stuck in reverse

Every suckle, every greedy swirl of his tongue against your pulse, sends shimmering embers through your limbs. His elegant fingers are already buried knuckle-deep inside you, stroking deliberately slowly as if you are his most precious canvas and he intends to prime every inch of you before the final masterpiece.

He draws back just enough to let the entire crescent of council members see the glossy string of saliva connecting his lips to your skin.

Rafayel’s obsession with public claim began long before you wore his crown. As the last Lemurian prince, he grew up surrounded by murmurs about extinguished bloodlines and fragile alliances. The first time he touched you in private, he whispered, “One day, I’m going to show them all exactly who owns my heart.” 

To Rafayel, having witnesses isn’t about political necessity. It’s about etching the truth into their memories so no one can ever pretend you do not belong to him.

You feel the familiar drag of his fangs over the tender spot beneath your ear, and you keen softly. The council murmurs, but Rafayel silences them with a glance sharper than a trident’s edge.

“Shh, my Queen.” his voice rumbles against your throat. “They need to hear you, not their own empty gossip.”

His fingers curl forward, finding that secret spot that turns your vision to sea foam. You gasp, hips jerking, and he rewards you with a low, satisfied hum. The sound vibrates straight through his chest and into yours. He works you with the same devotion he pours into breathing life onto canvas, swirling and circling, pausing only to trace wet designs across the plushness of your inner thigh with the pad of his thumb.

Rafayel sees intimacy as the ultimate art form. Before the consummation ceremony, he painted your body with phosphorescent ink himself, murmuring about ‘painting his devotion where everyone can see.’ The shimmering patterns still ghost your skin—tendrils of sea mist, the crescent of his kingdom, the exact secret spot where you first confessed you loved him—and they glow brighter the nearer you are to ecstasy. He chose them specifically so the council cannot mistake your pleasure.

“Let them look at you,” he breathes, withdrawing his fingers only to bring them to his mouth. He licks them clean, lashes fluttering shut in exaggerated reverence, before fixing his gaze on the hooded figures encircling the dais. “See how sweet my Empress is? None of you will ever taste anything half as divine.”

One of the elders clears his throat, intending some ritualistic remark, but Rafayel ignores him completely. He is already guiding your thighs further apart, settling you more firmly across his lap. The heavy ceremonial robes he still wears are undone just enough to free his length, the proof of his own ache for you. He drags the flushed tip through your slickness, painting you with himself, deliberately drawing out the moment. Your forehead drops against his, breaths intermingling.

“You’re doing so well, my pearl,” he praises, and the tenderness beneath the possession undoes you more than anything else. “Now let them see you fall apart before I even take you.”

His mouth descends on your breast, tongue tracing a glowing whorl of bioluminescence around your nipple. The ink ignites, soft coral light pulsing in time with your heartbeat. The council collectively shifts; even the most stoic among them cannot hide the flicker of awe. Rafayel suckles hard enough to make you cry out, his name tearing from your throat like a prayer. He grins against your skin, one hand splayed across the small of your back to keep you arched, the other guiding himself just barely inside your aching warmth.

Rafayel’s tongue is not merely talented; it’s reverent in its pursuit. He once told you that every time he puts his mouth on you, he’s composing a love letter no brush could ever replicate. He can recite the exact taste of your want, compare it to the sweetness of moon jelly nectar, and he insists on spending at least one hour a day learning your body with his lips. The council’s presence changes nothing; if anything, it sharpens his need to demonstrate that you are the most worshipped creature in any realm. 

He nudges his cock deeper, just a fraction, and stops. Your whimper echoes off the vaulted ceiling, and he shushes you with a kiss—deep, demanding, his tongue sweeping past your lips the same way he is about to fill you. He tastes of the sweet bombons you had shared earlier, and incense and a heady possessiveness that leaves you dizzy.

“They’re watching,” he murmurs into your mouth, withdrawing just enough to stare into your blown pupils. “Every single one of them. And they’re going to witness exactly how thoroughly I please my Empress. How beautifully she takes what belongs to her.”

Then he thrusts up, full and deep, burying himself to the hilt in one slow, unstoppable stroke. The moan that escapes you is half-sob, half-symphony. Rafayel’s composure fractures for exactly one heartbeat—his hips stutter, his forehead drops to your shoulder, an almost wounded sound escaping his throat—before he regathers himself with a wicked curve of his lips.

“Perfection,” he announces loudly, so the council cannot mistake the word. “Absolutely perfect, she is.”

He moves inside you with rolling patience, each stroke focused to drag against every sensitive inch of your body he has spent months memorizing. His fingers find your clit again, tracing spirals of cool pressure that counterpoint the heat of his possession inside you. He coos instructions that are meant as much for the audience as for you, “Good girl, just like that,”; “Let go for me, I want to feel you lose yourself to me,”; “They need to know, don’t they? How well I take care of my Empress.”

When your climax crests, it’s a tidal wave. Your vision whites out, your nails rake the exposed skin of his neck, and your cry shatters against the throne room’s stained-glass windows. Rafayel doesn’t slow. He rides the convulsions of your body with single-minded focus, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear as he whispers filth-edged devotion.

Only after your body goes pliant and trembling does he allow himself to chase his own release. His rhythm turns ragged, the artistry giving way to raw need. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply as his hips piston upward. When he finishes, he groans your name—not your title, not “my Queen,” but the intimate syllables you’d almost forgotten existed beneath all the formality. He fills you with thick pulses of heat, and you feel the glow of the phosphorescent ink on your skin spike brilliantly, illuminating the entire dais in a private aurora.

The council is utterly silent. Then, one by one, they lower their heads in a bow deeper than any you have ever received.

Rafayel doesn’t pull out immediately. He keeps himself tucked inside you, softening but still claiming, one arm wrapped around your waist while the other hand cups your cheek. He studies your flushed face with an artist’s greed, making silent note of each blown pupil, each kiss-swollen lip.

“They’ll remember this, my darling Empress,” he says softly, but his voice carries so much tenderness, as much as possessiveness. “Every time they lay eyes on you, they’ll see you draped across my throne, falling apart on my fingers, taking my cock like you were forged for it. They’ll never doubt again, that you are mine, and I am yours. That you shall take me as I take you, yearn for me as I yearn for you.”

He presses a reverent kiss to your forehead. His thumb traces your cheekbone, leaving a shimmer of your own wetness behind.

“My masterpiece,” he breathes, just for you. “My beloved bride. My love.”

The council begins to file out in ceremonial silence, but Rafayel doesn’t spare them a glance. He is already using the hem of his robe to tenderly clean the inside of your thighs, pressing soft, apologetic kisses to every spot where his grip bruised.

Later, you know he will carry you to the royal baths and spend an hour just holding you, murmuring about all the paintings he wants to make of tonight’s tableau. But for now, before the empty throne room, he lets you curl against his chest, still intimately joined, and hums the lullaby of the deep that only Lemurian royalty ever learn.

And you, his Queen, his Empress, the sole keeper of his fathomless heart, drift in a pleasure so complete it feels like the tides themselves are cradling you home.

© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

🏷️: @aiycnlyme, @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @youkoden, @w0ndert1nk, @deadlyskepticalnightmare, @2affectionate4z, @daisybbyxx, @kokoa21, @imaginationofafan

You can’t see him, but you just know he’s giving you that same haha-you’re-hilarious look you’ve practically memorized by now. He’s standing at the side of the bed, one hand on his hip and an eyebrow raised at your curled-up form.

“This is my bed, sweetie.” He sounds amused, yet something tells you he feels as if you’re being ridiculous. Nevertheless, that velvety, husky voice of his nearly has you caving.

“I don’t care. I want to sleep alone tonight.”

He sighs, long and exaggerated. Does he pity you? Or is he annoyed at you? “You’re upset about our quarrel. It’s best we settle it now rather than bottle it up and let it fester.”

His maturity and composure jabs at your pride—you’ve never been one to act reasonably in the face of embarrassment. “...You just want to sleep on the bed.”

When you turn to look at him, he’s staring at you with an asshole smirk on his face. His tone is placating when he responds, “The couch is hard, Kitten. And besides, I forgive you.”

FORGIVE YOU?! Oh, he’ll be forgiving you all right— You smack him flaccidly on the arm and he pulls away with a chuckle, flashing that dashing smile of his. Canines.

“Go back to sleep. You can deal with me later.” He crawls under the blanket with nothing but a pair of pajama pants on, smelling of soap and fresh flowers.

You cave. You’re no longer angry, but exhausted—and so relieved he’s here. How your tender heart aches for his company, even when you’re mad at him… Soft sniffles emerge from your side of the bed, and he reaches for you with warm, gentle hands.

“Aww… C’mere, sweetie…” He wraps his arms around your waist and you relax into his touch, his chest against your back comforting—grounding. “I’m sorry about earlier. How about I take you to that French restaurant for dinner tomorrow night? Would you like that?”

“...Whatever,” you mumble as his fingers wander beneath the waistband of your shorts.

He just stands there in silence, taken aback. “...Is there something you want to talk about?” he asks, ever the logical, problem-solving boy from your childhood.

“No.”

A few beats pass before he mutters, “...Alright then. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You close your eyes and force yourself to fall back asleep as you listen to his footsteps in the living room, swallowing the guilt rising in your throat. He settles onto the wide couch and rests his head on one of the stiff decorative pillows, utterly spent from a crushing day at the hospital.

Am I overreacting? He must be drained as hell… Am I a shitty girlfriend? Doubts and worries swarm your mind as you toss and turn on the half-empty king bed, your heart squeezing at the thought of him having to spend the night alone out there. What if he catches a cold? What if he starts hating me? What if he gets eaten by a skin-walker?

You shove your fuzzy bedroom slippers on and trudge into the living room, trying your best to maintain your nettled expression. He opens his eyes at the sound of you stomping across the carpeted floor and stares at you, speechless.

“Aren’t you gonna try to make amends with me?! You really don’t want to sleep in the bed?!”

He fumbles for words, pushing himself up with his elbows. “Y-You said you didn’t want to talk—”

“Well I didn’t mean it!” you squeal, holding back tears.

He senses that your emotions are all jumbled up right now, and gets up on his feet to put his arms around you. “Okay. Okay, let’s talk about it,” he says, calm and soothing. His hand massages the back of your head as you wail into his t-shirt. “Shh… It’s all right. I’m here.”

You look up at him with red eyes and pouty lips, too caught up in his embrace to be riled up anymore. “I was upset about our fight in the morning…”

He presses a kiss to your forehead and gently wipes the tears from your cheeks. “I’m sorry for what I said, baby. Will you forgive me?”

You’ve been waiting all day to say “yes”.

“Oh, hell nah—”

“Too bad, Raf! That’s what you get for pissing me off,” you spit, glaring daggers at him as he physically exhibits the five stages of grief.

“But-But the couch is so pokey and hard and—” He flails his arms around in protest, remembering the backache he had to deal with for a week after taking a nap on the couch.

You won’t be hearing any of it. Serves him right. “You should’ve thought of that earlier before saying my makeup looked weird!”

“But it did! Your contour was asymmetrical and your lips were way too overlined!”

Raw indignation rivalling the power of the sun bubbles in your gut, waiting for a chance to explode. How dare he pretend he knows anything about makeup?! “GET. OUT.”

He grumbles like a child before storming out of the bedroom and flopping onto the couch, both of you throwing silent tantrums while listening to your stomachs churn. Fuck. I could really use some Wingstop right now.

Half an hour passes before your phone dings. Notification from Rafayel. You’ve calmed down by now, so you begrudgingly open his message.

Wait a minute, is he...? Oh my god, he totally is. You've known him long enough to tell when he's down for sexy time.

You waltz into the living room with your head held high and say, "C'mon. We're going to get Wingstop."

The way the hope in his eyes disappears nearly has you cracking up. "I hate you," he sneers.

"I love you too."

He pauses, unsure of what to say. “...Is this about earlier?”

You don’t respond.

He climbs onto the bed anyway and gets under the covers with you, pulling you close and pressing his face into your hair. “Please don’t be mad at me. I can’t go to bed with you mad at me,” he whispers, fear lacing his words.

Though your heart squeezes, you lock in and wriggle out of his embrace, knowing exactly how much it’ll sting. It’s his fault for constantly forgetting to let you know when he’ll be working overtime. Some nights, you sit on the couch and blankly stare at the wall, worry eating you alive from the inside.

“Please, talk to me—”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I need some space tonight.”

You can tell he’s holding back tears when he agrees to leave you alone, sliding off the mattress like a heavy weight sinking from a rock underwater. “...I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

Am I too hard on him? You’re angry at him for stressing you out—and you wonder if he even realizes that you’re only stressed for his own good. Still, how can anyone stay mad at him? He’s the purest, kindest, most sincere person you know. Forcing him to sleep on the couch feels like kicking a small puppy.

Quietly, you creep into the living room, where he’s curled up on the couch with his eyes closed. I’m too hard on him.

You crawl into the space between him and the backrest, his arms immediately reacting to your presence like a bug caught in a Venus flytrap. His eyes flutter open, and his grip tightens around your midriff. “I’m sorry… I’ll call you in advance next time. I promise…”

He must’ve had a long day at work, because he sounds utterly exhausted. Broken. “Baby… You can talk to me—about work, about anything.”

“I know. I’m just glad you’re here, even if I haven’t been,” he says, his thumb tracing slow circles on the bare skin of your torso. “I want you to know you’re always on my mind—no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing. You’re the reason I come home at all.”

“Don’t be like that, Pips. Let’s talk about it.” He rests a hand on your hip, warmth seeping through the blanket.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He scoffs, though his voice is void of hostility. “Clearly. Listen, I don’t want this to turn into something serious, okay?”

When you don’t respond, a crease forms between his brows. Is it too late? Have you already started to see him in a different light? Nausea churns in his stomach as he slowly inches away from the bed, afraid to even make a sound.

His thoughts spiral like a swarm of moths in his head, dark and foreboding. She’s better off without me…at least for now.

You doze off a few minutes later, when all of a sudden, you hear the front door shut. Panicked, you jolt upright and slip on your slippers, fearing the worst. Oh my god. Oh my god—

Still in your pajamas, you run out of your apartment and down the stairwell, praying he’s just round the corner— 

“Pips?”

You still, the icy cage around your heart beginning to thaw at the sight of him. He’s standing in the middle of the pavement, his breath fogging in the cold air.

Tears well in your eyes as you scream, “Where are you going?!”

“...To the convenience store? I was going to get you some Buldak—” You cut him off by seizing him in your arms, relief flooding you like a river bursting through a broken dam. He chuckles, wrapping you in his jacket and resting his chin on top of your head. “I’d never leave you, Pipsqueak. You should know that by now.”

“I-I don’t want Buldak. Let’s just go back inside,” you say between sniffles, clutching his shirt with such force it might tear.

“...Can I sleep on the bed now?”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

from the ENNEAD manhwa holy hell love everything about this artstyle

On your six, a stocky man in an unassuming dark suit has been tailing you since you left the dingy bodega a little over a mile away from your apartment for about, three? five minutes– no, maybe even longer.

Shit, you mouth silently. Sloppy. You should’ve noticed him sooner, and the two other lackeys now closing in from up ahead. They’re armed too, if the hands hidden inside their jackets were any indication.

As if things aren't looking bad enough, you’ve decided tonight would be the perfect night to go weaponless, deciding against bringing your handgun with you since it was supposed to just be a quick run to the store for supplies. Namely, the late-night cravings sort of supply.

You clutch the wrinkled paper bag containing your coveted jalapeño Cheetos tightly.

This is what greed does to you, a mocking voice echoes in your head. Since when did your inner voice of reason sound masculine and oh-so-familiar? 

Exhaling quietly, you try to calm the rising beat of your heart and appear to be clueless of your surroundings. Walk at a normal pace. Look unaware of the men with the intention to… What even was this? An ambush? Good, old, regular robbery? No, it doesn’t seem like they were in it for something that insignificant. They wouldn’t even bother to be this cautious if it were. 

But then, what were they here for? The dangers you were more familiar with are of the monstrous kind in the literal sense of the word; entities that you face on a daily basis as a Deepspace hunter. Not the regular threats posed by mankind – which in this particular situation, suddenly feels more foreboding.

While racking your brain for ideas on how to slip away from their sight without escalating the situation, you fail to notice a fourth person hidden behind the dumpster inside the narrow alleyway on your left until you feel the cold, hard edge of a pistol gun hit your temple.  

With a shout, your hand shoots up in an attempt to yank the gun away from the hand holding it but the sudden burst of pain from the impact has left you feeling dizzy and off-kilter. The moment you throw your fists up to block your face, heavy fists strike you directly in a flurry of hits, colliding with your forearm and your unguarded ribs.

You let out a pained grunt as you stagger backwards, trying your hardest to keep yourself from falling back on your ass and ward off the next incoming attack. 

A sinister laugh alerts you of the others, now surrounding you in a circle. Shit!

You hastily shift your legs into a crouching position, bracing yourself as you attempt to sidestep the one in front of you before making a run for it. You spring into action, but before you can even take another step, an arm shoots out and coils tightly around your neck like a noose. A cloth that reeks of something distinct is slapped over your mouth and nose, rendering you unable to do anything but struggle. 

“Now, now– the boss wants her in one piece, John,” The stocky man, who’s apparently larger and more jacked up-close, pipes up. John tightens the limb circling your throat, preventing you from breathing, before slightly loosening his grip. 

 “I’d advise you from struggling too much, sweetheart. But if you insist on making this harder for yourself,” the man talking suddenly grins, revealing rows of crooked, silver teeth. “He ain’t said nothin’ about a couple of bruises.” 

You give him your dirtiest glare, trying to pull away from the death grip the burly man called John had on you, but you feel your muscles slowly becoming heavier and your vision starting to blur. 

Ch-chloroform?

You make a muffled shout, a scurry that earns you a heavy hit on the stomach, one last futile move to free yourself, but the inevitable effect of the potent substance starts to overpower you. 

“After all, we need to make sure that the big bad boss of Onychinus actually comes for his bitch, don’t we?”

Rendered completely useless, the men start to make quick work to restrain your arms and legs in a hogtie before carrying you down the street, to a shaded corner where a large, gray van is parked.

The barn doors open, and you’re tossed in carelessly to the back, landing painfully on the cold, hard floor. An involuntary whimper escapes your lips, feeling like one big bruise; splotches of red and blue start to form like a violent watercolor on your skin. 

The engine revs. Before completely losing consciousness, you think you hear a faint caw.

The car drives off the beaten path, into the night, leaving not a trace of evidence of what transpired mere minutes ago aside from a discarded brown paper bag and a deflated bag of chips. 

-

-

-

From a distance, flying towards the hazy skyline, a mechanical bird crows a bad omen. 

_____

In the dead of the night, the head of Onychinus sits as a spectator; a towering presence at the head of a table inside a private room, obscured in plain sight, in an unremarkable establishment far east of Linkon City. 

Unassuming as it may be, the room’s occupants are men of great renown, both in influence and notoriety. The CEO of a chain business in Azure Square, a regional manager of a well-known bank in Linkon, the head of a weapons trade representing a faction in the N109 zone… All held significant power, all held ulterior motives.

A meeting of minds; the type held only in the secrecy of the night, gone in the break of dawn. 

Sylus has half the mind to listen in on the droning exchange of fake pleasantries and plastic smiles as the men deal trades in nature that of weapons and favors. A number of hungry, beady eyes cast him furtive glances, fearful yet devout. Some cautious in the hope of earning his approval. 

“–the package will be en route to the agreed-upon address by the end of the week,” a stout man in spectacles finishes off, clearing his throat. Beads of sweat start to form at the back of his neck as red eyes bore into his, assessing. Deliberating. “O-or if Richard’s able to give me the go-ahead in advance, I’ll make sure it arrives by Friday,” a gulp–then, “sir.” 

All in reverence. 

He hums, his switchblade dancing idly in his hand, deliberately stretching the tension that hangs heavy in the air. He delights in this power to unsettle, savoring the authority that his mere presence commands—a demand for absolute deference. 

“Make it half that time, will you, Raymond?” Sylus responds amicably, not as a question. The man, Raymond, sputters. 

“That won’t be pos–” Sylus tilts his head, eyes shifting into something more dangerous. “Please, I’ll try to cut the time shorter but there won’t be any assurances.” 

The pale-haired man sighs in acquiescence. “I guess that will have to do.” Raymond lets out an exhale of relief, but catches his breath as Sylus continues, “Any later than Wednesday, and I’ll come to claim it personally.” 

Raymond, more nerves than man, starts to blabber something in response–but stops when something black suddenly appears in a blaze of dark energy, near the shoulder of the intimidating man he’s trying to appeal to. 

Sylus raises a hand, and a large crow lands on his pointer finger. 

He caws, once. Twice. And shows a projection. 

The inhospitably cold room suddenly went glacial. 

All conversation halts to a stop as an overwhelmingly suffocating aura starts to emanate from the man–no, the being at the head of the table, making all that are in the vicinity freeze in fear. 

The devil posing as the leader of Onychinus abruptly stands up, and Raymond thinks, Oh I’m going to die here.

Without a word, the man disappears in a Stygian haze.

_

Five minutes later, only after they felt like death was no longer looming over their heads, did anyone dare to move a muscle.

_____

Your head hurts, and your mouth tastes of rust. 

Having been awake for longer than your captors were aware of – two (?) of which bickering near a barred slate of metal that you assume is the door after taking a quick peek from beneath the mess of hair concealing your face – you try to get your bearings together without arousing the suspicion of your present audience. 

“–bet it’s gonna take a while ‘fore that guy arrives. You think she’s enough to get him to show his face?” 

“Damned if I know. In any case, we got a pretty, li’l plaything on our hands,” a snort. “Make her worth the effort.” 

Where were you? From what it looks like, you’ve been transported into a nondescript underground bunker of sorts, dank with a hint of mildew and rot in the air; a rumbling air vent on your left masking any noise that escaped your mouth when you woke up. The area is poorly lit, save for the flickering bulb hanging precariously above your head as your main source of light – good for casting shadows to hide your bruised face, bad for the pounding headache you’re pretty sure is a concussion. And with your back seemingly close to a wall, you arrive at the conclusion that there are no other entryways, no way to leave, but the guarded door in front of you. 

In short, you have no idea where you are. 

Fuck–this is bad, you swear to yourself internally, trying to control the rising panic swelling up your chest. You never thought your nightcap would lead to this mess. Nobody knows about your current predicament, and it’ll take more than a day before your absence raises any alarms, so right now, you’re on your own. 

Think, think! What can you do?

What can you do? You have nothing on you, nothing you can use as a makeshift weapon to defend yourself with, and your hands are tightly bound behind your back by a thick, heavily twined rope with no give. The situation is slowly turning bleaker by the second, and it isn’t even your fault that you’re here in the first place! You were made a pawn, a mere bait in this messed-up dick-measuring contest between a crazy, sadistic, self-proclaimed head honcho and Onychinus’s own crazy, sadistic–

Wait a minute. Sylus. 

You send a strong prayer to anyone above that’s listening, and an angry telepathic shout for good measure to the one who’s unaware of his involvement – but nonetheless the source of your ruined night – in this attempt at kidnapping a perfectly law-abiding citizen of Linkon.

Sylus, as much as I hate your unfortunate tendency to stalk me through means that, honestly? Eludes the hell out of me, I really, REALLY hope that you’ve been keeping tabs toni–

“Hey, boss! I think this one’s awake!”

Fuck. No use pretending anymore. 

You hear heavy footsteps from outside the room before the corroded metal door swings open to reveal a large man, easily standing above six feet, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and an unsettling smile. His arms are covered in tattoos– overlapping, almost undecipherable. A gnarly scar runs from the side of his mouth to just above his brow bone; his right eye a cloudy gray, most likely a morbid souvenir from the sustained injury.

His functional eye zeroes in on your pitiful form, and his smile widens into a hostile grin. 

“Well, well. It seems like our esteemed guest is finally ready to join in the fun,” His voice sounds like gravel, with a mocking intonation. “I hope my men weren't too rough with you on the way here.” 

You let out a breath through your teeth, blinking a few times to try and rid the blurring in your vision. You have to bide your time– “Why am I here? What do you want from me?” 

The man cocks his head to the side, smile still in place. “I assume you already know. But I’ll indulge you your little questions, why not?”

He crosses the space separating the two of you with just a few, languid steps before he’s in front of you. He leans forward, brushing the messy locks of hair – dried with blood – away from your face in a deceptively calm manner. “The devil needs to pay his dues, but it’s been rather difficult to get a hold of him, you see,” he sighs in exaggerated disappointment. ”I intend to collect, so I waited patiently for the right moment, for an opening. For an opportunity. 

And here, the opportunity presents herself.” 

You sneer, moving your head back to let your hair fall from his creepy hold. “I’ve no clue what you’re talking about, mister, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong idea.”

He barks out a laugh before gripping your chin tightly between his fingers. “You’ve got a smart mouth on you. Maybe we can find a better use for it.” 

You feel it before you hear it. 

“Perhaps not.” 

Something vicious saturates the air, something intense and terrifying and wrong. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and some sort of primordial response deep within your brain is telling you to get away from it.

But then, the paralyzing fear melts away to something akin to hope when you realize the source of this new disturbance.

Relief washes over you when familiar ink-and-red tendrils materialize behind the man in front of you. The dark wisps dissipate like smoke as soon as it comes and in place, your savior – sporting an expression that could only be described as downright murderous – stands before you, all six feet of unadulterated rage.

Several things happened so fast, it was almost simultaneous.

A cacophony of shouts came loudest from the two men who had been on guard duty but screams also echoed from outside the room. You saw flashes of red, twin laughter, and blood spurting from the necks of the now headless guards, and then a symphony of bullets and a lot of things breaking rang across the room. 

Suddenly– 

Deafening silence. As if something has put an abrupt stop to the noise. 

Amidst all the chaos, the scarred man in front of you had no time to make a move before savage whips of crackling energy engulfed him, leaving only his head free from the smothering darkness. 

His expression betrays something wild and manic as he tries twisting around to look at the figure behind him. “You–”

Sylus pays no mind to the breathing, dead fool – lower than dirt on his feet, with the nerve to harm what is most precious to him – as he keeps his gaze solely on you; his eyes darting up and down as if taking inventory of all the bruises and scrapes you sustained from the abduction. 

You meet his eyes. “You came.” 

An indecipherable look passes his face, gone as quickly as it came. “A little too late. I apologize.” 

You weakly huff out a chuckle, wanting to shake your head but decide against it lest it aggravates your concussion. A prickling sensation, then the rope around your wrists falls off with a quiet thud. 

“Luke. Kieran.” 

“Everything’s all accounted for, boss,” Kieran announces, suddenly appearing beside your right, along with Luke who’s on your left. Both look no worse for wear.

 The latter gives you a sympathetic look. “Oh, man. They got you good, little crow.” 

“Caught me off-guard, s’all,” you insist half-heartedly. 

A sigh. “Transport her directly back to base. Attend to her critical injuries once you arrive, and keep her awake. I’ll handle the rest once I get back,” Sylus instructs the twins in a tone that brooks no argument.

They nod in sync and start making a move to carry you out, but you protest.

“Wait, you’re staying behind?” For some reason, the thought of being separated from him, even for a short amount of time, makes you feel ill. Well, worse than your current state at least. 

Sanguine eyes soften when he hears the tremble in your voice. The offending man in front of you, reduced into something less threatening than a cowering dog in comparison to your rescuer, is forcibly pushed aside to make room for Sylus as he steps closer. 

He crouches low so that you’re looking down on him instead of up. One large hand covers both of yours, mindfully avoiding the fresh rope burns on your wrists, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the unmarred part of your skin. 

“This will be quick, sweetie. I’ll be back by your side before you know it,” he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. “I swear to you.”

You swallow, but nodded reluctantly. “Come home soon.” 

“I will.”

With that, you let yourself be carried out of the claustrophobic space you were confined to, into a larger room littered with unmoving bodies that you're frankly too tired to care about at the moment, up three (rickety) flights of stairs where you exit into what looks like the inside of an empty shipping container, before finally, finally getting out. 

A gust of salty wind hits you and you ask, “Are we near the docks?” 

“Yeah,” Kieran answers, carefully putting you down on the backseat of Sylus’ car. “Mephisto trailed after the van they stuffed you in before reporting back to the boss. We followed soon after.” 

Luke frowns as he inserts the key in the ignition. “We weren’t aware that they had eyes on you for a while now. An oversight on our part, won’t happen again,” he assures you. “Gotta give them props for that, at least.” 

Kieran, now getting in the passenger side of the vehicle, shoots him a look. 

“Anyway, we’re glad we got to you before they did anything… worse,” Kieran continues, then winces in a show of mock sympathy. “Can’t say the same to that fucker back inside. Haven’t felt Sylus’ bloodlust this strong in a long while.” 

You try to focus on their words, but you feel yourself nodding off as the remaining adrenaline slowly leaves your body. You know you should feel more worried about what the two were insinuating, but your mouth still tastes like you swallowed a bunch of coins and you just want a soft bed to sleep in for an entire day. Or three. 

“Oi, no sleeping. Doctor’s orders,” A snapping finger in front of your face forces you awake. 

You blink your tired eyes open in an attempt to stay lucid, the pulsing pain in your head becoming more prominent as soon as the threat of danger has passed. 

“This is gonna be a long night,” you sigh, wishing that Sylus will keep his word and be quick about… whatever he’s planning to do with your abductor. 

–––––

There hasn’t been much left of the man who proclaims to be the new head of an arms syndicate Sylus had dealt with in the past. He recalls the history of his relationship with the cartel being less than cordial, but nothing that would warrant his ire. Except for tonight.

He usually doesn’t leave a trace when doling out punishments; no, not anymore. Not in recent years. He prefers to be efficient about his killings, dissipating any evidence in thin air after reducing them into fine paste, rather than make a big show out of it. Quick and precise.

Except today… Someone had the arrogance, the absolute audacity to steal directly from the dragon’s nest.

The contents of which have always been kept in strict confidentiality. What is known, only chosen individuals bound to secrecy are privy to, and a lot of people would kill for. 

But unbeknownst to anyone else but its owner, only one thing in this hoard of secrets truly matters to the dragon. One solitary treasure alone he would burn planets for – and someone has tried to steal it.

Harm. the treasure. To get to him. 

It seems as if the new bloods needed a reminder of who, exactly, they’re stealing from. 

One who dwells deep within the underbelly of the cities both monster and men inhabit, that even the most heinous of sinners seeking solace in the dark, are afraid of. 

And what retribution tastes like to those who are foolish enough to bite more than what they can chew.

The poor soul unfortunate enough to be the first one to discover the carnage will witness that what was left of the man that had wronged the Onychinus kingpin is stuck on the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of a basement where the treasure was held captive. They will find that the man’s innards are deliberately hung in a haphazard fashion, in all corners of the room like bloody, sinewy tinsel. 

And the centerpiece of this bloodbath is none other than the man’s decapitated head, forcibly attached to the hanging light in the middle of the room. A bulb crudely drilled past his cranium, while blood dripped down the floor in slow, ominous rivulets. 

They will understand in dawning horror that the one responsible for this... gross butchery, has left the head swinging. That the man’s mouth will forever remain agape in an eternal scream to immortalize the exact moment he realizes the gravity of his sin.   

Yes, Sylus is more than glad to remind them. 

_____

You arrive a quarter past four AM. 

Barely taking a step past the foyer, the twins immediately whisk you inside to perform an ‘emergency patch-up.’ Luke’s words, not yours.

“We’re your personal CNA while waiting for the head nurse to take over,” he explains cheerfully, wrapping another layer of gauze around your wrist. You hiss when Kieran dabs a cotton ball on the gash on your temple, peroxide fizzing as it comes in contact with the dried-up blood. Muttering out a “sorry!” Kieran does quick work in cleaning the injury and covering the affected area.

In no time at all, all visible wounds are bandaged and disinfected. The worst of your head wound had to be stitched up, but other than that, nothing seems to require immediate medical attention. There’s nothing left for you to do but to bear the aches that came along with the bruises – especially on your tender midriff – and to pop a tylenol for your throbbing headache.

You offer them a sincere, “Thanks. No, really.” before they leave you in Sylus’ room, after multiple reminders to “not sleep before the attending nurse arrives for the final diagnosis.” 

(You think they might have enjoyed playing caretaker a little too much.) 

With a lot more effort than you care to admit, you painstakingly remove your bloodstained clothes until you're down to your underwear, before draping yourself in a large, red, silk robe. A hot shower sounds heavenly to your sore muscles, but the soft mattress is calling to you more so you head straight to bed. 

With nothing else to occupy yourself with, you prop your head on a mountain of pillows – to keep yourself relatively upright – and let out a sigh. 

Tonight had been a shitshow. All you wanted was something to snack on while you binge through the last season of the show you were watching back at your apartment; you never thought a late-night run to the store just a few blocks away would result in… this. If not for Sylus’ intervention, you’re sure you'd be leaving with a lot more than a couple of scrapes. If not worse.

You're lost in your own thoughts when short, successive raps on the door catch your attention. It swings open before you have the chance to pipe out a, “come in!”

Speak of the devil.

Sylus enters the room, not a hair out of place. You notice that he’s changed into a casual, brown sweater and a pair of dark-washed jeans. His eyes meet yours, tightly-controlled expression relaxing as he crosses the room towards the side of your bed, wasting no time. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Still pretty sore, but Luke and Kieran already handled the worst of my injuries,” you answer, making a move to sit up. Sylus tuts disapprovingly, gentle as he puts a hand on your chest to prevent you from moving any further. He sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you. Once fully settled, he let out a deep sigh.

“You had me worried for a moment there, kitten.” He admits, a slightly rough edge to his voice as emotion seeps into it. He regards you intently, like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re here, safe. 

Your hand reaches out towards his face. Without missing a beat, he leans in to nuzzle your palm, eyes closing shut. He reminds you of a big wolf, unbridled fire simmering beneath the surface, yet tame in the presence of his handler. 

“I’m fine now, thanks to you,” you assure him with a lopsided smile. “Give my thanks to Mephisto, as well. Tell him he gets a pass on the stalking this time.” 

Sylus opens his eyes, a hint of amusement and something else you can’t identify flickering through. “Oh, sweetie. You’ll be lucky if that bird gives you the privacy to bathe alone after tonight,” he jokes. 

He’s joking. Right?

You eye him for a moment before deciding to let it go. You're too tired to argue.

Instead, you cautiously ask a question you aren’t sure you even want the answer to. “What happened after we left?” 

Sylus expression doesn’t change except for the upward tick on the corner of his mouth; the same peculiar glint in his eyes coming across a little stronger. “They won’t be bothering you anymore. You don’t need to worry about anyone coming for you.”

“That’s not what I asked.” 

He hums. “Do you really want to know?”

You stare at him, and he stares back at you placidly. 

You purse your lips and look away. “Maybe not.” 

Sylus breathes out a laugh. He gently grasps your chin between his forefinger and thumb, guiding your head to meet his gaze once more. A softer look on his face, inching closer to yours.

Your heartbeat slightly picks up. In your vulnerable state, you feel a welling desire to bare your feelings to the man in front of you. You want to tell him how relieved you felt when you saw him in that cursed basement, how he was able to quell your fears with just his presence alone the moment he appeared in a familiar haze of black and red. Like your own, personal, vindictive guardian. 

Instead, you close the distance between the two of you, your lips meeting his. 

Sylus groans quietly, a hand cupping your face as he leans closer to deepen the kiss. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the feeling of contentment from being this close to him. You feel, more than you see, how his taut body loses the remaining tension from the events that transpired just mere hours ago, how he finally relaxes as he loses himself in you.

Very carefully, he eases you further down, cradling your head with one hand until it rests on a pillow. His lips drift to the corner of your mouth, trailing soft kisses up to the apples of your cheeks, your forehead, then to your nose. 

He pulls back slightly, chuckling when you make a sound of discontent. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you– half-lidded and tender. 

In a low voice, he instructs, “Rest. You need it.”

The feeling of exhaustion pulls you in, but before you surrender to it, you remind Sylus, “I’m not that fragile, you know. You don’t have to worry too much.” You poke his cheek and he catches the offending digit to bite it affectionately. “I’ll be up and running in no time.”

He doesn't speak for a minute, considering your words. His mouth sets into a thin line before letting out a sigh.

“And if you get hurt again? What then?" He whispers so quietly, seeming as if he's talking to himself.

"I'll get hurt again, that's for sure," You tell him, matter-of-factly. "But really, that’s just an occupational hazard. I’m sure you realize."

“Love — what a terrible, little thing,” he muses, half-forlornly, half in jest. "I’d rip this cold heart out and throw it in flames if I could.”

While speaking, his hand finds its way into the tangles of your hair, gently running his fingers through the strands in a lulling manner. His lips landing on the crown of your head softly. Reverently.

You hum sleepily.

“Of course you would, Sy.”

_____

“You’ll be glad to know that the artifact you had your eye on back at the auction will be arriving this Wednesday.” 

“Huh? But I thought it was already sold to someone else?”

Sylus shrugs. “I made a counteroffer.” 

“You didn’t have to. I told you it was fine.” 

“I know. But I also recall a certain someone telling me how much they wished they had placed a bid on it on our way back,” he pinches your cheek fondly. “Don’t worry about it, kitten. It’s yours.”

“Oh. Well– thank you,” you yawn in response, leaning your head to rest against his palm.

His thumb strokes your cheek. “Anything for you.”

Title: Through a Looking Glass Rating: Gen Warnings: None Characters & ships: Aomine Daiki/Kise Ryouta Currently at Chapter 4/7 Summary:

Good at reading people as he is, Kuroko has noticed budding feelings between two of his friends way before they themselves did. Aomine is pretty obvious, so it should be easy, isn't Kise the same..? He thought he would keep watching from a distance, but after they mess up one too many times, maybe it's time for the gang to do something about it. How much meddling is too much meddling? Or: Kuroko's look from behind a looking glass at whether Aomine Daiki and Kise Ryouta will get together.