Work Text:
“One more.”
Evidently you're not as scary as you think you are, or maybe Sylus is just immune to fear (plausible), because your aggrieved tone doesn't elicit so much as a blink from him. He stands up from the dainty café table, the deep gold of the setting sun washing through his hair and glinting off the chain of his necklace as he smoothly gathers his jacket and retrieves his phone. The café is winding down from its busy beachside afternoon crowd, but there’s more than enough people here that at least three strangers side-eye Sylus with admiration. He doesn’t seem to care about a single one. You’d roll your eyes but that would mean you care, and you certainly don't . “I'm a busy man, sweetie.” He looks down at you, the rich light pooling in his red irises, shimmering like wine in a golden goblet; damn his legs, he's towering over you like a skyscraper. You can feel your fists clench under the table. “Besides… that's twelve games to me, isn't it? And none for you. Maybe it’s time to give yourself a break.”
You feel the restlessness swarming behind your breastbone, choking your breathing and squeezing your heart. Today has just… not been your day. Your toothbrush fell in the toilet and you didn’t have a spare. The hot water heater for your apartment is broken. You only had rice in your cupboards. You were on time to work somehow, which didn’t really matter because Jenna’s meeting was canceled due to her unexpected summons to Chansia City to deal with an unknown type of Wanderer. R&D still didn’t have the prototype modifications for your handguns ready so you had to stick with the awkward, clunky training replacements. You had paperwork. Even when coming here, at the end of a tedious, frustrating, exhausting day, your favorite coffee shop’s espresso machine was broken, and they only had sugar substitutes available for sweeteners.
You glance down at your phone. 6% battery. Great.
You’d sat down on the terrace with your unsatisfying coffee, mouth puckering at the artificial tang, and it didn’t take too long to decide you needed a relief. Something to take your mind off this miserable day. Something to look forward to instead of the cold shower and mountain of laundry that await you at home.
And Sylus, for all his… occupational hazards, is always, always good for a game of kitty cards.
Unless he’s in the middle of blowing up a building. Even then that usually only makes him late.
It was so strange. The entire day had been such a travesty, directionless energy simmering under your skin, but then your heart actually leapt in your chest when he walked in the door and you felt better. His usual dangerous bordering-on-body-armor couture was toned down to something understated and rich-man-casual, but his smirk and his stride were still all Sylus, obnoxious confidence and enviable comfort in his own skin, and after that one jump your heartbeat calmed like a gentled horse. Like you were… happy to see him. Grateful, even.
Until he utterly flattened you in a dozen games without so much as an apology.
He laughed at you, even!
Sylus looks up from whatever he’s thumbing on his phone, eyes curved in amusement. “You look ready to pounce,” he observes before returning his gaze to his phone. “Don’t worry, you can have your revenge next time.”
He’s still laughing at you.
It’s not really fair to make Sylus the target for your anger – but then, when has anything ever been fair between the two of you? It’s always games, here or on the battlefield or just talking. This loss stings. Not just the cards, not even just this evening – every loss you’ve ever suffered to his smug face in the months (only months?) since you’ve met comes crawling up your throat, clamoring in the back of your head, and your balled-up fists shake in your lap.
You glare up at him from behind the loose locks of your hair, eyes narrowed against the sun. He’s so unruffled, so untouchable. Bet his toothbrush never falls in the toilet. He probably just teleports the damn thing into place. Probably never drops anything ever, with his stupid powers and his stupidly good reflexes and his stupid – stupid –
Once, just once, there has to be a moment today where you’re victorious. Where you get to be the powerful one, the boss. If it’s at Sylus’s expense, so be it. He can handle it.
“One more,” you say again, doing your best to channel the version of you that bluffs your way onto yachts and haggles with shopkeepers in the N109 Zone. The version of you that this man chose to dress up in silk and jewels, chose to waltz with in the middle of a con. You tilt your head back enough that you can look down your nose at him despite his height.
You don’t know if it’s working, but something does. Sylus glances up once more, then pauses, takes a longer look. Something about him stills and pays attention. A slow smile lights his mouth as he says, “You’ve been distracted, kitten. I’d bet you’re just going to lose again.”
“I’ll take that bet,” you declare firmly.
He blinks once. Cocks an eyebrow. “What?”
Making a conscious effort to relax your shoulders, you lean in over the table, careful not to knock over any Evol kitties or teacups. You playfully remark, “You said you’re a busy man, but I can’t just walk out of here with such an embarrassing streak of losses. I have to regain my dignity, which means I have to convince you to stay for just. One. More. Round.” You smile up at him as brightly as you can. You’ve been getting better with your acting skills lately, thanks to clandestine missions in the N109 Zone. He probably can’t tell that behind the smile you’re seething and clenching your teeth. Probably. “We’ve known each other long enough, right? I think I know you well enough to guess at what would be interesting enough for another ten minutes of your day.”
He grins, sharklike. “You think one round will be enough for your dignity?”
You stand up, chair scraping against the tile of the café floor. The kitties flinch; unthinkingly, you give them little pets of their tiny color-coordinated ears, soothing them. Sylus’s gaze flicks down to your hands and back up.
“Sure,” you say lightly, cocking your hip in brassy defiance. “So. Let’s make a bet.”
His expression doesn’t shift from its lofty amusement, but you see the kindling light in his carmine eyes. He hums thoughtfully. “A bet… all right. What’s your wager?”
Your spine straightens, steely. You’re not wearing a denim jacket over your sweat-stiffened uniform; you’re wearing a sexy gown and killer heels, and this is a game of life and death that you won’t lose. You danced with the most powerful man in the underbelly of the city. You can make meaningful stakes, wagers like you read about in stories. Riding high on the jittery edges of your agitation, you pronounce, “A kiss.”
For a second, all you can see is his expression–shocked, brows up to his hairline, lips parted, eyes wider than you’ve ever seen. He looks staggered. He looks vulnerable.
Yes!! Your inner voice crows gleefully. Got you!
Then the last five seconds play back in your head, and your heart plunges down into your stomach as the crowing turns to screeching.
What. What! WHAT?!
What did you just say?!
You grip the edge of the table so hard your knuckles blanch. You try to speak, but suddenly your tongue is dry and your voice crushed into silence with panic.
Because what. Was. That. Why would you ever–well, you knew why, you were roleplaying, that’s exactly the kind of thing some badass seductress at a poker table would do, you’ve seen movies, you just got too deep in your head for a second, but why would you – and with him –
You finally swallow enough to raggedly clear your throat. You manage to choke out, “We don’t – ”
“Terms?”
“ – have to – wh-what?”
“Winner chooses the time and place,” Sylus says, words hitting rapidfire like a rain of bullets. Suddenly time is moving much, much faster than you can track. He’s having this conversation without you, apparently.
“I didn’t – ”
“You did ,” murmurs Sylus, cutting you off, his voice dropping into the low throaty register that makes you shiver. You’re used to it. Or you believed you were, given how many times you’ve shrugged it off, shaken it away, forced your mind to focus on more important things. You watch him slide back into his seat at the table, toss the jacket out of sight, and lift his fingers to his temple thoughtfully. Given how watery your knees have become, a tiny sliver of your already-panicked brain is questioning just how used to it you actually are. His face is perturbingly neutral, strange and unknowable, as he watches you for a long moment. Then that irritating smirk returns. “Ohhh. I see. Can’t back up your bluster, sweetie? Should I let you off the hook? We’ll just chalk that up as a… misstep. Maybe that was just another moment in your ‘embarrassing streak’.”
Just like that, the panic boils and sublimates into pure fury. “Don’t even think about it,” you hiss, reclaiming your chair. “I’m winning this round.”
“And your dignity and a kiss, all in one,” Sylus replies, shuffling the cards in his long fingers. “You’ve got quite a bargain if you can pull it off, kitten.”
You won’t grace that with a response. It’s not about the wager now. You just did that to get his attention. You’ve got what you want, now – ten minutes for revenge.
Sylus deals out the cards, you set the cups up and activate the Evol that colors them, the kitties line up on the side of the table like little soldiers ready for the unfolding war. A couple of them are nonchalantly cleaning their paws; they don’t seem aware of the tension that strings tight across the table. You don’t even ask, and he doesn’t offer: you both agree you will go first.
It’s not a bad hand to start with, and it gets better. Sylus plays aggressively, always on the offense, but that makes it easy to overwhelm him by taking every space on the board. You play with a single-mindedness that was missing earlier in the day, the shot of adrenaline from your bluff more than enough to make up for the missing shots of espresso in your long-cold coffee. You feel awake. Unburdened. Or maybe the god of the kitty cards is smiling on you because you get a lot of Meow This! cards. And as you play your last card, a little green-hooded kitten clambering into a green ceramic mug, you –
– win. You blink, finding kitties in every cup on the board.
“Oh thank god ,” you gasp, throwing your arms wide and sinking back dramatically in your chair, allowing your limbs to go limp. Your remaining cards flutter to the ground from your slack hand. The relief is palpable. Finally, finally, something went right. If only you could bottle this feeling and sell it, people wouldn’t even need protocores anymore –
“Again.”
“What?” You bite your tongue and choke a little bit.
You struggle upright just enough to see Sylus looming over the cards, elbows on the table, the lower half of his face obscured by his folded hands. His eyes flick up to you, somehow bright and dark at once, and so intense your heartbeat picks up and runs. He’s practically mantling over the board like a bird of prey. You swear for a second you can see great black wings stretching over his head.
“Again,” he mutters from behind his hands. You scramble to sit up fully in your seat.
“No way,” you counter. It probably would have been more impressive if your voice hadn’t cracked halfway through. “It’s – ”
You look around, thinking at least an hour has passed. Surely he’s late for… whatever. But the café is still quietly busy. The sun slipped behind the waves, the beach dimming and cooling with its last rays, but the sky is still a fading curtain of lavender and ochre, still lit with the embers of the day. You frown. That was faster than it felt.
You clear your throat. “It’s nice of you to offer,” you mumble, reaching for your dropped cards with one hand bracing you on the table. “But, I mean, I only asked for one round, so – ”
Sylus’s hand closes over yours. You jerk in your seat. His palm is hot; warm and dry as a crackling fire in a cozy cabin, calloused and firm as it pins your fingers to the table. “I wasn’t offering,” he says in a low rumble, gathering up the teacups. “You shuffle this time.”
“Sylus, I don’t – ”
He silences you with just a look. For an uneasy second you wonder if it’s his aether core, if he’s turned it on you for the first time in months, and in that suspended second you’re shocked to find a splinter of pain at the idea of it – the betrayal.
Do you really care if he betrays you?
… But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t betray you. The unshakeable faith you feel in that statement is destabilizing on its own, the strength of your conviction comforting and alien at once.
You trust him. You trusted him enough to summon him here at the tail-end of a rotten day. You trust him not to betray you.
You… you do care. You care, and you’re certain that he wouldn’t – he wouldn’t use you like that. Not like that. Not now.
For the length of a heartbeat you feel suspended, caught in a net of your own imaginings, anchored but still terrified of an endless fall waiting below.
But the moment ends as he tips his head forward, the gleam in his eye simply the glow of lamplight, looking at you with danger in his gaze and roguishness in the curve of his smile, and he leans in to whisper, “You’re not running away now, are you, sweetie? You were the one who raised the stakes.”
Off-kilter, you look away, silently shuffling the cards.
Sure. Sure, you can do another round. You already won anyway, clearly your bad luck streak was broken, you can totally beat him again and that will make everything make sense and you’ll be fine again. It’s fine. You’re fine.
You’re so not fine that he utterly trashes you in less than three minutes. You hear a sympathetic hiss from a couple high schoolers sitting behind you. Your cheeks flame.
Sylus settles back, arms folding, his lips trembling like he’s hiding a laugh. “Another?” he asks.
Well. That wasn’t fair. You’d been… distracted. You should have rightly won that one. “Pfft,” you scoff, herding the kittens into their line once more. “Best of three.” You can hardly back down now.
There’s something like hunger in how eagerly he reaches for the cards.
This time, it doesn’t end quickly. As soon as one of you plays a card and a kitten crawls into its awarded cup, the other counters it, knocking off points, banishing kitties from the board.
You try to pull tricks from the discard pile; Sylus counters you. You simmer in ill-tempered concentration, trying to count what’s left in the deck, clutching your cards close to your face with both hands. Sylus has his cards stacked together, tapping the edges against the table while he rests his cheek against his palm. “You’re thinking awfully hard,” he says silkily. “Maybe if you trust your instincts it won’t be so difficult.”
“Instinct is just impulse,” you shoot back. “And I’m not going to lose again just because I was impulsive.”
“Oh? But your recklessness is one of your most ingrained traits, from what I’ve seen.”
“Shows what you know.” You play a Cha-Ching; a good gamble, because it nets you a 5-pointer that matches one of the remaining colored mugs. “Ha!”
“Perhaps you’re better at strategy than I thought,” he muses, tallying the new points. His eyes curve wickedly. “Or maybe you’re just a stronger fighter when you’re motivated.”
You scowl. “I’m always motivated.”
He chuckles, taking his draw. “Oh, okay. I didn’t realize you were taking pity on me in my earlier wins. I’ll keep in mind that this ruthless strategist is always lurking behind those cute dimples.”
“That’s right, I am always – c-cute?” You stumble over the word; you surely misheard him.
Sylus smirks again, propping his elbow on the table, those long fingers tapping lazily at his temple again. “Yeah. You’re always cute. Especially now when there’s something you really want.” He pauses. “It’s your turn.”
The chair feels like it’s slip-sliding briefly from beneath you, but you take a deep, grounding breath. This day has been so weird. The only thing left that makes sense is focusing on winning this round. Keep your dignity. Yes.
A few of the Evol cats start yawning. This will have to be the last match – you don’t want a repeat of the kitten curse incident. You imagine you’re facing down an alleyway full of Wanderers, assessing their weaknesses, readying your grip on your weapons. You’re laser-focused. The Assist cards run dry.
He tries to hit directly at your hand. You block. He draws.
You try to freeze him. He counters. You play a middling card, blank teacup. There’s only a coral-colored cup left, and if you guessed right, ahead of him by only two points and with only so much left to bargain with, he’ll jump ahead and win with this last move –
He plays a card.
A brown card.
Sulkily, the brown-eared kitten props itself up against the edge of the cup after it plops inside, clearly dismayed at the clash of colors. You slowly raise your eyes to Sylus’s; his eyes still glitter with mischief, but there’s something almost wistful in the line of his mouth.
“Your loss,” you say, mouth moving without your brain fully engaged. You’re still spinning in your insane thoughts, things like I care and so does he and you’re always cute looping around your head like strange birdsong. He snorts a soft laugh.
“Mmhm,” he hums, plucking his losing kitten out of its cup and cradling it in his palm. He rubs its tiny cheek with a fingertip. It starts to purr. “I did lose the game, that’s true.”
You watch him carefully. He seems to sense your glare; he glances up at you, face relaxed in a mild expression. “You threw that game,” you accuse shortly.
“Did I? I suppose we’ll never know.”
“Show me your hand,” you demand, hand out, “and we’ll know very soon.”
Sylus gives you an even look, then drops his cards into the mess of the discard pile and gently deposits the Evol kitty onto the pile, tipping two teacups over to make a kitten puddle as he withdraws his hand. “Oops.”
Insistently, you mutter, “I know you threw that game.”
“Whatever you say, kitten.”
Frowning, you ask, “Why?”
You’re sure he did. But that’s what puzzles you: why. The idea of Sylus being nice or taking pity on you is ridiculous. All you need to do is remember the twelve earlier games to laugh that idea away. It could be he was just tired of playing but he seemed just as interested as you had been. And now, after all his swaggering about with how busy he is and he has things to do elsewhere – he’s just sitting there, silently cuddling a kitten that pawed at his hand, watching you expectantly. After a long moment he huffs in a short, abrupt laugh, then starts clearing the board and cleaning the table without another word.
He’s so damn frustrating. Sure, okay, be all enigmatic and too-cool-for-everything, that’s fine. You got what you wanted, you won, twice even if he did cheat his way out of –
A idea crystallizes behind your eyes, turning over slowly like a pebble in a rushing stream.
For a moment, you pretend once more to be the woman in the satiny dress, draped in jewels, and ponder.
“What do you want, Sylus?” you ask quietly. He doesn’t look at you, but you see the corner of his mouth tug upward in a reluctant smile.
“I want,” he answers slowly, “to see what you’ll do with your winnings.”
You feel something like weightlessness lifting your heart into your throat, making your limbs shake. Fear, you think, at first. Apprehension.
No. Something else.
His smile is nearly as slow and warm as his words. “And to see what you'll do with mine, as well. After all, I did win one more round.”
“Yes you did,” you reply softly, looking out the window, wrapping your arms around yourself to hide your trembling. The sun has set now; more than that, the night is denser than usual, thick rainclouds scudding in from over the roof of the café. You can see rain faintly shimmering against the glow of the streetlights outside. You return your scrutiny to the inside of the café, settling on Sylus slinging his jacket over his shoulders.
Sylus gives one of the Evol kitties one last friendly tap with a fingertip, then looks at you expectantly. “Staying longer?” he asks. His tone is bland, his body language casual. It’s like… nothing happened. Like whatever fire that was stoked in the sunset over your wager has been thoroughly banked, doused by the rain. You’re sitting here quivering with Not Fear Something Else for no reason.
He said he wanted to see what you’ll do with your winnings, but why?
Why?
That one word circles you over and over, taunting and mysterious.
“Why did you come here, Sylus?” you find yourself asking without even fully forming the words in your mind.
He tilts his head. He almost looks like Mephisto. “I always come when you call, kitten.”
He holds out a hand, gentlemanly, offering to assist you out of your chair. You stare at it, thoughts moving quicksilver fast behind your eyes.
He does always come when you call.
Every single time.
And that… means something.
“I feel better,” you say, your mouth still moving on autopilot. “I… wasn’t having a good time. Until you came. Thank you… for being here.”
There it is again – that look of genuine surprise, open and unguarded. And a fragment, a splinter of something before he shakes his head and smirks. Something… sweet. “You’re welcome. Now are you going to stay, or are you coming with me?”
It hadn’t occurred to you that you might go elsewhere after this. You’re not even sure that’s what he meant. But you imagine it anyway: a dim restaurant, a smoky bar. He wouldn’t take you to another cute café, brightly lit and quaint. He’d take you somewhere dark. No – not another public place. He’d take you back to his home, back to all that rich and shadowy luxury, back to velvet-upholstered sofas and cut crystal glasses and the bed with its heavy curtains, and he would – he would –
He would what?
This is ridiculous. Obviously you dipped a little too far into that silk-and-jewels persona.
You shake your head sharply, dispelling the images that make your gut churn with warmth. “I–I should get home. Duty calls again tomorrow.”
He snorts. “Then I’ll walk you to the door. I wasn’t going to kidnap you, sweetie.”
You’re able to scrape together something like your usual attitude, despite the curling heat and vague half-imagined sensations that refuse to be banished. You arch your brows at him and dryly observe, “Well, it’s not like that would be new for us,” and slide your fingers into his palm. He draws you to your feet with a fluid grace you’d never accomplish on your own. The hand not holding yours hovers near your cheek. Your breath catches and stills.
He messes up the collar of your jacket, flipping it up. Then he drops your hand and strides towards the door.
Jerk.
Why the hell is your pulse fluttering?
What happened? Did your unlucky streak not break after all, now you’re just cursed?
Except you remember your heart racing when he arrived, and – and all the other times. Whenever you see his ridiculously tall frame ducking through a doorway, leaning against his bike, lurking behind a corner to dodge Wanderers and more mundane enemies… there’s that bounce in your heart. The hard beat of blood in your wrists and your neck. The swelling in your chest that makes it hard to breathe. Even the very first time you met him, when you dismissed all the physical sensations as adrenaline, danger, the lingering effects of the poison injection you’d endured – but it was there then, too.
Watching his retreating back as he weaves through the café tables, you frown pensively.
… He’s actually kind of stupidly appealing, in his own way, isn’t he?
Add that to the ever-lengthening list of all the other stupid things about him.
You sigh as you pop the other side of your collar – may as well, it’s all you have to fend off the weather – and march after him, catching up when he holds the door open for you.
The both of you stand outside beneath the awning over the door, watching the rain fall. It’s quiet.
“Well,” you remark, subdued, “I didn’t bring an umbrella. I guess the quality of my day continues.”
“I’ll give you a ride home.”
“Did you bring your hell-beast?” You look around, peering into the gloom at the parking spaces along the street. Yes, there it is – gleaming and menacing and with its seat already drenched. “I can risk the run to the trains. You’ll be wetter than me on that.”
Sylus’s eyes flash for a moment. You snort. What a thing to get offended by.
The rain continues to fall, the dark to grow darker despite the constellations of city lights near and far glinting in the night. A couple exits the café, scurrying out into the bad weather, their arms wrapped around each other and their steps running in sync. You watch them go and idly think how funny it would be to have an advantage, for once, in Sylus’s height towering over you.
“Think of it as ending the day on a high note,” Sylus says softly. “Flying through the rain. Sure, your clothes will get soaked, but that’s no problem. I’ll buy you new ones.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“No, but I’m offering.”
You snort. “What, don’t want this romantic evening to end?”
Sylus doesn’t answer. You look at him, questioning the quiet, and catch his profile limned in the hazy amber of the streetlamp, backlit by the frosty pink reflections from the café’s windows.
He’s looking at you.
Moments pass, stretching like warm taffy. Slowly, he lifts one eyebrow. “Romantic?” he echoes, voice rumbling with hidden laughter.
Will he ever not laugh at you? You pout. “I was joking . ”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to always be laughing at me.”
“Can’t help it. Not for the someone who’s always cute.”
Your face burns, and your feet shuffle against the damp pavement. You fold your arms over your stomach. It’s not cold outside, but the rain and the dark make you want to huddle inwards, hunting down a safe space. “Sh-shut up. Anyway, you should go. The rain’s getting worse.”
“I know.”
“ Okay, I got it, you know everything!”
He’s still laughing – but your ears prick. It’s not his normal laugh. It’s heavy with something. Wistful. “I don’t know everything, sweetie.”
You hmph.
“I didn’t know it was going to rain, either.” His keys jingle as he withdraws them from his jacket pocket. “You’re sure you want to run for the nearest station? Last chance for the faster ride.”
Your eyes linger on his keys as he absently slings them around and around his fingers, but you shake your head. “I appreciate it. I’ll be okay.”
“All right. Have a good night, then.”
You shudder at the coil of smoke that drifts through his voice, rough and treacly. “Y-Yeah. You too.”
The rain pounds against the awning, hammering the concrete beyond the meager shelter. It’s gotten harder. You bite your lip, looking out at the city. You look back at Sylus. He’s still toying with his keys, watching the skies, his train of thought a mystery.
Why is he still here?
Why are you?
It’s not because of the rain. You can at least admit that. Even if it’s just to yourself.
“Your bike is right there,” you whisper, barely audible over the rainfall. He doesn’t react beyond a hum of acknowledgement. “You should go first. You don’t have to wait for me.”
“Oh, kitten,” he sighs, his eyes sliding shut in an expression you can’t quite decipher with the play of light and shadow over his features. He doesn’t say anything further, doesn’t elaborate. You pause, thinking he will, but it’s just more of this strangely electric, expectant silence.
The wager. You know that’s why. You know.
“One for you, two for me,” you say, mouth dry, breath shallow. “Isn’t that right? Winner chooses the time and place?” You swallow; your throat clicks, uncomfortable. “May as well be now, I guess.”
But when he finally turns his gaze back to you, his brow is furrowed, his eyes troubled. He steps in close, pressing you back towards the wall of the café. His fidgeting hand goes still while the other slides warm fingertips under your chin and tilts your head up. He watches you silently for a moment, searching your face for something. You freeze, even your lungs paralyzed, eyes wide under the scorching intensity of the predator’s regard. “Regretting it?” he asks, his voice still all deep smoke and flickering embers.
You don’t answer. You don’t even know what the answer is.
But he does, somehow. Whatever Sylus finds in your expression seems to give him resolution. He bends down, face hovering closer. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to stop your mouth from twitching.
You feel his breath before his lips, each warm and soft and shockingly comforting. You relax–and your eyes fly open when you feel him press his mouth tenderly to your forehead, the gentlest kiss you can ever remember experiencing alighting on you like moth wings, a brush of skin against skin and sweet, innocent pressure against your bones.
“There,” he murmurs, and you can feel his lips move against you.
Eyes still locked wide open, you stare at his collarbones. You can barely make out the shape of them beneath his shirt. “That doesn’t count,” you whisper, your voice raspy and harsher than you mean for it to be.
He’s so close his laugh vibrates through your skull, lighting up your blood in a wash of sparks. “Terms,” he whispers in return. “You didn’t specify where your promised kisses would fall.” He lifts his hand; you feel his thumb brush over the place he just kissed, rough where there had been delicate softness. “Run along home, now, kitten. Your wager’s done for the day.”
Sylus backs away, his hand on your face the last thing to move. Your eyes are still affixed to his collar, watching as the texture of his shirt becomes indistinct with distance, as the definition of his Adam’s apple and neck and shoulders comes back into view. Air floods your lungs, sweet with rain and traces of his cologne. You meet his eyes for a brief instant before nodding shortly, turning on your heel, and unhesitatingly plunging into the shower as you take long, steady strides down the street.
What. What. What.
Eventually you’ll be able to come up with a different word.
What?
What. Just – what –
He kissed you. He kissed you! He kissed you! Sylus kissed you!
And he was good at it, that jerk!
Just a forehead kiss, in polite circles barely a peck, hardly anything for romance enthusiasts to titter over, and yet here you are walking home in a storm barely feeling the rain because your skin is fever-hot and your limbs are jumping with newfound energy and you’re tingling and breathless and full of something melting and syrupy because that kiss, that kiss, it felt intimate and kind and safe and yes alright it was a stupid bet and you never should have made it in the first place but that kiss was one of two things that actually felt right today and they both had to do with him –
You stop, the heels of your boots scuffing the sidewalk.
They both had to do with him.
Your day didn’t get better because of some stupid lucky break. It got better because of a stupid man. And your stupid, stupid, stupid feelings for him. Whatever those might be.
Terms, huh.
Oh, that’s enough of this. You’re not a real kitten, puffing up and hissing at things you just don’t understand, scampering away to curl up somewhere out of trouble. You’re a Hunter. Blushing virginity is not your MO.
If it was you probably wouldn’t have made that bet in the first place.
Maybe you didn’t really have to imagine the woman in silk and jewels. She is you, after all. She’s just the you that comes out when he’s around.
You spin around and run back the way you came, splashing up cold water all over your pants that you couldn’t care less about.
From the darkness, the motorcycle’s engine roars.
Wait –
“Sylus!” you call, nearly screaming to be heard over the rain and the thundering engine. You can see him, an ink-and-sterling outline against the velvety night. A bright reflection over his face – his helmet’s on. You see him straighten up over the bike, head turning in your direction.
You can’t slow down in these puddles. You skid and brace and fetch up hard against him, your breastbone smacking into his shoulder painfully, your arms flying out and knuckles slapping against all kinds of unforgiving metallic surfaces in a desperate attempt to keep your balance. The curve of his visor knocks into your jaw, and you hear a muffled grunt from behind the helmet as all the breath in your lungs hurtles out of you in a winded gasp. Of course now he’s shorter than you. His boot scrapes against the asphalt as he grabs hold of you and keeps the bike from overbalancing.
You hiss, your knee already throbbing from making contact with something painful, but it’s nothing, it’s a distant observation already floating away in the face of the burning in your body. Your hands scrabble over his helmet, seeking out the fastenings, frustratingly slick and tricky in the rain. “Take. This. Off,” you growl, yanking at the strap. Sylus coughs and yanks his head back, snatching your fingers off him with a firm grip of his gloved hands.
The helmet swings off and clatters onto the ground, and even in the murk of the rainy night you can see the baffled fury rising in his red eyes. “Sweetie, this is not – ”
You don’t hear what this is not, and you don’t care, because your target is acquired and you fire.
You wrench your hands free and close them both around his head, his ears cold beneath your hot palms, and you close in on him.
… You miss.
Your lips, dry and a little tacky from your desperate run, slide over his cheekbone. You let out an exasperated groan and redirect, but he’s moved too, and you bump into the ridge of his nose instead. Down – but he’s leaned back, and your teeth collide with his chin.
“Sweetie,” you feel that rumble from his voice reverberating in your bones again as he mutters, “what are you trying to – ”
You pull back, scowling, and plant one hand over his mouth. His eyes glitter at you over your fingers, sharp and lethal as needles. “I am trying to kiss you,” you hiss, “so if you would kindly be quiet and stop moving – ”
You cut yourself off, panting. His eyes narrow; you can’t read them, whether he’s pleased or not, but you wait to see what he’ll do. A dismissive quip, a sarcastic laugh as he peels you off of him, those are what you would normally expect from him. But in a situation like this – you have no idea what Sylus will do. You really want to find out.
You really, really hope he’ll…
For half a dozen too-fast heartbeats the two of you are still, his arm around your waist, your hand on his lips, your balance precariously in his hands as nearly all of your weight is tilted forward into him. Slowly, you draw your hand away, sliding it into his dampening hair.
He doesn’t move. He just watches you.
Well, with his eyes on you, you hardly know what to do with yourself. You bite your lip, nerves shaking you from your toes up, and his eyes drop to your mouth.
You might not know what to do with yourself, but you know what to do with him .
One hand still at the side of his head, the other cupping his jaw with your fingertips just barely brushing his pulse point, you lean in further, knocking your forehead gently against his. He doesn’t flinch away. You don’t know why thought he would. He’s never flinched away from you, not once.
You close your eyes. You come closer. Closer. Your lips touch his, so lightly you wait to make certain you don’t miss again.
Closer.
He tastes like rain.
Deeper. Go deeper.
You tilt your head, press in, and feel his arm around you tighten like a vice. His other arm slides just beneath, his hand curling over your hip. Under your thumb, his pulse is galloping. His lips are surprisingly giving – gentle, unresisting. You expected more of a fight. But this – this –
He gasps as you tentatively draw a line across his lips with your tongue.
He tastes like bitter coffee, like burnt oranges, like cardamom, like your guilty pleasure sugar cookie he stole a bite of in the café. Your tongue tingles as it meets his. He tastes like a human being, like a man who wants to be kissed. His lips move beneath yours, catching and releasing, sharing and taking; the heat that had been searing in your veins mere seconds ago has mellowed into something less urgent, something that rouses like a sleepy hearth in your belly instead of raging like a wildfire.
His mouth is so warm. You challenge yourself to see how slowly you can twine your tongue around his.
His fingers spasm against you. You feel more than hear the moan trapped in his throat.
Deeper. Go –
He tastes safe.
He doesn’t taste like home. He tastes better than that.
Softly, slowly, you withdraw, but you stay in his space, stay near enough that his breath mingles with yours. Your hands slide down to rest on his shoulders, settling in the gathered raindrops on the surface of his leather jacket.
Your heart is thudding hard against your ribs. You’re throbbing in places you’ve never paid much attention to before – your lips, the inside of your elbows, your hips beneath his hands, all the way down to your toes. Opening your eyes feels like an impossible task, but you manage.
Sylus’s eyes are still closed, his brow knit with something that looks like agony.
You stroke his neck with one finger. “Okay?” you whisper.
It takes him three tries to get his voice to work. “That doesn’t count,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
That… what?!
You blink, dumbfounded. “What?”
He clears his throat. “Doesn’t count,” he repeats.
“How?” you demand, drawing back to glare at him. You try to push yourself back up onto your own feet, off the bike and off him, but your hands slip, unable to find purchase, and your feet are no better off. You barely keep yourself from falling into his lap and instead choose to scowl with as much affronted dignity as possible while clinging to him. “That was a good kiss!”
Sylus says nothing. His arms are still around you.
“How does that not count, Sylus?” you seethe.
“Because,” he replies, jaw working. His eyes finally open. You choke.
You’ve never seen his eyes like this.
They’re beautiful.
Sylus has countless gems in his collection of material wealth. Protocores too. You remember the sanguine gleam of the protocore in that cursed dagger that dragged the both of you to a wilderness beyond your familiar time and space, the gorgeous facets of it that looked like fresh blood crystallized and frozen. You’ve seen rubies and carnelians and red sapphires and fire opals and sunstones in his ridiculously vast vaults. You’ve seen the ferocious colors of his Evol as it swirls through the air like a tangible shadow streaked with flames.
You’ve never seen a red like the color of his eyes right now.
You can’t even describe it. You just know that it makes you feel. The indignant rage flees from you. In this moment, you feel like the hunter and the hunted all at once.
Flying in the rain, wasn’t that what he said?
“Sylus?” you ask, because his name, for a moment, is the only shape your lips are willing to take. You swallow thickly. “Why doesn’t it count?” You stiffen in his hold. “Was it – was it not good?”
You watch as his face flickers between expressions, so many and so quick you can only catch a few – surprise, dismay, something hungry and sharp-edged – and you truly don’t know what will happen when whatever inner tempest he’s wrestling finally calms. As the silence grows you feel the rain sliding down your hair, down your neck, chilling the fire you had been kindling.
You aren’t expecting him to pull you.
Your balance was already doomed; you have absolutely no chance of resisting. But instead of faceplanting into the ground or banging into the mechanisms of his motorcycle, you’re gathered up, legs folded and arms tucked in as you’re lifted into Sylus’s lap with the warm circle of his arms bracing you. You squeak.
You really weren’t expecting this at all. You wriggle, trying to find a position that gives you some equilibrium of your own instead of giving your weight over entirely to him.
“Your recklessness,” he breathes into your hair, “is going to get me killed.”
“I think youare going to get you killed,” you shoot back mindlessly, fingers clutching in a frantic grip at his leathers. “Is there a reason why I’m suddenly your luggage?”
Sylus curls around you, crowding you, blocking out the rain with his frame. You can feel his warmth spreading over your skin, banishing the cold. He gathers you into his chest and whispers against your ear, “Because. You can’t kiss me like that as part of a wager. That isn’t fair, kitten.”
“Since when do you play fa – what?” You started a wisecrack out of habit, but his words catch up to you. “Kiss you like what?”
“Kiss me like you mean it.” His long fingers stroke your hair back over your ear, tucking the wet clumps against your scalp.
“ … So it was good.”
He laughs so hard you shake in his grasp. He bends inward, presses his cheek against yours, and you would swear you felt the fleeting glance of his lips against you. “Yes,” he whispers, and it feels like a benediction.
You take a moment to soak in the feeling. Then you draw back enough, pushing his arms wider, to look him in the eye.
There’s a maelstrom behind his eyes you can’t even begin to understand.
You take a breath and say, “Should I do it again?”
And at last, at last, there is a hint of the man you know, a sweep of familiarity in this strange and bewitching night. That wicked curve of a smirk. “I think not,” he replies, his tone delicate. “You only have one more left.”
Ah. The wager.
You wonder now if maybe you had known what you were doing all along when you made that bet.
You wonder, looking at those warm eyes, that irreverent smile, if maybe he knew too.
Despite all your bad luck, there was no way either of you were going to lose that bet.
“One more,” you echo. “But not right now?”
Sylus holds his composure for a breath before he ducks down, burying his face in your hair. “Give a man a minute to recover,” he grumbles.
Laughing, floating, you relax in his embrace. You look out at the city over his shoulder, rain misting on your eyelashes like gentle kisses from the skies. You close your eyes and imagine flying.
“Bet you can’t get me home before the rain stops,” you suggest with a wealth of mischief.
“Kitten,” he immediately growls into your neck. “I’ll take that bet.”