#vulturine

[weonlyneedfour]

Really? They want that interview now? Come on, man, I was gonna do that for the employee valuation the next weekend! Oh really, three weeks I've been saying that, gee, like I've even HAD a weekend to sit down and look at the time. We just got back from another round of embarassing ourselves, can't I at least wash the clown make-up off first? No, whatever, f*%k it, I'll do it now. If I step in that shower, I ain't coming out for nothing. Hayato can file the report on how we dealt with Mr.Potluck and Shamaid when he's done picking sesame seeds outta his pants. This ain't gonna be for the public, right? Cause, y'know. Hmm, strictly for V.A.P.O.R intel only, got it. Ask away.

Marco Craine. 22 years old. Human turned vampire. Field name is Vulturine. Born in Garden District, New Orleans, was living in Toulonville, currently stationed out in Manhattan. I'm, uh, employed as a "specialized emergency responder", which is barely-respectable legalese for what everyone calls a registered superhero. I mean you guys read my file, right? If this isn't a public thing, what is this for? ... Whaddya mean, the "vampire thing"? Oh, you wanna pick at that, huh? Yeah, I know how this goes, I'm guessing half of you get to think vampires are not real even though you're looking at one. Oh I WISH that was true, believe me. You think I want people to know? You think this is fun for me? It's my life, jackass, I don't get to not-believe my way out of it.

...Okay so you wanna ask me about how vampire stuff works? Man I'm, look, sorry I snapped at you guys, under a lot of stress lately, but I'm not sure I can really help. Yeah, I don't know if my transfusion power is like a, me power, like the others have, or if it's a vampire power, not like I've been able to ask on the latter. I mean, not everyone's powers work the same, but any more particulars on how powers work than that, you're gonna have to go ask Kris, or Doc. Maybe I don't even have my own powers, or maybe I just got stuck with a gross ironic one that makes me suck at being a vampire.

I can't really go to the doctor to figure that stuff out, cause I risk ratting myself out. I have a pulse, but Kris ran some tests on me and apparently I got a bunch of organs missing, and she's not sure if it's a vampire thing or it it's just something my power did to the rest of my body. I mean, I'm pretty sure something like that happened to Noma. She's strong as hell, but I don't think she even has any organs left. I don't sleep on a coffin for the fun of it. I don't have a spleen and my liver doesn't heal properly, and if I don't sleep standing upright, I get really bad acid reflux. Plus, I see in the dark, and if I don't sleep in an enclosed space, I wake up pretty much as soon as the sun comes out. Also, I have bits of my intestines missing, but I'm pretty sure that's Talon Tori's fault. I guess my old folks were paying extra, cause she got, too close, that time. No, I'm not answering that. I go to the bathroom just fine, you dicks.

Yeah the fangs are mostly a defensive thing, like some animal scare tactic. The "drinking" is done through the fingers, see how they open up? But no I don't drink blood. And when I have to "borrow" blood occasionally for my power to work, I feel every drop that's not mine, and it all comes out soon as I can get it out. I guess that's what some of those organs I got missing were for. I mean, for one it tastes fucking gross. Two, I don't kill. Three, I don't even wanna RISK what would happen to me if I did drink it. Cause you know how I "turned", right? When my folks killed me, it kicked in. I had to have been born with latent vampirism, cause I don't remember ever getting bitten. Now, I can't confirm what I'm gonna say cause, and don't you ever tell Jeremy about this, but most of what I think I know about myself comes from the movies. But a lot of what goes on in the movies goes on with me for real, so I take it as enough accuracy to work with. But vampires, when they drink blood, they live forever by always regressing to the age they were when they got turned. Creepy old rich guy becomes creepy 20-something rich guy kind of deal, right? So, I got turned when I was a kid. I'm 22 now. So, going by that logic, there's like a 50/50 chance that if I drank blood, if it worked the way it's supposed to on vampires, that I'd just regress into a 10 year old again. And that is my actual worst nightmare. That's why I barely use my power. I don't even wanna risk any of that blood slipping in by accident. Maybe when I find my piece of shit parents I can ask them in private, assuming they don't kill me first. But yeah, nuh uh, no blood for me. Never had, never gonna have it.

Yeah, sorry, this isn't gonna work out man, my bad. Wait, actually I was meaning to ask, don't you V.A.P.O.R guys have intel on vampires? Cause you guys have intel on everybody for who knows how long. Again, I don't know any other vampires, I'm guessing the only ones I could ask are too busy hiding out somewhere trying to kill me. You guys are government spooks, don't you deal with MIB stuff? None of the other clowns you hired before me ever fought vampires? . . . Wow, great. It really is just a me problem. Joy.

[artapir]

Vulture people.

[postcards-and-postcrossing]

Sunday Stamps: The Colour Yellow

…is the theme for today’s Sunday Stamps Guyana – 1987 Santa Maria, Columbus’ Flagship Guinea – 1971 Vulturine Guineafowl Bulgaria – 1961 Folk Costume Finland – 2022 Drying Laundry Outside – Spring Greetings Romania – 2006 Yellow Empress Tulips Malaysia – 2007 Chinese Hibiscus Turkey – 2010 Carnation on patterns of marbling Canada – 2022 Canada’s Ukraine Support stamp with a donation to…

[critter-creature-or-beast]

trick or treat!! are there any birds in that critter bowl of yours?

I found this vulturine guineafowl at the bottom of the bowl. Lucky you!

(img src)

[scavengier]

first pass at an aberration. failed to remember that the two heads have different horns... so let’s just assume this guy’s an odd one out.

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Trick or treat?

Vulturine Guineafowl!

[vinspixels]

Vulturine Guineafowl

[sorry-but-no-sorry]

Dnd bird party !

[critter-captures]

Vulturine guineafowl (Acryllium vulturinum), family Numididae (guineafowl)

While all guineafowl have featherless heads, the long bare neck and head make the resemblance to a vulture especially strong in this species.

Avifauna, taken July 2024

[podartists]

The Angolan Vulture (Gypohierax angolensis) | Joseph Wolf | Zoological sketches v.1 (1861) | Biodiversity Heritage Library | Flickr | Public domain

[uupiic]

Vulturine guineafowl!

[weonlyneedfour]

"Well, I was robbing casinos back then, of course. I wasn't going by Countess Foxbite at that time, no fancy name or mask, didn't need em, just had to look the right amount of rich and stupid to get wherever I wanted and work some extra "magic" if the place was segregated, and not forget to pack the six-shooter in the purse just in case it was one of those nights." "Sure, I'd been around the block. Diamonds, train robberies, cattle rustling, done most of em, but running casinos to the ground is what I liked the most, only part of it I still miss. It was the civil solution to getting them out of Foxhole Boulevard and the not-civil ones looked more appealing every day. They get a legal pass for robbing folks blind every hour of every day, so playing by their rules and being better at it is only fair game. They called on Lady Luck's name, but it was I who was sweeping her off her feet and taking her home to treat her right, and she repaid those nights with a few decades extra for me. "Can't be ungrateful, I suppose, but if I had much patience for men I might have tried romancing the Grim Reaper instead."

But word on the street then was that Edward Triton, the, pardon my language please, pigfuck pimp bastard that ran Toulonville for 20 years, had heard of these rowdy little crooks making noise around town, muscling on his territory. Some loud fat guy from New Orleans was fencing expensive goods he’d acquired overseas and not paying tribute, and I hardly have to tell you Prince Pavonini loved his character every bit as much then as he did until the end of his life." "But it wasn't just us two. Some amphibian monster woman from who-knows-where out of town was going around beating up and kicking his men out of establishments, think she ate a couple of arms too many, and there was this other new one then, messing around with policemen, like sending music boxes to the stations or hijacking the police radio broadcast with uninterruptible music and leaking stuff to the press and public radio that implicated the cops and Triton."

"The former was the first Sally Manda, first that I knew anyway, lost count of how many times she regenerated or cloned herself after a point, and the latter was Legato Sphynx. That was how they met, they and Pavo had a, complicated relationship back then. Well I guess it never stopped being complicated, marriage always overcomplicates everything, never had the patience for that nonsense, but anyway -" "Triton had gotten fed up with us one day, rounded us all up to torture and kill us, send a message across town that he was not to be messed with. Conveniently for us, the poor old man just happened to die of a heart attack that very night. Legally ruled in the papers and everything, go figure." "I can't tell you who did it. It was dark, there was a fight, then we were breathing and he was not, that's all there is to it. You might not believe me, but none of us claimed credit for it. We knew whoever did would be next." "Well no, we didn't get much choice in the matter. None of us wanted it, but it was either taking Triton's throne or dying at the hands of his mob. "The Carnival Court of America" was our idea, the name was Pavonini's little flourish, stealing the Camelot Circle's abbreviation and making a mockery out of it, tell the "white hats" what we thought of them. We'd formed the Carnival Court, split up all his old territories and assets among ourselves, and got everyone to join in or stay out of our way." "Back then, we made a hell of an impression, everyone wanted to grab a mask and a name and jump in on it. Cause suddenly, we didn’t have to take shit from the mafia or the triads or the cops, and do you know how liberating it is to not have to be scared of the cops anymore? It was like we were all immortal for a while there."

"Yes, it was a stupid idea, what else were we supposed to do? You think becoming a "hero" was a choice for people like us then? You don't know how lucky you have it."

"I don't…okay, maybe I do miss them, it's never nice being the last to leave the party. We, Pavonini and I had a fight, the last time I saw him. We talked about you. About what it was like, after he rescued you and brought you here, I moved in when Katrina happened and the pub became a shelter that needed tending to. I mean, four years, me, him and Gloria, trying to raise an orphan who can climb walls and rip through steel when he gets cranky. And you were just so angry, I was worried for you. I was afraid we were hurting or using you, cause we're "black hats". Can't tell you how much I hate that stupid name, but... It's what we do." "I knew Pavonini still wanted to fight this stupid war and was running out of time, that he blamed himself for everything and he sure as shit wasn't innocent but - I, look, the point is that he just couldn't let go. Of that life, of those games, of all that class warfare and hatred he got embroiled in. Of Sangrier. Sangrier is an addiction and I was the first to go cold turkey, and they all should have - Listen to me. I know how you feel, and I'm telling you got to let it go. You are not going to find anything in that auction. You are going to get yourself killed over nothing." "Pavonini is dead, Sangrier is invincible, and you got a DAMN good thing going on with those Emancipator people you're running with, seriously, don't throw that away. Please. For me and Gloria's sake, Marco -"

"I'm sorry, auntie Hazel."

"- Don't die the way he did."

*click

[herpsandbirds]

Vulturine Guineafowl (Acryllium vulturinum), family Numididae, order Galliformes, found in northern and central Africa

This bird is the only member of this genus.

photograph by Gene Swensen

[mikkouille]

The harry potter airbnb post isnt real, it’s a smear campaign. The couple is opening a shop.

k

[daxiandreams]

assign the poor innocent fool you reblogged this from a fursona

if they already have a fursona you gotta give them a new one

[revasserium]

loving you was red

sylus; 4,627 words; fluff, banter, no "y/n", mild spoilers for sylus's main storyline, subtle but not so subtle flirting, nicknames (kitten, little crow), kinda enemies to lovers

summary: the beginning of everything, all in shades of red

a/n: this was supposed to be fun lil drabble; alas, that's not what it turned out to be, but i hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless. i had fun with the banter in this one u__u

001. fire and brimstone

The city below is a shatter of broken stars, and from up this high, none of it seems real. You cannot reconcile the sight of all those scattered, pinpoints of light with the lives you know shine behind them. You cannot imagine sitting in your living room, scrolling through your news-feed, waiting for the water to boil for late night ramen.

“Trouble sleeping?”

You congratulate yourself on not wincing, on keeping perfectly still.

Sylus joins you by the window, his arms looped lazily in front of his chest, his dark silk robe falling open to reveal his chest. You keep your eyes resolutely on the technicolored skyline.

“Yeah,” you say, feigning a yawn, “just something about being held captive against my will that just… messes with my circadian rhythm, y’know?”

Sylus chuckles, the sound rumbling through him, low enough to make you shiver.

“Don’t tell a girl like you still needs someone to sing her to sleep.” He’s teasing. You know he is, and yet you can’t keep the heat from clawing up the back of your neck. You scowl, chewing on the insides of your cheeks.

“What gives you that idea?” you ask, still in your flailing attempt to seem calm, seem collected.

"Nothing in particular… just… the twins found a shocking number of plushies in your room so —”

"You had them go through my stuff?” you round on him, glaring, your fingers clenched into fists.

Sylus shrugs, peering at you out the corner of his eye, an amused grin ticking at his mouth.

“Feisty little kitten, aren’t you? Though for what it’s worth — they didn’t find much on how your Evol works.”

You huff, turning back to the floor to ceiling windows, knitting your arms tightly across your chest.

“You heard the shopkeeper — we have to — to…” you trail off, the words caught in the back of your throat like peach pits, hard and large and impossible to stomach. You flush, biting down on your lips.

“To what, hm?” Sylus sounds amused, and it’s this more than anything that spurs you onwards.

You turn to glare at him, “To not hate each other!”

Sylus cocks a single, arched brow.

“So, do you?”

You blink, feeling the ever-present heat prickling into your cheeks as you stare resolutely at the skyline outside. From this distance, Linkon City could be any other city, with it’s towering skyscrapers and twinkling lights.

“Do I what?” you ask, your voice softer as you try to pinpoint the exact location of where you used to live.

“Hate me.”

You turn; in the dimness, all you can see of Sylus is his firebrand eyes and his stone-cut features. The dark curve of his mouth and the sharp jut of his nose. When he turns to meet your gaze, you can barely stifle your gasp — his eyes are so red, so deep and strange.

“Brimstone…” you say, without really thinking about it.

Confusion flickers across his vulturine features.

“Hm?”

You lick your lips, feeling the dryness that had since collected there.

“Brimstone,” you say again, shaking your head and averting your eyes, only for Sylus to catch your chin in his fingers and force you to look back at him, to be swallowed up by his gaze, “it’s… something from… the ancient religions. It’s — back when they believed in gods and monsters, people would use the word brimstone to signify divine wrath…”

His finger slacken on your chin and you let your head fall as he takes half a step away.

He lets out a mirthless laugh, his eyes faraway as he stares out at Linkon City, laid out before his feet.

“I can’t say I know much about gods, but… monsters?”

You swallow, feeling the imprint of his fingers on your skin.

He turns back to look at you, his gaze soft, but no less startling. You feel an unnamable fire frisson up your spine and skitter back down again.

“Monsters are very, very real,” he leans in, closing gap between your body and his, till he has you nearly caged against the cool glass of the penthouse windows. He shifts to brush away a strand of hair, tucking it behind your ear with too-gentle fingers. His next words are whispered, his voice in a register so low it almost sounds like the shadow of sound — he leans in, his lips brushing by your cheek till you can feel the heat of his breath right next to your ear —

“And they look just like you and me.”

002. lipstick

“So at the auction —”

“Just do as I say, and you’ll get what you want.”

You narrow your eyes in the mirror, staring at the reflection of Sylus fastening a pair of ornate silver cufflinks to his impeccably tailored suit.

“Give me one reason to trust you,” you say.

Sylus looks up, a hand still on his cuffs as he meets your gaze in the mirror, unflinching.

“Since when have I ever asked you to trust me?”

Over on the dresser, Mephisto lets out a soft caw that sounds almost mocking. You swirl to glare at him and he has the decency to flap his mechanical wings, shuffling until he’s hidden from view behind Sylus’s shadow.

Sylus laughs, “Alright — settle down, little crow.”

You frown, “Little crow? What happened to kitten?”

Sylus shrugs, “Changed my mind. Figured little crow fits you a bit better. You know — loud, defiant…” he smirks as his voice trails off.

You don’t try to hide your consternation, “Often associated with murder?”

Behind him, Mephisto lets out an indignant ca-caw.

You try to sidestep Sylus, only to find yourself trapped against the mirror by his strong arms. He grins down at you, his canines flashing over his lower lip as he cocks his head.

“Like I said, fits better, no?” he asks.

You stare up at him, trying to make out what he’s thinking behind those firelight eyes of his.

“Let me go — I still need to finish my makeup,” you say, pressing a palm to his chest. You try not to think about the firmness of his muscles beneath your touch, or the heat of his skin, even through all these layers of clothing.

“What else is there?” he asks, his eyes flickering over your features; you shiver, feeling the weight of his gaze as it sweeps over your face like a sudden flare of heat, “you look pretty finished to me.”

You lick your lips, and feel a strange, savage satisfaction at the tick of his eyes down to your mouth, at the way his pupils dilate, at how they track the slow progress of your tongue as it laves across your bottom lip before disappearing back into your mouth.

“Lipstick,” you say, trying not to sound too smug.

Sylus puffs out a laugh before reaching over to the low dressing table and grabbing a tube of lipstick. He uncaps it with a finger, and twists out the color without once breaking your gaze. Vaguely, you feel your stomach tense, and you ponder the unfairness of this one, single act — how could he look so stupidly attractive doing all this when he’s got you trapped here? Like some sort of exotic songbird in a golden cage.

“T-that’s not the color I wanted —” you say, but even to your own ears, you don’t sound convincing.

Sylus’s smile slackens into a lopsided smirk as he tilts your chin up to press the cream of the lipstick to your lips, dragging it delicately across one way, then back the other.

“Press your lips,” he says, his voice softer and gentler than you’ve ever heard it before.

You do, feeling a stifling thump-thump-thump rise up to beat against the back of your throat as his eyes flick down to watch you.

“Mm… as I thought, this color looks great on you,” he says, pulling back to admire his handiwork.

You feel the air rush back into your lungs in a single, searing breath, caught between the urge to brace your arms against your knees and heave, or to drag your hand across your mouth to rid yourself of the lipstick.

You do neither though, because at that moment, the twins call from outside the door —

“Auction’s about to start!” says Luke.

“Hope you’re both ready!” says Kieran.

Sylus straightens, capping the lipstick with a sharp click. You force yourself to calm down, to focus on your breathing — four counts in, seven counts out.

“Are you ready?” Sylus asks, his tone once more whiskey-smooth and just as potent.

You roll back your shoulders and give a quick nod, speaking to yourself just as much as you’re speaking to him —

“Sure. Let’s get this over with.”

003. blood and roses

There’s blood on your hands and blood on the pavement. The world shimmers around you in wildfire and smoke.

“… so… so much blood…”

“You can’t die here —” Sylus’s voice cuts through the memory like a struck chord, resonating inside you till it’s the only thing you can hear, “that life you owe me? It’s not your time to pay it back yet!”

You reach for him, and the moment you feel your palms connect, a bead of heat pulses out from the center of your clasping hands. Your skin is slick with sweat and blood, but his hand beneath you is oddly cool and smooth.

The charred ashes of the beaten Wanderer fall around you like flakes of misbegotten snow; you wave your free hand to keep the pieces from falling into your eyes. A river of light seeps from the Deepspace Tunnel into the center of your chest, glowing brighter and brighter until it coalesces into a familiar gem-like shape.

It comes to a rest between your fingers seconds before it cracks, the light flickering once along the seam before going out.

“It — the Aether Core —!”

“It’s power is yours now. Why’re you so surprised?” Sylus doesn’t let go of your hand, but realizing this, you pull away first, and he makes no move to stop you.

“D-did you know?” you ask, unable to keep the accusation from seeping into your voice.

“Does it make a difference?”

You clamp down hard on your bottom lip, weighing the answers. It isn’t until you reach up to absently card your hand through your hair that you notice — your wrist and his, linked together by a tangible string of red, pulsing power.

You gasp, “W-what —?”

“Tch.”

You wave your wrist, watching as Sylus’s hand follows the movement. Your cheeks darken as he looks away, sighing audibly.

“If you planned this —!” but your words are cut short by a sudden wave of vertigo — the world spins around you and for a second, all you can see is the pinwheeling stars above you, the bright, pulsating edges of the Deepspace Tunnel, and then — everything fades to a sweet, merciful darkness.

You wake up to the smell of roses, and a warm body next to yours. Groaning, you try to shield your eyes from the light filtering through the massive windows.

It takes you a second to orient yourself, and to realize why your wrist seems so heavy as you try to lift a hand and rub at your eyes.

“Looks like you’re up early, though Mephisto still has you beat.”

You blink blearily up at Sylus, sitting next to you in bed, his back propped up on a fortress of pillows, a tablet in one hand, the other still linked to your wrist, half-raised to your face.

You squeak, ducking down to hide beneath the covers, hurriedly wiping at your eyes and your mouth, a mix of horror and embarrassment mounting in your stomach as you realized you must have been drooling in your sleep.

“What did you do to me?!” you demand, pulling back the covers when you’re somewhat certain that you don’t still have drool-marks at the corners of your mouth.

Sylus, for his part, looks only mildly ruffled by your sudden stint back to wakefulness. He takes his time setting down the tablet with his free hand and picking up the steaming mug of black coffee.

“You fainted,” he says, as if that explains everything, “after the resonance worked. Though it makes sense you would — after finally getting the Aether Core and all —”

“No! I mean —” you gesture desperately between you, the pristine linen sheets twisting around you both like waves on a white-sand beach, “how did I — we — get here? Who changed me?” you ask, your cheeks flaring up even as Sylus sips at his coffee, seemingly content to watch you sputter yourself dry.

“Really? After all that, the first question you have is who changed your clothes?” Sylus asks, a distinct tone of mockery clear in his every word.

“Shut up! You know what I mean!”

“Do I? I don’t think I do — you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.” He grins, all splitting lips and too-white teeth. You stare, dumbfounded at his nonchalant expression before huffing and slumping back into your own pile of pillows. You blink, throwing up your free hand to shield yourself from the too-bright light of sunrise, shining straight into your eyes.

Wordlessly, Sylus taps a few buttons on his tablet and the windows darken, filtering out the harsh morning light, leaving the pair of you in a dim, yet luminous shadow.

“I just —” you cut yourself off before you can ask yet another mundane question, and finally, after a few minutes of mulling over what exactly it is you want to ask, you settle on, “what now?”

Sylus shrugs, casting his eyes back down at his tablet, setting his half-drunk cup of coffee on the bedside table.

“Now, we do whatever we want. You have your Aether Core and I have mine,” he lifts up his wrist, shaking yours in the process, “and we try to figure out how to manage this.”

“And if we don’t?” you ask dryly.

Sylus chuckles, “Then, we figure out a way to live with it.”

You roll your eyes involuntarily, “Ugh. Of all the people to be stuck to…” you mutter to yourself. And though you’d said it quiet enough for it to be an afterthought, both of you knew Sylus had been too close not to hear.

He scoffs, pulling you close, tipping you off balance so that you topple face-first into his chest.

“Wake up, little crow,” he says, his tone caught halfway between mocking and maleficence, twisting your face till you’re forced to stare out of the window at the dulled-out skyline below.

“You think you’re so great, being a Hunter and getting rid of Wanderers,” he says, a sharp venom seeping into his words as he speaks, and slowly, he punches a button the tablet that makes the windows un-tint themselves.

You watch as the sunrise bleeds itself dry over Linkon City, the harsh, morning light slicking the entire city in a vapid, orange glow.

“The brighter the light, the darker the shadow — do you really think that just because you and your little Hunter friends are out there killing Wanderers and saving the world, that there isn’t the a need for people like us?” Sylus pushes you away from him. It’s not a harsh move, but it’s not exactly gentle either.

And again, you can’t help feeling the imprint of his fingers, almost as if burned into your skin as your rub at your jaw.

It’s when you turn to glare at him that you meet his gaze and find him staring at you with a look that’s much more haunting than ghost. Much more longing than loathe.

“Well… you’re one of us now. And newsflash, little crow — sometimes, the world just doesn’t want to be saved.”

You let his words sit with you, like river stones, hard and smooth, feeling them sink slowly down the length of your throat to settle somewhere in the wide basin on your stomach. You avert your eyes, and it’s only then that you notice the bouquet of flowers sitting on your bedside table.

“What are the roses for?” you ask, reaching out your free hand to run a thumb along a single, velvet petal. It comes off at your touch, and you watch it fall against the unmarred white marble of the table top.

“A little present,” Sylus says, waving you away, “a thank you - for a job well done last night.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” you say, unable to keep the bitterness from your tone, “it’s not like I had much of a choice.”

“You did,” Sylus says, “you could’ve killed me. And you didn’t.

“I could still kill you now,” you say, though there’s no conviction in your voice at all. Instead, you reach out to tug at another dark red petal. It comes off just as easily as the one before.

“You could. But you haven’t. And don’t you think that warrants a reward?”

004. dawn

“I’ve never hated you, you know.”

You frown, squinting against the early-morning light.

It’s not the first time you’ve found yourself waking up next to him, and you think it won’t be the last. You flip onto your side to face him, feeling a familiar rush of heat crest into your chest as you come nearly nose to nose with him.

Sylus barely even flinches, cocking an eyebrow before reaching out to tug a stray piece of hair from your face.

“What?” you ask, even though you know full well what he’d said. So maybe, you just wanted to hear it again — is that so terrible?

“Hn,” Sylus grins, rolling onto his back to cast his eyes up at the ceiling, “I said you’re getting drool on my pillows.”

You squeak, fumbling to wipe at your face before the realization hits, and you jerk up, pouting.

“That’s not what you said!”

“Then you did hear,” Sylus casts you an amused glance.

You lick your lips, the soft cotton of sleep still muffling the world such that everything except him feels strangely out of focus.

“I — I heard… a word here and there —”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible liar?”

You scowl, whipping around to pin him with a stare, “Where I come from, that’s not a bad thing.”

Sylus’s eyes tick towards you, his expression amused as he appraises you, and not for the first time, you feel yourself go warm beneath the solar-storm fixation of his attention. Like this, you can feel the air between you blistering, as oil to a lit fuse, as his eyes travel over the planes of your face, the curve of your shoulder, the thin silk strap that had since slipped to cling to your upper arm.

“No? I suppose not,” he concedes, pushing himself up, reaching over the bedside table to push at a small button on the far side. Somewhere else in the penthouse, you can hear an alarm bell ring.

“What’s that?” you ask, pointing.

“Coffee,” he answers, and you fall silent again, turning your face away from him to look back at the heartbreak city, carved in shadows against dawn’s liquid light. It’d only been — what — a week? A bit more? And yet you can’t bring yourself to see the city the same.

Nothing has changed — not really.

But everything’s different, you think, as the door on the far side of the bedroom cracks open and Luke peers in with a smug smile and two steaming cups of coffee.

“Black for the boss, and milk and sugar and all the trimmings for the little crow.”

Sylus tsks, a frown digging itself into the space between his eyebrows, his eyes flashing as he takes the two cups. Luke, to his credit, jerks back, dancing out of Sylus’s reach.

“Ah — sorry, sorry — didn’t know that was a special nickname,” he says, making a show of stooping to apologize, though neither of you miss the jesting crow beneath his voice.

“Out.” Sylus orders, and Luke doesn’t waste time scurrying from the room, cackling beneath his breath like a gleeful child.

You take your cup from his hand and give it a dainty sip, adjusting yourself against the pile of pillows.

“What? I thought that nickname was your idea.”

“It is,” Sylus says, relaxing back. The tether between your wrists sits slack and nearly invisible on the sheets between you. He stares down at the dark liquid surface of his own cup before turning to smirk at you, “doesn’t mean it was meant to be shared.”

You clamp down on another wash of heat, threatening your cheeks as you sink a bit deeper into the luxurious bedding. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to sleep on sheets this nice again once you figure out how to break the tether between you and you’re finally allowed to go home.

“Why say it where other people can hear if you didn’t want them to pick it up?” you shoot back, determined to get the last say, at least in this.

Sylus sets down his cup, cocking his head to look at you, “It’s not a joke if there’s no one around to hear the punchline.”

You level him with a glare, “Is that all I am to you? A joke?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem if I’m just your captor, right?”

You open your mouth to retort, only to find your voice stolen by the sight of him, kissed gold by the rising sun. You’ve never been one to obsess over beauty but even you can’t pretend to be unaffected.

Like this, he looks hewn from marble, a statue at the loving hands of a besotted sculptor — a lazy god rendered into silk and stone. He is smooth skin and burning eyes and a jawline that might’ve been turned on a diamond cutter’s lathe. There’s a base carnality in the way he looks at you (and looks at you) — his gaze so penetrating that somehow, you don’t think you’ve ever been seen this way before.

There’s a damnable elegance to him, even as his lips twitch up into a tell-tale smirk.

“What?” he asks, leaning forward just an inch, but the distance feels exaggerated by your closeness, such that suddenly, you’ve got to lean back to look into his face. He licks his own lips languorously, and you feel your chest tighten on a torque, caught in the turn of his smile.

“Kitten got your tongue?” he asks.

You shake yourself, shifting back slightly, “You’re mixing your metaphors,” you say, trying to keep your eyes from straying back to his face.

“They’re my metaphors to do with as I wish. So. Aren’t you going to answer?”

“Answer what?”

“What you think you heard me say, right before you woke up.”

You cup your palms around your coffee mug, feeling its heat seep steadily into your skin. There’s a familiar tingle at the tips of your ears and you know you’re already blushing.

Stupid coffee, you think, trying hard to school your expression into a frown, stupid Sylus, you add to yourself, taking a long sip and biting back your sigh of relief at the mundane magic of caffeine and sugar.

“Does it matter what I think?” you sidestep the question.

Sylus doesn’t miss a beat, “If it didn’t, would I have asked?”

The torniquet in your chest twists tight enough to make your stomach flip as well. You chew on your bottom lip, mulling over your answer.

“I never hated you…” you say, finally, your voice barely more than a whisper or a breath. And even as the words fall from you like so many rose petals, you’re unsure if you’re repeating his words back at him or making an admission of your own.

Sylus only shifts back to his side of the bed, leaning against his pile of pillows. Your wrists sit atop the sheets, inches apart, and yet you can’t deny the dull pull of gravity between you, as if something beneath your skin is itching to be close to his.

You turn to face him, twisting your fingers in your lap.

The quiet softens around you both, settling until you let out another long breath.

“So…” you drag out the word as Sylus glances up at you, expectant. His eyes flicker with the fire of the rising dawn behind you, and in them, you can see the shadow of yourself, painted in darkness against the light.

“What’s for breakfast?” you ask.

Sylus chuckles, his head listing sideways as he studies you.

“Whatever you’d like.”

“Hm…” you make a show of swinging your legs out of the bed, shivering slightly as your feet come into contact with the cool marble floors, “are there pancakes?”

Sylus stretches his arms over his head, letting out a soft groan that evokes something inside you that you’d rather not examine at the moment. You keep yourself turned resolutely away from him even as you hear the distinct sounds of him getting out of bed as well.

“No, but there can be — you only need ask.”

“Fine, I want pancakes,” you say, finally turning around, only to find him standing right behind you, his silk robe discarded on the floor by the bed, his chest broad and entirely bare. Your breath catches in your throat as he cocks an eyebrow.

“Is that asking?”

You crinkle your nose, forcing air back into your lungs.

“Okay, okay — can we have pancakes?”

Amusement dances behind his eyes as he bends over you, propping a hand casually on the dresser behind you to limit your movements.

“And the magic word?”

You narrow your eyes, “Nevermind!”

“Mm — wrong. Two more tries.”

You try to duck under his arm but he catches you easily, spinning you back around to face him, nearly sweeping Mephisto from his perch on the dresser. The crow lets out an offended caw and flaps off towards the far end of the room, coming to a disgruntled rest on the back of a satin loveseat.

“Let me go!”

“Wrong again — last chance.”

You sink your nails into the skin of his forearm, trying not to think of the taut muscles corded there. He doesn’t even wince, though for a second, the tether between your wrists flares up like a fanned flame.

“Fine! Please!”

Sylus straightens with a satisfied smirk, turning around to make for the bedroom door. Your chest is heaving, and the sudden space between you make your head spin. You blink at his retreating form, and it isn’t till he reaches the door that he turns to glance at you over his shoulder.

“Hope you like raspberry jam.”

You level your breathing and hurry to catch up, clutching your own sleeping robe tighter around your chest as you fall into step next to him.

“I thought you didn’t like sweet things.”

He opens the door and steps aside for you to walk through first.

“I never said it was for me.”

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