#i'm sorry :L

[xtinyslip]

"i'm here as a pick me up to myself." was he joking? ehhh, yet to be decided. it turned out he had suddenly became family over night and so… well, he supposed where his little brother hadn't made the effort. he could. plus, welcoming this sorry fucker into the family was really going to drive finn nuts so -- it was totally worth it and his grin said so. "i'd ask how you're feeling but --" grimacing to show it couldn't be great. "but welcome back, buddy! i hear you're one of us now? or is she one of you? ah well," waving it off because it was irrelevant, he was family now. @fcdcdmcmories

[l-talks]

[embrace-your-illithid]

Empy you CAN'T just keep ceremorphing the witnesses

[numbuh424]

The unstoppable, mighty hurricane and the immovable, cold, hard truth.

[coddda]

Everyone knows that Light and L matched each other's freak but I think their dynamic in the musical (the Japanese ver specifically) is underrated. Like it's not super different from canon but they just had this extra edge of Violence that we never quite saw from the more methodical and careful mindgames in canon death note and I think it's great. Like, yes, they did declare in canon that they will bring each other to justice, yes L says he wants to send Kira to his execution, but in the lyrics of the musical they both outright say multiple times that they just want to straight up Kill each other. It's direct the whole way through. There's more mutual contempt. This game is about nothing more than simply being the first one to Kill the Other (they actually use the word "殺し合い" (koroshiau) or "to kill each other" to describe their game (translated as "murderous ... game")).

(Sidenote but all those references about wanting to send each other to Hell?? Beautiful)

Yeah this is a battle of justice and ideals, yes that clash is a key part of their final confrontation at the end of the musical, but throughout their duets (or even songs like The Game Begins where they're singing by themselves) there's this near singleminded desire to just fucking End each other. It's fucking Raw and it's great.

Also THIS FUCKING SCENE?? THIS SCENE FROM SECRETS AND LIES. Iconic. Actually Insane. My jaw dropped. Light looks like a crazy bitch it's beautiful.

Um. Also. Obligatory Playing His Game (yknow the gay sex song) lines dump. It basically says everything I just said above in like 9 lines. You see what I mean right.

In canon they're playing a game of mental chess, trying to use everyone around them to finally catch the other as their end goal, but in the musical you really do feel like all they see is each other. They would probably beat each other to death with their fists if it came down to that. Idk they're just so excited and fired up about their little game in the musical and it's so unhinged and fun and special and I love it. It's like the writers for the musical decided to kick their murderous intent up a couple notches and the result is absolutely Beautiful.

I also think that the intensity of their rivalry in the beginning just makes the wind-down of The Way It Ends soo much better. It's such a good contrast to their previous duets where they try to sing over each other (Secrets and Lies & Stalemate) or with each other but basically at the top of their lungs (Playing His Game). It feels like there's both a quiet mutual understanding but also an underlying disappointment that the game is finally over. In canon, L's death Is instead the peak of their game, the moment he gets confirmation that Light is Kira is the exact same moment that he dies. In the jdrama it's almost sudden, how L dies, after the quiet moment has already passed. But in the musical L's death, ironically, Is the one quieter moment in their game. Their peak was the game itself. It was Secrets and Lies and Playing His Game. But the end of the game in the musical is not a victory, it's just (as L says) the end of everything they'd been wanting up until this point.

Uh. Fuck it. Clip from the Kenji Urai version because I just love his delivery here. His tone just goes so well with the silence and the sound of the clock ticking. You see what I mean right.

Their rivalry in the musical may have been more shortlived but like Damn they were really enjoying every second of it. They were truly insane about each other until the very end. (Like despite everything I just said about the ending it was still unhinged as fuck. Light Making L Shoot Him and then Making L Shoot Himself with L's Own Hand?? Holy shit man. What the fuck /pos)

Musical Light and L your game might've been shorter but you'll always be famous <33 Please never inflict what you had on anyone else ever please stay in hell forever thank you

[niightniines]

Alright Deathnote fandom, let's get this straight:

(tw: mentions of suicide and brain damage)

Misa Amane was kidnapped against her will and held in captivity for 52 days, aka 7 weeks, 1,248 hours, and a little under ⅙th of a year. During this captivity, she looked like this

Arms bound, strapped in, either standing or sitting, fully blinded, and only able to move when using the bathroom. She can talk and she can hear, but who is there to talk to? What is there to hear? Only the robotic, inhuman voice of her captor every few days asking her nonsensical questions about Kira and absolutely nothing else. Do you wonder if at some point she screamed until her voice gave out in a desperate attempt for something, ANYTHING, to happen? Maybe someone will come in and gag her again. Maybe they'll actually ask her what's wrong. Maybe someone will hear her outside, or the "stalker" will finally let her go. But knowing L who knows that a reaction is what she wants, he would simply mute the audio feed and ignore her for a few hours.

She tried to kill herself. Do you remember that? She almost bit her tongue. The torture was too much for her, and she would have gone through with it had they not forcibly stopped her from doing so. I don't think we can fully grasp just how damaging *fifty two* days of sensory deprivation to this extent truly is. Had Ohba done any research into what effects this torture would give Misa in the long term, she would be a sitting vegetable for the rest of her life fully incapable of anything, probably in a mental asylum. Misa Amane's confinement is extremely horrific and we fail to truly realize that.

She can't see. She can't move. There is nothing to hear, and nobody to talk to. And of course, the whole time she's wrapped up in some wet dream's uniform of nothing but a rag and bondage gear. For 52 days. That is 7 weeks, 1,248 hours, and roughly ⅙th of a year. let it sink in.

[pearlcaddy]

LOCKWOOD & CO. 1.03 Deleted Scene

[zara-renata]

Sylus makes a deal | ao3 | part 10 of the Sylus series

Summary: Sylus answers some questions, receives dating advice from a dubious source, makes a deal you can't refuse, receives a birthday invitation, and plans to take you home for the night.

Notes:

Sylux x gn!reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV, some Sylus POV, 'wingman' is used as a gender neutral term in this story This story contains: increasing absurdity, an ongoing attempt by the author to fit every single trope into one fanfic series, an agreement to date where only one of the parties knows that it's not fake, an mc with self-esteem issues, mc in deep denial, a socially oblivious mc, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers slow burn, angst, banter, fluff, yet another oc (i'm sorry but i need plot vehicles, people), hyper protective!mc, soft!sylus, and a tank

“Who is Aidan?” you ask.

It takes a moment for you to realize that Sylus is staring down at the scarlet-gold wrist linkage tying his wrist to yours. His body, tense just a moment before as you were flipping the coin, seems to relax as you ask your question—he almost melts back into the couch, and as a result, into your side, his arm still slung over your shoulder, his thigh pressed against yours. You soak up his body warmth like a sponge.

You steel yourself for his answer. You can handle anything he says, because the coin and fate have decided that you will not ghost him forever but have dictated that you will be his friend, and you’re going to be the best friend anyone could ever ask for this morally grey hurricane of a human being.

“My legal counsel,” Sylus finally responds.

“Mister Toothpaste Commercial is your… legal counsel?” you ask, as if you hadn’t heard him perfectly fine the first time.

“Mister… Toothpaste Commercial?” Sylus repeats. He turns his head to look at you, and once again, your faces are so close you can feel his warm breath along your skin. It smells pleasantly of wine, and you would like to think your palate is sophisticated enough to recognize it as one of the wines you tried the other night with him. But maybe you’re mistaken.

You nod, a little embarrassed about blurting that just now.

“Care to share why you gave him that particular nickname?”

“You know… he’s generically beautiful. And his teeth…” You bare your teeth at him, as if he needs a reminder of what teeth are. “So unsettlingly white.”

“I see.” Sylus eyes your bared teeth, face impassive. “You think he’s beautiful?”

“Don’t you?”

Sylus tilts his head. “I think his face is useful for what I need him for.”

“Ah yes, Cryptic Crime Sylus only thinks in terms of cost-benefit and utility when evaluating other humans. Forgive me for asking.” You lean your head back, settling onto his pillowy bicep. If being friends with Sylus means you can still use him as a human pillow, you tell yourself that’s a pretty good deal.

“Yeah. Okay. So Aidan is your legal counsel… is that… all he is?” you ask, hoping Sylus will get the hint without you having to ask this embarrassing question out loud. You’re just curious, that’s all. Learning about your newest friend, and his friends—or lovers.

Sylus considers you for a moment, and then flexes his bicep so that your head is gently jostled toward his shoulder, and you slide even deeper into his side. “Well, he does wet work on occasion, but it’s not his primary function. Just don’t tell anybody I told you that. He would be… displeased.”

Your brain stalls out for a second. “You mean that guy kills for you?”

Sylus nods serenely. “When necessary. He doesn’t like getting his shoes dirty, though, so I rarely ask him. He thinks that because I can remove blood stains with a snap of my fingers, I should be the one to personally handle situations that require elimination, which is a fair point. He’s far better at drafting ironclad non-disclosure agreements and litigation than the other aspects of his position with me.”

You don’t even know why you’re surprised. Why would Sylus have anyone not homicidal in his inner circle?

“Okay… but is he.. anything else to you?” you look up at him expectantly. “Like, is he… your partner?”

Sylus tilts his head again. “Partner? No, he’s not a partner. I have him on exclusive retainer, so he might as well have shares in the business with how much he charges me, but it’s not technically a partnership.”

You grimace. Exclusive retainer? Is that some sort of euphemism? Like a professional, monogamous fuck buddy? Are you being insane by reading way too much into his answers? You can’t bring yourself to ask him outright yet. This line of questioning is getting you nowhere.

“And… the… woman… who was with Kieran and Luke? Who is she? For you?” You cringe internally, but do your very best to appear completely indifferent. You’re just chatting with a friend. Like at a sleepover. But you’re at your friend’s sexy exclusive nightclub and you’re so close to him that you can inhale the scent wafting from his neck and he smells like the safety and security of holding a loaded gun.

Sylus stares at you, and then a light bulb seems to go on in his head. “That’s Noah. She’s my newest hire,” he says slowly.

“Okay, and what does Noah… do for you?”

He narrows his eyes. “She’s a driver.”

“And is she… also on exclusive retainer for you?” You’re a bit squicked out. You don’t want to yuck anyone else’s yum but this is obviously a human resources disaster waiting to happen. And Noah looked so young .

“Kitten, if you have a question, ask.” You feel your leg bouncing up and down. Sometimes that happens when you’re wound up. Sylus lifts your linked wrists and puts his hand on your thigh. You stop jittering. “You can ask me anything.”

Fine. You take a breath. “That other guy kept asking about who your partner was… so I was just wondering. If your partner was in the room with us earlier,” you ask, the portrait of casual. Because that’s all this is. Casual interest in a friend’s romantic life. Tara bugs you enough about your own non-existent love life to the point of harassment, so you’re doing Sylus a favor by asking so discretely.

“So, the motivation behind this interrogation is your assumption that either Aidan or Noah is… my romantic partner.”  Sylus finishes your thought. The relief of him guessing what you were thinking courses through you. He’s such a good friend. You don’t even have to say everything out loud, and he just gets you.

“Yeah, since you said you were dreaming about someone the other morning, and then with the guy asking about your partner tonight, I just thought—”

Sylus interrupts you. “I actually didn’t say I was dreaming about—” but then, another thought occurs to you and you interrupt him in turn. “Or is this a polyamory thing? Sorry, I’ll try to be better about not making assumptions. Are you guys in a crime-lord, wet-work, getaway driver polycule?”

Sylus tries to rub his forehead, but his movement pulls your linked wrist up with his. He lets both of your hands drop, which come to rest on his big thigh, alarmingly close to his lap. His lap that contains certain appendages that you will immediately cleanse your memory of out of respect for your friendship . “Kitten?”

“Yes, Sylus?” You look up at him and smile reassuringly.  You’re his friend, and he can tell you anything . His secrets are safe with you.

“Let me clear up this unfortunate misunderstanding once and for all. I do not have a romantic partner right now,” he says with a gravity that’s endearing. “Do you understand?”

Your pleasure at hearing what he’s saying has nothing to do with the content of his words. You’re pleased simply because he’s fulfilling his end of the bargain and fully answering your questions and he doesn’t have a romantic partner in his life and he’s not taken and that makes you happy only because now you don’t have to feel guilty at all for the friendly position you find yourself in plastered against his big warm body and the nights he has spent with you away from, you now know, a non-existence partner whose feelings can’t be hurt by his strange fascination with interfering in your life.

That’s all. You breathe deeply in relief. Friendly relief.

But you don’t understand. Not yet. “Then why was that guy tonight asking about your partner?”

“I believe that Luke and Kieran may have given him the misinformation that he was to meet my romantic partner tonight to discuss an exclusive wine supplier deal he’s hoping to secure with us for the clubs. I then mentioned to him that you liked the bottle from his winery, and that you would be present during our discussion of the contract. He must have assumed that you were the romantic partner to whom my subordinates had alluded when you made your… dramatic entrance.”

You wince, but honestly? It felt so good to chuck the duffel bag full of feathers at Sylu. Like squeezing a cute little stress relief ball, or knocking some asshole out with just one punch.

“Maybe now you’ve learned your lesson about leaving me with feather messes to clean up,” you grumble.

Sylus plucks one such feather from his lap and lifts it with your linked hands, running it softly along your cheek. “There you go again—you assume I didn’t enjoy your little performance.” You shiver, turning your head to bite the feather. “Unfortunately for you, I’ll keep leaving them because it evokes reactions like the one from tonight.”

He smiles at you, and you jerk your head to pull the feather from his grasp with your teeth, and then puff an exhale through your lips, sending the feather into his face.

“Fine. Fill my place with feathers. See if I care.” You turn your head away from him, but don’t bother sitting up. He can talk to your hair.

“I intend to,” his voice, low and amused, sounds close to your ear.

You are so relaxed now, compared to earlier. You could almost fall asleep, right here and now. It’s late, and you’ve gone through so many emotions, just in the span of what? An hour? Hopefully with your newfound resolve, you can maintain this level of peace, even with Sylus in your life. The coin decided for you. You have nothing to worry about now, because fate has spoken. It’s out of your hands. You can do this job, the job of Sylus’s friend, as you do all the other jobs in your life so well.

Your thoughts drift over what happened earlier, and you suddenly recall  why you’re here in the first place, and wonder who he was talking about, when he was describing his type. Maybe it was just… a theoretical description of a person he’d be interested in? Maybe they don’t actually exist?

“I can tell from your body that your mind has begun to race again, sweetheart. Is there anything else you want to ask me?”

You realize that your muscles have become tense again after his comment, and force your body to relax. It works, sort of. You only feel a faint pinch in your shoulders.

You still refuse to look at him. You try really hard to think of a subtle way of asking what you want to know. You frown. Subtlety is not one of your talents. You’re more of a sledgehammer than a scalpel. Zayne can attest to that.

You know what? It’s fine. You don’t need to know this. You don’t have to know every single detail about the inner lives of your friends. Even best friends are entitled to privacy.

“Or are you too scared to ask?” Sylus sniffs derisively.

You whip your head back around.

“What?”

He slides his hand into yours, your linked wrists pressing together.

“I asked…” he enunciates. “If you are too much of a coward to ask your questions. Are you too afraid of the price for the ones you’ve already purchased?”

You scoff. “Do I strike you as someone who’s afraid of anything?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’re not afraid of wanderers, or a fight, or getting injured. And you’re not afraid of me,” he offers you a pleased smile. “But I think that there are things that exist that scare you.”

You let a mask of indifference settle on your face. “Bullshit,” you say, lightly. You don’t have a care in the world.

“All right, then ask your questions, if you’re not afraid of the answers.” He runs his thumb down your linked wrist, and back up again.

“Were you talking about anyone in particular tonight, when the wine guy asked if Noah was your partner?”

Sylus brings your linked hands up, and rests his cheek along the back of yours. It’s so soft along your skin, with the faint burr of his stubble causing goosebumps to rise along your arms.

“Ah, is my kitten curious about who may be my type?”

You scowl at him. “Obviously, or I wouldn’t be asking.” Your heart doesn’t ache. You’re just hoping that he can have a happy ending with whoever he has feelings for. That’s what friends do.

“Then I’ll answer. In fact, I’m glad you brought it up. It has to do with why I asked you to come tonight.” He lowers your linked hands again, but tightens his arm around your shoulder.

You look at him steadily in silence. You are prepared for whatever he has to say. You will listen, and keep his secrets, and help him in any way you can, because the coin decided that you will be his friend, and you will be the best friend he has ever had. He just doesn’t know it yet.

“I do have feelings for someone. I was describing that person when I was describing my type,” he says.

You remain very still. Your muscles remain relaxed, your breath steady. You will be his vault, for all the things he wants to tell you. Immovable, and safe. You nod, once.

His pretty, strange eyes drift from yours to your mouth and up again. “Ah,” you breathe. “I thought as much.”

“Of course. Because you’re clever, and observant, and highly attuned to the needs of other people, in most respects.” You can’t help it—you smile. That’s probably one of the nicest things he’s ever said to you. See? You can be of value to him as a friend. And in return, you get to enjoy his chaotic and weirdly comforting presence in your life.

“So what does that have to do with why you asked me here tonight?”

“I think this person may be able to reciprocate my feelings, but I’m worried that they won’t trust my sincerity if I simply tell them how I feel right now.”

You wince. You definitely know, from firsthand experience, that Sylus doesn’t always make the best first impressions. “Ah, I can see how that could be the case,” you say, diplomatically. Because you’re polite .

“I’ve spent most of my adult life singularly focused on my business goals. I haven’t had much time or interest in building personal relationships with anyone.”

“Mmm, yes, of course. Very busy with very serious murdery matters. Too busy for such weak nonsense as human connection,” you nod sagely. “As is normal.”

He lifts your linked hands and gently pokes you in the forehead. “You know, after just one week of rest, you’re a lot less nice to me than the last few times I visited you.”

“I think you mean the last few times you committed breaking and entering, and also less compliant, not less nice.” You poke his forehead in turn.  “Don’t mistake being too exhausted to engage with you as me being nice. I was too tired to really spear you with my wit, but just wait. The longer we’re friends, the more you’ll learn that you need to be on your toes to handle me.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetie.” He catches your finger in his palm, bringing your linked hands back to his thigh. “I guess I’ll just have to ensure that you continue to get enough sleep, then.” He slips his fingers through yours again.

“Okay. So you’ve been far too busy being his highness lord of all shady shit. What does that have to do with what you want from me?”

He sighs. “As a result, I don’t have much experience… pursuing someone. Romantically.” He looks at you expectantly.

“Okay,” you draw out the word, waiting for the request.

“I have to admit, I’ve found myself distracted recently trying to puzzle out how to move forward with this person.”

“Okay, so you’re nervous.” You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes. Is he ever going to get on with his request for you? He looks at you, frowning slightly.

You sigh. “How about you take your own advice and just ask me directly what you need from me? It’s not like you to beat around the bush.”

“I find that my preferred directness may not be the best strategy with this person--they consistently suspect that I have ulterior motives when I show them how much I care for them.”

“Okay," you draw out the word, but he just sits there, watching you carefully. For what, you have no idea. "Sylus, what do you want from me?” You finally lose your patience. “Out with it.”

“I think we can help each other out. I want you to teach me how to date someone properly, in a way that can convince them that I don't have any ulterior motives. That I mean what I say when I tell them directly that I care deeply for them, and don't intend to let them go.”

You stare at him. He stares back at you. You glance out of the corner of your eye to both sides, but the room is still empty. You’re the only one in it besides Sylus. The only one he could possibly be asking to teach him how to properly date someone.

You can’t help it. You howl. This is the funniest fucking thing you’ve ever heard. How is it that this big bad crime boss is asking you, you, who has spent most of your adult life either studying, training, or working so hard that every romantic partner that you ever went beyond a one night stand with fizzled out in either you being ghosted, you being cheated on, or you just being straight up dumped for not being around enough to conduct a proper relationship and meet their emotional needs. Especially because, you can admit, you have about the same emotional capacity for caring for a romantic partner as you do for caring for yourself: which is to say, hardly any at all. To steal Sylus’s comparison, you probably have the emotional capacity to satisfy someone in a relationship as a fucking cactus.

You wheeze, your linked hand clutching Sylus’s. You’re laughing so hard you’re going to throw up. This is the funniest shit Sylus has ever said to you. Sylus, who is asking you for help in wooing some god or goddess, someone amazing enough to attract the attention of such a ‘life is too short to settle for anything less than perfection’ snob as Sylus.

“Are you done?” he asks, sounding slightly indignant, after you manage not to throw up all over him—from the laughing, dammit, and not from the idea of helping this man have a happily-ever-after with someone who is not you. You’re his friend. You can be his wingman if that’s what he needs. You can.

Once you can breathe again, you lean back into the soft leather of the booth. “I am now,” you laugh softly, clearly lying. He glares at you. “I promise.”

“So, what will it be? If you help me with this matter, you can have that favor. No restrictions. No conditions. It might be very useful someday for you, as a Deepspace Hunter, to have the leader of Onychinus owing you an unconditional favor.”

You laugh. “Sylus, that’s very tempting, but I don’t think you understand that you’re asking the absolute worst person on earth for help in this department,” you begin, but Sylus squeezes your hand before you can go on to describe why your romantic history doesn’t inspire much confidence in the odds of success of his little proposal.

“Hmm, I guess you’re not up for the challenge.” He looks down at your clasped hands and fiddles with his thumb. “How boring. Guess I’ll just have to find someone else who can help.”

Okay, you’ve had enough sleep in the last week to realize that he’s baiting you. But you realize that you do want something from him. It's just that that what he is offering in exchange isn't what you actually want. You had already resolved to help him, as his friend. But you can leverage this situation to your advantage too. And if your ‘help’ turns out to be useless because you have no idea how to catch someone’s interest and actually keep it, well, that’s his fault for not thoroughly vetting his chosen consultant. You’ll still get the favor. And absolutely none of these considerations have anything to do with the fact that the thought of him seeking someone else to help him in this, of him replacing you for this job, makes your heart feel weird.

“All right. How do you think I can help you with this little… problem?” You snort. “And just remember, lots of men have problems just like yours, there’s no reason to feel ashamed.” You blink at him with wide eyes, the dictionary definition of sincere reassurance.

“Oh, I can assure you, like the rest of me, this problem is rather extraordinary. I doubt most men find themselves grappling with this level of… difficulty, in acquiring the confidence of their beloved.”

You don’t flinch at the word ‘beloved.’ So what if his crush is not actually a crush, but a soul-deep yearning? It doesn’t affect your role in this. Best, wingman, ever. You smile. You smile, because what else can you do?

"Ha, fine, fine. But I don't want an unconditional favor from the leader of Onychinus," you say. Surprise flickers across his face, but fades quickly into his usual mask of amused indifference.

"Speak."

"I want the slate to be clean between us, when this is over. I took your life. And then I did my best to help you win over your... your beloved. I can't guarantee results. But I promise to try. And afterwards, we'll be even, yeah?"

He watches you closely, as if trying to detect some trap in your condition, without resorting to his aether core. So you poke him in the cheek, but can’t help yourself—you then draw your fingertip down, along his stubbled jawline. It’s late enough now that you can see the slightly darker sheen of silver in his version of a five o’clock shadow, much like his eyebrows are darker than his hair. What a beautiful creature. You’re lucky that you even get to look at him, let alone call him a friend.

He turns his head and catches your finger between his teeth, but doesn’t bite down. You think you feel his tongue ghost longer your fingertip, but it’s probably just your wild imagination. He releases your finger and you drop your hand back to your side.

He slips the pinky finger of his linked hand around yours. Even his pinky is big, for fuck's sake. "I promise, we'll be even. You won't owe me anymore for my generosity in letting you exact your revenge, if you do you best to help me convince my beloved that I care for them."

“Okay then." You take a deep breath. After this is all over, the scales will finally be balanced, and you'll be free. "How can I help you?”

“Be my dating coach,” he finally says.

You have to think very hard to remember what you were just talking about. Oh. What?

“Wut?”

“Allow me to practice dating with you. You can give me constructive feedback regarding whether you think my strategy will be effective in persuading the object of my affection that I mean what I say.”

Your heart squeezes. Damn, is your protocore syndrome acting up again? Maybe you need to visit Akso Hospital before your next scheduled checkup.

You squeeze your eyes shut against the pain, and then force yourself to open them. “Whether or not your crush will like how you date them is dependent on that particular person’s wants and desires. Just because you manage to make me like dating you, doesn’t mean your beloved can be won over with the same strategy. Or vice versa.” You shake your head at him. He can’t be serious. This is why he demanded you meet him tonight? You dismantled, cleaned, reassembled and packed your favorite bazooka for nothing. And you don't even like using the bazooka these days. Still too loud. Still too much like an exploding bomb. But you were willing to bring it, if it meant protecting Sylus.

“I’m pretty sure that your tastes and interests are similar enough to this person that your feedback will be reliable," Sylus interrupts your drifting thoughts.

Huh? He’s interested in someone like you? Impossible. But then a thought occurs to you. Maybe another hunter? Maybe this whole time he’s been getting close to you in order to get close to his crush, who you know?

Fuck. You really do need to make an appointment with Zayne. No healthy heart should feel like this, even one as damaged as yours.

You can’t think about this. You will not consider the possibility that all of his harassment has just been an elaborate ruse to get access to someone close to you. You will not.

Your brain clearly doesn’t get the memo, because your next thought hits you like a train.

What if it’s Xavier!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You blink.

What if the hunter he wants to get close to is Xavier? What if he actually has had a crush on your partner this whole time? What the fuck will you do if they fall in love and you never see either of them again except Xavier at work and Sylus at their wedding? That twisting feeling in your guts and the sensation of your stomach dropping into your shoes is simply the result of imagining losing two of your friends at once to each other, and nothing else .

Wait, wait. It might not be Xavier. Maybe it’s Tara? Has he seen Tara? Maybe he saw Tara through Mephisto’s eyes while you went to lunch with her? She’s so cute, you often have to suppress the urge to squeeze her little chipper cheeks, because that’s an HR no-no.

Or Nero? Nero and Sylus probably share similar interests—Nero’s obsession with dangerous creatures would likely result in him being thrilled that a dangerous creature like Sylus would be interested in him. You can almost hear the wedding bells. You heard bells the first time you met Sylus, and now you’re going to lose him to Nero. You are fine .

Wait, wait, wait, what if it’s Jenna? What if this is a star-crossed lovers thing, and Jenna won’t believe him because they’re supposed to be mortal enemies? Jenna is hot as fuck. You can totally see—

Sylus’s voice interrupts the high speed crash in your head. “Oh no. I’ve learned what that look on your face means.”

You cover your mouth, because you’re clearly having a hard time controlling your face.

“What are you even talking about?” you mumble through your hand.

Sylus’s eyes bore into yours. “Don’t play dumb, kitten. Something is happening in your head, and instead of just asking me directly, you’re making wild assumptions and coming to ridiculous conclusions. If you’re curious, just ask. I thought we’ve been over this. Twice. Tonight, in fact.”

You let your hand drop with a wince. His beautiful eyes map your face. He’s right. You should just rip off the bandage. No use torturing yourself wondering which one of your friends he’s been using you to get to.

“Is your crush someone I know?”

Sylus’s face goes blank. He stares at you for a moment, and then casually reaches up to brush hair from your forehead, and your wrist is pulled up awkwardly with his.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks.

You just look at him. He fiddles with your lock of hair.

And here he had told you that you could ask him anything. But he never promised to quit his habit of answering your questions with more questions. Suddenly you realize that he’s buying time. He’s trying to think of how to answer you. That means you do know the person. Maybe it’s asking too much of him, to demand that he tell you who it is. You can survive not knowing. You can survive anything .

You plaster a smile on your face and lean away from his touch. “Never mind. You don’t have to tell me.”

You gaze out the one-way mirror, sifting through possibilities. You can help him. You know your friends enough to know what they’d like, and can suggest dates that each one might like in turn. Going for a hotpot dinner, if Sylus likes Xavier. Going for cocktails, if it’s Tara. Taking Nero to the no-hunt zone for wanderer watching instead of bird watching. You wrack your brain for what Jenna might like. You have no fucking clue. You and your boss have a mutual respect for each other and maintain strict professionalism. You would probably be in danger of falling in love with her, if not. Maybe you’ll wing it: Jenna’s a warrior, and likely has similar interests as you. The shooting range? Oh, you totally want to go to the shooting range with Sylus. To be honest, all the dates you’ve just thought of are dates you’d also like, so you’re feeling even more confident that you can help him with this job. Who cares if you’ve been cheated on more than once? You’ll be judging his performance, not the other way around.

Sylus interrupts your thoughts. “Look at me,” he says softly. You obey. He covers your hand with his. “I can promise you that whomever you’re thinking my 'crush' is, it’s not the person you're thinking of.”

How could he possibly know who you think his crush might be? But he’s looking at you so earnestly, and Sylus doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. He has told you that before, and for some strange reason, you believe him. Okay. Maybe he's telling the truth. Maybe. Maybe he likes someone you don't know.

“Okay,” you breathe. He looks pleased. You try not to think too hard about how happy it makes you when he looks at you like you’ve pleased him. It’s only natural to want your friends to be happy with you, right?

But the thought occurs to you that Sylus might be approaching this whole dating thing the wrong way. What the other person wants is not the only thing that’s important in this equation.

“You know, it’s also not just all about what your crush likes.”

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

“It also matters what you like, and what you like to do. You don’t have to just please them—the point of dating isn’t just to make the other person happy.” You turn your hand so his is no longer covering yours, but your palms are aligned. You entwine your fingers with his and squeeze softly. “Don’t you want your crush to know what you like, and what makes you happy? And then if they like that, you can be assured that you guys will be compatible in the long run. Your happiness is just as important as theirs. And it will be more convincing, if you invite them into your world, instead of just trying to accommodate theirs.”

He squeezes your hand in return, and then runs the back of his knuckles along your cheek, your hand still clasped in his. “Is that so?” he murmurs.

You will not turn your head and kiss his knuckles, rub your cheek along the back of it, unfold his fingers and kiss his palm. Friends don’t do that. You can’t make this weird for him. He’s asking you for help, and you’ll give it without any ulterior motives.

“So you’re suggesting that I take you on dates that I’d like, as well.”

You nod. “Just be yourself, and leave your scary Onychinus leader mask at home, because they probably already know that part of you. Just be the Sylus who brings his friends wine and fruit and carries around stomach medicine for them. I would be willing to bet you that just being able to spend enough time with you like that will be enough to convince them that you’re really great to be with, and since you’re clearly putting in the time and effort to show them who you are, that you’re sincere.”

He pulls his arm from around your shoulder, but turns his body toward you, crossing one leg over the other, resting his head on his hand, elbow on the booth behind you. He sets your linked hands on your leg, and rubs soft circles with his thumb on your thigh. “So, it’s a safe bet for you to assume that another person’s feelings are sincere if that person doggedly invests a lot of time and energy in you despite constant discouragement?”

“Well, yeah. I feel like even the most stubborn people give up after a while if they aren’t actually serious in the face of disbelief or a repeated rejection.”

He leans forward, so close that your noses are almost touching. “I expect you to remember what you just said, when this is over." 

Your heart does that painful limping thing again, imagining this being over, before it’s even begun.

A thought occurs to you. Because he's right. This will be over, someday. With how clever he is, how handsome and persistent, probably sooner rather than later. You don't want to find out that he no longer has a use for you once you realize that you haven't heard from him for weeks. You don't want to find out if you're in the N109 zone on a mission, and see him arm in arm with someone else. "Can you just promise me one more thing?"

He lifts an eyebrow. "It depends on what you're asking for," he asks, ever the shrewd negotiator.

Good, he's taking you seriously. "Once you shoot your shot, and no longer need my help. Can you just send me a text or something? Let me know that it's over? That you don't need me anymore, and we're even?" It's just the protocore syndrome, you tell yourself. You've lived with it for as long as you can remember. You can endure the pain that it's causing you right now, as you always have, as you wait for him to answer, trying to remember to breathe. His face is blank, as blank as the slate you're hoping for when this is all over. He looks away, and you realize that you've gotten so used to his wine bright eyes on you that it feels weird to look as his profile. You follow the line of his long nose with your eyes. Finally, he turns to look at you again.

"I promise that I will tell you clearly when this deal is over," he says quietly. You exhale slowly.

"Thank you." You mean it. You're grateful, knowing that you don't have to be anxious about figuring out the end. You won't have to guess, like you've had to guess so many times before, when someone you care about has walked out of your life without bothering to let you know.

Another thought occurs to you. “But let’s talk about this constant discouragement you mentioned. Has this person clearly and firmly rejected you?”

Sylus laughs, and there’s something in it that sounds just a little self-deprecating. “Like I said before, I haven’t even found a good opportunity to tell them my feelings yet. All of my efforts to show them how I feel through my actions have so far been… unproductive.” He leans back. “So, sensei. Speak. Where would you want me to take you on a date if I were your type, and you deigned to go out with me?”

“Where would you want to take me ?” you counter. You’re starting to look forward to helping him. Allowing him to practice with you will likely be the closest you’ll ever get to experiencing what it’s like to be cared for by Sylus beyond simply being useful to him.

“How about a trade—you tell me what you’d want, and then I’ll spend some time planning what I want. And then you can walk me through each scenario and preference, one by one.”

“Uh, okay. That sounds like a plan.” You finally give into your fatigue and yawn, widely, not bothering to cover your mouth because it’s just Sylus, your friend. “I’m starting to get kind of tired though. And since you clearly are in no danger tonight, maybe we can do the walkthrough another time.”

“All right, kitten. I’ll give you a ride.”

“And just how are you going to give me a ride home with this little problem?” you shake your wrist a little, and the golden-red shackles shimmers in the dim room.

“Did I say I was giving you a ride home?” he asks, gracefully rising to his feet and somehow pulling you gently along with him. He clasps your hand in his, and leads you to the door.

The feathers tumble from his lap and from the back of your pants, wafting up into the air and drifting down again. You wince. “I feel bad now. Some poor employee of yours is going to have to clean this mess up,” you murmur regretfully.

Sylus looks down at you, one sardonic eyebrow lifted, and snaps the fingers on his other hand. The feathers dissolve into scarlet-black cinders and disappear.

You stop, digging in the heels of your boots. “You could have done that. This entire time.”

“I told you sweetheart, I liked your gift. Why would I make it disappear, especially when there were so many people in the room to admire your handiwork?”

You hang your head, the embarrassment of acting like a nutcase slamming into you full force again. What is it about this asshole that makes you lose your mind?

Sylus just laughs softly, runs his thumb along the back of your held hand, and pulls you out into the club again.

 As the two of you make your way down the packed, jet-black granite stairs, your gaze sweeps over the people along the way, cataloging facial expressions and body language, confirming locations of exits and potential obstacles to escape. You’re tired, but you’re still alert enough to be aware of your surroundings. Just because Sylus has a lot of security in this place doesn’t mean that all potential threats to the leader of Onychinus are one hundred percent under control. But you don’t detect anything out of the ordinary. Sylus leads you into the crowd at the edge of the dance floor, and even though you had been up in the VIP room with him for over an hour, dancers are still sensually spinning from hoops above the crowd. You pause, searching for the red-haired one who had smiled so kindly at you, but they seem to have disappeared. You can’t help but let your gaze drift amongst the others though, reminding yourself once again to research how one attains that level of strength and agility.

“As fascinating as the performance is tonight, you did say you were tired. Perhaps you’d be interested in returning on another night–I’ll buy you a drink and you can watch the dancers to your heart’s content,” Sylus’s voice in your ear, close to be heard over the deep bass, interrupts your trance. You realize that of course he had to stop when you did, and has been waiting for you patiently, holding your hand, while you were caught up watching the performances above you.

You turn your head slightly, and his nose brushes against your ear. You lean past him, so that your mouth is against his own ear. “That’s a kind offer, but this place isn’t really my vibe.”

He pulls away a little and seems to contemplate your face under the intermittent lights. Then he leans in again. “Kindred spirits, sweetheart. It’s not mine either. I’ll take you somewhere else instead.”

You’re about to ask him what he means, but you’re jostled from behind, and find yourself face to face with the leader of the club girls from your time waiting in line. Her face lights up.

“Hi again!” She bellows over the music, and sways a little on her feet.

You laugh. “Hi! Having fun?” You shout back.

“Totally! Your tips have already come in handy! It’s much easier to convince guys you’re just on a girls’ night out if they’re afraid of you!” She grins, and then she seems to notice Sylus, because her eyes widen briefly, and then she gives you a sly grin. “But you didn’t need those tips yourself tonight, did you? Nice.” She winks at you.

Sylus leans forward, a big hand sliding over your hip and pulling you close. He leans down and rests his chin on top of your head. “I see you made a friend.”

“That’s right,” the girl beams. She gives Sylus a once over. “We had a really enlightening conversation waiting in line for your club, Mr. Sylus Qin.” She says this like she knows him, and suddenly you stiffen. 

Why would she know who he is? What if she’s his... beloved? Blegh, you're going to have to get used to thinking that word. Out of respect for Sylus's sincere feelings. You shake your head. Again, she seems a bit young. Like. As young as Noah. You try not to grimace. But something about the way she’s looking at him assessingly strikes you as an interest that isn’t necessarily romantic. What if she’s a threat? It would be the perfect cover–who would suspect a silly club girl of being a deadly assassin?

Are you being paranoid? Maybe. You decide to see how Sylus reacts before drawing your knives from your sleeve straps. If she is his beloved, it wouldn’t be nice if you put her on the ground when he’s trying to woo her.

“Enlightening?” he rumbles, somewhere above your head. He’s still draped over you like you’re a human coat rack. “Do tell, kitten.”

You shake him off. She will totally get the wrong idea if he keeps standing like that, but you try to subtly put your body slightly in front of him. If she goes for a weapon, you can take the hit.

“I was just showing her and her friends some basic self-defense moves. They were really fast learners.” You smile, genuinely. Because they were, and it was fun. Even if you do have to take her out now.

“I should have known that you’d use the time you spent in line improving the lives of the good people of the N109 zone,” Sylus sighs, pressing his chest against your back so he’s pretty much leaning on you again. 

“Everyone should know basic self-defense,” you point out, because it’s true.

“Of course,” he says.

“I have to say, you’re not at all like how I pictured you,” the club girl says, giving Sylus a once over again. Oh, maybe she’s about to insult him? You perk up. You’ll throw your body in front of his if he’s in danger, but you’re more than happy to break out the popcorn if someone wants to throw verbal grenades at him.

“And how did you picture me, Miss Victoria Herrera?”

The girl’s eyes widen again, very briefly, before she smirks. “You’ve done your research. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected less, considering how doggedly you’ve been courting Mama. But to answer your question. To be blunt, I pictured you in far worse company.”

“Is that why I’m having such a hard time securing a spot in your mother’s agenda?”

Oh? You’re mentally furiously shoving popcorn in your mouth. Her mother? Maybe Sylus is into MILFs? Does he want to be Victoria’s new daddy? You wrinkle your nose. You will not think of Sylus and the word daddy in the same sentence ever again.

“Your reputation does precede you, after all,” she flicks her hair over her shoulder and scans the club with an alertness that belies how drunk you thought she was earlier.

“And something about meeting my date has you reassessing whether that reputation is reliable as an indicator of my character?” he asks, leaning further into you. He slips his shackled hand back into yours.

“I can’t imagine that your date would put up with you if all the rumors are true,” she returns her big, brown-eyed gaze to his. “I like your date. In fact, I like your date so much that I’d like to invite the both of you to the birthday party that Mama is throwing me this month. Perhaps you can find a quiet moment to discuss what you want with her before I blow out my candles.” She smiles, eyes narrowing, and you get the sense that this beautiful young woman is lethal in a way that has nothing to do with stomping feet with her stilettos or shiving someone in the carotid.

“We look forward to attending,” Sylus responds, and you jolt a little. He squeezes your hand again, as if to tell you to be still. You try to keep your face blank, but inwardly scowl. He has some explaining to do. You really, really want to know who mommy dearest is now.

“Excellent,” she grins. “Now, my friends are waiting for me on the dance floor. You guys have fun tonight! And I’ll be seeing you soon, badass.” She winks at you, wiggles her fingers, and melts into the crowd. Sylus straightens and looks down at you for a brief moment with a neutral look that you have no idea how to decipher. He then turns and leads you through the crowd to the back of the club and into a series of winding hallways. Finally, he opens a back exit that leads into the basement parking garage that is apparently underneath the club. As you approach the rows of vehicles, he reaches into his pocket. Flashing lights and chirruping sound draw your attention to... a tank. Taking up the equivalent of three parking spots at the front of the row of vehicles closest to you.

You stop. "What's with the tank?"

He pauses. Looks at the black monstrosity squatting before you. Looks back at you. "Do you need to get your eyes checked, sweetie?"

You scowl at him. "What else is it, if not a tank?" you demand.

"It's an armored vehicle."

"Planning on waging a single-man assault on the N109 zone tonight? That's a fucking tank. All you're missing is a roof-mounted anti-aerial assault cannon."

"Interesting, how you're assuming it doesn't have a retractable cannon. But how can it be a tank? It doesn't even have tracks. It has wheels and tires. Just because it's a well-fortified SUV, does not make it a tank."

You squint at him. "You realize that tanks can also have tires, right? Like, the difference between a tank and an armored vehicle is not if it has caterpillar tracks or wheels. You sell this shit, right? How do you not know the details of your own inventory?" Sylus just looks bored with this correction.

"It's an armored SUV, kitten. And it's your war chariot for this evening. Get in, General Nit-Picker." You roll your eyes at him. Amazing, you've just learned that he really doesn't like admitting when he's wrong.

Once you’re strapped into his tank—because that is the only term for this oversized monstrosity of a vehicle, no matter what he says—your wrists linked over the center console, Sylus starts the engine and soft classical music fills the space between you. Something soothing, with cellos. Or double bass? You have no idea. The sound is deep and beautiful. The car smells like him. You resist the urge to burrow your ass deeper into the plush black leather seat and to demand that he turn on the seat heating that you're sure this beast has.

He emerges from the subterranean parking garage underneath Amnesia and merges into the late night traffic of the N109 zone. The road is busy, in the middle of what you consider night. You are so curious about what the exchange between Sylus and Victoria was just about, and you’re curious about where he’s taking you with your wrists still cuffed together—you assume some hotel, to wait out the remaining time of the linkage, but you’re so tired, the music is so calming, and you’ve always had the tendency to fall asleep in the car. You’re out like a light in just a few minutes.

Sylus drives through the night, under the red N109 zone moon. His beloved sleeps in the seat next to him, head at an uncomfortable-looking angle against the glass. He reaches over, deeply grateful for the linkage chaining you to him, and gently moves your head from the window, settling it onto the headrest. You snuffle a little in your sleep and make a sleepy noise.

He hasn’t felt the level of fear he felt tonight in a long, long time, as you asked him for the coin, and the energy began to swirl around both of your wrists. He is infinitely relieved that his gamble paid off: you had asked which side of the coin comes up most often, and he knew you wouldn’t trust him, regardless of what answer he gave. So he told you the truth: tails. He had placed all his bets on the hunch that you’d hinge the choice you truly wanted to make, the fear-driven option of whatever you were debating in your head, on heads as a result of your lack of trust in him. And because he said tails, you were convinced that heads had better odds. And because you chose heads, the odds in his favor were slightly improved. He may not have any control over fate, but he will damn sure exploit every sliver of opportunity that appears in fate's facade to wrest a chance at happiness from it.

And the coin came up tails. You stayed, and you asked your questions. You agreed to ‘help’ him with his problem. It’s enough, for now. He feels satisfied, for now. He’s greedy, but he’s not stupid. He will have to maneuver his pieces carefully, much more carefully than he has up to this point. He has already made so  many mistakes when it comes to you, and he can’t afford to make many more. During the three days he spent holding you captive, trying to deal with both his despair at your failure to recognize him and failed resonance, and playing the villain that he thought you so desperately needed, he was also inadvertently driving deeper cracks into what little armor you had left in this world. Every other version of you who he has known would have taken being called a disappointment as a challenge, an ignition to light your spite—such an insult would have ruffled your pride and incited you to fight twice as hard to prove him wrong. Every other version of you would have spit in his face for even daring to imply that there was something wrong with you, when it was his failure that resulted in the terror and disgust rendering you incapable of resonating with him. As he watched your face through the screen while you lifelessly told him that you were surprised that he hadn't gotten used to being disappointed by you—as he listened to your sorrowful, resigned laugh, a pale mockery of the joy he wants to fill your laughter, he wanted to fucking murder someone. But the only person to blame can only look back at him in the review mirror, as it is Sylus himself who had told you that you were a disappointment as he held you captive, and you had absorbed such a lie like a desert absorbing rain. He tightens his knuckles on the steering will until they go white. He had known that he would have to suture the carnage of your first meeting almost from the very beginning. But he hadn't realized that his initial treatment of you would have such awful side effects for you, your ability to trust him, and the end, for his aching heart. Sylus loves you, but he is self aware enough to admit that he is a selfish man. He knew, when he saw you again, that his whole world would change. That his luck would depend on your happiness. Tonight just proved that, again. Just your presence at his side tonight would secure him a business deal that would expand his empire beyond the shadows, and maybe, just maybe, allow him to step into the light with you at the end of everything. Because in the end, he's selfish enough to want to keep you, despite the pain he has inflicted on you. And his empire is the only avenue to secure a future with you at his side: his deepest wish, a wish plain to see if he were to turn his aether core inward and examine his own rotten heart. He will do whatever it takes, even to the point of absurdity, to ensure that future becomes a reality, until he either succeeds or you tell him to walk away and mean it.

Until then, he will deal with the fallout of his mistakes. He knows now, that you are not the same as the versions of you he has known before. Your strength in this life is threaded through with fissures like the gold used to repair broken porcelain. You, his lethal, lovely glass cannon. He will continue to stride forward, knowing this about you now. He will re-calibrate and keep you secured in his life by any means necessary, while he puts in the work until the day you're ready to hear the truth in his words when he calls you his beloved. For now, though, he forces himself to be sated simply by having you in the seat next to him, like a starving man convinces himself that filling his belly with grass is the same as filling it with steak. He will be satisfied, for now, as he drives through the night, on the way to his home with you for the first time since he held you captive for those heartbreaking three days at the beginning of this, your newest life together.

It will have to be enough, for now.

[sexy-sapphic-sorcerer]

jesus fuck the BBC4 Sherlock Holmes radio dramas are gay

I mean, I heard Mary accuse Watson of marrying her "under false pretence" while his heart belongs to Holmes

I heard Holmes and Watson reciting Tristan and Isolde to each other about "existing only in each other, wrapped in love"

but Watson being so scared to tell Holmes that someone wrote a play about him where he's straight! "you're not angry? it's hardly in character"

insane. hilarious. iconic.

[myszalowska]

This frame be like:

[pinetreequestionmark]

I find it interesting that so many people, including the writers of the games themselves, have apollo as trucy's magical assistant, often unwilling. Thing is, you can not have an untrained and especially not unwilling magician's assistant. Sure, you can call up an audience member to do a trick or two, but A: they need to play along at least a little or they risk ruining the trick, and 2: the entire time someone who isn't in on the magic is on stage it massively reduces your options for tricks, since you have to do stuff whose good sightlines someone in the middle of the fucking stage. An actual magician's assistant often does more of the tricks than the magician themselves, as their job is to subtly do things while the magician draws attention by being entertaining. So if apollo is being trucy's 'wonderful assistant' than you bet your ass he's at all the fucking rehearsals and he also knows how all the tricks work. Which I can believe, he is a gramarye after all.

[skullism]

as soon as I saw the original comic I couldn't stop thinking about it until I remade it with our three favourite idiots

here's the og by @cyelatm!!

[squiddymaru]

Sam: Where do you find these names?

Celia: couple of old documents.

The documents:

[ozzybutweirdthistime]

i tried making a comic of something that i thought would be funny in a later limited life session but stuff happened and i gave up

it's really unfinished and my art style is still going through puberty but here you go

[astridthevalkyrie]

inspired by rafayel's when light falls memory.

cw: fluff, bratty raf, temporary blindness

When he stumbles into the room, you're on your feet immediately, staring furiously.

"Rafayel."

"Hey, no, you can't be mad." He points in the direction of your voice, and he's slightly off, which only makes you angrier. "If you think about it, this is your fault."

"Rafayel!"

"You sound so pretty when you say my name like that. Say it again?"

It had been on the tip of your tongue, but at his words you swallow the third utterance, merely glaring with a look that would make him shudder if he could see it.

If he didn't, y'know, blind himself again.

"Hmm, does the opposite effect work on you? Let's see. Don't kiss me. Don't get me food because I'm not hungry. Don't take me to bed and lay me down and push my shirt up and ogle me, I'd hate that."

"You're not funny," you snap at him, walking up and snatching his palm. Despite your obvious anger, Rafayel lets out a soft breath of relief at your touch, and doesn't protest a bit as you guide him to sit on the couch. When he'd told you he'd meet you here, you didn't suspect anything. When he said Thomas would be dropping him off, a bead of nervousness had build up inside you. And when Thomas texted you a simple apology text, you'd feared the worst.

He always does this. This is the third time it's happened since you've known him. Each time he cheerily tells you that the doctor has warned him it could be permanent if he keeps being so reckless. And each time, Rafayel ignores that advice completely and stays up another forty-eight hours to paint.

When he's seated, he sighs happily, tugging you close and tucking himself into your chest. "You smell good."

"Shut up. Do you even register how dangerous this is?"

"Mmhm." You see his lips curve into a smile. "Maybe this'll be the time it sticks."

Placing your fingers against his forehead, you push him back and he whines, slouching with a pout on his face. You don't dignify his hypothetical with an answer, stomping away—loud enough that he can hear your displeasure—to take a wrapped sandwich from the picnic basket you'd brought over.

Rafayel's brows furrow when you drop it in his hands, and he has to fiddle a bit before he can take the foil off. Cautiously, he takes a bite, knowing better than to ask you before eating if you're trying to poison him or not (your answer will always be a deadpan yes), and moans a little when the flavor hits.

"This is so good. Did you make this?"

You sit down a foot away from him, crossing one leg over the other and staring stoically at the wall in front of you. "I did. For a date."

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his eyes widen, as though he's finally realizing how much trouble he's in. Abandoning the sandwich on the couch, he extends his hand out for you, finding your face first before he wraps his hand around your arm.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. You put all this effort in and I—"

"Completely ruined our plans by showing up without your eyesight? Yes. You did."

"I'm sorry," he says again, pulling at you a little. You acquiesce, if only because the sight of him reaching for you makes you feel slightly bad. He pulls you into his chest this time, hiding his face in your hair as he murmur out apologies.

That's the thing with Rafayel. He can tease and poke and prod all he wants, but the second he actually feels something, he makes it blatantly clear. The guilt is practically dripping off him in waves.

"I'm not mad." You hold both his hands in yours, kissing his knuckles like they're precious—because to you, they are. "At least, not about the date. I am mad that you keep doing this to yourself even though it's bad for you."

His hands squeeze yours, and his blank eyes fill with an emotion you're not even sure he realizes he's expressing. "I told you, s'your fault. I was up three nights in a row working on something you inspired."

"Right." Shifting so that you can kiss the top of his head, you mumble, "So what I'm hearing is I should break up with you and then you'll be absolutely fine."

For a few seconds, Rafayel doesn't say anything, and you become concerned he thinks you're serious. But then he presses into you more, lips grazing against your collarbone.

"That'd be even worse."

"Oh, really?" You run a hand through his hair. "How so?"

"Heartbreak is amazing for creativity. I wouldn't sleep for weeks. Even after my eyesight was gone, I'd just keep paining...and painting...and painting..."

"Okay, okay, I get it." Kicking your feet out, you lay down, pulling him down on top of you. Rafayel sighs, one arm sliding around you as he tucks his face into your neck.

"You really do smell good."

"Please stop doing this to yourself. I'm genuinely asking you, Raf, I'm begging you to just let the inspiration stew—call me if you can't settle and I'll help. But stop it with these all nighters."

His fingers find yours, and he holds your hand against his chest tightly. "Okay," he whispers, "okay."

You don't push it further. If he's agreed, then he'll stick to his word, you know that. You'd feel guilty, at how much he bends to your every request despite the complaints, but it's not like you're trying to get him to buy you a diamond ring (and Rafayel would, should you so much as glance at one). You're making him promise for his own benefit.

"Even if I did lose my eyesight, I'd still remember how you look, y'know." He brushes his lips against a nearly faded hickey on your neck, pressing a soft kiss there. It's incredibly impressive that even without seeing, he knows exactly where his marks on you are. "Wouldn't stop calling you beautiful—promise."

A gentle hum escapes you. "I know. Believe it or not, my ego isn't what I'm worried about."

He laughs quietly, reaching down to kiss your chest before pressing closer to you, listening to your heartbeat with his eyes closed. "Yeah, you're worried about me. That's so embarrassing, you have a crush on me?"

"I'm in love with you," you respond, and predictably, his ears turn scarlet at your open words and he groans, fingers clutching your shirt as he wallows. "Don't dish out what you can't take, honey."

"You're so mean," Rafayel whispers, "stay with me?"

What a pain in the ass. But he's your pain in the ass, and you wouldn't have it any other way. "M'not going anywhere."

[bestintheparsec]

bonus: 

Dinsel in distress in 3...2...