an unintelligible inferno as the burning within your heart returns tenfold. Images flash too fast to comprehend, but the feelings linger: love so deep it swallowed you whole, betrayal like a knife twisting in your ribs, desire that turned your world to ash. 

They ripple through you, each thread of memory, each red string of fate tying itself tighter to your soul.

You’re gasping, trying to grip your chest as it feels like your heart is going to burst from your chest, desperate for relief. But Sylus’s Evol makes it impossible to move, snaking down your body instead as it anchors you against the pain attempting to seize your entire being. 

You want them. 

You need them. 

After all, they were always yours.

"Yes."

The word tumbles out, barely audible, a whispered confession that feels like release and surrender all at once.

Control returns to you in waves, your body trembling as if it’s been dragged from the brink of collapse. Your thighs quiver, and even the hold of Sylus’s Evol isn’t enough to stop the shuddering. Everything burns. Gods, everything burns. 

Behind you, Sylus makes a low sound that only makes the shaking worse. It’s raw, guttural—a noise you feel rather than hear. His control is unraveling, and for the first time, you realize he’s as close to breaking as you are.

He’s trembling.

Even with his iron control, even with his Evol wrapping around you like armor, he can’t stop the way his fingers hover just shy of your skin, tracing the curve of your neck, your spine, your waist, like he’s memorizing you. And he’s close—too close. 

His breath is hot against the nape of your neck, and you can feel the tension radiating from him, maintaining that invisible barrier as he replays your ‘yes’ in his mind again and again and again.

“What was that?” His voice is a rough whisper, but the challenge is clear. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yes!” You nearly yell it this time, humiliation burning across your cheeks, but it’s dwarfed by the heat of your desire. ”I said yes.”

Sylus lets out a broken sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and every reason he’s had to hold back shatters. His Evol ripples, shadows weaving around your body in a dark embrace. Hands fly to your hips, a palm squeezing your thigh as your left leg is lifted completely off the ground. 

Sylus inhales you in greedy mouthfuls, lips dancing down your neck, your shoulder blade, nipping into the skin, reverent and desperate in equal measure. This new position was beyond vulnerable, Sylus forcing your quivering thigh higher and higher until it presses into your chest, the crude slice in your dress providing absolutely no resistance or chance for modesty, allowing everything to be exposed to the chill of the office’s midnight air. 

And to the hungry gaze of the man seated before you. 

"So needy, kitten. Are you finally remembering?” Sylus coos against your ear, but his smirk is fixed on Rafayel, looking directly at him as his free hand trails down between the slits of fabric, toying with the lace band of your panties, long, rough fingers slipping under them in teasing circles. “Beg.”

“What?” You hate the way your voice quivers as Sylus teases your cunt through the thin, already-drenched fabric. “You’re out of your—ah, fucking—mind, Sylus.”

“Quite the opposite. After all, we have an audience to impress.” A sudden slap against your clothed pussy has you moaning, jolting against your restraints, futile, and yet the disturbance is just enough for the left strap of your dress to slip off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your breast just shy of the nipple that was no doubt already hard enough to peek through the sheer silk all on its own. 

“Go on, beg for me.”

You don’t even get a chance to argue, not when Sylus delivers another harsh slap on your clit, soothing it with a cruel swirl, just enough to have you chasing the friction, grinding down against his palm with a choked sob. His middle two fingers tease against your slit, teasing but never breaching as the soaked fabric is stretched around his digits. He’s breaking you, and it’s working. 

"...Please." It comes out in a whine, and you bury your face in his chest as you feel yourself burn in embarrassment. 

A hum and Sylus’s hand leaves your cunt, making you whine at the loss. That is, until it's replaced on your neck, pushing your head up. A squeeze. "I said beg."

The pressure of his hold and the sweet demand of his voice only makes you wetter despite yourself. "Please," you repeat, shaking, each breath cut off just slightly by his thumb. "Please, Sylus, need it."

At first you think the bastard is doing this for himself, but as soon as you finish gasping out the words, his hand moves from your neck to your hair, pulling your head back and forcing you to look across the room. 

Forcing you to look right at Rafayel.

Still bound and gagged, desperate doesn’t begin to describe him. Straining against his bounds, Rafayel’s entire body is shaking, trembling from either need or fury, gripping the leather until his knuckles turn white. Sunset eyes are glassy, blown out with unshed tears as they struggle to focus on everywhere Sylus touches you, the bruises against your neck, the quiver in your leg, the slick dripping down your thighs up to your clothed cunt.

Fuck, he’s hard. Rafayel’s cock strains painfully against his pants, an obvious dark spot tented up against his trousers, rocking against empty air with a muffled sob.

He looks more wrecked than you, and he hasn’t even been touched yet.

And that realization does horrible, terrible things to you. 

“Please. Need you, need it s’bad it hurts. Wanna cum so, so badly, please,” you whine, deliberately sweet, locking eyes with Rafayel as you drag out your moan. “Sylus.”

There’s a click of a belt buckle and you’re being lifted up into the air. Sylus holds you up by the backs of your knees, completely at his mercy as your hands flail against the restraints pulled taut above your head. Your legs are spread wide, hugged tight to his chest as you feel his length, hot and desperate, pressing into your ass. 

"Hold her down."

The shadows pull taut, wrapping around your knees as they allow Sylus’s hands to wander elsewhere, suspending you against him. At the same time, his fingers are hooked against your panties, snapping them against your weeping cunt and giving Rafayel the perfect view as the two men lock eyes.

Rafayel’s reaction is almost immediate, falling forward in the chair, moans stifled against the shadows as he watches Sylus push your panties to the side and then, without warning, thrust two fingers in knuckle-deep. 

"You're so sensitive, aren't you, sweetie? Or is it because he’s watching?" As you cry the man simply drags you flush against his chest, forcing your legs higher as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. And looks Rafayel dead in the eyes. “She’s taking me so well, isn’t she?”

Sylus follows Rafayel’s gaze, unfocused and starving as he watches the two of you, more specifically, where your cunt greedily sucks up Sylus’s fingers, meeting every grind and curl of him deep inside you as you writhe against his chest. 

Rafayel hates it, he hates it, and he hates how turned on he is at the sight.

You’re so easy, walls clenching around his digits, obscene suck following each and every movement as clear evidence even as your words fail you. With another curl of his fingers, Sylus twists his wrist, admiring the glint of your slick dripping down his palm and forearm. So wet, even as he purposefully avoids giving you what you’re seeking, planning to drive you insane before fucking you in any way that matters.

A particularly deep thrust of Sylus’s fingers has him grazing that sweet spot, and your entire body convulses, your cries echoing across the empty room in time to the lewd, wet squelches of Sylus’s ministrations. You're sobbing, struggling to find respite from the sensations as your legs tremble and familiar heat coils in your core embarrassingly fast. 

"Ah, ah," Sylus chides, and his touch disappears, leaving you empty and unsatisfied as your head lolls back against his shoulder. It takes all of your willpower not to beg him to keep going, but the look on his face makes it clear you're not allowed.

"I need—”

"You need," his grip is firm, "To learn patience. Aren’t you forgetting something? If you cum so quickly, do you really think you’ll be able to handle the both of us?"

Sylus says that, and yet he’s not exactly helping. Finally giving attention to your clit, his pace is merciless, the slick sounds of your pussy sucking his fingers in making his cock twitch in his pants.

"Yes. Yes, Sylus, I want ah– wait," you gasp, unable to move, squirming in the air as you look directly at Rafayel, almost in a plea. But that only makes the poor man almost cum at the eye contact. His entire body flushes an erotic pink at the sight of you, pathetic whimpers and unintelligible praises muffled into the shadows.

Sylus smirks, feeling you clench around his fingers, and grinds forward, your protests dissolving into static as you feel his cock grind between your thighs. Fuck, you’re close.

But Sylus isn’t looking down at you, not anymore. He’s rather focused on the poor man looking nearly hypnotized at the show you’re so generously putting on. 

So why not take it further? Sylus directs his Evol down, ripping Rafayel’s shirt and squeezing his thighs as they tease and tighten against his trembling muscles, grinning at the man practically falling apart without so much as a touch. 

"You want a taste, puppy?” 

Sylus smirks, kissing down your neck, finally undoing his Evol gagging Rafayel’s mouth as a pathetic whine echoes across the room alongside every heaving breath. “Ask nicely, and maybe I'll let you. If she cums, she’s all yours."

Rafayel has never wanted to burn a building down so badly before. 

He's a god for fuck's sake—he, the bringer of tempests, the master of tidal waves, and the keeper of fire, unable to even fucking breathe at the sight of you. This is not desire; this is sacrilege. 

But then he hears it. His name. Shattered, trembling, falling from your lips like prayers ripped from a throat too broken to care—Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel—your thighs quivering in the air, your body offering to something you don’t fully understand, each syllable searing through him like molten iron, branding him, unmaking him.

Rafayel’s fingers twitch with the need to destroy—burn, drown, something. But when you scream his name once more, cumming around Sylus’s fingers, the god inside him shatters.

"Please," his throat is raw from cursing through the gag, each word tasting like ash and salt on his tongue. "Please, Sylus."

It’s not enough. Sylus tilts his head, amused. Rafayel sucks in a shuddering breath, nearly falling from the chair to his knees as the restraints loosen.

"You want a god to beg?" Rafayel laughs, fury crackling beneath his desperation. "I’ll beg. I’ll kneel. I’ll crawl to her. Please, just let me taste. Don’t make me wait anymore."

“Then crawl.”

You’re only just coming down from your orgasm, bits of Rafayel’s and Sylus’s nth argument flickering through your mind— before you’re suddenly gasping for breath. 

A silent scream rips from your mouth as the restraints above you flicker with every tremor that seizes your body, knees buckling as a searing sensation against your leg bites again.

You didn’t even see Rafayel get off the chair, let alone process when he got on his knees beneath you. 

“Rafayel!” Looking down through tear-lined lashes, you watch the man lick his lips, his only apology a wet, messy kiss to the violet bruise already blooming against your inner thigh. He’s whimpering apologies into your leg, tongue slipping out to meet your quivering skin, collecting your sweat and dripping slick, smearing it higher and higher along your inner thigh. You swear no human tongue is that long.

As if coordinated, the moment Sylus releases your leg from his hold, Rafayel drapes it over his shoulder, your body suspended between them. Your hands writhe helplessly above your head, desperate to lace themselves into the man's hair and pull— closer or further, you do not know. 

Rafayel’s yanking you forward, moaning into your cunt as his lips meet your own swollen ones—too hasty, too depraved to even think of pulling aside your sticky panties. He’s eating through the fabric like a man starved, teeth grazing your clit as his tongue slips under, burying himself between your folds, tongue fucking up into you as his moans and whines are muffled only by your own and the wet squelches of your cunt.

"I— R-Rafayel—Sylus!"

Your head rolls back, falling onto Sylus’s chest as you feel Rafayel moan, the vibrations sending a shockwave up your spine. Your cum is dripping down his chin and chest, and he’s lost in the heat and taste of you, head spinning as he makes out with your pussy, sucking the drenched fabric of your panties, his poor neglected cock straining against his pants, begging for attention. In truth, Rafayel doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his life.

Rafayel presses closer, nose brushing against your clit in sync with the curling and twisting of his tongue as it reaches that spongy abused spot deep inside you, the hot friction enough to send your eyes rocking into the back of your skull. 

Now you’re certain, the way it writhes inside you is most definitely far from human. 

Sylus is more than content to just watch over your shoulder, transfixed. Watch as the god kneels beneath you, head moving in a frenzy, desperate for more, a slave to his own hunger. When you try to writhe away from Rafayel, overstimulated, Sylus merely wraps his burly forearms around your waist and neck to pin you in place, the squeeze of Sylus’s biceps and Rafayel’s kissing to your cunt making you gloriously light-headed. 

Sylus watches your muscles begin to tremor, thighs locking around Rafayel’s head, and he brings his palm down to curl his fingers up into you alongside Rafayel’s tongue. 

“My, just look at you.” Sylus chuckles against your forehead as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, stifling your moans as you bite—hard—down into his sweat-slicked skin. “So needy for the both of us. Do you remember now? Do you realize the only thing your body craves is us, that we will be the only ones ever able to satisfy you?”

"Sylus, oh god, please," you moan, already delirious as you beg. 

Rafayel's head snaps up, panting between your legs, your wetness shining on his chin. He glares at the man above him, his eyes alight before pressing a rough kiss to your clit. 

"I’m your god. Do not speak to him while I'm touching you.” Rafayel’s mouth is back on your cunt, sucking, biting, and he reaches a hand up to rip the remaining fabric of your dress, squeezing your breast. "You're mine, You’re mine too. You were mine first, don’t forget that again." 

Rafayel feels the way you tense around his tongue and Sylus’s fingers and frowns, sucking harder, faster. You are a symphony in their ears, a drug in their veins, and gods, Rafayel has never felt so high.

 "Say it. Say my name,” he whines, drooling against your folds, "you're mine. All mine."

You can barely breathe.

"Say it."

"Yours, Rafayel," you cry out, your entire body shaking, "I'm yours."

"Again," he’s pleading, a growl, and you can feel it inside you, the vibration and the desperation. Ignoring the ringing in his ears, the dizziness in his vision to kiss your clit—missing, placing wet, opened-mouth kisses against your thighs and cunt a few times instead.  "Say it again."

"Yours, always, always," you can feel the tears running down your cheeks, a sob wrenching from your throat as the pressure grows, "yours, Rafayel, I'm yours—"

You’re babbling, so, so fucked out you don’t even recognize the familiar letters Rafayel presses into your clit with every swirl of his tongue—R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y-E-L—spelling his name as if in reminder. In possession. In worship.

The two of you are practically overstimulating yourselves, and Sylus can see the moment your eyes roll back, your lips parting with a moan, and moves his fingers to curl against your g-spot at the same time Rafayel goes back to licking up into your cunt. The god growls at the interruption and nips Sylus’s fingers almost on instinct, causing Sylus to hiss as you jerk in his hold. 

Immediately, Sylus is reaching down, yanking on Rafayel’s hair, forcing his head out from beneath you. “Ah-ah, no biting.”

But, gods, does Rafayel fight it. Whining, Rafayel reluctantly slips his tongue out from your cunt, dazed and addicted, eyes half-lidded as he attempts to find his way back to you, finally forced back onto his heels. 

"The fuck do you think you're doing? Sylus, I swear to the seas I’ll set everything on fire and let it all burn," Rafayel snarls, his body shaking with desire.

Sylus laughs. "Is that how a good boy asks?"

Neither of you misses the full shiver that races down Rafayel’s spine at the pet name. Sylus forces Rafayel’s head to the side with his grip on his hair and the god snaps out of it, smiling with the promise of blood as your cum drips from his canines. 

"I have killed for less."

"I’ll make it worth the effort, puppy. I promise."

Sylus's eyes burn into him, a silent dare. A challenge. Rafayel's gaze shifts back and forth between Sylus and you, his teeth grinding together as his cock strains against his pants. There are only two choices left, and he knows it.

“Will both of you stop fighting and please—” you scream at their stupidity, “Please just fuck me!”

Their hands are on you in an instant.

Sylus drags Rafayel up by the hair, pushing the man back as he stumbles backward onto the couch, you falling on top of him as Sylus bends you over the leather arm. Immediately, you feel the hot press of Sylus against your ass, his body caging you between them as his arms rest on the back of the couch and right beside Rafayel’s head. 

“Make him come, and I’ll fuck you,” Sylus whispers into your ear, guiding your back into a deeper arch until your breasts graze the cold leather. 

He doesn’t even finish talking before you’re pawing at Rafayel’s pants. 

You don’t need the extra motivation, not really, not when you’re already salivating at the sight of Rafayel’s pretty length, heavy and leaking as it snaps up to his abdomen as soon as you shove down his boxers.

Overly eager, you thumb at his slit, collecting the copious amounts of sticky pre-cum dripping onto his stomach as you drag your hand up and down, watching anger fade from Rafayel’s expression entirely as he writhes against the couch. 

You’ve barely even touched him and he’s falling apart. The sheen of sweat makes his muscles stick to the leather as he bucks up into your touch, babbling pleas as he watches you lean down to kiss the tip. "Poor baby. You’re this hard from just watching?"

"Please," Rafayel begs, gasping as your hand squeezes against the base of his pretty cock. "Wanna fuck you. Wanna be inside you. Please."

You hesitate, almost looking over your shoulder at Sylus for permission when you’re lifted up into the air with a yelp. Sylus only needs one arm to hoist you over the arm of the couch, dropping you onto Rafayel’s lap as the both of you moan at the mere contact of skin on skin. 

It should be embarrassing, the fact that you’re so wet that at the first few attempts, Rafayel’s cock merely slides between your thighs, grinding into your clit before trying again, Sylus cooing sweet nothings to the both of you as he purposely slows you down.

One of his large hands begins grinding you onto Rafayel’s length, letting you take him inch by inch, the other moving to stop the man beneath you from squirming, pinning him down. 

"Mhm fuck, Raf, feels so good." Relishing the stretch you finally, finally, get. Greedily sinking faster as you chase the addictive feeling, down until your ass hits his pelvis with a lewd squelch.

"Ah," Rafayel tries to meet you halfway, tries to thrust up into you but can’t so much as move with Sylus’s hand and Evol holding him down yet again. “Sylus, please, let me. Need it, need it so bad.”

The sound of Rafayel moaning Sylus’s name really shouldn’t be that hot, and yet you feel your pussy flutter, Rafayel’s cock twitching violently in you as he groans from the sudden pressure, throbbing in time to your heartbeat. Rolling your hips, you chase the friction of his pelvis against your clit, grinding back and forth as your breathing reduces to small cries of their names. 

"You can do better than that," Sylus scoffs, hand squeezing your hip, pressing down onto your lower abdomen before dragging you all the way off Rafayel’s length and slamming you back down. Again. And again.

Both of you lose your minds a little at that. Your moan is muffled as you collapse down onto Rafayel’s chest, panting, drooling at the pace Sylus is setting for you, still moving your hips as you try to distract yourself by placing messy, opened-mouth kisses up Rafayel’s heaving chest. Biting his nipple just to watch him arch into your mouth with a sob. Wanting, needing more. 

Sylus rocks you forward just a bit more and you scream, the fat head of Rafayel’s cock now ramming into your g-spot, raw and sensitive.

"Please, fuck," Rafayel gasps out, shaking at the change in angle. His jaw hangs deliriously open as he looks down, greedy eyes locked on the way your cunt was swallowing him whole. “Don’t stop, m’close. Please, ah—shit, don’t squeeze me like that— don’t stop.”

Sylus’s low laugh makes your cunt throb, gushing around Rafayel’s cock as the sticky, creamy strands begin to pool where your thighs meet. Still guiding you up and down, Sylus moves to finger at your clit, smiling as the both of you tense up immediately, smacking up once, twice, onto your oversensitive nub. 

“Very well then, make him cum. Poor thing deserves it, right?” Sylus whispers into your ear, spreading two fingers across the glossy mess between your bodies, watching your combined slick drip down his wrist. You watch him withdraw his glistening fingers with a smug, feral grin, immediately leaning down to press the digits into Rafayel’s open mouth. 

Every sound is unrestrained now, Rafayel’s eyes rolling back at the taste of you coating Sylus’s fingers, sucking diligently as his pace speeds up into brutal, frantic thrusts. Rafayel’s hips freely jerk up as he plants his feet into the couch, new leverage letting him ram himself deeper, barely pulling out before rolling his hips back into yours. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, fuuuck."

"Cum, puppy, I know you're close."

You swallow your cries just long enough to lick across Rafayel’s blushing red ear and whisper, "Be a good boy and cum for us, Raf. Come inside me, please?”

It hits him so hard it hurts.

Rafayel cries as he cums, loud, sweet moans garbled against Sylus’s fingers, drooling around him nearly as much as his cock is drooling in you, the sheer heat of his release filling you to the brim as it squirts down your thighs and up his abs in thick rivulets. But he’s still grinding up into you as he cums, fucking his release deeper, arching his muscled back into a gorgeous curve on the soaked leather, and you feel your own orgasm quickly approaching.

"Rafayel, Sylus, wait please, too much, I’m gonna—"

"You can take it, kitten.” Sylus cuts you off, retracting his fingers from Rafayel’s mouth before tapping them against his cheek, smearing the wetness of his digits down his jaw.

Rafayel gets the message, still thrusting, hands squeezing your breasts, waist, down to your ass, spreading your thighs until they shake, all as Sylus keeps moving your hips. The two of them working together as your body shudders, orgasm hitting you without any other warning. 

Sylus hums sweet praises as your head floats in and out of reality, still deliciously stretched around Rafayel’s still-hard cock. The couch dips as Sylus settles in behind you, the heat of his bare skin caressing your back as his hands massage comforting little circles into yours and Rafayel’s hips. 

“Good job, baby.”

Both of you shudder at the praise. 

Sylus’s voice acts as little more than an aphrodisiac, all low and rough with a teasing chuckle, and the way you feel Rafayel twitch inside you makes you think he feels similarly. 

“Hey,” Rafayel’s already embarrassingly close to coming again, your every movement tightening and rocking against his length. He pushes himself up onto his elbows with a whine, nuzzling into your touch with each slow, deep thrust. “You’re taking too long. Hurry up, a deal is a deal, so hurry up already and fuck her.”  

You can’t see it, but the sight of you and Rafayel still subtly grinding against each other, panting and breathless, makes a dark flush spread across Sylus’s cheeks, his own body betraying him as he smiles. One thick arm anchors you to his chest as the other pulls Rafayel up. “So needy, aren’t you?”

You don’t know who he’s talking to— you don’t particularly care. 

Not so long as both of them were inside you within the next five seconds. 

“Shh,” Sylus kisses you quiet, silencing the whines you didn’t even realize you were letting out, "Don't worry, kitten. We're gonna take real good care of you, aren't we, Rafayel?"

Rafayel only nods, eyes half-lidded and teary as he looks down to where you and him are joined. He's still buried to the hilt, throbbing against your walls, and you both moan at the overstimulation from every movement, hissing at the cool air as Sylus slides his hands down to pull you apart, fingers pressing against his cock inside you.

"Just relax, alright? Deep breaths. This'll feel really good soon."

Slow. Torturously slow. Sylus retreats his fingers and replaces them with his weeping tip. And then he’s pushing in alongside Rafayel’s cock— careful, deep grinds of his hips that have you and Rafayel moaning, every heartbeat pulsing against your walls in violent thumps. 

"Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"Breathe, Raf."

"I'll burn you alive."

Sylus laughs at Rafayel's pained whine, and he takes that moment to tighten his arm around your waist, forcing you steady before thrusting in one brutal push. The sheer size of them, the combined pressure, and the very fact that you can feel them both rocking and throbbing against each other is enough to have you losing your mind. 

Dropping his head to kiss your shoulders, Sylus almost looks apologetic as he turns your head to the side, messily licking into your lips as he says, “M’sorry, just a bit more. Just a bit- hah fuck- a bit deeper—” 

Oh fuck, he’s not even in all the way yet.

Rafayel is moaning nonstop now, his hands finding yours and squeezing, the two of you trembling. You're a drooling, overstimulated mess between them, but all you can do is nod, a garbled, “S’okay, keep- keep going.”

That's the last warning you get before Sylus pushes deeper, until you can feel him in your throat, pound after heavy pound that shakes the entire damn couch. Holy fuck, it might break. 

They’re caging you in on either side, rhythmless, bouncing you like little more than a toy, pressing closer as the pressure grows against your walls and around your hips, reminding you of just how small you are to them in every conceivable way and how far they’re willing to go for you. How willing of worship they are. How desperate they are to prove it. 

You can feel everything, so full you can barely breathe, can barely think. Shaky fingers claw down anything you can find, digging into hard planes of muscle, and Rafayel makes a sound against your mouth like it hurts. But he isn't holding back either, the grip on your thighs bruising as he fucks into you, every thrust a sharp shock of pleasure as he and Sylus rock against one another.

The room is filled with the lewd squelch of their cocks fucking into your wet cunt, taking turns in deep, uneven tempos, and the heavy, ragged sounds of your breathing.

Sylus suddenly moans, loud and unrestrained against your shoulder, and you look back to see Rafayel’s hand squeezing the pale column of his neck, the slow lick of flames leaving bright red marks against his skin in the shape of Rafayel’s palm.

But the pain only seems to set Sylus off further, a harsh thrust into your ass forcing you forward and deeper onto Rafayel as well, nearly delirious as you’re stuck between their silent competition yet again.

Rafayel’s mouth gasps open in a feverish puff of your name over and over when you already begin clenching, practically milking them back in, pace stuttering as his swollen tip takes turns colliding with Sylus’s own and your cervix. Half-delirious, his palm comes up, pressing right where he could feel both of their cocks making a mess of you inside. 

“Ah! W-what-”

“Mhm, you deserve a reward don’t you cutie?” He’s panting against your mouth while Sylus bites the filthiest of words into the crook of your neck. The lovebites they’ve swathed across your skin will take days, if not weeks to disappear, but you’re far too gone to pay them any mind. “Take it, take our cum then. Right here.”

Rafayel’s palm digs into your lower stomach, hard.

His thrusts are short and frantic now, his face pressed into the crook of your neck as you tighten impossibly around him. The pressure builds until you can't breathe, your body shaking and toes curling as you scream out little ah’s of their names.

"Wanna-" Rafayel can barely finish his sentence, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust, the head of his cock knocking against your cervix. "Wanna fill you up, make sure you never forget. Never forget us again.”

Sylus on the other hand almost looks pained at the idea, and the sudden rush of possessiveness makes his thrusts harsher, rougher, and the sound of his hips colliding with yours fills the room.

“Yes yes yes- hah- want you to cum inside.” Arching between them, grappling pathetically for more. More. “Both of you inside, want it.”

"Careful." Sylus growls, forcing himself to breathe. To think. 

Rafayel only grins, a wicked edge to his fucked-out smile. “It’d be our mark. All ours. Our love, all full of us, our cum. You'd look so good like that, our sweet darling.”

You cry, burying your face in Rafayel's neck, his hair, the smell of him, of Sylus. "Wanna- want—ahh—want it, Sylus, please- want to feel it, want to be both of yours.”

“Don’t.” Sylus can't help but hiss, his cock swell violently inside of you, the telltale heat pooling in his stomach of a dragon marking his territory. He’s so close it’s embarrassing. 

Instead, his mouth finds your throat, sucking more bruises into the side Rafayel hasn’t completely marred. "Do you really want this? Think about it, kitten."

Rafayel laughs, squeezing your face in his hand as a low trill sounds from the back of his throat. “You believe—mhm, fuck—she can think right now?”

Sylus chooses to ignore him. Gently taking your face from Rafayel, he covers your eyes, whispering into your ear, "One more time. Do you want this?”

“Yes.”

There's no response, but the sudden, painful press of Sylus's bite makes you gasp, the sharp sting a pleasant contrast to the sweet ache spreading throughout your body. A hand pulls against your waist, another flicking cruelly across your nipple, pain and pleasure bleeding into one as you nearly collapse, two sets of hands immediately steading you instead. Rafayel moves to the unoccupied side of your neck, matching Sylus’s marks, the vulgar sounds of their tongues and sucking of teeth between moans fills your ears, just above the slap of their rough thrusts. 

Twin marks, the jaws of a Lemurian and the canines of a dragon, glowing a dull blue and red, claiming your body and soul in a way that their bonds sing. 

Sylus immediately retracts, kissing away the few escaped droplets of blood in apology while Rafayel lets them run, licking up your collarbone as the blood smears across your heartbeat, frantic under his tongue. 

Rafayel's tongue soothes the pain as he kisses the mark, sighing a soft, “ours,” into your neck.

The possessive edge in his voice sends a shockwave through your body, and you can't help but shudder, walls spasming around them as the pleasure nearly blinds you, every sense heightened by Sylus’s palm still covering your eyes. 

Without sight, every touch, every shift of their bodies against yours, in yours, is overwhelming. And you’re crying out into the darkness as they tease and drag you up, forcing you closer and closer— 

Fuck, you’re squirting everywhere. Each thrust now punctuated by wet slaps as your hands claw and slip against the drenched muscles of Rafayel’s abs and Sylus’s chest, unable to anchor yourself as you continue to cum. Shaking with it. 

They barely notice, the sudden vice of your cunt sucking them inside as they fuck into you in shallow, desperate little grinds. Anything to get deeper and deeper still, one kissing you as you feel their tongue lick up into you and the other playing with your clit, all three of you quickly losing your minds.

It’s impossibly messy, desperate. Neither of them has any control left, both cumming inside you as you continue to convulse around them, Sylus's hips stuttering as you feel the full, hot press of his release. Rafayel isn't far behind, whining and twitching, filling you up as their combined release gushes around your thighs, staining the leather couch below with dripping pools of it.

The feeling of being so full is enough to prolong your orgasm to the point of pain, and you scream their names as best you can when you can’t feel your tongue anymore, body convulsing.

You're still dizzy when Rafayel finally pulls away, a soft whimper escaping his lips at the feeling.

“So good, so pretty for us cutie, our sweet darling, you did so well." Rafayel’s babbling to himself with a lopsided smile, guiding Sylus’s hand to your navel. "Look, look. She's so full."

Sylus pulls back, heaving, his eyes immediately falling to where Rafayel's hand rests. He can feel it, can feel both of their releases seeping out, but Rafayel is right, your lower stomach is swollen. Not quite enough to show, but definitely enough to make them both moan, and the sound draws your attention back down to earth.

“Again.”

It's the first demand you’ve given in a while, and it’s not what Sylus expected, not with the way you barely seem lucid, but there's a bright flush to your cheeks and an excited glint in your eyes, and it's so fucking hot he can barely breathe. 

What Sylus also didn’t expect was for you to immediately lift yourself off his dick, busy watching your combined spend trickle down your thighs before both you and Rafayel knock Sylus onto his back, looking equal parts feral and furious as the two of you work together to pin him down. 

“You really didn’t think I’d let you get away with everything you pulled in the beginning, did you?” 

You nod, biting into Sylus’s neck as you whisper in faux anger. “This is entirely your fault.”

Sylus could barely manage to hide his smile. 

Who knows if any of you will make it out of this alive. The only lasting truth you know now is that they’ve irreversibly claimed you. That you’ve claimed them. 

Your dragon and your god.

This is all for @jayhyunglover who sparked this obsession while I was stuck in NYC's airport-- what a way to start 2025. Regardless, a month later this was born, so thank you, darling for feeding my delusions. This one's for you~

[syluss-littlecrow]

better than the devil

<sylus x fem!reader>

where you find out if Sylus really has horns, and why he avoids letting you touch them

genre/warnings: smut, pwp, unprotected sex, size kink (i mean bro is PACKING), breeding kink, sylus’s horns are ✨sensitive✨, dirty talk, sexual tension, missionary, a fuck ton of horn play, horny horns, cumming untouched, orgams galore!, so much cum♡

w/c: 2.9K

a/n: gotta thank the loml @bro-atz for helping me with this a little ehehehe >:) I hope this destroyed yall as much as this destroyed me to write it!!🥹

They say he takes the form of some dragon-like creature—with large black horns and wings. 

The first time you witnessed it with your own two eyes was when he choked out a serpent wanderer ten times his size before it got to you. You were semi-conscious at that point of time, the fatigue threatening to take over, but you had caught a glimpse of his silhouette—two thick appendages that curled proudly past his dirty silver hair, and large wings that hung off his back—before you blacked out. 

“Staring at me isn’t going to get any of your curiosities satisfied”, Sylus snaps you out of your thoughts. Your gaze flickers to his face, but Sylus has his eyes on his phone. 

Then his gaze shifts to you. 

“What are you thinking about, sweetie?”

Of course, you couldn’t just tell him outright that you wanted to see him magically grow his horns out of his head. You doubt even Luke and Kieran have seen it themselves. 

“Your horns.”

Sylus lowers his phone onto his lap, then he cocks an eyebrow, which turns to a furrow in seconds. 

“What gave you the idea that I grew horns?” He asks, his tone laced with mock and caution. His attention is fully on you now. 

Yeah, maybe that was not a good question to ask. Then again, being around someone as direct as Sylus had made you pick up his mannerisms quite a fair bit. 

“Nothing really”, you brush off, attempting to derail the conversation before something goes wrong. “I’m just curious.”

“Talk”, Sylus demands, albeit in a soft tone. “I’m listening.” 

His crimson eyes burn a hole into your head, and you now only realise the way he has you cornered on his couch, his large frame looming over yours. 

You sigh, realising he’s not about to let it go anytime soon. 

“A few weeks ago, during one of the battles we had, where I almost died-“

“Get to the point, sweetie”, Sylus cuts, seeing through your guise. 

You pout. “Right. Before I blacked out, I saw you appear right in front of me, with horns.”

Sylus raises his eyebrows, seemingly in amusement. “You sure you weren’t hallucinating?”

He earns a smack on his chest. You’re ready to let him disprove you further or whatever, but your body jolts when you feel Sylus snake his arms around your waist before he carries you effortlessly off the corner of the couch and onto his lap. 

You watch his eyes grow soft when he locks his gaze with yours. His expression is unreadable.

Your eyes widen in amazement when the thick pair of horns curl past his locks, the black a stark contrast with his white hair. He looks like he’s wearing bows in a funny, demonic type of way. Not that he has to know that. 

You continue to stare at his horns, visually taking in the rough yet smooth texture and patterns that run downwards as the horns grow thicker towards the base. 

“What are you really?” You wonder aloud, your fingers reaching out to feel the interesting texture of his horns, only for him to pull away quickly.

“It’s not the right time for you to know”, he replies curtly. You notice the glint of concern in his eyes, shrouded under the indifferent expression he wears. 

So you decide to leave it for now, at least. 

Nonetheless, it doesn’t stop you from annoying the ever-loving shit out of Sylus about his horns once you found out about it.

He would stare at you with his eyebrows furrowed, muttering that he should have never told you about his horns, only for you to bat your eyelashes at him, much to his annoyance. 

“At least let me touch them if you’re not gonna tell me more about them”, you would whine. With a frown, he would push your forehead with a finger, giving you his standard answer.

"No."

“Then could you at least tell me why you won’t let me touch your horns?”

He would rest his thumb and index finger on his chin, feigning a thinking stance before his expression drops deadpan and then the curt answer leaves his lips.

“No.”

You’re putting this right next to when you were fighting for your life to get that fucking brooch months ago. 

While the thought continues to eat into your curiosity, you mostly let Sylus off the hook after a while. For some reason, you’ve been noticing that Sylus has been walking around his mansion with his horns freely out. Maybe because he’s shown you his full horns once that’s why?

Or he’s just straight-up taunting you. 

You feign nonchalance, only stealing glances at the thick appendage that stood out against his pale locks from time to time, but never really bringing it up to him, for now at least.

You hear the raindrops patter against the large windows of Sylus's room one afternoon. At least the heavy clouds are hiding the sun on top of the dark curtains drawn, and it makes Sylus's rest a little more comfortable. 

He's sound asleep beside you on his bed, but you're seated up on your phone, the sound of the rain also slowly luring you to grow sleepy. You stretch a little, careful not to wake the male beside you. Sylus grunts softly, and you feel his hair tickle your thighs.

Through your peripherals, something catches your attention. The black on white is undoubtedly hard to miss.

Now that Sylus seems dead asleep, you're considering taking a chance to take a closer look at his horns, and maybe even touch them. 

Carefully, you shift your weight closer to Sylus, monitoring his expressions and movements. When the coast is clear, you lean closer, staring at his horns with much amazement. It's a lot different now that you're this up close to admire them. 

His horns aren't simply a simple shade of jet black–at different angles, you notice how the scales of his horns shimmer like an oil spill under the soft light. Close up, the base of his horns are thick, and as it extends, it curls, almost fully wrapping around his head. 

“So pretty”, you mutter to yourself. Your fingers are reached out as if by instinct, barely inches away from touching his pretty crown. 

You pause, weighing the risks of attempting to touch his horns. How fucked would you be if you actually did? 

Your eyes scan Sylus’s calm sleeping face. He doesn't seem to have even noticed his horns have grown out. 

“It’s just a little touch, he won't feel it anyways”, you convince yourself softly, your resolve firming as your curiosity begins to bubble over your rationale.

You let your fingers brush his horn, feeling the cold and scaly texture beneath your fingertips. Your eyes are sparkling in amazement even more, now that your curiosity has been satisfied. You press your fingertips onto the appendage, enjoying how nice and cool it feels to the touch.

Just then, you hear Sylus groan slightly. Your hand immediately retracts before you fully freeze, watching the way he presses his head against your leg, his eyebrows slightly scrunched before it returns back to relaxed. 

Close call. 

You obviously don’t learn your lesson, because your fingers are on his horns almost immediately once more. You grow more curious about the feeling of running your palm across his horns this round. 

So you do.

Your hand starts from the thick base, and you stroke it, following the horn's curl, enjoying the way the texture of the scales run smooth under your palm.

And then Sylus makes a sound beneath you. You squint in curiosity, wondering if you heard it right.

So you run your hand from his tip to the base this time. 

And this time, Sylus lets out another moan. You definitely did not hear wrong. 

Your cheeks are slowly flushing when you realise what you're doing to him. But for some reason, it makes you want to do it more.

So this is why he doesn't want you touching his horns? 

With a cheeky smile, you run your fingers along his horns in various ways and places, eliciting more pretty and erotic reactions from Sylus. 

You giggle to yourself, trying to ignore how he's making you aroused with all the noises he's making with every stroke you give his horns. 

You want to go for the next round, wondering how far you can take this.

Obviously not very far, because the next time you do, Sylus’s hand catches your wrist before you're about to touch his horns again.

He stares at you with half-lidded eyes, pink dusted on his cheeks and his breathing shallow.

“Are you having fun, kitten?” He asks with a frown.

Fuck.

You feign a smile, trying to wave your hand from his grip, of course, your attempts futile. 

Sylus’s other arm curls around your thighs, locking you from leaving the bed while Sylus lets his sleep leave his body from the rude interruption. 

“Denying me of satisfying my curiosity only makes it worse”, you shrug. Well, if only Sylus had just let you have a little touch…

The corner of Sylus’s lips pull up to a half smirk. 

“Right”, Sylus replies, a hint of annoyance and something else laced in his tone before he shifts above you in one swift motion, trapping you underneath him on his bed. 

“Then, I'm sure you don't have to be reminded that actions have consequences?”

You swallow hard. 

His hand that grabbed yours is placed on his chest, and he forces you to trail down his body, feeling his thick chest, then his abs under your touch, all the way down until he stops you right on his thick erection.

“You should take responsibility, don't you think?” Sylus asks with a raised eyebrow. 

You know it's pointless even attempt to escape when he’s devouring your lips like he hasn't eaten in days. It's so intoxicating. You would never admit your greed, but Sylus knows you well enough to feed you so good. You want to pull him so impossibly close.

In between breathless kisses, your warm hands trail from his biceps to his shoulders, to his neck, and right to his hair.

You test waters–letting your fingers rake through his hair, grazing the base of his horns. You get his green light when he doesn't swat you off, on the contrary, it makes Sylus grow more desperate in the kiss.

You confidently stroke his horn, from base to tip once more, and the moans that leave Sylus’s lips sound like fucking heaven. 

His crimson eyes finally meet yours, and he almost looks like he's in pain. 

“If you keep doing that–ngh–” Sylus trails off with another strained moan when the sensation of you stroking his horn buzzes right to his cock that he has shut his eyes to hold back. 

“This?” you tease, sliding your palm down to his base once more, rubbing the scaly appendage, watching him failing at trying to keep his composure. 

“Fuck”, he hisses, diving into your lips once more, eating you up. 

He pulls away briefly, pressing his lips just below your ear.

“You’re gonna be taking responsibility, kitten.”

He presses himself close onto you, so close that you feel his cock just pulsing against your pelvis, only separated by his black sweats. Sylus takes your chin in his fingers and steals your breath away once more, uncontrollably grunting with every stroke your hands play with his horns. You feel his cock twitch, then pulse before the feeling of warmth spreads across your skin, accompanied by a long, drawn out moan in your mouth.

It makes you dizzy with bliss, realising what you've done to him. 

Sylus pulls away once more, catching his breath, his eyes reflecting something more feral when you met his. 

But all you do is flash a cheeky smile at him, letting your fingers caress his cheek. 

His fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts and he yanks them off, almost growing feral for the second time when his eyes meet the sight of the way your pussy is glistening so much that a wet and thin string of arousal sticks itself in between your pussy and your soaked panties. 

Well, Sylus is holding the short end of the stick anyway, because when he tugs his sweats down, your heartbeat accelerates as your eyes land on his cock–thick, red and completely covered in white and thick cum, some staining his underwear, twitching slightly with dribbles of cum seeping past his cockhead when the fabric brushes past his balls. 

He looks so fucking delicious when he's messy like that. Shit.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself, staring at me like that”, he teases. He doesn't even look embarrassed.

“Maybe I should play with your horns more often”, you reply with a smile. Sylus narrows his eyes at you, his expression mixed with annoyance and affection. His fingers press against your soaking clit, enjoying the way the smile on your face gets wiped, replaced with a contorted expression of pleasure when he rubs it in slow circles. 

“I’m strongly against that idea, sweetie”, Sylus responds, leaning in to take in the expression of your mind slowly growing dumb and blank just from his slender fingers rubbing you out. “It’ll give you a little too much leverage over me.”

Through the hazy and building pleasure, you still manage to reply, “that's the whole point.”

Sylus only smiles at your reply, his fingers leaving your clit. You're about to protest, that is, until he grabs you by your hips, dragging you closer to him, then pressing your knees to your chest, before his wet cock slowly enters you from below. He watches your face contort in pleasure–your eyes rolling back and your eyebrows furrowed–while soaking in the fucking delicious feeling of your cunt warm and wrapped around his cock. 

“S-so good”, you whimper, his fullness knocking out any ounce of breath and sense out of you at a dangerous pace the his cock inches even deeper into you.

“Such a nice and warm pussy hole”, Sylus grits, pushing himself even deeper, his control slipping when he's buried himself all the way in. “Fuck, you're so good for me, kitten.”

You're clawing his pillows when Sylus starts fucking you, and you're looking at Sylus with such a glazed out expression–and you know it drives him fucking crazy. His palm rests on the bulge that his cock is pushing every time he enters you, and it makes your thighs shake. Your moans grow in pitch and tone on top of the sounds of lewd wet skin slapping. 

He lets you wrap your legs around his waist in return for letting him scatter love bites across your neck.

So you decide that it’s the perfect time to aim for his sensitive spots once more.

Your fingers tug against his scalp, then alternating to stroking his horns once more, throwing Sylus into another round of pleasured daze. 

You feel his cock fill you up even more, and it makes you greedy to how far you can push it.

“I really should make you regret this”, Sylus mutters, failing to suppress another groan when your fingers scratch against the base. 

His thrusts become more like ruts, his cockhead hitting your g-spot over and over as payback. Sylus sprouts a satisfied smirk as he watches you completely come undone on his cock. You throw your head back while stars flicker in and out of your vision. The pleasure is growing so fucking good that you're choking on your moans too. 

“Right there! Fuck, that feels so fucking good, Sylus”, you sob through wet lashes and heavy pants. 

Sylus is mesmerised by your pretty expressions and the pretty sounds you always make for him when he's breaking you apart. 

Maybe you finding out about his sensitive horns is his punishment for indulging in these sick pleasures. Nonetheless, he still wouldn't have any other way.

Your hands find his horns once more, and he falters for a split second. But he doesn't shake you off since he's much too focused on trying to force an orgasm out of you.

Your pussy squeezes him before it starts uncontrollably fluttering against his cock. Ah, his goal is slowly being fulfilled.

As your orgasm dangles above you, you react with periodical squeezes on his cock and his horns, which definitely draws a much larger reaction from Sylus. 

“So close”, you whine, your orgasm slowly filling the crevices of your brain, plunging you deep into pleasure. Your cunt clenches on his cock, and you unintentionally yank his horns.

Sylus fucking growls, pressing himself so fucking deep into you, his cum fucking spurting into you–so much that some is leaking out from your plugged pussy hole and onto the bed. 

He pulls his cock out momentarily, letting his cum ooze from his cockhead, his eyes darting to the loads seeping out of your hole, before he slides his cock into you once more. You gasp at the fullness, another squeeze to his horns, which only stimulates Sylus once more, and his cock fills you up with another warm and sticky load. 

He’s panting, but he musters his energy to meet your eyes. 

“Sweetie”, he calls out to you amidst his dick attempting to take over his brain. “If you don't get your hands off, your pussy won't be able to hold anymore, I guarantee.”

He's met with a fucked-out and sly grin from his partner. 

“And I thought you enjoyed challenges.”

Sylus scoffs at your comment, realising that he really has to teach his kitten a lesson to not touch things that aren't hers.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

ring pop proposal ♡

fem reader, pure fluff, childhood friends to lovers lemme alone do not perceive me yk the drill by now, lil self indulgent fic cus i love childhood friends to lovers and puppy crushes, polar opposite’s trope, this reeks of my oc x canon katsu ship sooooo shh shh do not perceive.

the first person who realizes katsuki has a crush on you is his mom because when she comes to pick him up one day from kindergarten he suddenly mentions you. it’s an innocent little interaction he had with you that mitsuki doesn’t think much about at first, simply surprised her son managed to befriend someone outside of his little group of friends until he starts mentioning you more and more.

soon you’re the only thing he talks about and katsuki even starts begging her to have you come over to play. mitsuki is extremely curious to know what kind of person you are to have been able to enchant her son the way you have, she says it’s fine as long as your parents agree.

you’re a sweet little thing, almost the complete opposite of her little devil’s spawn. you’re polite and a little shy when you ask “ is it okay if i come to play at katsu’s house, please miss katsuki’s mom ?” and how could she say no to you ? she pulls at your cheek lovingly and her son almost snarls at her.

“no touchin’ !” he snarks, pulling you against him like you were his teddy bear.

mitsuki was the first to realize her son had a crush on you when you were always around. when he found something cool during a class trip you were there and whenever he was upset it was always because you had argued about something irrelevant that seemed so much bigger in the eyes of a child.

she realized because katsuki had, and in some ways, will always be rowdy. he’s rough and temperamental and moody—basically, he can be quite the brat. (she wonders where he gets that from a lot) but he’s different with you.

he’ll always be a little rough around the edges but it’s the thought that counts. he drags you around a little too hard but it's to show you something he knows you'd like and you repay him by being patient with him and letting him drag you around to his hearts content. he let’s you use the crayons he’d just denied another classmate seconds ago and when it’s really early in the morning and you’re still sleepy unlike your more energetic friend, he waits for you. sitting with you in the reading corner quietly commenting on a little bit of everything in the book you’re sharing until you’re awake enough to start the day because katsuki wanted you to be together through anything no matter what, starting the day without you was simply unimaginable.

you offer him your kindness and he repays you with his loyalty. acting like your guard dog, protecting you from everything and everyone he considers a threat to you. he goes a bit overboard but it’s the thought that counts and he’s definitely got the right intentions.

“ i’m g’nna marry yn when i grow up !” katsuki proclaims from the backseat of the car after mitsuki had come to pick him up. she looks at him through the rear view mirror only to see he’s not even looking at her, looking out the window somewhat longingly, watching as his school fades away from his sight, further and further and further away from you. she smiles to herself.

“yeah ?” she asks “yeah !” he responds proudly, crossing his arms “ i asked yn if she wanted to be my wife an’ she said yeah, so we’re gettin’ married !”

“huh. how’d you propose ? you don’t have a ring.” she jests.

katsuki responds immediately and exclaims he does have one, shuffling around to reach for something in his pocket. he pulls out a plastic ring pop holder, the candy on top is missing and mitsuki can imagine what happened to it.

“gave her one of these !”

“so that’s why you had me buy those from the store last time,” she hums. “ you ate it, though.”

katsuki tries to roll his eyes but just ends up looking up and to the side, mitsuki recognizes it as him trying to mimic what she does a lot and she snorts.

“well duh, we both did ! ‘f i kept it in my pocket it woulda gotten gross !” he defends. mitsuki simply responds with a hum, smile on her face growing larger as she hears her son happily chatting about the rest of his day with you.

she knows her katsuki is hard to handle. extremely so. but when she sees the way you both interact she can tell something is there. you don’t ‘handle’ him. you like being around him. you like playing and talking with him, she sees how happy you make him whenever you come over for playdates. he holds your hand when you get scared and you hug him tight and beam when you see him again after he’s gotten over a nasty cold.

she can tell you make her son happy and he does the same for you in the way children do with pinky promises and shy cheek kisses, kisses over tiny wounds and refusing to be separated whenever the rowdier one of you both gets his recess time taken away for being naughty.

mitsuki hopes this crush, this love you have for her son can grow along with you. she hopes you’ll stick around as katsuki grows up more and potentially more rowdy and rougher around the edges but even more enamored with you. and with the way her son is squirming around in his seat and tugging at his seatbelt, giddy about you accepting his ring pop proposal, she has a funny feeling you’ll be sticking around for a long time.

[snowballseal]

Pretty Bird

Sylus X Reader

Summary: Sylus is jealous of you giving Mephisto attention. That's it. You tease him when you find out.

Word Count: 2123

Note: Nothing really, hope I did him justice! His dialogue is a little harder for me to nail down.

---

The first time it happens is when you cross to the N109 Zone to accompany Sylus on an “errand”.

The first thing you do when you reach the ornate, empty house - of course - is say hello to your favorite bird.

“Hey there pretty bird.”

Mephisto squawks, bobbing excitedly on his perch as you bound up to him. You grin and give the crow a gentle scratch on his head. He preens under your touch, mechanical feathers fluffing with another quiet, scruffy caw. Adorable.

Despite his unnerving gaze, which you find to be eerily similar to a certain Onychinus leader, you can’t help but love the little bird. For some reason, it always comforts you a little bit to see him perched outside your apartment, or following you around Linkon. He always tries to act like he’s not spying on you, but you know he is, and you know he’s going to report right back to Sylus. Maybe that’s why it’s comforting.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to sway his loyalties.”

Speak of the devil.

“As if,” you snicker, giving the bird one final scratch before spinning on your heels to face Sylus. He sits across the room in one of his big armchairs, eyes glued to the gun he’s loading, face carefully blank. As always. You saunter over and pop yourself onto the arm of the chair, bumping his shoulder. “You know Mephisto doesn’t listen to anyone but you. I’m just like the fun mom who gives him things.”

His lips twitch ever so slightly, “Mmm, does that make me your husband in this situation?”

Heat creeps up your cheeks.

You are no stranger to Sylus’ flirty nature. That’s how things have always been between you, though it only really gets to you now. Before, when you kind of hated his guts, it was just annoying. Well, maybe even then-

“You wish,” you retort, but there’s no hiding the blush painting your cheeks.

“Hm, I thought you knew me better than that, sweetie.” In an instant, his hand curls around your wrist, giving it a sharp tug that knocks you off balance. You let out an undignified squeak, tumbling right into his lap. And before you can squirm away, Sylus locks an arm over your legs, keeping you trapped against him. Those red eyes freeze you in place, dark and warm with mischief. “Why would I wish for something I could so easily take?”

You stare at him, eyes blown wide, face completely red now. You can’t even form any words in response, which seems to amuse him even more. A smirk curls his lips, and he gives your hip a playful pinch.

“What? Crow got your tongue, sweetie?”

You sputter, finally finding your voice, “Sylus!”

“Good. Now that you’re focused, we can go handle business.” Sylus sets you on the ground, making sure you’re steady before he stands nonchalantly and tucks his gun in its holster. Like nothing just happened! “We don’t want to be late now, do we?”

Before you can even say anything more, he’s heading for the door. It takes a few seconds to shake yourself from your  state of shock, and then you’re quickly following after him.

“Sylus-!”

He cuts you off, that stupid, attractive smirk still on his lips, “And by the way, try not to spoil Mephisto too much, sweetie. He’s grown rather petulant when you’re not around.”

You’re pretty sure your blush sticks around for the entire car ride after.

---

The second time is when you visit on one of your off days. 

When you get there, Sylus is still asleep. You take a moment to crouch by his bed, a fond smile adorning your lips as you take in his peaceful face. You remember when he used to sleep sitting up, so he was ready for anything, but now he looks relaxed. Though you still spot the gun tucked under his bed.

Deciding not to bother him, you quietly make your way back out to the living room and grab a book. It’s about the only way to pass time in the N109 Zone, at least, without getting yourself into anything dangerous. As soon as you sit down, Mephisto flaps across the room and lands on your arm, plopping himself down into your lap like a cat.

A giggle escapes you when the crow throws his head back, looking up at the most awkward angle you can imagine. You give his beak a little rub, and he makes a soft clicking sound, beady red eyes falling shut.

“I swear, it’s almost like you’re a crow with cat programming,” you hum, mostly to yourself. Mephisto ruffles his feathers, though, at the word ‘cat’, eyes flashing back open. You snort, easing a hand over his wings, “No worries, pretty bird, no cats. I’m just kidding.”

He settles back down, seemingly embarrassed by his reaction, which only makes you want to coddle him more. So cute. If only Sylus would be this cute with you. Heat tinges your cheeks at the thought of the tall man resting against your lap, looking up at you with softly narrowed eyes, humming in content as you pet his ha-

Snapping your book open, you throw yourself into the story in hopes of banishing such rogue thoughts. If Sylus knew what you were imagining, he would tease you for years. You really don’t want to feed his ego even more. Mephisto wedges himself between your arm and your side, happy to just fall asleep as you read, oblivious to your inner turmoil.

It doesn’t take you long to actually get immersed in the storyline, though. So much so that you don’t hear the steps coming up behind you.

“It seems you come here more often to spend time with Mephisto than with me.”

You practically jump out of your skin when a strong arm circles your shoulders. Sylus’ voice is a low rumble in your ear, thick with sleep. He leans over the back of your chair, and you narrowly miss the way he eyes the bird in your lap with distaste. He looks far too content curled up on your lap.

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were sleeping,” you hum, closing the book.

He grumbles, sleepy eyes shifting to bore into you. The smallest pout pulls at his lips, and you have to stifle a giggle as you reach up to smooth down his messy hair. Sylus leans into your touch, much like Mephisto did, his eyes flickering shut. Okay, maybe he is just as cute.

“Are you mad I didn’t come cuddle with you?” You tease. Sleepy Sylus is definitely your favorite Sylus. “I didn’t know the big, bad Onychinus leader likes to snuggle.”

“It’s simply to ensure you don’t cause trouble in the N109 Zone,” he murmurs, still just as quick-witted though he’s half-asleep, “I can’t have my kitten wandering around all by herself, now can I?”

“I was just reading, Sylus. No trouble here.”

“Hmm, then you might as well come read in bed.”

You hesitate, fingers tracing along his jaw lightly, “You sure I won’t disturb your sleep?”

Those dark eyes blink back open lazily, a rare, genuine smile dancing in their depths, “Trust me, kitten, my sleep will be much better with you at my side.”

God, you’re weak for this man. Mephisto squawks his complaints as you lift him from your lap, but takes off to his perch without much fight. Sylus feels a flash of victory as you intertwine your fingers. The sensation of your small hand in his eases the strange tightness in his chest whenever you’re apart. He curls his other arm around you possessively, sending the bird a smug smirk.

You catch it this time, lifting a brow as you glance between him and Mephisto. Your brain stalls. Was he…jealous? No way. There’s no way Sylus would be jealous of you spending time with his bird. He’s more mature than that…or maybe not, you realize as he drags you back to his bed, only to lay himself over you like a large cat, using your lap as his pillow. Exactly as you imagined.

Your heart flutters a little, which you’re sure he hears somehow, because he squeezes your waist teasingly. You pinch his cheek lightly before running your fingers through his snowy hair. It’s always softer than you expect.

“Go to sleep, Sylus,” you murmur, voice far too fond, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He hums, and you can feel the sound vibrate through his body. Almost like a purr.

God, you don’t even have a chance, do you?

---

The final time is when you visit the N109 Zone to attend another auction with Sylus. And this time, you catch him in it.

“Where’s Mephisto?”

Sylus’ face sours at your question. You bite back a smile.

Ever since the day you spent napping in his room, you haven’t been able to escape that thought swirling in the back of your mind. So you decided to test your theory. Sylus is always messing with you, afterall. It’s only fair you get a bit of revenge.

“I sent him out to gather intel,” Sylus huffs eventually. Why do you always look for that d***  bird first? “That is his purpose, afterall.”

“Oh.” You feign sadness, letting out a long sigh. “That’s too bad! I brought him some treats.”

“Well, you can leave them here. I’m sure he’ll eat them later,” he says, voice dismissive as he fixes the cuffs of his coat.

“Hmm-” You slowly make your way over to him. Those perceptive eyes narrow on you, watching you carefully while you straighten his collar. “Will he be here later? Maybe I can give them to him after the auction. I miss my pretty bird.” 

Amusement curls in your chest when you see the man’s brows twitch ever so slightly. He’s really annoyed. Now you understand why he loves pushing your buttons so much.

“No, I’m afraid he’ll be busy all night.” You can practically hear him gritting his teeth. Almost there. You keep your eyes focused on his coat, avoiding the intensity of his gaze. He’s trying to figure you out and you’re scared that if you look up, the laughter you're holding back will break loose. Instead, you put on an exaggerated pout.

“That’s unfortunate. I was really hoping to see him tonight.”

Sylus growls. Actually growls in annoyance.

“Would you prefer to have Mephisto on your arm tonight instead of me?” His words come out biting and harsh, tinged with unmistakable jealousy.

The air goes silent.

Before you burst into a fit of giggles. Sylus’ eyes widen when you collapse against his chest, your entire body shaking with laughter. He freezes, though his confusion quickly gives way to realization. 

You were playing with him.

“I suppose this is some form of revenge,” he hums, shaking his head. It’s surprising it took him so long to catch on. With anyone else, he’d be beyond angry, but your laughter is so bright, so infectious, that he can’t stop the small smile that pulls at his lips. When you finally look up at him, tears glint in the corners of your eyes. Who thought this would amuse you so much?

“You’re jealous! The Sylus is jealous of a little bird. His bird.” You bite down on your lip in an attempt to muffle the giggles that keep coming, but it doesn’t do much to help. It’s just too much for you. You never ever thought you’d see Sylus actually jealous of someone, let alone an animal.

Sylus narrows his eyes, though they glow with a certain fondness. “Such a sadist, sweetie, messing with a man’s heart so lightly.”

“Oh, but your reaction was so adorable,” you sing, reaching up to poke his cheek. He playfully bites at your finger, making you draw it back quickly with another laugh. “Just the fact that you could even think I like Mephisto more than you is so silly. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Hmm, then I’m afraid you’ll just have to prove my silly conclusion wrong, won’t you?” His hands settle on your waist, drawing you closer to the warmth of his body. You oblige him, stretching your arms up and around his neck to draw him down.

“Of course. I can’t have my pretty bird walking around thinking he’s second best,” you tease, fingers curling through his hair. “Even if he has a jealousy prob-”

“Quiet.”

Anything else you say is muffled as Sylus finally kisses you.

Safe to say, after that, you make sure to give Sylus extra attention, especially when Mephisto is around. (Though you do still sneak him treats when Sylus isn’t looking.)

[rayveneyed]

sukuna ryomen is somewhat of an infamous bachelor.

it’s not surprising to see him with a new beau every few months, if not weeks — almost trope-like in their frequency, his image bouncing between playboy and manwhore. he doesn’t take it personally, and he makes sure to let people know: he’s young and sexy and he has two oscars, for fuck’s sake, so he thinks the world can cut him some slack when he wants to mess around. and mess around he does.

between obvious paparazzi shots of panties tucked badly into his back pocket, and instagram posts with fellow actors and models pressed tightly against his chest, most are divided between thinking it’s either damn good pr, or a simple man living a life most would wish for. regardless, nobody is surprised when sukuna arrives alone at the mugler show for paris fashion week, and leaves with someone on his arm.

the only thing that came as a bolt from the blue was that it was you hanging from him.

the photos are undeniable, a story in parts; sukuna finding his seat in the front row, you on one side and kendall jenner on his other. his eyes drifting from the models to your face, as if taking a clandestine peek. you, meeting his underhanded gaze with a smile as sweet as spun sugar — and, gasp, sukuna returning it. the display is so out of character for him it feels almost voyeuristic to see it plastered all over twitter.

you, with your vintage, girl-next-door-esque image, big hair and big eyes and demure, calf-length hems, a voice that evokes the memory of helen forrest or ella fitzgerald. him, with his smudged eyeliner and tattoos and all-black attire, persistently typecasted as the panty-dropping bad-boy or devil-smiled brute. it shouldn’t work. for all intents and purposes, he should be spotted with a new supermodel the next week, leaving you in the dust of his philandering. most expect it, wait for the other boot to drop — expect an album of heartbreak from you, but—

a month passes. and another, and another. and suddenly sukuna ryomen, notorious rake, is photographed backstage at your shows. suddenly there’s an anklet hanging from your ankle, his initials in garnet. it’s early morning paparazzi pictures of you both in sweatpants and hoodies — yours, suspiciously oversized — one of his hands engulfing yours, the other holding a bag of takeout from a local breakfast spot, a lit cigarette in his mouth. hickies on your neck and a shit-eating grin on sukuna’s face. candid snaps taken at intimately sized parties, with his chin hooked over your shoulder and his large hands cupping your stomach. tiktoks of you both on the red carpet in the background of somebody else’s interview, sukuna leaning in close to brush an eyelash from your cheek.

neither of you confirm anything, but then — you don’t need to, do you?