alyssarodriiii

[alyssarodriiii]

Sylus: I support women's rights. Wanderer: (Tries to attack him) MC: (jumps in and proceeds to beat the absolute p*ss outta them) Sylus (smirking, whipping out his phone to record): I also support women's wrongs.

[alyssarodriiii]

When a character who normally has a silver tongue and a quick wit is speechless.

When an expressive character who wears their heart on their sleeve goes still, face blank.

When a character who is quick to solve problems with their fists drops their hands to their side, frozen.

Just the sudden absence of something that is always there, in both the good and the bad.

Gone in an instant.

[alyssarodriiii]

[alyssarodriiii]

inebriated | sylus

— summary: you comment on how good he’s gotten at these domestic things, and his mouth twitches with a smile. for you, he would give up this menacing life he leads if it meant waking to your smile each day, dancing and kissing in the kitchen over pancakes and overdone eggs.  — cw: written with femme reader in mind, alcohol & drug use, mild language, tooth-rotting fluff, domestic bliss, sylus is down bad & probably ooc — notes: head empty, just vibes. i needed some domestic, self-indulgent fluff, and this is the result. thank you so much for reading. — now playing: waiting in vain - jordan ward

Sylus, but in the midst of a meeting. And it's all tense, everyone shifty-eyed and tight-lipped, trying to figure out the best way to expand Onychinus’ reach. But then, a particular ringtone breaks through the seemingly impenetrable silence that’s befallen the dimly-lit, smoke-laden room.

The gentleman beside Sylus stifles a laugh into his fist under the pretense of clearing his throat. Sylus gives him a look that bodes disaster as he fishes his phone from his pocket. Fearing for his life, the man glances away, straightening his tie.

With his cell poised in the air like a loaded gun, Sylus dares anyone else to comment on his choice of ringtone with a ticked brow and a swift survey around the room. Everyone pointedly looks elsewhere, hoping to leave with their lives intact.

Seeing as no one’s ballsy enough to contest him, the crime lord brings the phone to his ear, answering with a curt “Speak.”

“Mister Skye?”

The voice breaking through the static is most certainly not yours. And that notion has Sylus sitting up at breakneck speed, assuming the worst. That tense air from before returns, slung over everyone’s shoulders like sandbags.

An anxious chuckle erupts from the other side of the phone. “Sorry. It’s Tara. I probably should've led with that. Didn't mean to freak you out.”

The rigid set of his shoulders eases up the slightest bit. At least you’re with a friend. Still, why is she calling him from your phone?

“Sorry to bug you. But could you come get her? I think she’s had a little too much to drink. She keeps antagonizing the biggest guys here. Says she’ll sick her bad-ass mafia boyfriend on them or something.”

Sylus’ lips quirk. He pinches the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a migraine creeping in whilst a sigh pushes through his nostrils. He doesn’t know whether to be proud or annoyed.

“They’re about to kick us out of the bar. Please come.”

He can taste the exasperation in Tara’s voice, the poor girl. On cue, you chime in from the background, wailing about needing your ‘Big Daddy Caw-Cawk.’

Someone in the briefing room snorts but quickly hides it when Sylus levels a glare at them.

Relieved, Sylus straightens, rolling the tension from his shoulders. “Where are you?”

It’s laughable how quickly Tara answers, ready to pass you off like a baton. “Husk. Downtown on Main Street. I can drop a pin—”

“No need,” he interjects, well-versed in your points of interest. What? He’s just being the model boyfriend. Definitely not stalking you. “I’ll be there in ten.”

She laughs, the sound of it relieved. “Thank you, Mr. Skye. Seriously, you don’t understand—what the hell are you doing?! Get off the table!” 

Before the line cuts, furniture crashes and glass shatters.

Sylus clears his throat, adjusting his collar. Straightens the cuffs of his sleeves before abruptly standing, the jarring screech of his chair across the tiled floor making everyone in the room wince. 

He doesn’t bother with formalities, shoving his hands in his pockets, that customary bored look descending onto his face. The twins materialize at his sides without a hitch as he makes his way to the door, the atmosphere charged with unanswered questions and anxious looks.

“Mister Sylus!” one of the men calls to his retreating back. But he’s silenced by his seatmate with a hand on his shoulder and a head shake. 

“No sense in getting between that man and his girl. Last guy who did…well, you can probably guess the rest.”

With this new information hovering in the air, the gentlemen around the table exchange grumbles and stiff looks, deciding to carry on as if their leader never left.

—

Sylus has impeccable timing.

He’s tugging his motorcycle helmet off when you emerge from the bar’s double doors, arm linked with Tara’s, the straps of your heels dangling off your finger. 

“Fuck you,” you spit back at the bouncer who so graciously escorted you out. He counters you with his middle finger, muttering something about you being a bitch. 

Sylus’ jaw tenses. His skin prickles with the threat of his Evol. But he tamps down his irritation when Tara spots him. And she’s damn near sprinting, dragging you alongside her. 

“Mister Skye!” Tara beams, a nervous chuckle in her throat. He acknowledges her with a nod and a rehearsed half-smile, his gaze sliding to you. 

You stand beside Tara with crossed arms, bottom lip jutting out with a pout as you pointedly look elsewhere. You’re adorable when you know you’re in trouble, the ambient string lights strung overhead highlighting the pretty contours of your face. Glancing between you and Sylus, Tara slips behind you, practically shoving you into his arms. You stumble with a slew of curses into the hard planes of his chest. 

“She’s all yours,” says Tara, a little too ecstatic for his liking.

Gently wrapping his fingers around your arm, Sylus guides you over the curb towards his bike. Nods at Tara over his broad shoulder, and she grins, frantically waving goodbye. He stifles a chuckle when her shoulders slump, relief washing over her features. You must’ve been quite the handful throughout the night.

Wordlessly, he pulls you to a stop before his motorcycle. Turns away to fetch your helmet, expectantly holding it out for you to take. You continue this huffy game of yours, instead glaring at something behind him. Before he can speak, your eyes alight with childlike glee, and you dash past him across the street in a blur of glitter and perfume. 

With his mouth slightly ajar, Sylus watches you cross the street to a brightly colored cart. The cart's awning features a telltale hotdog logo, and he sighs, shaking his head before following after you. You’re shoving a hotdog into your mouth when he reaches you, your eyes gleaming whilst an appreciative hum eases from your throat.

“Sweetie,” he tries, something akin to affection swelling in his chest. “You’re not wearing shoes.”

You ignore him in favor of savoring your meal. Clearly inebriated if the heavy flutter of your lashes is anything to go by. Try as he might to suppress it, a smile rounds his lips, and while you eat, he takes this time to appraise you. 

Errant curls cling to your comically full cheeks. Your makeup is flattering, your lashes wispy, and your lips painted a dangerous shade of rouge. One strap of your dress falls off your shoulder, and the tight cling of your attire leaves little to the imagination. Full thighs peer from beneath a devastating hemline, legs stretching for days. His study ends at your feet, bare and probably sore from wearing heels all night.

Sylus reaches out to pat your head, eyes slit with affection. Internally, he gushes when you turn innocent eyes on him, the brooding figure you once were tucked far beneath your skin. He surmises that Tara couldn't tame you because you were hangry. You always are after a night of drinking. He steps behind you to fix your straps, fingers softly gliding over your shoulders. 

He angles himself to ear level, murmuring, “Let’s get you home,” before ushering you towards his bike with a wide, reassuring palm at your back. 

You’re more agreeable this time around, nodding and toddling in front, scarfing down the remains of your hotdog. 

—  

You cut a sleek outline amid the bustling streets of Linkon, streetlights glazing over the dark lenses of your visors. 

Your arms loosely wound about his stomach, you’re a warm pressure at Sylus’ back. And you’re giggling something cute, uttering incoherencies that make his lips quirk beneath his helmet. Whatever you drank has you feeling good, your grasp on him slackening even more as you lose yourself to the music blaring in your helmet’s speakers. 

Sylus’ hand covers yours, wordlessly encouraging you to hold fast to him. Linkon’s streets might have the speed limits that the N109 Zone lacks, but he’s still driving fast enough to lose you if he isn’t attentive.

“Sylus!” you call amid the wind sweeping your bodies.

“Sweetie?”

The mischievous giggle that follows makes something cold drop into his belly. 

“I had an edible!” And you sound so proud, like a child showing their macaroni art to their parents. 

An indignant sound is pinched from Sylus’ throat. His eyes widen the slightest. He makes a note to give Tara an earful when he next sees her, squeezing your hands over his navel whilst he cuts a turn.

—       

Your laughter ricochets off the stilled halls of your apartment complex. 

He’s got you cradled in his arms, bridal style, not at all fazed by your jostling about. With a flicker of his Evol, your front door clicks open, and he dips inside, kicking the door shut once you’re nestled in your entryway's cold, dark embrace. He entertains your nonsensical talk with an occasional hum as he toes off his red bottoms, carrying you deeper into your home.

“Shh,” you suddenly hush, shifty-eyed and stiffening in his hold. 

Sylus quirks a brow, slowing to a stop.

Your lidded gaze slides to him, and with a pretty, drunken smile, you say, “My boyfriend’ll be here any minute, Mister. If you’re trying to get freaky, we better do it before he comes.”

Rolling his eyes, Sylus continues through your apartment, effortlessly hauling you to your bathroom.

The room floods with fluorescent light, and you wince against its brilliance, tucking your face into his chest with a hiss. He chuckles something low, depositing you onto your countertop. Your arms fall listlessly from around his neck at your sides, where you try vainly to prop yourself up. It seems gravity has other plans, a blissful, blurring wave of vertigo crashing into you. You reel forward with an intoxicated laugh, but Sylus is quick, steadying you with hands wrapped around your arms. 

He studies you beneath the light. Bites back a grin at your adorable swaying, soundlessly assuring you won’t go barrelling off the counter again if he steps away. He props you against the mirror before getting to work. Snatches a towel from your rack, dampening it beneath the warm spray of your sink’s faucet. 

Delicately, Sylus blots at your forehead, soaking up the sweat and grime you’ve accumulated throughout the night. He ducks down briefly to fetch some wipes from your cabinet and steps between your legs, cleaning off your makeup with rehearsed precision.

It’s not the first time he’s done this, and he finds solace in the monotony of it all. He feels honored, being this close to you. Tilting your head back with cautious fingers encasing your jaw. He strips you down to the marrow, literally and figuratively wiping off the facade you outwardly present to the world. 

You comment on how good he’s gotten at these domestic things, and his mouth twitches with a smile. For you, he would give up this menacing life he leads. Would arrange the stars in the sky if it meant waking to your smile each day, dancing and kissing in the kitchen over pancakes and overdone eggs. 

For now, he settles for this. And when he’s thoroughly swiped the remnants of your makeup from your face, he steps back to appraise his work. He prefers you like this, he thinks as he taps his temple. Bare-faced and unguarded, smiling without a care in the world. 

Taking up your hands, he tugs you to your feet. Moves like he’s working with porcelain, slipping the straps of your dress off your shoulders. He blisters your shoulders with kisses in his fingers’ wake as he slips your dress down until it pools into a serpentine pile at your feet. 

He divests you of your bra and panties, promising to behave despite how bewitchingly your skin glows and how easily it glides beneath his roving palms. He escorts you into the shower once he finishes, where its warm spray works as a soothing balm over your strained muscles. 

When you’re clean and lavender-scented, he swaths you in a towel he’d procured from the towel warmer he bought you and guides you into your bedroom, chuckling when you stop occasionally to tempt him into a kiss. 

Helping you into a comfortable set of pajamas, he eases you into your bed, the cozy linen drawing a pleased sigh from the dredges of your chest. Your eyes dance with sleep, and he’s about to leave you before your fingers weakly wrapped around his wrist stop him.

The look you give him makes his chest squeeze, and had he been anyone but Sylus, he’d be fawning and cooing over how adorable you are. 

“Stay,” you beseech, your voice husky with exhaustion. 

He hesitates for a moment. Murders you with anticipation, though he very well intends to stay. With a smile curving his lips, Sylus peels off his shirt, clad only in his trousers, as he slips beneath the comforter behind you. You settle against him, winding his arms around your middle. And you notch your hips up against him as if you’ve always fit there like a puzzle piece. 

You wiggle your bottom mischievously, but he stills you, reasoning that he’ll never take advantage of you while you’re inebriated. With a haughty pout, you give up on your efforts to seduce him.

You’re content with him holding you like this, stroking over the skin of your wrist with his thumb as you surrender your consciousness to the pretty girls of sleep, ushered to them by his even breaths at the shell of your ear.

[alyssarodriiii]

Love and Deepspace | Nightly Rendezvous

[alyssarodriiii]

Synopsis: Before, you always thought that you would resent him. Yet you sit here in his home, and you have come to realize that it has become yours, too.

Warnings: None.

Author's note: Felt down lately, so this is a little self indulgent. Inspired by the new 4* card Greedy Heart. Comments and reblogs are appreciated. <3

This feels wrong— it should be. On forsty nights like these, you were supposed to be wrapped in the blankets of your own apartment. Watching TV, eating snacks, or even taking the time to indulge yourself in hobbies you have not had the time for recently. But instead of soft fabric, Sylus's arms envelop you, staving off the icy sting with his own skin. Your entertainment is the night sky and you are in a losing struggle against sleep.

Sylus notices, of course he does. He can't help but chuckle at your stubbornness to stay awake. And you, with your head pressed against his chest, only manage to feel disgruntled with the sudden rise and fall of movement. One of his hands begins carding through your hair slowly. You can't tell what he's thinking, and you don't want to. So you turn your head away as to not meet his eyes in favour of observing his home.

“If you're tired, you should just sleep, sweetie. I'll be here when you wake up.”

You wonder if he says that just to watch over you as you sleep. Even though the dulcet tone of his voice is tempting you to give in, your heart doesn't settle. What exactly were you doing? Simone. Tara. Captain Jenna. Xavier— what would your beloved association think if they saw you like this? Within the arms of someone with an outstanding bounty on his head; your natural enemy— feeling safe.

“If you want to get rid of me, just say so.”

Yet you make no move to leave. When Sylus himself offered to leave, you were the one who clung to him and never let him go. A simple bet that he had made led to spending the mundane moments of your life with him. It's too late to take back that decision now. Not like you wanted to anyway. From the moment you made that decision, your lives have been so intertwined that you can no longer tell when you end and he begins.

It's apparent if you would just drift your eyes over this space on the balcony and into his bedroom. Your gun next to his on the desk, you share bullets sometimes. A jacket— your favourite one, tossed carelessly over a chair. You're wearing one of his sweaters. There's a space for your belongings, storage built specifically for you. Before, Sylus slept upright. Now, there are never less than two pillows and at least three plushies on the bed.

Everywhere you look, there are traces of you. No doubt beyond this bedroom as well. The rest of the house. His armories, his safehouses. Businesses and dealings. Probably even on his private jet and yachts. You think that there may be traces of you on his person as well. If you looked at him now, and compared him to the Sylus you knew back then, you would surely see how you've cast metal into whatever you desire. Not clay, no. Clay is much too soft; metal protects you better.

Sylus's eyes follow yours, landing on each thing you stare at.

“Is there anything you want to change?” he asks, a subtle hint of mirth in his tone.

You nod: yes.

“Oh? Well then, go ahead and tell me what you want.”

Sylus stares into your eyes, waiting. The warmth in his gaze is almost unbearable, but you'll have to hold it when you demand things from him.

“I want you to never erase my traces from your life. I want you to never leave.”

“Where would I even go? Is that all? You could be a little greedier. Alright. I'll engrave you into my soul if I have to. Until you finally understand that you are my home. I promise.”

Sylus never breaks his promises, so you'll just have to believe him.

[alyssarodriiii]

Imagine you getting mad at Sylus so you take his card and spend as much as you possibly can and it didn't even make a dent in his savings. GOD.

[alyssarodriiii]

he cooked with this

[alyssarodriiii]

NO DEFENCE ZONE

[alyssarodriiii]

join me in my sylus brainrot. these are my own interpretations/views. mildly nsfw.

this man would absolutely ruin you for other men. I'm talking take you over mind, body, and soul and have you wanting him at all hours, needing his nearness. the depth of his devotion is such a drug and honestly, bring on the addiction.

he gives me major scent marking vibes. giving you a tongue bath and covering you in him so that at any point, he can smell himself on you, in you. also biting. marking in places where only you two know you're marked and then having additional smaller indicators to others that you are definitely taken. he loves to make your skin a tapestry of his love that you get to see every time you look in the mirror.

talking about desire, he is all about yours. whatever you want, material or physical, he will get it for you/give it to you. you want a plushie? he's obviously not above using his evol to get it for you. you want a night in just cooking together? he's already got kieren and luke out buying ingredients to make your favorite dish. you want to get wrecked in bed? he's got the toys, ties, and blindfold waiting on the chaise in the bedroom.

while he's definitely into physical touch, words of affirmation and quality time are his top two needs. he craves validation that you're enjoying yourself and him, and after so long apart (thinking about him post-myth, poor sweet bean), he needs that time with you doing whatever -- cooking, cleaning, listening to music, rotting in bed on the weekend, going on trips -- as long as you're together, he doesn't care what you're doing.

everyone agrees that he has a rough side when it comes to sex, but he definitely gives off soft pleasure dom vibes to me. he'll be as rough as you want him to be, but the aftercare is paramount, and while he'll call you whatever names you want in a praising or degrading way during sexual acts, he only wants to hear his own name from your lips. those intimate moments are when he wants to be identified most as the one who is entangled with you. after all, you are his number one priority, and he will not be denied your pleasure after all this time.

[alyssarodriiii]

they should invent a living alone that is affordable

[alyssarodriiii]

"Mission", Leonard Cohen

[alyssarodriiii]

@roach-works // Melissa Broder, "Problem Area" // Mary Oliver, "The Return" // @annavonsyfert // Koyoharu Gotouge, Demon Slayer // Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance // David Levithan, How They Met and Other Stories // Tennessee Williams, Notebooks

[alyssarodriiii]

2025

REMAIN BRAVE.

skate flat stones across the river.

make my home a sanctuary, a shelter, a welcome resting place.

learn the first names and favorite foods of neighbors.

keep the windows open as long as warmth allows.

ask myself: will it make a good memory?

earlier mornings, longer walks.

remember I am not without my own seasons.

write recipes on paper. print photos out for framing. seek the tangible, the homemade.

speak out about harm when I see it done. leave room for learning, but never complacency.

one long summer drive to myself. an overnight somewhere new if possible.

let the candles burn through winter.

joy is not made to be a crumb, but a feast. arrive fork and knife in hand.

BE HOPEFUL, BUT ALSO IN ACTION.

[alyssarodriiii]

2025

BE A STUDENT OF WHAT YOU ADMIRE

DO IT BADLY RATHER THAN NOT AT ALL

TO DESPAIR IS TO CEDE VICTORY TO THOSE WHO DO NOT DESERVE IT

BROADEN YOUR CULTURAL HORIZONS

REVEL IN THE ANALOGUE

ACTION ABSORBS ANXIETY

GRIEF IS PRODUCTIVE; GUILT IS NOT

[alyssarodriiii]

seen a lot of these with your favorites, but reblog with the CURRENT book you are reading, show you are streaming, the last movie you watched, and any game/puzzle/crafts you’re working on 

[alyssarodriiii]

I love Sylus because he’s so capable. You don’t have to teach him or reassure him that his skills are good. He knows. He doesn’t overly brag either. The reserved cockiness is so delicious. And knowing he actually values your praise instead of being egocentric.

If you told him he wasn’t good at something, I guarantee he’d be a professional by the next time you saw it. And to top it off he would wait until the occasion presented itself to demonstrate his new mastery.

We love a capable man that pays attention to detail.